Then,
inevitably, all available units had been re-allocated to a mass brawl at a
late-opening club with multiple arrests. ‘Drunk Man Shouting Help’ had been
deferred. Later, when the streets slumbered and lethargy reigned once more, the
incident was reviewed, coded and closed.
“What
do those codes mean?” asked Slowey.
“Reason
codes. Allows for these logs to be audited by type. Let’s see. ‘19’ and ‘76’.”
Smith pulled up a help screen. “’19’ means ‘alcohol-related’ and ‘76’ means
‘abusive / hoax phone call.’ Oh dear.”
“And
who’s 21899?”
“That’s
the radio dispatcher who dealt with this and closed it.”
“Think
I’ll need a brief chat with them. Do they have a name or just a bar code?”
Harkness
cleared the call from Slowey and carried on pacing around the car, pondering
his next move. As the sun inched closer to its zenith, his scorched face seemed
to absorb its fizzing radiation which zigzagged and prickled behind his eyes.
He should move the car to the shade of the massive horse chestnut tree that
dominated the car park in front of Kesteven Court; but he wanted to see and be
seen by Firth.
Slowey
had derailed him with his news from HQ. He knew Murphy’s death would now almost
certainly prove to be accidental. Unless some stunning piece of forensic
evidence surfaced, the fact that Murphy’s voice had been recorded in the
force’s own control room using the word ‘fell’ – not ‘pushed’ or ‘thrown’ but
‘fell’ – had to make his death accidental. Why rage against this? Could he
really be just another old school detective, happy to pin the crime on his
favourite suspect, even if the evidence had to be hammered into the right shape
to achieve this?
Pacing
around the scorching car and squeezing the mobile as if he might crush it,
Harkness continued to stare at the first-floor flat to which he’d returned
Firth. If only he’d had a clearer head, been less inclined to believe for those
few seconds that he was hallucinating or dreaming, he might have shown them all
that what followed was neither logical nor inevitable. But that would have
meant he was to blame, again the reckless catalyst and the impotent rescuer.
He
must have looked away for far longer than he’d imagined. Slowey had run through
the mobile phone saga at least twice, in that infuriatingly patient way of his
that made you doubly conscious of your own befuddlement. Firth might have found
a rear exit from the block, but he’d still have had to appear on the landing to
get to it; if he’d dropped from the side window again, the scream would still
be echoing.
So
he must have staggered out of the front, found the petrol somewhere out of
sight, and here he was on his return trip. He used one crutch to keep his
plastered leg off the ground as he pivoted along at a determined pace. His
other hand carried a red plastic petrol can, which given the set of Firth’s
shoulders couldn’t be empty. He paused at the foot of the stairwell, turned,
raised the can and shook it jauntily as if he were offering to buy the next
round of drinks.
For
vital seconds he’d never win back, Harkness stared and pondered. He was being
taunted but to what effect? Was Firth about to set light to this block of flats
in protest? Was he producing evidence of his own guilt and the search team’s
failure that might disappear again the second Harkness barged his door open?
Was Harkness hallucinating, giving form to his own waking dreams?
Dream
or not, he couldn’t stay on the sidelines. Before he knew what he was doing, he
was sprinting across the road, vaguely aware of screaming tyres as a car
narrowly avoided killing him. In the coolness of the stairwell, shadows jostled
for form and something clattered down the concrete steps towards him; then he
was lunging, hopping and staggering through lager tins, soiled nappies and
rotting food disgorged by the bin toppled by Firth.
Reaching
the landing, he saw Firth’s door slam shut. Even then, he frittered seconds
away, wondering how he could cleanse himself of the foul-smelling paste that
now coated his right hand without having to look at it; conscious that he
should probably phone this in, if only to Brennan. A prophetic glimpse of what
was to come made him catch his breath, but he banished it quickly; he didn’t
believe in curses, still less in artificial symmetry.
Approaching
the door, he reached for his baton, felt its reassuring grip then left it in
its holster; he and Firth were beyond that now. The thick, dust-laden curtains
had been pulled across the flat’s front window but the door stood ajar.
“Nigel.
I’m coming in. I’ve reason to fear for your safety.” Out of habit or training,
he delivered the lawful pretext, reminding himself why he was here, or at least
why he should be here.
“I
want you to,” Firth replied. “Invited you, didn’t I?”
Harkness
nudged the door open, allowing the sun at his back to pick out the scene; his
own long shadow extended to the darkened circle in which Firth stood, crutch
wedged beneath an armpit for support, petrol can suspended above his slick skin
and soaked hair, the last few drops being shaken out of it. A stinging vapour
of petrol hazed the air.
“Put
that down. Drop it now!” Harkness shouted, fighting the urge to run, not to
protect himself but to avoid seeing what he now knew was coming. Firth obliged
by dropping the petrol can and producing a chrome-plated lighter from a back
pocket. He flicked the lid up and rested his thumb on the flint.
“Go
on, Sergeant Harkness, why don’t you give me some more of your expert advice?
But you’d best be quick.”
“Don’t
do this, Nigel. It’s never that bad. Just tell me what you want.”
“Is
that it? Come on, Sergeant, ain’t got much time left.” Firth spoke evenly,
almost languorously, as if he’d taken something hefty for the pain or gladly
abandoned some long struggle. The tears in his eyes and hoarseness in his words
could just have been the result of petrol fumes. “And don’t you fucking move
one step nearer me or I’ll fucking do us both.”
“Alright,
I was wrong.” Harkness slipped his left hand into his waist pocket, squeezed
the panic button on his radio then detached the battery to mute it. With a bit
of luck, it had squawked for urgent assistance before dramatically dying.
“Wrong
about it all and now I’m ready to be educated. You win this round.”
He
raised both hands, open and empty, measuring the distance between himself and
Firth. He couldn’t cover the six feet separating them before the other man’s
thumb rolled a lethal spark from the lighter. Even rooted to the spot, he knew
the airborne vapour could set him aflame too. He had to stop Firth dead in his
tracks or get out of the flat.
“Is
that it? Come on, Rob, make it fun. I can hear your head ticking. Reminds me of
Roland at The Willows. I called him Roley-Poley ‘cause of the way his fat gut
slapped against my back when he was raping me. He always had a good old think
before he said ‘owt to me. What would I like to hear? What would make me shut
the fuck up about it all? How could he make himself believe he deserved to
live?”
“I
said I was wrong. I’ll admit that. I’ll hold my hands up. No excuses. I fucked
up. We fucked up. It’s been confirmed, just now. Murphy was an accident. If I
was wrong about that, I’ll sit there and let you correct me on the rest of it.
We can talk this out. Get the record straight. About everything.”
“I
can’t honestly say I give a fuck about your record. I ain’t even going to solve
your whodunit for you. We’ve got no needle between us, you and me. You’re
nothing to me. Just another turnkey.”
“That’s
great, Nigel. We don’t matter. You’ve got your self-respect. So don’t do this
to prove a point to anyone else when you’re the only one that matters.”
“Is
that what you think? No, mate. My liberation’s coming. I’m just borrowed matter
and it’s time to give it back, let the universe do something better with it.
This recipe ain’t worked out too well. ”
“So
you’re a coward too? You’d rather throw it all away than make something of it?”
Through the open doorway, a chorus of sirens found them, swelling from the
expectant silence like hysteria.
“Here
they come. Makes me feel wanted.” Firth laughed and swallowed a sob. “If you
don’t know what I want, I only know one way to make you understand.”
“Don’t
you waste this life.” Harkness drew himself to his full height, stepped
forward, finger jabbing. “I don’t care what you did. Forget your cosmic
bollocks: You die, you die forever, end of story, no more you, just pain then
more pain then nothingness.”
“I
do hope so. You thought you knew the truth. This will be your truth and mine.
This is how it all ends. This is clean. Get a good look.”
Firth’s
eyes rolled up as he disengaged from this world, either blurring into endless
distance or unconsciously seeking out a higher power. Harkness rocked backwards
on his heels, unbalanced, poised precariously between fight and flight. He
should have leaped at Firth, swiped the lighter from his grasp and subdued him,
but instinct wouldn’t permit it. He might later taunt himself with the notions
that he’d acceded to Firth’s skewed logic or even thought it a fitting if messy
means of resolving the case.
Yet
instinct won, showing him Firth’s thumb grinding delicate, playful sparks out
of the lighter’s flint as Harkness folded in on himself to drop to the floor.
As his knees and elbows hit, the air around them both flashed into raging light
and heat.
Harkness
found himself floored by a blow he hadn’t felt, rolling towards the door, ears
full of thunder and eyes goggling at the curtains of flame that tore at the
ceiling. At the heart of the maelstrom, the demon that had been Firth thrashed,
keening with grief and fury; leaping and flailing at the windows, the ceiling
and at Harkness with barbs and lashes of incandescence.
Somewhere
beneath the robes and trappings of the demon, Firth somehow kept his feet,
giving expression to the outrageous, inconceivable pain with frantic movement.
Harkness couldn’t be sure if Firth’s clothes or his very flesh was burning away
in strips.
Expelling
fear and sense from his lungs in one long scream, Harkness ripped down one of
the long, dust-thickened curtains, stretched it out before him and threw
himself at Firth. Closing his arms and his eyes as they fell, Harkness felt the
beast ripping the fibres contemptuously aside, sinking its blistering fangs
into his hands and forearms, sucking in its hunger at whatever stale air
remained in his lungs.
He
tried to cling on, wrapping what had been Firth in the curtain, willpower vying
with stronger forces as he rolled and crushed and smothered. Then something in
him broke and he was crawling from the inert, smouldering package, adrift on an
ocean of pain, half-blinded by flame, the outline of the doorway become the
purest expression of hope.
The
sirens drew close and stopped and heavy feet rapped on the landing outside.
“You’ll
be relieved to hear your mobile didn’t survive the blaze.”
“How’s
that then? I survived the heat but it didn’t? That’s the last time I buy
Swedish stroke Japanese.”
“Not
that. Must have fallen out of your pocket and a fireman stood on it.”
“Not
all bad news then. Feed me a grape, would you?”
“Shall
I peel it as well? Play the lyre for you?”
“It
wouldn’t work; your face is too honest. Anyway, don’t be so cheeky. I’m poorly
and I’m still your boss. So just tug your forelock and do what you’re told.”
Harkness
lay on the steel-framed hospital bed, slick with sweat and rigid with pain. The
canula, piercing the broken skin of his left hand through his dressings,
shackled him to the bed more surely than straps or cuffs would have done. The
suspended bag of intravenous fluids was half empty again, suggesting his body
was still greedily rehydrating. In the first 24 hours of the ordeal, he’d
imagined that his body was a parched and broken land. The bandages were the
merciful shade of palm groves, the drip a system of irrigation, both driving
away the cruel aridity.
He’d
later dreamed that he was sitting cross-legged in the rockery of a suburban
garden, amusing himself by scraping his knuckles and wrists across the broken
stones and glass shards set into them until he was watering the garden with his
own lymph and blood and the air itself quivered with pain.
He‘d
known exactly where he was; a glimpse through the bay window had shown him the
parrot, the flock wallpaper, the bible-reading man and the rocking, bubbling
girl. Not even the fat oracle, filling the window, knocking at the glass and
beckoning with her hands like foam hammers, had been able to persuade him
inside. He’d lifted his arms, spraying arcs of blood over the window, blotting
her out, telling her he’d done enough and bled enough and wouldn’t be stepping
foot inside that house again. The dream had stayed with him for so long that he
couldn’t remember when it had started and how he’d been jarred out of it.
He had
only a hazy recollection of his trip to the hospital. He’d been told he’d
walked himself into the ambulance and demanded his phone so that he could take
charge of the incident. In A&E, he’d finally accepted that he was a patient
after receiving the heavy dose of morphine necessary for a junior doctor to
manipulate and examine the blistered mess he’d made of his wrists and arms
without having him leap through the ceiling.
Later,
consigned to a trauma ward for observations, he’d demanded to know why he was
in a bed when he’d only come to visit, then tried to kick away the bars that
were unjustly trapping him. The nursing auxiliary had unscrewed the end of the
bed and wedged pillows there to accommodate his overhanging feet. She’d then
arranged for an opiate night-cap to ensure a quiet shift for her bolshie
patient and the ward staff.
With
morning had come acute pain and understanding. His face radiated heat and his
arms and hands crackled white hot with an agony that showed no sign of burning
itself out. His naked body was separated from the starched cotton and old vinyl
of the bed by a slippery layer of sweat and unguents and every part of him
itched and demanded to flex and stretch. Yet every movement seemed to tear at
the flayed skin beneath the bandages that swaddled his wrists and hands.
Desperate to hold something, to read or drink or urinate without shouting for
assistance, he repeatedly tried to pinch forefinger and thumb together, only
for the pain to flare behind his eyes and squeeze a bellow from his lungs.
“Give
it a rest, you silly sod. You’re disturbing the other inmates.” Slowey was
still there. A good man in a storm, that Slowey.
“Sorry.
Drifted off there. So, what’s the prognosis?”
“First
degree burns to the face. Second degree burns to a large area of your hands and
wrists. You’ve probably escaped nerve damage, septicaemia, skin grafts and all
that other horrible stuff. You’ll need those dressings for a week or two to
keep it all clean. You might not play the guitar for a while. Other than
that…..”
“Not
me. Him. Firth.”
“Oh.
Nobody told you?” Slowey had fixed his face in the solemn neutrality he brought
to bear on bereaved relatives who might not have heard the news yet.
“My
interest is entirely professional.”
“Well,
he’s still alive. You saved his life. Technically.”
“But?”
“But
he suffered third degree burns over about 60% of his body. He’s got his own
oxygen tent in ICU but he’s not likely to see the day out. Galloping infection
in what remains of his skin. Fluid loss and damage to nerves and blood vessels
means his body can’t do anything about it.” Slowey shrugged. “The doctors are
just treading water with him. Keeping him switched on while they look for a
relative. We’re helping but it’s a tall order given his background. Or lack of
one.”
“Talking?”
“Lord
no. You’d have to wear a sterile suit to get near him and he’s out for the
count. I mean, I asked about him talking but they just gave me that look – you
know, the one that says you’re a fascist pig and don’t try your tricks on me
I’ve seen all the TV shows and I know what you’re like so just forget your
silly bollocks questions and put your cosh away. Then they pointed out that
he’d feel it all if they brought him round and all he’d do is scream until they
put him under again. A lot of the nerves get burned away but the ones that are
left more than make up for it.”
“Uncomfortable
with hospitals?”
“No.
They only bother me when I’m the one stuck in that bed. I’m uncomfortable with
your booloo behaviour though.” He proffered another grape which Harkness
declined with a minute shake of the chin. “Fact is, we’ve got a good thing
going in that department. Don’t get me wrong: I’ve always accepted that you’re
a bit of a mentalist and it does make life interesting. But who’s going to sign
my OT claims if you die or – even worse – get sacked. So sort yourself out.
Sarge.”
“Ken,
I thought I had a tear in my eye for a second, but it turned out to be a
weeping blister. What about the case?”
“It’s
still there. But there’s another big case conference today. The gossip in the
enquiry office is that it’s resolved itself. Prime suspect and secondary
suspect have squared themselves away. Nobody else in the frame. Well, you know
the way it’s going. Oh, and there’s a sweepstake on when Firth will peg out.”
“I
should be there.”
“No,
you shouldn’t.” Slowey sighed and wedged another grape into Harkness’s mouth.
“Don’t ask me to paint you a picture. Management’s still reeling. Just stay off
sick. Christ knows you’ve earned it. Or do I mean deserved it?”
Harkness
stifled an urge to rip off the dressings, vault from the wretched bed and run
far away, as if by doing so he could leave the wounds on the linoleum floor to
be swept up and incinerated painlessly. Slowey glanced at his watch then found
his eyes distracted by a dotted movement on the IV stand. Moving in closer, he
gestured at the procession of ants climbing the grimy metal upright in search
of supplies.
“See,
life goes on,” he said. “Meet the new cleaners, hard at it. By the way, I’ve
not seen Hayley around. Want me to knock on?”
“She…..I
haven’t seen her. I wasn’t really with it. Can still smell her perfume though.
And someone’s brought me some decent clothes and a book. I can’t pick it up but
it’s the thought…..”
“Well,
I didn’t bring that stuff. I don’t care that much. In fact, I’d make you walk
out of here with your stupid, scalded arse hanging out of that gown to teach
you a lesson about consequences.”
“Look,
I….”
“No,
don’t get serious on me. I’m just yanking your chain. You did a ballsy thing.
And you’ve got your free holiday, whereas I’ve got Biddle as my gaffer. Someone
had to replace you. He hasn’t got your knack for fucking things up, but he’s
got stripes and he hasn’t got an excuse so he gets to fill in.”
“Right.
Piss off then. I’m going to catch up on my sleep. What time is it?”
“About
10 o’clock?”
“When?
I mean, what day?”
“When?
I mean, what day?” A familiar voice, a known perfume, vanilla and juniper with
something musky.
“Today
or tomorrow. We’re just waiting for the doctor to sign him off.”
“Will
the doctor be here again today? I mean, it’s after six.”
“I’m
sure he will.”
“But
you don’t know. What does that mean, ‘sign him off’? Does he need more
treatment?”
He
knew Hayley’s hands would be planted on her hips as she stared at her victim.
Her tone of patient indignation wouldn’t waver until she got the right answer,
a tactic she’d perfected in a thousand sales negotiations.
“Well,
the doctor has to decide.”
“Don’t
you know?”
He
was amazed that she’d turned up. She was always the solid one. To her, it
wouldn’t matter that the partnership might soon break up; she would keep
honouring the contract until it was formally dissolved.
“Well,
I’m not sure it’s my place to….”
“Well,
what would happen if I took him home tonight?”
“Well,
perhaps the doctor would be the best one to advise you on that.”
“Would
he die? Would his head explode?”
“Well,
no, but….”
“But
what? Look, Jennifer, your badge says you’re a nurse. An actual nurse. You have
a mind of your own.”
“Mrs
Harkness….”
“I am
no such thing. Don’t make assumptions. Call me Hayley as we’re on first name
terms.”
“Mrs….Hayley.
If you’d like to follow me, I’m sure we can find the doctor together.”
“Jennifer.
Just step on the brakes. Allow me to make myself clear.”
Hayley
would have somehow made herself a foot taller by means Harkness had never been
able to guess. She also amplified her voice to within a whisker of bawling
outrage, an effect which tended to make an opponent choose between a climb-down
and a screaming row.
“If
my partner can be safely discharged into the hands of someone competent to
change dressings, see to his basic needs and generally look after his welfare,
then tell me ‘yes’ or ‘no’. I’m assuming he’s not under house arrest.”
“Yes,
I mean of course he’s not.”
Then
they were in front of him, Hayley laughing and joking with the nurse as if they
were old friends, the nurse mirroring her, relieved that the harpy had been
replaced by the nice young woman who’d first introduced herself a few long
minutes ago.
“Hello,”
Harkness managed. “How are you, Hayley?”
“You
big silly arse,” she replied in the bluff tone of the hockey pitch, the one she
used when she didn’t want to cry. “What a mess you’ve made of yourself. And
Slowey has to tell me.”
“Didn’t
want to trouble you,” he offered, frowning as the flawed logic of keeping
Hayley in the dark for her own benefit melted at room temperature.
“Well,
you did, you stupid, stupid, bloody man. Really, they’re all such children.”
She tutted and shook her head, exchanging a knowing glance with the nurse.
“Let’s get you home.”
“Hayley,”
he blurted. “Look at my hands. I can’t. You know. I can’t use them. Not for a
week. Maybe more.”
“And
you think that I’m going to leave you hogging a bed that belongs to someone
really poorly just to avoid helping you in the bathroom. There, I’ve said it.
Now, on your feet, Rob, and don’t step on mine. These shoes cost more than your
wardrobe. Much, much more.”
Obedient
and needful, he swung his legs out of bed, dragging himself upright, ignoring
the twisting of the canula in his vein and the insistent tugging of the thick
needle on the broken skin that had embraced it. He could submit to solitude or
he could become beholden; he saw no third way.
“It’s
Friday. All still a bit vague, is it Rob?” Newbould held court in Harkness’s
back garden, straddling a chair and sizing him up over beefy forearms bearing
faded green tattoos of armorial crests and writhing houris, spectres of a military
career decades behind him. “You make this coffee? Bloody nice.”
“No.
Hayley did. Made me a flask before she went out. What? Vague. Yep, afraid so.
It’s the drugs. And the piss poor sleep.”
“Drugs?
Anything good?”
“Enough
codeine to constipate an elephant. And sleeping pills which seem to kick in
some time after breakfast.”