THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (23 page)

Des was waiting in the car park of the hospital as I walked down the hospital steps. He had a big smile for me and held the door of his car open as I got in.

“Hello, Lauren, you okay?”

I shook my head and felt tears on my face. Two days ago my life had been normal. I was a reliable honest employee and a bloody good nurse. I was alone, but fairly comfortable with it. Now I was mixed up in this terrible mess and could see no way out of it. Even if I walked now, people would find out that I had met Des, talked with him, brought him to the ward, and been for a drink with him. Questions would be asked that I couldn’t answer easily. I was scared and in big trouble.

I sat and stared straight ahead. I could feel hot tears but I couldn’t do anything to stop them. I watched the first spots of rain drop onto the windscreen. Slowly each droplet formed a film across the glass, distorting all beyond it. My tears finished the job. I closed my eyes and sobbed.

I turned my head, knowing that my soul was laid bare. “Rick’s awake,” I blubbered. Inside my head my voice sounded tired and I suddenly felt drained. I tried to wipe my face with my hand. “He’s crazy, wants you to get him out, out of the hospital.”

I turned to Des and took his hand, my voice a full on tremor. “I can’t help you, I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice laden with understanding.

“I mean the police would catch me.”

I felt strangely stupid, pointing out the obvious, but I felt I had to reason with him.

“The move could kill him, Des. I don’t know the full extent of his injuries and neither do you. We would be the ones that got the blame if he died as a result.”

I felt my pulse quicken and heard myself raise my voice. I sounded manic.

“I’m talking manslaughter, Des. I’m not cut out for this. I’m a nurse for fuck’s sake, not a soldier.”

Des put his arm around me and held me tight. I felt the warmth of his body and his wiry strength. I could smell his clean shirt and a warmer manly trail from his skin. Somehow I needed his strength. I wanted to be strong like him, even though he was at the centre of all my problems. I knew I should pull myself away from his embrace, open the door of the car, and step out into the rain and run to the nearest copper.

But I didn’t, I didn’t pull away, I didn’t run into the rain. His soft Scots voice filled my ear.

“Don’t worry, hen. I’ll sort it out. You don’t need to do a thing. I’ll take you home and cook you some food. Then I’ll sort it.”

Then he smiled. The broadest whitest smile.

“He’s awake then?”

I wiped my face. “Yes.”

“And how does he seem?”

I couldn’t think of what to say. I hadn’t examined him. I found a tissue in my bag and blew my nose. Then I blurted like some sixteen-year-old,

“He’s mean.”

Des roared with laughter. I mean, he was the clown outside the fun house at Blackpool. Tears streamed down his face. It took him a full minute to calm himself.

Then he stopped and held me again.

I looked up at him.

Des wasn’t just calm. You know the, ‘I’m a big hard soldier and my mate needs me’, sort of calm. He was serene. There wasn’t a trace of fear, or worry, or anger. The only time I’d seen that kind of happy in a man, was my time in maternity.

Then, he simply turned from me, had one last chuckle and started the car. “He’s as mean as a scrapyard dog is our Rick,” he said to no one in particular.

Des Cogan's Story:

Lauren’s flat was nice enough. It sort of went with her, reflected her personality. It was organised on the surface, but like the duck, paddling like fuck underneath.

I have to say that the presence of a little female company was a most welcome distraction. My over-active brain was dragging me to shadowy places I didn’t want to go. The bomb; my failure to check the package left by Stephan; the aching guilt; the screams and the death. It seemed determined to make me suffer. Lauren was a sparkle in a dark sinister world.

I stood in the warm cosy kitchen and boiled potatoes for supper. I’d decided to play safe with the food and was making ‘mince and tatties’ for Lauren. It’s a traditional Scottish dish that my mum would make for me whenever I was home on leave. As I pricked the spuds with a fork I weighed up my plan for the night’s forthcoming events.

The potatoes were just perfect so I hunted for a ladle. Several pans fell on the floor as I opened the kitchen cupboard.

“Sorry!” Lauren piped from the living room. “I need to tidy those!”

It was another example of Lauren’s ‘paddling like fuck’ moments.

I put off the urge to rearrange her kitchen and finished serving. I carried the two large plates of steaming honest grub into the lounge and sat on the floor next to Lauren. She had changed into her dressing gown and her hair was still wet from a shower. She had chosen Michael McDonald for music and prodded a cigarette burn in the worn rug with her nail.

“I used to smoke,” she said absently, then took the plate and smiled. “Thank you, this looks lovely.”

We ate in silence for a while. I could smell her clean hair. I heard her lay down her fork, and then she said, “How are you going to get him out?”

I swallowed some food.

“You don’t need to know anything, Lauren, and it’s probably best that way too. All I need from you right now is some idea of the treatment he’s going to need.”

Lauren looked at her food, seemed to decide she’d eaten enough and put her plate on the floor. She appeared to tense slightly.

“The move will traumatise him for sure. I don’t know exactly what will happen. He could have a severe reaction or, with some pain relief, he might be okay. Did I tell you that he lay completely still whilst I changed his dressings? He must have been in agony.”

“Yes, you did.”

That didn’t surprise me; Rick always had a high pain tolerance. His ability to bear sheer agony wouldn’t help him if he caught an infection and septicaemia though. I gave up on supper too, pushing my plate along the carpet.

“What about care after the move, how specialist is it?”

Lauren rested her hand on my shoulder. It felt good. “He’s going to be a high dependency case for some weeks. I’m not a burns specialist. He could be high dependency for maybe a month. He’ll need a number of dental procedures to repair his facial damage. As for his legs, to be honest, Des, I’m not sure. Infection will be the biggest problem.”

I thought for a minute. I needed all the information I could get from Lauren, without involving her directly. “What I really need to know, Lauren, is how long before he’ll be fit to work?”

I thought I’d electrocuted her she stood up so swiftly. My mince and potato leftovers added even more damage to the rug.

“Are you fucking crazy!” she shouted. “You just found out that your best friend, who you thought was dead by the way, is actually alive. With a little TLC he’ll be good as new in a couple of months.”

She waved her hand about like a dervish. Her voice went up a tone.

“Now all you can think about is getting your old sparring partner back, so you can fuck each other up again, add a few more scars to brag about, kill a few more bad guys. Or are you the bad guys? I don’t really know who you are, do I? What’s next for you two? Let me guess, you’re going to keep this bloody massacre going. You won’t rest, until this Stern guy, or whoever, is dead. Will you? The only fucking reason you’re here, being nice to me, is that you need me. You don’t care for me; you might want to shag me for a bit. But, let’s face it, Des, you’re using me like you use a gun. When the job’s done, you’ll get rid. Jane was fucking right. Why don’t I ever listen?”

I knew I was crap at this kind of conversation. All I could do was sit and pay attention. Let her go off on one. I knew that if I said anything at all it would make it worse. It would be pointless. If I’d said that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever been close to, or that I thought she was cute, or funny, or honest. I would have messed it up, or it would have been the wrong time.

So, I did what I always have done when the going got slightly tough with a woman. I stood up and walked out. 

As I reached the lift I heard Lauren’s footsteps. I turned and she stood in the corridor. Her arms were folded across her chest.

“He said something.” She hopped from foot to foot as if she were cold even though the corridor was warm.

I swallowed and spoke quietly. “Who, Rick?”

“Yes, Rick.”

She looked at her feet.

“He said something strange.”

I waited.

“He said I would have to kill him to get him out.”

“That’s all?”

She nodded and fought back tears.

I turned and pressed the call button. The down light illuminated. I could feel Lauren at my back. Then she spoke. “Des?”

“Yes?”

Lauren’s temper had disappeared she’d calmed down in an instant. Her voice was level and sensible.

“Please, Des, don’t come back here. I’ll take my chance with the hospital; I’ll plead insanity or something. I mean, I, erm, I did, I mean do like you, and everything but, well, It’s all just too much for me, this macho shit. I don’t get out much. Drug barons and torture aren’t that romantic, in real life, I have washing to do and stuff.”

I had to smile. She was right, of course.

Then she looked straight at me. Her beautiful features couldn’t hide her disappointment, and I thought she might cry. .

“I mean it, Des,” she said. “Please don’t come back.”  

I stepped into the lift and turned to face her but she had already gone. As the doors closed I pondered how many times in my life I had made the same mistake. I would meet someone good, honest, beautiful, and fuck it up royally.

I was destined for loneliness.

It was a solitary tedious drive, but I made it back to the Travelodge and tried to put Lauren to the back of my mind. If things went wrong on a Regiment operation, there were specific routes to follow, people to contact. I was in real trouble and totally alone. I’d had medical training of course, but any type of long term care for Rick would be a place I’d never been.

Not only did I need somewhere to take him, somewhere safe and quiet and clean, but I would have to depend on someone else to advise me on long term care. I couldn’t just sit about for a couple of months either; I needed to work on catching the bastards that killed all those kiddies.

First up would be some transport. When I’d been out running I had seen a garage on the way into the city that sold camper vans. They were the nearest thing to a useful vehicle I could think of. I’d stolen a few rides in my time, although most had been with some legitimate military reason. It seemed, if you got involved with Richard Fuller, all legitimacy went straight out of the window. If I could steal a camper, it would make a good ambulance, I was sure of it.

I decided to leave my hire car at the hotel and walk the four miles or so to the camper pitch. It took me the best part of an hour. I had a little trauma when a local police car took an interest in me but after a stern glance the guy carried on and left me alone. I always found running or walking helped me categorise things, get my head in order. As I trapped along it was raining steadily and I was pretty miserable and wet. I thought of Lauren all warm and lovely in that cosy little flat. As I walked I told myself; I had known her one night; I hadn’t even kissed her so how could I expect her to behave any differently? Why did I feel butterflies when I thought of her? I knew the answer to that one too but I slotted it away. I wasn’t meant to have a relationship, it was as simple as that. The butterflies would soon turn to bile, I knew from experience. By the time I got to ‘Dawson’s Campers’ I had left women behind and got my mind back firmly on the job at hand. The pitch was around a thousand meters square, with a permanent brick structure just about dead centre. It held two very up-market models which were lit by spotlights. A cardboard cut-out family smiled at me from the awning of one gleaming holiday home. Other than the two dimensional family, the whole place seemed deserted. The only visible security was an ageing camera mounted on one corner of the main building. That didn’t seem a problem as it pointed toward the newer vans, away from the one I’d selected. Still, getting nicked was never a good idea so I did a full circuit of the place, just to make sure all was well, before going about the job. I selected a ten-year-old Ford Camper with double doors to the rear. It took me thirty seconds or so to get in and another minute to break the steering lock and hot-wire the engine.

The diesel motor rattled away like a good one and I noticed that the kind people that had traded it in had left me a full tank.

I was fairly confident that the van wouldn’t be reported stolen until the morning so I settled back and drove back to the Travelodge, drying off on the way.

Once back in my room I set up the kit I would need. I loaded two syringes with morphine and placed them in a plastic box in my inside pocket. I rooted through the rest of the medical kit until I came across an old bottle of my ex-wife’s sleeping tablets, there were just four left. I crushed them, added a little warm water to the bottle and dissolved the mixture. Then I selected the SIG SLP and a spare magazine which tucked into my belt in the small of my back. I dived into Rick’s old Bergen and took a thousand pounds in cash from the bundle for sweetener money. The rest of the kit took me ten minutes to load into the camper. I paid my bill like a good boy and set off to the hospital, my mind flying in anticipation.

Rick had given me the clue I needed to get him out. All hospital morgues and pathology labs tend to be secreted out of sight of the general public around the back of buildings. If Rick ‘died’ then that would be my escape route.

The rain was insistent. It battered the camper as I lumbered through light early morning traffic toward the hospital gates. The cabin was warm and cosy enough but I felt a chill as I pondered my task. I had to get Rick away from the ward before Stern’s men found him and finished the job.

It was two-twenty a.m.

Despite the hour, the hospital car parks were busy and there was plenty of activity. This was a plus to me as I didn’t stand out like a spare prick at a wedding.

I drove to the rear of the building until I saw the tell-tale signs of death. I looked for a chimney that would form part of a furnace. All large hospitals had an incinerator that disposed of various body parts and contaminated materials. All the bits and pieces the doctors cut out of us. They burned everything from gall bladders to amputated limbs, ingrown toenails to unborn children. It all had to go somewhere, it was just that people didn’t want to see it.

The incinerator was always close to the pathology department. In turn the mortuary was always close to pathology. I saw the chimney, and just to the left of it, two large plastic swing doors. It had to be the place.

I parked the camper as near as I dared to the mortuary entrance and pushed the heavy doors. They made a swishing sound as they closed behind me. Muttering to myself, I strolled casually into the mortuary area. I always found that if you looked like you knew what you were doing, most times no one bothered you.

The place seemed deserted, and bright strip lights illuminated my way as I walked by two viewing rooms. They were small chapels of rest used by the police to lay out bodies so relatives could identify family or friends in a more humane place than a path lab table. Both were empty, there was no bad news for the families of Leeds that night.

The place was silent. I was, once again, around the dead. The memories of the funeral gave me a little nudge, but I didn’t allow myself to be swayed from my task.

Another set of swing doors took me to a refrigerated area where dozens of large drawers held corpses. Each drawer displayed a name plate just like a filing cabinet in any office. The place gave me the creeps. I had seen plenty of death and gore in my time, I’d never been frightened of dying, but I still hated hospitals.

Then I found what I was looking for. There was a small staff room. It had probably been a storage cupboard that the staff had commandeered.

It held a few lockers. A portable television stood on a makeshift stand. There was brew-making kit and a couple of old chairs that looked suspiciously like commodes. Within seconds I had my disguise, a full porter’s outfit kindly left hanging inside an open locker. It was slightly big but beggars couldn’t be choosers, eh?

Then I sat and made a brew.

You may think that it was a bit risky but I felt confident that any visitor would be a lone one and I was far enough down in the bowels of the hospital not to disturb anyone if I had to disable a nosy porter.

The brew was important as it was the home of my sleeping tablet mixture. I made two black teas, milk and sugar on the side, slipped in the mixture and set off toward the HDU with a whistle and a tray of deep sleep.