Bitter Sweet (5 page)

‘That little nerd was gobsmacked – all ready to retreat into his office, he was. But I didn’t let up. “You must be bleedin’ naïve,” I told hi
m, “to think that we give a toss about your petty objectives, you must be an absolute unthinking moron. Or,” I said, “you have your tongue so far up your boss’s arsehole you can’t see what it’s like in here. Get a life.”   

He opened his mouth.

‘“Don’t even bother,” I said. “Just send me my P45. And if you don’t, I’ll have HMRC on to you.”’

‘Whew,’ Mike said. ‘I wouldn’t want to—’

‘That’s right you wouldn’t.’

Ivonne laughed. ‘That’s the way to treat ’em.’    

She moved across to Markus and began to stroke his hair. ‘Nina get me a facecloth.’

I hurried to the bathroom, returning with a damp facecloth and
handed it to Ivonne, who then began to dab Markus’s brow.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

Ivonne shook her head. ‘Not now,’ she mumbled.

Markus was still out fo
r the count. I wasn’t sure if the pain from the shattered knee would’ve been enough to knock Markus out – I feared a head injury. I was desperate to know what had happened. However, Ivonne seemed to be in another world and I guessed she needed time to get over the shock.

Mike looked at his watch. ‘Ten minutes since I made the call. Ambulance should be here soon.’

‘Hope so,’ I said. ‘That bastard Albanian chose his moment well.’ In fact, I began to wonder if he’d known that Mike and I had gone down in the lift.

‘And,’ Mike said, ‘we were probably coming back up just as he was going down.’

‘Think he was on his own?’ I glanced at Ivonne hoping for an answer. All she did was to nod her head. I let it go; she still wasn’t ready to talk.

Mike cleared his throat. ‘You’ll probably have to tell the police about the Albanian.’

At the mention of the police, Ivonne turned and looked at me. We both shook our heads.

‘Look,’ Mike said. ‘The ambulance guys are going to ask how this happened.’

‘No police,’ I said firmly.

Ivonne turned her head towards Mike. ‘No way,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘I’m not having those knuckle-shuffling buggers nosing about.’

Mike frowned.

‘Wankers,’ I said.

‘You don’t get it,’ Mike persisted. ‘The ambulance crew are going to ask why Markus is lying on the floor with a shattered knee—’

‘Siren,’ I said, turning an ear towards the outside corridor. ‘Coming this way.’

‘Finally,’ Mike said.

‘Mike, I’ll feed them some cock-and-bull story. Just stay out of it, okay?’

‘Don’t do that.’

Mike stared at me. He wasn’t going to back down and neither was I.

‘Don’t tell those pricks anything!’ Ivonne blurted.

‘For God’s sakes,’ Mike said, glaring at me. ‘Would you get it into your heads: Markus is lying on the floor, out cold. Heaven knows
, he might have brain damage, a fractured skull. His knee has been shattered. And you, Ivonne have been battered in the face. The ambulance crew will be coming in here any minute, and they’re going to look at the two of you and be thinking grievous bodily harm or something worse.’

‘Mike,’ I said softly, placing my hands on his shoulders. ‘I’ll deal with it. I know what to do.’

He shook his head. But, I knew he’d backed down.

‘This is crazy,’ he muttered.

I heard the elevator door opening, followed by a voice saying; ‘This way.’

I stepped past Markus; Ivonne was still kneeling beside him. ‘
Ivonne, stay right where you are.’ In the passageway, I called out; ‘Over here!’

‘What’s the score, lady?’ the lead member of the ambulance crew asked.

‘Unconscious – shattered knee.’

They left the gurney at the door.

‘Have you moved him?’ The man asked, assessing the scene.

‘No.’

The man knelt down beside Markus and went straight into the airway, breathing and circulation routine. Finished, he looked at me, his face hard. ‘What happened?’

‘They had an argument.’ I raised my hand in the direction of Ivonne. ‘She kicked him in the knee. Then he hit his head on the radiator, going down.’

The medic looked at the knee and then at the radiator. The disbelief was obvious.

‘We both do Taekwondo.’

‘Good strike,’ the medic said, shaking his head. ‘How long has he been out?’

‘Ten minutes, minimum.’

The question put me on notice. I knew that sudden and severe pain was enough to knock someone out – never mind a blow to the head. But, how long does a person remain unconscious? I guessed at three or four minutes – any longer, well, that’s when the scary thoughts began; coma, brain damage? 

The m
edic addressed his colleague; ‘Spinal board and neck collar.’

Within minutes Markus was secured to the spineboard – it looked like two big spatulas. The movement had brought him round. His eyes were unfocused, but at least they were open. I squeezed Ivonne’s hand. ‘Thank God he’s coming round.’

Involuntarily, she gave me a big hug.

I held he
r and whispered into her ear; ‘Go with him. Stick to the story – an argument which went wrong. You kicked him in the knee. You’d forgotten that he’d once had a knee injury. The knee buckled and he hit his head on the radiator. You’re shocked at what happened, which you are. Keep it simple. Don’t say anything more.’    

I opened the door to my apartment. Mike stood back letting me go first, closed the door and said; ‘I really do hope they swallow that about Ivonne and the Taekwondo.’

‘It was a good one, wasn’t it?’

‘If she sticks to it, it might, it might just work.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I said, giving Mike a playful punch.

‘If it had been a Friday or a Saturday night,’ Mike said, ‘the story would definitely slide through.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because on a Friday and a Saturday night the A&E is choked full of alcohol-related problems – fights, falls, all the mess created by drink gets wheeled or staggers in through the doors. The staff doesn’t have time to discriminate. There’s all the workload of real emergencies. I’ve seen it – it’s disgusting. Professionals working flat-out. Right next to them some drunk roaring his head off or trying to feel-up a nurse. It’s an absolute travesty. And to crown it all, someone with a gutful of beer will be the first to call foul if he doesn’t get the same treatment as the guy he’s just totalled in a car crash.’

‘Mike? Are you teetotal?’

‘What? Why do you ask?’

‘You’re banging on.’

‘It’s how I lost my father.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Mike put his arms around me. ‘It’s all right; it was a long time ago.’ He pulled back holding me at arms’ length. ‘Drunk driver crashed into my dad’s car. A Saturday night – the ambulance coverage was stretched thin; the response time should have been better. The A&E was swamped. You know how it goes; one thing after the next, and then it was too late.’

I took Mike’s hand and
led him to the table. He booted up the laptop and then launched the media player. The first camera showed the Albanian walking, on his own, along the corridor to Ivonne’s door.

Mike then switched to the other camera, the one in Ivonne’s apartment: we watched as Ivonne went to the door and turned the lock. The door slammed into her shoulder. The Albanian didn’t hesitate; he
slapped her in the face and followed up with a back hander to the mouth.

Now, I’m about five-feet nine and fifty-five kilos. Ivonne has a few kilos on m
e and is closer to being six feet.

The Albanian didn’t let up. He grabbed Ivonne by the neck, spun her around, and literally, heaved her down the co
rridor towards the sitting room where she crashed into Markus.

It was like watching a machine. The Albanian with rapid efficient strides followed Ivonne and went straight for Markus. Shifting his weight on to his back foot, he raised his right leg and jumped, launching his foot at Markus’s kneecap. The full weight of the Albanian and the force of his momentum connected. The cracking noise was sickening – the kneecap shattered.

Markus began to buckle. The Albanian, using the impetus of Markus’s fall and with his right hand held flat used a chopping motion, striking Markus on the side of the head.

The Albanian stepped back. Markus collapsed on to the floor.

‘You,’ the Albanian said to Ivonne. ‘I kontrol building.’ He kicked Markus. ‘Get rid of this.’

He turned and walked away.

‘Bleeding hell!’ I said, slowly shaking my head in opened-mouthed amazement. ‘He’s unstoppable.’

Mike sat, speechless, star
ing at the screen.

The sheer violence – no that wasn’t correct, although it had been violent, it was the minimal use of physical force to cre
ate the maximum effect which shocked me. The Albanian really was like a Terminator – efficient and ruthless. All my Taekwondo skills and training appeared, by comparison, to be a sort of middleclass entertainment programme – weak, harmless and ineffectual.

Mike raised his head and looked at me; his eyes seemed to be replaying the scenes just witnessed on the screen.

‘I think,’ he said. His voice was flat and emotionless. ‘We’ll have to give this to the police.’ He gestured limply at the laptop.

‘No way!’ I said. ‘It’s not admissible.’

‘Oh, that it is.’ His head bobbed slowly up and down. ‘It is.’

Mike stared at me. I knew he was waiting for me to figure it out – his reasoning, not mine.

I placed a hand on my hip. ‘No police.’

‘After that.’ Mike pointed at the laptop. ‘I don’t see any other choice.’

‘The police aren’t an option.’

He rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘Tell me, why not?’

‘They come in here they’ll want a name and an address. Same story with Ivonne.’

‘So, you’re going to let the Albanian set up shop in this building?’

‘It mightn’t come to that.’

‘You heard him. “I kontrol building.”’

‘You don’t get it. I lead a double life. Oil and water, they don’t mix – can’t.’

Mike frowned.

‘If one whiff of what I do gets out.’ I looked around the room, seeking for the words to describe an utter nightmare.

‘It will never get that far,
Nina. We can talk to Martha; find out who the dirty cop is, okay?’

‘I’m okay with talking to Martha. But, no cops. They can’t keep secret
s, it’ll get out and I’ll be branded for life.’

Mike made a moue with his lips.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Society puts criminals behind bars. They’re locked away and sit inside comparing notes; learning from each other. Only the paedophiles and the dirty cops get abuse. But my fate, if what I do gets out, is to be sneered at day-in-day-out. An outcast, a pariah.’

‘But—’

‘No, Mike. You’re not society. You know, you understand. You’re not the kneejerk reaction. All it takes is one reporter.’

Mike trapped his lower lip between his teeth and sucked air in. ‘You’re talking about an end-game, a worst-case scenario.’

I squinted looking at Mike. ‘You married?’

Mike nodded, ready to open his mouth.

‘What the heck!’ I said, shaking my head. That’ll teach me for jumping to conclusions. He’d never said and I’d never asked, just assumed. I thought he was like a lot of middle-aged men looking for company and revisiting the fruits of youth.

Caught out by my own assumption, I shook my head again. ‘Does she know?’

‘Know that I’m visiting you? No.’

‘What’s she going to think? Eh?’

Mike scratched his ear, staring at me.

‘Got you now?’ I said, holding his gaze, feeling buoyed as his own dilemma became clear to him. ‘Don’t want to go down that road, do you? Uncomfortable, isn’t it? Makes life difficult, destroys the trust—’

‘We’ve never—’

‘You know that, I know that, but she doesn’t, does she?’

Mike looked away and scratched his ear again.

‘She going to believe you? She going to believe me? Not that we’ll ever meet.’

Mike tilted his head and let out a big whoosh of air.

‘And,’ I said,
‘I’m not finished.’

Mike brought his head back up and looked at me, his eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

‘Maybe your wife will know if you’re telling the truth, or not. Women are good at that, if they’re paying attention – might be that women’s instinct thing.

‘So, let’s assume you’ve passed the test – you’re telling the truth. But she might get to thinking about intimacy. What’s worse, physical intimacy or emotional intimacy?’

‘All right, all right, Nina,’ Mike said. ‘That’s enough, I’m beginning to see it twenty-twenty.’