* * * *

  I went back onto the ward on the following Sunday and was shocked to see how far Frankie had deteriorated. Totally bed-bound now, he was drifting out of consciousness every few minutes. Pat, who was not usually on shift at the weekends, told me, “Doctor says it's the diabetes out of control.” She looked down at Frankie with sympathetic eyes. “Poor love."

  I sat with him. He opened his eyes a few times, and once, just after the doctor came to do his observations, he looked at me and said, “He's part of it, old fraud!” But then he lapsed into unconsciousness again. A couple of the other patients had gone home to their relatives for the weekend and so the ward was quiet. Most of the time I was around or near to Frankie's bed. But then, so was Pat, and Tracey too, and when I left at five they stayed on, with the doctor. The three of them together did make me feel uneasy, but beyond my memories of Frankie's ramblings there was no real reason why that should have been so. They weren't doing or saying anything odd or worrying.

  The following morning I was booked to return to the Runfold chronic ward again and so I duly turned up at eight for the beginning of my shift. When I first walked onto the ward I was shocked that I couldn't see Frankie anywhere.

  "Pat had him moved to a side ward,” Tracey told me when I asked after the old man. “Took a turn for the worse late last night."

  "Pat was with him? Late?"

  Tracey looked into my eyes very steadily. “She cares, Julia,” she said. “Pat is a very dedicated nurse. Nothing's too much trouble."

  I tried to get into the side room where Frankie was lying, but it was too full of Pat, the doctor, and their very obvious, cooing concern. I got to the office just as the postman arrived. Sorting the post on a ward every morning is a very lowly job, it's the kind of thing that agency staff do to take a little bit of the pressure off the permanent nurses. And so I shuffled through the letters and postcards for the patients, through the brown official envelopes addressed, largely, to Pat, until I came to a very high-quality envelope with a pretty, foreign stamp. It was from Saudi Arabia and it was addressed to Mr. Francis Driscoll. Without even thinking, I put it straight into the pocket of my trousers.

  * * * *

  They just wouldn't damn well go! Every ten minutes I looked into Frankie's room and not once was it empty. If it wasn't the doctor in there, it was the doctor and Pat; if it wasn't the doctor and Pat, it was Pat and Tracey, or Tracey and Janice, or sometimes the whole lot of them together.

  Geoff, who was the only other permanent member of staff on shift, said, “Seems like Frank's dying, doesn't it?"

  "Does it?” I said. “Why, has Pat said or..."

  Geoff looked around at the ward with eyes like a frightened rabbit. He then took me to one side and said, “I was on shift last night. I know I shouldn't do double shifts but we were short and ... Some bloke turned up about nine."

  "At night?"

  "Yeah. No one said who he was, but then I heard that doctor, Cooper, he said that the bloke was Frank's solicitor. Well, it happens, doesn't it,” Geoff said, “When they get near to death. Some of them ask for their solicitor. Even mad people want to make sure everything's in order when they pass on, don't they?"

  "Yes..."

  "But I think we're supposed to keep it from the other patients,” Geoff said. “Don't want to upset them, do we?"

  I felt my stomach turn over and so I went to the toilet. Another legacy from my crisis at the Wicklow is irritable bowel syndrome which, in my case, manifests as painful abdominal cramps. I have it to this day.

  I said to Geoff, “I'm just going to the loo.” And then I rushed off.

  I sat down on the lid of the toilet seat, put my hand in my pocket, and took out the letter from Saudi Arabia. It was a very nice letter, very concerned. The person who signed his name just “Fahd” was very sorry that his old friend Frank was so ill and would do anything necessary to alleviate his suffering. Money was, he said, no object, and he would make sure that the best doctors in his kingdom were made available to his old friend. The letter finished, “I suppose this means that you haven't been down to your house in Padstow of late. Such a shame. It is so very beautiful."

  Every part of my body shook. I must have looked down at that letter at least five times to check that I wasn't hallucinating. But every time I looked at it, the import of what it said hit me even harder. Someone had to know about this! But who? Pat, her cronies, the doctor, even apparently Frankie's solicitor obviously all knew each other and, if Frank was right, Pat at least had her eye on his little cottage in Padstow. The cottage I now knew existed. King Fahd of Saudi Arabia had confirmed it to me, King Fahd who was Frankie's friend!

  At the very least Frankie himself had to know about this. Even if he was in a coma I could read what the king had written and maybe that would bring him comfort. I should have put the letter straight back into my pocket when I came out of the cubicle, but I didn't and so it was in my hand when Pat and Tracey came towards me.

  "What have you got there?” Pat asked as she put a tubby hand out towards me. “Geoff said that the post came ages ago. Is that something for me?"

  "No,” I said. “It's...” I dried up completely, just stood there looking at her dumbly.

  "Well, it can't be for you, can it?” Tracey said. “You're agency."

  Geoff had to have seen me do the post. Cowed to Pat's will, he obviously tittle-tattled for whatever praise she might be giving out. Stupid, poor, weak Geoff!

  "Who's the letter for, Julia?” Pat asked.

  I looked down at it and noticed that my hands were now sweating. “It's for Frankie,” I said. “It's from his friend."

  "What, the king of Saudi Arabia?” Pat laughed and, as she did so, I watched the normally fat and jolly mask slip. This was a face that could have curdled milk. “Give it to me."

  "No,” I said. “It's for Frankie."

  Pat, thunderous, clicked her fingers. “Give!"

  "No,” I repeated. “It's for him and anyway, Pat, if you don't believe that Frankie knows King Fahd, what is the problem? What's the problem anyway? What are you afraid might be in a letter from King Fahd to Frankie Driscoll?"

  Pat's small blue eyes almost disappeared into the depths of her face. Encouraged by her obvious discomfort, I pushed it even further, too far. “I know about the cottage in Padstow,” I said. “Is that why Frankie's solicitor was here last night, with you? You know, if Geoff is going to be your snitch you should really train him in the art of what not to gossip about, too."

  For a very brief moment, I thought that I'd won. Stupid. Hospitals are tailor-made for bullies—the tiny staff toilets were miles away from anywhere and besides, the TV in the day room was, as usual, blaring out at the heavily sedated patients who stared open-mouthed at it. It was Tracey, right behind her boss, who punched me, but it was Pat who sat on my chest while I desperately tried to cling to a letter from a king.

  "Give it to me, you bitch!” Pat cried as she clawed at my hand with her French-polished fingernails.

  "What are you doing, Pat?” I yelled. “Upping Frankie's insulin dose until it kills him?"

  Diabetics can have too much insulin. That is a fact. Pat's face, briefly, became very white.

  "The doctor and the solicitor are in on it too, aren't they?” I said, attempting to capitalise on her obvious fear.

  But then she smiled. “Prove it,” she said and then she hit me and I lost consciousness.

  * * * *

  I don't actually remember Pat taking the letter from King Fahd out of my hand, but I never saw it again. That day, the day of Frankie's death, and many more after it, became just blurs of faces, voices, and vague impressions. I stated many times that I wanted to contact the king, if for no other reason than to inform him about Frankie's death. But I was never allowed to do so by either my doctors or my nurses and later on that year the monarch, sadly, suffered a stroke.

  I was detained formally under the Mental Health Act for twenty-eight days. Once in treatment for my “violent and disordered behaviour,” I opted to stay for another month, for the sake of my family. They were really worried about me. I would keep on about Frankie, who was a patient who had loved his hospital and had willingly given all his worldly goods to it. The only “conspiracy” that existed, my doctor said, was the one that the unbalanced chemicals in my head had created. They had produced King Fahd just as surely as they had produced the fact that Frankie had been murdered. I carried on with my story for a while, but when I realised that to continue would do me personally no good, I gave up. People do.

  Some time in 1995, I don't remember exactly when, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and I haven't worked as a nurse or anything else since. Pat and her cronies are long gone now and quite what the hospital did with the windfall they received from poor old Frankie, I don't know. Sometimes I fantasise about going down to Padstow and seeing who might be about. Pat, Tracey, Janice, the doctor, the solicitor.

  But I never do. After all, even if they were all there, what would that prove? Even with medication, I am not “sane,” whatever that is, and so who would even bother to listen to me? Not that I'm making excuses. I let Frankie down and in doing so I perpetrated a great sin. Father Dale forgives me every time I bring the subject up in confession, which is weekly now. But God is another matter. He doesn't forgive me because the bullies won, because He knows, just as well as I do, that Pat's challenge for me to “Prove it!” was an admission of her absolute guilt. Not that any of that really matters anymore. That Frankie died without ever knowing that his friend Fahd cared about him is what makes me really bitter. That the hospital took his house is one thing, but to take, or rather conceal, a genuine expression of human warmth is quite another. That is evil, that is twisted, and one day, maybe not soon, but sometime, I will go down to Padstow, I will find Pat, Tracey, Janice, the solicitor, and the doctor and...

  And perhaps I will do to them what they did to poor old Frankie. After all, mad or not, I am still a nurse, I still know how to hold a syringe....

  (c)2008 by Barbara Nadel

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: TURKISH DELIGHT by Edward D. Hoch

  * * * *

  Art by Mark Evan Walker

  * * * *

  Unlike other stories in Edward D. Hoch's Stanton and Ives series, which are all narrated by Stanton, this one is told in the third person. This, the au-thor explains, is because the duo get separated in the course of the story and he wanted to cover both viewpoints. We recently asked readers to write and name their favorite Hoch series and Stanton and Ives, along with Nick Velvet and Dr. Sam Haw-thorne, were often mentioned.

  * * * *

  "Turkish bath,” Walt Stanton announced as their plane circled for a landing at Istanbul's airport.

  "Turkish towels!” Juliet Ives countered in their attempt to name all things Turkish.

  "Turkish rugs."

  "Turkish Delight!"

  "Wait a minute,” Stanton protested. “Is that something sexual?"

  "Of course not, stupid! They're flavored candy cubes dusted with sugar."

  "Sort of like Graham Greene's Brighton Rock?"

  "Nothing like that. Brighton Rock is a stick of hard candy."

  "Well, they're both candies,” Stanton insisted as the plane landed none too gently on the tarmac.

  They were seated near the front of the flight from London's Heathrow, where they'd had to change planes. As they left the plane and made their way up the Jetway, he tried again. “Turkey trot."

  "It has to be Turkish, Stanton. That's an American dance, named after the bird."

  "But the bird was named after the country, wasn't it?"

  "Only through some confusion. It's a long story."

  "You can tell me on the way home,” he decided. “Let's check in at our hotel and go see the client."

  They'd booked a room at the Pierre Loti, a modern luxury hotel whose only drawback was its location in a rather noisy part of the city. But they'd just be there two nights and it seemed they deserved a bit of luxury after their recent journey to rural China.

  Stanton & Ives was a worldwide courier service for companies and individuals who needed instant, guaranteed delivery or pickup anywhere on earth. They'd started the company after graduating from Princeton together, and thus far the business had been mildly profitable. They maintained a small office across from the Strand Bookstore on lower Broadway, and employed a secretary to handle business when they were away on assignments, usually together.

  When she saw the massive bed in their hotel room, Ives suggested they spend both days in bed and forget about the assignment, but Stanton was more practical. Admiring her long legs as she stretched out on the counterpane, he reminded her they'd be meeting with the client first thing in the morning.

  The assignment this time was to pick up a prime example of Ottoman calligraphy and transport it to Berlin, where a wealthy German collector had recently purchased it for just under one million dollars. “Calligraphy?” Ives had questioned at the time. “You mean like handwriting?"

  "I suspect it's more than handwriting,” Stanton told her. “We'll see."

  As they left the hotel in the morning they were accosted by a street vendor selling bread rings. His grizzled face showed the nicks and scars of a hard life, but not a shy one. “Whatever you need,” he told them in accented English. “Bread rings, fresh fish, spices, and more. I can supply hashish, opium balls—"

  "Not interested,” Stanton told him as they tried to move past.

  "Perhaps a woman to keep you two company."

  "No,” Ives told him emphatically.

  "Do you need a gun, a dagger? My name is Ersu and you can usually find me on this corner, from morning till midnight."

  "I'll remember that,” Stanton said as they moved on.

  "Persistent, isn't he?” Ives muttered as they hurried on their way.

  The seller of the calligraphy was an art dealer named Bruno Tranle. He had a gallery not far from the famed Topkapi Museum, and was an astute gentleman in his sixties who showed them into his private office. His English was perfect and he explained he'd been educated at Cambridge. “Let me get you some tea,” he offered.

  Ives demurred, noting the early hour, but Tranle scoffed. “Nonsense! Tea from the Black Sea region is our national drink, served at any hour of the day. Tea-makers even do the rounds of offices in many buildings here."

  "Oh, very well,” she relented, knowing it always pleased Stanton when she was cordial to clients. “I thought people drank Turkish coffee here."

  Tranle shook his head. “Too expensive for most tastes."

  He made the tea with great care and served it with pride, entertaining them with little stories about life in Istanbul. After about twenty minutes he decided to get down to business. He walked to a large safe and twirled the combination dial with the confidence of familiarity, carefully removing a slender canvas tube and unrolling its contents. “This is the item to be transported by courier to Germany."

  Stanton and Ives gazed at the painting, a wall hanging some two feet wide and four feet long on which the graceful Arabic calligraphy had taken on the shape of a person. The body, legs, and arms were a swirl of green, while the face was done in red with a white cap on top. “It's beautiful,” Ives whispered in awe. “Are these Arabic words?"

  "They are indeed. It is a verse from the sacred Koran, rendered in the shape of a man. The verse is painted on calfskin and may date from the sixteenth century. It could even be the work of Sheik Hamdullah, the founder of Ottoman calligraphy, but we cannot be certain."

  "You sold this to a German collector?"

  "A businessman, really. Turks are admitted to Germany as guest workers and often decide to remain there. This man, Rudolph Meinz, is purchasing it for display in the reception area of his plant, which employs many Turks. It is a goodwill gesture, and an expensive one."

  "Surely you could hire a courier in this country to transport it to Germany,” Stanton said.

  Bruno Tranle sighed and poured them some more tea. “The situation in the Middle East is well known. There are terrorists everywhere, including Istanbul. As you may know, Turkey is mainly made up of Sunni Muslims, with about twenty percent Kurdish in the eastern part of the country. But hiring a courier or a package-delivery company in Turkey is gambling that they side with your beliefs and not with another faction. The Kurds are in open revolt against our government, and terrorists could purchase a great many weapons with the money from this sale. I've heard good things about Stanton and Ives, and decided you were my best option."

  "You won't be sorry,” Ives promised him. “And we're fully bonded, of course. We have seats on an early flight to Berlin tomorrow morning."

  "As soon as we make delivery we'll call you,” Stanton assured him.

  "All right. Here's half your fee now, as agreed. The remainder will be wire-transferred to your bank account after a successful delivery to Rudolph Meinz.” He stood up to shake hands with them. “You'll be spending the night in Istanbul?"

  Stanton nodded. “The morning flight is best for us."

  "You should see some of our night life. I can especially recommend Turkish Delight."

  "A candy shop?” Ives asked.

  "No,” Tranle replied with a smile. “She's a belly dancer at the Bosphorus Cafe, the best in the city at this moment."

  "Oh,” Ives replied, glancing at Stanton.

  * * * *

  They secured the tube with its calligraphic painting in the hotel's safe since it was too large for the mini-safe in their room. Then Stanton and Ives spent the afternoon touring the Grand Bazaar, a network of covered arcades containing more than seventeen hundred businesses. Here they found jewelers, shoemakers, tailors, and furniture and rug merchants, along with a variety of eating places. The maze-like marketplace soon sorted itself into some sort of order. Not wanting to buy anything so large it would have to be shipped home, they confined themselves mainly to the jewelry shops and a book market that featured vast quantities of second-hand volumes in virtually every language.