Blame The Dead

'Come on, now, old friend – where have you got it?'

'My name is James Card. My rank is major. My number is two-five-three-oh-five-one-oh.'

I knew that voice, too.

'Give hiroa bit more.'

'You've got to be careful with this stuff.'

'Give him more.'

Part of me was floating gently, drowsily. But there was pain, stiffness, felt only distantly, as if telepathically from another body. It surged and then fell away in the drowsiness…

'Now come on, old friend-where do you keep the book?'

'My name is James Card… my rank is major… my number is two-five-three-oh-five-one-oh.'

'Where is it? Just tell me, then you can sleep.'

'My name is James… Card… m'rank is… major… number…'

'A bit more… Now where is it? Where did you put it?'

'My name… Bertie Bear… Major Bertie… Bear…'

'What the hell's he babbling about?… Now where's the book?'

'Bertie Bear… is in the… bank.'

'Jesus Christ – have you sent him crazy?'

'You can't be sure about how this works."

'Well, give him some more.'

'He may have too much already… maybe he'll get better.'

'Bertie Bear… in the bank…'

'Great galloping Jesus…'

The drowsiness ebbed, the pain rushed in, giving me a moment of vicious clarity. I knew who I was; I knew I was tied up and blindfolded; there was a steady pain in my left arm…

'Give him more.'

'I told you-'

'And I'm telling you!'

A little movement of the pain. I suddenly clenched every muscle and jerked and twisted as hard as I could. I felt a needle grate on my elbow bones and a wild extra stab of agony…

'God, he's broken the needle.'

'You clumsy bastard.'

'He did it!'

'Get another one in, then.'

'I haven't got another…'

'Jesus, I've got a right moron here.'

'We can't go on. What do we do with him?'

'Leave him. Just cut him loose.'

'I haven't got a knife…'

'You haven't got a future, mate!'

Hands jerked me, sending more pains through my stomach and neck. Then I felt my body loosen.

'He'll do for a while. Come on.'

Noises, feet on thin boards. A voice fading away plaintively. 'I just don't understand why it didn't…'

Then just silence, darkness, loneliness, and time not passing. Am I dying? Not alone, not in the dark? I want voices! I want that lovely drowsiness, the non-pain, the sleep… No. The drowsiness is dying. The pain is living. And God, am I living.

I moved carefully, then reached and pulled loose the rag around my eyes. It made no difference; the darkness around me was close and solid and windless. The inside of my left elbow was a steady ache laced with sudden pain. I sent my right hand exploring.

I was lying on a metal camp bed, just that, on the raw thin springs. Useful frame for lashing a man out on, when you come to think of it. But where was here? I reached around and touched canvas. Below it, a low wooden wall. And along it, an upright metal pole. So?

Very carefully, I pulled myself upright, clinging to the pole. The invisible world spun around me, the floor shifted slightly under me, creaking. Then I knew I was in the back of a lorry.

It took me time, I don't know how much time, to feel my way to the tailgate and slide, carefully, carefully, down to the ground. Rough concrete below. And no sky above.

But a faint dim square in the darkness far off. I shuffled towards it. Hit something. A car. Another. Then I was trudging up a slope into the air and the cold blue street lights. So then I had to be sick.

Maybe it cleared my head a bit. I sat on a low wall and stared around at the empty bright street, the parked cars, the trees at the corner, black and bright green in the lamp-light. I'd been in an underground car park beneath a new block of flats over near Primrose Hill. Less than half a mile from home. And no farther to a doctor's house, or maybe even the moon. I started to get started.

Eleven

He sat on the foot of my bed – his spare bed, to be accurate -and said, 'Do you remember much of last night?'

'It hurt like hell, you butcher.'

'Aye.' He'd been twenty-five years south of Scotland but a flavour of the accent remained. 'You've told me yourself you'd been shot full of Pentathol. I couldn't risk giving you anything else while I dug out that needle. Did they teach you to break off needles in your own arm in Intelligence? '

'They suggested it. You didn't give me a whisky either, you old Scrooge.'

'Same reason,' he said calmly. He leaned forward and looked into my eyes professionally. 'Aye – you're clear by now.' He handed me a glass of brownish stuff. 'I don't doubt you breakfast off it usually, though it's lunchtime for the law-abiding classes.'

I sniffed the drink suspiciously, but it was real Scotch. 'Thanks, Alec. Cheers.'

I swallowed and nearly unswallowed immediately. It hurt.

He nodded. 'Yes, you've had a bump in the stomach; it'll hurt for a while and there's nothing I can do about it. And your neck, too.'

I sipped cautiously.

'And now,' he said, 'we'll talk about the police.'

'Did you report me? '

'No, not yet. There's no law against breaking off a needle in your own arm, though it's quite a trick. And there's nothing to stop a man falling against something and bruising his stomach. But it's the neck, man, the neck. Anybody who could put that much pressure on his own carotid with his own hands could likely bugger himself as well and we'd have fewer problems with roving queers.'

I grinned – and even that reminded me of the neck. 'Alec -I'd report it myself if it would do any good. But these lads were professionals; nobody would know where to start looking.' Then a thought struck me. 'The one using the needle – did he know his stuff?'

He considered. 'There's nothing to finding the vein in your arm – it sticks out at you. But knowing how to use Pentathol, drip-feeding it in and keeping you just on the edge of consciousness – well, maybe that took some training.' He stood up. 'If it was a doctor I'd want to see him struck off.'

'If he was a doctor I'll bet he has been.'

He nodded. 'Well, come back tomorrow and I'll change the dressing. It'll ache for a while, but you can buy yourself a fancy black silk sling and collect a lot of misplaced sympathy.'

He turned to go, then turned back and gave me the Scotch bottle. 'One more – just one, mind, and Laura'll bring you up some soup. I've got patients who don't even go looking for trouble.'

I walked around to my flat, feeling naked and vulnerable without a gun. Outside my own front door, I suddenly wished I'd had somebody walk with me: there was no reason why the Pentathol squad shouldn't be waiting inside for a second crack. The thumbscrews this time, maybe. – But they weren't.

They'd turn the place over again, of course. Hastily, but just efficiently enough to make sure I wasn't hiding anything of Bertie Bear size. And they'd left Bertie himself – the second copy – lying there only half hidden in a pile of books. Well, that settled that, anyway: nobody loved Bertie for himself alone, which was a relief.

I searched only well enough to make sure they hadn't left my Mauser HSC lying around, and they hadn't, of course. All this was getting a bit awkward: I was running out of small, easily concealed guns. All the stuff in my deposit box was long-barrelled target -22s or serious -38 revolvers and nine-millimetre automatics – including Mockby's Walther. I did a little telephoning around among friends more or less in the gun business, and by the time I was back home watching a frozen pizza defrost, I'd done a trade. If Mockby had ever thought he'd get his gun back again it was too late now.

What I'd got wasn't ideal, but it was a help: a four-inch-long Italian copy of the old Remington derringer, which itself had been a near-copy of the gamblers' sleeve gun designed by Derringer. This had two superposed barrels in -38 Special calibre, which gave it the punch of the normal American police revolver but was small and flat enough to hide on a spring clip up my left sleeve. The nameless friend threw in the clip holster as well; he should never have had the gun – even the Ministry won't licence that sort of weapon, let alone the cops – and I think he was getting tired of the risk. There was at least a chance of getting the Walther on his licence (you pretend a relative died and left it to you: they don't believe you, but it saves face all round).