Epitaph, page 3
At this precise moment, Paul hated him for it.
He listened to the remainder of the message, the sound of Anderson’s voice washing over him.
‘Give me a ring. Perhaps I can help,’ Anderson said at the end of the message.
‘Doubt it,’ Paul breathed.
The next message made him even angrier.
7
Frank Hacket cupped his hand around the lighter flame and took a deep draw on his cigarette.
He blew out the smoke and leaned back against the wall, the sun beating down on his face. He was sweating, not just from the heat here in the car park of the hospital but because of his recent exertions. It had taken him almost twenty minutes to get an appallingly overweight woman from the back of an ambulance into a wheelchair even with the help of a paramedic.
The woman had complained about her aching joints and her swollen legs and just about everything else. It wasn’t her fault she was overweight, she had told Hacket and the paramedic repeatedly. It was in her genes. She ate for comfort. She’d trotted out all the usual clichés and Hacket had nodded in all the right places as he’d struggled to help settle this human behemoth in the wheelchair that, for one awful moment, he’d feared wasn’t going to take her weight. Once into the chair he had pushed her through the main entrance of the building to her designated destination within, listening the entire way to her incessant complaints.
‘I’m big-boned,’ she’d told him.
Dinosaurs were big-boned, Hacket had felt like telling her as he’d strained every sinew to transport her through the hospital.
He smiled a little to himself. He had to find the humour where he could in his job. For almost thirteen years he’d been a porter here at the same hospital. The incident with the woman was the kind he dealt with every day of his working life. If it wasn’t that, it was mopping up the sick or the blood in A&E, removing or delivering bed linen to the wards and any one of another hundred different tasks that came under his job description.
Hacket wandered over to one of the wooden benches just outside the entrance to MATERNITY and sat down, nodding good naturedly to a nurse as she left at the end of her shift. He watched her walk across the car park and onwards towards the large and poorly maintained hedge that offered a barrier between the hospital and the road beyond. He’d thought about having a word with one of the hospital supervisors concerning the hedge. For a fee, Hacket would trim the hedge for them. Anything to bring in a little extra money but he knew that there were contractors employed to take care of that and the rest of the hospital grounds. It just appeared that they didn’t care too much for their responsibilities. The grass, he noted, also needed cutting.
He took another drag on his cigarette, glancing at his watch. He still had another ten minutes of his break left then it was back to the daily grind until his shift ended. He dug a hand into his overall pocket and pulled out the scratch card, selecting a coin from the same pocket to rub off the circles covering the prizes.
He’d bought the card that morning, just as he did every single day, saving it until this time every afternoon, hoping against hope that when the symbols were revealed he would have won the jackpot but knowing in his heart that his dream would never come true. People like him didn’t win lottery jackpots. It wasn’t part of the grand scheme of things as far as he was concerned. Even so, it didn’t stop him praying for such a win every now and then, especially when it was a particularly large jackpot. When he thought of what that kind of money would do for him and his family it almost made him weep. He had a mental list of things he would spend it on. The people he would help. What must it be like not to have any money worries, he mused. Those people who said that money wasn’t everything were those who had plenty of it. He sighed and turned his attention once again to his scratch card.
Hacket revealed the first of the symbols, took a drag on his cigarette then proceeded. He raised his eyebrows when he saw that the two he’d uncovered were the same.
One more and he’d have won a hundred thousand pounds.
He rubbed it off.
Nothing. Just as he’d expected.
He sighed and folded the useless card, pushing it back into his pocket until he could dispose of it. He finished his cigarette and was about to get to his feet when his mobile phone rang.
When he saw who was calling his heart sank.
8
‘Hello, Paul, it’s Ian.’
Paul glared at the answering machine for a moment as if holding the contraption personally responsible for the call.
‘Just thought I’d give you a call,’ the voice went on. ‘I’m back in hospital.’
Paul raised his eyebrows unconcernedly.
‘They did the operation again but they fucked it up again,’ Ian Garrett’s voice went on. ‘I’m in here for another ten days at least. It’s the same hospital as before. Give me a ring.’
Paul pressed the STOP button.
‘Fuck you, too,’ he muttered.
He’d known Ian Garrett for the last eight years. They’d met while Paul was working on an advertising campaign for the company where Garrett was employed. The two men were the same age and they’d had the same interests. Their friendship had grown quickly and unexpectedly, blossoming from formal business lunches to nights out at pubs and clubs and, most regularly, cinemas. Like Paul, Ian Garrett was a film fanatic and the two men would often spend many pleasurable hours in the cinema watching films and then even longer afterwards talking about them.
However, three years earlier, Garrett had been badly injured in a motorcycle accident. The damage to his left knee and ankle had left him with a pronounced limp, something not corrected by the surgery recommended to him. In fact, the surgery had been so badly botched that there had been a danger for a while that he might even lose the leg. On Paul’s insistence, he had sued the consultant and the surgeon responsible and a compensation payment approaching two million pounds had been mentioned.
Even now Paul sat staring at the answering machine preparing to erase Garrett’s message.
‘Two million,’ Paul murmured through gritted teeth. ‘You’re getting two million fucking quid and you’re still moaning. So you might have a limp for the rest of your life. Big deal. I’d limp for two million fucking quid. Perhaps the newest cock-up will add a few hundred thousand to your settlement.’ He shook his head. ‘Cunt.’
He ran a hand through his hair and listened to the other two messages.
The first was from a call centre. Something about his mobile phone and getting extra minutes. He deleted it. The last was from another work mate (or, rather, ex-work mate) offering commiserations about his redundancy. Paul deleted that, too.
He remained perched on the edge of the leather sofa for what seemed like an eternity, wondering what the hell to do next.
And what are the thrilling choices? Ring your mum and tell her how you’ve lost your job and how deep in the shit you are? Or call one of the others?
Neither of those two possibilities interested him in his current mood.
His most immediate choice came down to whether or not to stand up again or simply flop back on the sofa. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, he reminded himself; he really should eat. However, he didn’t feel like cooking himself anything and he couldn’t be bothered to go out and get a takeaway. Perhaps he’d have a sandwich.
So, what’s the decision?
He decided to get changed. Take off his work clothes and put on something more comfortable.
Have a shower. Try and wash away the dirt of the day.
He wished he could wash away the events of the day as well. Wash them away and start again as if nothing had happened. As if this day had never happened. Continue as if life was still good and had meaning. Carry on as if he still had some hope.
Paul shook his head again and got to his feet. He wandered across to the television set and switched it on, standing there switching channels aimlessly. There was news on a couple of them. A reality show of some description or another. The obligatory celebrity-orientated programmes on two others. Paul tutted and switched to a cable channel. There was something on about the Second World War (there always was on that channel). He left that on. Just so there was some sound inside the flat. Purely and simply because he wanted more inside his head than just the sound of his own thoughts.
He was about to move towards the bedroom and the bathroom beyond it when the phone rang.
‘Fuck it,’ Paul said, waving a hand in the direction of the ringing contraption. The answering machine could get it.
He heard his own-recorded voice intone:
‘Leave a message after the beep.’
Whoever was calling could wait.
However, when he heard who it was, he realised that they couldn’t.
9
Laura Hacket felt as if she was the only person left in the world.
As she started up the exit ramp of the underpass she glanced around towards the trees and bushes on either side and towards the open area beyond.
There was no one there. No other children playing among the trees and none on the open area of greenery she could see. There were usually some boys kicking a ball about or running after each other, shouting and yelling. But not today. The nearest houses were fully one hundred yards from the underpass, reachable by the pathway that she now walked along.
Laura didn’t know why she felt nervous, she didn’t know what made her feel uncomfortable about the footsteps behind her. It was a beautiful day, the sun was still shining and she was almost clear of the underpass, out of the gloom below ground and back out into the brilliance above it once more. And yet still she could not find the courage to turn and look over her shoulder. She could still hear the footsteps, moving at the same pace as hers. When she speeded up so did they. When she slowed down, they did likewise.
That was what had made Laura nervous.
If someone had been wandering through the underpass behind her and wanted to get to wherever it was they were going then surely they wouldn’t have stopped walking when she did. Would they? Why would they do that? If they were going home or visiting someone or walking to the shops or whatever they were doing, they would do it at their own pace, wouldn’t they? Not copy her movements, her pace.
Laura swallowed nervously and wondered what her best option was.
Should she run? Try to escape whoever had followed her into the subterranean walkway?
Or should she merely stand still and put her theory to the test? If someone was following her then, if she stopped, they would stop, she told herself.
Laura seemed pleased with her own logic and decided to try the second of her strategies. However, she reasoned, if someone was following her then if she stopped that would make her an easier target. The person following would simply be able to reach her more easily. She sighed, confused now. If there was someone following her then surely if they wanted to catch up with her then they could simply speed up. If they wanted to catch her that badly then that’s what they’d do, wasn’t it?
Laura was beginning to wonder if there was even anyone there any longer but she knew there had to be because there was no way out of the underpass other than the path on which she now walked. Unless that person had doubled back but, she told herself, why would they want to do that?
All this thinking and wondering was really becoming quite tiring. Laura decided that her best bet would be to run a little way, so that she reached home more quickly. After all, home was where she wanted to be. Home was where her mum would be waiting. Home meant safety.
Laura moved a little quicker for about twenty yards then decided that it was too hot to run.
She slowed down and listened, still determined not to look behind her. It was like when she was lying in bed at night and she heard strange noises. Her mum had told her that if she heard anything at night to just ignore it, that there was nothing to worry about. Just close her eyes and go back to sleep. The same when there was a thunderstorm. Her dad had told her that the thunder was just the clouds bumping together and that there was nothing to be frightened of. Imagination could cause all sorts of problems, she decided. A bit like imagining that there was somebody following you when there most probably wasn’t. Laura was ready to blame her overactive imagination.
She wondered for a moment if it could be one of her friends trying to scare her but rapidly decided that wasn’t the case. They all lived on the other side of the estate, they wouldn’t have followed her all this way and, besides, none of her friends would be that rotten. Why would they want to frighten her?
Why would anyone want to frighten her? Unless it was that man that she’d heard her dad talk about sometimes. What was his name? Peter something. She remembered hearing it on the television news, too. He was a horrible man who did nasty things to little girls like her. Now, what was his name?
Peter what? Her dad had said that he should be strung up for the things he did to kids.
Laura frowned as she tried to remember this awful man’s name.
Peter. She smiled to herself. Peter File. That was it. Her dad had been angry about a man called Peter File because he hurt children.
Laura hoped that it wasn’t that man who was following her. She didn’t even know that he lived in her town. All she knew was she didn’t want to meet him.
She now decided that perhaps running was the best option after all.
10
‘Hey, sweetie, it’s me,’ trilled the voice of the caller as soon as Paul’s recorded message stopped.
Recognising it, Paul lunged for the phone and lifted it, simultaneously jabbing the STOP button on the answering machine.
‘Amy,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s me. I’ve got it.’
‘Hey, you,’ the voice on the other end of the phone said. ‘I didn’t expect to get your machine at this time of night. Where were you?’
‘I was here, I’ve not long got in.’
‘I’m not checking up on you, sweetie,’ she chuckled.
‘I was joking. I guessed you were working late or something.’
Paul held the phone limply for a moment.
‘Paul?’ Amy Thomas continued. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah, I’m still here.’
‘Can you hear me all right?’
‘Fine. How’re things with you?’
‘I’ve been busy. Things were a mess here. I don’t know how the hell they managed. I spent most of yesterday trying to get their office in some kind of order.’
‘And how’s New York?’
‘I haven’t really seen much of it apart from what I’ve seen from the cab going from the hotel to the office. But it’s so, I don’t know, so alive. There’s a fantastic vibe here. I thought I was going to be jet-lagged when I got off the plane but as soon as I got to JFK I just felt so . . . energised.’
Paul nodded as she continued. Normally her enthusiasm would have made him smile. But not tonight.
‘A couple of the people in their marketing office have promised to take me out for a meal, show me some of the sights, that kind of thing, but I don’t know when,’ Amy went on. ‘I mean, I’m only here for another two days and there’s so much to see. And I wanted to do some shopping, too. I mean, you can’t visit New York and not buy something from Bloomingdale’s or Macy’s, can you?’ she chuckled.
‘You enjoy it while you can.’
‘I just wish you were here with me.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘Maybe we could come here for a long weekend or something. The flights aren’t too expensive and the hotels are really reasonable considering how good they are.’
There was a long pause.
‘Paul?’ she persisted.
‘Yeah, I heard you,’ he said flatly.
‘What’s wrong?’ Amy asked.
‘Nothing,’ he lied. ‘I’m all right. I went for a drink earlier and I think I had too much. I’ve got a lousy headache.’
‘Who did you go with? Someone from work?’
‘No. I went on my own. I didn’t feel like company.’
There was a moment’s silence at the other end of the line then Amy spoke again, her voice lower.
‘Paul, something’s wrong,’ she insisted. ‘You sound really down and you never drink alone. Not unless you’re really, really pissed off and then you only do it in the flat. What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve lost my job.’
There you go. How hard was that? Better than bottling it up, eh?
Silence at the other end.
‘I found out today,’ he continued. ‘They made me redundant. That’s it. End of story.’
‘Oh, Christ, Paul, I’m sorry. Did you have any idea?’
‘If I’d seen it coming I’d have been prepared for it,’ he said, cutting her short. ‘I’d have made plans.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘They said they were very sorry to lose me. That they wished me all the best but that they had no choice. That the company had to make cutbacks.
The usual bullshit.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Oh, Mr Banks himself,’ he exclaimed sarcastically. ‘Wasn’t that an honour for me? Getting the bullet personally from one of the directors of the firm. Fucking shithouse. I never liked that bastard from the first time I met him. You know you get gut feelings about people? I had one about him when I first took the job. He’s a cunt.’
‘So what happens now?’ Amy asked.
‘You tell me. All I’ve got to do is find a job that pays comparable wages in a market that’s more depressed and recession-hit than anything in living memory, find some way of paying my mortgage and bills or try to sell my flat. Piece of piss.’
