Blame The Dead

Ah!

'Fine,' I said. 'Good. Well, that's all I really wanted to know.'

'Is it?' He sounded disappointed.

Til be in touch.'

'I hope you'll be coming to the funeral, sir. It's on Saturday, at twelve o'clock.'

'Well, I…' I hadn't expected this.

'You'd have a chance to meet my mother, sir. And the other members of the syndicate.'

'Fine,' I said. 'It's at Kingscutt, is it?'

'At the village church; you can't miss it. Will you come up to the house afterwards?'

Til be there.'

You bet I would. By now I was very curious to meet Mrs Lois Linda Fenwick. There has to be a reason why a man spends a quarter of his income, money he must be hungry to use to build up his career at Lloyd's, just to make sure that, if anything happens to him, his son will be financially independent of his own mother.

Ten

I moved back into my flat that night. The story had dropped out of the day's papers, and I scouted the place three times and found nobody watching, so by half past nine I was home, unpacked, and drinking at a price I could afford.

The phone rang. Oh, hell – that could be tricky. I thought about letting it ring, then decided not. I was going to have to come back to life sometime.

But just in case, I tried to disguise my voice. Scots; it comes easiest. Well, at least I could say, 'Aye?'

The other voice was distant, female, and also stage Scots. 'Would it be posseeble to speak to Meester Card?'

'Who is it wanting him?'

A moment of confused mumbling, then, 'It is Mrs Card.'

'Mother? What the hell are you doing with that accent?'

'It's Jamie? Are you at the flat? I thought you were on the run. I didn't want to give myself away in case the police were there.'

'Ah, it isn't as bad as that. I…'

'It's exciting, isn't it? I'm so glad your job isn't turning out too dull. Security advice sounds sodreary. Your father would have loved this.'

Ummm. Maybe.

She rushed on, T just wanted to make sure you didn't want anything, dear. Like money or a place to hide out.'

'No, it's fine. I just-'

'Well, I mustn't keep you. I expect you're after the men who did it, aren't you? And I won't say any more because they're sure to be tapping this line.'

'No, I don't think-'

'Look after yourself, dear, and don't put anything in writing. Tell me all about it someday. Goodbye, now.'

I put the phone down and slumped. Mother's phone calls always took it out of me. Had I really joined I Corps of my own free will? Had father really chosen to spend the 1930s playing Lawrence of Arabia when he could have stuck to straight regimental soldiering? Or had we both been pushed just a bit?

I spent the rest of the evening tidying up the mess the Mockby boys had left, poured myself a final Scotch, and was ready for bed at about eleven.

So then the doorbell rang. I grabbed up the little Mauser and called,'Who is it?'

A calm voice said, 'Police, sir. Will you open the door please?'

Just like those bastards to come around and start their just-a-few-simple-questions when you've had a long day. Intentional, of course.

I looked around for a place to park the gun, but finally just shoved it in a pocket. No reason for them to have search warrants. I opened the door.

They came in quickly and the first one hit me in the stomach. As I folded over I just had time to see there were at least two, with the flattened faces of men with stocking masks on. Then my hands were grabbed and wrenched behind me and fingers started working on my neck – exploring, then pressing skilfully. The room seemed to fill with mist.

A voice said, 'He's going.'

I tried to choke, but darkness beat me to it.

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

I knew him, didn't I? Must have been in the Army with me.

'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.