The Rocket Man (26 page)

‘There were three shots,' explained the doctor without emotion. ‘One of the bullets went through, two lodged in the chest, one just millimetres from the heart, one shattering the fifth rib. Still, he's fit and healthy, there should be no problem. The loss of half the lung shouldn't affect him. He looks really terrible, it must be a shock to you, but in these cases people usually make a quick recovery.'

Katie stared at Dmitry's face; then he opened his eyes. He looked at her; she knew he recognised her. Relief and desire flooded through her; she wanted to embrace him; she wanted to possess him utterly, completely. She felt an instant's irrational envy for the surgeon who had saved his life, had put his hands inside his body. She saw his fingers tremble and realised with overwhelming pity that he was too weak even to lift his hand; she put her hand on his, slipping her fingers through his fingers, being very careful because of the intravenous tube.

‘Mitya, it's all right. You're going to be all right.'

He murmured something she couldn't understand and then, more clearly, ‘How bad?' He seemed confused. She saw him looking up, at the lines of blood going into his arms, at the tubes emerging from his chest, trying to work out what had happened to him. Then he looked at Katie; she realised she must be an alarming sight, her white face looking at him with a terrifying mixture of pity and love, her hair tangled and thick with blood. He shut his eyes again and murmured, ‘Oh my God.'

‘It's all right,' said Katie again, not knowing what else to say. ‘The doctor has operated, he says you'll be fine.'

She was not sure if he had taken it in. After a while Dmitry opened his eyes again. His voice was blurred and indistinct; she had trouble making out what he was saying. He whispered, ‘They will try again.'

This frightened Katie. She looked at the doctor, but he clearly hadn't understood him, perhaps not speaking English well. She said, ‘No, Mitya, no; you are safe here.' His eyes, under the bright light of the lamp, were very blue, much bluer than she remembered. Now he seemed to stare at her as if he had never seen her before; something did not quite connect.

He said, making a great effort, ‘Kaisler.'

She turned Dmitry's hand over, holding it gently with both her own. ‘Please, don't distress yourself.'

The doctor tapped her arm. ‘Enough, now.'

Dmitry said, ‘Must tell Kaisler.'

‘Yes, of course,' said Katie, nodding, ‘He knows, he knows.'

‘No, not this,' said Dmitry, struggling to make his meaning clear, ‘Valadares.'

The doctor touched her arm again; he said, ‘I'm sorry.' Katie leaned over and kissed Dmitry's brow. ‘I'll come back in the morning.' Dmitry's eyes were shut; she didn't know if he had heard her. She went out into the corridor. ‘You must go home,' the doctor said, ‘He'll be all right now. You need some sleep.'

Katie went downstairs to the call-box. Bob answered the phone on the first ring as if he had been sitting by it, waiting; he didn't sound angry, on the contrary, his voice was very calm and controlled. ‘Are you still at the hospital? They told me you were there. I came over but they wouldn't let me come up or speak to you. Why, for God's sake, didn't you phone me?'

‘I couldn't, not till I knew… he's going to live.'

‘Is he?' Bob sounded distant; she imagined this news would not please him. She supposed that he knew everything, now; at least she wouldn't have to break it to him. He said, ‘I'll come and pick you up.'

‘What about Anna?'

‘No, Marianne's here, she's staying over. I asked her to babysit while I came looking for you. Wait there; it won't take me long.'

‘It's all right, I can get a taxi.'

‘No, it's better if I come.'

She sat by the entrance, near the coffee machines. A few haggard-looking people were standing in a group. Bob was there in ten minutes; he came through the doors and looked at Katie with horror. She knew she looked terrible, her eyes watery and red-rimmed, with blood on her hair, skin and clothes. He must have found this shocking, as if her lover's blood proclaimed her intimacy. Shocked out of his calmness, he started on her at once.

‘What the hell were you doing with him?' Bob demanded. ‘You don't know what's going on. You could have been killed yourself, you stupid little fool.'

‘Please don't talk to me about it, I can't bear it. I thought he was dead, I thought…' and she began to cry.

‘You told the hospital you were his wife. What's it all about? Marianne has been telling me about your lies. I suppose this means that you've been screwing him.'

‘Yes, I have,' said Katie simply.

He stopped in his tracks. ‘Since when?'

‘Since… oh, since the end of January, I think.'

Bob struck her on the face. He hit her hard, so hard that she fell to the floor. She cried out and turned, scrambling to her feet, and began to run back down the corridor; Bob ran after her. He grabbed hold of her arms and she began to struggle to get free, kicking and trying to bite. She started screaming, ‘Let go of me, let go of me, I'm staying here.'

‘You're coming home,' said Bob. ‘Stop, you're making a scene.' The receptionist came towards them; he said angrily, ‘Stop this, you're disturbing people. They have problems of their own, you know.' Bob let go of Katie and she stood facing him, breathing heavily.

‘Come on, you must come home,' said Bob, suddenly, firmly, switching moods in an instant. ‘Think about Anna.'

Katie was too exhausted to protest further. He led her to the car and they drove home in silence. She was unable to stop shaking; her face was smarting from the blow, but she supposed she had deserved it. Half-way home, as if repentant, Bob took her hand in his, and she didn't take it away. They drove in silence; Katie was grateful not to have to explain any more.

When they got home Marianne came out and stared at Katie with disbelief. Bob shook his head at her to tell her not to say anything and she said she would go home. He held out a black plastic bag for Katie to put her clothes in and sat her on a chair while he ran her a bath. With difficulty she controlled her shaking arms and washed her hair; the bath turned the colour of pale onion skins. When she was clean he held out a towel for her and helped her out of the bath. He dried her very gently, patting her as if she were a child. Finally he helped her into her towelling robe and put his arms round her.

This kindness was more upsetting than his anger. She said, ‘I don't understand. Why are you being kind to me? I don't deserve it.'

He said, ‘We can talk about that later.'

She said, over and over, ‘I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.' She went into Anna's room to check that she was all right, and kissed her forehead as she slept; then she went into the living room and stood there helplessly. Bob was sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands. When she came in he let them fall away in a gesture of despair. ‘Oh, God, this is a mess,' he said. Katie knew she had hurt him terribly; she was overwhelmed by guilt. She sat down next to him.

‘I thought there was something,' Bob said. ‘You seemed different to me, but I trusted you. I just can't believe it. All this time, and with him. Why?' Katie couldn't answer. Then Bob said, very quietly, ‘What condition is he in? The hospital weren't very forthcoming. Is he in intensive care? Is he out of danger now, do they think?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you want to leave me for him? Is that what you've been planning?'

Katie said, ‘No… oh, no Bob, it's not like that. I was going there this afternoon to try to sort it out with him. I couldn't carry on as we were. I think it was all over… I don't know. How can I know anything, after this?'

Bob stood up, asked, ‘Do you want something to eat or drink? It's almost morning.'

‘Some cocoa.'

Bob went into the kitchen. She heard him taking out the saucepan, opening the fridge; then she heard him suddenly groan and bang his fist on the table. He swore violently. He came back into the room, and stared at her. Katie looked at him, dismayed. He said, ‘I can't bear this. What is it all about? He didn't tell you anything, did he? Anything at all?'

‘No,' said Katie, ‘No, nothing.'

Bob looked at her; she saw disbelief in his eyes. She said, ‘He was trying to say something in the hospital… I didn't understand… someone's name, Valadares; I think that was it, Valadares. That doesn't mean anything to you, does it?'

‘And that was all? He didn't say anything else?'

‘No, he was very drugged.'

Bob went back into the kitchen and brought her the cocoa. He walked to the window, turned round, walked across the room, came back to her. He put his arm on her shoulder but somehow the gesture was without warmth. He said, ‘I'll mention it to Kaisler, I'll be seeing him anyway. Listen, we'd better get an hour or two of sleep. I expect the police will want to ask questions. I suppose I will be considered a suspect, the jealous husband, won't I?'

Katie asked, ‘Where were you, at half past five?'

‘In a meeting. It doesn't matter about an alibi, if that's what you're thinking, Katie. Anyone can hire a hit man.'

Katie said ‘I just don't understand why.'

Bob sat and stared at her, then looked down at the floor. ‘Well if he 1ives, as you say he will, we no doubt will know something.'

N
ihal had arrived back in Vienna on the Wednesday morning. He returned to his apartment at midday to have lunch with Bradman Abeywickrema, the Sri Lankan friend who was staying in his flat while he was in Stockholm. Bradman had made himself well and truly at home, moving in his books, a small television and even, now, his own chair; Nihal could see he was going to have trouble persuading him to move out again. Bradman had nowhere to go, and wanted to hang on in Vienna in the hope of getting himself some work.

In the late afternoon Nihal had gone downstairs to chat to the people in the first floor flat. He must have stayed there in the end for a couple of hours. Then he went over to check the mail at his office in the Bankgasse. When he left at about nine o'clock it had started raining; he'd put on his wrong shoes, and by the time he turned into the Tulpengasse his socks were hopelessly wet. He dug in his pockets for the keys, but noticed that the gate was open. A policeman was standing in the shadow.

Nihal hurried to the gates. Under the arch, in the shadow, lay a body under a black sheet. Nihal knew it was a body; a dribble of blood issued from it, looking black as oil in the light of the streetlamp. Nihal, horrified, asked, ‘Who is it?' and they told him, ‘Someone from one of the flats.' Nihal opened the door, checked his mailbox, and took the lift up to his flat. He opened the door and went inside. Bradman was not there. The door to the balcony was open; the flat was freezing cold. A half-drunk cup of coffee was on the table. Nihal realised suddenly what had happened; it was Bradman, and he had fallen – or been pushed – from the balcony. He ran downstairs and said to the policeman in his terrible German, ‘But this is my friend.'

The policeman nodded. ‘Please, my colleagues are coming shortly. They will want to talk to you.'

Nihal waited for the police to come. There were several of them; the inspector spoke good English. He asked Nihal to identify the body; he pulled back the black sheet. Nihal looked with apprehension, but there was nothing horrible about Bradman's appearance; the injured side of the head lay against the ground, hidden from view; his eyes were open and the expression on his face was as innocent as a child's. So, this was death.

Nihal took a step backwards, said, ‘Yes, it's him. You had better come upstairs.'

Nihal took the inspector up to the flat. He said, ‘I haven't touched anything, not even the cup of coffee. I suppose the forensic people will have to fingerprint everything.'

‘They're on their way. Tell me who your friend is.'

Nihal told him.

‘Could this be a suicide? You say he was depressed and without a job.'

‘Yes. He was depressed, he was penniless, he had no work, he was in a bad way. But he was not that depressed.'

‘Had he been staying with you long?'

‘Oh, he came about a week ago – he was in the flat while I was in Stockholm. I came back this morning.' Nihal could see exactly what had happened. ‘They probably thought I was in the flat… I was downstairs with the neighbours. It must have happened at about eight-thirty, while I was at my office.'

The inspector took notes. He went over Nihal's movements down to the last detail. Nihal felt shaky; it was beginning to sink in. Then he thought of the incident when Dmitry stayed the night. He said, ‘Another friend stayed the night about two weeks ago. He thought he heard someone on the balcony. I went to look; but there was no-one there. It's probably not connected.'

‘Who was this friend?'

‘He works for the IAEA.'

‘His name?'

‘Dmitry Gavrilov.'

The inspector did not write this down in the notebook; his pen had frozen just above the surface of the paper. He looked up. He said, ‘Dr Gavrilov stayed with you two weeks ago?'

‘Yes, it must have been Wednesday of the week before last.' Nihal knew that the policeman knew something; he stopped talking. They looked at one another.

‘How well do you know Dr Gavrilov?' the inspector asked.

‘Quite well – we meet for a drink from time to time. I see him at the Agency.'

‘You don't know what happened this afternoon?'

‘No, I haven't spoken to anyone. Why? What happened?' Nihal had begun to feel uneasy.

The inspector looked as if he didn't know what to say for a moment; he knew Nihal was a journalist; perhaps he didn't want to say too much. Then he said, watching Nihal very carefully for his reaction, ‘Gavrilov was shot in his office late this afternoon. He was hit three times in the chest. Another Russian from the UN was with him; he was shot in the head.'