Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘You know what this is, don’t you?’ Leo was enjoying himself hugely.

  Ross did but he was hardly in a position to answer. He could feel sweat running down his face and body and tried not to think about the horrendous consequences of any slip on Leo’s part.

  ‘Let’s get on with it.’ Irish seemed as weary of Leo’s gloating as Ross himself was.

  The neck of the bottle slid between Ross’ teeth next to the gun barrel and he closed his eyes helplessly. The strong, smoky-tasting liquid burned over his tongue and down his throat, filling his mouth. He tried not to swallow, breathing through his nose, and a quantity of the spirit ran down his chin and soaked into his shirt. His eyes began to water.

  With a muffled exclamation, Irish used his free hand to pinch Ross’ nostrils. It became either swallow or drown.

  Ross swallowed.

  His mouth filled up again instantly. Twice more he swallowed huge gulps of the fiery liquid, then his throat and lungs constricted in panic. He tried to twist away.

  Irish seemed to recognise his predicament, for the pressure on his nose released and he drew in a blessed lungful of air. The relief was short-lived, however. Moments later the hand was back and the process was repeated.

  Some time later the gun barrel was removed and the hold on his nose ceased. He was beyond resistance. The whisky flowed. Gagging and coughing, he swallowed, though a certain amount dribbled out and soaked his shirtfront.

  ‘How much will it take?’

  The words sounded echoing and distant, like someone calling through a tunnel.

  ‘A little more. We don’t want him getting out and wandering off.’

  That was a different voice, he felt. Not Irish or Leo but familiar all the same. How many more people had come to watch?

  Ross opened his eyes but his head was still tipped back and all he could see was a pattern of light and dark blotches moving about hypnotically.

  They didn’t make sense. Nothing seemed to make sense.

  Later still, he realised that the bottle had gone and he was sitting down. He tried to open his eyes again but someone had attached lead weights to his eyelids. He thought hazily that he’d better get going, that he’d be late, but he couldn’t remember where he was supposed to be going or why.

  Moments later, or it could have been minutes, he found himself lying face down in the leaf mould. It seemed fairly comfortable so he stayed there.

  Ross couldn’t precisely say when consciousness left him or when it returned. The sensation was more that of drifting on the borders – sometimes one side, sometimes the other. The first vaguely tangible thing that made it through to the reasoning part of his brain was a dazzling light, which was shining uncomfortably, straight into his eyes.

  He blinked owlishly.

  ‘This one’s well gone,’ a voice remarked from behind the light.

  The light hurt and Ross closed his eyes again. Perhaps it would go away.

  It didn’t.

  ‘Come on, son. Sit up.’ A hand caught hold of his shoulder and tipped him back. Pressure that he hadn’t been aware of on his chest now eased and something softer supported his back.

  ‘No sign of injury. Smells like a distillery,’ the voice said.

  ‘Shall I get the breath box?’ Another voice.

  Ross opened his eyes once more but couldn’t see a thing.

  ‘Waste of time. He couldn’t blow a candle out. We’ll have to take him in.’

  ‘Do you think he drove here like that?’

  ‘Yeah. Bloody marvellous, isn’t it? I suppose we should be glad he wasn’t on the motorway.’

  ‘You can say that again!’

  The light swung away. Ross could now see the windscreen of the jeep, but beyond it, pressed against the glass, was a tangle of leaves and stems.

  He couldn’t remember why it should be like that. He stared, puzzled.

  Somebody leaned in front of him, switched the jeep’s lights off and removed the ignition key.

  Careless of him to leave them on. Not like him. He tried to look up at the man but his head was too heavy.

  ‘Come on then. We’ll take a little ride, shall we?’ Strong arms reached under his armpits and lifted.

  Memory stabbed back.

  ‘No, please . . . No more,’ Ross said thickly. ‘For God’s sake . . .’ He turned his head away.

  ‘I should say you’ve had enough already,’ somebody said with grim amusement.

  ‘Bastards!’ Ross said suddenly, vehemently, surprising even himself.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, and life’s a bitch,’ the nearest voice said patiently. ‘Come on, mate. Bring that bottle, Steve.’

  Ross half-walked and was half-carried towards a blue flashing light which made his head hurt. The ground seemed to roll away under his feet. He closed his eyes and was hazily aware of being laid on something soft before oblivion closed in.

  More lights. A rough blanket beneath him. Voices echoing off cream-painted walls. A king-sized headache.

  ‘Is this the RTA? What have you brought him here for?’

  ‘No other vehicles involved. Just drove quietly into the hedge. No injuries I could see.’

  Somebody grunted. ‘Better get the doc to check him over. Need a blood test anyway.’

  ‘Why bother? Just light a match and stand well back.’

  Someone obviously thought that funny. Ross didn’t. He tried to say so but it didn’t come out right.

  ‘He’s coming round again.’

  ‘Has somebody gone for the doc?’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  Ross opened his eyes a fraction more. Vision was a kaleidoscope of colours and lights. He blinked and the colours grouped themselves into vague shapes. It was like looking through the glasses of an acute myopic.

  He tried to concentrate. Four dark blobs resolved themselves into two police uniforms. The effort made his head pound and he groaned, feeling abysmal.

  One of the uniforms bent over him.

  ‘I think he’s beginning to see the error of his ways,’ he remarked. ‘Can you hear me, sonny? Can you tell me who you are?’

  Ross knew perfectly well who he was. He wasn’t stupid. Telling them proved to be a different matter. With the best intentions, all he could manage was an unintelligible mumble.

  ‘Where . . . ?’ He frowned with the effort.

  ‘Nought out of ten for originality,’ the nearest uniform said. ‘Harnham Police Station. Cell three.’

  Still Ross couldn’t grasp it. ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ll give you three guesses,’ the uniform said sarcastically.

  Ross blinked stupidly at him.

  ‘Give it a rest, Steve. He’s in no fit state.’

  Another voice said, ‘This the new arrival?’

  Ross rolled his head to look. A mistake. When the room steadied again he saw a weary-looking, grey-haired man regarding him with scant pity.

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘Nothing that makes much sense.’

  Grey-hair put a bag down and opened it. ‘Any injuries?’

  ‘None apparent.’

  He sighed. ‘Better check.’ He unbuttoned Ross’ shirt and pressed a cold disc to his chest. ‘There’s some old bruising here. Where did you find him?’

  ‘Got a tip-off and found him draped over the wheel of his car. Had an empty bottle on the seat beside him. Whisky.’

  ‘I can smell it,’ the doctor confirmed. After a moment he put the stethoscope away and produced a slim torch, which he proceeded to shine into each of Ross’ eyes in turn.

  ‘That looks okay. No concussion.’

  His strong, practised fingers moved over Ross’ scalp and touched the bruise on his neck.

  Ross winced.

  The fingers paused, pressed again.

  He winced again.

  ‘That hurt,’ the doctor commented. ‘He’s got a bit of bruising there too but he’ll survive. Better take some blood.’

  Ross couldn’t see the logic in this.
His sleeve was pushed up and he felt the prick of a needle.

  ‘Smells as though he’s bathed in it,’ the doctor said, wrinkling his nose. ‘It’s early too. I wonder what his story is. Well, I think he’s fit to be detained but keep an eye and call me if you’re worried. I’ll look in on him in the morning.’

  The sounds receded and a door banged. Ross groaned and rolled over.

  The next time he surfaced, his head was clearer. Unfortunately, sensation had returned to the rest of his body with a vengeance too.

  He looked around him. Four walls, the bed and a john. It was hardly the Hilton.

  With an effort, he slid his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. At once, his head set up a hammering that would have done a pile-driver proud. He groaned. The back of his neck was stiff and tender, as were his shoulders and arms, and his ribs told of new damage. The way his stomach felt, he couldn’t contemplate ever facing food again.

  He sighed and tried to recall the events of the previous evening but it was all a muddle of confused images. He remembered Roland following him and he remembered somebody in a balaclava, but couldn’t see the connection between that and his being where he was now. His mind skittered over the period in between as if afraid to face it.

  The door rattled and opened.

  A fresh-faced young PC looked in. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Ross said with feeling.

  The door opened wider and the grey-haired police surgeon of the night before came in. He took the cup from the youngster and held it out to Ross. ‘Better drink it, you know. It’ll help.’

  He doubted whether anything short of a hefty dose of chloroform would help but he took the cup obligingly and sipped. His mouth was cut and bruised, and felt as though it had been scrubbed out with wire wool, but if the hot tea sat a little heavily on his stomach, at least nothing cataclysmic happened.

  ‘So. How are we this morning?’

  ‘Well, I can’t speak for you,’ Ross said flippantly, ‘but I’ve had better mornings.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Grey-hair said. ‘You’d polished off the best part of a bottle of Scotch, apparently.’

  Ross frowned as a memory flickered on the edges of his consciousness. He shook his head. ‘I didn’t. I mean, I . . . I don’t even like the stuff.’

  ‘Well, you certainly gave it a fair trial, I’ll say that for you,’ the doctor observed sardonically. ‘Now, do you have a name?’

  Ross bit back another facetious reply and sighed. There was nothing to be gained by antagonising them.

  ‘Ross Wakelin,’ he said. ‘But I assume you’ve got my wallet and driver’s licence, so you already know that.’

  ‘True, but you managed to bash the back of your head somewhere along the way and we can’t be too careful.’ He looked at Ross thoughtfully. ‘So what’s the story? Why the binge? Were you celebrating or trying to drown your sorrows?’

  ‘Neither. I don’t drink. What I mean is – not like that.’ An image almost settled in his mind’s eye. ‘There was somebody else . . .’

  ‘Well, if there was, they should be shot for letting you drive like that,’ the doctor remarked. ‘Let’s just have another little look.’

  He took the slim torch out of his bag again and, asking Ross to look straight ahead, shone it into his eyes.

  ‘Yes, that’s okay,’ he said after a moment. ‘You’ll be right as rain just as soon as you get rid of that massive hangover you must have. I just hope it was worth it.’ He put the torch away. ‘You’re moving very stiffly. Let’s take that shirt off and have a proper look.’

  ‘How did they find me?’ Ross asked, obediently undoing buttons. ‘I remember being in a wood.’

  ‘Not when they found you,’ the doctor said. ‘Member of the public reported a car in a ditch. We sent out and there you were.’

  Ross shook his head. It didn’t make sense. He stood up and let the shirt slip from his shoulders, catching it as it reached his hands.

  The doctor frowned as his eyes flickered over Ross’ colourful torso. Sucking his teeth, he moved round behind Ross and came back to face him. ‘You’ve been in the wars already, it would appear. How did that happen?’

  ‘Riding accident,’ he said briefly.

  Grey-hair looked sympathetic. ‘You’re not having much luck,’ he observed. Then the penny dropped. ‘Ah, yes. Now I’ve placed you. You’re that American showjumper. I saw it in the paper. Nasty fall. Were you drinking to dull the pain?’

  ‘No. I told you. I didn’t drink by choice,’ Ross persisted. ‘There was someone else there. I was forced to drink.’

  ‘Ah, yes. So you said,’ the doctor remembered. He finished his examination. ‘We get dozens of cases like yours in here every week and most of them have some story to tell. Accept it, lad. I’m afraid they have all the evidence they need. Blood-alcohol levels probably three or four times the legal limit. Found at the wheel of a vehicle on a public highway.’ He shook his head. ‘Your driving days are over for a while, I’m afraid. In England that is,’ he added as an afterthought, putting his instruments back in his bag. ‘You can put your shirt back on.’

  ‘What happened to the bottle? Fingerprint it, then you’ll see,’ Ross said desperately. ‘I never touched it.’

  The doctor shook his head again, sadly. ‘Give it up, lad. I don’t know what they’ve done with the bottle. They may have thrown it away by now, for all I know. You are all the evidence they need.’

  ‘Well, can you ask? Please?’

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ The doctor regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Okay. I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes too high.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ross said gratefully. He didn’t know if it was the hot tea, his groggy state or a combination of the two, but suddenly he had begun to feel shaky and a sweat broke out on his body. He sat down weakly on the bed and was starting to roll up his sleeves when the doctor put out a hand and caught his wrist.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Ross looked down. Both his wrists were red raw and slightly puffy. He frowned. ‘I can’t remember. I don’t know what happened.’

  The doctor fished in his bag once more.

  ‘I think we should have a record of those,’ he suggested, producing a camera. ‘In case your memory returns. They look like rope burns to me.’

  Ross held his arms out to be photographed, trying to force his mind back past the blackout. It stubbornly refused to go.

  ‘When can I go home?’ he asked, when the doctor had taken a number of shots from all angles.

  ‘That depends. The amount you had, you’ll still be way over the limit, but you’re rational, so as long as you don’t intend to drive, I expect you’ll be able to leave as soon as you’ve been charged. But it’s really not up to me, I just advise.’

  ‘So when will that be? And what is the time, anyway?’

  Ross’ new watch had vanished, along with his wallet, belt and boots. To prevent him from doing himself an injury, he supposed. Like he had the energy.

  The doctor lifted a wrist. ‘Just gone eight. The custody officer will be with you in ten minutes or so. You’ll have to take a breath test, then he’ll formally charge you and you’ll be bailed to appear in court at a later date. We won’t have the results of your blood test for a week or two. Oh, and you’ll have to sign a form giving permission for that. If you refuse, that’s an offence in itself.’

  Ross nodded and sighed deeply, both of which he immediately regretted.

  As the door closed behind the doctor, Ross lay back on the bed and pieced together what little he could remember with what he’d been told. Most of the previous evening remained a blank but one thing began to be depressingly clear.

  He’d been neatly set up.

  19

  In due time the custody officer appeared and Ross, his boots returned to him, followed the officer and the young PC to the charge room. He was led across to what looked like a piece of office equipment, where he stood swaying dizzi
ly until the constable fetched him a chair. He sank on to it gratefully and presently the room began to behave as a room should; that is, the floor stopped heaving and the walls looked more or less vertical.

  ‘Take a deep breath and then blow into this tube until I tell you to stop,’ one of the policemen instructed him.

  Ross complied, the effort making him light-headed once more.

  Presently, the custody officer’s voice penetrated the mists. He seemed to have started without Ross. ‘. . . are charged that at twenty-three-hundred hours on the evening of Tuesday the second of August . . .’

  They’ll be finishing morning stables by now, Ross thought. What would they be saying? If he hadn’t been missed the night before, they would certainly have discovered his absence by now. What would they be thinking? What had Franklin thought when he hadn’t shown up last night?

  The officer’s voice drifted back, reciting the charge automatically from long experience: ‘. . . on a road called,’ he consulted his paperwork, ‘Sandy Lane, while the proportion of alcohol in your blood thereof exceeded the prescribed limit.’

  A drunk driver, Ross thought, crushed. Oh, God! What would the Colonel say? And Lindsay? Would she believe him guilty?

  ‘Do you understand the charge?’ the officer asked in the tone of one who has been obliged to repeat himself.

  ‘Yes,’ Ross said dully. ‘But I wasn’t driving. The jeep was parked.’

  ‘With its lights and ignition on,’ the policeman said, glancing at the report. ‘Do you normally park in the hedge?’

  ‘If you’d just fingerprint the bottle,’ Ross said desperately. He scanned the officer’s face and gave up. He reached for the proffered pen. ‘Okay. Where do I sign?’

  A few minutes later, the rest of his belongings restored to him, Ross found himself in the reception area trying to gather his rambling thoughts. In his pocket a printout from the station breathalyser recorded a reading more than twice the legal limit of thirty-five microgrammes of alcohol to one hundred millilitres of breath. It seemed the deciding factor in the matter of his early release was the lack of any previous record.