by Stephen Laws
“What’s the matter with you?” Tully snapped. “Can’t you light a bloody match?”
“That’s just it,” Drew said, striking again. “The matches are bloody.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“These matches are all wet. They’re soaked in your blood.”
“Shit. You got matches?”
“There are matches in . . .”
Thunder crashed again, directly overhead—filling the living room with the sound of its detonation. Cutlery and crockery cracked and rattled in the kitchen, the walls of the room shivering under the impact. The storm wind seemed to shriek in reply, and in the next moment there was a splintering crack and the shattering crumble of masonry and wood falling apart. The kitchen window shattered as a tree branch burst into the house, glass splintering and flying—wind gusting though the broken panes. The storm howled into the living room.
“Get that window blocked!” Tully yelled.
Drew dropped the candles onto the sofa next to Tully and ran to the kitchen. Snatching at the branch protruding through the broken window he snapped off twigs, leaves and smaller branches as the wind gusted in his face. Pasco was suddenly next to him, cursing and elbowing as he yanked foliage aside and threw it behind him into the kitchen.
“What’s happened out there?” yelled Tully.
“Looks like a tree down,” Drew yelled back through the storm wind.
The protruding branches and twigs were clear of the window. Jumping up, Drew seized the sturdy window blind and yanked it down across the window frame, fastening it at the sill. The wind died away, but the blind rattled and clattered furiously.
“Check the cars, Pasco,” Tully said through clenched teeth, wracked with new and hideous pain.
“What?”
“Check the cars are okay. You do want to get away from here in the morning, don’t you? If that was a tree coming down, I want to make sure the cars aren’t damaged.”
Pasco started for the front door.
“And you—what the hell is your name, anyway?”
“Drew Hall.”
“Hall—find some matches that aren’t wet.”
“In the cupboard here.”
“Get them then.”
Drew went to get them as the front door opened and closed, returning to Tully. He retrieved the lantern from the sofa, lit it and handed it to him.
“Put it on that table there. Next to me. Get those candles lit.”
Drew did as he was told, lit a candle and took it to Faye. She exchanged a look as Drew returned to the sofa and took more candles. When the door banged open again and Pasco re-entered, the candle blew out.
“Pasco! For God’s sake!”
“Will you keep your hair on? I’m doing what you told me, aren’t I? Never good enough for you, Tully.”
“The cars?”
“They’re okay.”
“Do they need to be under cover somewhere, out of the storm?”
“They’re sheltered out there in that forecourt as good as anywhere. Nothing gonna blow down on ’em where they are.”
“What about that fucking tree through the kitchen window.”
“Got blew out from the side. Nothing else there.”
Drew began lighting candles again, placing them on doors, shelves and cabinets. Pasco sprawled back in his chair, lifted the tequila bottle and emptied it. He watched Drew lighting and placing the candles, and then began clapping.
“Lovely job. Now it’s just like fucking fairyland. Isn’t it, Crip?”
“Yeah,” snorted Crip. “Like fairyland.”
“Find me something else to drink.”
Crip rose and headed for the kitchen.
“You a proper farmer then?” asked Tully, when Drew had finished. Shadows guttered everywhere in the living room, making it look like some kind of bizarre underwater grotto. Orange light shone from the lantern on the table next to Tully, making his face look like a carnival mask. The window blind rattled fiercely. Downstairs in the cellar, the storm doors juddered and rattled in response.
“Don’t know what that means,” Drew said.
“You must know things. About animals.”
“Some things.”
“You ever fixed an animal? When it’s been injured, I mean?”
“You mean like—a broken leg, maybe?”
When Tully smiled, it looked ghastly in the lamplight. “You’ve got a quick mind.”
“I don’t fix broken legs. I send for a vet.”
“Vets are in short supply tonight. I bet you could give it a try, though. Bet you’ve seen it done.”
“I’ve seen it done. But why should I even try?”
In response, Tully simply raised the gun.
“You’re going to kill us anyway” Drew said.
“Not necessarily.”
“You guarantee to let us go, if I try to fix your leg?”
“I guarantee you won’t come out of this alive—any of you—if you don’t.”
Cath sat forward, prising Rynne from around her neck.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
Tully and Pasco exchanged looks.
“I’m a nurse,” Cath said. “I can help.”
Pasco laughed; a short bark of derision. “You’re no nurse. You’re a ‘nothing’ remember?”
“I can help,” repeated Cath, aware now that Drew, Faye and Rynne were all staring at her. She prayed that no one would say anything.
“You didn’t say anything in the car,” Pasco said. “Why didn’t you say you were a nurse in the car?”
“Whose idea was the tourniquet? Who knew where the hospitals and emergency clinics were?”
Tully loosened the belt again and groaned. “You’ve been sitting there, watching me bleed all night—and you’re giving me fucking aspirin for this! What kind of nurse is that, then?”
“Why should I help you when you’ve been terrorizing us? And for your information, I’m not a fully qualified nurse. I’m an auxiliary assistant, and I’m training to be a nurse. But I’m the nearest thing to a proper nurse you’re going to find tonight.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Faye lied. Her voice was as straight and steady as ever.
“So what can you do?” asked Tully.
“Make a splint,” continued Cath. “Straighten your leg. Strap it up—bandage it. Can’t say it’ll be pleasant for you. But you have to promise not to hurt us.”
“What you going to use for splints?” asked Tully.
“I need something hard and straight . . .”
“Well, I can help you out there, darling,” Pasco said, grabbing his crotch. “No problem.”
“Maybe two straight pieces of wood or metal,” continued Cath, ignoring him. “Drew, do you have any . . . ?”
“You mean like this?” Pasco stood up, wavering—swept up the side table next to his chair and dashed it to the floor. Rynne squealed, and Faye pulled her close as Pasco trampled on the upturned table, yanking off first one leg and the other. He held them up like trophies. He seemed a great deal less steady on his feet than previously.
“Yes,” Cath said in a voice that was both flat and disgusted, never taking her eyes off Tully, who continued to study her intently through the haze of his pain. “Like that. Drew?”
“Yes?”
“We need some linen or some rope. Something to bind them together once his leg is straight. Unless Mr. Pasco wants to pull down some curtains as well?”
“Mister Pasco? Now see, Tully—that’s all a man needs. A little respect.” Pasco slumped back in his chair. “You found anything else to drink yet, Crip?”
“Got lemonade here,” Crip called, rummaging through cabinets.
“I said something to drink you idiot!”
Crip turned back. When he spoke this time, there was no subservience in his voice. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me anymore, Pasco. But my feelings is still hurting ‘bout being made to look like an idiot. I’m not gonna hear that stuff no mor
e from anybody.”
This time, when Pasco laughed, it was forced. “I’m sorry, Crip. I didn’t mean nothing. You know that. Me and you is pals. Always have been, always will be. It’s this storm and stuff. Hurting my head, you know? Now, you find me some booze and it’ll make me feel much better.”
“Yeah,” Crip said, lightening. “My head hurts as well. You think it’s the wind and the thunder and stuff?”
“That’s exactly what it is, Crip. Tell you what—you find a bottle of something, and me and you’ll share it. Make our heads better, eh? Where’s the rest of the booze, farmer man?”
“You’ve drunk it all.”
“Bollocks! Keep looking Crip, there’s bound to be something in there . . .”
“Pasco,” Tully said.
“Yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up. You too, Crip.”
“Shutted,” said Crip, returning to his search.
“There are more towels there,” Drew said. When Cath looked back to Drew, she saw the hardness in his eyes, saw the recognition that she had something in mind and was waiting for some kind of development. “In the kitchen drawer. You could use them to tie splints.”
“What about your bra, Nothing Nurse lady!” Pasco laughed, loud and braying. “You could use that!”
Tully squirmed round to look at him. “You been taking some of that stuff we got?”
Pasco spread his arms wide, a big grin on his face. “Who me? I’m just like Crip. I do whatever you tell me to do like a good boy.”
“Crip,” Tully said, still looking at Pasco. “Find the towels.”
Crip moaned, clattering amidst the shelves and cabinets. “Too many things to do—you keep asking me too many things . . .”
“Which drawer?”
“Beside him now, on the left,” Drew said. He and Cath still held each other’s eyes. Mouth tight, Cath nodded imperceptibly.
“The drawer on your left, Crip. Calm down.”
Crip pulled open the drawer so hard that it slid out of the unit and fell to the floor. He kicked it in frustration, took out a handful of towels and blundered to the sofa, tossing them at Cath before returning to the kitchen in his hunt for a bottle. “There’s nothing here, Pasco. I can’t find nothing here.”
“Keep looking.” Pasco grinned. “You’re doing a great job.”
“So do it,” Tully said to Cath.
Cath stood, looking back to where Faye was holding Rynne. Her daughter was shivering with fear, but Faye remained straight backed and still. With the towels in both hands, she knelt down in front of Tully.
“Oh man,” laughed Pasco. “The things I could find for you to do if you were kneeling in front of me.”
Cath looked at Tully’s shattered leg, left and right. The guttering shadows in the lamp and candlelight seemed to make the black-red wound there come alive. She touched the torn fabric of his jeans, and Tully hissed in pain.
“Violence is shocking,” she had told the Welsh journalist, the words somehow coming back to her. “It is horrible. And I’ve tried to show that. I suppose if anything I’ve tried to deglamourise it.”
“What are you waiting for?” he hissed again.
“This is no good,” Cath said. “I’ve got to straighten your leg to get the splints on. You’ll have to lie lengthways on the sofa.”
“Makes sense,” giggled Pasco.
“So help me God,” Tully said through clenched teeth. “You’ve been sneaking something down you when I wasn’t looking. That’s not just the booze talking.”
“Not a good patient, is he nurse?”
“Help turn me round.”
Pasco stood up from his chair, teetered and sat back again heavily. “Just gimme a minute.”
“Shit!” Tully turned to Drew. “You—come over here and turn me around like she says.”
Drew rose and moved to the sofa. Tully raised the gun and pointed it at him.
“I’m expecting you to be gentle and not do anything stupid. Give me your arm.” Drew stood behind the sofa and held out his arm. Tully grabbed his forearm, hiked himself sideways, with the gun held up and never less than six inches from Drew’s face. Tully’s face contorted, and Cath could hear his teeth grinding as he hiked himself sideways again, now bracing his good foot on the bottom armrest of the sofa and shoving hard to straighten himself. His shattered leg trailed horribly below the knee along the side of the sofa as he moved, the foot bumping and dragging on the carpet. “Shiiiitttttt . . .”
“There’s something specific about human violence,” she had said. “Something squalid and horrible that sets our species completely apart. Animals will kill for food, or to protect themselves or their young. Humans are the only animals that will kill or maim for the sake of it.”
Tully’s face was running with sweat. The place where he had been sitting, and the mass of towels he had first used, was drenched in sticky blood.
“Stand the fuck away!” snapped Tully to Drew.
Drew stood back as Tully swung the gun across to where Cath knelt. This time, the barrel of the gun touched her forehead.
“Lift that leg and put it on the sofa.”
“I’ll do it!” Drew started to move.
“Stay put! The nurse here’ll do it.”
“Look,” Cath said. “This is going to hurt—and I don’t want you to squeeze that trigger by mistake.”
“Yeah,”said Pasco.”She’s right. Gimme the gun,Tully.”
“You must be joking,” Tully said. And then, to Cath: “Just do it.”
“Christ, you be careful with that damned gun!” Drew gripped the edge of the sofa.
Cath reached down.
“I guess you could say that I’m appalled and fascinated by what people have called the ‘culture of violence.’ I like to think that, as a decent human being who abhors violence, I could never bring myself to actually harm another human being.”
Using both hands, and with the gun barrel still touching her forehead, Cath gently took Tully’s lower leg—one hand on the calf, the other by the foot. When she lifted it, a sibilant hiss came from Tully’s mouth through gritted teeth—like escaping steam. There seemed to be hardly anything connecting his lower leg to the knee as she placed it on the sofa next to his other leg. Tully’s head twisted, and the gun came away from Cath’s head as she fell back and away. The gun thumped on the carpet, but Tully was still holding it. Drew and Pasco’s eyes locked.
Suddenly, it seemed that Pasco was no longer drunk or high on drugs. His eyes glittered as he lunged from the seat and Drew came around the bottom of the sofa.
The gun came up from the floor, Tully pointing it upside down and backwards at Pasco’s stomach. Tully turned his head back to stare at Drew, who froze. When Pasco sat back, Tully righted the gun and pointed it—almost lazily—at Drew.
“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” he said in a voice strangled with pain. “That you weren’t going to do something stupid like I warned you about. Pasco? Anything left in that tequila bottle?”
“Nope. That’s why I got Crip looking.”
“Shit. Come on then, nurse. Do your stuff.”
“Okay, I’m going to place these splints on either side of your leg. But Drew’s going to have to help me. Unless you want your friend over there to lend a hand?”
“Get on with it.”
“Drew, come round here. I want you to hold these splints against the side of his leg. I’m going to slide these towels underneath and around, then tie them tight. But first I have to straighten his leg.”
Cath laid the broken table legs on each side of Tully’s ruined leg and then, as Drew came around the end of the sofa and she brushed past him, she fixed him with as hard a stare as possible and hoped that he understood.
Drew knelt down by Tully, leaning over to hold the splints—and feeling the gun barrel come up against his temple. Pasco laughed again, wheezing and spluttering. “Hey, this is good! The farmer’s turn now.”
Drew looked back at Cath as
she stood at the bottom of the sofa.
“Hey,” Crip said from the kitchen. “I found a bottle. Lick—lick—something . . .”
“Liqueur,” Drew said.
Cath gently took Tully’s foot in her hands.
“This will hurt,” she said calmly.
“I could never bring myself to harm another human being.”
“Do it,” said Tully. “And get it over with.”
“Animals kill to protect themselves.”
Cath looked to where Rynne was being comforted by Faye—and thought she saw an almost imperceptible nod from the older woman.
“Or to protect their young.”
Cath yanked Tully’s leg back as hard and as savagely as she could. Sinew and cartilage ripped with a sound of wet cloth.
Tully screamed, high pitched and shrill as Drew grabbed for the gun, seizing his fist in both hands as Tully’s finger squeezed the trigger in a reflex of hideous agony—and a second bullet shattered crockery over the fireplace.
“Faye!” yelled Cath. “Get Rynne out of here now!”
Faye was instantly on her feet, swinging Rynne from her lap as they headed for the front door.
Pasco, frozen and wide-eyed at the suddenness and the shrieking, broke from his stupor and lunged at Drew—just as Cath seized his hair from behind and yanked his head back.
Crip headed straight for Faye, bellowing—arms outstretched.
“Mum!” called Rynne, dragging back on Faye’s hand. Faye pulled her around, swept an ornament from the table as Crip came around the sofa and smashed it hard across the bridge of his nose before those meaty hands could fasten on her. Crip made a glottal sound and went down on his knees, blood spurting between the fingers clasped to his face.
“Mum!”
“Come on, Rynne!” Faye dragged her, now scooping the girl up as she ran for the door. Behind her, Pasco twisted and punched Cath hard on the side of her head, but she clung to his hair as he twisted—and they both fell awkwardly to the carpet, legs thrashing as Cath hung on. Tully, still yelling hoarsely, snapped his head back—and butted Drew on the chin. Drew lost his grip, and Tully yanked his gun hand free. Crip was on his feet again; face bloody, shaking his head.
Please God, thought Faye desperately. Please God that bastard didn’t lock the door when he came back.
