arm pinned me back. I heard the wheels of the chair grinding on the gravel and we made a turn; a man said something in a language I didn’t understand and then my shirt sleeve was ripped and I felt a prick and a voice started counting: I went with it-one, two, three, four…
I came out of it in a room; it was a very atmospheric room; I mean it had stark white walls that ran down to the floor from a stark white ceiling. It had character that room, even purpose. I was lying on a bed watching a light above me swing just a little, fascinating. I got bored with it after a while and looked around; the room had no furniture to speak of, a metal cabinet by the bed and a metal chair by the window. I stared at the window wondering why it interested me so; I wasn’t usually interested in windows, fenetres, so what? Then it came through to me slowly; I hadn’t got here by myself and the door to the room had an uncomfortably tight look to it. I got off the bed and fell flat on the floor so I clawed my way back up on to the bed again. It was like climbing Mont Blanc, west face.
I lay on the bed again, but somehow everything was less interesting. I pushed experimentally at the cabinet, bolted down. The chair would be the same. I’d been right about the window though, it did have something to say- the light coming through it was broken up into eight inch squares by the bars. My throat was dry and my eyes felt gritty, love of mankind was not in me.
The door opened and Mrs Matthews and two big men came quietly in. They stood and looked at me and I lay and looked at them. Then I sat up and waited for the feeling of treading water to stop. One of the men spoke in that foreign language again so I concluded that they were the wheelchair kids. The woman was carrying something which she threw on the bed-my wallet; I hadn’t missed it because it isn’t very heavy.
‘Hardy’, she said. ‘Private investigator, it says. What does that mean in this day and age?’
‘What it says, Mrs Matthews.’
She looked at one of the men who said something I didn’t catch; the other man wandered across to the window. I put the odds on my leaping from the bed and knocking them both unconscious at about ten thousand to one.
‘How do you know me and why are you following me?’ Her voice was nicely modulated with a roughness to it, like a radio announcer who was a drill sergeant at weekends.
‘Who said I was following you?’
‘I saw you last night and here you are today. That’s why you’re in the trouble you’re in.’
It sounded like a pop song but I didn’t feel like humming along; the trouble was the truth sounded ridiculous-this Amazon needing protection from plump little Charles Herbert? I couldn’t think of a good lie, so I told her the truth.
‘Ridiculous’, she said. ‘Charles would never do such a thing. You’re lying.’
I shrugged. She said: ‘Dennis’ and the guy by the window moved across and hit me with a backhander behind the ear where it doesn’t show. I fell back on the bed and felt him use that hard arm on me again. He pinned me down and forced my head back to one side; it hurt.
‘Tell me’, Dennis said. His breath stank and a drop of sweat from his shiny, red forehead fell into my mouth. I gagged and the pain got worse; I swore at him and he increased the pressure.
‘Stop it!’ She’d moved forward and pulled at his arm. Dennis fell back, breathing heavily. The foreigner watched the show with a pleasant smile. Mrs Matthews said: ‘Inject him again, we can’t do anything now.’ The foreigner took a syringe and glass bottle from his pocket and mated them. I faked a collapse and let my breathing go ragged. She came close, smelling nice, and lifted my right eyelid roughly.
‘He’s all right.’ She shoved her hand inside my shirt. ‘He’s thin though, not too much.’ I was pricked again and went to sleep.
They didn’t give me enough, I’m bigger than I look. Coming out of it this time I knew what to expect an didn’t make any rash moves. When everything was working properly I went across to the barred window which was now letting in the last few rays of the day’s light. The bars were in the form of a one piece grill bolted into the window frame-the worst way to do it. This gives you something heavy to lever against something fragile if you can get any leverage. This depends on the bolts, sometimes they’re anchored deep into the wood, sometimes they’ve worked loose, rusted or are held firm only by an accretion of paint. Here at St Mark’s we had the latter kind. I took a few breaths and applied some pressure to the grill, it moved. I applied some more and it moved a lot. It was hard work for one in my condition but I stuck at it; eventually I’d jiggled and lifted the grill loose on one side. It was heavy but that helped; I peeled it back off the frame like unwrapping a slice of cheese.
I lifted the window sash and let the cool night air playing on my sweaty brow stimulate some thinking. I could stay and fight with the element of surprise on my side, or run. That didn’t take much thinking; Mrs Matthews’ friends were big and at least one of them looked canny, and I still had some kind of drug drifting around in my system that might take the power from my strong right arm. Run then, but where to? I had nothing that would interest the cops and there didn’t seem much point in knocking on Mrs Matthews’ door and asking for an explanation. Jacobs? Charles Herbert? The names did set me thinking and prompted action. I re-possessed my wallet, buttoned my ripped shirt sleeve, rubbed my sore ear and climbed out on to the balcony to sniff the air.
It was after eight o’clock, and quiet the way hospitals should be at that hour given that they wake the patients up with the sparrows. I sidled along the balcony to the back wall and gave the vine I’d noticed before a tentative tug-solid like the Country Party vote. I trusted the vine and the trellis all the way down to the ground.
I slunk along in the shadows, made it across to the fence and followed that along to a back gate. A dog barked across the street as I swung myself over the locked gate, but I toughed that out. Hardy rampant; I tested the physical equipment by jogging back to my car.
I stopped for some medicinal brandy and it was near enough to nine o’clock when I reached Jacobs’ place of business and abode. I cruised around a bit sizing it up; there was a section at the back that looked like the flat Mrs Wetherell had mentioned. I parked up the street, put my. 38 in my pocket and walked back. There were lights on in the flat; behind that was a garage big enough to house the Jag and a couple of hearses. I rubber-soled it along the side of the garage and looked in. Some street light fell on the Jag gleaming like a butler-polished tea pot.
‘What’re you doing?’ It was the goon I’d seen here before; he was in short-sleeves and bare feet now and he held a hammer. He didn’t look in any mood for discussion and I didn’t feel conciliatory myself. I felt strong enough and angry enough at the mistreatment I’d had at the hospital to take it out on him. I charged and hit him in the chest with a dropped shoulder; he went back against the concrete wall of the garage and bounced off it swinging the hammer. I kicked a leg out from under him and he went down hard. He’d lost wind when he hit the wall and he fell awkwardly, his head thumped the ground, the hammer clattered away and he lay still. I waited in the shadows but nothing stirred in the flat. I bent down by the man and checked him over in the half light. His breathing was okay, and his eyes looked normal under the lids. I slid him up into a sitting position by the wall- tongue free, nothing constricting neck or mouth, no blood to speak of.
At closer range I could hear music coming from the flat, something classical and relaxing. I imagined Jacobs with brandy and Beethoven-good. I took out the Smith amp; Wesson and rapped on the door with it. After a while another light came on inside, and a voice came from behind the door.
‘Herb?’
I grunted something affirmative-sounding imitating Herb’s voice as best I could. The bolt slid back and the door swung open. I crowded him and put the muzzle of the gun into the fold of flesh between his first and second chin.
There’s nothing here’, he gulped. ‘No money, nothing.’
‘I’m glad to hear it’, I said. ‘You’re going visiting.’
He was wearing a dressing-gown over his shirt and trousers, his feet were in slippers and he passed his hand over his hair while he looked down at himself. ‘Now? Like this?’ It struck me forcibly that vanity was his middle name; just possibly he was vain enough to tackle the gun. I prodded his neck.
‘Now. Come on.’
‘I can’t go out like this.’
‘You look wonderful; don’t make me put blood all over you.’
He came out and I pulled the door shut behind him.
‘Where’s Herb?’ he said.
‘Sleeping.’
