by Matt Stark
“Are you okay?”
His head jerked toward the sound.
A kid of about eight stood a little way into the alley, just on the edge of the circle of light from the street lamp, staring at Sam. He had on a brown Paddington Bear duffel coat, a kind of miniature and much cleaner version of the one Sam was wearing, and held a tatty teddy bear in one hand, and a bright green kid’s drink bottle in the other. Sam wondered what the hell he was doing hanging around dark alleys at 4 a.m.
“Mister?”
Sam jerked.
“You okay?”
“Sure. Just taking a rest.” It was pretty lame but he was too knackered to think of anything more believable. Anyway it should be enough to fool an eight-year-old kid.
“Then why are your jeans red?”
Sam looked down and saw his coat had come open. Bollocks. It seemed even eight-year-olds were beyond him right now. Then he noticed the handle of Fast-Talker’s Glock was visible, sticking out of the front of his jeans. He quickly pulled the coat closed, and fumbled to do up the buttons, hoping the kid hadn’t seen the gun. He didn’t know how he’d react, and he really didn’t need him freaking out and attracting unwanted attention.
“Do you want a drink?”
When Sam looked up again he saw the kid was holding out his plastic bottle. Sam could have cried. He felt guilty but what could he do? Smiling and hoping he didn’t look like the Yorkshire Ripper, he took the bottle and took a gulp. It was some kind of cola, but tasted like nectar. He tipped his head back, emptied the bottle, then handed it back to the kid. In normal circumstances that would probably be a mean thing to do but these were far from normal circumstances – and Sam needed the fluids far more than the kid. The kid took the bottle back, looking pleased with himself. Perhaps he was happy he’d been so brave. Sam certainly thought he had. Before Sam could ask the kid what he was doing on his own in the middle of London, a scared-looking young woman ran around the corner. As she saw the kid her fear turned to anger.
“Samuel, what are you doing back here?” Her voice was a mix of anger and relief. She grabbed the kid’s arm, and dragged him back onto the main street, without even noticing Sam sitting in the shadows. Sam shook his head and as he did noticed a red sign with Accident and Emergency written in big red letters, directly opposite the alley, pointing left.
Wondering how he could have missed it he heaved himself up, stumbled out of the alley and turned left. Thirty seconds later he turned a corner and saw the Accident and Emergency entrance for University College Hospital. Three ambulances were parked up outside with their rear doors open unloading patients. It was a shiny modern extension to a red Gothic-style building. The architects must have been turning in their graves. But Sam didn’t care. Despite feeling shit he smiled from ear to ear. He was going to be okay. Once he got inside he’d be rushed off to the trauma unit. Skilled professionals would cannulate him, replace his lost fluids and then take him off to surgery to sort out the wound.
He was about to go in when he saw a cop standing outside. For some reason he stopped. At the same moment the cop looked at Sam. There was a pause while the cop took in Sam’s appearance, then started walking toward him.
“Sir?”
The cop was reaching for his radio. Something was wrong. Sam turned and limped as fast as he could – onto Gower Street. He came out on another main road. Euston Road. It was already getting busy with traffic. Opposite, a hundred yards or so on the other side of the road, was Euston Station. Sam was staggering now, feeling light-headed. His mouth hung open and he was breathing heavily. He stumbled, falling into someone. Sam didn’t really see him – just caught a glimpse of a grey hoody, and felt himself jar against a bony shoulder.
“Get off me, you fucking slag,” said the hoody, pushing Sam to one side. As the hoody walked away toward St. Pancras , probably to get his fix from the local drug dealers, Sam stood still for a long moment, trying to steady his nerves. There was no sign of the cop, but right then Sam couldn’t have moved even if there were. He needed to sort himself out now. But his thinking was muddled. He was getting cold again standing here, and still losing blood.
Trying to warm up he forced himself into motion again, walking along Euston Road parallel with the station. His hands were shoved deep in the duffel coat’s pockets, his chin dug into his chest against the cold winter air and to avoid the stares of the passers-by, hoping he wouldn’t bump into anyone else.
He needed a proper tourniquet, some pressure bandages and he needed to rehydrate. Then he needed a place to think about what the fuck he was going to do. His hand clenched the wallet in his pocket. He had five pounds. It wasn’t much. Enough to buy some water and maybe a few Mars Bars, but not to get the medical supplies he needed. Even if he had money where was he going to get what he needed at 5 a.m. in the morning? Then he had it. He crossed Euston Road, dodging between the traffic and towards Euston Station.
Chapter 4
5 a.m. Monday, 26th January; Euston Station Main Concourse
When Sam reached the station rain had started to fall again. The building was a concrete 1980s style British Rail Station, fronted with glass doors, looking squat and ugly in the gloom. The only colour was from the red British Rail logo plastered above the main entrance – two red parallel lines with an electric bolt zigzagging across them. Outside rows of wet wooden benches sat in front of a Costa Coffee and Cornish Pastry stand – they wouldn’t be open for another few hours. Everything was grey and wet from last night’s rain – as was Sam. He could do with a change of clothes big time. But his priority now was to sort out this damn bleeding.
As he was about to walk through one of the glass doors onto the main concourse Sam saw a bundle of sleeping bags, off to his right, pushed up against the glass door. At first he thought they were empty, and someone had dumped them there. Then the bundle shifted, and a mass of grey wispy hair protruded from the top. There was a very loud snore. Whoever was in the bag had turned his head toward the glass of the station window. He’d layered the bags presumably to keep out the cold, but it wouldn’t have taken long for it to seep through those bags into his skin. Sam shivered; if he wasn’t careful he might end up like that poor bastard. On an impulse he shoved his hand inside his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took out the five-pound note. He looked at it for a moment, then bent forward and stuffed it under the guy’s head. It was probably a stupid and pointless act, but it felt right. Sam didn’t know who he was yet, but he wanted to believe he was one of the good guys.
When he was inside Sam stopped to catch his breath. The concourse was small for a major city station. Small and dated, with a dirty grey floor, dotted with several grey pillars running up to the ceiling. Straight ahead train departures and arrivals were displayed on a digital screen hung from the low ceiling. Below the display screen a newsagent was opening up. To the right of the concourse a waiter wiped down tables outside a seedy bar.
No more than half a dozen commuters were hanging around waiting for early morning trains. A few more down-and-outs lay curled up in their bundles here and there. A good sign. Tramps meant no police or security staff. A guy in a badly-fitting grey suit, checking out the departure display, glanced at Sam then looked away. Sam sighed. He was getting used to being stared at. But right now there wasn’t much he could do about it.
Sam saw what he’d been looking for on the left of the concourse: a Boots Chemist. Like the newsagent it had opened early – or hadn’t shut. Before Sam could move towards it he felt a wave of dizziness, and leaned against one of several giant concrete pillars. The thumping of his heart, and the way his vision was going grey at the edges, told him his blood pressure was dropping. His body was working hard to pump blood to his brain and muscles but losing the battle. Letting the pillar support his weight, he opened the duffel coat a little to check his leg.
Shit. The whole jeans leg from groin to knee was red. The tee-shirt tourniquet was still there but doing fuck all now. The blood was only seeping out, otherwise S
am wouldn’t have made it so far. But he had to stop the bleeding soon, or he needn’t bother. Gritting his teeth his closed up his coat and staggered toward the Boots Chemist. It was brightly lit and spacious, with four or five rows of aisles packed with every kind of cream and deodorant you could imagine. There were no customers yet, which was good for Sam. He didn’t need any extra attention. After giving that five-pound note away he had no money. He’d probably been a fool to do it, but it wouldn’t have been enough for what he needed anyway. Whatever, it was too late to worry about that now. The upshot was he needed charity or he’d have to take what he needed by force. The Glock pressing against his belly reminded him he still had that option.
On the right of the shop under a please pay here sign was a checkout counter. No one was manning it, but in a room behind it, a guy in a white lab coat, with a heavy black beard and a red turban, counted tablets into small orange plastic containers.
A Sikh. Sam wasn’t sure if that would make any difference or not. It was a small detail. Something in Sam’s mind said small details were important. Sikhs were more likely to be franchisees, not employees. Would someone with a stake in the business be less freaked out by Sam’s appearance than an employee? He didn’t know. More relevant was that a middle-aged Sikh guy probably had a family at home, and wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks with someone looking as desperate as Sam. On the other hand didn’t Sikh men carry a dagger strapped to their thigh? It was supposed to be ceremonial but that wouldn’t make it any less sharp. Sam shook his head. He was wasting precious time. The truth was his leg was still bleeding, and his thinking was getting fuzzier by the second. He needed a better tourniquet now. Ideally a medical tourniquet, but if not, a pressure bandage. Something that wouldn’t stretch, so he could keep pressure on his leg. And he needed fluids to rehydrate. So it didn’t matter if Genghis Khan or Snow White was behind the counter. He was going in.
Clenching his jaw to in an effort to keep his blood pressure up, Sam staggered into the chemist’s.
***
Sam had just walked into the store when Red Turban saw him. He must have had very good eyesight or just been on the lookout for potential troublemakers, because he’d been bent over the bottles and tablets, concentrating on getting the right amount in each one. But the moment Sam stepped into the store his head snapped up. When his eyes met Sam’s he flinched. Sam saw it even from twenty yards away, and he couldn’t blame him. Sam’s face was covered in bruises. He was filthy, and the duffel coat was in a disgusting state. Plus he was probably white as a ghost now from the ongoing blood loss. He looked like trouble, big time.
Quickly but obviously not panicking Red Turban put down the tablets he’d been counting, walked out of the back room, and came to stand behind the checkout counter. Then, not taking his eyes off Sam, he slipped one hand underneath it.
Sam cursed. In his mind’s eye he saw him pressing against a big red panic button, probably linked straight to the local cop shop. He fixed his eyes on the pharmacist’s, trying to work out what he was thinking. But it wasn’t easy. The black beard and turban covered two-thirds of his face. The only skin visible was from where the turban ended just above his eyebrows to his cheekbones. The pharmacist’s eyes were fixed on Sam like glue. They were a little wide, but his gaze was steady. He wasn’t really scared. Certainly not panicking. Sam hoped that was a good sign. If he was calm he’d be less likely to freak out and press that panic button under the counter.
From the edge of the shop Sam stared at Red Turban and he stared back at Sam. It felt like a Mexican standoff.
Sam’s vision blurred again. He clenched his teeth trying to get his blood pressure back up. He had no way out. He had to slow down his blood loss and rehydrate. He couldn’t let Red Turban set off the alarm. The police would be here in minutes. He had the Glock but Sam preferred to persuade him he was a normal guy who needed help, not trouble. Hopefully he was more of a soft touch than he looked. But Sam still needed a story to explain his appearance.
Sam was lurching toward the checkout counter, his mind racing. He’d say he’d been mugged. It was the best story he could think of in the circumstances. He stumbled the final few feet like Quasimodo on speed, knocking into one of the aisle displays before landing on the counter.
"Please, I need some help."
Red Turban’s eyes hadn’t left Sam since he first saw him. They’d gotten wider and wider the nearer Sam got to the counter. But his hand stayed where it was, thumb on top, fingers hidden underneath.
“Get out or I’ll call the police."
Sam swallowed. Okay, so he wasn’t a soft touch. Somehow Sam had to persuade him he wasn’t going to take off with the contents of the till.
"I’ve been mugged.” He tried to inject a pitiful tone into his voice.
The pharmacist didn’t answer. It wasn’t the sympathetic response Sam had been hoping for. It seemed he hadn’t fallen for Sam’s story – which wasn’t surprising. It was full of holes. If he’d been mugged why hadn’t he gone to a police station? And if he’d been hurt why not a hospital rather than a pharmacist? Sam wasn’t sure he knew the answer to that one. The pharmacist’s fingers were still under the counter on that panic button, and his eyes still fixed on Sam. There was no time to fuck about. This guy wasn’t going to believe his story, and Sam couldn’t let him set off the alarm. His hand shot out and gripped Red Turban’s wrist, squeezing as hard as his remaining strength allowed.
“Don’t,” he said, still trying to appear non-threatening.
The pharmacist snarled.
"There’s a clinic up near Centre Point where you can get your drugs. Why don't you go there and leave me in peace?"
Sam felt another wave of dizziness; sweat had broken out on his back. He had underestimated this man. He’d thought a middle-aged shopkeeper wouldn’t put up much of a fight. But he’d probably taken enough shit from the local deadbeats already. Problem was Sam didn’t have time to go anywhere else. He had to get what he needed from this man. He stared directly into the pharmacist's eyes.
"I'm not a junkie. I just need a medical tourniquet or a pressure bandage, and a few bottles of water.” He didn’t bother explaining why. There was no point in another weak story.
Suddenly the pharmacist tried to pull his arm away from Sam, but Sam held him tight. Then Sam saw a framed newspaper cutting on the wall. Local hero Sandip Singh fights off armed gunman.
Oh shit. Sam had picked the hardest pharmacist in the west. This was going to be a lot more difficult than he’d hoped. He still had the Glock, but going by the newspaper cutting, there was no guarantee Sandip would play ball even if Sam pulled it. Sure, he’d go off into the back room but he might have another panic button in there, or maybe even a weapon. It was pretty unlikely in the UK but not impossible, given this guy’s history.
Sam would do it if he had to. Somehow he knew he had killed before. But he still didn’t want to be that guy. He made a decision. He was going simply ask for help and see what happened. Maybe Sandip would tell him to take a hike, or push that button. But the alternative was to pull his Glock. Someone could die. It was a risk but it felt right.
Wincing at a spasm of pain in his leg Sam said:
“I just need a medical tourniquet, pressure bandages and water.” He spoke slowly and calmly, trying to seem weak and vulnerable, not a threat. When the pharmacist didn’t respond Sam nodded at his left wrist. “You can have my watch. It’s a Rolex.”
But Sandip wasn’t interested. He looked Sam directly in the eye.
“This is your last chance – go now or I’m calling the police.”
Sam knew that meant pushing the panic button under the counter. He had to do something fast.
He was getting weaker by the minute and his current be nice approach wasn’t working. But he still didn’t want to hurt Sandip – not unless he really had to. He just needed to seriously scare him. But even if Sam didn’t want to hurt Sandip he had make him believe he did.
Sam pulled back h
is coat. Mr. Fast-talker’s Glock was pushed down the front of his jeans. Sandip’s eyes locked on it, saucer-wide now.
Sam squeezed his wrist hard.
"Sandip, listen to me. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want the tourniquet, pressure bandages and the water. Then I’ll be out of your life.”
Sandip’s eyes were still on the gun. His hand still on the counter – fingers probably on that panic button. If Sandip’s finger twitched the alarm would go off and Sam would have to run. He didn’t have the strength to fight. Maybe he should have pulled his gun right from the start and saved himself all this grief.
“Just get the stuff and you’ll never see me again,” he said, not needing to pretend to be weak now. “This doesn’t have to end badly.”
Sandip still hadn’t looked up. He was as motionless as a waxwork dummy.
Sam’s vision blurred again. He gritted his teeth. This was his last chance.
“Sandip? Are we good?”
Sandip still hadn’t moved or spoken since he’d seen the gun. Time was up. Sam’s free hand went to the Glock’s handle. He visualized himself pulling it out and pointing it at the pharmacist’s face. But before he could, Sandip spoke. “Yes.”
Sam felt relief wash through him.
Sandip looked up; there were beads of sweat coming from under his turban.
"Just the medical tourniquet, and pressure bandages?"
"Yes … unless you have a bag of saline.”
Sam knew it was unlikely. Saline was kept and used in hospitals, not local pharmacies.
Sandip’s eyes widened again.
