Unhappily Ever After Bk. 01 Ch. 09-10

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Unhappily Ever After is a long, novel-length story that relates the story of a veteran who returns to civilian life and pursues a career path begun before joining the Australian Defence Force. He is forced to resurrect his 'stay alive' skills when he is betrayed by his wife, whose lover puts a hit order out on him.

---oooBJSooo---

As with many of my stories, this one started out as an idea for a short story. Unfortunately, the characters took control, and it became my version of War and Peace. In an attempt to encourage those with an aversion to long stories to read it, I have broken it up into two books. This submission is Book One.

Book Two has been written and is currently in the editing stage. Each book tells its own story, but I'd recommend reading Book One first to get a handle on some of the characters.

Hopefully, those who didn't like the absence of gratuitous retribution in my previous submission, Happenstance, will find Unhappily Ever After more explicit. Doncha hate it when you've got to work things out for yourself?

Be warned, however. If you start this journey, be prepared for a long ride. Book One contains ten chapters, which will be submitted in seven parts. All seven parts have been submitted simultaneously, with a request to the moderator that they be published on consecutive days.

I trust you will enjoy my offering, but I will be happy to receive your comments either way. It should be noted, however, that I have blocked anonymous comments. I know that might inconvenience a few of you, but my philosophy is that 'better one commenter be inconvenienced than ten trolls be allowed to spew their vitriol'.

Please Note: The right of Black Jack Steele to be identified as the author of this work - Unhappily Ever After - Book One - is asserted under worldwide copyright laws. All rights are reserved.

UNHAPPILY EVER AFTER

BOOK ONE

Copyright © Black Jack Steele

CHAPTER NINE

Monday, January 1, 2018 - Friday, January 5, 2018

The Final Showdown

When I woke with an itchy nose, the first thing I discovered was that I was again wearing handcuffs. This time, though, rather than being joined to its opposing hand, only my right hand was attached to the raised rail of the bed in which I was lying. My left hand appeared to be free, but its movement was restricted.

I tried to lift my head to examine my surroundings. I thought if I could see something familiar, I might be able to work out where I was. The fact that I was in some sort of hospital was evidenced by the noises I was hearing, but I wanted to know why I was chained to my bed like a criminal.

Lifting my head was the wrong thing to do, however. The pain was excruciating. I let it drop back onto the pillow. My movements must have been enough to trigger some sort of alarm because I had people coming into my room in what seemed like droves within just a few seconds.

"Good afternoon, Mr Bourke," the most authoritative member of the troupe said.

Like the other... one, two, three, four, he was dressed in scrubs. The only difference between him and three of the others was that he had a stethoscope tucked into his pocket. I liked that. It wasn't pretentious. Many doctors I'd had dealings with over the years always walked around with their stethoscopes hanging around their necks as if they were wearing a Croix de Guerre.

The fifth member of the ensemble also appeared to be a doctor but was much younger than her older associate. She also carried her stethoscope in her pocket. She was probably a resident, but I decided she could play doctors with me whenever she felt the urge to do so.

"Do you know who you are?" the senior doctor asked me.

I found I was unable to answer him because I had something lodged in my throat.

'I wonder if this is how a woman feels when she deep-throats a lover,' I thought as I struggled to respond to his question.

I had no idea where these thoughts were coming from. I hoped it was from the medication they were pumping into me and not the head injury.

Being unable to answer him, I gave him a thumbs-up. He then went through a series of yes or no questions, which I answered with hand signals. The only one I couldn't answer was, "Did I know where I was?". I had to answer that one with a rocking hand.

His last question - "Do you know why you are here?" - could also have been answered in the affirmative, but for some unknown reason, I elected to give him a negative answer.

"Okay, Mr Bourke," he said at what appeared to be the end of the assessment interview, "the nurses will remove the breathing and feeding tubes and let you have something to drink. Try not to talk too much for a day or so. I'll come back tomorrow and explain what we've done to you.

"In the meantime, just relax and give yourself time to heal. You've sustained a nasty head injury, so your balance will be a bit iffy for a while. We'll work on that once we've got everything else repaired."

'Everything else repaired?' I screamed silently. 'What the fuck is he talking about?'

As he turned to leave. I rattled the handcuffs and then lifted my hand in a questioning gesture.

"I'm sorry, Old Chap," he said. "The police put them on. Only they can take them off. They must have thought you'd up and do a runner on them while we had you in an induced coma.

I raised one of my eyebrows in question.

"Oh, I apologise," he said. "I meant to tell you. You've been in a coma for the past six days. You came in on the evening of the twenty-sixth of December, and today is the first of January. We've been asking the police to release your hand so we can bathe and massage you but have had no luck."

I made a writing gesture at him. He passed me a pad and his pen. "Call this number and tell him where I am. Tell him I said to bring bolt cutters (haha)." I then jotted Alan McGregor's number down. I finally wrote, "Burn or eat this message after sending. This is truly life or death (no haha)".

I had no idea whether I could trust this doctor, but I had to take a chance.

He and his understudy left, and the nurses did what they were supposed to do. Eventually, I was left in peace.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I remember was hearing voices talking about normal, mundane, day-to-day stuff. I opened my eyes to see Mitch Moyston and Kate Buchanan sitting in the visitors' chairs at the foot of my bed, discussing the previous day's football - rugby, I gathered, not soccer - matches. They were both wearing casual civilian clothes.

"Well," I croaked, "it's about time I saw some friendly faces."

They didn't appear to have heard me, so I shook my wrist to rattle my handcuffs against the bed railing. There was no sound.

It took me a few seconds to realise that my hand was free.

Using my now free hand, I shook the bed rail. That finally attracted their attention. They looked over at me and smiled.

"Aha," Mitch said, "Lazarus awakens." They came over to stand beside my bed as I reached up to scratch my nose. It had been itchy since I'd first woken; however long ago that had been.

Mitch stretched his hand out to shake mine. Kate wasn't so formal. She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek that wasn't covered with bandages. As she did so, she gave me an enticing view down the front of her blouse. That view was of two of the most beautiful breasts I think I had ever seen. They weren't huge - I never was a big-breast man, anyway - but they were barely contained in her bra. I felt a stirring in my groin that proved to me that whatever else might have happened, I hadn't lost my masculinity.

She lifted her face from mine, so she could look at me. I was forced to lift my gaze away from her cleavage to her eyes. They were looking deeply into mine, and I identified a sense of relief. It said, "I thought I'd lost you, Aaron Bourke". It was quickly followed by a twinkle of amusement. She knew where my eyes had been before meeting hers.

She had a broad smile on her face when she finally stood to her full height.

During the next hour, my two Special Branch friends told me what had been happening since the night of the ambush. The reason for the handcuffs, it turned out, was that I had been arrested and charged with failing to comply with my bail conditions. That resulted from my failure to surrender my passport within the specified seventy-two-hour timeframe ordered by the magistrate.

Apparently, that charge had been dropped when Tony Marino had appeared before Magistrate Johnston on my behalf and explained that I was on my way to retrieve my passport from my home when I had been attacked and subsequently hospitalised. The magistrate threw the charges out, ordering that the existing conditions be amended to remove the time limits on my passport surrender.

Whether intentionally or otherwise, that judgement hadn't been passed down the line.

"It appears you have a growing number of enemies, Aaron," Mitch said. "The Boss - he was talking about his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Alan McGregor - believes someone wanted you kept in custody while they built a case so they - CIB - could charge you with the murders of Charlotte Brown and Todd Manyweather."

He saw my anger rising at hearing that someone was once again trying to fit me up.

Apparently, my agitation showed on my blood pressure monitor because a nurse came charging into the room to check my other vital signs. Before leaving, she instructed my two visitors to keep me calm. "If you can't do that," she told them in no uncertain terms, "you'll have to leave."

Mitch apologised and told her he would try to be more considerate of my delicate sensibilities in future.

"You'd better," she said. "This man has sustained a serious head injury. Increasing his blood pressure to the levels I saw on my monitor could cause a stroke. If that were to happen, I'd hold you responsible.

"I have a friend who is a policeman. And he told me that in such circumstances, the person causing the stroke could be charged with manslaughter. So, yes. I'd be very considerate of Mr Bourke's delicate condition if you want to avoid going to jail."

We all burst into laughter after she left the room to return to her station.

With the nurse gone, Mitch continued telling me what they knew.

"But, while they've got you in their sights as their prime suspect," he continued, "the forensics are telling an entirely different story. The picture they paint is of two - maybe even three - people lying in wait for upwards of three days with the intention of ambushing you upon your arrival at your property entrance.

"How does that fit in with your recollection of events?" he asked.

I indicated that I needed a pen and paper. Kate extracted her notebook from her handbag and handed it and her pen to me.

"I don't remember anything leading up to waking up in here," I wrote. "I remember being released from the watchhouse and planning on heading out to the property to pick up my passport. But that's it. Everything between then and now is missing."

"Are you telling me that Charlie and Manyweather are dead?"

"I'm afraid so," Mitch said.

"How?" I asked with my pen.

"We can't tell you that," he answered. "Whatever we believe, you are still a suspect in this case. Besides, the doctors have told us that they'd prefer it if you were allowed to let your memories grow organically rather than having you build them on what others tell you.

"Suffice it to say that we believe in your innocence. The evidence supports that opinion. Of course, the recording on your phone gives us a blow-by-blow account of the events of that evening. And the bullet pulled from your vest tells us that you were the intended victim.

"But what we know and what we can produce as evidence are two entirely different things. A lot will depend on what the prosecution decides to present to the court when the case comes to trial; if it ever gets that far."

I was exhausted by the time they left but was buoyed by Kate's farewell kiss on the cheek.

---oooBJSooo---

Unfortunately, my freedom was short-lived. The doctors must have prescribed something to help me sleep because I knew nothing between resting my head on my pillow after dinner - a semi-liquid mush that carried a faint taste of potatoes and pumpkin - until the next morning. When I awoke, I discovered I was again handcuffed to the bed rail.

I'd learned the previous day not to try to lift my head, so I felt around until I found the call button. Some considerate person had placed it near my right hand. Within seconds, a nurse entered my room.

"Good morning, Mr Bourke," she said. "What can I do for you?

She didn't sound particularly friendly. Nor did she sound interested in receiving an answer. Instead, she walked around to the left-hand side of the bed and checked the machines to which I was connected.

I tried speaking, but all that came out was a croak. A rattle of my chains got her attention, though. I indicated to her that I needed a pen and paper. Once she assured herself that I was still alive, she left the room without a backwards glance.

While she was gone, a young uniformed police officer poked his head around the corner. When he saw I was awake, he entered the room, stood over me and glared down at me.

My initial thought had been that he was there to protect me; after all, I was the victim of an attempted murder. His look of distaste told me otherwise. He was there to see that I didn't escape. He didn't linger but retreated to his post. Whatever I was supposed to have done apparently made him jumpy.

The glare he'd given was hiding his fear of me. I knew that if I did try anything, he'd shoot before thinking about it. Fear did that to people. It made them predictably unpredictable.

Not long after he left the room, the nurse returned with a plastic cup filled with iced water and fitted with a bendy straw. She also brought a writing pad and a pencil. After helping me to drink a small amount of water, she laid the pad down beside my right hand and put the pencil between my fingers.

"Now, what is it you wanted to ask me?" she said.

"Why the handcuffs," I wrote.

"From what I was told at the handover - I only came on duty an hour ago - a couple of plainclothes police officers came in during the night and charged you with two counts of murder. Surely, you remember that?"

"I must have slept through the whole thing," I wrote. "You're right. I would have remembered such a momentous event in my life."

"So, why the cold shoulder?" I wrote.

"Because you're a prisoner charged with murder," she answered.

"I don't feel like a murderer," I wrote. "If I'm a murderer, why do I feel like I came off second best against my alleged victim? I might have defended myself. But I'm damned sure I didn't murder anyone."

"Were you on duty yesterday?"

"No," she answered, "I only started my roster today."

"Well, if you'd been here yesterday, you'd have seen that I was also handcuffed to my bed," I wrote. "The police had apparently charged me with breaching the bail conditions relating to another matter; once again, while I was unconscious. Those charges had been dropped, and the cuffs had been removed by yesterday afternoon."

"Let's see if we can pull off a repeat performance. If I gave you a phone number, could I trust you to call it and tell the person on the other end what has happened?"

She nodded her head, affirming her willingness to help.

After flipping the page on the pad, I wrote down Tony Marino's number, followed by the words, "Lawyer. ASAP, please". I tore it off and handed it to her, indicating that she should leave the pad and pencil.

Before she left to make the call, I signed to her that I would like to see if I could manage with my head and back elevated. She lifted the remote unit and showed me how to operate the bed controls. She then raised the top end of the bed so my head was elevated. I wasn't quite upright, but at least I could look around.

I found I was fine, so long as I could rest my head back against the pillow. There was a bit of pressure on my stomach muscles, but it wasn't too uncomfortable.

"Thank you," I wrote on the pad, showing it to her before she left.

She smiled and nodded her head before turning towards the door. I noticed that she tucked the slip of paper I had given her into the pocket of her scrubs as she left. I thought that - for the time being, anyway - she was sympathetic towards me, even if she wasn't entirely convinced of my innocence.

When, three hours later, Tony arrived, I was lying flat again. The pressure on my stomach had become too painful.

I had also had the doctors visit me while doing their rounds. The head medico told me how happy they were with my progress and explained my injuries.

"We're not sure whether you'll ever regain your memory of the events leading up to your being brought in to us, but a couple of specialists will come to see you later to try to work out how much damage has been done.

"We're also pleased to tell you that the damage to your spleen was not as bad as we first suspected. It was badly bruised but not ruptured. It will take a while, but it should regain its full functionality. Your stomach took a fair bit of punishment, and the bruising to your abdominal muscles will take a while to heal.

"You'll probably find that you'll be getting about like a half-opened pocket knife for a few weeks, but we'll start your rehab as soon as the specialists give us the all-clear with your head.

"That vest you were wearing was what saved your life. Without it, you'd have been long dead. I'd like to come back and talk to you about that once you've got your voice back. I'm former military, and our people could have used something like that in Iraq and Afghanistan. The ER doctors tried to cut it off until the paramedic who brought you in told them to unzip it. You must have told him that before you passed out. Of course, the police have taken it and the bullet they found buried in it into evidence.

"I'm sorry about the handcuffs. I've argued with them until I've been blue in the face, but they won't budge. I don't know what they had you on last time, but the current charges simply don't add up.

"I haven't seen all the evidence, but I've seen you. And I know there's no way you could have done what they say you've done. It seems to me that you have a few enemies among the members of our local constabulary."

I gave him a thumbs-up followed by a circling of my thumb and forefinger to indicate he was not only right in his assumption but was spot on with his assessment of the situation.

My own nurse was in the group that was accompanying the doctor. I hoped she had overheard our one-sided conversation.

Two hours after the doctors' visit, Tony arrived with a court-issued order instructing the police to remove my restraints and to drop all charges relating to the incident at my front gate, pending a Police Ethical Standards Command investigation into my most recent arrest.

Of course, the process didn't go smoothly. After being handed a copy of the order, the constable on guard duty contacted his sergeant to clarify his responsibilities. The duty sergeant referred the matter to the officer in charge of the CIB, who then had to consult with the arresting officer and review the paperwork.