The Dead Beat (3 page)

She was jostled as the ambulance went over a speed bump. Gordon’s body rocked. The paramedic placed a hand on his chest to steady him. He glanced at a heart-rate monitor then back at the body.

Gordon was strapped onto a stretcher. He had a gauze sheet over his face with a hole cut in it where the oxygen mask was. As well as the heart monitor and the oxygen, he was connected to an IV through a needle in his hand.

‘How is he?’ Martha said.

The paramedic shook his head. ‘Not good.’

‘What does that mean? Is he going to die?’

‘Not if we can help it.’

The ambulance had the siren on and was racing south to the ERI. Speed bumps, red lights and traffic jams were everywhere, though.

Journalistic clichés ran through Martha’s head. ‘Race against time’, ‘dramatic shooting incident’, ‘matter of life and death’. None of them seemed to have any connection to the visceral brutality of Gordon’s face, to the matter-of-fact nature of the violence it was possible to do to your own body.

And those clichés didn’t convey any of the mundanity of her experience either. Martha and Billy had spent five minutes sitting outside the house before the paramedics turned up, as if they were just relaxing and soaking up the spring sunshine. They’d watched as the crew went about their business methodically, checking Gordon’s injuries, administering medication, stabilising him. Talking on their radios to someone at the hospital throughout, medical jargon and lingo.

Martha turned to Billy now in the back of the ambulance and nodded towards Gordon.

‘What’s he like?’ she said. She was aware as she spoke that she’d almost used the past tense. What was he like. Not dead yet. Hold on, you idiot.

‘How do you mean?’ Billy said.

‘Just that – what’s he like? As a person?’

Billy looked at the body laid out. ‘Depressed? Suicidal?’

Martha raised her eyebrows.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know him that well really. Keeps himself to himself. He’s been the obit writer at the
Standard
as long as anyone can remember, I think. Takes a weird kind of mindset to do that job for so long. Surrounded by death every day. He’s off sick with stress a lot. I guess he’s not a happy bunny.’

‘What’s his wife like?’

Billy stared at her. ‘He’s married?’

‘Jesus, didn’t you ever talk to him?

‘Yeah, but just small talk. He never mentioned a wife. I presumed he was single. Are you sure he’s married?’

‘She’s called Samantha. He told me on the phone.’

 Billy shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to break the news to her.’

‘Will the police do that?’

Billy shrugged. ‘I guess so.’

The paramedic looked up. ‘The police have been informed. They’ll want to speak to you both at the hospital. Standard procedure.’

‘Do you see a lot of this kind of thing?’ Martha said.

He shook his head. ‘Hardly ever gunshot wounds. There aren’t many guns in circulation in this city.’

‘What about attempted suicides?’

‘Plenty of them. Pills or wrists usually. They’re easy to deal with, the old “cry for help”. Pump the stomach, stop the bleeding, fine. Hardly anyone dies that way.’

‘What about guns?’

‘Fewer people survive,’ the paramedic said. ‘But the best way to kill yourself is to jump off a high building or bridge.’ He looked apologetic. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean “best”, I mean “most effective”.’

Martha tensed up. ‘There was a jumper two weeks ago, off North Bridge. Did you deal with it?’

He shook his head. ‘Wasn’t my shift. I heard about it, though. They didn’t need an ambulance, dead on impact.’

Billy looked at her. ‘What’s the interest in suicide? A hobby of yours?’

Martha’s eyes felt suddenly heavy. ‘Just wondering.’

She turned to him as they thudded over another speed bump. ‘So what’s your story?’

Billy’s hand came up to the back of his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Why did I ask, then? Come on, what do you do at the
Standard
?’

‘I’m at the
Evening Standard
, actually. And I do the most boring job on the whole paper.’

Martha raised her hands. ‘Don’t leave me dangling with that juicy nugget. Something worse than obit writer?’

‘Much worse. At least Gordon gets to write. I just lay out the Family Announcements page, you know, births, deaths and marriages. Except, actually, it’s ninety-nine per cent deaths.’

‘So you’re on the dead beat too?’

‘Yeah, but I don’t get to write anything. The death announcements are all the same. All old folks, either going “peacefully” or “suddenly”. No one ever rages against the dying of the light.’

‘Doesn’t sound like much of a job.’

‘I also sub the puzzle page and . . .’

‘What?’

Billy made a face. ‘Write the horoscopes.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t laugh.’

‘I thought that was some gypsy woman?’

Billy smiled and pointed at himself. ‘Cut and paste.’

‘But isn’t there like a hotline or something?’

‘That’s just some woman with an accent reading it out. At least I don’t have to do that.’

Martha sized him up. He was a few years older than her, mid-twenties, and there was a tiredness about his eyes, like he’d seen more of the world than he wanted to, than any twenty-five-year-old should. He was cute, though. Pretty, even. She thought about the scars, the limp, the sadness in his face. It was so like her, to fancy a hopeless case. Drawn to the damage. Didn’t take Freud to work that shit out.

‘How did you manage to land such an illustrious position?’ she said. It came out more sarcastic than she meant, and she felt bad.

He laughed. ‘I wasn’t always such a high-flyer, you know, I used to . . .’

‘What?’

His head was down. ‘I’ll tell you another time.’ He looked up and held her eye. ‘When I get to know you better.’

The paramedic stood up. ‘If you two lovebirds are quite finished, we’re here.’

Martha and Billy hung around while he went into surgery, unsure what to do with themselves. Medical staff didn’t know how long they’d be working on him.

‘Depends on the mess we find in there,’ a Dr Khan said.

They waited outside the double doors that led to surgery, flicking through magazines, shuffling on cheap fabric chairs in a small waiting alcove. Billy disappeared to track down some coffees, promising that he would call the office to let them know what had happened and why they weren’t at their desks. Martha tried to imagine V’s face when she heard. She wondered if the Walkman was still recording, or if it had run out of tape. She wondered which of her dad’s albums she’d taped over with Gordon’s obit. She realised that she didn’t have her bag with her, had left it at the desk in the office. It already seemed like weeks ago that she’d sat down there and begun reading obituaries.

A woman came bustling down the corridor towards the nurse at reception. She was dowdy and dumpy, mousy hair in a ponytail, frayed business suit. She had a frantic look.

‘Where’s my husband?’ she said.

The nurse was calm, used to all sorts of craziness here. ‘Who is your husband?’

‘Gordon Harris. The police called to say there had been an incident, that he was in hospital. I asked at A & E, they said to come here. Where is he, can I see him?’

The nurse scanned a computer screen, clicked the mouse. She was early twenties, false lashes, cerise nails clacking on the keyboard.

‘Your husband is in surgery at the moment, Mrs Harris.’

‘Surgery? What happened?’

The nurse pointed at the computer screen. ‘That’s all I have. If you take a seat, I’ll go and see what I can find out through in the surgery unit.’

Samantha Harris was fidgeting, fingers thrumming on her handbag. ‘Can’t I come with you?’

A shake of the head. ‘Restricted.’

The nurse came out from behind the reception desk. Her uniform had been taken in at the waist and the hem was shortened. More than halfway to tarty, a perv’s wet dream. She swiped a security card at the lock and disappeared.

Martha got up and walked towards Samantha. She wasn’t sure why, didn’t know what she was going to say, but something compelled her to move her feet all the same.

‘Mrs Harris?’

The woman turned. Confusion in her eyes. ‘Yes? Who are you?’

‘My name’s Martha Fluke.’

‘I don’t know you.’

‘No, I’m on work experience at the
Standard
.’

‘Gordon hasn’t mentioned you.’

‘I just started today. I was covering for him because he was off sick.’

‘He wasn’t sick, why do you say that? I don’t understand why you’re here. What happened to Gordon?’

Martha felt a gravitational pull towards the other woman, an irresistible attraction. The police obviously hadn’t told her.

‘Maybe we’d better sit down,’ she said. She tried to take Samantha’s elbow, but the other woman pulled away.

‘I don’t want to sit down. Why would I need to sit down?’

‘Samantha . . .’

‘Don’t use my name. I don’t know you.’

Martha tilted her head towards the scratchy seats. ‘I really think it’s better if we take a seat.’

‘Are you sleeping with Gordon?’

‘What?’

A newfound aggression in the woman’s voice. ‘Is that what this is about?’

‘Why would I . . . never mind. No, I’m not sleeping with anyone.’ More than she meant to say.

Samantha’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just tell me what you know.’

Martha looked round, hoping Billy or the police or the nurse would come and save her from this. But there was no one.

‘Gordon phoned the obituary desk this morning.’

‘To phone in sick, yes?’

‘No,’ Martha said. ‘He began dictating an obituary. He seemed distressed. The obituary was his own. Then he shot himself while still on the phone.’

‘What?’

‘He shot himself.’

‘With what?’

‘Pardon?’

‘With what?’

‘A gun.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Gordon doesn’t have a gun.’

Silence for a moment.

‘Why?’ Samantha said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why would he do something like that?’

Martha looked at her and felt a wave of empathy rush over her. ‘He tried to kill himself, Mrs Harris. He attempted suicide.’

The light went out of Samantha’s eyes. A heavy realisation and understanding.

‘Shit,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Shit.’ Her legs gave way beneath her. Martha caught her arm as she slumped, but didn’t have enough strength to hold her up. Instead Samantha’s weight dragged them both down to a clumsy thump on the floor. They sat on the ground, thin blue carpet under their backsides, Samantha with tears in her eyes.

‘How did you find him?’

‘What?’

‘If he was on the phone, how did you find him?’

‘My colleague got his address from HR, we jumped in a taxi and broke the door in.’

Samantha shook her head. ‘You broke down our front door?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did he have a gun?’

‘What?’

‘Gordon doesn’t own a gun.’

It was Martha’s turn to shake her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘How is he?’

‘I don’t know that either. We came with him in the ambulance, but they took him straight through there.’ Martha nodded towards the double doors.

It felt weird, sitting on the floor, like being back at primary school. Martha could see a piece of chewing gum stuck under the reception desk, a few dust bunnies in the corner of the room. The ceiling seemed impossibly far away.

Samantha was sobbing, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Maybe we should get up,’ Martha said.

Their legs were kind of tangled together. Samantha leaned in to Martha and laid her head on her shoulder. Martha thought about snot and tears. Then thought about her dad jumping from North Bridge, the ‘most effective’ way to go. Don’t ever shoot yourself in the face, kids. She wondered if the surgeons would keep Gordon Harris alive, and what kind of existence he would have if they did, with half his face missing. What would Samantha think of that?

‘Mrs Harris?’

Martha looked up. A male and a female police officer were towering over them.

‘Explain it to me again.’

Martha explained it again.

The police had split them up. Samantha was in one corner of the waiting room with the female cop, hunched over on a seat with a tissue pressed to her nose, the policewoman in close, communing with her. Martha had got the male cop, who was being a lot less cosy. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be married to someone and have them blow half their face all over your living-room sofa and walls. The female cop reached out and touched Samantha’s knee. Martha thought about the male cop touching her leg. He was tall and dark but not handsome, an outsized human in his anti-stab vest, clumpy boots, and with all the familiar cop paraphernalia hanging from his belt like he was Batman.

As she told the officer again what had happened, she left out the part about recording the phone conversation.

‘Then what happened?’ The cop had a notebook and pencil out. Very old school. Didn’t they have iPads now? She wondered if they got taught during training a certain way to take police notes, like she studied shorthand.

She explained about Gordon crying down the phone, revealing who he was, then the sound of a gun. She explained about Billy getting the address and the two of them going round.

‘And where is this Billy Blackmore?’ the cop said.

She looked around. Good question.

‘He went to get coffee.’

But that was ages ago. Maybe he left the hospital, left her to deal with all this herself. Lovely.

She described what they’d found in Noble Place, screwing up her face at the gory details. He jotted it all down diligently. She gave her number and address, in case they needed to contact her again.

‘Why would you need to get in touch again?’ Martha said.

‘We won’t, it’s just standard procedure. But this seems a simple attempted suicide. The only interesting thing is where he got a gun.’

The only interesting thing. Something occurred to Martha.

‘Where is the gun?’

She couldn’t remember seeing it after the paramedics arrived.

The cop’s radio crackled.

‘There are other officers at the scene,’ he said. ‘And forensics. They’ll take care of that.’

‘You got the grieving widow shift, yeah?’

The cop frowned. ‘She’s not a widow, miss. At least, not yet.’

‘Sorry.’

Why did she let her mouth run away with her sometimes?

The double doors to surgery opened and the slutty nurse came through with Dr Khan from earlier. Samantha bolted out of her chair, shredded tissue clutched in her hands. Martha got up too and walked over, she wanted to hear this.

‘Mrs Harris?’ Khan said. He was tiny, the shortest person in the room, with delicate bones and a high voice.

She nodded and sniffed.

‘Your husband is alive, but in a coma,’ he said. ‘His condition is very serious, I’m afraid. We stabilised and cleaned up his wounds as best we could, but there has been significant trauma to the face and brain. He’ll be taken to ICU and monitored. We won’t know about his brain function or vital signs for a while. It’s a waiting game now. I’m sorry it’s not better news.’

‘Can I see him?’

Dr Khan was already trying to extricate himself from her, his body language screaming that he had to be somewhere else.

‘Of course, upstairs in intensive care.’ He nodded to the nurse. ‘Charlene can show you where that is.’

The nurse looked put out, turning a sarcastic smile at the surgeon, but she took Samantha by the arm anyway.

As soon as they were heading away, Dr Khan vanished back through the double doors. Martha’s cop got a call on his radio and indicated to his partner that they were heading too.

‘If we need anything else we’ll be in touch,’ he said as they clumped away.

She was alone in the waiting room.

Billy arrived round a corner with two coffees.

‘Good timing, you just missed the cops.’

He looked sheepish. ‘I know, I was waiting for them to leave.’

He handed a cup to her.

‘Why?’ she said.

‘I just have a thing about cops.’

‘That’s not a good enough answer.’

‘OK, cops have a thing about me.’

‘That still isn’t good enough.’

‘Let’s just say that I’m known to the police.’

‘You have a record?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Let me guess, armed robbery and murder?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’

She looked at him. ‘You are such a fucking tease.’

Billy looked at the doors to surgery. ‘What did the doc say?’

‘Don’t change the subject, we were talking about your previous encounters with Lothian and Borders’ finest.’

‘No, we weren’t.’

Something in his voice made her drop it.

‘Gordon is alive but in a coma. They don’t know if he’s going to come out of it.’

‘And where did Nurse Tarty-pants take his wife?’

‘Upstairs to intensive care.’

Billy took a sip of his coffee, thinking. Martha did likewise. It tasted of hot piss.

‘Fancy a trip up to intensive care, then?’ Billy waved his phone at her. ‘I’m under instruction from the office to interview Samantha. Just in case it makes a story.’

‘The paper would run a story on its own obit writer trying to kill himself?’

Billy shook his head and blew on his coffee. ‘Not normally, but the gun is an interesting angle. Anything involving guns makes punters pick up the paper. We like to believe we’re living in downtown Detroit.’

‘That’s a bit cynical.’

Billy made a goofy face. ‘I thought you wanted to be a news reporter?’

‘I do.’

‘Then start acting like one and maybe we won’t be stuck writing about dead people for the rest of our lives.’