Gareth Dawson Series Box Set Page 8

  Twenty minutes later, we’d shaken hands and become business partners. I’d signed a bunch of paperwork that Andy had prepared. He must have been sure I’d come round at some point. My only concern was what Jennifer would think, but he’d promised to speak to her and explain it all. Once the paperwork was signed, we shook hands to seal the deal.

  “So,” Andy said, relaxing back in his chair. “That’s the business part out of the way. What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I replied, racking my brains for the speech I’d prepared. When it didn’t come to mind straight away, I decided to just front it out. “I was wondering if, um, I was wondering if you would mind if me and Jennifer got married?”

  Andy looked at me, open-mouthed.

  “Fuck off,” he said. Not the answer I was expecting or hoping for. A simple “no” would have been enough if he wasn’t keen on the idea. “Are you serious?”

  “Er, well, I was until just now,” I replied. He just carried on staring at me, his jaw slack. Then he did something I wasn’t expecting. Andy slapped his hands on his thighs, leaned back in his chair, and roared with laughter. I sat there, not knowing what to do. Once he’d calmed down, he struggled to his feet and wandered off out of the kitchen into the lounge. I could still hear him chuckling as he walked off. A few seconds later, he returned with two tumblers and a bottle of what looked like a very nice whisky indeed, even though it wasn’t even eleven o’clock in the morning.

  “From ex-burglar to company director, to future son in law, all in the space of about thirty minutes. That’s good going, Gareth. I think we should have a drink to celebrate.”

  One month later, to the tune of “Take Me Home” by Jess Glynne, Andy walked Jennifer down the aisle of the local registry office and handed her over to me. It was a small do, just as we’d wanted it to be. The only guests were Jacob and his partner on Jennifer’s side, and Tommy and David on mine. David doubled up as the official photographer, using a very nice-looking Nikon camera he’d stolen just for the event. The photos were fantastic, and he even did some video clips for us. The whole day was perfect. I looked at Jennifer as we said our vows. The words that come back to me most were “Till death do us part”. I had hoped that it would be years and years until that happened, but I was wrong.

  The way it turned out, it wasn’t long at all.

  11

  It was eight weeks after Jennifer and I got married when everything changed. Technically, it was seven weeks and four days, but that’s close enough to eight weeks for me.

  That particular Saturday started off like any other. I’d been working in the morning. Well, if you can call sitting at the kitchen table and using the laptop work. Jennifer and I had moved into a rented two bedroom flat close to where we both lived before we got married. It wasn’t fantastic, but it was ours. At some point in the future, when we’d got a bit more money together, we were going to buy a place of our own. Until then, we were renting which irritated me as all we were doing was paying someone else’s mortgage. Jennifer was a lot more pragmatic about it, and as she was the one who was better with money, I left it up to her. I suspected that Andy had offered to lend her the money for a deposit on a place of our own, and that Jennifer had said no, but it was never discussed.

  Andy’s idea for starting up a business, and his cash, was going well. I wondered if the whole thing was Jennifer’s idea to get me on the straight and narrow, but I kept my suspicions to myself. What surprised me more than anything was when I told Tommy and David about the business plan, they were both keen as mustard to get on board. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who thought going straight was a good idea? Two weeks after Andy had offered the cash, we were up and running, although I was still working most nights on the doors of pubs and clubs in Norwich.

  The temporary office on the business park was in an ideal location, and we were getting plenty of work. Word was getting around, although I was ninety nine per cent sure that a lot of the clients in the first few months were friends of Andy’s. I wasn’t complaining, don’t get me wrong. They all paid well, and they told their friends about our services, which meant the bulk of the new customers were recommendations. I’d arranged two assessments for later in the week and written up reports from the visits we’d done in the last few days. So far, so good. The only other exciting thing I’d done that Saturday was go to Sainsbury’s and buy food for supper. There was a lasagne recipe on a website that looked amazing in the picture, so thought I’d try it. The chances of it turning out anything like the one in the picture were remote, but I was sure it wouldn’t be far off. I was just in the middle of slicing peppers when Jennifer came home from work.

  “Hi Jennifer,” I’d said as she walked into the kitchen, throwing her handbag on the table, missing my laptop by inches. It was a business expense and therefore tax exempt, or so Andy told me. The kitchen table wasn’t the best place to keep a computer, but even so, I still winced.

  “What a crap day,” she frowned. “Bloody clients messing me about all bloody day.” The cut and thrust of the Human Resources world was right there for me to see. Jennifer walked over to the fridge and grabbed a half full bottle of white wine. I stopped trying to slice the pepper and watched as she unscrewed the top and looked at the bottle with a curious expression. For a moment, I thought she was going to swig straight from it, but she got a glass out of the cupboard and filled it to the brim before taking a large gulp. “Oh my God, that’s better,” she said as she put the bottle back in the fridge. No drink for me then, even though there were four cans of lager in there. “How about you? You been busy?”

  “Yeah, kept myself busy. Finished those reports for the new customers, anyway.” I returned to my chopping. “You hungry?” She looked at me as if she’d only just realised that I was preparing something.

  “I’m out tonight,” she said. “It’s Lucy’s birthday, so we’re going to the Old Buck by the river for some food. They’ve got a new menu out.” The Old Buck was a pub that had reopened as a restaurant a few months ago, and would be dishing up better food than I would be. I tried not to show my irritation, but I was sure that Jennifer hadn’t mentioned going out. “I told you a few weeks ago,” she continued.

  “Did you?” I said. “I don’t remember.” Even though I'd tried to keep my voice even and not sound pissed off, Jennifer saw straight through me.

  “Oh God, don’t you start,” she said, turning and walking out of the kitchen.

  I listened to Jennifer moving about in the bedroom as I scraped the sorry looking lumps of pepper into a bowl. Opening the fridge to keep the peppers for another day, I looked inside to make sure there was beer and something to throw in the microwave later. Good result on both counts, so I grabbed a beer and cracked the can open before walking into the lounge and turning the television on. I sat there for maybe half an hour watching rubbish on the television before Jennifer came in, but I wasn't just watching television. I was stewing over the fact I’d been looking forward to spending the evening with my wife, eating what could have been an amazing lasagne, and just chilling together. She’d definitely not told me she was going out; I had a good memory for things like that.

  “What do you think?” she asked me, turning on her heels. Jennifer was wearing a simple black dress that showed off her slim curves. She'd tied up her long blonde hair in a loose ponytail which highlighted her cheekbones, and she had just the slightest touch of makeup on. She looked amazing, almost to the point where for a second or two I thought maybe I should be concerned about her going out looking so good without me. But I wasn’t that kind of bloke.

  “Yeah, you look okay,” I replied like a spoilt child. She’d spent ages getting ready and that was all I could manage.

  “Thanks,” she said. The next sound I heard was the front door closing as she left the flat.

  I sat drinking beer and watching re-runs of Top Gear on the television, stewing in my stupidity. After a crap day at work, so what if Jennifer wanted to go out wi
th her friends? She shouldn’t need my permission. I was, I concluded, being a muppet. I reached across to the coffee table for my phone and tapped out a text message.

  Sorry for being an idiot, Jennifer. You look amazing — good enough to eat. Have a great night, can’t wait until you come home. I love u loads… xxxxx It was always five kisses at the end of our text messages. It was our thing, the thing that let us both know everything was cool. I watched television for the rest of the evening, checking my phone every few minutes to see if Jennifer had replied, but there was nothing. I ate half a microwave meal before throwing the rest in the bin and wondered what she was having for dinner. Whatever it was, it would be a damn sight better than the rubbish I’d just had. A few more episodes of Top Gear later, I looked at my watch. It was almost ten o’clock, an hour away from closing time, but being a Friday night they’d be going on to a club, anyway. There was still no reply from Jennifer, so I decided to go to bed once I’d finished my last can of lager. Jennifer would wake me up when she got in, especially if she’d had a few too many glasses of wine. I could make it up to her then.

  In the end, it was me who had a bit too much to drink. I woke with a start on the sofa, disorientated. I wasn’t sure what had woken me up, but rain was lashing against the window pane. I looked at my watch — just gone eleven. I gathered up my empty cans from the lounge carpet and carried them into the kitchen. Might as well go to bed. As I walked through to our bedroom, a low rumble of thunder sounded. That must have been what woke me up.

  The next thing I knew it was half past three in the morning, or at least that’s what my bedside clock told me it was. Something had woken me up, but it wasn’t Jennifer stumbling around the room trying to get into bed. I padded my hand across the bed, expecting to find Jennifer already curled up under the duvet. There was nothing there except a cold bed. As I lay there, cursing about the fact I was awake and wondering where the hell she was, there was a knock at the front door. I muttered to myself as I looked around the dark room for my boxer shorts. She must have forgotten her keys or was just too pissed to get them in the door. I was struggling to get my legs into my boxers when there was another knock, way more insistent. That wasn’t Jennifer. It wasn’t her knock, but one which was much louder, much harder. I stumbled to my feet, walked to the front door and looked through the spy hole. What sort of security consultant would I be if I didn’t at least do that? Though the spy hole, I could see the distorted outlines of two figures standing on the doorstep. Dark figures, black or navy-blue uniforms. Old Bill, without a doubt. Bollocks.

  I tried to clear my head as quickly as I could. It must be the off-licence job. I’d done nothing since, but that was ages ago. Maybe Tommy or David had been nicked and turned me over. I doubted it. Tommy was solid as a rock, and David wasn’t far behind him for all his faults. Whatever the Old Bill wanted, there was nothing I could do about it, so I opened the door. Standing on the doorstep were two coppers, looking less distorted than when I’d seen them through the spy hole. The younger of the two was standing a couple of steps behind his colleague, obviously the junior boy. He looked almost scared to be there, which might explain why he was standing behind his boss.

  “Mr Dawson?” the older policeman said. I paused, realising for the first time they both had their hats tucked under their arms, before nodding my head. A terrible feeling started growing in my guts. I hadn’t had much to do with the Old Bill in the past, which was more from luck than judgement, but one thing I did know was they rarely took their hats off. The policeman swallowed. “Can we come in, sir?”

  We sat in an awkward triangle in the lounge. I’d grabbed my dressing gown from the bedroom and fastened it around me as the policemen stood in the lounge. As I walked back in, I caught the younger one looking at a photo of me and Jennifer on the bookcase and then looking at his colleague before nodding ever so slightly. My stomach started to churn.

  “Mr Dawson, I’m PC Turner. You’re married to Jennifer. Is that correct?” the policeman said. I felt sick, the churning increasing.

  “Yes,” I replied in a whisper. “Yes,” I repeated in a louder voice. “Has something happened?”

  “There’s been an accident, Mr Dawson. Your wife was involved in a traffic accident earlier this evening and has been seriously injured.”

  “No, that can’t be right,” I said, relieved. There must have been a mistake. “She wasn’t driving. She’s only gone out for a meal with her friends. It’s Lucy’s birthday, and there’s a new menu at the Old Buck so they’d all gone there.” I was speaking far too fast, but needed to explain to them it couldn’t be her.

  “Mr Dawson, a young woman who we believe to be your wife was knocked down earlier this evening by a car,” PC Turner said. I looked at him. His eyes were a light green, not far off Jennifer’s colour but nowhere near as intense. The other difference was that PC Turner’s eyes looked very sad. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but we’re sure it’s her. We need to take you to the hospital.” I jumped to my feet and ran into the bathroom, getting to the toilet seconds before my stomach erupted and I filled the bowl with the remains of eight cans of lager and a half-eaten microwave meal.

  A few minutes later, I was sitting in the back of their marked police car as the younger policeman steered it through the narrow streets of the estate. I don’t think I’d ever got dressed so quickly in my life. I stared through the window at the houses flashing by. There wasn’t a soul around, which wasn’t surprising considering the time of night and the awful weather. The police car was approaching the main ring road around the outskirts of Norwich when PC Turner’s phone rang. He answered the call with a curt “Yes?”, and listened to the voice on the other end. I couldn’t hear what was being said. A few seconds later he ended the call and looked across at his colleague. Without a word, PC Turner reached forwards and flicked a switch on the dashboard, turning on the flashing blue lights on top of the car. I felt myself being pushed back into the seat as it sped up.

  If there’d been anything left in my stomach, it would have been on the floor of the police car.

  12

  The police car pulled up outside the Accident and Emergency department at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital, coming to a sharp stop near the door. It didn’t quite screech to a halt, but it wasn’t far off it. Before PC Turner had even undone his seatbelt, I was out of the car. The automatic glass doors crawled open as I ran up to them, so I ignored the sign taped to them asking people not to force them open and did just that. I ran into the waiting area and stopped, looking around to get my bearings. It was years since I’d been here. I tried to stay away from hospitals as much as I could as in my experience bad things happened in them.

  I made my way through the waiting area to the reception desk, ignoring the curious looks of a drunk bloke with a filthy bandage wrapped around his hand. He said something as I walked past him, but I didn’t hear what he said or bother replying. The receptionist looked up at me when I got to the desk. She was maybe in her mid-thirties, no real distinguishing features as far as I could see, but then again, I wasn’t looking for any. She smiled, showing off a set of perfect white teeth that contrasted against her light olive skin as she did so.

  “Can I help—” she started speaking, but I cut her off and her smile faltered.

  “My wife,” I said. “My wife’s in here, she’s been in an accident.” I knew I was babbling, but I didn’t care. “Please, you’ve got to tell me where she is.”

  “What’s her name, sir?” the receptionist said. I was about to reply when I heard a male voice behind me.

  “It’s the young lady in resus, Jessica.” It was PC Turner. The receptionist looked at me again, her hands poised above the keyboard. Her smile disappeared, and her mouth formed a small ‘oh’ shape. “I’ll take him through to the relatives’ room. Could you get somebody to come and speak to him?” PC Turner continued. The woman nodded and hurried through a door in the back of the reception area. I turned to the policeman, feeling helpless.
He put one hand on my shoulder. “If you come with me, Gareth, I’m sure one of the doctors or nurses will be free to speak to you soon.” I nodded, speechless.

  The relatives’ room was a windowless cubicle off the staff corridor. There were some nondescript prints on the wall, IKEA furniture, and a half-used box of tissues on the coffee table. I sat down but jumped to my feet a few seconds later, far too wired to just sit there. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Should I phone Andy? Let him know Jennifer was hurt? Or should I wait and see what happened next? Questions bounced around inside my head, too many of them for me to answer.

  “You want me to see if I can rustle you up a cup of tea, Gareth?” PC Turner asked.

  “Yes, please,” I croaked.

  After what seemed like hours, PC Turner came back into the relatives’ room with a mug of tea in his hand. He was followed by the other policeman, and a young man dressed in what looked like green pyjamas. PC Turner handed me the mug of tea, gesturing to the sofa as he did so.

  “Have a seat, Gareth,” he said, sitting on the other sofa. “This is the doctor.” I sat down and looked at the man in the pyjamas. Embroidered across his breast pocket were the words Norfolk and Norwich Hospital Accident and Emergency Department, and he had a lanyard around his neck with some identification cards attached. He was thin, tired looking, and didn’t seem old enough to be a doctor.

  “Mr Dawson? My name is Dr Raout and I am one of the emergency department doctors working tonight,” the man in the green pyjamas said in a quiet voice. He looked Indian but spoke with a much more cultured British accent than I did. “I’ll take you through to see your wife in a moment.” I took a deep breath as my heart thudded so hard I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. If they were taking me through to see her, then she must be okay. Thank God for that. “But I have to warn you,” Dr Raout continued. “She has been very seriously injured and we need to take her to the operating theatre for emergency surgery in the next few minutes. There is a chance she may not survive the operation.” I swallowed, suddenly nauseous again. I had never felt as out of control of a situation as I felt then.