Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 5

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 5

By Phil Miller

Chapter 5

In the Spero Private Hospital on the outskirts of North London, staff were getting ready for shift change. It was 8pm and most patients were either sedated or relaxing in their individual rooms watching T.V or reading. One patient, who had been unconscious for almost two days, blinked open his eyes and sat bolt upright in bed. He panned the room, looking left then right, then at the door.

A lead was attached to his forefinger and some other leads were stuck to his chest. The heart monitor showed a steady rhythm.  He was just about to climb out of bed when the door opened. It was the night nurse.

“Ah! Mr Burnett. Awake at last. How are you feeling?”

“Where am I? how long have I been here? Where’s my……?

“So!”, she said, as she picked up the board at the end of his bed. “You have been here at Kelsey Ward, Spero, for 2 days now.” She peered at Craig over her glasses. “Hmm! You have been poorly. If you lie back I’ll see if the Dr is available for a quick chat.” She put the clipboard back and left. Craig sat back in bed waiting. “What the hell is going on?  Need my phone.” He looked in the side drawer of the cabinet beneath the heart monitor. Nothing. Just a bible. He started to climb out of bed again when the door opened.

“Dr Nicholls.” He held out his hand. “glad to see you awake. How are you?”

“I had some kind of episode. I was talking to my boss, then I…I….”. He shook his head.

“I’m afraid you have suffered extreme trauma. Your low blood pressure along with the trauma of your loss, caused you to pass out. There is also something going on with the rhythm of your heart, which, although not dangerous does need monitoring. You can probably go home in a few day’s but we need to keep a check on you till then so just sit back and relax. The nurse will bring you some medication shortly.” Papers were shuffled and the clipboard was signed before the Dr smiled and left.  Craig disconnected the monitor, climbed out of his bed and made his way uneasily along the corridor. He walked down the fire escape stairs and broke the seal on the door at ground level. No-one about. That’s good. The area was very familiar to him. A1 Cars were just up the road. No money. No problem. Rama knew he was good for it. Craig had spent so much money on his cab service in recent years the least he could do was give him a credit note. It was getting cold. Time to pick the pace up. It took him 20 minutes. He was starting to get palpitations. When he walked into A1’s waiting room, Rama looked up, cut off his customer and sat open-mouthed staring at the in-patient in his midst.

“Do me a favour Rama.”

Twenty-five minutes later the cab pulled up outside Craig’s 2 bedroomed purpose-built Victorian flat in Hackney. He climbed up the concrete steps, punched in the code to his key safe, let himself in and made his way upstairs. It felt cold inside the empty flat. A steaming hot soaking beckoned, so he ran the bath.

                

                                                   10

Then he plugged in his laptop and booted it up. Pacing the floor now. “Shit! the bath.” Running to the bathroom, something caught his eye.

The kitchen window was wide open. A shiver went through him. He looked around and then made for the cutlery drawer and pulled out his razor-sharp fish knife. Tentatively stepping across the stone floor, he started to search each room. All ok! Just the utility and small bedroom near the bathroom now. He had his left arm up in front of him and the knife held in a fighting grip in his right hand. Just as he reached in to switch the light on in the bedroom an arm swiftly wrapped around his throat, locking him in a sleeper move, before yanking him viciously backwards. Chris dropped the knife, then frantically grabbed at the arm choking him, while trying to punch behind into his attacker’s face, but to no avail. He could feel himself losing consciousness again, his body losing all strength as he was dragged into the bathroom and forced into the bath. The face staring down at him was distorted, twisted, evil. He started to kick out but it was no use. He was being strangled, slowly, and he was drowning. His eyes were bulging as his body went limp.

Although he knew he had his man, Pepe Brown decided he wanted to play with his victim. He liked knives. The fish knife looked sharp. “This fucker looks like a fish. I wonder how easy it is to gut this stinking fish.” Pepe walked out to the hallway and picked up the knife.

“Naughty boy. I’ll show you what happens when you muck about with knives.” Craig lay motionless in the bath. Pepe stood staring down at him. Just as he thought about the mutilation of his prize catch he felt a punch to the middle of his back. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He looked down at his chest. A split second, another punch. That’s when he saw 3 inches of steel rip through his shirt. He coughed and gurgled as the blood rose in his throat. He looked down again and then dropped as the blade was twisted and pulled out, causing him to smash his mouth against the old iron bath. He looked up in disbelief before gasping his last breath as his assailant dragged the body of Craig Burnett from the bath and quickly began CPR. It wasn’t long before the young man spluttered back to life. He lay there, coughing up bath water and spitting blood. When he recovered, he looked over at the imposing figure holding his grandfather’s bloodstained prized T30 bayonet.

“Donyevsky.” Wiping the rusted blade clean on the arm of a chair. “You have nine lives. Sorry!” Moving closer to the young officer. “Seven now.”

Craig stood wearily, swaying slightly. His head was throbbing. He fell to his knees and tried to calm his breathing as he felt tightness in his chest.

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to kill you.” Offering a hand out to Craig who, after a momentary pause, and a deep breath, took hold.

“I don’t know what’s going on, said Craig, as he steadied himself and reached for his robe on the back of the sofa.”

Peter seated the cleaned 16” metal blade into an old tanned and worn scabbard.

“I feel like that sometimes,”

“What?” said Craig.

“Like this bayonet. Old and worn out but still have my uses.”

“What’s going to happen now? I don’t understand. Does this have something to do with that old guy Ruberov? Moreau.  I got to talk to Moreau.”

Craig made for his laptop, but Peter was up in a flash, tutting and waving his index finger as if scolding a child. “Sit down and shut up.” He sat back down and directed Craig to a chair opposite him.

“I’m not going to hurt you. We are on the same side.” He lit a cigarette and, although Craig had given up years ago, he politely asked for one.

“Who is that bastard?” Nodding in the direction of the bathroom.

“Pepe Brown. He is….. Was, an agent of the motherland. He has been here many years.  His real name is Dostoyevsky, which is pretty ironic.  I knew he would come for you. I was dropped outside your flat. I walked around the back looking for a way in, away from prying eyes, and that is when I saw him shimmying up to your rooftop garden. Lucky for me he is not as sharp as he used to be or we would both be dead. Your security is shit.”

“What are you going to do with him,” Said Craig, as he held his head in his hands.

“Don’t worry about it. I will sort it out.”

“I need a drink. Do you want one? Scotch, vodka?

“I don’t drink.”

Craig poured a large single malt whiskey and downed it in one.

“You won’t solve your problems by drinking, comrade.”

“Drink is the least of my worries. You should try some.”

“I stopped years ago. I killed my wife and son. Long story.” The tall Russian got up and walked back to the bathroom. Craig could hear him moving the body, then a splash. He thought about making a run for it, stood up and sat back down almost immediately as Peter walked back into the living room, thumbing his way through a mobile phone.

“Do you know this place?” He turned the screen to Craig.

“Yes, it's about a forty-five-minute drive.”

“Get dressed.”

“Hang on, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are.” Moving closer to Craig, pointing the sheathed weapon at his chest. “If you want to help Moreau, and the rest of the people on this tiny little island, then move, now.”

Copyright Phil Miller