Ben Page 10

  And she said, “No. I want you to kiss me.”

  So he kissed her. A slow, passionate kiss. And she opened up to him and let him in, responding like he’d dreamed she would. He slid his tongue inside her and he didn’t care that the station platform was crowded with people, rippling past them like the waters of the Thames. He pulled her close, nestling her body against his. He kissed and kissed her, long and hard and slow. Oh, Layla. Her sweet, eager mouth pressed against his, sending pulses of longing through his body. All around them, he sensed people on the move – some alighting, some boarding the train. But she was warm and responsive in his arms and melting into his kiss. He didn’t care if she missed the train.

  She pushed him gently away. “I’ll miss it if I don’t go now.”

  “Let it go. Stay with me.”

  He tried to keep hold of her hand but she smiled and broke away. She stepped onto the train in the last possible second before the doors closed. He saw her go inside and find a place to stand. She gave him a shy smile as the train jolted and began to move.

  He stood there, mesmerized by her kiss as the train pulled away. She was the real deal. He knew that. She had his heart, she had his soul. He watched the train disappear towards Bethnal Green and put his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. He wanted to stand there forever, on the empty platform, enjoying the kiss retrospectively. Remembering the pleasure of her warm body pressed against his, and the sweet waves of sensation it gave him.

  Everything was worth it for that kiss. Everything.

  Rumbled

  It was raining now as she walked towards the Rookeries, past the burnt out car that had been there for a month or more. It was dark and she hated walking through the estate in the dark, the only comfort being that people wouldn’t touch what belonged to Ray Leach. She entered the fortress-like block where her mother’s flat was, and started climbing the exterior stairs. The rain beat in and stung her face as she turned the corner and hurried along the outside balcony that led to her front door. Gratefully, she felt for her key, slipped it in the lock and let herself in. The children would still be at Tracey’s – she’d just go inside for a minute and then she’d go and fetch them home.

  When Layla got inside, Ray was sitting on the tartan couch, waiting for her.

  “Hello, birthday girl.”

  And she took two steps backwards, like she imagined he was going to stab her or something. “It’s not my birthday…” she began, pathetically.

  “Oh, it is.” Ray got up and picked up a red envelope lying on the top of the television. It wasn't sealed, not any more. Ray had opened it, of course and it contained a birthday card, from her auntie who lived in a home for people suffering from dementia. How ironic that poor Auntie Pat, who couldn’t remember that she no longer had a dog called Molly and had trouble recognizing the face of her oldest son, had remembered to send Layla a sodding birthday card. A stupid, troublemaker of a card with a big number ‘18’ on the front.

  “No, Ray. It’s not today. Auntie Pat doesn’t know anything. She lives in a home for the bewildered.”

  He took a few steps towards her. And then lunged and grabbed her arm. “Don’t lie to me, Layla. Eighteen, sixteen, what’s the difference. Either way you’ve been lying.”

  “Please, Ray, you’re hurting me.”

  “Oh, you’ll be hurting alright, by the time I’ve finished with you.”

  “No, Ray, don’t…” She struggled to twist away from him, and ran and shut herself in her bedroom. He banged on the door and continued the conversation like that – with her leaning on the door to keep him out and him shouting and hammering on the other side.

  “When was it? Yesterday? Today? Layla! I’m going to break this door down and get the bloody truth out of you, girl, even if I have to smash your pretty face in.”

  Layla brushed hot tears away from her face. “It’s not til next week. Wednesday. The card’s early.”

  “Why should I believe that? Everything you’ve said so far was a lie.”

  “It’s the truth. Ask Tracey’s mum if you don’t believe me. She’s looking after my birth certificate for me, and she's known me since before I was born.”

  “Eighteen,” he said, with an evil kind of relish. “Is that correct? Eighteen on Wednesday, my girl?”

  There was no hope now. He’d ask. People would be afraid to lie to him, because he was friends with Mr Birch. He’d find people who knew how old she really was. Knew when she’d left school. Knew when she first started claiming the dole. Knew she was lying about being younger. “Yes. Eighteen on Wednesday. But you and Mr Birch can’t do anything with me until then. Not unless you want to end up doing time.”

  She knew he was terrified of ending up in prison. It was the only lever she had over him, and now – because of Auntie Pat’s birthday card – it was a lever that would only work for a few more days.

  “You better pack your bags, girl. You ain’t staying here, tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. You think I’m stupid? Do ya? You think I don’t know you’ll be doing a runner in the morning before I get out of bed?”

  That was indeed, Layla’s last hope. In her mind she’d already set the her tiny bedside clock to ring at 5am – a time when Ray would be almost comatose from his excesses, but not yet ready to wake up and go searching for more.

  “I have to stay here – I promised mum I’d look after the children.”

  “No. That was all very well when you weren’t old enough to work. But things is different now. You need to go somewhere safe, where people can keep an eye on you. And those kids need to be properly looked after. I’ll be ringing the social services in the morning – after you’ve gone.”

  “No, Ray. Please. Please don’t send me away. Bradley and Jayden – they’re too little to fend for themselves. I promised mum. You promised her too, Remember Ray? Remember what you said to Tara?”

  But he had gone quiet. And she opened the door a crack and then a bit more. And when she crept out of the room, she saw him sitting on the hall floor in front of the door, cradling the phone, talking it over with the only man he really trusted. Mr. Birch. Who was telling him he’d already seen the lovely Layla, and thought that yes, she would do very nicely. Though he was a little worried about the boyfriend.

  “Boyfriend?” said Ray, in confusion. “No, she ain’t got a boyfriend.”

  There were a few seconds more of muffled conversation, while Layla’s heart sank.

  Ray was frowning as he spoke on the phone. “Where did you say you saw her?” He looked up at Layla, watching her face, judging the reaction for himself. “Oh, I see. Columbia road.”

  She could have cut her own wrists for her stupidity. The flower market.

  Ironically, she would have been much safer meeting Ben in Richmond. Safer in the privacy of his flat, if only she’d agreed to go there, like he wanted her to. As long as they were far away from her own turf they were much less likely to be spotted. But no. She had only felt safe in the one place where she wasn’t. The flower market, where her father used to take her. It was obvious now. The flower market was too close to home. The flower market was a place of clear and present danger. She’d been a very silly girl.

  Ray came off the phone, and pulled her short blonde hair sharply back from her head, and twisted it hard. “Mr Birch wants to know if you’ve slept with that rich boyfriend of yours.”

  She tried to lie – if not for her own sake then for Ben’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do. Birch said you was cozied up with some fella that looked like a stockbroker.”

  He dragged at the scarf she was still wearing round her neck. “Who gave you this, then? This is something a posh bloke would wear. Who is he, Layla?”

  “He’s just some bloke I got talking to. You wouldn’t know him.”

  Oh, God, they’d kill him if they knew his name. And Ray would have known him, if he’d seen him. But thankfully, Ray wasn’t there.
Only Mr. Birch had seen them together. And it was a well-known fact that Mr. Birch didn’t live with the scum in the Rookeries. He owned a big house a long way away. So he wouldn’t know about Ben and the medical centre. That secret was safe, for now.

  But Ray’s concern was about the merchandise. Her face and her body were his fortune, and he wanted to know if she’d been giving it away.

  “No, Ray. I swear I’ve done nothing with him. Only a kiss. That’s all.”

  After the words were out of her mouth, she almost wished she’d lied and said she’d done a lot more. But Ray would have given her such a beating if she’d said that. Kicked the crap out of her. That's why she told him the truth. At the Rookeries, your first hope was always self-preservation. Short-term. Save your skin and think later.

  Ray let go of her hair and looked at her. Trying to judge if she was lying, maybe.

  “It’s the truth, Ray.” She felt weak and exhausted. It had been a long day – the long drive out of London to the prison, seeing her father, and then later, kissing Ben – oh, yes, kissing Ben, who was sweet and good and deserved so much better than she could ever give him. And then travelling home and walking back from the station through the cold November rain.

  “Where’ve you been with him?” Ray said. “You’ve been gone all day. Tell me the fucking truth.”

  He went to grab her hair again.

  “I went to see my dad,” she stammered. “He’s inside. Chelmsford Prison. Remember.”

  “Did you take lover boy with you?”

  “He’s not my lover boy. You know as well as I do what a lover boy is. And he’s not one of those. He’s just some bloke that drove me to the prison.”

  “Come on, Layla. Men don’t drive girls all over Essex without expecting certain rights and privileges, do they?”

  “If he’s hoping for rights and privileges. He hasn’t had them. Not yet.”

  Ray sniffed. “If you’re telling the truth, and you’d better be. Then that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

  She knew what would happen, now. They'd find out who Ben was, and Ray would arrange for someone to hurt him. Men can’t just do what they want with a Rookeries girl and expect to get away with it. She didn't think she could bear to see Ben hurt. She lied to herself, hoping they’d just warn him off, then maybe he wouldn’t be hurt too bad, but if he refused to listen - it didn’t bear thinking about.

  Stabbed

  The next morning, at the medical centre. Sally had a stack of admin work in her in tray today, but that didn’t stop her from finding excuses to walk along the corridor now and again. She particularly liked to walk in the vicinity of consulting room three, especially when Dr Stein was rostered on. Every seven minutes he’d appear at his door – like a cuckoo in a clock – in search of his next patient. So, if a love-struck receptionist loitered long enough in the hallway, fate would provide an encounter, if Sally gave fate a little shove.

  But then she saw the boy.

  He was leaning against the wall outside the room where Ben was working. The boy, with café latte skin and a loose head of afro hair, was probably only in his early teens. He was looking towards the closed door of consulting room three. As if he was waiting for Ben. Which was the first thing that was odd. He ought to be in the waiting room if he was a patient. But there was something else not quite right with this boy. His head was resting on the wall and he kept closing his eyes, like he was desperately, desperately tired.

  Sally frowned. She did the mental checklist in her head. Medical exam for insurance? Not likely. Food poisoning? Probably not. Drug withdrawal? Possibly, though the look in his eyes was different. More like pain, less like starvation. Heart attack? In theory he was much too young, but he was clutching his right arm.

  She looked curiously at him. “Can I help you? Are you alright?”

  He nodded. But he didn’t look it. Because, under the medium brown skin, his face was all waxy and white. He looks like death, she thought.

  Then she saw the drops of blood on the boy’s jacket – injury – yes.

  “What are you doing here? Have you filled out the form at the reception desk?”

  He nodded, though she was sure that he hadn’t. “Just waiting for the doctor.”

  Sal wondered if she should knock on Ben’s door. Speed things up. But then Ben’s last lot – a mother and three young children – came traipsing out of the room because their turn was over. And Ben came out and saw the boy.

  “Are you my next patient?”

  Sally pursed her lips. “Not in theory,” she said, reaching for the patient’s file in the slot by the archway. “Gladys Lane – one of your palliative care patients.”

  But the boy murmured, “Doctor. Please…”

  He tried to take a step towards Ben, but instead he keeled forward and collapsed on the floor.

  * * *

  Ben’s heart sank when he saw the blood on the boy’s jacket – blood that the kid had tried to conceal by keeping his arm close to his chest. He knelt down and yelled “Nurse!”

  The nurse came running at the sharp sound of Ben’s voice, and Dmitri’s head appeared from consulting room two. So now, there were four of them, himself, Sally, Dmitri and Practice Nurse Melanie Tavistock– it was written on her name badge, pinned to her lapel. All gathered round the boy in the corridor, kneeling down to see what they could do.

  “He’s been stabbed, hasn’t he?” Melanie said, with her voice wobbling just a little bit.

  Ben moved the edge of the boy’s jacket aside – his t-shirt was smattered with blood. “Gloves,” he said, automatically. The nurse jumped up to go and get them.

  Dmitri’s patient appeared in the door of consulting room two, and blanched when he saw the boy and the blood. The Russian doctor lifted his head to speak to him, “Just wait for me, Mr Lucas. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Oh, no problem, doctor. I can see you’ve got your hands full.”

  Melanie came running back, and Ben took the latex gloves that she offered and started dragging them on. Then they fetched a stretcher and slid it underneath the boy, and moved him into a treatment room.

  “Ambulance on its way?” asked Ben.

  “Oh, no. Sorry, doctor. I’ll call for one,” Melanie stammered.

  “I’ll do it, Mel,” said Sally. “You stay and do the medical stuff. I’m not much use for that.”

  The boy reached out and clutched Ben’s arm. “Please, doctor. Don’t send me to hospital. If you send me to hospital, I’ll go to prison.”

  Ben didn’t like the sound of that. Nobody went to prison for getting stabbed. Which meant there was another boy lying in a pool of blood somewhere – and he was probably dead. “Just relax. We need to find out what’s happened to you. How many times did he stab you?”

  “I don’t know – three times, I think.”

  Melanie cut the clothing off the boy. Ben started examining the boy’s chest. Three ugly gashes broke the coffee-coloured skin. There was evidence of blunt trauma, too. A hammer? A length of iron pipe? Something had hit this boy and hard.

  “Does it hurt when I press here, or here?”

  But by now the boy’s eyes were glazed and vague. He was staring past Ben at the bright fluorescent lights behind, swimming in and out of consciousness. Melanie struggled to get an emergency monitor system hooked up.

  “The blood’s not fresh,” said Ben. “This may have happened hours ago.”

  “He’s weak, Ben. He needs help to breathe. Do you want me to bag him?” Melanie reached for an Ambu bag.

  “Yeah. I’m thinking about a chest drain, too.”

  Dmitri objected. “We haven’t x-rayed. We’ve no idea…”

  “You think he’ll last until the ambulance gets here – if we stand around and do nothing?”

  Dmitri shrugged. “It’s not clinic policy to do that type of trauma care here.”

  “If it’s in the patient’s best interests, then surely, we don’t have a choice?”

  “We
always have a choice – and I say, leave it to the paramedics. They could do a needle into his chest to relieve the pressure.”

  “We could do that now. Or a tube. In his case, I’d go for a tube. Bet you there’s a massive hemothorax in there.”

  “Ben. You’ve only been here a few weeks. You don’t seem to understand how things are done. You see, clinic policy−”

  “Fuck clinic policy,” said Ben, reading bad news on the monitor. No time for indecision, not now. “Melanie! Get me the tube, now. And a scalpel, if you can find one. Is it clinic policy to keep a scalpel anywhere?”

  The monitor was bleeping incessantly. Signalling its warning to anyone who’d listen, with increasing electronic urgency. At that point, everyone seemed lose it. Melanie was flustered. Ben was impatient to start. And Dmitri was very, very angry. "I'm the senior doctor, here, Ben. And I need to remind you−"

  Ben was on pure adrenalin now. Emergency work had that effect. "Remind me later. I'm putting in a chest drain.”

  There was wholesale panic. People running and yelling at each other, unused to the demands of trauma care. Sally came back and tried to help look for pieces of equipment they didn’t normally use. Melanie opened a cupboard with a metal door like a filing cabinet and brushed a whole shelf full of dressings out of her way and onto the floor. "Scalpel! Yes!"

  “It’s supposed to be done under sterile conditions,” Dmitri said with a scowl. “And you’re just going to cut a hole in his chest wall and poke your finger in?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Now help me or get out of the way.” Ben prepped the boy’s skin with an alcohol wipe, and looked round desperately for Melanie to pass him what he needed. The boy’s rasping breathing was very faint, very low. Ben was worried about what would happen if it stopped.

  Dmitri still seemed to have his knickers in a twist. “You want to be sued for malpractice if this turns out to be unnecessary?’

  “Of course not. Nor do I want to tell his mother that he’s dead.”