Vin of Venus (5 page)

"Private psychiatric hospital. In Camberwell. That's South London, in case you didn't know. Pretty posh digs. I reckon you were a suicide attempt, right? I know I'd try to off myself, if I was in your state."

Why was he here?

Memories stirred. He saw the dark gap of a gun barrel floating up to point at his chest. A cramped office beneath the British Museum. An old man with gold-rimmed spectacles, asking him a question. A very important question. One that held clues to his past.

"Are you alright?" the girl asked.

He tried to vomit over the side of the bed. Nothing came up, so he crouched there and felt his stomach heave.

Instead of the snake-charmer, a male attendant with hairy forearms came in to change Charlotte's glucose drip. He shoved a handful of pills down Vin's mouth per protocol, but wasn't so careful about watching him swallow.

"Hey, now, what're you going to do with those?" Charlotte asked, after the attendant had left. Vin spat the remaining tablet onto his nightstand.

"Hide them somewhere, I guess."

"Give 'em to me. I'm dying over here."

Vin shook his head. "This stuff's too powerful. I spent a month in a Polish hospital and they never gave me any sedatives like these."

Charlotte
hmmphed
and switched on the TV suspended between their beds. A BBC Four talk-show filled the screen. Vin noted the time on the cable box: 1:20 a.m. The cycle of day and night had lost all meaning in this place.

Charlotte muted the sound. "You still haven't told me what you're in here for."

"That's a good question." Some of his recent memory had returned. He recalled Dr. Dorian asking him where he'd gotten the ruby bracelet. There were implications of theft. When Vin couldn't answer, Dorian summoned a strapping rugby-type into the little office. Threats of bodily harm followed. Then a long drive through East London, Dorian sitting in the back with Vin, a gun snug against his ribs. The trip ended at a warehouse, where the rugby player made good on his promises.

After that was a blank.

"I think," Vin said, "someone's paying to keep me here in a drugged state. I think I know who.
Why
isn't so clear, but I imagine my benefactor wants to ask me questions at a later date."

"You sound paranoid."

"I've plenty of reasons to be."

"You in trouble with the mob?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Your face is covered in bruises, for one thing. Like someone's worked you over."

Vin felt at his cheek. He hadn't noticed any pain before, but there was a mild sting where his fingers touched. Whatever they were dosing him with probably included opiates. Which should be wearing off, soon.

"Charlotte, have you been in places like this before?"

"Plenty." Her grin showed graying teeth, as if she was proud of the fact. "This is my fourth go at rehab."

"What's the security like? Could someone just walk out of here?"

"Nah. Doors to a psych wing are always locked. I bet the door to this room isn't, though. Why?"

"I need to leave. For obvious reasons, I can't do it by myself."

"You need my help."

"I could make it worth your while."

"I'm sure." She rolled her eyes. "For starters, you can give me those pills. Then we'll talk."

He tossed her the tablets, one by one. There was less than six feet between their beds, but without a wheelchair it might as well have been a chasm.

"You got your spit all over these," she said.

"Sorry."

She tilted her head back and inhaled the palm-full of medication. "On to business. Before I help you, I need to know what I'm getting into. No more of this Amputee Mystery-Man shit. Who the fuck are you and how did you get here?"

He gave her the abridged version, leaving out the Venus part. He described the ruby bracelet as a family heirloom.

"And I suppose you'll be wanting this heirloom back, once you're free," she said.

"Of course."

"How much is it worth?"

"Well ... the bracelet's got several teardrop-shaped rubies, big as this." He held up his thumb. "The facets are so tiny the gems look smooth. Plus the bracelet itself is solid gold."

Charlotte's tongue slid over her lips. "You ever think about selling it?"

"I suppose," Vin lied. "If I could get a fair price."

"Sotheby's would just rip you off. To get the real money, you need connections with Arab buyers. And I happen to have those. This is assuming, of course, that you could get the bracelet back, and you're not bullshitting me in the first place."

"The bracelet is real."

"I believe you. God help me, but I do." She yanked the IV feed out of her arm. Swiveled her stick-thin legs over the side of the bed.

"What're you doing?" he said.

"Helping you escape, like you asked." She pointed towards the clock on the cable box. "Night shift's always the best time. Only dodgy types put in for graveyard."

"You got a plan?"

"Nope. I make things up as I go." She surveyed him for a moment. "We'll need a wheelchair for you, I suppose. Good thing we're already in hospital."

She tried a couple experimental steps. Her legs wobbled, but after a few more paces became firm enough. The balls of her feet made no sound.

"Back in a moment," she said, and glided over to the door. It opened easy enough. She craned her thin body out into the hallway and was gone.

He lay there alone, feeling helpless. Without his prosthetic limbs, or a wheelchair, he could only slither from place to place like a human snake. He'd done it a couple times, at his bedsit in Kensington. A humiliating experience.

The figures on the TV blathered silently on. He strained his ears, but couldn't hear anything from outside the room.

Minutes passed.

Charlotte slipped back in. A lopsided smile stretched from one corner of her mouth.

"It's set," she said. "There's only a nurse and an orderly up at the front station, sipping coffee. The hairy punter's trying to score. Two rooms down is a storage space with oxygen bottles and a folding wheelchair."

"How are we going to get past the staff?"

Her eyes glimmered. "Just you wait."

Moments later, a thin wail carried through the walls. Charlotte pressed her ear up against the door. Her eyes narrowed with concentration. "Two sets of footsteps. That's it." She opened the door and peered out. "You stay put," she whispered. Then she was gone again.

He thought he could hear some kind of commotion nearby. More wailing, and then the orderly's low-pitched voice.

Charlotte hustled a wheelchair through the doorway and banged it up alongside Vin's bed. "Get in. Hurry."

He crawled over the side, head spinning, and managed to get his ass snug against the leather seat. His stomach roiled. Everything was rotating in a slow circle—Charlotte, the bed, the room. And then she was shoving him into a hallway with pastel green walls. He caught sight of the room next to theirs, its door open a crack. An old woman's voice and a young woman talking over her floated out.

Charlotte pushed him towards the nurse's station, an open area with a desk, computer, and a row of patient's charts on a wheeled rack. No one was sitting at the desk, but a mug of steaming liquid attested someone had just been there. Past the station a heavy steel door with a small window barred the hallway.

Charlotte ran up and yanked at the door. Locked.

"Okay." She thrust a fingernail in her mouth and started chewing.

Behind them, the wailing had stopped and a woman was repeating words in a soothing tone.

Vin wheeled one-handed over to the desk. He had to spin the right wheel and then reach over quick to give the left a nudge, before he turned in a useless circle. He peered down at the desk, unsure exactly what he was looking for. Two buttons were affixed to the underside, with wires trailing out behind them. One was green and seemed more prominent, the other black and worn.

Logic told him: one of these is a panic button. Pressing it would bring more staff. And make escape impossible.

He reached down, pressed the black button.

The heavy door buzzed. "Open it," he told Charlotte.

She tried the door again. It swung inwards, easily. Vin wheeled towards her fast as he could. Charlotte grabbed the back of his chair and pushed him into the hallway beyond.

The door swung shut behind them.

It was dark, with only a few panels of fluorescent light flickering overhead. Dead quiet. They passed a waiting area full of empty chairs. Up ahead glowed a green exit sign, above a pair of fire doors.

"How'd you distract them back there?" Vin said.

"I found an old woman in the next room. Told her I'd give her fifty quid if she'd start making a racket." She wheeled him up to the fire doors. Purple-black night shone through the windows.

"Are you going to try and sneak back to your room now?" Vin said.

"Lord, no. You won't be getting anywhere without me."

She opened the door and pushed him out, down a concrete ramp. The air felt clammy-moist. They were both only wearing hospital gowns. Vin's teeth started to chatter. He wondered how Charlotte was even moving, given all the medication that must be coursing through her.

They'd exited onto a side-street. Charlotte maneuvered him between a row of bollards, her bare feet slapping echoes against the pavement. Thirty yards away loomed a dark expanse of trees. Some kind of park, ringed with a low stone wall and streetlights.

"Well make for that," she said. "Find some cover."

"And then what?"

"I'll hail a cab."

"With no money?"

"Trust me."

What else could he do?

For more than forty minutes they huddled in a patch of wet shrubbery, Charlotte poking her head over the stone wall every time she heard a car. Vin's face felt numb. Under the harsh sodium light it was hard to tell, but he thought his fingers were turning blue.

Several taxis passed, and once the checkered cab of a police cruiser prowled by.

"What are you waiting for?" Vin said. "I thought you were going to hail a taxi."

"I'm looking for something specific."

Any moment now the hospital staff would discover their room empty, and the area would be crawling with security. Assuming he didn't die of consumption, first.

A dark car came rumbling up the street. A taxi. The driver's silhouette wore a turban.

Charlotte vaulted the stone wall. She rushed into the street, waving her skeletal arms. The taxi slowed, then stopped. Charlotte went around to the window. As soon as the glass slid down, the driver started to protest in accented English. Charlotte leaned close and whispered something. The driver went silent.

She hurried back over to Vin. It took a couple minutes for her to wheel him out from the shrubbery and through the nearest gate. He was sure the taxi would peel off. But no, it was still there. The driver got out, some Middle-Eastern type in a blazer and orange turban. He stood for a moment with his arms folded, but when Vin wheeled close helped him to crawl into the back seat. The upholstery smelled of clove cigarettes. Vin watched the driver fold the wheelchair and tuck it into the cab's boot, before returning to the front seat.

Charlotte crammed herself next to Vin. "See, I told you I'd get us a ride."

She gave the driver a Bayswater address. The taxi slid forward. Warm, wonderful air started coursing through the cab.

"What's in Bayswater?" Vin said.

"My boyfriend. Tony the Paki. He's going to get your bracelet back."

They pulled into a residential neighborhood a little past 3 a.m. The houses were uniform; three-storied, white brick, with iron scrollwork on the windows. Very expensive. The taxi came to a stop in front of an end unit. Lights glowed on the first and second floor. After a moment, a broad shape in a three-piece suit stepped out of the shadows.

"That's Amir," Charlotte said. "Let me do the talking."

She rolled her window down. Amir's face held no expression as he glanced inside the cab. Hairless except for a goatee trimmed to geometric perfection, he could've been a bouncer at any West End club. A Bluetooth bugged from his right ear.

"You're supposed to be in hospital," he said to Charlotte.

"I'm out now. Is Tony up?"

"He's conducting business. Why did—"

"Not your concern. Pay the driver and help me escort my friend here inside."

"A moment."

Amir stepped back from the cab. He touched the Bluetooth and spoke a few words in a guttural language Vin couldn't place.

"The help's getting uppity, I'm afraid," Charlotte said.

Amir slid a fat sheaf of pound notes from his jacket and handed it to the driver. At instruction from Charlotte, he went around to the boot and got the wheelchair out. Vin squirmed his way onto the seat, gritting his teeth against the night's chill.

There was no ramp from the sidewalk to the front door. Amir grabbed the wheelchair from either side and lifted both it and Vin without apparent effort, carrying him up the short flight of steps. At the top, he unlocked the door.

"Mr. Khan's in conference with an important guest," he told Charlotte. "Please show the proper respect."

"Etiquette lessons now, is it?"

Amir gave her an impassive look, before gliding back down the steps.

Warm light reflected off a hallway lined with Italian marble. A portrait of a stunning brunette peered out over a side table; it took Vin a moment to realize the woman's ice-blue eyes belonged to Charlotte.

"From my modeling days," she said. "You can see how fat I was, before I got into heroin."

Someone came hurrying down the hall. A girl, maybe nineteen years old, with a Mediterranean complexion. She wore an overcoat several sizes too big. Gold lame' pumps made
clok-clok
sounds as she pushed past Charlotte, eyes downcast. Charlotte's gray-white skin flushed. She glared stilettos at the girl and slammed the front door shut behind her.

"Whore. I'm not gone two days ..."

She shoved Vin's chair forward. The wheels rattled until the tile gave way to plush carpet, and he found himself in a low-ceilinged room with louvered windows on one wall and gold-veined mirrors on the other. A rich haze of ganja coiled over a leather sofa where two men sprawled. One had
café au lait
skin. Rasta dreads. The other was late middle-aged and leaning to portly, with curly hair dyed an unnatural black.