The Other People: A Novel(44)

“We have to find her. Before something terrible happens.”





It was growing dark, the sky blotted out by heavy clouds, by the time Gabe walked—tentatively, feeling sore and light-headed—from the hospital. His pocket rustled with painkillers and a “Self-care” leaflet that explained what he should do if the wound started to bleed, became inflamed or wept yellow pus. Surprisingly, this was not “Carry on and ignore it.”

He had booked a cab to take him back to the services, where he had left his van. A text had just informed him it was on its way. He stood, shivering, outside the hospital entrance, peering at every car that passed by.

A few smokers huddled in dressing gowns and slippers, one clutching an IV stand. Some people might sneer at how ill patients would stand outside in the cold just to get their nicotine fix. But Gabe understood.

We all have our addictions. Things we value even more than life itself. Things we know will probably kill us. In a way, they make life simpler. You know what’s going to get you. You’re not blindsided. As Bill Hicks said: “It’s you people dying of nothing that are the problem.”

A car horn beeped. He glanced up. A white Toyota with “Ace Cabs” stuck wonkily on the side had pulled up in the pickup area. He shuffled over. The taxi driver was a bald Asian man with a small goatee.

“For Gabriel?” Gabe asked.

“Yeah.”

He climbed inside, wincing a little as he did so.

“Newton Green Services, yeah?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

He eased himself into the seat and fumbled for the seatbelt.

“Been in an accident?”

“Sorry?”

“A lot of people we pick up from here have been in accidents on the motorway. Nearest one, innit?”

“I suppose.”

“What happened?”

“Just a shunt.”

“Yeah? We had one the other day where this old dear had a heart attack at the wheel…”

Gabe leaned back and tuned him out. He was tired and cold; brittle bones draped in a sprinkling of skin. It felt like going over a bump might cause him to dissolve into dust. He kept wondering if he had done the right thing, telling Maddock about the car, sharing the photos. He worried that the Samaritan would not be happy. But then, this wasn’t about him. He yawned. It hurt. The motorway passed in a blur of darkness and light.

“Whereabouts d’you want dropping, mate?”

The taxi pulled into the services car park. Gabe must have dozed off for a few minutes. The driver didn’t appear to notice or care. Gabe blinked.

“Erm, could you just go down to the bottom and pull up next to the VW camper van?”

“Okay.”

The taxi trundled down to where the van was still parked. Gabe had a momentary panic. Where were his keys? He patted his pockets and found them in the top-right one, where he never put them.

“Thanks. How much is that?”

“Eighteen forty.”

He had the same fleeting panic about his wallet, and then found it in his other pocket, where he usually put his keys.

He fumbled out a crumpled twenty and handed it to the cab driver. “Call it twenty.”

He probably couldn’t afford to be so generous, but he was too exhausted to care.

“Cheers, mate.”

Gabe climbed out of the cab, clutching at his side. He looked around, feeling nervous. As the cab pulled away, part of him wanted to shout for the driver to come back. Not to leave him here, on his own. Stupid, he knew. The car park was busy. Vehicles came and went. People trudged in and out of the brightly lit services. A thin woman with a large brown Labrador traipsed around a narrow strip of grass, chanting: “Wees and poos. C’mon, Bourbon. Wees and poos.”

Normal service-station stuff. Except nothing felt normal any more. Everything felt darker, sharper, more suspicious. He had never thought about the danger of sleeping in his van before. He had heard about people being attacked and robbed, but he had always thought that, as a six-foot-three male, he was safe. Now, the tug of the stitches in his stomach reminded him that he was also vulnerable.

“Good girl, Bourbon!”

The dog was taking a crap. The woman sounded delighted beyond measure, and she was hardly going to attack him with a loaded poo bag. He just needed to get some sleep. He was tired and jittery. And this was not a random attack, he reminded himself. The man had what he wanted. Gabe didn’t think he was going to come back.

He unlocked the camper-van door, climbed inside and almost imitated the dog as a voice said: “You gotta do something about those locks, man.”



* * *



—

THE SAMARITAN SIPPED the bitter coffee that Gabe had heated on the small stove.

“How did you get in here?”

“Told you—you need better locks.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

The Samaritan shrugged.

Something else occurred to Gabe. “How did you even know where to find me?”

“I got my ways.”

Wasn’t that the truth, Gabe thought.

“I heard some idiot had got himself stabbed at Newton Green Services. White male, early forties.”

“And you just presumed it was me?”

“Someone was always gonna try to kill you some day. So? What happened?”