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PEOPLE GENTLY DYING

Prologue

The ringing wasn't coming from inside his head, that much he knew. It just felt that way. The most important thing, right now was to stop the noise.

It took a few moments longer to work out how to do this. It was his doorbell, and someone had their finger on the button. This would involve getting out of bed. Not a prospect he relished at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

Allowing his left leg to slide from under the covers, feeling the hairs rise as the cool morning air met skin, he tried to lower the appendage gently to the floor. However, the muscles necessary to perform this manoeuvre had ideas of their own. He fought back a howl of pain as the shock of foot on floor reverberated through his fragile bones.

The right leg followed, a little more gently. His body beginning to realise what was good for it. However that did not save him from his next mistake, he never should have tried to sit up that quickly. With his head spinning wildly that ringing found just the place he was hoping it wouldn't. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stop himself decorating his bed with the kebab he had eaten the day before yesterday. He needed to get back to that bed as soon as possible.

He looked back at the bed. It was so warm, so safe, maybe he could live with that ringing. It stopped. Silence. he was saved.

RIIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGGGGGG!

Maybe not. It was getting louder. Not possible, but true. It had to be reporters. No one else would treat him like this.

Rising to his feet he took a second to secure his balance. Everything always seemed worse in a vertical position, and he really had no choice but to allow his body to get used to this new cruelty before moving on. He was beginning to become aware that something was amiss. He was alone. Hadn't he been with someone last night? Maybe not.

His body was beginning to reverberate in time with the bell, and movement was the only thing that could possibly save him now. Not stopping to grab a housecoat, he staggered out of the bedroom into the battlefield that was his living room, somehow managing to avoid the half full ashtrays that littered his floor, almost being brought down by a discarded guitar lead. He floated through the front door into the corridor. He could see them through the frosted glass in the door at the bottom of the stairs. There were two by the door with more behind. No one had their finger on the bell. They must have stuck something over the buzzer.

The noise was right by his head now, crashing out of the little plastic box on the wall, drilling into the deepest recesses of his soul. He pulled open the battery cover and removed the metal object from within. Suddenly everything stopped. He leaned, naked, against the wall, breathing shallow and fast. He had damaged something last night. You could always feel that after a good night out. The universe would not let you have anything for free. It hadn't taken him long to learn that particular truth.

"Mr Stone, Mr Stone?"

God things must be bad if they were calling him Mr Stone.

"We need to talk to you Mr Stone. About the woman you hit last night. Is she in there with you, Mr Stone? Can we speak to her? Mr Stone.... Come on., you know you'll have to speak to us eventually...."

Eventually. Not now.

Jake returned to his living room. He tried to remember what he'd been up to last night. Had he really.... Oh, yeah, he had. He'd hit a woman in Stringfellows. Hadn't she come back with him? He chided himself. Some things are more important then sex. Not many, but this was one of them. He had hit a woman. In public. He was fucked.

He couldn't face this right now, his head was not working and he was desperate for a piss, in fact various bodily fluids were vying for a limited number of exits.

It was all he could do to stop from throwing up as the urine hit the porcelain. Once he had finished he got down on his knees and threw up liquid straight into the yellow water. No diced carrots for him. Well he hadn't eaten in a couple of days. And he managed to convince himself that the red spots weren't blood before flushing to try and get rid of the smell so he could sit down.

Having finished with his ablutions, he still felt like death cooled down. He knew the only thing that would resurrect him was sustenance. He walked into the living room and looked into the kitchenette. He knew it was there, he could see it, and it looked so innocent. The fridge. He had no choice. He had to open it. He took a deep breath, recovered from the resulting coughing fit and stepped forward. Opening the fridge made him suddenly aware of his own nakedness, the knowledge that there was nothing between him and the contents was quite disconcerting.

The smell was the first thing he noticed. Wasn't the whole point of fridges supposed to be that they stopped food smelling like that. Jake was quite amazed that so little could make such a large impact.

Centre stage were two cartons of milk. The unopened one had expanded to twice it's size, the other had a funny yellow substance trying to poke it's head over it's open rim. A spaghetti bolognaise which he had actually made himself took the top shelf. However, whereas once it had been a nice vibrant red colour, now it was green.

Aside from the rotting mulsh that had once been a selection of vegetables bought from nearby Berwick Street market, the only other contents were a couple of tins of beer, actually looking quite worried at being so near the green meal, and a bottle of absolute vodka in the door. This was not what he was looking for. He was sure that there was a bottle of champagne in there. He distinctly remembered buying it and them not drinking it. And a champagne breakfast was perfectly acceptable and in no way was it a sign of alcoholism.

He opened the freezer compartment to face the truth. There it was, amid the broken green glass, a bottle sized slab of frozen Dom Perignon only edible to members of the Jim Rose Circus

"Shit," thought Jake. "It was a good vintage, too."

Jake returned to the fridge and pulled out a can of beer. Returning to the disaster area that was his front room, he sat naked, and drank his breakfast. The first few sips were hard, his body trying to tell him that this was not a good idea, that this was not healthy. However, it soon changed its mind, and the cool liquid began to go down easier.

Now, feeling rejuvenated enough to sleep again, Jake rose and headed for the bedroom. He was quite surprised he hadn't noticed it earlier. There in the centre of his bedroom, right across his shagpile carpet, was a big dark stain, almost two foot in diameter. It was dark, and it was crusty, and it was on his carpet. He had woken up to enough soiled pillows to recognise blood when he saw it, although this was in amounts far in excess to what he was used to. And unless the stuff had found a way to exit the body without leaving a mark, it wasn't his. He touched under his nose to double check this.

Jake suddenly felt cold, his nerves suddenly alert, something bad had happened and there may be repercussions. Jake knew there was nothing he could do just now. Returning to bed he pulled the fake fur blanket over himself, and fell back into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

CHAPTER 1

Marc Field was not a very happy man, that much had been obvious since he was about twelve. But today was worse. He had broken one of his self imposed rules, and now he was feeling a little ashamed of himself. Sure, he'd be the first one to admit he was fond of the odd line, depending on who was asking, but never when he had work in the morning (never on a school night.)

He tried to justify it to himself by saying that he was only trying to avoid freaking out his brother's friend, but simply not arresting him would have done the trick. No, he had let himself down, again.

On top of this he was out with Polly again. Polly was a very old fashioned kind of police officer, in Marc's eyes. Honest, diligent, respectful of the law. Christ. she was even intelligent. She'd have killed him if she thought that this was anything other then a normal hangover.

As it was, she was not over happy with him anyway. She hated that macho posturing that implied it was somehow a good thing to drink too much, that it somehow made you more of a man. In fact she found it quite disgusting, and coming into work like that was not what she considered professional behaviour.

"Well, Marc," she explained. "I've checked that there's no one in, and the landlords away for two weeks. No one has a key, so we're going in."

The smell was horrible. Rotting meat, the smell of a cheap butchers. They both had a fairly good idea what the would find inside, and neither of them relished the prospect.

"He's dead, I know it. There's nothing else that smell could be."

Marc did not turn around, leaving Polly to placate the little old man who had called them, unable to stand the smell permeating the house right up to his little bedsit on the floor above.

"Now, Mr Berry," soothed Polly. "We don't know that, do we? He may have just left some meat out and gone away. It happens all the time."

"Bloody big bit of meat," muttered Marc under his breath, although not quietly enough to avoid a nasty look from the WPC.

"Now, Mr Berry. I think you ought to return to your room. We'll let you know what happens."

"But..."

Polly raised her hand to silence the old man. "Now, Mr Berry, that sledgehammer that PC Field has there is very heavy. I really must ask you to return to your room for your own safety."

Mr Berry stood his ground for a few seconds, staring the WPC in the eyes. Then he sighed. He had after all spent a lifetime putting his own safety above everything, and was not likely to change his habits at this stage in the game.

Once they were alone Polly nodded to Marc. He looked at the door, trying not to think of what was behind it. This was a Health and Safety job. Why were they supposed to do it?

"Here goes," he said in his most macho and dominant voice, which had some kind of effect, because Polly had to surpress a laugh, something that was not usually a problem for her.

Marc swung as hard as he could, the hammer colliding with the door dead centre, just where the door was at it's strongest. The door shook, but did not give.

Even after only one blow he was visibly breathless, but he forced himself to raise the hammer once more.

"Try aiming for the lock," opined Polly.

Marc took a deep breath before swinging again, something not necessarily beneficial in such a rank atmosphere. The hammer collided with the side this time, splintering the cheap lock quite easily. Marc praised cheap landlords as he pushed the door open. When the stench hit him full on he threw up instantly.

He was dead all right, had been for a while. The skin had darkened to a grey black, clinging to the bones for fear of falling off. The clothes were unfashionably decorated with black stains that were once red. The body lay on the ancient single bed, still, cold alone. Both police officers wondered how a person could be left so long without anyone reporting him missing. How lonely could a human being really be?

Mr Berry did not consider it strange at all that no one had missed Richard O'Connell. He had lived in bedsit land for the last eighteen of his fifty six years and had gradually watched all his relationships fall away to the solitude such living encouraged.

He happily accepted the kind offers of tea and biscuits and engaged the constables in idle chit-chat as they waited for a sergeant to arrive and supervise the interrogation. It was the most company he'd had in weeks and he was determined to drag it out. On top of that, the young WPC, Polly, was a bit of a looker, as they had said in his day, and he was quite enjoying being able to talk to someone that pretty without feeling like a dirty old man. He wasn't so keen on the young man though, he seemed a little stand offish.

The door opened and a thin, ageing man strolled in. He was dressed conservatively, yet elegantly, in a simple black suit with white shirt and navy tie. His grey hair was getting thin but cut short and brushed back in a style that de-emphasised his baldness without looking like he was trying to hide it. He was handsome for his age, which was somewhere in the late fifties, but you'd be hard pressed to tell from his appearance. He apologised for keeping Mr Berry waiting, citing an urgent call, and promised not to hold the old man up any longer then was absolutely necessary. His voice was soft, polite. Mr Berry was instantly impressed. He was in the presence of a gentleman.

The detective reached across the table, and Berry had to think for a second before assessing the correct response and reaching over to shake the officers hand.

"I'm Detective Sergeant Richard Hill," he announced. "I'd like to thank you for coming down to the station, I do appreciate that this must be distressing for you."

"Yes," agreed Mr Berry. "It's not everyday you find out someone's been murdered in your own home."

"Let's not jump to conclusions Mr Berry. Let's wait until we've heard from forensics before we decide upon that. However, it is not a possibility we should rule out, which is why I want to talk to you."

Mr Berry suddenly looked very worried. "Me, You don't mean..."

"No, Mr Berry. I am not accusing you of anything. But you may know something that may help us in our enquiries. How well did you know the deceased?"

"Not very well at all, I'm afraid," admitted Mr Berry. "You know these young people today, they've got no time for us oldies now, do they?"

"I know," agreed the officer. "But you must have had occasion to speak with him on occasion."

"Well of course, and to be fair, he was always very civil. But it rarely went beyond good morning, or letting him know someone had come to see him."

"Did he have a lot of visitors, Mr Berry?"

"Oh, yes, people traipsing in at all hours of the day and night. You know these young people. Could keep you awake all night sometimes. I mean the noise was never excessive, but you can hear everything in a little terrace like ours. I wouldn't mind but some of them only seemed to stay a few minutes. Hardly seemed worth the effort, especially at such unsociable hours. But I suppose we were all young once."

"Quite. Did you ever see any of these visitors?"

"Oh yes, lots of them. Always the same people, week in week out. Some of them were quite nice, very friendly, but some of them were, well, a little unsavoury, if you get my drift."

"Could you be a little more specific, Mr Berry?"

"Well, they didn't always seem that clean, some of them even seemed to smell a little. And sometimes they would look terrible when they came. Really dishevelled, as if they'd slept in their clothes, or not slept at all. Considering they were all so young, they often looked really tired, you know. I just remembering having so much more energy when I was their age. But then that was National Service. Made a man out of you."

"Was their ever any trouble, Mr Berry? Did you ever hear any arguments?"

"Well, of course, but everyone has the odd argument, don't they Sergeant?"

"I suppose they do, Mr Berry."

"And none of them seemed to be serious. I mean I never heard any violence, or anything. Oh, apart from that time about three months ago when he kicked some girl out in the altogether."

"Really, Mr Berry?" The Sergeant seemed quite interested in this development. "Do you know her name?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I think one of his young ladies came by while he was in bed with this one, and he threw one out to placate the other. I'll tell you who might know a little more, Martin from the top floor."

"Was he a friend of Mr O'Connell?"

"Well, I know they had the odd drink together. He's a nice young lad, Martin, always happy to have a little chat. I'm sure he'll be able to help you more then I can."

"Well, we'll certainly speak to him, Mr Berry. You've been a great help."

"Oh, is that it?"

"For now, Mr Berry." DS Hill smiled. "You really have been a great help. We may need to talk to you again."

"Oh, any time. I'm not working at the moment, so I'm free whenever you need me."

"That's good to know, Mr Berry. Very good to know."

CHAPTER 2

Brian Richards was a quiet child, what was often called bookish by disappointed parents. Fond of his own company he often spent break-time reading behind the large Ash that sat in the corner of the playground. Sometimes his privacy was interrupted by one of his few friends trying to get him to come out and play. Sometimes they succeeded, sometimes he was too engrossed in someone else's fantasy to leave his hidy hole. He sometimes thought that tree was his favourite place in the whole world. Right up until he met Keith Murray.

It was 1975, and he was nine. He felt good, it was a nice summers day, and his mum had bought him some new school trousers which were almost wide enough at the bottom to be considered flares. Slade were in the charts with Far, Far, Away, and he was halfway through Treasure Island, which he was quite convinced was the greatest book he had ever read in his whole life. Things couldn't be better.

But as has already been mentioned, that was before he met Keith Murray.

Keith was one of the most popular boys in the school. He played on the school football team, and was single handedly responsible for the teams reputation for being hard. He was loud, playful, and frequently violent. He was intent upon having his first cigarette, in preparation for going to big school next year, when he walked behind the Ash with three of his mates to see little Brian Richards sat their with his little book. He was, naturally, incensed.

"Hey, shithead," snapped the older boy, "Out of here."

Brian was not feeling himself today, the antics of Long John Silver and co had left him feeling elated, resulting in the natural testosterone rush.

"I was here first," he said. "Anyway, I ain't doing nothing."

"I won't tell you again."

Brian dove straight back into his book, ignoring Keith. Keith's friends laughed.

"Hey, Keith," stammered one of the young acolytes, "That kid’s not scared of you."

"Look, kid," murmured Keith. "You haven't been listening to what I've been saying, have you? Out, now, and take that poofy book with you."

Brian did not know what poofy meant, but he was quite sure he didn't want anyone saying it about his favourite book.

"This book's not poofy," he snapped. “This is Treasure Island."

"I don't care if it's fucking playboy," snapped Keith to the amusement of his disciples. "It's a poofy thing to be doing anyway, reading at breaktime."

Keith grabbed the book from the younger boy, who suddenly began to feel afraid.

"Hey, give that back. It's not mine."

"Nicked it did Ya?" spat the boy.

"No, It's a library book."

"You fucking wanker. A library book. Just fuck off and I'll pretend you don't exist, kid."

"I need my book back."

"Ooooohhhhh," said one of the acolytes. "He needs his book back."

"But it's not his book," said one of the other boys. "It belongs to the library."

"Yeah," said Keith. "Don't worry. We'll bring it back to the library for you."

"I Haven't finished reading it yet." Brian got to his feet now. Standing next to the older boys made him feel even smaller and weaker, but he needed that book back.

"Catch," said Keith, tossing the book to one of his friends.

Brian stood his ground, he knew what would happen if he tried to follow the book. He wasn't going to play that game.

"Aren't you going to try and catch the book?"

"Just give it back," deadpanned the child, trying to sound as grown up as possible.

"No."

The book was thrown to another boy. Still Brian did not rise to the bait. He knew that they'd give the book back eventually. All he had to do now was retain his dignity.

The book flew once more. Brian didn't even flinch.

"Would you like your book back?" enquired Keith.

"What do you think?"

"Pass me the book," said Keith.

He was swiftly obeyed.

"You can have your book back," said Keith. He tore the first page from the book and handed it to the younger child.

"What are you doing?" screamed Keith, reaching out for the book, which was swiftly lifted above his head. He jumped up, but it was too high. Keith tore a second page from the hallowed tome and dropped it on the younger child. Brian pushed at Keith, hoping he would drop the book, but it didn't work. Keith's friends soon had Brian up against the fence.

Brian was screaming now, kicking and struggling against the two older boys who held him tight, laughing. He yelled as Keith tore his library book to pieces, one page at a time at first, steadily increasing as boredom set in.

Keith's friends laughed and hollered, encouraging their leader as he destroyed school property. Only when he had completely desiccated the volume did they quieten down, realising that they might have gone a little too far this time. They released the younger child.

Brian was instantly upon the floor, gathering up the pages, trying to put the book back together.

"What have you done? What have you done?"

Keith started to laugh, while all his friends remained silent.

Then Brian did what no schoolboy should do in the presence of his peers. He began to cry.

Jake Stone turned to his lawyer, ignoring the figure of PC Marc Fields standing in the corner of the room.

"Can we sue these bastards for picking me up from my home?"

Susan Roebuck straightened the lapels on her tan suit before answering. "No, Jake, you’re here of your own free will, helping with their enquiries. Free to walk out at any time. Anyway, this isn't America. You'll only come out looking worse then them."

"They could have just called. And I'd like to know who alerted the Paparazzi."

"It was one photographer, Jake."

Jake looked at Sue, his pupils still dilated from last nights chemical abuse. He liked having her as a lawyer, she was very good at pointing out that he was acting a little paranoid without actually saying so. Putting him in his place without putting him down. He wished more people could be this honest with him.

A thin, middle aged, smartly dressed man came into the room, apologising for keeping the singer waiting. He introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Richard Hill, turning on the tape, reciting the time and giving the names of all those present.

"Now," he said, "I'll come straight to the point. How well did you know Richard O'Connell?"

"Who?"

"Richard O'Connell."

"Can't say I've ever heard of him. I mean Richard's a common enough name...."

The Policeman pulled a photo from the envelope upon the table.

"This is a photo of the man, do you recognise him?"

Jake examined the photo carefully, suddenly curious.

"No, can't say I do. Why? Who is he?"

"Who was he would be more accurate," said the Sergeant. "He's dead."

"What has that got to so with my client?" Interrupted Sarah, not letting any strain show in her voice.

"Oh, nothing I'm sure. But your fingerprints were found at the murder sight, amongst many others, and we were just hoping you might be able to provide us with some information, however trivial it might seem that may help us figure out what happened."

"Well, I don't recognise the guy, sorry. Where did he die?"

"He was found in his bedsit in Fulham."

"I can't remember the last time I went to Fulham, sorry, there must have been some mistake."

"There has been no mistake, Mr Stone. As you are aware, your prints are on file. They were found in this gentleman's bedsit."

"Maybe they were planted," suggested Jake.

The Sergeant sighed. "Your fingerprints, Mr Stone?"

Sarah interrupted once more. "Sergeant, I know it sounds a little Kooky, but Mr Stone’s fingerprints have been printed in a national paper, and a colour supplement. It would not be difficult for someone to make up some kind of stamp."

"No, I don't suppose it would be, Ms Roebuck, but what would be their motive?"

"Sergeant," said Jake leaning forward. "Do you have any idea how many weirdos there are in this world? And do you have any idea how many of the fuckers are obsessed with rock stars like me?"

Jake looked straight at the Sergeant as he spoke, his wide eyes widening further. There was not a hint of irony in his voice.

"Mr Stone," said the Sergeant, dropping his voice in an attempt to sound soothing. "I am not saying that your theory is impossible, but don't you think it may be more likely that you may have met this man once and not remembered him?"

Jake leaned back in his chair, brushing the cocaine sheen from his forehead.

"Why wouldn't I remember?"

"Well, Mr Stone. There were a substantial amount of amphetamines found at the site. Now Mr Stone, you do have a history of drugs, and I'm really not interested in your personal habits. This is a murder investigation, and if there is anything you can tell us, any of Mr O'Connell's other clients, or friends. Anything you say will be in the strictest confidence, and may help us find who killed him."

"Look, Sergeant, I appreciate what your saying, really I do. But I have never met the man. I don't associate with known drug users anymore, I don't have anything to do with that kind of thing. If I could help you I would, but really, I can't."

"Sergeant," states Sarah. "Believe me, if Mr Stone knew this gentleman, he would have told you. I don't know how his fingerprints got there, but I suspect that if you find out how they got there you may have found your killer. Now, unless there is anything else.."

"Just one more question, Mr Stone. I do have to ask you, given that your fingerprints were found at a murder site, Where were you on the evening of August the Twenty eighth? I know it was a few weeks ago now, a Thursday evening."

Sue nudged the singer in his ribs and whispers in his ear. He begins to laugh.

"Don't you read the papers, Sergeant Thompson. I was at the Hippodrome, ran into a little trouble. Half of Wapping seemed to have witnessed it."

"Wapping."

"Oh, Sergeant, Fleet Street is deserted now, surely you know that."

The Sergeant sat back in his chair and examined the scrawny creature taking up room in his life, laughing at getting caught hitting a woman. He was no murderer though, too weak, too weak by far.

“Well, Mr Stone, that will be all for now. However if you do remember having met Mr O’Connell please contact us.”

“Oh, yeah sure.”

“We may be back in touch.”

The singer shivered, briefly.

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