Chapter 5
The barn
Rather than focus on the interior of Charlie’s barn conversion, Rick’s thoughts were full of the red-haired woman with the flat tyre. It was a long time since he’d met anyone he could really connect with. He’d been tempted to ask for her name and number, but then thought better of it. The last thing she needs is me complicating her life any further. I can’t risk adding my problems to hers. It was better that they not see each other again.
Shaking free of his thoughts, he examined his surroundings. In terms of location, tucked away at the end of a pothole-strewn gravel track in a remote part of the forest with only one other property in sight, the barn was perfect. There was small kitchenette and a main living area. A central open staircase rose up to a mezzanine level. Pools of sunshine poured through skylights onto the cluttered remains of a stranger’s life. Eighty-one years’ worth of Uncle Charlie’s memories lurking in forlorn clusters. Charlie wasn’t really his uncle. He was dad’s best friend, someone who sent occasional Christmas and birthday cards. Rick had never expected to inherit his home recently and hadn’t had time to come and see it until now.
Rick and the deceased Charlie had vastly differing tastes. Rick preferred sleek, modern minimalism. In contrast, Charlie had collected a cluttered mash-up of random possessions from multiple decades. The most up-to-date item in his home was a large cast-iron log burner in the centre of the living space. A metal flue rose up to exit through the vaulted ceiling. A tatty sofa and a scratched leather armchair with a matching footstool loitered before a boxy pre-millennium television set. Could such an antique pick up a digital signal?
He took a step towards it. The muscles in his left leg screamed. Cursing, he massaged his knee and thigh, his fingers catching on the rip in his trousers. That raised flower bed hadn’t broken his fall quite enough. Winter roses are vicious little buggers. He still couldn’t believe it. Firstly, that he’d jumped at all, and secondly, what had happened before he jumped. Before Gita locked him in his consulting room. Two people he had assumed were patients had stalked into the consulting room as if they owned it. He replayed the scene in his head for the millionth time, trying to see how he could have handled the whole situation better.
*
The woman perched on the chair next to his desk and flicked long dark hair over her shoulder. Her pointy teeth reminded Rick of the velociraptor in Jurassic Park and her red-lipsticked smile didn’t reach her eyes.
‘Hashtag Dr Death,’ she said.
‘I… I… uh. What?’ Was that supposed to mean something? Rick’s eyes darted from the woman to the skinny youth who’d trailed in behind her. Sporting an oversized black leather jacket, jeans and biker boots, the young man resembled a twelve-year-old playing dress-up. He pulled a phone from one of many zipped pockets. Pointing it at Rick, he said, ‘Right, Sal. It’s recording.’
‘Wait. Stop.’ Rick’s hand shot out to shield his face from the camera lens. He hated having his picture taken. He always had, even before the scars. ‘You can’t film a consultation.’
Sal ignored him, her focus on the camera. ‘Cheers, Abe. Hi guys. Sal and Abe are back with our latest Dean Markwell, aka the D-Man, update – and guess what? We’re here with Dr Death himself.’
‘This’ll go viral,’ Abe muttered.
‘So, Dr Death,’ Sal turned towards Rick, her tone hardening, ‘tell all our lovely followers how it feels to kill the hopes and dreams of an entire generation.’
The skin on the back of Rick’s neck prickled.
‘You must have something to say,’ Sal insisted.
He tugged at his collar and scanned the dark mahogany surface of his desk as if expecting to find an answer. Neither the computer, blood-pressure cuff, stethoscope, nor his rapidly cooling cup of coffee had anything useful to contribute. ‘Uh… no comment.’
‘What about the D-Man’s fans?’ demanded Abe.
Bile rose in Rick’s throat. ‘I said, no comment. Please leave. I have patients waiting.’
‘You haven’t, mate,’ scoffed Abe. ‘For sure, your waiting room’s full. It’s bursting at the seams. But not with patients. They’re all paps and commentators like us. Only we got here first. This is our scoop.’
‘So, go on,’ insisted Sal. ‘Tell us what happened to the D-Man.’
The door crashed back on its hinges. Sam, a balding, middle-aged man of West-Indian heritage with a penchant for obsessive filing and dreams of being the security chief for Beyoncé, burst into the room. ‘Sorry, Rick.’ He growled. ‘My bad. No idea how these scrotes got past me. Oi! You two!’
Rick watched in bemusement as the normally mild-mannered receptionist morphed into a short, but no less intimidating, version of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and made short work of hustling the intruders out.
*
The sound of a news alert on his phone echoed around the barn and brought Rick back to the present with a start. The stealthy fingers of an early-stage migraine tiptoed across his forehead. He popped two tablets from a blister pack in his jacket pocket and swallowed them dry. Better get organised, before the pain really kicks in. Limping out to the car, he retrieved a sports bag from the boot and his laptop from the back seat. Something soft landed on his foot. He looked down into the single remaining button eye of David’s bear. His son had left it as a joke, when Rick had given him a lift to the airport. ‘Boo’s going to keep an eye on you, Dad,’ he had said. ‘to make sure you don’t work too hard.’
Rick scooped the toy off the ground. ‘Come on, Boo. Let’s go inside.’
There was no power, but, given that the place had stood empty for six months, it wasn’t surprising. Rick shivered and pulled a thick fleece from his sports kit, cursing the journalists outside his apartment who had stopped him getting home to pack properly. As he dragged it over his head, his eyes lit on a framed photograph on the wall. A younger version of himself stared back, dressed in his medical school graduation gown. Mum and Dad stood on either side, beaming with pride. One of the few times they’d been civil to each other since the divorce. Sadness stirred in his stomach. It was strange seeing them all so happy, none of them realising that Dad would be dead a month later.
A sudden urge to ring David slammed through him. They’d not spoken for a while. A twenty-two-year-old man working his dream job as a sous chef in an award-winning restaurant abroad didn’t ring their dad very often. He checked the time on his mobile. No. Not a good time. He’d be prepping for evening service.
Seeing an alert from his voicemail, he slumped down onto the saggy sofa and listened to the automated voice.
‘You have thirty-three messages.’
Bloody hell.
Ten twenty-three: ‘Rick? It’s Gita. Look, I’m sorry if I sounded harsh before, but it’s for your own good. It’s better this way. Call me when you’re settled.’
Ten forty: Sam’s gravelly south London tones grated down the line. ‘Rick. Gita says you’re on holiday for a bit. Best thing if you ask me, mate. Give us a bell if you need anything, right.’
Ten forty-five: ‘Hi, Rick, Michaela here. Gita has let me know the situation and, as the senior partner, I have to agree that this is the best way to deal with the current situation. I think it’s important to—’
Rick tuned out. They had written him off. Life without him would be easier. That much was clear. He dashed a hand across his eyes. If making him the scapegoat saved the surgery, he could cope with that. But what about Dean? While everyone was focused on blaming Rick, what was being done to help Dean?
Michaela’s message ended and the voicemail beeped with the start of another one.
Beep. Eleven fifty-nine: ‘Hello, is this Dr Rick Mahon’s number? Oli Short from the Daily Metro here. I’d like to ask some questions about the recent article in The National Dispatch? How about giving us your side of the story? Call me back on this number.’
Beep. Twelve-oh-five: ‘Dr Mahon, Ali Neera from Star Magazine. Cora Diamond says she’s suing you. What’s your response? Our readers would like to know. Call me.’
Beep. Twelve ten: ‘Tam Parham from Newslite, call me.’
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Rick stopped listening. A buzzing sound filled his ears. Someone started swinging a heavy anvil around inside his head, crashing it against the inside of his skull. He crumpled in on himself. This was so much worse than he’d thought. For the first time in his life, he felt hunted.
How did they get my number?
Can they track me?
Might they turn up here?
He ripped the back from the phone and yanked out the battery and sim card. He only just managed to stop himself from throwing it on the floor and stamping on it, like some desperate movie character on the run from a sinister organisation.
Dropping the pieces of phone on the coffee table, he lay back, dragging the dusty throw from the end of the sofa up over his shoulders. Hunching down, he closed his eyes. Images of Dean, Cora Diamond, a pack of baying paparazzi and poor old Mrs Clutterbuck with her dodgy hip swirled and danced inside his head.
He was right. The beautiful red-haired woman with the sparkling green eyes was better off without him. Everyone was. A single hot tear leaked from the corner of his eye and trickled into the hair at his temple. He cursed himself for giving in to self-pity, as the migraine that had been lurking ramped up and swallowed him whole.