Road Kill

Seven

Even if I hadn’t come to my decision about Clare on the drive in, one look at her face when we reached the hospital would have convinced me not to push her.

Not that we got to see her right away. When we arrived on the ward the curtains surrounding her bed were closed and we could hear the murmur of voices beyond.

Sean and I waited by the doorway. Much as I wanted to know what was going on, I didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping when those curtains went back. Particularly not by Clare. Or my father, come to that.

In the event, when the fiercely protective nurse I’d crossed swords with earlier swished the curtains aside, the man closeted with Clare was nobody I recognised. He was Asian, of medium height and rather portly, with a magnificent moustache that was waxed into needle points at either side.

He was just rising from the chair next to Clare’s bed, bending to speak to her in low tones and patting her hand. He was wearing a beautiful dark pinstripe suit. A box of tissues was sitting on the blanket next to my friend, half its contents having been used and scattered around her. She was still very red around her nose and eyes.

I hurried forwards just as the man was moving away from the bed. Both Sean and I fixed him with a hard stare as he came past us, but he swept on oblivious to us lesser mortals. He could only have been a consultant.

“Clare!” I said. “Are you OK?”

She made the effort of a big brave smile that just managed to break the surface then sank like a rock. “Oh, hello Charlie,” she said, her voice a little wavery. “Yes, I think so.”

“Who was that?” I demanded, jerking my head in the direction of the departing Asian doctor. “What’s he said to upset you?”

For a moment she looked confused. “Oh, no, Mr Chandry’s been lovely,” she said vaguely, picking up the tissues and dropping them into a carrier bag that was hooked onto the door of her cabinet. “I s’pose I’m just not having a good day, that’s all.”

“Do you want us to go?” I asked, uncertain.

“No, no, please, sit down. I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you anyway.”

I sank onto the chair the consultant had occupied. Sean was still standing by the foot of the bed. He glanced from one of us to the other.

“I think I’ll raid the coffee machine,” he said.

“No, Sean, don’t go.” Clare gave him a watery smile. “I know you’re just being tactful, but I wanted to talk to you, too.”

She waited until he’d pulled up his own chair on the opposite side of the bed. She was looking down at a tissue in her bruised hands, concentrating on teasing the edges apart so it split into gossamer-thin layers. There was a drip plugged into the back of her left hand and a bag of clear fluid suspended from the bed frame.

“I don’t really know where to start,” she said.

I glanced across at Sean briefly. Maybe now we were going to get the whole story.

Then Clare looked up suddenly, straight into my face, and said, “How do you cope with causing someone’s death?”

I opened my mouth and shut it again.

Sean came to my rescue. “In what way ‘causing’, Clare?” he asked gently.

She shrugged awkwardly, pushing both fists into the mattress to ease her body into a more comfortable position. The pins moved too, like porcupine quills. The whole of the frame creaked slightly as it tracked with her and readjusted.

“Yesterday Slick was alive and now he’s dead,” she said, her voice miserable. “I keep thinking suppose there was something I should have done differently, you know? Suppose by one action, somewhere back down the line – a day ago, a week ago – I could have averted this. And I didn’t do it. How do you cope with that?”

“Time,” Sean said. He was leaning forwards with his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes fixed intently on Clare. “There’s an old saying – this too will pass. Sounds corny, but it’s true. The memory fades and things will get better. You just have to let it go.”

Clare looked wholly unconvinced. I desperately wanted to ask why she thought it might have been down to her, but I knew I couldn’t do it. To introduce an element of doubt now would be devastating. Besides, her eyes had already started to fill again.

“I just feel so guilty,” she gulped, pulling another tissue from the box. It snagged and tore and she let her hand drop, defeated. “I’ve made such a mess of things.”

“Come on, Clare,” I said, desperately searching for something to encourage her. “Madeleine will track down Jacob soon and he’ll be home before you know it—”

If I was hoping to hearten her, I had the opposite effect. The tears spilled over and trickled down her white cheeks. She scrubbed at them angrily.

“I’ve caused so much disruption to everyone,” she said, forlorn. “Jacob was so excited about this trip. There are some classic bikes coming up for grabs this week that he’s been trying to get hold of for years. And now I’ve messed it up for him.”

“How can you say that?” I asked quietly. “If it was Jacob lying here and you were away you’d drop everything to be back with him, in a heartbeat. You know you would.”

“Jacob wouldn’t have got himself into this in the first place,” she said, sobbing now. “Jacob’s too s-sensible to have made such a stupid decision on the s-spur of the moment.”

“We all make them,” Sean said. “The big decisions are never the ones that trip you.”

Clare looked at him and tried for a smile that was only partially successful. “Even you, huh?”

“Especially me,” he said, giving her one of his smiles that usually made my knees buckle. But despite his light tone I knew it was no easy responsibility for Sean. When he made the wrong decisions, people died. He’d so nearly become the victim of his own error of judgement.

“So how do you do it?” she asked. “How do you go on like nothing has happened, day after day?”

She was talking personally now. Clare knew I’d been driven far enough to kill. Hell, she ought to know. Death wasn’t an abstract concept to me. It was a reality. Maybe that was precisely why she was asking.

I glanced at Sean, sitting calmly on the other side of the bed, that sometimes cold face creased with concern over my friend’s tears. In a twisted way I took comfort from the fact that her anguish disturbed him. It seemed to indicate a measure of humanity that, watching him dealing Eamonn, I’d been deeply afraid he’d lost.

“You just—” I broke off, helpless. Just what? Got over it? Moved on? “I don’t know,” I said at last. “You just do.”

There were people moving around the ward all the time, so I’d ignored the footsteps behind me until they stopped close by.

“Charlotte,” said my father’s voice, quietly reproachful.

I turned in my seat and found him eyeing Clare’s distressed face. He was wearing surgical garb. The top of his head was covered by a bandana that seemed absurdly jaunty, given his position.

“I’d like a word with you before you leave.” His tone made it clear that departure was going to happen sooner rather than later. We rose obediently and said our goodbyes to Clare.

“We’ll call back this evening,” I promised.

“Clare is scheduled to go back down to theatre this afternoon,” my father said as we walked away. “I would suggest you leave any further visits until tomorrow.” From him it was an order.

He waited until he’d got us outside the entrance to the ward before he delivered his next punch.

“Please do not harass my patients,” he said coldly, once he’d got my attention, “or I will ask for you to be excluded.”

I couldn’t suppress a gasp at that. Sean was standing behind me and I felt his hands close on my upper arms. I wasn’t sure if it was to stop me hitting my father, or to stop himself. I swallowed.

“It was one of the consultants who was harassing her, not us,” I snapped. I took a breath and said, more calmly, “Why’s she going back into theatre? Is she all right?”

My father regarded me for a moment. “The damage to your friend’s limbs may well require a number of surgical procedures over the coming weeks,” he said, icily mild. “I trust I do not need to consult you about each of them?”

“No,” I muttered. “Of course not.”

His gaze remained on me a moment longer, then shifted to take in Sean. His curt nod of recognition was the only greeting he imparted.

“Sir,” Sean said, the same noncommittal response he’d given to officers in the army who had yet to earn his respect. He let his hands drop away and I saw my father’s eyes narrow, as though he didn’t like Sean touching his daughter. I stepped forwards.

“I’m sorry,” I said, making peace. “Clare was crying when we arrived. I was worried about her.”

“I understand,” he said stiffly. He transferred his scrutiny from Sean back to me. “Why are you limping?”

“I’m not,” I said automatically, surprised.

“You have a problem with your knee.”

I shrugged. I knew exactly what was the matter with that knee but I wasn’t about to tell my father. “Then I suppose I must have banged it,” I said.

He was silent for a moment, as though he sensed I wasn’t telling him the whole truth. Another figure appeared, wearing the same kind of pale blue outfit, and hovered just inside his line of sight. He nodded to them.

“As I mentioned, Clare won’t be up to visitors again today,” he said to me, with a touch of impatience. “I have your number, Charlotte. I’ll call you when there’s any progress to report.”

I nodded, feeling dismissed.

“Put some ice on that knee,” he said as he moved for the door, his parting shot. And to Sean: “You should take better care of her.”

I felt Sean stiffen as the comment hit home on all kinds of levels.

“Yes sir,” he said, his face expressionless. He waited until my father had turned his back and was three paces away. “And so should you.”

My father’s hearing was excellent, always had been. But he carried on walking without a break in stride, as though Sean had never spoken.

I waited until we were nearly back to the Shogun before I asked the question that had been in my mind ever since Clare put the subject there.

“So how do you cope with it?”

Sean was in the middle of fishing his car keys out of his jacket pocket. He stopped and half-turned towards me. “With what?”

“With having blood on your hands,” I said.

He went still again but his answer came fast enough that I knew it was something he’d either been asked before, or had asked himself.

“I concentrate on what isn’t there,” he said. “On the blood that never got spilt because I did my job and I was good at it.”

“So it doesn’t bother you?”

He shrugged. “Not as much as it probably should. But I’ve never lost a principal I was guarding and I never killed anyone I didn’t intend to,” he said, his words cool and totally matter-of-fact. “There’s not many people in our line of business who can say the same.”

I was still thinking about a response to that when Sam’s Norton Commando came burbling into the car park. Sam spotted me and pulled up alongside. He cut the engine and fumbled with the strap on his helmet.

“Hi, Charlie!” he said, flicking wary little glances in Sean’s direction. “How’s Clare?”

“Not so good,” I said. “They’re operating on her legs again this afternoon. No visitors for a while.”

He looked disappointed and relieved at the same time. “Any sign of Jacob?”

Sean shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.

Sam looked at him fully then. “You must be Sean,” he said in a hearty tone, holding his hand out. “I’m Sam Pickering. Charlie and I are old mates, aren’t we, Charlie?”

Sean raised an eyebrow but shook Sam’s proffered hand easily enough. Sam was wearing his habitual old jeans and battered black leather jacket and when he took his helmet off his hair reached down to his shoulder blades. I watched them sizing each other up. The ex-squaddie and the modern hippie. What a combination.

“Really?” he said, pleasantly. “Well, thank you for coming and telling her about Clare’s accident. We appreciate it.”

“Erm, no problem,” Sam said, frowning as he realised he’d just been firmly sidelined and scrambling to regain lost ground. “So, you going tonight then, Charlie?”

“Going where?”

“Slick’s wake,” he said. He’d turned slightly further round to face me, as though he was trying to exclude Sean from the conversation altogether.

“Wake?” I said. I glanced at Sean to see how he was taking this behaviour but his face was shuttered. “That might not be a bad idea. See what rumours are flying around.”

I turned back to Sam. “OK,” I said. “We’ll come. When and where?”

“Kicks off about seven. It’s up at Gleet’s place – he’s got a workshop on a farm somewhere out towards Wray. I can probably get you in but—” He cast Sean a dubious look. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, mate, but I’m not sure you’ll blend in too well. You’ve gotta be on a bike, for a kickoff.”

“I’ll take it the way it was meant,” Sean said dryly.

My mind skated over the spare bikes at Jacob’s, but there wasn’t much beyond the Laverda and Clare’s Ducati. Both of which were too well known not to cause comment. I thought of my own FireBlade, sitting down at my parents’ place in Cheshire but there wasn’t the time to go and fetch it. Even if Sean had had a helmet or any leathers.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll go with you, Sam.”

Sam’s grin flashed. I saw Sean gathering himself to object and put my hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m only going for a nosy. And Sam’s right about needing to be on a bike.”

He saw the sense in that. Didn’t like it, but saw the sense in it nevertheless.

“So, we going undercover, Charlie?” Sam kicked the Norton back into life and rammed his helmet on. He grinned at me again through his open visor. “Just like old times then, eh?”

Sean stepped in close to him, moving suddenly enough to make Sam jerk back in the seat. “Just make sure you look out for her,” he said with quiet intensity.

Sam swallowed and flipped his visor down so he didn’t have to reply. He toed the bike into gear, circling out of the car park with a roar.

“Well, that was mildly embarrassing,” I said lightly, watching him go.

Sean smiled at me and there was a hint of smugness to it. “Sometimes you’ve just got to reinforce who’s top dog.”

“Top dog?” I repeated in disgust. “You two were practically sniffing each other’s bollocks. I expected one of you to start humping my leg at any moment.”

Sean’s smile widened into a proper grin. “Charlie,” he said, “I’d hump your leg any time.”

“Try it,” I said sweetly, “and I’ll have you straight down to the vet’s.”

“Damn, but you’re a hard woman.”

***

The wake for Slick Grannell was held in a long sloping field behind the barn workshop belonging to Gleet, out in the wilds. When Sam explained the format I was expecting something rather cheesy. In the event it was a thoroughly pagan affair, heartfelt and strangely moving.

The field, cut and cleared for hay, was stubble under foot. Someone had gathered a huge stack of dead branches and old pallets for a bonfire at the top end to rival anything put together on Guy Fawkes’ night. Perched on top, in a bizarre piece of symbolism, was Slick’s disfigured Shoei helmet and his gloves.

The music was mainly rock ballads, played at volume through a pair of Marshall stacks that had been dragged just inside the gateway on extension leads from the barn. Lots of raw-throated songs about crashing and burning and dying young.

Gleet, so Sam informed us when he swung by to collect me, was big on the custom bike scene. His family had been farmers but Gleet left the running of the farm to his sister, a sour big-boned woman who trudged silently round the place like a resentful ghost. Gleet turned his back on the day-to-day drudgery and instead, in the barn behind the house, he devoted his time to building show-winning creations that were masterpieces of steel and paint.

It was probably as much out of respect for Gleet as for Slick that the attendance for the wake was so high. There must have been over a hundred bikers turned up. Their machines clogged the yard outside the barn and ended up slotted in rows across the end of the field. Everything from the latest MV Agustas to tatty old rat bikes. My Suzuki and Sam’s Norton were safely swallowed up in the crowd. We grabbed bottles of beer from one of the overflowing barrels next to the hedge and did our best to mingle with the others.

The hot sultry weather had taken on a sudden glowering edge, like it was spoiling for a fight. The shock of the early evening sunlight on the brilliant greens of the far tree-line was startling against a gunmetal gathering sky. It was heavy enough for thunder and I began to wish I’d remembered to pick up my waterproofs when I was at the cottage.

They lit the bonfire just after eight. Gleet himself walked up the hill from the barn carrying a flaming torch, with Tess by his side. She had forsaken the scrunchie and had her thin flat hair down around her face. Over a shapeless black dress she was wearing a scuffed leather bike jacket that was much too big for her. I recognised it as Slick’s.

Trotting by her side, stumbling over the stubbly ground, was an extraordinarily beautiful blonde-haired toddler of about four. She clutched tight to Tess’s hand and stared at the apparitions around her with her eyes big and wide and her thumb in her mouth.

“Slick’s daughter,” Sam muttered to me.

I remembered Jamie saying Tess had a kid. My only brief recollections of Slick were of a cocky womaniser, not a family man. I wondered how Tess felt, sitting at home with the baby while he was out on the prowl. And suddenly I could understand her bitter anger towards Clare. Whether there’d been anything actually going on between her and Slick was beside the point. It was enough that Clare had been the one who was with him at the time of the accident.

The bonfire grabbed instantly at the flames when Gleet dipped the torch against the dry timbers. He walked right round the stack so it caught evenly from all sides and went up with artificially accelerated momentum.

Within a few minutes the flames were dancing round the helmet on the top of the pile. I moved in a little closer and watched the visor twist and buckle and blacken in the heat. Someone turned off the music mid-chord and then all you could hear was the crackle of the fire.

“You all know why we’re here,” Gleet said then, his deep voice loud enough to boom and carry across the field. “We all knew Slick. Some of us are probably going to his funeral next week.” He nodded to Tess and took a swig from the bottle of beer he was holding. “But some bloody vicar who never knew him, mouthing a few meaningless phrases don’t mean jack shit to us, his mates. So we’re here to give him a proper send off and to tell it like it is!”

He glared at the people who’d bunched up close around the fire. They stared back in silence. The little girl was now clinging to Tess’s leg, hiding her face from the heat of the flames. Tess reached down and hoisted the child onto her hip, never taking her eyes off Gleet.

“Me, I knew Slick for ten years. Since he built his first bike and came begging a welding rig he’d no idea how to use,” Gleet said. He shook his head sadly and smiled. “The daft bastard. Blew so many holes in the frame he was trying to repair, it was fit for scrap by the time he was done.”

The crowd let out its collective breath, almost a sigh, the surface tension broken.

Gleet raised his beer bottle and took another gulp. “He was loud and flash and he was mouthy, but if you needed a lift with something, Slick was the first to volunteer. He was a good mate to me.” He glanced at Tess for the first time, meeting and holding her gaze. “And I know he thought the world of you, Tess, and little Ashley,” he went on, gruff. “And if there’s anything I can ever do to help you, you know you’ve only got to shout.”

There was a general murmur at this sentiment. Gleet necked the rest of his drink in one long swallow and turned away before she had time to react to that one. Telling. Either he didn’t really mean it, or he meant it too much for his own comfort.

“To Slick!” he shouted. “Wherever he is now, I hope he’s giving ‘em hell!”

And amid the murmuring of assent he turned and threw the empty bottle into the fire hard enough to smash the glass against the burning timber.

While he’d been speaking, I noticed Jamie had moved up to talk to Tess. I hadn’t spotted his bike when we arrived, but one little Irish-registered four hundred would have been easily swallowed up in the crowd.

He and Tess were too far away for me to hear anything that passed between them but I could follow the body language without needing much of a phrase book.

At first she shook him off but he persisted, speaking urgently. Gradually I saw Tess’s hostility turn to disbelief, then a saddened anger. By the time Gleet had finished his eulogy, she looked close to tears. What the hell had Jamie said to her?

I saw her throw him a brief smile, then she stepped forward and raised her own bottle. The silver and glass rings on her fingers flashed in the light.

“I know Slick could be a bit of an arsehole when he was pissed. And I know he wasn’t always faithful to me,” she said, her voice thin and reedy, “but he was always trying to get the best for me and Ashley, and he always came back in the end. He would have done this time, too,” she added. “And I’d’ve kicked him down the bloody stairs before I’d have let him explain, but I’d have taken him back . . .”

Her voice tailed off and she gave the little girl she was holding a fierce hug. She, too, threw her empty bottle at the feet of the flames and turned away.

Interesting choice of words. I went over them in my head while I took another minute sip of the beer I’d been nursing all evening. Had whatever Jamie had told her only moments before made any difference to what she’d just said?

Other people came forwards and over the next half an hour or so I discovered that Slick was both generous and mean, short-tempered and immensely humorous. He also seemed to owe money all over the place. Enough that someone might have gone after his bike to cover his debts?

Then Jamie stepped up to the fire to have his say. “Slick gave me a chance to prove myself when others wouldn’t,” he said, that handsome face sober. “He trusted me. I won’t forget that.”

As he spoke he glanced across to where I could just see William standing near the front of the crowd, with Paxo to the left of him.

I realised, too, that there was a third figure involved. He was too close to be just a bystander, his head tilted with too much obvious interest in the proceedings. As I watched, he leaned a casual arm on William’s broad shoulder, swinging a beer bottle by the neck between his forefinger and thumb. A tall, almost slender guy, not far into his twenties if I was any judge, with short-cropped dark hair and wearing race-replica leathers that made him look like a walking cigarette packet.

Cigarette packet.

I knew there was something familiar about that colour scheme and then it clicked. I remembered the bikers who’d buzzed past me on the way to the hospital. Two of them had clearly been William on his Kawasaki and Paxo on his Ducati. It was too much of a coincidence that those same matching leathers of the Aprilia rider who’d been with him didn’t belong to the man now regarding Jamie with a mixture of irritation and amusement on his face.

Jamie started to move towards the group and I was keen to see what happened but at that moment I felt a tug on my own sleeve. I turned to find Sam beckoning me over to one side.

“Did you know Slick was supposed to be organising a trip to Ireland at the end of this week?” he said when we’d moved far enough away not to be overheard ourselves.

“Yes,” I said, frowning, even a little annoyed that Sam had dragged me away from witnessing a much more interesting exchange. “It’s a Devil’s Bridge Club thing, isn’t it? Why?”

Sam looked slightly crestfallen at my reaction. “Oh,” he said. “Well, there were rumours that it would all be off, what with Slick kicking the bucket an’ all.”

“You’re all heart, Sam,” I said, glancing round to check none of the dead man’s mates were standing close enough to take offence.

“Yeah, but that’s not all,” Sam went on, grinning at me through his beard. “When someone said the trip was probably going to be cancelled, someone else said they thought there was too much at stake for the rest of them not to go.”

“‘Too much at stake’?” I queried. “What the hell does that mean?”

He shrugged, looking pleased with himself. “Hey, I’m just the oily rag, not the engine driver,” he said. “I just thought you ought to know.”

“Yeah,” I said, distracted. “Thanks, Sam. Keep your ears open.”

Why did I get the feeling this Irish trip was more than just a bikers’ outing? Jamie was from Ireland. So was Isobel – and Eamonn. Jacob was there now. Coincidence, or design? I couldn’t help wondering what Jamie had just told Tess that seemed to have put her mind at rest. And what was this chance that Slick had given him? Was it as simple as proving he could ride fast, or was there more to it than that?

I turned away, so caught up in my tumbling thoughts that when someone moved deliberately in front of me I came to an abrupt halt and only just avoided bumping into them. I looked up and found William’s stony face staring down at me. Such was the intensity in his expression that I took a half-step back away from him.

My focus expanded rapidly and I realised that Paxo was just behind William’s left shoulder, Gleet behind his right. None of them looked what you might call friendly, except with each other, which – after their run-in outside the hospital – did surprise me. I glanced casually over my own shoulder in case the Aprilia rider was closing in on me from behind but he was nowhere to be seen. Sam had melted away into the background.

“This is a private party for Slick’s mates,” Paxo said meaningfully. “What the fuck made you think you were invited?”

“I didn’t hear anybody tell me I wasn’t,” I said, keeping my voice calm and level. I mentally traced my escape route. Too far to get to the Suzuki in a hurry. Better hope I didn’t need to.

“Well, Charlie, you’re hearing it now,” William said evenly.

“Oh really?” I shifted my gaze briefly between the three of them. “I’ve had to put up with the cops raiding Jacob’s place this afternoon looking for the carcass of Slick’s bike,” I said, wondering if MacMillan’s polite search quite qualified as a raid. “I told them jack shit – to borrow a phrase – about what he might have been up to and where else they might care to look. And you tell me that’s not the action of a mate?”

Gleet raised his eyebrows. “She’s got a point,” he allowed. “If she’s come to pay her respects, why not let her stay?”

“No!” Paxo said, vehement. “She’s just come to snoop.”

Gleet regarded me solemnly for a moment although there might have been more than that going on under the surface. “Well at least she’s not brought that tame thug of hers with her,” he said. “Who is he, by the way?”

“His name’s Sean Meyer and he’s a real nasty piece of work,” said a new voice from my left. Jamie stepped into view and faced me with barely concealed glee at this unexpected opportunity to put the boot in.

“Sean Meyer?” William repeated slowly. “I remember that name now – from years back. Racist bastard, wasn’t he? Went down for it.”

“No,” I said flatly. “He wasn’t. And he didn’t.”

“I know Mum was down at Dad’s place this morning and Sean beat the shit out of her boyfriend,” Jamie said. “Splatted his nose all over his face.”

“Considering Eamonn was attempting to break both my ankles at the time,” I snapped, “I’d say he had it coming, wouldn’t you?”

I glanced back at the others. Gleet’s heavy features might even have been looking amused. William and Paxo exchanged silent glances I didn’t catch the meaning of.

“I think you should leave now,” William said then, his voice almost indifferent. “Either of your own accord or not. Makes no odds to us.”

I shrugged, tossed my three-quarter empty bottle of beer into the fire and turned away, starting to walk down the hill towards where the bikes were parked. Gleet and the others walked with me in silence. I could feel them behind me all the way and it was tempting to break into a run but I kept my pace steady. By the time I reached the Suzuki my shoulder blades were twitching with the effort.

They watched me retrieve my helmet from the bar end, kick the RGV into life and wheel it out of the line. All the while I was expecting one of them to reinforce the threat with something more physical. I knew I didn’t stand a chance if they decided to make their displeasure more actively felt and I concentrated on keeping my face blank, my stance passive. But they said nothing. Did nothing. Just standing there glaring was more than enough.

As I rode away carefully along the potholed farm track leading to the main road I could feel the nervous sweat sticking my shirt to my back under my leathers. I hadn’t learned much, that was true, but at least I’d escaped unscathed from the encounter.

I only hoped that Sam would be able to do the same.