Dick Francis's Refusal (7 page)

I thought about Darren Paisley, lying nailed to a floor for days on end until he died of thirst. It made me shiver.

Perhaps it wasn't so much poking a hornets' nest as putting my hand into a bag of vipers—my real hand, that is.

•   •   •

C
HIEF
I
NSPECTOR
W
ATKINSON
called at eleven o'clock on Monday morning.

“How the search going for the blue Golf with a dent?” I asked.

“Not well,” he said. “It seems that dark blue is the favorite color for Golfs, and there are tens of thousands of the damn things still running around on British roads.”

“Are any of them registered to a Billy McCusker?” I asked.

“Not that we can find. And I can hardly describe your actions as wise, telling him that you knew who he was.”

“What would you have me do?” I asked him. “Roll over and capitulate?”

“No,” he said. “But it might have been safer to keep that knowledge to yourself.”

“I hoped that by telling him I know his name, it might actually make my family and me a little safer. Surely he wouldn't be stupid enough to harm us if the police would then immediately be aware of who'd done it.”

“I have spent an hour this morning discussing Billy McCusker with my police colleagues from the Northern Ireland Police Service and I wouldn't bank on that. He may have been convicted of only one murder, but he is known to have committed many more, along with all sorts of other criminal activity. However, it seems that recently he has been extraordinarily adept at avoiding prosecution.”

“Did you also speak to the police in Manchester?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” he said. “But, so far, McCusker seems to have kept himself out of the Manchester courts. Not that there aren't plenty of rumors flying round—you know, extortion and money laundering, that sort of thing.” He sounded almost blasé about it.

“So will you give us some protection?”

“I'll ensure that your village is regularly patrolled. I can't do more than that. I can't even keep the tap on your telephone after midnight tonight without renewing the order, and I don't think my superintendent's budget will allow it.”

“What does McCusker have to do before you'll put an armed policeman at our door?”

“Mr. Halley,” said the chief inspector, “I have no reason to believe that you or your family are in any imminent danger.”

“Did you listen to the call he made last night?” I asked almost in disbelief. “He as good as told me that he would give me more grief unless I signed his report.”

“So why don't you sign the report and then tell the racing authorities it was signed under duress and that it should be ignored?”

“That would surely amount to the same as not signing it in the first place, at least in his eyes. And, anyway, I have my pride, you know.”

“Pride before a fall?” said the chief inspector. “Maybe it's time to be pragmatic and do what he asks.”

“You can't seriously believe that McCusker would go away just because I signed his stupid report,” I said. “I've come across people like him before and, trust me, it's not a matter of getting this damn thing signed or not, it's more about getting the better of Sid Halley.”

“You flatter yourself.”

“You may think so, but I've been in this situation all too often in my life. That's why I gave up the investigating business. I'm not the police, and too many of the people I have encountered have taken out their frustrations on me personally. I have the scars to prove it. I even met a man who believed that murdering me would give him a certain status in prison as the man who had killed Sid Halley.”

“But he didn't kill you.”

“No, not quite.” But I could remember how frighteningly close he had come to doing so. And it had been the growing realization that there were so many gangsters standing in line to be the one to kill Sid Halley that had made my decision to stop investigating so easy. Consequently, I had broadcast to the world that Sid Halley had retired from chasing villains and that henceforth they had nothing further to fear provided my family and I were left alone.

Clearly, that announcement had not fully registered with Billy McCusker.

Now I had little choice but to fight back. And fight back I would.

O
n Tuesday morning, much to Marina's dismay, I caught the train from Banbury to London for the annual checkup and service on my myoelectric hand.

“You should stay here and look after Sassy and me,” Marina had said crossly over breakfast.

“Sassy will be fine at school,” I'd replied. “They've employed a security guard to ensure no child can leave the premises unless personally collected by a parent or guardian. It took me several minutes yesterday afternoon to convince him that I was indeed Saskia's dad because I didn't have any ID on me, and I'm sure he thought I was too old.”

Marina still hadn't liked it. “But what about me?”

“Why don't you come to London with me? You could do some shopping while I go to the hospital.”

Marina would have normally jumped at the chance to have a day's shopping in London, so it was a measure of her disquiet that she opted instead to go spend the day with Paula Gaucin, Annabel's mother and Marina's best friend, who lived almost next door to the school in the next village.

“I can then be close by in case Sassy needs me,” she'd said, even though both of us knew that Saskia was the least worried of the three of us. She had gone off happily to school, as she always did, seemingly not affected one jot by her unauthorized lift home the previous week.

I took a taxi from Paddington station to Roehampton Lane and walked into the now familiar Queen Mary's Hospital building and along the corridor to the prosthesis service department.

My current left arm was the third I'd had in fourteen years and a replacement for the previous one, which I'd damaged beyond repair due to using it as a crowbar to extricate myself from some handcuffs. The brainiacs at Queen Mary's had not been amused, and I'd been sad to see it go. That particular arm had saved my life.

There was no doubt that the mechanical engineering involved in making an artificial hand that moved with my thoughts and motor-nerve impulses was pure genius, but the medics had yet to discover a way of giving the fingers any sensory function. Hence I reckoned that it was little more use to me than an old-fashioned hook made famous by the captain of the same name in
Peter Pan
.

Now I eased my truncated left forearm out of the tightly fitting fiberglass shell and handed the false bit of me over to one of the technicians. He plugged a computer lead into a small socket alongside the battery compartment.

“Everything seems to be in order,” he said, studying his computer screen. “All the motors are working fine.” I found it slightly eerie to watch as my now disembodied left hand opened and closed by itself as it lay on the technician's workbench. “Do you have any difficulty operating it?”

“I suppose not,” I said. “But, to be honest, I hardly use it anymore. I wear it more for show, like a piece of clothing.”

“A very expensive piece of clothing,” he said.

Didn't I know it! The insurers had refused point-blank to cough up for the damage to my previous hand on the grounds that use as a crowbar was not in their list of insured perils, and it could hardly be described as fair wear and tear. So I'd had to pay for the new one.

“I don't suppose you can make it feel?” I asked the technician.

“Sorry,” he replied. “I hear that there's some research going on in the States to add pressure sensors to the fingers that connect via electrodes to the patient's brain. But it's in the early stages. No sign of it here yet.”

“Shame,” I said.

“I'll give this a proper internal clean and lubrication. It'll take about twenty minutes. You can wait outside, if you like.” He made it clear that he didn't really want me looking over his shoulder, watching him work. I'd seen it all before anyway.

“I've an appointment to see Dr. Harold Bryant,” I said.

“Ah, Harry the Hands,” the technician said with a smile. “Got his sights on you, has he?”

“Sights?” I said.

“For one of his hand transplants. Dead keen, he is. And he's good too. Great results so far. Early days, of course, but I don't think he'll be putting me out of a job just yet.” He laughed.

I wasn't at all sure it was a laughing matter.

“How many transplants has he done?” I asked.

“Only one,” replied the technician. “At least he's only done one here. But he did some before that as part of a transplant team in America—in Kentucky, I think.”

One transplant didn't sound to me to be quite enough.

Did I really want to be Harry the Hands' second guinea pig?

“I'll have this finished by time you've seen Harry—that's if you still need it.”

I left the technician laughing again at his own little joke, walked down the corridor to the outpatient department and straight into a consulting room to meet Dr. Harry Bryant, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons, aka Harry the Hands, who had been waiting for me, his sights at the ready.

“Mr. Halley,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice for such a big man, “how wonderful to meet you at last.” He stood up from behind his desk and leaned forward to shake my right hand with a firm grip. “Please, do sit down.”

I sat in the chair across the desk from him.

“Now,” he said, leaning back, “tell me why you want a new hand.”

•   •   •

H
ARRY THE
H
ANDS
and I spoke for almost an hour, but, somehow, the discussion did not proceed in the manner that I'd been expecting.

Either he was being very clever or I was being rather dim, or maybe it was because what he was offering was precisely what I craved, but far from him having to convince me to be his guinea pig number two, I found myself being the one who was selling
me
to
him
as a possible candidate.

“When are we talking about?” I asked. “How soon?”

“We need to do some tests first, to look at your remaining forearm to ensure that you are suitable, and then it's up to fate—we have to wait for a suitable donor.”

Donor.
It was the first time he'd used the word.

Donor.

There was suddenly more of a psychological dimension to the whole thing. It was far beyond simply replacing what I'd lost; it was having someone else's hand attached in its place.

“There are no guarantees,” Harry said. “During my time in the United States, we had some problems with rejection, and not only physical rejection of the hand by the body's immune system. There was also a case of emotional rejection when the recipient couldn't come to terms with having a new limb that wasn't his to start with.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“The transplanted hand had to be removed.”

“So the transplant is reversible?”

“You should not enter into this procedure with that state of mind. Yes, we can remove the hand again, and it has occasionally been necessary. But there is every likelihood that such a removal would not leave your arm as it is now.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“Amputation would likely have to be above where your arm finishes now, maybe even above the elbow.”

“Oh,” I said.

“But we should look at the positives as well. My experience has also shown me how successful hand and wrist transplantation can be. There are patients who had the operation more than ten years ago who now live perfectly normal lives.”

“I know,” I said. “I've watched the videos on YouTube.”

•   •   •

I
WALKED OUT
of Queen Mary's Hospital with a new spring in my step. Suddenly, the prospect of dispensing with the steel and plastic and having a living, feeling left hand again had filled me with great excitement.

After my meeting with Harry, I had been taken away by one of his team who had conducted the tests. Blood was drawn and X-rays taken; measurements of my right hand were made—to try to match for size and color—and I was asked to fill out a lengthy psychological evaluation questionnaire.

I looked down at my freshly serviced prosthesis.

“Your days are numbered,” I said to it out loud and received a rather strange look from a woman who was waiting with me for the bus to Hammersmith. I smiled at her and she moved away a few steps.

So absorbed had I been with the whole concept of the transplant that I had quite forgotten my ongoing troubles with Billy McCusker, at least I had until my cell rang while I was sitting on the bus.

“Mr. Halley,” said the now familiar voice, “have you received the report?”

“No,” I replied. I'd left home before the mailman had been. “But it would make no difference if I had. I won't sign it, and I won't play along with your silly game.”

“It's not a game, Mr. Halley.”

“Well, whatever it is, I'm not playing.”

I disconnected the call.

What had that policeman said?
Maybe it's time to be pragmatic and do what he asks.

Not bloody likely.

•   •   •

M
ARINA PICKED ME UP
from Banbury station at three, and we drove together to collect Saskia from school.

“Had a good day?” Marina asked. “Did your hand pass its checkup?”

“Yes,” I said, “my hand was fine. And it was a very good day.” I paused. “I met a surgeon who does hand transplants.”

“What did he want?”

“He wants to give me a new hand.”

“What?” Marina exclaimed, almost driving into a stationary bus. “You can't be serious.”

“I'm very serious,” I said. “He told me he could give me a working, feeling hand again.”

“But surely it's been too long since you lost yours.”

“Apparently not,” I said. “In fact, he prefers to have patients who have had no hand for some years.”

“But when?”

“They would need to do some tests first to make sure my arm is suitable, and also for tissue typing, then it would be a matter of waiting for a suitable donor.”

“My God!” Marina said. “How macabre.”

“Harry Bryant, that's the surgeon, said that it will be very important to think of the hand as mine and not as still belonging to someone who has died.”

“It's all a bit strange though, don't you think, wishing for someone to die.”

I thought back to what Harry the Hands had said to me as I'd been leaving his office. “We'll sort out all the tests and then you'll just have to wait and hope for rain.”

“Why rain?” I'd asked him.

“There are always more donors when it rains.”

“Why?”

“Motorcyclists,” he'd said. “Far more motorcyclists are killed in the wet.”

Even the memory of the conversation made me shiver.

I agreed with Marina. It was a very strange mind-set indeed to be hoping for others to die so I could have their bits.

•   •   •

S
ASSY CAME
bounding down the path to the gate but had to wait her turn to be released by the school security guard.

“Hello, darling,” I said as she jumped up into the Range Rover. “What have you learned today?”

“Nothing,” Sassy said with conviction, “but Annabel and I played hopscotch at lunchtime and, Mommy, I won.”

“Well done, darling,” Marina said.

I smiled broadly as I drove the couple of miles and turned in through the gates of home.

“Where are the dogs?” I said, the smile suddenly disappearing from my face.

“I left them in the kennel,” Marina said with certainty, but we were looking at the kennel, and the gate was now wide open. “I know I did. And I came back to check on them round two o'clock. They were there then.”

“Wait here,” I said, parking the Range Rover on the drive, “I'll go and have a look.” I got out of the car. “Lock the doors.”

Both Marina and Saskia looked at me with big, frightened eyes.

I walked over to the kennel. It was a small, red-brick building in the corner of the garden with a fenced-off run that included a patch of grass. I had built it soon after we moved in so that we could leave the dogs alone for the day without them having to be cooped up inside the house. The kennel gave them the chance to be under cover if it rained but also to lie in the sun on nice days.

“Here, girls,” I called out, but neither of our two setters appeared. “Mandy, Rosie, where are you?”

I went into the kennel, through the open gate, but there were no dogs hiding in there. I hadn't expected them to be. The two would always rush to the kennel gate whenever we came home, standing up on their hind legs with their front paws on the rail, their tails wagging enthusiastically. It would have been very unlike either of them to hide from us.

I walked over to the house with a degree of trepidation, but I could see no sign of a forced entry. Nevertheless, I was very wary as I went inside and searched thoroughly both upstairs and down. I had mental visions of pet rabbits boiling in saucepans or bloodied horse heads lying between satin sheets, but there was nothing.

I went back into the garden and searched everywhere, including amongst the deep undergrowth in the shrubbery.

Nothing.

The dogs weren't anywhere on our property.

I went back to the Range Rover.

“What is going on, Sid?” Marina asked with alarm. “Where are the dogs?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Has someone taken them?” Sassy asked.

“They may have got out and run away.”

Sassy pulled a very sad face. “Why would they run away?” she said. “Don't they like living with us?”

“Of course they do, darling,” said Marina. “Don't worry. We'll find them.”

I wished I shared Marina's confidence but decided not to say so.

“Can we go and look for them?” Sassy asked miserably. “I want Rosie and Mandy back now.” She started to cry, and Marina tried to comfort her.