Edge

by Nick Oldham

  ‘The X-rays have come back – nothing broken,’ she announced.

  ‘Good to hear.’ He shifted painfully.

  ‘That said, the doctor suggests you might want to put that arm in a sling for a few days, and you shouldn’t drive.’

  ‘Maybe just some painkillers,’ he suggested. ‘Unfortunately, still got work to do.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll get you some analgesics.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He started to put his T-shirt back on over his head. ‘How’s the other patient?’

  ‘Better than you’d think: cuts, bruises, and a very deep hole in his bottom – from a pickaxe, I believe.’

  ‘So he has a matching pair?’ Henry guffawed at his own toilet humour.

  The nurse was stone-faced. ‘It could have been very serious. As it is, the point went into his gluteus maximus – his buttocks, in other words – and he’s only got muscle damage, so it’s just a case of cleaning, disinfecting, stitching and giving him a tetanus injection.’

  ‘Then he’ll be fit to go?’ Henry asked hopefully, knowing that the only place the lad would be going was straight into a police cell, injured or otherwise.

  ‘I would imagine … but the doctor will decide that, not me.’

  She helped him to finish putting his T-shirt back on. It was wet and dirty, as were his jeans and windjammer from the few moments of rolling around outside the pub with Annabel after pushing her out of the path of the car, then his time on the ground in the track. He didn’t have another set of clothes.

  He slid off the bed on to his feet and pulled back the curtain which divided off his cubicle in the Accident and Emergency department at Rochdale Infirmary. When the ambulance had arrived on the farm track the paramedics had put the injured young man into the back of it. Henry had also climbed in after identifying himself. He watched them do a quick inspection of the victim, but had been ushered out when they saw that his jeans were soaked in blood – obviously from the wound in the buttocks – and they needed to remove them.

  In the rain, one of the paramedics gave Henry a quick once-over in front of the ambulance headlights, then Henry had to drive himself in his Audi ahead of the ambulance because it would have been impossible for either of the vehicles to have turned around or reversed. Fortunately Henry found he could branch off on to another track that ran almost parallel and brought him back on to a proper road near to the Cock and Magpie.

  Pulling in to allow the ambulance to pass him, he then followed it as it blue-lighted its way to Rochdale Infirmary, feeling the pain in his arm and side, doing his best to drive with just his right arm.

  On arrival, the assault victim was stretchered quickly into the A&E treatment area whilst Henry, even though he was also an assault victim, had to queue up and wait to see a triage nurse.

  Fortunately the unit was not too busy – it was still early – and he was soon being examined by a consultant, then sent to X-ray.

  As Henry’s feet touched the tiled floor, the minute jarring of the manoeuvre sent a jolt of pain from his shoulder to his ribs and he stopped moving very quickly.

  The nurse looked concerned.

  ‘You sure nothing’s broken?’ he asked weakly. ‘I feel like everything’s moving where things shouldn’t be moving.’ He gave her another of his smiles, accompanied by puppy-dog eyes, which probably looked more like a grimace and made her frown with confusion. His facial expressions seemed to have lost all meaning. She grimaced worriedly, then scuttled away to find some pills for him.

  Henry rolled his left shoulder to keep the blood flowing and rotated his torso slowly, to try and ward off stiffening up.

  There was still work to do.

  By following the screams of agony through the A&E department, he soon found the cubicle he was after. He opened the curtain and saw that the young man really had been pickaxed in the bottom or, more precisely, the right buttock.

  As Henry shoved his head through the gap in the curtain, the consultant treating the lad had just taken a step back in order to get a helicopter view of the wound.

  The patient was lying on his left side, facing away from Henry. He was now wearing a surgical gown, his lower clothing having been removed and dumped in one corner. The gown was pulled up, exposing his thin bottom, his knees drawn up, giving Henry an unexpected view of his bum in all its gory glory.

  The point of the pickaxe had entered the lower part of his right cheek, an inch or so right of his crack, and made a ragged, almost star-shaped hole about two inches across, possibly an inch and a half deep, Henry could not exactly say. It looked a dirty, bloody mess and very painful indeed.

  Henry winced empathetically, especially when the doctor moved back and gently inserted a surgically gloved forefinger into the wound, most of which disappeared and must have touched an exposed nerve. As though he’d been jabbed by a cattle prod, the young man screamed horribly and his whole body convulsed in a spasm of agony.

  The doctor removed his finger and said, ‘Sorry, son, but I need to know how deep the hole is and that was the most effective way of finding out.’

  The lad sobbed pitifully.

  Henry thought that someone had meant to do this young guy a great deal of harm, and the subsequent baseball bat attack only confirmed this. Henry wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t turned up when he did and guessed there would have been a body in the lane waiting to be discovered next morning. Henry might just have saved his life – and got battered himself in the process.

  A nurse in the cubicle looked up and noticed Henry’s face in the crack of the curtain.

  He gave her the lopsided smile.

  Clearly unimpressed, she said sternly, ‘Excuse me, but what do you think you’re doing?’

  The doctor turned and recognized Henry, whom he had briefly examined after the triage nurse.

  ‘It’s OK, nurse,’ he said and indicated that Henry should step back. Henry retreated and the doctor came out of the cubicle, peeling off his blood-covered surgical gloves, jerking his head for Henry to follow him to a position out of earshot. ‘How are you feeling? I saw the X-rays, nothing broken.’

  ‘Old and sore and a bit cross … a wicked combination. How is he?’

  ‘Well battered, but only superficially, really. The wound in his bottom is quite bad, but it’s in the muscle and hasn’t ruptured or touched anything serious. It needs to be cleaned, packed, stitched and dressed and time will heal it, ultimately.’

  ‘Can I have him soon, then?’

  ‘I would say so. I’m going to get a nurse to clean the wound, then I’ll be back to do the rest.’

  ‘Thanks … and he’ll be fit to spend the night in a cell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another nurse hurried up to the doctor, spoke urgently. ‘Ambulance en route with a serious casualty from a car accident,’ she informed him. ‘Head and neck injuries.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘Be with you in a moment.’ He turned back to Henry. ‘And so Friday night begins. I may have to delay treating our friend in there … let me see what’s coming in.’

  Henry shrugged philosophically. Such was the nature of A&E units.

  ‘Can I have a word with him anyway, just to start getting details?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ The doctor binned his soiled gloves and hurried after the nurse.

  Henry exhaled tiredly, filtering everything through his slightly addled brain, wondering how best to handle the ‘Axe-man’, as he had unofficially named him.

  Because Rochdale was part of Greater Manchester Police’s area, if Henry arrested the wounded man – which he fully intended to do, no matter what – he should first be conveyed to Rochdale nick, then booked in and transferred back over the border into Lancashire. At least that was the theoretical procedure, but Henry did not want to be bogged down by that. It was bad enough that he had to take a prisoner all the way to Burnley, but going via Rochdale would make time drag even more, and what Henry wanted to do was stick the Axe-man in a cell, have some sharp
words with him, then find Britannia Top Farm, wherever it might be, and knock on the door. Or preferably, kick it down.

  He had stumbled on to something he wanted to sort out and the best way to do it was to get all concerned locked up, after which he would sort the mess out at his own pace.

  Tired and hurting though he was, he felt quite excited by it.

  This was one of those bread-and-butter jobs he always liked dealing with when he was a uniformed cop.

  It would, he thought, make a nice change from murder.

  First, though, he needed to make a few calls.

  The rain was still heavy. Henry found a spot in the entrance foyer of the A&E unit and fished out his mobile phone. He called the comms room at Burnley to bring them up to speed with his current situation.

  ‘I’m going to need transport for one prisoner, Rochdale Infirmary to Burnley,’ he explained to the call-taker.

  ‘I’ll have to get back to you on that one, sir.’

  ‘OK. I know we’re a bit thin on the ground, but I need it to happen.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll call you back.’

  Henry ended the call and watched the rain, mesmerized by it for a while, then feeling very uncomfortable in his sodden clothing, and shaking his head for not having had the foresight to bring two spare sets of clothes with him instead of just the one. He made the next call to Alison, wondering how he would explain to her why he wasn’t home by now.

  ‘And so it goes on,’ he thought cynically to himself as he found her number. ‘Once more I’m putting the job first – and at my age.’

  She answered. He could hear the sounds of pub-related activity behind her, some raised but happy voices, glasses chinking.

  ‘Henry,’ she said suspiciously. ‘Why are you not here?’

  ‘Hey, sorry love,’ he began, very annoyed at himself.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I … er … got involved in something … got a bit of a kicking …’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Henry.’

  ‘Oh I know, I know.’ He tried to remind himself that he found it cute when Alison reverted to gutter language when she became annoyed – one of the many charming traits he adored about her.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Rochdale Infirmary.’

  ‘What? Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but you know … I’m sorry, I kind of need to see this thing through. People who have thumped me need arresting, so I don’t see myself being home any time soon.’

  She uttered an exasperated gasp.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘So long as you’re all right,’ she said, relenting slightly. Her voice broke.

  ‘Is Flynn still there?’

  ‘Yes. Like I said, I’ve sorted out one of the guest rooms for him.’

  ‘I hope he’s paying full whack.’

  She chuckled wickedly. ‘Special rate for a special guest,’ she teased, knowing what Henry thought of Flynn.

  ‘Mm.’ He gave a low, warning growl like a lion seeing a rival circling the pride.

  ‘And Rik and Lisa have turned up too – better late than never,’ she said, rubbing it in, referring to DCI Rik Dean and Lisa, Henry’s once-wild child sister. They were now a couple with marriage looming.

  ‘Are they on a special rate, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s more like a doss house than a business,’ Henry said. ‘That won’t be happening when I’m running it properly with you after I retire.’

  ‘You still plan on that?’

  ‘Course.’ He was going to spend his autumn days working with Alison in the Tawny Owl – at least that was the idea. ‘Look, I’ll be as quick as possible here. A lad’s been badly assaulted, I’ve been thumped and I don’t want to let it go cold, that’s all,’ he said, then added, ‘I love you.’

  ‘Same here.’

  In the hubbub behind her he heard someone order a pint and wished it was him.

  ‘Just get home, OK?’ she said.

  ‘I will – and you keep that Flynn at arm’s-length. I know what he’s like; he’ll be all over you like a rash, given the chance.’

  ‘I will,’ she promised, but just before she hung up he heard her say, ‘Steve, darling … just hand me back my panties, will you?’ Then the line went dead and Henry had to laugh at her naughtiness. It went well with the gutter language.

  His phone rang almost immediately: the comms room at Burnley.

  ‘Sir,’ the operator said, ‘got a vehicle on its way to you, just setting off from Rossendale Police Station; just one officer on board, though.’

  ‘That’s OK, I can work with that.’

  ‘In a Land Rover.’

  ‘Even better,’ Henry said, visualizing the prisoner cage in the back.

  ‘And – it’s the chief constable driving it …’

  Henry didn’t even bother to ask. Instead he took himself back into A&E and found a coffee machine, knowing he needed a shot of ‘fully leaded’ – caffeinated – in order to keep him going, no matter how poor the quality might be. He had the correct change in his pocket, which he sorted from amongst the two sets of keys also in there – his car keys and the keys to Abel Kirkman’s place. He selected a black coffee from a dispenser that still dropped a thin plastic cup down into a holder and filled it with a very muddy brew. It seemed a long time since he had bought a drink from such a machine and he was vaguely surprised they still existed.

  The coffee didn’t taste too bad and the first few sips of the boiling hot, bitter liquid hit the spot.

  He lounged at that location for a few moments to assess how he was feeling and also to plan what was going to happen over the next few hours.

  First, tackling the girl, Annabel, to get her out of the path of the speeding car had caused him to land heavily on his right knee, although the adrenalin surge then and shortly after ensured he didn’t realize he had hurt that part of his anatomy until later. The subsequent beating was more directly painful and he knew he would be very sore and stiff in the morning. The pain killers given to him were actually having some numbing effect, which was good.

  Then he worked through things.

  Arresting the lad with the pickaxe hole in his bottom was next on the agenda, but that could wait until the Land Rover arrived. He didn’t want to spook him until necessary, though he did want to speak to him to start to pull the story together. What had happened up at Britannia Top Farm? Who was up there? Why had a fairly serious assault taken place? Which of the bastards had attacked him and where was Annabel likely to be? Was she safe or in harm’s way?

  After dropping him off in a cell it was Henry’s intention to find the farm and get tough.

  He started to walk back to the casualty department, his mind shuffling through the logistics of it all.

  He was on a corridor leading to A&E. At the far end was the emergency entrance door through which paramedics wheeled stretchered patients straight into the unit from the back of an ambulance. On his right, twenty metres ahead, was a double door that also led into the unit and directly opposite was a double door to the reception and waiting area.

  Henry saw a flurry of activity at the far end of the corridor.

  There was the reflection of rotating blue lights from an ambulance outside. Some shouting, then a door burst open and a stretcher pushed by a paramedic crashed through, a patient on it. Another paramedic held up a clear drip channelled into the patient’s arm. The doctor Henry had been dealing with and two nurses were alongside the stretcher, being briefed by the paramedics.

  Henry guessed this was the road accident victim who had been mentioned a few minutes before.

  Then the stretcher was inside the unit, the double doors clattering shut.

  This meant there would be a delay in dealing with Henry’s proposed prisoner, unless the bottom stitch-up could be delegated to a nurse or there was another consultant on the ward, though Henry hadn’t yet seen one, which didn’t surprise him. A&E units were often s
keleton staffed, then slammed for not hitting the stupid targets set by out-of-touch authorities.

  ‘Skeleton staff,’ he murmured to himself, chuckling at his own medical humour.

  He had now paused by a chocolate dispensing machine and was considering buying a Mars bar to accompany the caffeine hit and keep up his flagging energy levels.

  He was still about twenty metres away from the two sets of double doors that were directly opposite each other – the one on the right into the unit, the one directly across the corridor leading to the waiting area. He wasn’t paying particular heed to people going across from one door to the other because he was deciding whether a Mars bar was the correct option. Maybe it should be a Snickers, he thought, wrestling with himself. Then his chain of thought latched on to the fact that Snickers used to be called Marathon; why did the manufacturers have to change the name? The name changed, of course, before actual marathons became as popular as they now were. He wondered if the makers now regretted the change.

  Though his mind was churning with this unconnected mush, he did see a movement out of the corner of his eye and glancing up he saw two men clatter through the doors from the waiting room and cross quickly to enter the A&E department.

  They were dressed in jeans, trainers and zip-up jackets and both of them, Henry guessed, were in their early twenties, but he could not be completely certain of that because they were wearing back-to-front baseball caps on their heads and what looked like surgical masks over the lower portion of their faces.

  In their right hands, hanging loosely, almost discreetly and casually, down the sides of their legs, were baseball bats – and in that moment, Henry knew that he had been right to conclude that those were what he had been assaulted with, not pickaxe handles or just plain sticks.

  It took them maybe a second to cross the corridor, with no sideways looks or checks. They just went straight through, as if on a mission.

  It was just a glimpse for Henry at the exact moment his Snickers bar dropped into the collection tray.

  He dropped his quarter-drunk coffee into a waste bin, shot down the corridor and spun into the A&E unit.