Maloney's Law (20 page)

He stops speaking and I gaze at the ceiling.

‘And last night?’ I ask. ‘What was last night about?’

He groans. ‘It was about scaring you off for good. After you’d come to the office, Blake and I talked about what to do. He suggested a threat, a lesson if you like, and I said nothing to stop him. It was the best plan to neutralise you. Before Blake left, he told me that by the morning there’d be nothing to worry about. I didn’t reply; I just carried on working. Late. It was as if I couldn’t stop working.’

‘Then?’

‘Then, when it was gone midnight, I left the office, got into the car, and drove to your home. I wanted to make sure there’d be no blood on my hands this time, but you weren’t there. I sat outside for a while and waited to see if you’d turn up, but you didn’t. And you didn’t answer your phone. Then, not knowing what else to do, I drove to your office. The rest you know.’

‘Yes, the rest I know.’

Neither of us says anything more for a while.

Without warning, Dominic gets up and stretches, his muscles flexing in the soft light penetrating the curtains. ‘So then. You know everything now. What I need to know is this: What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you?’

As he answers, I realise his voice has changed again. It’s harder now, more distant, more cultured once more. I see the time for truth is over. Squatting down, he searches underneath the bed, frowns, and then brings out a tape recorder, the tape still turning. He switches it off. I close my eyes for a second and swallow deeply.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t know?’ he asks.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t try?’

He smiles a little before crushing the tape under his shoe. Then he picks up the pieces and lays them neatly on the bedside table.

‘I don’t think even you can salvage that,’ he says.

‘No.’

‘So what will you do now?’

The emphasis he’s laid on the now doesn’t escape me. ‘What do you think?’

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘It makes no difference,’ I say. ‘I have to go to the police, tell them what I know, even if it proves nothing.’

‘Why?’

I look right at him. ‘If you don’t see why, there’s no point in me explaining it to you.’

When he nods and takes his mobile from his back pocket, I see that for him the conversation is already over.

‘What are you doing? Ringing for Blake’s men to come and finish me off?’

‘No,’ he smiles. ‘Don’t be more of a fool than you are. I’m ringing for an ambulance. I’ll make sure the outside door is open. Before I leave, let me tell you one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘If you go to the police with any of this, then I’ll counter-attack with everything I have against you. Your past, your criminal record, everything. Not only that, but I’ll claim all your accusations are lies and that you planted information in Blake’s and my offices to discredit our companies. This I will claim is because you have become sexually obsessed with me in spite of the fact we have only met twice and I have never hired you. Those in my employment who may initially believe they know otherwise will in the end back me up; they have no choice. Whatever happens, it will destroy your business, your future, your family, you. Think about it.’

I make no reply. There’s none I can think of. At the door, he turns to look at me one last time.

‘Let me repeat, Paul, that if you go to the police, even without this tape, I will destroy you.’

I hold his gaze for a long moment. It tells me nothing, so I look away.

‘You’ve said a lot of things, Dominic,’ I say. ‘But none of them are real. Or have ever been real. I think you should leave.’

When the door has clicked shut, its echo reverberating through the long chill of morning, I cry for a while. Then I stagger to my feet, lean against the wardrobe and reach up for the second tape I’d had the sense to place there. I hope it’s recorded enough. When the ambulance arrives, my eyes are dry. And I know what I should do. But can I risk everything to do it?

Chapter Seventeen

They keep me in hospital for four days. Apparently it would have been less if I’d come in earlier and had my burns treated at the proper time, and I’ve been lucky as they’re manageable and not life-threatening. As these medical terms are flung at my head like so many pebbles, I toy with the idea of saying that when they were inflicted they seemed life-threatening enough to me. In the end I say nothing.

During those four days, I discover three things. The first is that hospitals have a routine more permanently established than my own, and they live or die by it. Being woken, washed, breakfasted, given medication, then the doctor’s rounds, lunch, sleep, tea, more medication, dinner, and then blessed sleep again come and go as if there’s nothing else more interesting to do. All too often there isn’t. The second thing I discover is in spite of this familiar sense of routine, I’m not a good patient. When I hurt, I say so, and when I’m bored, I say so. And the third fact I discover is that the worst thing in a hospital is to have an opinion.

Also, during those four days, I receive three visits, although the last two are linked, much like my three new pieces of hospital information.

The first visitors are Mr. and Mrs. O’Donnell. It’s Sunday afternoon when the two of them arrive, Jade’s mother bustling in with expressions of concern, shock, and relief on her face and a huge bouquet of cream and orange flowers in her arms. Jade’s father lurks like an afterthought in the background.

‘Paul, my dear,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t believe it when we heard. We’ve only just listened to the message from the hospital and came as soon as we could. We’ve been away, you see. I’m so sorry, but we would have come sooner if we’d known. What on earth has happened? Are you all right?’

As she speaks, I’m struggling to gain a sitting position in the bed. The sudden influx of questions is almost overpowering. I wonder for a moment how they’ve managed to find out, before remembering one of the scraps of paper in my wallet with their address on. The nurses have been busy. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine, Mrs. O’Donnell, Mr. O’Donnell. Really. Or rather I’ll be fine. The hospital have it all under control; it’s not as bad as it looks.’

‘Yes, I’m so glad. But you’ve been burnt. My dear, how on earth did it happen?’

As she sits herself down on the only nearby visitors’ chair and leans forward, Mr. O’Donnell takes his place behind her. For a few seconds, they look much like an old sepia photograph of a Victorian couple, before he fetches a second chair from the other side of the ward. Suppressing a smile at the image, I give them a cleaned-up version of what happened. They listen with care to my tale of an unfortunate kitchen accident made all the worse by an explosion and the presence of a bread knife. I’m not sure they believe this any more than the hospital staff did, but there’s nothing they can do to make me change my story. Besides, if I told them the truth, they’d never be able to comprehend it.

When I’ve finished, there’s a short silence, and then Mrs. O’Donnell says, ‘Well, I think you’ve been very lucky. It’s a dreadful thing to have happened. Is there anything we can get you while you’re here, anything you might need?’

‘No, really. It’s kind enough that you’re visiting me at all and—’

Mrs. O’Donnell sweeps away my feeble objections with a wave of her hand. Over the next hour I’m bombarded with gifts of soap, shaving cream, toothpaste, magazines, and a selection of books to cover all tastes. Not only that but I hear about the weather, the sewing circle, the chapel, and how good it’s been to Jade’s parents, not to mention the garden, the redecorating they’re doing, and the much improved state of the village shop. It surprises me how much I relax in their company, one chatty and one so quiet. The time speeds by, and when Mrs. O’Donnell gets up to leave, there’s a thud of darkness in my stomach.

While Jade’s mother is replacing her husband’s chair in the corner of the ward, Mr. O’Donnell speaks for the first time.

‘Paul?’

‘Yes, Mr. O’Donnell?’

He clears his throat and stares down the long line of beds. ‘I don’t believe any of what you’ve told us, and neither I think does my wife, but thank you for telling us it.’

I feel my skin colour. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Don’t be. You have your job to do, but...’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Be careful. My...my daughter would have wanted that.’

I nod once. A moment later, Mrs. O’Donnell is kissing me on the cheek and making ready for departure. As I watch their two oh-so-ordinary and comforting backs disappear, my one thought is how grateful I am they came at all. After they’ve gone, the only other thought that concerns me, and which kicks in during the middle of the following night, is what other scraps of paper the nurses might have retrieved from my belongings.

It doesn’t take long to find out.

The next day, the day before I’m discharged, or rather before I escape, my mother arrives.

I’m sleeping. When I wake up, her face is the first thing I see, and I have no idea how long she’s been sitting next to my bed. For a further moment, I can’t remember where I am.

She touches my forehead with cool fingers. ‘It’s all right.

You’ve been asleep. I’ve been waiting for you to be awake.’

Her hand lingers on my head for a while. Then she shifts and pats me on the cheek before bringing her fingers to rest on my arm. The silence hovers between us.

Then she says, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come before, I wanted to, but...but...’

‘It’s okay,’ I say, and in her trailing off I can imagine all the tale of my father’s reluctance. ‘Don’t worry about it. You’re here now. I’m glad you are.’

And I am, though I haven’t expected to be. I’m glad my mother is here, visiting her sick son as somehow this seems right, in spite of how distant I am now from my family. It’s as if I’ve been transported back to the good moments of being young.

My mother just smiles and holds my hand. Now and again, we talk, filling the silence with trivia, and I think how odd it is that I feel more comfortable with Mrs. O’Donnell than I do with my own mother. After half an hour, she releases my hand and pats her hair. ‘Darling?’

‘Hmm?’ I mumble a reply, not noticing then the change in her tone from comfort to question.

‘I didn’t come on my own today, though I suppose you may have realised that already. Your father brought me. I told him I had to come, no matter what, and he drove me. I—’

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s in the café, downstairs.’ She hesitates. ‘If you wanted to see him, Paul, I think he’d like that. Today, if you feel able to.’

‘Why doesn’t he tell me himself?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘No. Nobody bloody knows, do they? Because nobody in this family has the guts to say it. He’s ashamed of me, of the past and what I did once. He threw me out then, and as far as I can see nothing’s changed.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Isn’t it? Really?’

She doesn’t answer and, without looking at her, I know she’s trying not to cry. I should turn to her, make things right in the way she would want, but I think the days when that might have happened are gone.

‘Isn’t it true?’ I ask again.

‘He’s your father, Paul. He loves you, no matter what you think.’

I close my eyes. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. To be honest, I’ve had enough of love. It doesn’t make any damn thing right. It never has and it never will.’

‘I don’t believe that’s true,’ she whispers.

‘I do. You’re entitled to believe what you like.’

After that, nothing is said for a few moments. Then I hear the sound of the scraping of the chair as she stands. When I look up at her, she’s paler than I’ve ever seen her before.

‘I’m grateful you came,’ I say. ‘Thank you. I know this is difficult for you. I’m sorry I can’t make things happen as you’d like.’

She nods and then says quickly, as if it’s been something stored in her mouth that she must set free, ‘I understand. It’s been hard for you, too. And for your father. Listen, Paul, there’s...there’s a small chapel downstairs, it wasn’t being used when I looked, and there’s not a service ’til next Sunday. I’ll ask your father to wait there for half an hour before we go home. I thought it would be neutral ground if you changed your mind. I won’t interfere; I’ll be in the café. I just thought if you wanted you could talk. Goodbye. I’ll speak to you soon. I do love you, you know that.’

Then without allowing any kind of response, she kisses me on the forehead, smoothes her hand through my hair, and is gone.

A minute glides by. Then another, and another. She must have got there by now, down to the café. She must be talking to him, telling him what she’s said to me. It strikes me I have no idea what he will think or what he’ll do, how he’ll react. Will he be angry? Nervous? Even pleased? Or is this plan something the two of them have concocted together and he’ll be expecting it? Before my mother left, I didn’t ask her that.

Five minutes go by. I should keep count. But what’s the point? I’m not going to go anywhere. I’m not going to see my father for the first time in eleven years, nine months, and one day.

I try to sleep, but I can’t. When I close my eyes, all I can see is my mother’s face. And behind her a shadow of someone else.

What time is it now? I wish my mother had never come. No, that’s unfair. Fifteenth law of PI work: Always be fair. I was enjoying her being here, visiting me. Before she said what she’d come to say.

Should do something. Should concentrate on anything that isn’t the image of my father, whose face I can’t quite form in my thoughts, sitting in the chapel downstairs. Will he be waiting? Would I be waiting if I were him? At all? Damn it. When I snatch up my book, the latest P D James, from the side table, even that doesn’t work. The words swim in front of my eyes and make no sense together, and I read the same passage four and a half times before I realise that’s what I’ve done.

Just as I drop it back down, the tea-trolley arrives. A welcome diversion. Or would be if it wasn’t taking so long to get to me. One more minute glides by like ice as tea is served to those nearest the door, two minutes.

‘Tea, Mr. Maloney? Or would you like coffee today?’

Gazing up at the volunteer’s smiling old face with its border of short greying hair, I wonder what her life has been like and whether she’s ever had to make the kind of decisions given to me today. On consideration, I don’t think so, and, besides, there’s no time to find out. I have less than five minutes to go before my father leaves the chapel. It might just be worth it. It might. There’s no time to find out about someone else’s life this afternoon, and no time for a hot drink either.

Without knowing it, I’ve made a decision.

‘No thanks,’ I say to the tea-lady. ‘Not today. But please could you do me a favour? Could you help me up?’

She does. Walking and any sort of movement isn’t bad now. The hospital, whatever I may think of them, are doing their job. The hot air of the ward through the thin polycotton of my dressing gown almost seems to brand my skin again. I thank God it can’t press against any burnt patches, as they’re still protected. The lift slowly disgorges its occupants as I descend to the ground floor. I’m sweating, and my fingers grip my palms as if I’m about to spin off into space if I should ever let go. I don’t even know why I’m doing this, why I’m trying, why I’m here.

It’s madness. Whether or not my father has bothered to fit in with my mother’s plans, it’s madness. Nothing will be resolved, nothing healed. I should go back to my bed and try to get some sleep.

Just as I decide this is what I’ll do, the lift opens. I’ve come this far; I may as well go through the motions. He won’t be there anyway and nothing will have been lost. Or gained.

Limping out into the stream of bodies all heading up or down the corridor like a human wall of purpose, I realise there’s still one fact I need to know. Reaching out, I grab the first uniform I can see.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yes?’ the nurse stops and smiles at me. ‘Can I help?’

‘Please. Could you tell me the way to the chapel?’

‘Of course,’ she points behind me. ‘It’s down there, third door on the right. Shall I show you?’

‘No, no, that’s fine,’ I reply. ‘I can find it.’

As I turn in the direction she’s pointed, I see that the clock in the foyer says it’s been over thirty-two minutes since my mother left me. I’m already late.

A few seconds later, I’m outside the chapel door. There are no windows so there’s no way of knowing if anyone is inside. It makes sense, I tell myself, for a place of prayer. It makes sense. The door itself is simple, just the word “Chapel” and a note of the service times.

It would be so easy to leave now.

No. It wouldn’t. I can’t live with the not knowing. I’ve never been able to.

I push open the door. It feels heavy against my hands. Inside

it’s dark, lit only by five small wall lights and a scattering of candles.

I’m alone. Of course, of course.

I should have known it. I didn’t know it.

As the door swings shut behind me, a figure appears from the left side of the room and takes a step into what light there is. A tall man, gaunt, black hair with a shadow of grey, face lined now, and with the look of a wolf on the hunt. I could be gazing into a mirror, one far into the future.

The man takes a second step.

‘Hello, Paul,’ he says.

Without a word, I amble, as if there’s all the time in the world, half-way down the aisle, half-way to where he is. I steady myself against one of the wooden chairs on my right and lower myself into it. There’s a suggestion of movement, a possibility of help offered, but I flinch away.

‘No. I can manage.’

He strolls towards me, hands in pockets and his long, black winter coat floating open. Every inch the modern celebrity judge, as always. He sits across the aisle from where I am, thank God. Any nearer and I don’t think I could deal with it.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he says at last. ‘I wasn’t sure you would. Hell, I wasn’t sure I would.’

‘Ditto. To both.’

‘Cigarette?’

‘No. I gave them up.’

‘Wise move. Do you mind if...?’