Dying to Write

by Judith Cutler

  As soon as I’d discovered whether Hugh had any plans that might include me. I yawned again. A night safe in my own bed seemed at the moment preferable even to a night in Hugh’s. And the prospect of cruising round in George’s van was repellent. I ought to face it, I simply had no energy left for anything.

  He stopped outside the front door.

  ‘Thanks. And will you be working late or heading for your duvet and a glass of scotch?’

  ‘Depends what turns up.’

  Now we had the embarrassing business of saying goodbye. We’d never got it right yet. Perhaps that’s why we had rows: to give us exit lines. He wanted to say something tender. I wanted him not to. I ran up the steps and turned to wave him off. As his car disappeared to the area where the police were parking, I saw another car. It was at the edge of the student car park, just where it narrows into the drive. No lights. Just for once, though, I wouldn’t stick my nose in. It must have got past the police checkpoint. It was none of my business.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I pushed open the front door.

  All the other doors sighed in greeting. The constable was answering the phone and didn’t look up. On impulse, I decided to go straight to Hugh’s room: I wanted to see what the afternoon’s activities had done to the delicate shoots of what might grow into a relationship. Then I thought perhaps I wouldn’t. Not until I’d combed my hair at least. I dodged into the nearest loo, spruced myself up, told myself to be assertive and re-emerged into the corridor. What I did not expect to see from the dark corner of the hallway was Hugh running downstairs, his hands on his hand. Matt followed him. Then came a man with a gun. He herded them into the lounge.

  The door slammed on them.

  It all happened so quickly I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make sense. Any moment they’d all come out laughing and joking. But I knew they wouldn’t because it dawned on me that the man with the gun had been wearing a stocking over his face.

  I waited. Then I slipped off my shoes and padded back to the reception area. I eased the door a fraction, praying that the others wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t see much, of course. What little I could see brought bile up from my stomach. Shazia was lying face down on the floor, her hair streaming free of her scarf. She whimpered once, but silenced herself. Beside her stood a man I’d not seen before, his foot perhaps an inch from her head. His gun pointed at the middle of her back. Naukez was slumped against the reception desk, his chin bleeding and bruised. The door to the student corridor swung slightly – someone must have just gone through. Perhaps the sigh from that had been enough to cover my arrival.

  They talk about split-second decisions. I had to choose in that moment whether to make a heroic attempt to throw myself at the man, who pointed a weapon and who had been strong enough to lay out Naukez, or to try something, anything, else.

  I’m afraid I chose not to be heroic. I let the door shut as quietly as I could, and retreated to the corridor again. Plainly I couldn’t stay there.

  I had to get out of the building to get help. That was clear. How? I dared not risk the creaking corridors at this end of the house. The cloakroom again. Some of the cubicles had windows to the outside world. I found one that seemed a possibility, and scrambled on to the toilet seat. And froze. Someone was opening the cloakroom door. I crouched, still on my slippery perch. I pushed the cubicle door very gently. Like the others it hung practically closed. I heard footsteps. Saw a male foot, brutal in a Doc. Heard breathing. Held my own breath.

  The feet withdrew.

  Now escape took on a more personal note: I knew I had to save my own skin. I turned back to the window, a small version of an old-fashioned sash. The upper part was open. That meant the lower part should open too, if I had something to lever it with, like a knife or a screwdriver. I had fingernails, and short ones at that. They scraped against the paint, the sound setting my teeth on edge. The longer ones bent right back. The wood did not move. So I would have to get out of the top section. I pulled the window right down. The wood screamed. Without waiting to see if anyone had heard, I put my hands on the frame and started to pull myself up. This was one form of exercise for which the Canadian Air Force had not prepared me. I thought my arms would pull from their sockets. My legs and feet flailed against the wall. But at last I got my chest across, and rolled slowly the rest of the way.

  I landed hard on gravel, my elbows and knees first. Surely someone must have heard. I’d lost a shoe, but dared not look for it. Kicking the other off, crouching and dodging, I hurtled for the stables.

  If I expected a hero’s welcome, I didn’t get it. I was plainly superfluous. I don’t even think they noticed me for a while. Chris was already strapping on the sort of bulletproof vest I’d only ever seen on TV correspondents. Other men and women were doing likewise. If Chris caught sight of me, it might shake his concentration.

  I backed out. I stood irresolutely in the deepest shadow I could find. Words like ‘crossfire’ sprang into my mind.

  I made my way, crabwise and keeping as close to the wall as I could, back to the main building. Pressing right up against the stucco, I peered round. The dark car was still there, and now my eyes were thoroughly used to the dark, I could see it was a Granada. The driver was pulling on gloves. Such a prosaic gesture terrified me as much as anything I’d already seen. What I couldn’t work out was why he’d let Chris walk away. And how had he got in past the police presence at the main gate? I’d almost persuaded myself he might be one of Chris’s colleagues when I saw the unmistakeable shape of a gun in his right hand.

  Around me I sensed movement. Then heard feet, in controlled little rushes. Suddenly I was grabbed from behind and thrown down. When I twisted my head, I found myself staring down the barrel of a gun. This one was about a foot from my head. Then I picked out flakjacket and a navy sweater.

  ‘It’s OK, officer,’ I breathed. ‘I’m Sophie, DCI Groom’s friend.’

  God forgive me for trying to hide behind a man’s authority like that. But it worked.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing out here?’

  ‘Trying to warn you all; there’s trouble – men with guns …’

  The man grunted, and spoke quickly into his radio. ‘Female civilian’, was I?

  I didn’t hear the reply, but he gestured me to get up.

  ‘Where will I be least in the way?’ I breathed.

  ‘Just fucking stay here.’ He now stood watching from my previous vantage point. He lifted his gun in both hands and aimed at something I couldn’t see. I have never felt so impotent. I should have waded in to help when I had the chance, done anything rather than cower like this.

  It was so quiet I could hear not just my breathing but the policeman’s too. Nothing else.

  We waited.

  A shot. From inside the house, surely. And screams. Including a man’s. Then there was a gleam of light. I couldn’t place it at first, light where none should be. But then I realised it was a reflection on the side of that big, menacing car. Someone had opened the front door. The man in the car turned. He stretched his arm to aim the gun.

  Surely to God someone would give the order to fire?

  And then I heard – we all heard – a loudspeaker voice tell him to drop his gun, he was surrounded. And he was. Even the dark, you could see a ring of figures. And yes, very slowly, he threw down his weapon. And gunned the engine instead. The heavy car lurched forward, straight at those figures, at the men in the middle of the group. Where Chris would have placed himself. It was going to mow them down.

  Without thinking what I did, I bent for a stone, picked it up and threw. The big, heavy car slewed round faster than the suspension could take. I saw it turn. I saw it hit the tree. I saw the flames. I heard the screams.

  There were other screams too. From the house.

  I joined the rush forward. Shazia was on the floor still. Naukez was kneeling, but not attending to her.

  I outran the policeman who’d yelled at me. Beside Shazia was a still male
figure, face down, the heavy Remington crushing his shoulders, his hand outstretched but unable to reach his weapon. And there, against a dreadful splash of scarlet on the far wall, was Courtney. If I had to look at that wound, touch that blood, I’d faint. I couldn’t faint.

  ‘Shazia, pick up that gun, hold it steady and shoot if he moves. You have to. Naukez?’

  They’d given him a beating but at least he could walk.

  ‘Get Gimson. Now. Tell him Courtney’s bleeding to death.’

  He nodded. Then pulled himself painfully to his feet and set off.

  If he could make that sort of effort, so could I. I stripped off my polo-neck. It was cotton, the softest, most absorbent thing I could think of. I rolled it into a tight ball and stuffed it into the quivering mass of tissue that was Courtney’s shoulder. I held it there, praying.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Gimson, ‘I thought I was here to practise my writing skills, not my A and E techniques.’

  The sounds were familiar, but not what I expected I should be hearing. Echoing acoustics, antiseptic smells. The light was bright enough to penetrate my eyelids. Hospital? I opened my eyes, very slowly.

  Chris withdrew his hand from mine, not quite quickly enough.

  ‘Casualty,’ he said. ‘Thought you might need an anti-tet jab.’

  ‘Courtney?’ My voice didn’t sound quite right. Perhaps they’d given me something else. Or maybe I was just tired.

  ‘Touch and go. He’s still in theatre. They won’t make a prediction either way.’

  I nodded. I respected him for not trying to lie.

  ‘Naukez?’

  ‘Two lovely black eyes and a touch of concussion. But he’s tough. And Shazia’s with him.’

  ‘The … the men who came for Courtney?’

  ‘The one you know about. We’ll get an ID on him later. The man under the Remington – I think he may have some damage to his ribs and to his shoulder blades. Naukez picked it up and slung it at the bastard. There was another guy too, a gofer. He’s glad to be in a nice cosy police cell.’

  ‘My shoes? I left them on the path somewhere.’

  ‘Didn’t think you’d be able to wear them.’

  ‘I don’t intend to spend the night here, Chris.’

  I gestured. I was on a stretcher in a corridor. Someone had found me a police sweater, so I was decent, but I felt my location was altogether too public. I struggled on to one elbow, found it was bruised, and tried the other. That was better. I peered at my feet. A lot of Melolin and some micropore – Chris must have told them about my Elastoplast allergy. More on my knees. Some on my hands, now I had time to look at them. When had I earned all that?

  ‘Thought you’d say that. Here.’ He produced my slippers. ‘I’ll take you back to Harborne, shall I?’

  I thought with great longing of my home. But there were other people who’d had a bad time tonight, and I suppose some vague idea of mutual support made me shake my head. ‘No, Eyre House. Damn it all, Chris, it should be safe enough now!’

  ‘I wish I could agree. But this lot tonight may not solve anything. It was purely and simply Courtney they were after. Not Kate. Not Nyree. Not Sidney. Not even you, I’m afraid. So Eyre House is just as risky. God knows where you can even sleep in safety.’

  ‘Don’t need to ask God,’ said a familiar voice. ‘She’ll sleep where she slept last night, with Hugh and me. If that’s all right by you, Sophie?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  There was nothing Chris could say, of course. He looked at me.

  ‘Safety in numbers,’ I said mildly. ‘I survived last night, at least.’

  ‘Numbers?’ Chris repeated.

  ‘Hugh’s outside, trying to find somewhere to park,’ said Matt. ‘We found your bag, by the way, Sophie – it’s in police custody until you get back.’

  Nothing Chris could say about that, either. But he didn’t want me to go, that was clear, to me at least. And he’d had a difficult enough night – I didn’t want to add any more stress than I had to.

  ‘Bless you, Matt,’ I said. ‘But I’d better see if they’ll discharge me.’ I looked helplessly round the corridor. Two more people on stretchers had joined me, both looking a great deal sicker than I. A couple of policemen in yellow jackets were looking harassed. Someone was wandering round with a polythene carrier bag. A couple of male nurses were arguing by the coffee machine. All it needed was a camera crew and we might have been on the set for Casualty. Except these people were bleeding for real.

  ‘Is there anywhere more comfortable for you to wait?’ I prompted Matt.

  He took the hint. ‘I’d better go and find Hugh.’ He patted the end of my stretcher affectionately and was gone.

  I turned to Chris. He was grey, with huge brown smudges under his eyes.

  ‘I don’t want to stay here,’ I said. ‘I don’t fancy going home to an empty house. You can’t really spare anyone to keep an eye on me there. Can you?’ It was hardly a question. ‘I certainly don’t want to share my rabbit-hutch at Eyre House with anyone. And as I said, I survived last night. Possibly, before you say anything, because no one knew where I was. They needn’t know now.’

  ‘Not very comfortable. You could always –’ He broke off and looked away.

  If I was going to sleep on a sofa, he wanted it to be his. I had to find something positive but noncommittal to say. I smiled. ‘What I would like is a bit of police protection at breakfast,’ I said.

  He straightened and managed to return my smile. ‘You’re on. OK, I’ll see if I can find someone to discharge you.’

  I must have drifted off to sleep again – certainly I’ve no idea how long it took Chris to clear any formalities and collect a little bottle of painkillers for me. And I definitely had no warning of his plans for transporting me, until he stood beside my stretcher patting a wheelchair.

  ‘Your transport of delight,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you but no thank you,’ I said, revolted.

  ‘Bloody walk then.’

  He watched, hands in pockets, while I heaved myself into a sitting position, then swung my legs free. I seemed to have more bruises than the evening’s activities warranted, and my legs screamed for the decent privacy of jeans. All they had was a very short mini. Chris parked the slippers side by side roughly where I’d land. It was not a comfortable landing. Hoping he hadn’t noticed my wince, I stuck my feet into the slippers – soft fabric ones I’d bought for easy packing – and started to shuffle.

  ‘There,’ I said.

  We proceeded slowly to the waiting area. And then I felt really sorry for him. Hugh, apparently in one unrehearsed movement, got to his feet, crossed the room and scooped me up. And before I could say anything, we were out through the automatic doors and heading for his BMW.

  Of the journey itself I have no recollection. I woke up to hear Matt and Hugh discussing in subdued voices the possibility of carrying me upstairs. Matt was suggesting that for Hugh to undertake any more heroics would result in a rupture.

  ‘I’m not that heavy,’ I said. ‘And I’ll walk.’

  ‘But not over the gravel,’ said Hugh.

  I couldn’t argue. He strode round to my door, watched while I eased myself out, and picked me up again. But I think he was glad when we reached the front door. It was opened for us by a WPC wearing a gun.

  We went straight – if slowly – to Matt’s room.

  ‘We have, after all, a poem to finish,’ said Matt.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Hugh. ‘Where’s the Jameson’s?’

  I relaxed into Matt’s sofa and held out a hand. A glass arrived with commendable promptness.

  ‘And I can’t believe that a drop of this is any more damaging to the human body than those.’ Matt shook the little bottle of painkillers the hospital had given me.

  I was too weary to argue. And I wasn’t in any particular pain, apart from a general malaise, as if I’d spent a cycle in a tumble dryer. Now I had time to look, I found the damage to my feet was minute, far less th
an the dressings suggested – just a few puncture marks. My knees were no worse than the average schoolchild’s after a playground fall. What had really suffered was my fingernails, during my attempts to open the window. Where they’d been bent back, the nail-beds were discoloured. I stared at the broken ones in disgust. Matt produced an emery board from his spongebag – he was evidently well trained. But using it was not much fun.

  There was a knock at the door, accompanied by a man’s voice: ‘Police.’

  Hugh looked at Matt and me, and opened the door cautiously. We heard voices but no words. Then he came back into the room, locking it behind him. He was carrying a mobile phone.

  ‘The police aren’t letting anyone into the grounds in general,’ he said. ‘The car park’s still floodlit. They’ve got the last writer back to his room and no one will be allowed to come into this wing until they say so. Oh, and someone called Ade reckons he’s found some fresh rat droppings, Sophie, though he can’t guarantee their provenance.’

  ‘What about Courtney?’

  ‘The guy who was shot?’ He shook his head. ‘Want me to find out? I’ve got the control-point number – hotline!’

  I nodded. If Courtney died it would be my fault. He might have been safe in gaol if it hadn’t been for me. Hugh tapped. Matt came and sat on the arm of the sofa and held me; the police jersey was rough against my skin, and I remembered where my top had ended. I took a deep swig of whiskey.

  Hugh shut the phone. ‘Still critical. Life-support system. But no worse.’ He picked up his glass: ‘To Courtney’s recovery.’

  We drank. Matt reached across to my face. When he took his fingers away they were wet.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered.

  ‘My good girl, you’re entitled to soak six boxes of Kleenex if you want to. But I still think we ought to finish our poem. Where were we? Voluptuous rice, as I recall. Which reminds me – God almighty, it’s half past one, and we never had our supper!’

  Bread and cheese, courtesy of the fridge and a constable acting as waiter, had never tasted better. Hugh produced his duvet to augment Matt’s, but as yet no one had mentioned how they might be shared. Perhaps the men would offer some suggestion when I got back from the bathroom, whither I was heading. Matt solemnly checked that the door between his bathroom and Kate’s was properly locked, though I would have bet next summer’s holiday that Chris wouldn’t have overlooked a detail that like. Hugh helped me to my feet, but didn’t carry me this time. Perhaps he wasn’t after all into weights. If I remembered, I’d ask. Remembering – that was the problem. There were things I ought to be asking myself. Maybe things I ought to be asking Chris. The only things I could remember, however, were the things I’d rather close my mind to – bits of the arrest jostled with an exploding Granada which merged into Courtney bleeding at my feet.