The Dark Winter

CHAPTER 26

Three hours later, and McAvoy is pulling up outside Wakefield Hospital. The snow hasn’t reached this outpost of West Yorkshire yet. It’s bitterly cold and the air feels like it has been breathed out of a damp, diseased lung.

McAvoy pushes his hair out of his eyes. He straightens his back and stands his collar on end.

He takes a last breath of outside air, then steps through the automatic doors and strides across the tallow-coloured linoleum. Somebody has made an attempt to put Christmas decorations up in reception, but they look somehow obscene against the peeling plaster of the walls or hanging from ceiling tiles mottled with brown damp.

He endeavours to look like he knows where he’s going. Passes the reception desk without a glance. Picks a corridor at random and finds himself following the signs to oncology. He decides that the direction feels wrong, and spots another corridor leading right. He takes it, and almost immediately has to pin himself to the wall as two burly female nurses with round backsides and bosoms that strain their blue uniforms all but take him out as, side by side, they push two tall cages stacked with linens.

‘Coming through,’ says the older of the pair in a thick West Yorkshire accent.

‘Narrow squeak, eh?’ says the other, who has proper ginger hair and the sort of round spectacles that went out of fashion a decade before.

‘Well, if I was going to get run over today, I couldn’t have asked for a nicer pair of assailants. Can I just check, am I going the right way to ICU …?’

Five minutes later, McAvoy is stepping out of the lift on the third floor. His nostrils fill with the scent of blood and bleach; of flavourless food; of the squeak of trolley wheels and rubber-soled shoes on the scarred linoleum.

A fat prison officer is leaning back against the front desk, sipping from a plastic beaker. He has a head shaved down to guard number two, and small, slightly cauliflowered ears sit like teacup handles on the sides of a misshapen, potatoesque face.

McAvoy makes eye contact with the man as he approaches. For the first time since the rugby pitch, he tries to make himself look big. Hopes he looks like somebody to be reckoned with.

He pulls out his warrant card and the guard straightens up.

‘Chandler,’ says McAvoy, businesslike and official. ‘Where are we at?’

The man looks confused for a moment, but the warrant card and the managerial tone are enough to show him his place in the scheme of things, and he makes no attempt to ask McAvoy why he wants to know, or who has sent him.

‘On a private ward, yonder,’ he says in an accent that sounds to McAvoy’s practised ear as though it originated in the Borders.

‘Gretna?’ he asks, with an approximation of a smile.

‘Annan,’ says the guard, with a little grin. ‘You?’

‘Highlands. By way of Edinburgh and just about everywhere else.’

They share a smile, two Scotsmen together, bonding in a Yorkshire hospital and feeling like they’ve just enjoyed a taste of home.

‘Bad way, is he?’

‘Not as bad as thought at first. There was so much blood. Parts of his neck were just flapping off. He must have done it himself. He was in solitary. Nobody was near him.’

‘Is he conscious?’

‘Barely. He’s had an emergency op but there’s talk of microsurgery if the stitches don’t do the job. He was dead to the world a minute ago, face bandaged up like a mummy. I just popped out for a coffee. There’s another guard gone for his lunch will be back soon. Nobody said to expect visitors.’

McAvoy nods. Ploughs straight on through the other man’s growing cynicism.

‘I need five minutes with him,’ he says, eyes boring into the guard’s. ‘Asleep or not.’

The guard appears to be about to argue, but there is something in McAvoy’s gaze that seems utterly rigid in its devotion to purpose, and he quickly tells himself that there is no harm in stepping aside.

McAvoy thanks him with a nod. His heart is thumping, but he stills it with deep breaths and closed eyes. His shoes are surprisingly quiet on the linoleum floor.

The silence is eerie. Grim. It makes him wonder about his own final days. Whether he will die amid noise, surrounded by bustle and chat. Or whether it will be a solitary gunshot, and then nothing.

He steps inside Chandler’s room.

The curtains are the same yellow as the drapes on the maternity unit at Hull Royal, but everything else is a washedout and joyless blue.

Chandler is lying pathetic and motionless on the bed. His false limb is propped next to the single bed, leaving his pyjama leg empty. Nobody has bothered to tie a knot below the severed knee, and the garment is twisted, slanting left, so that at first glance, it looks as though the leg is pointing at an obscene angle.

Chandler’s throat is wrapped in bandages. A tube connected to a bag filled with clear fluid runs into a needle in the back of his right hand. Another, thicker tube runs into his mouth and down his throat. It has been taped to the side of his face, and already a crust of drying salvia has begun to form over the adhesive strip.

McAvoy reaches inside his coat and removes the bottle from his inside pocket. Roisin had warned him to put gloves on while handling it. Had said that the stink would eat into the skin of his fingers and never wash out. He pulls down the cuff of his shirt. Wraps it around both hands. Holds the vial in one hand and carefully unscrews the lid with the other.

The stench is extraordinary. Even at the remove of an arm’s length he feels his nostrils flare, grows instantly dizzy as the raw ammonia courses into his brain.

He crosses to the bed in three strides. Holds the bottle under Chandler’s nose.

One …

Two …

Three …

The bandaged figure on the bed begins to thrash. There is movement beneath the wrappings as his eyes fly open and what’s left of his face begins to contort. His hands fly to his mouth and begin tearing at the breathing tube, at the bandages, as muted, rasping coughs escape his lips with a hiss.

His solitary leg kicks out and drums on the mattress.

McAvoy leans forward. Takes the breathing tube in one hand and pulls. It emerges wet and vile from his open mouth and McAvoy drops it to the floor.

Chandler hauls himself upright and heaves bile into his own lap. Coughs and begins clawing at the bandages.

McAvoy’s face is impassive. He merely watches. Allows Chandler these few moments of panic. This agony of fear and confusion as he awakes in the dark.

He listens as Chandler finds his voice. Watches the serpentine tongue lick dry lips beneath the sick-stained dressings.

McAvoy leans in. ‘You survived, sir.’

‘Sergeant …?’ The voice is dry and sore. ‘Sergeant McAvoy?’

McAvoy replaces the stopper and deposits the small vial of clear liquid back in his inside pocket.

‘I’m sorry to have done that, Mr Chandler,’ he says, settling his large bulk on the bed at Chandler’s side. ‘I just need yes and no from you, sir. You’ve been through quite an ordeal. You are in hospital. You attempted to end your own life.’

Chandler’s eyes begin to open. He’s swallowing painfully, and McAvoy pours him a beaker of water from the jug on the bedside table and lifts it to the writer’s lips. He takes a few sips and then collapses back on the pillow.

‘You worked it out, didn’t you,’ McAvoy says, locking eyes with the pitiful figure in the hospital-issue pyjamas. ‘You know who and why.’

Chandler gives the faintest of nods. ‘My fault,’ he says. ‘My big mouth …’

‘He would have done it anyway,’ says McAvoy, and means it. ‘He’d have found a reason. The thing that was inside him would have come out no matter what.’

‘But he was a good man,’ stutters Chandler. ‘I was just talking. It was just drunken bollocks. I wasn’t telling him to change everything he believed …’

‘Grief is a terrible thing,’ says McAvoy.

‘So is murder,’ says Chandler.

They sit in silence for a moment, then McAvoy stands. Turns away from the bed. Walks to the window to compose his thoughts. Looks past the yellow curtains at the damp car park with its swaying trees and rain-lashed vehicles and scampering, stick-insect figures. Perhaps it is the elevation, the sense of looking down upon them, but he has never more felt that it is he, and he alone, who carries the burden of protection and justice. He turns. Wants to end this.

‘Simeon Gibbons,’ he says. ‘Where is he?’

The name hangs heavy in the air. Chandler’s lips close. The tension in his body seems to ease a little. McAvoy watches as he licks his lips afresh.

‘I wish I knew.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘About ten minutes before they arrested me.’

‘He was there? At Linwood Manor?’

‘He’s a permanent resident. His room’s paid for by an old army mate of his.’

‘Colonel Emms? Runs a private security firm in the Middle East?’

Chandler nods.

‘Deep pockets, has Sparky.’

Chandler looks away.

‘He made me his confessor without telling me a thing.’

McAvoy hopes that Emms is now confessing all to Pharaoh, who had set off for Bronte country as soon as he’d told her what he’d found in Anne Montrose’s room. ‘Tell me how it happened,’ he says. ‘How you worked it out.’

‘It was Chief Inspector Ray. During the interview he was reeling off a list of names. People Simeon may have hurt. I think it was your research. He mentioned a young woman in a coma. Anne Montrose.’

‘And you recognised the name?’

‘I knew she was called Anne. The rest sort of made sense.’

‘He told you her name was Anne? In rehab?’

‘He would cry out in his sleep.’

‘Did he tell you what happened. In Iraq?’

‘He told me about his life. People do that, tell me things. They think I’m going to make them famous. They think I’m going to write a book about them and they’ll somehow matter …’

‘But Gibbons didn’t want that?’

‘He just wanted somebody to talk to. He was a mess. Did you see him, when you came to visit me? No, he’ll have been covered up. His face, Sergeant. It’s a mess of burns and scars. From the explosion. The one that nearly killed him.’

Nearly, but not quite, thought McAvoy. Was Emms paying for his treatment as well? Almost certainly.

‘I’m a writer, Sergeant. I ask questions. When we were paired up, we got to talking.’

‘You became friends?’

‘Yes, I would say so. It was boxing that got us started. I was telling him about my book. The journeyman one I told you about. He mentioned he used to box in the army. That was how it started.’

‘Was he in there for alcoholism too?’

‘He wouldn’t touch it, Sergeant. Whatever it was that kept him going, he didn’t want it dulled.’

‘So, depression? Posttraumatic stress disorder?’

‘Perhaps. I just knew he was very, very sad.’

‘And Anne?’

‘We got to talking about past loves. I didn’t have much to say, but he told me he’d only ever been in love once. That she’d been hurt in an explosion. He’d walked away but she’d never woken up. Thought he meant she was dead. He didn’t. It came out she was in a coma. That she was in a private health-care centre. I didn’t know what to say. Made some crack about Sleeping Beauty. He liked that. Smiled for the first time since I’d known him. Seemed to come out of himself a bit. Started talking. Telling me about the things he’d learned over there. In the desert. How his mind was opened.’

‘Opened to what?’

‘To everything.’ Chandler closes his eyes. ‘Have you ever wondered about pain? About who it afflicts? About why some are lucky and others aren’t? Have you ever wondered if you take one person’s pain away, whether that pain goes somewhere else? Whether there’s an agreed amount of agony in the world? That’s what he used to talk about. That was what used to torture him. I suppose I indulged him. Let him talk. He used to bring me bottles …’

McAvoy nods. ‘You told him about your work? The people you’ve interviewed? Funny stories?’

Chandler closes his eyes. ‘It was just chat.’

‘Fred Stein?’

Chandler nods.

‘Trevor Jefferson?’

Another nod.

‘Angie Martindale?’

Again.

McAvoy swallows hard. ‘Daphne Cotton?’

Chandler says nothing. Just keeps licking his lips. His hands, without a pen and pad to hold, are lifeless, feeble things.

‘Sole survivors, eh?’

Chandler nods.

They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the wind and the rain kick listlessly at the grubby windows.

‘When did he decide to kill them all?’ McAvoy asks, staring unblinkingly into Chandler’s eyes. The writer screws up his face like a tissue and begins to cough. McAvoy helps him to more water and then sits back, all without ever breaking eye contact.

‘We were talking one night,’ he says, more to himself than to McAvoy. ‘He liked to hear my stories. Remarkable people, you know. I said that it made you think. Made you ponder the big picture. What’s it all about. The nature of existence.’

‘And Gibbons was a Christian man, yes?’

‘Middle-class boy. Went to church every Sunday and said prayers before bed when he was at boarding school.’

‘But did he believe?’

‘I don’t think he’d ever questioned it until the explosion. And then none of his life made sense any more. And he found a religion of his own.’

‘Did he still pray at Linwood?’

‘Not in front of me.’

‘What did it, Chandler? What did he fill himself up with?’

For a moment there is no sound in the room save Chandler’s wheezing breath. Finally, he says: ‘I mentioned miracles. Cheating death. Cheating God, I suppose. I said something clever. It might even have been a title for the book. It was just a phrase …’

‘Which was?’

‘The Unjust Distribution of Miracles.’

‘And Gibbons liked that?’

‘It was as if he’d just found the head of John the Baptist under his bed. I’ve never felt so fucking worthy in all my life.’

‘Worthy? He took your words and made a religion out of it. He found a cause. A mission! A way to bring her back.’

‘I didn’t know,’ says Chandler, shaking his head and sniffing back snot. ‘I didn’t know what he was planning.’

‘But he spoke to you about it,’ says McAvoy, biting his lip. ‘He ran his ideas past you. Asked his preacher’s opinion.’

Chandler flashes him a look of anger but just as quickly bites it back. ‘I liked the attention.’

‘What did he ask you?’

The answer comes from the pit of the writer’s stomach, and reeks of bile and regret.

‘He asked me whether I thought mercy was a finite resource. He read me passages from the Bible. From books he’d found. About righteousness. About justice. About miracles.’

McAvoy can already see the answer to his next question.

‘He asked you whether you thought taking away one miracle would leave room for another,’ says McAvoy, with his eyes closed. ‘Whether cancelling out an act of mercy would create another.’

There is silence in the room.

‘And you said yes.’

‘I said it might do.’

‘And then you phoned the Russian for him. The onearmed bloody pop star.’

Chandler looks confused. He shakes his head as if not understanding and then slowly stops as a drunken memory emerges from his ruined, pickled mind.

‘I was pissed,’ he wails.

McAvoy shakes his head. He can feel his throat closing up. The old wound in his shoulder begins to throb with an icy pain.

‘Who’s next, Chandler? Who else did you tell him about?’

Chandler licks his teeth. Raises his hands and begins to rub at the crusted saliva on his chin.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and turns away.

‘Chandler?’

‘It was just talk. Just chat. I didn’t think …’

‘What is it, Chandler? What have you done?’

‘After we spoke,’ he sniffs, between the sobs. ‘I told him about you. About your wife. About how strong she was. About how she endured so many miscarriages and still kept trying …’

‘What do you …?’

McAvoy stops. It feels as if fingers made of ice have closed around the nape of his neck and begun to squeeze.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Adrenalin surges through McAvoy’s body. All he can see is Simeon Gibbons, smothering his newborn daughter between Roisin’s thrashing, bloodied legs …

He runs. Sprints for the exit, pulling his phone from his pocket, blood rushing in his ears, boots squeaking on the floor; Chandler’s sobs echoing down the hall.

The prison guard sees him. Begins to push himself away from the desk where he lounges with his plastic cup. Sensing something wrong, he moves to slow him but McAvoy clatters into him and through; pulling open the door and thundering down the steps three at a time.

He looks at his phone. No signal. No fucking signal.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry …

Tries to find a way to make himself believe that what is happening to his wife and children is not a direct result of his own vile vanity.

Runs through all he knows about the man who intends to kill his child. Recalls the physical strength, the ease with which he had avoided McAvoy’s blows.

That boxer’s gait …

McAvoy stops. Pulls up short on the green linoleum; a statue of sudden, horrid comprehension.

Chandler’s protege. The boxer. The room-mate. The guy with his face in shadows …

He tears through the lobby, staring at the screen of his mobile. He tries the home number, but the damn thing won’t ring. He presses the wrong digits with his shaking, frantic fingers.

Finds himself listening to the message Trish Pharaoh had left after her meeting with Monty Emms:

… he’s alive, McAvoy. You were right. There are messages from Gibbons in Emms’s phone going back weeks. I left the Lieutenant Colonel sitting in the Fleece, halfway up the hill in Haworth. Can’t hold his drink, can he? Got his phone without a squeak. We need to get it officially because it’s going to be exhibits A to bloody Z. It’s dynamite. Apologies and gratitude, to begin with. Thank yous for getting him out. For putting some Iraqi in a body bag and telling the world he was dead. For setting him up with a new life. A new home. For taking care of Anne. Paying her bills. And so many ‘I’m sorrys’. Sorry for letting him down. Sorry for not being able to pay for Anne’s care himself. Sorry for the things he’s done wrong. They change, though. Maybe a month ago, if the dates are right. Starts talking about making sense of it all. About having a way to change it all. Monty’s too pissed for any more but I’m going to work him. We’ll mop this all up later. If you’re still sure about seeing him, you’re going to need a confession …

McAvoy slams the phone closed to silence it and opens it again. He almost exclaims with joy as he sees that he has a full signal. Sprinting across the car park, pulling his keys from his pocket, he dials Roisin’s mobile.

Three rings …

‘Hi, baby, how did it go?’

Relief floods him. His wife sounds tired, but very much alive.

Safe.

They are safe.

Breathing heavy, sweat running down his face, he pulls open the car door and slumps heavily into the driver’s seat.

‘Oh darling …’ he begins. ‘I thought …’

He looks at himself in the rear-view mirror.

Too late sees the movement in the back seat.

And then the blade is at his throat.

A face, turned to melted plastic and charred meat by flame, eases out of the darkness, and a hand partially covers McAvoy’s own, closing the phone.

McAvoy stares into the wet, blue eyes of Simeon Gibbons.

Feels the knife move down his body.

Feels the pressure as it slices through his coat, his shirt. As it nicks at his skin.

Feels Gibbons lean forward, and part the ruined clothing with his hand. Sees him stare at the wound left by a murderer’s blade a year before.

Realises, too late, that he, too, is a survivor. A man who walked away.

He closes his eyes as he realises that Chandler has misled him. That his wife and children are safe, but that it is he who will be dispatched in the manner that he survived twelve months ago.

There is a thud. A sudden dull pain as a rigid thumb rams into his carotid artery with an expert swiftness and precision.

And then blackness.