the-story-teller

THURSDAY TWENTY-FIRST NOVEMBER

CHAPTER ONE

The single fluorescent strip light in the small hospital ward side room buzzed incessantly over the deafening silence that had enveloped it. The harsh cruel light it cast bounced off the bone-white walls and concrete-grey linoleum flooring, making the lights brighter and the shadows darker. It seemed as if the ghostly reminders of previous occupants stagnated in the shadows, waiting to claim their next victim.
It was a room like every other in the hospital; nothing marked it as special or unique. It didn’t offer much in the way of decoration, except for the small wooden crucifix positioned above the bed and a chipped vase of flowers on the nightstand, useless to the occupant. Half a dozen or so get-well cards from relatives and friends and co-workers lined the windowsill; their standard Hallmark messages were punctuated with more heart-felt notes – not that he had been able to read them. Even though it was late November, the air in the room was stale, thick and oppressive, cooled only by the solitary rotating desk fan. Inside it seemed so peaceful, the perfect place for a final resting before being reclaimed by Heaven. But that was inside. Outside it was a different story. Outside, everyone knew who was in there and how they ended up there.
Charlie Foster lay in the bed next thing to dead. His wife Jane had been keeping an almost constant vigil for the last two months. Deep down though, she knew that she was a widow at the age of thirty-five.
He had as good as died two months ago. Someone had broken into their home, tied him to a chair and hacked off both of his hands. Charlie almost bled dry. His blood had pooled at the base of his executive leather chair and stained the parquet flooring. His hands were found on his desk, positioned on the keyboard of his laptop. A simple message was typed on the screen: ‘All I Ask is Redemption’.
Before that fateful September afternoon, it seemed like Charlie Foster had the world at his feet, a good job, a more than modest home in the suburbs and a beautiful wife. Someone had shattered that fragile existence with a butcher’s knife.
Jane had been shopping in the city that afternoon, as she did most Wednesdays, enjoying the life that her husbands business had afforded her. She spent an exorbitant amount in Macy’s and Bloomingdales, a trip to Ralph Lauren, Yves Saint Laurent and Dior boutiques on Fifth Avenue. She didn’t need the things she brought; she just wanted them. It was her weekly ritual. She would be dropped off by taxi outside Macy’s and would catch the subway around the city until she’d had enough of exercising her plastic, only to catch a taxi back home. That day had been different though, while browsing the Versace counter in Bloomingdales she unexpectedly bumped into an old friend, someone from the tennis club. They lost track of time over coffee and gossip. Jane arrived home over an hour later than usual. She had that much to be thankful for. Otherwise she might now be lying in the bed next to her husband waiting to die. Or already dead.
Between doctors’ rotation, nursing staff, concerned friends and relatives, the local father, police and the media, she had little time to actually grieve the loss. She tried her best, but for some inexplicable reason, the tears never came.
Jane looked down at the empty shell of her husband. The things they had planned plagued her mind – the skiing trip to Switzerland in January, deciding whose parents they should spend Christmas with; whether they should again start trying for a baby. All the things that she now realised they would never discuss, never argue over. It all seemed so trivial now.

Patrick Braddock hated hospitals. He hated the smell of antiseptic and death. He hated the false sympathies of staff and families. And most of all he hated the lukewarm dishwater they tried to pass off as coffee.
He stood outside finishing off a fourth cigarette in succession, delaying the inevitable of venturing into the hospital. He had long ago forgotten the reasons why he went there; why each night he’d stand outside in the cold air, smoking and putting off a visit he really didn’t need to make.
The cold winter air hit him like a slap to the face, dragging him out of the monotony of the day. He had spent the last ten hours in the office. Paperwork was a thankless task; the more that got cleared, the more that appeared. It was a long and exhausting losing battle, but one that was expected and demanded.
He watched as his breath formed clouds and hit the black night sky, imagining that his wife back home was doing the same. It was starting to rain. He pulled the collar up on his tired old brown leather jacket and yanked the zipper up. It was an old favourite and reminded him of home, but it offered little protection against the stubborn New York winter.
He stubbed the cigarette butt on the wall and dropped it to the floor, stamping on it with his size ten black Dr. Marten boots to ensure it was properly extinguished. He looked at the three other people hunched up smoking. One of them was a doctor, another a nurse and a third wore a dressing gown and slippers. He smiled. The three probably wouldn’t talk to each other inside, yet out in the cold night, they had one thing in common – they were all social outcasts, regardless of their position within the hospital hierarchy. The nurse coughed – a sound that seemed to wrack her entire body. Braddock made a secret (and un-keepable) promise to quit. He didn’t mean it though. Did enjoying smoking make him a bad person? He didn’t think so, but he knew it wasn’t for everyone. He agreed, by and large on the citywide ban on smoking in public places. He called himself a social-smoker, but in fact he found that he was an unsocial smoker – taking a cigarette when he was alone.
The rain was starting to fall more persistently, turning from light drizzle into a real downpour. He pushed his thick and slightly curly brown hair back off his tired face and leaned back against the brick wall, exhaling the last of the smoke through the corner of his mouth. He took a deep gulp of air, before popping a breath mint into his mouth, and ventured into the hospital.

St. Anthony’s was a private hospital; the Fosters had money, and could afford the best in life and now in close-to-death. It wasn’t cheap either. One of the first visits Braddock paid he looked at the brochure. There was no way he could afford it, even on the ludicrously hiked salary he was getting while on the exchange programme. But what price do you pay for the benefit of peace of mind?
The entrance was tastefully decorated in pale green. It offered a supposedly calming atmosphere, but it seemed false somehow, like a day-time soap opera version of a hospital, as far removed from the city hospital in Birmingham as he could think. Braddock cast his mind back home to the overcrowded and under-funded NHS building; having to wait four hours in A&E only to be treated by a week-old medical student or someone that couldn’t speak decent English. But for all its faults, the NHS was at least free and available to everyone, which is more than he could say about St. Anthony’s.
Braddock walked past the reception desk and waved at the clerk. She was a slightly dowdy but professional looking woman; her grey tinged hair was tied back in a loose bun and her glasses rested on the end of her nose. She looked over the top of her glasses at him and returned his wave. She retuned to her computer screen and continued bashing at the keys with alarming speed. It was pretty much the same ritual every evening. He had waved to her nearly every night for the last two months, yet he still didn’t know her name. He thought it rude to ask now, and would plead ignorance if ever he got into conversation with her.
On his journey through the hospital he would see more or less the same people. He would smile at the pretty blonde nurse, she would smile back and blush slightly; he would wave at the security guard most likely a retired police officer looking to keep busy; and he’d have a brief chat with the overweight orderly. Finally would make his presence known to the sister on duty – an overbearingly nice woman that always welcomed him with a smile and a cup of coffee. She had a raucous belly laugh; the kind that when you heard you couldn’t help laughing with, or was it laughing at? They would pass the time for a few minutes while he pretended to enjoy the lukewarm dishwater – convinced she was trying to make him a permanent patient. Why else would she serve him that stuff?
‘Cold out?’ the sister asked looking at the way he had his jacket buttoned up close around his neck.
‘It’s November, Doris, you can’t tell me you’re expecting anything but cold,’ he replied; his thick West Midlands accent completely out of place in downtown Manhattan. During the eleven months he’d been in the States, he’d managed to create a strange hybrid of Black Country and Brummie tones with Americanisms. Sometimes he wondered if anyone could actually understand what he was saying. More often than not, people would just smile and nod. He could tell they hadn’t a clue what he was saying. Sometimes it was an advantage, other times a hindrance.
‘Any news, how’s the investigation going?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side. He guessed she was more interested in tit-bits of gossip rather than actual details of the investigation.
‘You know I can’t, Doris,’ Braddock smiled and she smiled back. He didn’t smile often, but when he did it lit up his whole face. He had those character lines his wife joked about that folded when a smile reached his eyes.
‘You can’t blame a girl for trying.’
They talked for a few more minutes before he made his way into the small side room.

Jane Foster was there, as she had been every night, sitting next to her husband’s bed, her head down in silent prayer.
Braddock put his hand on her shoulder, to let her know he was here. She flinched slightly and looked up at him. She put her hand on top of his, appreciating the support. He could offer no words of comfort; he just didn’t know what he should say. He wasn’t very good at dealing with families. He also hadn’t been able to give her any concrete information on the investigation for several weeks.
What she didn’t realise was that his visits were not part of his duties. He’d show up at the hospital daily after work, to see how she was holding up. It had been the same every day. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his time being o faraway from home. He’d already done the tourist trap, and wasn’t interested particularly in the nightlife. Visiting the hospital had meant he wasn’t spending so much time alone, drinking too much, eating the wrong foods and sleeping in front of the TV. Now, the visits had become more of a habit rather than out of anything approaching concern. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, it’s just that routine had taken over and there was never any news from either side.
Jane stood from the bedside, and turned to face him. She was an attractive woman, dark hair in a shoulder length bob, dark eyes and a slender figure.

Tonight though, her hair was scraped back off her face, pulling the temples back slightly, and she wore no make up. Her slight frame seemed to be getting smaller with each passing day. She would have been stunning if she was in better circumstances.
She didn’t have to say anything, but he knew what she was thinking. She turned her attention back to her husband as one of the machines that was doing his breathing for him coughed and shuddered for a brief second – it was as if the machine was an extension of Charlie. Braddock reached down and tucked a stray piece of hair back behind her ear. He easily dwarfed Jane, but he was far from big himself.
‘Why did this happen to us?’ she asked; the unanswerable question that all families of victims eventually asked. The same question she had silently asked him every day for the last few months. It was only tonight she had the courage to voice her question.
He never knew how to respond to that sort of question. There was no why, no reason for taking another’s life. Rather than say anything, he looked at her and silence fell between the two of them. The sound of a floor polishing machine went past the room, and through the gap in the door Braddock noticed three people walk past – a nurse, a woman clutching flowers and a priest. He turned his attention back to Jane, her expression spoke loudly the words he was thinking; Charlie Foster would never wake up, it was just a question of time how much longer he’d hold on.

Braddock usually didn’t spend much time with Jane, a few minutes until it started to get awkward. But tonight he sensed that she needed the company and the distraction, even for just a short while. He took her to the hospital canteen – a large pale blue room with dark blue furniture and fittings. Rather than look inviting, it seemed to create a distracted coldness. Along one wall were large counters with hot food and drinks, several refrigerators with sandwiches and the usual glut of vending machines for those that wanted a quick snack or a high-sugar soft drink.
Braddock didn’t trust hospital food or drink; he’d heard too many reports about unclean premises, so he played safe and grabbed a Coke from the machine, and took Jane a hot chocolate drink. After all she’d gone through he doubted that she’d need a caffeine addiction to add to her problems, and she looked as though she needed a good nights sleep.
He put the drink down on the table in front of her; but she was miles away, staring vacantly at her own dishevelled reflection in the window as the rain poured outside, streaking down the large floor to ceiling windows.
‘Why do you come here night after night, Mr. Braddock?’ she asked, her voice was barely audible over the sound of crockery and chatter.
A young woman was in tears at the next table over, and an older woman was crying at another table close-by. They were both crying but for obviously different reasons.
Braddock took a deep breath and let it out slowly while he contemplated his answer. The truth was that he didn’t know why he went there every night. Maybe it was guilt somehow. They had nothing and were no further forward in the investigation than they were on the night Charlie Foster’s body was found. He watched as the young woman at the next table broke down in tears. ‘I want to make sure you’re alright,’ he said, returning his glance to Jane.
‘That’s a nice lie, Mr. Braddock, but you don’t honestly expect me to believe that?’
He smiled, but she wasn’t looking.
‘There’s still no news, is there?’ she asked, looking at him for the first time since they entered the canteen.
The elderly woman was on her mobile phone telling someone that both mom and baby were doing well.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Foster, there’s still no news,’ Braddock said disheartened, it was now his time to turn his glance away from her. He looked down at the can of cola in front of him, and toyed with the ring pull, flicking it idly filling in the gaps in conversation. ‘The forensic team are still working hard, and we’re hopeful that they’ll find something.’ He knew that if they hadn’t found something by now they wouldn’t find anything at all. The crime scene was practically spotless.
A man was now consoling the young woman at the next table. He also had tears in his eyes, but was fighting them back trying to put on a brave face.
‘What’s wrong with me?’ Jane asked, ‘I want to cry, but I can’t,’ she noticed what he was looking at.
‘You’re stronger than that, and you haven’t given up hope,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes hope it all we need to get through these things.’ It was a lie, and he knew it. What had she left to hope for? If Charlie Foster did pull through this he’d be nothing more than a vegetable unable to do anything for himself at best; or maybe she was clinging on to the hope that he’d die sooner rather than later and end the agony. The thought had crossed his mind on many occasions; she hadn’t once cried, not when she phoned the police after discovering the body, not at any stage during the interviews, or at any time at the hospital. If it weren’t for the receipts and her friends alibi, she would have a prime suspect.

Braddock didn’t stay long at the hospital after that. He walked Jane back to the room and made his excuses to leave. Each night he’d say to himself that it was the last night he’d visit, but that last night never seemed to come, and he didn’t think it would until it was too late.
Taxis at that time of night and in that district were hard to come by, but one pulled up outside the hospital to let out a man clutching a small suitcase and a bunch of flowers. He rushed into the building, leaving the cab to wait for its next fare.
‘West One Hundred and Third and Manhattan,’ Braddock said as he got in the back seat. The scent of the flowers still lingered mixing with stale cigarette smoke.
The driver grunted something incomprehensible and put his foot down, speeding out of the hospital grounds and into the late evening traffic.
Fortunately it seemed like the driver didn’t speak much English, or he was using his foreign accent as a cover for his ignorance. Either way it gave Braddock time to think: to think about the day, Jane, and home.

Detective Inspector Patrick Braddock had been in New York for almost a year. He’d been nominated by his colleagues back home to take part in an exchange programme. The West Midlands Police Force got the experience of an NYPD detective and vice-versa. It was supposedly to share knowledge and good practice and skills.
‘Look on it as a busman’s holiday,’ his boss, Roger Yates had said at the time. Yates was a short rotund man; like one of those nineteen seventies Weeble toys – only with legs. ‘You get to solve a few cases and do some sight seeing at the same time.’ Braddock couldn’t help but watch him talk; it was like watching a bullfrog. He had no neck, but insisted on wearing a tie that was done up too tight.
It seemed like an ideal opportunity, and was only supposed to be for short while, a few weeks, a month at the longest. Unfortunately the weeks soon turned to months, the months rolled on due to some difficult cases, and then Charlie Foster’s attack happened. His exchange partner had returned back home as anticipated, but all Braddock heard was ‘another few weeks’; lately he even found himself saying it to his family.
His wife Sarah understood, or at least she said she understood. ‘It’ll be fantastic,’ she said when he broke the news to her. ‘Just think you’ll be able to see how it all works in America and you’ll be able to see all those things we point out on the TV shows.’ She looked a little anxious, but smiled through it anyway. She had supportive all the time he’d been there, although she said that she and the girls missed him. He hoped to be home for Christmas, after missing their anniversary and both his daughters’ birthdays.
It tore him up inside to be away from them for that long. He felt an obligation to do his best on his caseload, but so desperately wanted to go home, he’d often contemplated packing up and leaving, jacking in his career, everything he’d worked hard to achieve. But he was too conscientious and dedicated, and stubborn to actually go ahead with it.

The taxi dropped him at the apartment suite on the corner of West One Hundred and Third and Manhattan, a decent part of the city that was probably costing the taxpayer a small fortune to keep him in residence. This building had been home for the last year. It was functional at best but not overly comfortable or homely. Braddock handed the driver thirty-five dollars and told him to keep the change. No sooner was he out of the car than it was away, eager for another passenger.
‘Good evening, Mr. Braddock,’ the concierge said, letting him into the building.
‘How are you doing, Frank?’ Braddock replied. ‘Good game last night?’
‘The Giants weren’t in the zone last night, sir. Belichick hasn’t got a god-damn clue. If I’d had his choice of players I’d have put…’
Braddock really hadn’t got a clue about American football and tended to switch off when Frank went on about what position he’d have put a certain player or whether the Split End would have been better placed as the Wide Receiver. He smiled and nodded and tended to agree with everything to save argument or lengthy discussions.
His room was on the fifteenth floor. The almost claustrophobic mirrored elevator moved fast and he stood watching as the little red LCD panel changed from G through to fifteen. No one got on; pretty much the same as every other night. His mind was elsewhere, craving a cigarette and wishing he’d stopped at an off-licence for some liquor and chocolate. He’d found a taste for Jack Daniels and Hershey’s chocolate, and the more he had the more he craved – but he was adamant that he wasn’t addicted to either.
The apartment was small consisting of three rooms: a bedroom with double bed and view of Central Park; a fully equipped open plan kitchen, living and dining room; and a bathroom. Although the living space was roomy, the other rooms were not particularly large, but everything was tastefully decorated in varying shades of beige and cream, even if it did look as though it had come straight from the pages of an Ikea catalogue. It wasn’t to his taste, but it was functional and comfortable enough, but far from what one would call home.
Braddock kicked off his boots by the door and removed his leather jacket dumping it on the sofa. He turned on his laptop before pulling open the curtains. In all the time he’d been there, he never tired of the view. The city spread out below never dark, never sleeping; a thousand lights in the distance and the calm and tranquillity of the Park closer.
He stripped from his work clothes and put on an old tee shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms. He logged onto his emails as he did every evening. He was only interested in one, sifting through the spam and notes from work, to get to the daily message from back home. He tried to write something interesting every day and home tried to do the same. More often that not, it was little more than banal conversation, and it was that mundane chat that kept him going. Knowing that they were still there and missing him and he was doing the same.
He turned the TV on and flicked through the channels, surfing until something at least remotely interesting came on that wasn’t a cheap looking game show, a talk show or an infomercial. He threw the remote on the sofa, and turned the TV back off. Instead, he slipped several Pat Benatar CDs into the player and hit the shuffle button. Benatar’s raspy voice belted out ‘Fire and Ice’ and provided some welcome background noise while he savoured the email.

Piczo