A smartly dressed young woman in a well-fitted burgundy skirt suit watches the sycamores go past the passenger side of the car. It’s a large, black car with tinted windows and a whispering electric engine. The driver, dark blue business suit, cap and driving gloves, slows down and checks the house numbers on the right-hand side of the road until they reach number 28.
The car pulls in and they have a brief discussion before the young woman gets out. Sylvie and Jak’s garden gate creaks and clangs as it flaps open and shut.
Sylvie, in her long dressing gown, answers the door.
“Good morning Ms Churchwell,” says the young woman, “is Jak in?”
“Yes, just up this minute actually. Are you a friend of hers?”
“Not exactly, Ms Churchwell, but I do know your ex-husband, Paul Robertson, a little bit and wanted to have a quick chat with Jak, if that’s okay. It’s about his hospital care.”
“Oh, I see,” Sylvie frowns and asks disbelievingly, “are you a friend of Paul’s?”
“Ah, maybe a supportive acquaintance rather than a long-standing friend. But we’ve carried out a little work together and shared the odd glass of wine,” the young woman smiles, “and even the occasional dance. Strictly platonic though. I’m just a little worried for him after what happened and want to do something to help.”
“Yes, okay, I see,” Sylvie remains wary but decides it can’t do any harm to invite her in, “do you want to step in then? I think we’ve got enough water for a pot of tea?”
“No, no thank you,” says the young woman quickly, “I’d rather not bother you. But if Jak could come out so we can have a quick chat that would be really helpful.”
Jak appears at her mum’s shoulder, “is this about dad?”
“Yes,” confirmed the young woman, “I want to help your father. Could we just have a quick chat?”
“Do you want to put some clothes on, babe,” suggests Sylvie.
“No, it’s okay,” refuses Jak, “my robe covers me up okay.”
“Bit thin, isn’t it babe,” insists Sylvie, “that wind isn’t the warmest, you know.”
“We could sit in my car if you like?” offers the young woman.
Jak agrees and walks with her to the car where the young woman indicates to her to sit behind the driver’s seat, opening the door for her. The inside of the car smells clean, almost new.
As the young woman gets into the back on the passenger side and slides herself over next to Jak, the smartly dressed man turns round to them, “we have an offer to make, Miss Churchwell.”
Jak startles with fright and fumbles with what she thinks is the door handle but instead winds down the window. The young woman reaches across her to close it again.
“It’s okay,” insists the man, “we’re here to help you. And your father. And Carly.”
“Carly?” Jak leans forward so their faces are close, she can smell his minty chewing gum breath, and looks him in the eye, “how can you help Carly?”
“So, it’s a simple deal,” the man states calmly, almost robotically, as if reading from a script, “you record a statement assuring the public that your dad is recovering well in hospital, which, as you know, he is. And praise Mr Miles for generously paying for his care. Which, as you are about to find out, he will. Your dad won’t get into any trouble and will get the best medical care available.
“And we will also seek to secure Carly’s release. That may take some days. In the meantime, we have expedited your visit application and arranged for you to visit Carly tomorrow at 11am in St Aldate’s Police Station.”
The man turns his head to face the front.
Jak stares blankly at the space where he had been, ‘oh my God what is this? Where am I? Stop, Jak, stop. Be calm. Breathe… you can do this, Jak, you can do this. Breathe in, breathe out. Slowly… but seek to secure? What the fuck’s that? Anyone could do that. Don’t mean they will succeed.’
The young woman clears her throat and speaks, “I want to help your father. I find him… well, maybe not so much me, but my brother certainly finds him intriguing. He’s a survivor and my brother likes survivors. ‘If you can only be good at one thing then be good at surviving’, so he likes to say. And they have a mutual friend, although I’m not sure how much your father knows about that.”
Jak stares, amazed, at the woman in her smart clothes and done-up hair, her well-spoken accent, “you know my dad?”
The young woman smiles, “oh yes, we’ve met once or twice. In different circumstances. I think he has a bit of a crush on me…”
“Oh dad,” winces Jak and her nerves tighten further, “who are you? What do you want?”
“Well,” demures the young woman, “my colleague has already outlined what we want. I couldn’t possibly express it better than him…”
She pauses and then continues, speaking softly so Jak has to lean in to hear, “…but to summarise, we want you to speak out in Mr Miles’ favour. Mr Miles, but hey let’s call him Crispin, why be so formal. He is just my little big bro after all. Cris will soon be appointed High Sheriff of Oxford and join the board of the Oxford Authority with full responsibility for law and order by direct command of His Majesty the King.
“So, you see, my brother is a very important man and, unlike a certain American doctor, means to use his position for the good of the people of Oxford and certainly not to join in with, shall we say, unusual or demeaning activities…”
The young woman leaves that observation hanging in the air for a second before continuing, “… and he may not be as rich as Dr Messina, not by some distance, but he does have the means to provide the best possible care for your father. And a scholarship for you to continue your studies. I’m sure he can also pull a few strings to find a better job, an Oxford Visa job, for your mother. And, of course, as a sign of good will, he has already arranged for you to visit Carly at St Aldates.”
Having made her pitch to Jak, the young woman smiles to herself, flicks a switch to turn on the car’s interior light and sits back in the seat to examine her recently manicured pale pink nails.
Jak’s heart races and her mind flails for something to grip onto, “and Carly will be free?”
The young woman shrugs and her colleague turns round again, “Carly Griffith has been held at St Aldate’s Station longer than necessary. Her case will be reviewed. We can’t promise but she is likely to be released under caution.”
“So, she’ll be free?”
“She is likely to be released under caution,” repeats the man, before adding, “should she accept it.”
“Okay,” says Jak in a whisper. Her hope-fired heart beats hard. But, determined not to give herself away too easily, she speaks quietly but firmly, “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s good, it’s worth thinking things over,” says the young woman supportively, “my colleague also has something else to say to you.”
“Oh, what?”
“We, my brother and I, recently recruited Sammy here as a vacancy had arisen for a driver. Sammy’s a very fine driver. And a gentleman. But until recently he was working for rather less noble-spirited employers,” she pauses, “in fact, he used to work for associates of the aforementioned Dr Messina. Running errands and the like. Things that were both below his abilities and his high moral standards.
“And, so, he has an apology to make to you, which, full credit to him, he is very keen to do in person. Aren’t you, Sammy?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
Jak looks from one to the other, confused, “um, so what…”
Sammy speaks slowly, clearly, again as if reading a script, “some time ago, must’ve been around six weeks ago, I was given a job to pick up a girl – that was how she was described to me, ‘a girl’ – who was supposed to be in a bar off the Cowley Road. I was driving down St Clements, going down to the Plain to then turn up the Cowley Road, when I saw you there, swaying on the curb. And you matched the description I had been given. You seemed pretty drunk and got in the car very willingly so I thought ‘great, she must be the one’.
“Now, Miss Churchwell, you have to understand I did not know the reason for collecting this girl. Not at this stage. For all I knew she was the sister of the gentleman who had given me the job and he just wanted her back safe. It was only after I radioed in to say I had you that I was instructed to take you towards Cherwell Gate, which, I confess, did concern me. It was a bit unusual but that vehicle has an autovisa registration so it kinda made sense.
“I was also instructed to give you some so-called ‘sweeties’. I am sorry. I think they were spiked. I don’t know what, maybe ket but that wasn’t for me to know. You were a bit like you were going to be sick so I asked you to suck on one and breathe slowly. And then you fell asleep in the back seat.”
Jak, twitching in agitation, sweat breaking out, opens her mouth. But Mademoiselle puts a finger to Jak’s lips, “let Sammy continue for a minute, please.”
“So I went through Cherwell Gate and met a couple of men, and this is where it got strange, men wearing beak masks to conceal their faces. They had a stretcher and I helped put you on the stretcher and then they carried you to their boat. I was told to leave at that point. I don’t know anything after that.”
“Thank you Sammy and well done,” Mademoiselle smiles a thin smile before picking up the narrative, “now, Jak, we have reason to believe Dr Messina and a couple of close associates were present that evening. We also have reason to believe the two gentlemen in beak masks, dressed in the style of medieval plague doctors presumably to tickle Dr Messina’s own strange sense of humour or perhaps weird kink, overly powerful men often have weird kinks, were in fact medical staff, possibly trainee doctors making more in an evening than their hospital pays them in a week…”
“Why?” Jak forces a scratchy, hoarse whisper from her dry mouth.
“Well,” Mademoiselle sighs and briefly looks out the window, “we can’t actually be certain. We didn’t have anyone there, you understand. But there have been stories…”
“Stories?”
“Stories of strange, deviant, depraved behaviour. Blood drinking. Not blood sucking, no fangs in necks or anything Hollywood like that as far as anyone knows, but blood taking, from drugged victims, young women…”
Jak breathes heavily and pulls her arms tight around her body. She shivers uncontrollably – teeth chattering, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and running down her face. Mademoiselle’s voice sounds distant, echoey like it’s in a tunnel, a dark tunnel.
“…such as yourself. Drunk by older men. Americans. They seem to think it’ll prolong their lives, if not actually make them immortal.
“Needless to say I and my brother, and indeed Sammy here, are sickened by this, repulsed. And justice for victims is top of Cris’s to do list when he becomes High Sheriff.”
Jak fumbles with the door handle, pushing and pulling at it until it clicks open. She swings her right foot out onto the curb but her left foot, with leg muscles cramping up, catches the raised sill beneath the door and she trips. Mademoiselle catches her just in time to stop her falling, briefly grabbing hold of her waist, but Jak sinks to her knees and throws up on the pavement.
—
Sylvie stirs a third sugar into Jak’s tea and waits for her to say something. She is very pale, Sylvie is worried, ‘what did that woman say to her?’
“Mum, there’s something I have to tell you…”
Sylvie leans forward, “sure. Whatever it is, don’t worry, you can tell me.”
“I’m suspended from work. For trying to visit dad in hospital and…”
“Of course you are, babe,” Sylvie smiles and reaches across the table to hug her daughter, “you did what you had to do. He is your father after all. I would’ve done the same.”
“Those people might be able to help him. And Carly.”
“That’s great!” enthuses Sylvie.
“But I have to make a video.”
“What?” Sylvie’s voice sinks, “what kind of video?”
“One saying what a good man Crispin Miles is.”
“Oh, oh my, that is… ” Sylvie, surprised, relieved and shocked all at once, struggles for words, “… who was?”
“His sister.”
“Crispin Miles… the gangster Crispin Miles?”
“Yeah, I guess so. That’s what she said. Don’t really know anything about him. But he wants to help us.”
Sylvie sucks a long breath through her teeth and stares into space, ‘Crispin Miles? The guy who bought up those nice family homes in Marston, perfectly good homes in a nice part of town – used to be a nice part of town – and turned them into crack houses and brothels. That Crispin Miles? His sister came to our house. Oh Christ!’
She doesn’t want anything to do with this. She really, really doesn’t. It turns her stomach. But what’s the alternative?
“You do what you think’s best, babe. I’ll support you, I promise. We gotta stick together, us girls,” Sylvie gives her daughter a long hug, which neither wants to let go, “maybe you’ll be able to see your dad now, if these people really are helping us.”
—
Several cups of sweet tea later Jak dashes out the door, running, as ever, for her bus. Sylvie waves her off, unseen, and returns to the kitchen feeling numb. She brings up the latest Oxford Outcast on her phone.
She really doesn’t want to hear the details of the shooting. At least they don’t seem to have used actual footage, just a weird, arty montage of flowers and guns. Sylvie chews absently on a cold bacon sandwich and fast forwards.
Then the scene changes. Very briefly, the presenter appears in her trademark motorcycle helmet and then is gone. It is dark. But there are streetlights and glowing phones. Where is it?
Is that orange door with the dark awning one of the Asian shops on Cowley Road? The one with the samosas? Sylvie switches to normal play speed. The image shakes slightly.
“… regular police watching but leaving me be. However, an American security guard grabbed my phone and made as if to grab me. I got away and he didn’t chase but the only footage we have is this film contributed by a friend. Thank you, you know who you are.
“And it’s a shame because I had some interesting conversations with protestors just from going tent-to-tent. Although it was hard to tell exactly what their demands are, other than raw anger at the shooting of Paul Robertson and a general unhappiness at the way Oxford is being run.
“I couldn’t find anybody claiming to be a leader or spokesperson for the protestors. Although I understand quite a bit of the organisation was coming from groups who met at the Moonshine Pub earlier in the evening.
“While I was going round, security guards were hassling people, pulling at tent ropes, trashing unguarded signs and possessions, that kind of thing. And they cordoned off the side-street where the Moonshine is. But they seemed reluctant to get too rough with anyone.
“The regular police, well this is a bit strange, but I think they were there to protect the protestors from the security guards as much as anything. Certainly, I’ve seen plenty of aggressive policing on Cowley Road with drunks and beggars and shoplifters. But they left the protestors alone. And there were a lot of them just standing around – it was a good night to be a burglar in East Oxford!. I’m sure they outnumbered the guards, maybe two to one.
“I would say there were just thirty or so tents, maybe a hundred, hundred and fifty protestors. The numbers grew a little as the night went on but to be honest a lot of people were just on Cowley Road trying to do normal Cowley Road things – drinking in pubs, smoking weed in the Tesco Express car park, that kind of thing. And the usual milling around except last night there were tents as well as kebab vans to mill around.
“Quite a few people had come out just to see what was going on, with some taking food and water to the protestors, including a lovely lady from the shop you can see there, who was bringing out trays of homemade samosas.
“Something is definitely happening but, if I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t really know what it is.”
Sylvie Churchwell: Babe avoid Cowley Rd looks like chaos
—
The bus to the John Radcliffe doesn’t go down Cowley Road anyway. Jak stares out the window. She appears almost catatonic but her mind is ablaze with possibilities. Some good, some scary.
‘What if they let Carly go? Maybe she could move in with her? Or at least spend more time together. If she gets that scholarship they promised then she can return to the LR. It’s certainly better than construction work and it’ll give her more time to see Carly. Her flat is just off Morrell Avenue, not far from the LR. Maybe she could stay there during the week, see her mum at weekends. And visit dad, wherever he ends up. Maybe he’ll get completely better or at least well enough to return to his flat? Maybe. Oh God but what if he don’t get better, Jak? Have you thought of that? Will these people really look after him forever? Will anyone?’
Security guards stand either side of the hospital’s main entrance again. But they don’t seem to be preventing anyone going in. Jak walks briskly from the bus stop, keeping her head down, into the foyer. It is busier than yesterday.
“I’m here to visit Paul Robertson?”
The receptionist, a different woman to yesterday, peers over her glasses, “family?”
“Yeah. I’m his daughter.”
“Hmm,” the woman is sceptical, “have you got ID?”
Jak shows her phone.
“Says ‘Churchwell’ not Robertson.”
“That’s my mum’s surname.”
“I dare say but why should I believe you’re Mr Robertson’s daughter?”
“Because, um, hang on a sec,” Jak taps at her phone and shows the photo of them at Pride, “see! That’s me and him from a week ago.”
The woman looks Jak up and down, “okay, he’s in Special Ward Seven. Visiting is restricted to family members. You may be required to show your ID again. Please follow the purple route.”
This time, there is someone sat at the Special Wards reception desk. The receptionist says she knows who she is, but Jak shows her the photo anyway, just to make sure.
“Oh, what a lovely picture! You both look so happy!” she lowers her voice and beckons Jak to lean in towards her, “it’s awful what they did to your father. But he’s safe here. Everyone’s doing their best for him. And the security guards… don’t worry about them, they’re just for show. They’re our lads.”
“Our lads?” queries Jak.
“English boys. Not Americans.”
On Special Ward 7, there is one bored looking security guard sat in the corridor that leads to the room with Robbo in it. He checks her ID and wishes her – and her dad – well.
As she half-runs on, pushing her way past a cluster of empty drip stands, Jak looks through a window into the room. A man is leaning over the bed, seemingly talking, obscuring the patient’s face. She can just see that the man is holding his hand.
Ali and Maureen sit, with an empty chair between them, staring at the door to the room.
“Jak, my dear,” Ali stands up to throw his arms around her in a great encompassing hug, “so glad you are here, my angel. He’s going to make it. A doctor has just been. The operation was a success. He’s in a coma right now but they will revive him in good time. Thank God. Praise be to Allah…”
Maureen interrupts, “I’ll fetch Hank out so you can go in, my dear. You’re only allowed one at a time in this place.”
Jak, still engulfed in Ali’s embrace, tries to stop Maureen, “no it’s okay, I’ll wait. How did you get in? Thought it was family only.”
“Maureen here is a fine actress,” smiles Ali, “for today only, she is Robbo’s sister, Mr Hank is his brother and I’m their carer, a largely non-speaking role much to my relief. They need constant support after the trauma of seeing their own brother shot…”
“Just a few paces in front of me, clutching the flowers I had given him only moments ago… oh God, what will happen to him? Oh God…” Maureen’s drawn, anxious face suddenly breaks into a warm smile, “but you dear, you must go in to see your father right away.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I can wait…”
But Maureen is determined and pretends not to hear. She nudges the door open and summons Hank whom she escorts arm-in-arm back to the seats. Ali ushers Jak into the room and closes the door behind her.
Jak perches on the edge of the chair by the bed and watches over her dad. His head is bandaged. An oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. And two tubes connect his arm to a drip. A machine beeps contentedly to itself in a corner of the room. His chest gently rises and falls.
Beneath the mask, Robbo’s expressionless face looks strangely young, as if he was her kid brother not her father. She leans over and kisses his forehead.
“I’m sorry dad. Thank you for fetching flowers for me. You needn’t have,” she laughs to stop herself crying, “you really needn’t have. But never mind. Ali says you’re going to be okay. Well, okay-ish. And Ali wouldn’t just say that. He wouldn’t would he? I don’t think so. I trust him.
“Oh dad, what a mess. I should never have taken that job on the wall. I did it for mum, you know, but it was a bad thing. And no good ever comes from bad things as mum likes to say. She said it to you a few times, dunno if you were listening though.
“You know I got abducted? Well, no you don’t obvs, but I did and you’d think that would’ve taught me something, wouldn’t you? You know, stay safe, stay away from bastards. But no, I go and work for them instead. And they’ve locked up Tabs and now they’ve shot you, dad. And they’ve basically sacked me for trying to see you. Bastards.
“But also. Well. Done. Jak. Brav-fucking-o.
“Ah well, dad, they say bad things come in threes so maybe getting sacked is the start of things going right from now on. I’m here. I can see you. And I’m going to see Tabs tomorrow.
“You never know, do you? None of us seem to know a thing, really. But maybe it’ll be okay. Maybe. But get better, dad, please get better.”