Dead Simple (11 page)

There were forty-two bells to choose from on the entryphone panel. He pressed one at random, deliberately on a different floor to Michael’s. There was no answer. He tried another, with the name ‘Maranello’.

After a few moments a crackly male voice in a thick Italian accent said, ‘Hello? Yes? Hello?’

‘Delivery,’ Mark shouted.

‘Delivery what?’

‘FedEx. From America, for Maranello.’

‘You what? Delivery? I — I not — I — I no—’

There was a moment’s silence. Then the sharp buzz of the electric latch.

Mark pushed the door and walked in. He went straight to the lift and took it to the sixth floor, then walked down the corridor to Michael’s flat. Michael kept a spare key under the doormat in case he locked himself out — which he had done once, drunk and naked. To Mark’s relief it was still there. A single Yale key, covered in fluff.

As a precaution he rang the doorbell and waited, watching the corridor, anxious in case anyone should appear and see him. Then he opened the door, slipped in and quickly closed it behind him, and pulled a small torch from his pocket. Michael’s apartment looked out onto the street. There was another apartment block opposite. It was probably safe to turn the lights on, but Mark didn’t want to take chances. There
might
be someone out there watching.

Pulling off his sodden cap and coat, he hung them on pegs on the wall, then waited some moments, listening, nervous as hell. Through the party wall he could hear what sounded like marching music, from a television turned up too loud. Then with the aid of the flashlight, he began his search.

He went first into the main room, the lounge/dining area, shining the beam onto every surface. He looked at the pile of unwashed dishes on the sideboard, a half-drunk bottle of Chianti with the cork pushed back in, then the coffee table, with the television remote lying next to a glass bowl containing a large candle, partially burnt. A pile of magazines —
GQ
,
FHM
,
Yachts and Yachting
. Beside them a red light winked busily on the answering machine.

He listened to the messages. There was one, left just an hour ago, from Michael’s mother, her voice nervy.

‘Hello, Michael, I’m just checking in case you are back.’

Another was from Ashley, sounding as if she was on her mobile in a bad reception area. ‘Michael darling, just calling to see if by chance you’re back. Please, please call me the moment you get this. I love you so much.’

The next was from a salesman asking Michael if he would like to take advantage of a new loan facility Barclays Bank was offering to its card holders.

Mark continued playing the messages right through, but there was nothing of interest. He checked the two sofas, the chairs, the side tables, then went into the study.

On the desk in front of the iMac was just the keypad, cordless mouse, a fluorescent mouse pad, a heart-shaped glass paperweight, a calculator, a mobile charger and a black jar crammed with pens and pencils. What he was looking for was not there. Nor was it on the bookshelves or anywhere in Michael’s untidy bedroom.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

He left the apartment, walked down the fire-escape steps and went through the rear exit into the dark of the car park.
Bad news
, he thought to himself as he furtively made his way back to the street.
This was really bad news
.

Fifteen minutes later he drove his BMW X5 up the steep hill alongside the huge sprawling complex of the Sussex County Hospital, and pulled into the car park for the Accident and Emergency department. He hurried past a couple of waiting ambulances and into the brightly lit reception and waiting area, familiar to him from his visit the previous day.

He walked past the dozens of people waiting forlornly on the plastic seats, beneath a sign which read ‘waiting time — three hours’, and along a series of corridors to the lift, and took that to the fourth floor.

Then he followed the signs to the ICU, the smells of disinfectant and hospital food in his nostrils. He rounded a corner, walked past a vending machine, and a payphone in a perspex dome, then saw ahead of him the reception desk of the Intensive Care Unit. Two nurses stood behind the counter, one on the phone, the other talking to a distressed-looking elderly woman.

He made his way across the ward, past four occupied beds, to the corner where Josh had been last night, expecting to see Zoe at his bedside. Instead, he saw a wizened old man, with wild white hair, sunken, liver-spotted cheeks, cannulated and intubated, with a ventilator beside him.

Mark scanned the rest of the beds, but there was no sign of Josh. Panicking that his health had improved and that he had now been moved to another ward, he hurried back to the reception desk and positioned himself in front of the nurse who was on the phone, a plump, cheery-looking woman of about thirty, with a pudding-basin haircut, and a badge that said ‘ITU Staff Nurse, MARIGOLD WATTS’. From her demeanour she seemed to be chatting to her boyfriend.

He waited impatiently, resting his arms on the wooden counter, staring at the bank of black and white monitors showing every bed, and the colour digital displays beneath each of them. He shifted his position a couple of times in rapid succession, trying to catch her eye, but she seemed to be mainly concerned about her dinner.

‘Chinese, I think I fancy Chinese. Peking Duck. Somewhere that does Peking Duck, with the pancakes and—’

Then finally she seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘Listen, I have to go. Call you back. Love you too.’ She turned to Mark, all smiles. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

‘Josh Walker.’ He pointed across the ward. ‘He was over there — ah — yesterday. I’m just wondering which ward he’s been moved to?’

Her face froze as if she’d suffered a massive infusion of Botox. Her voice changed, also, suddenly becoming tartly defensive. ‘Are you a relative?’

‘No, I’m his business partner.’ Instantly Mark kicked himself for not saying he was his brother. She would never have known.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as if regretting she had terminated her call for him. ‘We can only give information to relatives.’

‘You can’t just tell me where he has been transferred to?’

A buzzer sounded. She looked up at the screens and a red light was flashing beside one of them. ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

She rushed from her station across the ward.

Mark took out his mobile. Then he saw a large sign: ‘THE USE OF MOBILE PHONES IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN IN THIS HOSPITAL’.

He backed away, hurriedly retracing his steps to the lift, then took it to the ground floor. Totally gripped with fear he raced through a labyrinth of corridors until he reached the main entrance.

Just as he walked up to the reception desk he heard a loud, near-hysterical voice, and saw Zoe, eyes raw, tears streaming down her cheeks, blonde ringlets totally unkempt.

‘You and your friend Michael and all your stupid bloody jokes,’ she shouted. ‘You stupid, bloody immature jerks.’

He stared at her in silence for some moments. Then she collapsed in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘He’s dead, Mark, he just died. He’s dead. Josh is dead. Oh God, he’s dead. Please help me, what am I going to do?’

Mark put his arms around her. ‘I — I thought he was OK, that he was going to pull through,’ he said, lamely.

‘They said there was nothing they could do for him. They said if he had lived he would have been a vegetable. Oh God. Oh God, please help me, Mark. What am I going to say? How do I tell the children their daddy’s never coming home? What do I say to them?’

‘Do you — do you want a — a cup of tea or something?’

Through deep gulping sobs she said, ‘No I don’t want a fucking cup of tea. I want my Josh back. Oh God, they’ve taken him down to the mortuary. Oh Christ. Oh God, what am I going to do?’

Mark stood in silence, holding her tightly, stroking her back, hoping to hell his relief did not show.

Michael woke with a start from a confused dream, tried to sit up, and his head instantly crashed against the coffin lid. Crying out in pain he tried to move his arms, and his shoulders met the unyielding satin first on the left and then the right. He tossed and thrashed in a sudden claustrophobic panic.

‘Get me out of here!’ he screamed, turning, thrashing, gulping air, sweating and shivering at the same time.

‘Oh, please, get me out of here!’

His voice was deadened. Flat. It wasn’t going anywhere, it was trapped in here just the same as he was.

His hands fumbled for the torch, unable to locate it for several seconds in his panic. Then he found it, switched it on, stared up and then sideways at the walls of his prison. He looked at his watch: 11.15.

Night?

Tomorrow?

Night, it must still be night, Thursday night
.

Rivulets of sweat were running down his body. Making a puddle underneath him. He craned his neck to look over his shoulder, shone his torch down and a reflection shone back. Water.

A whole fucking inch.

He looked down in shock. There was no way. No, absolutely no way that he had sweated this much.

Two fucking inches.

He put his hand down again. Shone the torch. Held his pinkie upright, like a dipstick. The water came up to just below the second joint. There was no way he had sweated that much. Cupping his hands he scooped some up and drank it greedily, oblivious to its salty, muddy taste. He drank more and more; for several minutes it seemed to him that the more he drank, the thirstier he was.

Then when he had finally finished, a new aspect of the rising water came into the equation. He grabbed the belt buckle and began frantically grinding away at the lid, but within minutes, the buckle became so hot it was burning his fingers.

Shit.

He picked up the whisky bottle. Still a third of its contents left. He struck the top of the bottle hard against the wood above him. Nothing happened. He tried again, heard the dull thud. A tiny sliver of glass sheared off. Tragic to waste it. He put the neck into his mouth, tilted it, swallowed a mouthful of the burning liquid. God, it tasted good, so good. He lay back, up-ended the bottle into his mouth and let it pour in, swallowing, swallowing, swallowing until he choked.

He held the bottle up, squinting at it in the beam, having difficulty focusing now, his head swimming. Only a small amount of whisky remained. Just about—

There was a thump right above his head. He felt the coffin move!

Then another thump.

Like a footstep.

Like someone standing on the lid of the coffin right above him!

Hope sprang every nerve in his body.
Oh Jesus Christ, they are getting me out of here at last!

‘OK, you bastards!’ he yelled, his voice more feeble than he had intended. He took a breath, heard another scrape above him.
At fucking last!

‘What the fuck kept you?’

Silence.

He banged his fist against the lid, slurring his words. ‘Hey! What fucking kept you? Josh? Luke? Pete? Robbo? Have you any idea how long I’ve been down here? This is just so not funny, this really is just so not funny. You hear me?’

Silence.

Michael listened.

Had he imagined it?

‘Hello! Hey, hello!’

Silence.

No way had he imagined it. There had been footsteps. A wild animal? No, they had been heavier than that. Human heavy.

He knocked frantically with the bottle and then with his fists.

Then very suddenly, very silently, as if he were watching a magic show on television, the breathing tube slid upwards and disappeared.

A few grains of soil fell down through the hole it vacated.

Mark could barely see. The red mist of panic that seized him was blurring his vision, fogging his brain. Michael’s voice, he had heard Michael’s goddamn muffled voice. Oh Jesus!

He closed the door of his BMW in the darkness of the forest, in the lashing rain, jabbed at the ignition, and tried to get the key in. His boots were heavy and tacky with cloying mud, water was streaming down from his baseball cap onto his face.

With his gloved hands he twisted the key and the headlamps came on in a brilliant white glare as the engine turned over and fired. In their beam he saw the grave and the trees beyond. An animal scurried off into the undergrowth, leaves and plants swayed in the wind and rain, for a moment almost surreally like plants in a current on the ocean floor.

He kept staring at the grave, at the corrugated sheet he had carefully pulled back over, and the shrubbery he had uprooted and laid over it to camouflage it. Then he saw the second spade still sticking in the ground and cursed. He climbed down from the car, ran across and grabbed it, and shoved it inside the tailgate. Then he climbed back in, slammed the door, scanning the scene, checking it as well as his blurred vision could.

He was thinking. No construction was due to start here for at least another month, there were still planning issues to be sorted and finalized. No reason for anyone to come here. The planning committee had made their inspection, everything now was on hold for the formal rubber stamp.

Shaking uncontrollably, he put the car in gear and headed back down the track, over the two cattle grids again that had been put there, presumably by the Forestry Commission, to stop deer getting out onto the road.

As he pulled out onto the road he switched on the radio, hitting button after button in search of some music. There was news. Talking. A commercial. He hit the CD button, surfed each of the CDs in turn, but none of them worked for him. He switched the machine off.

Minutes later, as he drove around a curve, the beam of the headlights picked up a row of wreaths on the verge. The sight churned his stomach. Headlights came the other way, passed. Then more headlights. He gripped the wheel tightly, his head swimming, trying to concentrate, trying to think clearly. Then he came to another curve, even sharper, and he was going much too fast. Panicking, he braked sharply, too sharply, felt the judder as the ABS anti-skid kicked in and heard a thump as the breathing tube shot forward off the passenger seat beside him and into the footwell.