Hit and Run (13 page)

He eased himself out of bed with small, tentative movements. Didn’t feel too bad. His legs were weak but stable. His head wasn’t pounding too much. His heart raced in his chest, but when had it ever not done that?

He crouched down, still attached to the drip, and opened the bedside cabinet. Shoes and socks at the bottom, shorts, jeans and T-shirt, then jacket on top. Methodical, precise. He’d never seen his clothes so tidy before.

He rummaged in the jacket pockets. He pulled his jeans out, and felt the heft of his phone. A whiff of beer and piss. That’s what came from passing out on the floor of a pub toilet. He pulled the phone out. No messages.

He thought of Adele. Dean knew about him and her. He flicked through till he found her number and pressed call.

She answered after two rings.

‘Billy.’

Her voice was quiet, upset. There was a sniffle and a hesitant breath. She’d been crying.

‘Adele, are you OK?’

She laughed, a croaky sound. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’

Billy rubbed at his bandages. ‘I’m fine.’ His haunches were sore from crouching, so he slumped on to the floor and leaned against the bed. It felt secretive, whispering on the phone down there. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Her voice was cracking.

‘Come on, something’s obviously happened. Is it Dean?’

‘Did he come to see you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, Adele, don’t worry about me. It’s you that’s been crying. Tell me what he did.’

She burst into thick sobs, emotion crackling down the phone. He felt helpless.

‘Adele, shhh, it’s OK, calm down.’ He tried to sound in control.

Eventually her crying settled and calmed, and she sniffed loudly.

‘Just tell me,’ Billy said.

Another deep breath. She was gathering herself.

‘He knew I’d met you. I think he had one of his guys follow me. I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone in the pub. But somehow he knew.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was obviously upset when I got in, after you had collapsed. I couldn’t hide it. He was there, interrogating me. Not just asking, demanding.’

‘Did he hit you?’

‘He fucking . . .’ She crumpled into tears again.

‘OK, take it easy, deep breaths.’

She spoke through the sobs. ‘Fuck off with your deep breaths.’

‘Sorry, just trying to help.’

‘Deep breaths aren’t going to bring my baby back.’

‘What?’ Billy felt part of his brain leak out of his head, his skull came crashing in on itself. ‘Adele, what did you say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What has he done? Is it Ryan?’

‘Ryan’s fine.’ She was trying to regain composure. ‘Forget I said anything.’

‘Don’t be stupid. What baby? What did Dean do?’

A long silence down the phone. Adele trying to calm down. Billy softened his voice.

‘Come on, you can tell me.’

Another lengthy pause.

‘I was pregnant. Just a few weeks.’

‘Frank’s?’

‘Fuck you, of course Frank’s.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’

A different silence on the line now, simmering rage.

‘Dean knew. He was so angry when I told him about us. He hit me in the stomach.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘It was only a few weeks. Just a grain of sand. But it’s gone now.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

Adele didn’t speak, just gentle sobs.

‘Adele, you have to get out of there.’

‘Don’t, Billy.’

‘Just get out.’

‘We’ve been through this. Where would I take Ryan?’

‘I’ll sort something out.’

She laughed. ‘You’re in hospital with a broken head.’

‘I’m fine, the doctor says I could be out in a week.’

A sudden seriousness in her voice. ‘Billy, you can’t save us. Don’t even try.’

Billy leaned forward till he was hunched over on the floor. ‘I can save you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not being ridiculous.’

‘You’re in hospital.’

‘I can walk out of here any time I like.’

‘You’ve just had brain surgery.’

‘So what?’

‘Billy, you have to get better.’

Billy was rocking on the floor. ‘Where’s Dean now?’

‘What?’

‘You’re on the phone to me, so he’s obviously not there. Where is he now?’

She sighed. ‘He said he was going to deal with the Mackies once and for all.’

‘What?’

‘He took his little posse and headed out half an hour ago. Revenge for Rebus, that’s what he said. But he never gave a shit about that dog, it’s all about saving face and getting control of this town.’

‘Just leave then. Before he gets back. Go to the police.’

‘The police can’t help. They’re as scared of Dean as I am.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It is.’

‘I’m coming to get you.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I’m coming.’

He ended the call before she could say anything else. The phone rang immediately, but he switched it off.

He stayed on the floor for a few seconds, then carefully heaved himself up to his feet. Dragging his drip-on-wheels with him, he pulled the thin privacy curtain around his bed, checking up and down the ward as he went. There were no nurses or doctors, just patients. It was properly dark outside now and a few bedside lamps were on. Some old-timers were sleeping, their snores reverberating up and down the echoey room.

Once the curtain was drawn he leaned against the bed for a few moments then reached down and pulled out his clothes, placing them on the bed. He began to get dressed, slowly, carefully. No extra pain. When he got to his T-shirt, he realised the drip was still attached to his hand. He quickly pumped the switch a dozen times, felt the comforting swathes of morphine engulf him. He examined the drip. There was a junction where the needle fitted into a tube, with a small plastic tap attached. He turned the tap then, using his chin to keep the needle in place in his skin, he pulled out the tube leading to the drip bag. The needle stayed in place, taped to the back of his hand. Nothing leaked out.

He pulled on his T-shirt and jacket, then sat down on the bed to get his shoes on. Some coughing from a nearby bed. Sounded like the old guy was bringing something up. No sign of a nurse coming to help, though. He struggled with his shoes, his fingers clumsy with morphine and nerves. He felt sweat dampen his armpits as he finally got the laces done.

He sat on the bed for a few minutes getting his breath back, gathering himself. Then he pulled aside the curtain and peeked out. No movement. He began walking toward the doors. An old-timer glanced up at him and raised his eyebrows. Billy smiled and gave a little wave. The old guy shook his head in a ‘kids today’ gesture.

Billy was at the entrance to the ward. In one direction was a desk with two nurses stationed at it. He recognised them from earlier, which meant they would recognise him. In the other direction were more wards and corridors, doors leading off to other parts of the hospital. He began walking, not looking back, waiting for the nurses to shout after him. He was sweating along the edge of the bandages on his head, the bandages that were blasting out a signal like a beacon – patient escaping, patient escaping – then he was round a corner, more identical corridors and doors, people in scrubs and uniforms, patients in nighties and pyjamas, and him, striding through it all like he was completely at home, examining the stream of incomprehensible signs, hoping to find a way out.

He just kept walking and turning corners. No one stopped him or even looked in his direction. An exit sign caught his eye. He went through the doors and shuffled down two flights of stairs, then he was at the entrance of the hospital, a handful of visitors and patients outside smoking fags, a car park and bus stop across the road glowing like apparitions in the sodium light of the street lamps.

He got his phone out and switched it on. Two missed calls from Adele. No message. It was half ten at night. What day was it?

A gang of taxi drivers was standing in a huddle at the taxi rank, smoking and swapping bullshit. A thug with Hearts tattoos separated from the pack and opened the door of the first taxi when he saw Billy approaching unsteadily.

‘Where to?’

He gave Adele’s address.

The driver got in and examined him in the mirror.

‘You OK, mate?’

‘Just drive.’

The engine started and they pulled out, Billy bracing himself against the judders and rumbles that sent shards of pain snagging through his body.

Each speed bump made his head rattle as the taxi turned into Blacket Place. Heavy oaks leaned over garden walls, lights were on above ornate front doors. A middle-aged woman walking a golden retriever eyeballed Billy as he paid the driver and eased out of the cab.

What must he look like to her, bandaged head, zombie shuffle, wheezing for breath? He stared at her and she turned away with a tut under her breath. Lowering the tone of the neighbourhood, no doubt. That was a laugh, considering one of her neighbours was a major criminal.

The Whitehouse place seemed so peaceful, a happy suburban home. A chink of light splayed out from between the closed curtains of a front room. He scrunched up the gravel and peered between the curtains. Adele, feet tucked under her on the sofa, just like when he’d met her in the summerhouse. That was a different life, a different time, long gone. She was cradling a huge glass of red wine and staring blankly at a TV screen above the fireplace.

He tapped on the glass. She jumped and spilled wine on the arm of the sofa, then turned to the window. Her eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously. Billy pointed towards the front door. She kept shaking her head, telling him no, but she got up, glancing nervously around, then headed from the room.

As he scuffed round to the front door, the light over the porch went off. She must’ve killed it. The door opened a crack.

‘Go away,’ she said.

‘Come with me.’

She looked panicked. ‘Dean’s in the garage out back. He’ll be in any minute.’

‘All the more reason for you to leave. Now.’

‘I can’t. Ryan’s asleep.’

‘So wake him.’

‘You’re fucking insane. Look at you. Get back to hospital before you drop dead. And leave us alone. We’re fine.’

‘I’m not leaving you with him.’

She reached a hand through the crack in the door and pushed his chest. He tried to grab her wrist but missed. The shove caught him by surprise and he took a couple of steps back then steadied himself.

‘Just go. He’ll kill us both if he sees you.’

She closed the door in his face. He could see her walk away through the crinkled glass. He stood staring at the patterns on the glass, like raindrops running down a window.

He stepped back and gazed up at the house. No other lights on. He crept round the side of the building till he could see the garage. The door was open, a light on. Inside, Dean was pulling a sweatshirt on over his head. The two goons were there. One picked up a pile of clothes on the ground next to Dean, the other swung a petrol canister backwards and forwards. They left the garage and walked to a large metal bin like a brazier, threw the clothes in, poured petrol over them and set the whole thing alight, throwing a metal lid on top. They were laughing and patting each other on the back. Dean used a remote control to close the garage door and put the light off, then they began walking towards the back door of the house.

Billy stood looking at the metal bin, whispers of smoke curling out the side of the lid. He stood there for a long time, hearing voices inside the house, the three men joking and excited. He didn’t hear Adele.

Eventually he walked away from the Whitehouse place. He turned left then left again and headed home, his bandaged head screaming like it was in a vice.

*

At the corner of Rankeillor Street he stopped and leaned against a low wall. Across the road was St Leonard’s police station, where he’d passed out at the press conference. When had that been? He felt dislocated from his past, from everything that had happened before the aneurysm.

Inside the station was a police officer manning the front desk. Billy tried to picture himself walking across the road and going inside. He looked down at his feet then rubbed at his eyes, pushing his thumbs into the tops of his eye sockets until little flashes of light appeared in his vision. He shook his head and turned into Rankeillor Street.

From about thirty yards away, the Micra seemed to be glowing. It was parked underneath a street light, lit up like an alien spaceship, signalling its presence to the universe. A small, red, family hatchback, more than ten years old. It used to be their family car.

He ran a hand from the boot over the roof and down the bonnet, his fingers feeling the grime of the city’s emissions, little tiny pieces of Edinburgh’s soul, emitted then gathered again, never able to leave, just like him. He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them, swallowing all the grit and dirt his home city could produce.

Where was the car key? Charlie had it. There were no lights on in the flat. What time was it? The pubs and kebab shops were still open, so not too late.

He got his keys out, opened the door quietly and crept inside. This was his home, but he felt like a stranger. No light. No noise except the soft pad of his feet as he walked down the corridor to Charlie’s room. He stood outside for an age, staring at the grain of the wood, trying to make sense of the knots and whorls.

Eventually he pushed the door open, making sure not to let the hinges creak.

Moonlight bathed the mess in the room. Asleep in bed, peaceful smiles on their faces, were Charlie and Zoe. Her hand on his chest, cuddling in. One leg over his. Like she used to do with Billy. Charlie on his back, a bare arm hanging out of the covers and over the edge of the mattress.

Billy stood looking at them, motionless, silent. Then he inched forward till he was standing over the bed. He reached down and opened the drawer next to Charlie’s head. He carefully picked out half a dozen drug packets, one at a time, and placed them in his pockets. Then he closed the drawer as softly as he could. He spotted the car key on the bedside cabinet and picked it up.

It made sense, seeing them together. He straightened up and looked at their faces. They looked happy. More than happy, they looked contented. Imagine being content with life, Billy thought. Imagine that.

He backed out of the room, then closed the door behind him and crept downstairs. As he approached the kitchen, he heard a familiar scratching of claws on the wooden floor. He opened the door and Jeanie flew at him, making a subservient, pleased keening. Her tail thumped away, hitting the door, his leg, sometimes the floor as she ducked under and round him, snuffling at his hands.

She pushed herself into him, knocking him gently on to his arse, where he sat, smiling and petting her, whispering in her ear, stroking her and pulling her into a hug that was too strong, too forced, but he did it anyway.

After a while he got up, opened a cupboard door and pulled out a can of dog food. He opened it and emptied it into Jeanie’s bowl on the floor, then refilled her water dish. As she scoffed at the food, he knelt down beside her.

‘I’m just popping out for a bit, I’ll be back soon.’

She swished her tail as if she understood. He headed back upstairs and out the front door, careful to close it without any noise.

He stopped at the Micra. He opened the driver’s door, felt around in the sun visor, then pulled out the picture of him, Charlie and their mum at the beach. Happy families.

He locked the car door, slipped the photo into his jacket pocket, next to his hammering heart, then walked down the street.

*

The bell for last orders rang just as he stepped through the door of The Montague. He drew stares from the regulars and off-duty cops. His bandaged head and shuffling gait made him feel like an ancient mummy, like he’d been dead and entombed thousands of years ago and recently been jolted back to life.

The image of Charlie and Zoe swam in his head. He felt numb, didn’t even know what to think about it. He should be furious, enraged that his brother and girlfriend were sleeping together. But it was his fault. He’d been obsessed with Adele, with the accident, with the aftermath. He probably still had those mood stabilisers on him somewhere. How would things have panned out if he’d taken them? Pointless thinking about it now, everything was fucked beyond measure, beyond redemption, beyond words.

The barmaid gave him a look as he ordered a pint of Stella, then she went to pour it. He scanned round the pub, enjoying the stares from everyone, returning them intensely, smiling to himself as every one of the locals turned away under his gaze, not wanting to engage the lunatic with the bandages, the laboured walk and the hollowed-out look in his eyes.

He glugged at his pint and did an inventory of his body. He was weak and fragile, like his body was made of cracked glass. His skull hammered like a drum. He ran both hands over the bandages, probing, prodding. The bandages were tight and thick, several layers stretched over the skin like a second skull. Then he found it, the hole, a tiny bit of give in the material under his hands, in a place he didn’t expect. It wasn’t near the bump at the front of his head, nor on the top, but at the back, a couple of inches down from the crown, just above where the skull connected to the top of the spinal column. Why there? If he ever met that brain surgeon again, he would ask him. He thought about taking the bandages off. Getting some fresh air into his brain, with the germs and pollution and evil afloat on the breeze contaminating his thoughts. At least they didn’t smoke in pubs any more, he couldn’t get passive brain cancer. He screwed his eyes tight. His neck hurt. He cricked it violently, producing a loud crack that made the barmaid wince from several feet away.

‘You all right, love?’

‘Fine.’

His heart thudded in time with the pulsing in his brain. His organs felt bruised and battered, his liver and kidneys struggling to keep his body pure and free from poison. His hands tingled, a strange kind of electricity passing through his fingers like his whole body was a lightning conductor. He realised the needle was still taped to the back of his hand. He pulled it out without thinking. A small spurt of blood emerged from the vein. He sucked it clean, pushed the tape down over the wound and put the needle in his pocket. He pushed at his cheeks with his fingers. His face was numb.

He pulled out a drug blister pack from his pocket. Oramorph. The clue was in the name. Morphine. He popped three and swigged them with lager. The barmaid stared at him, so he stared back.

‘Migraine,’ he said flatly.

He pocketed the blister pack and took out another. Pervitin. The clue wasn’t in the name. Sounded like a perv’s drug. But he knew it was methamphetamine. Balance out the morphine. Keep him on an even keel. He popped three and downed them. His tongue tingled, and the slide of the pills clogged his throat. He wondered for a moment what it would feel like to be drug free. He would probably die. He had no idea how much of anything he’d taken in the last however long it was, and that went for the hospital medication as well. But he felt alive for now, that’s all he could hope for.

He was suddenly aware of a ringing in his ears. Couldn’t be the pills working already, could it? It kept going, penetrating his brain through the hole at the back of his paper-thin skull.

‘I think that’s your phone, love,’ the barmaid said.

He stared at her. Was she talking to him?

‘Your phone?’ She nodded at his pocket.

He followed her gaze. Put his hand in and pulled a phone out. Charlie. His big brother Charlie. Interesting. He answered the call.

‘Where the fuck are you?’

Billy imagined Charlie throwing on clothes, Zoe waking behind him, asking what was going on.

‘I’m here.’

‘Where’s here? I just got a call from the hospital saying you’ve gone AWOL.’

‘I’m in the pub.’

‘Fucking Jesus. You’ve just had brain surgery, for Christ’s sake, you should be in hospital recuperating.’

‘I didn’t like it in there.’

‘So fucking what? I don’t like it in there, but I go to work anyway. Which pub are you in?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I didn’t ask how you felt, I asked which pub you were in. I’m coming to get you and taking you back to hospital straight away. I hope to fuck you’re not drinking. Not on top of the morphine and the surgery. Christ.’

He took a hit of his beer to wind Charlie up, making an obvious smacking sound with his lips as he swallowed.

‘Billy, this is a life-threatening situation. Can’t you get your head around that?’

‘I’m touched by your concern.’

‘Stop being a complete prick and tell me where you are.’

‘The Montague.’

There was a pause. Billy savoured the thought of what was going through his brother’s mind.

‘The Montague?’ A note of caution in Charlie’s voice.

‘Yeah.’

‘You’ve been back to the house, then?’

‘No, came straight here.’

Billy imagined he heard a relieved sigh down the line.

Charlie seemed to get a sudden burst of energy.

‘Right, don’t fucking move. I’m coming to get you. Don’t drink any more lager.’

‘You’ll need to hurry, they’ve rung last orders already.’

‘You’re something else, Bro, you know that?’

‘Oh, and Charlie?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Bring Jeanie with you. I want to see her.’

‘Look, we’re going straight to hospital . . .’

‘Just bring her, or I’ll be gone when you get here.’

*

They’d rung the bell for closing time when Charlie pushed the door open. He was pulling Jeanie reluctantly on the lead, but when she saw Billy she sprang forward to greet him. After an initial hug, she began snuffling around the floor, licking up crisp crumbs and whatever else she could find. He rubbed her and she looked up at him. It seemed to Billy it was a look of devotion and uncomplicated love. A look so unlike anything any human had ever fired his way.

Charlie got to the bar, shaking his head.

‘I can’t believe you did this,’ he said. ‘How did you get out of the ward anyway?’

‘Just walked and kept on walking.’

Charlie let out a laugh. ‘Holy shit, Bro.’

Billy lifted his pint glass to his lips and finished the dregs.

‘You really shouldn’t be drinking,’ Charlie said.

‘This from the man who self-medicates every night out.’

‘I’m young, fit and healthy, you’re recovering from an aneurysm and brain surgery, and suffering post-traumatic stress.’