Tommy didn’t waste any time, stepping straight onto the infested carpet with a silent toe. And then he heard it.
That’s not the wind.
What he had assumed was either the rain or wind breaking upon the house, Tommy now realised were screams, muffled by walls and distance. They were coming from directly above them, and Tommy’s stomach tightened as he took the cap off his MACE nozzle. He stepped lightly, threading as he could along the dirty floor – willing his muscles to move as slowly as they could. Under his ribs, his heart was painful in its loud throbs against his ribs, a cold lick of sweat broke over his forehead, and his balls tightened up almost to his stomach.
The screams continued, abated only when the screamer either sobbed or breathed – there was pain in that scream, and there was little else. It shot straight to Tommy’s heart, and deep down he felt the desire to save the screamer; somewhere even deeper he felt like he should run from whatever it is that was causing the pain. Still he persevered, trying to walk up the stairs as silently as he could; the whole time trying to breathe as silently as possible – something made no easier by the notice one takes of one’s breathing in such situation.
He reached the landing, and heard that the screams were coming from one of only three doors on the way. Taking what may be his final silent breath, Tommy pushed the door open.
There she was, Colleen Hayes, tied spread eagled on the bed with large bloody slashes coating her naked body. It wasn’t that that caught Tommy’s attention though, instead it was her eyes that called him to attention – she wasn’t looking at him, but instead, just to his left. Tommy knew what that meant, and so he ducked.
A heavy hammer swiped across where his head had been and crashed into the bedroom door with a blow strong enough to shake the house to its foundations. Tommy didn’t even wait to check his aim, he just shot the pepper spray in the direction the hammer came from.
The man standing on his left let out a scream of pain, but it was echoed by Tommy’s even louder version. In his side was a pain unlike anything Tommy had every felt in his life, the worst heroin cramps times a million, a stitch so bad he felt like he was being opened up, torn apart, and born again.
He glanced down, barely believing, at the screwdriver handle sticking out from the side of his stomach, and slowly pulled at it. A four inch piece of metal followed the handle out, and then a torrent of blood containing what looked suspiciously like bits of his small intestine – and the whole time he howled like a dog in heat. The pain rode over him in throbbing waves, crippling him of any reflexive thought, but after several seconds his adrenaline began to kick in, and soon the throbbing stopped, his breathing stepped up to the level of hyperventilation, and finally his brain was able to focus.
The room was a very large bedroom, with the door he had just entered through right in the centre of the largest wall. Straight across from the door was the bed where Colleen Hayes was tied up, and just to his left was where Mick O’Reilly had ambushed him. The man himself was just four or so metres away, and Tommy bared his teeth at the sight of him.
The pepper spray had caught him perfectly, straight in his eyes which were turning into swellings as large as tennis balls as he weeped his pain and blindness out onto his face. Mick was backing slowly away and Tommy could see why, just behind him, against a large set of wardrobe doors, lay the sledgehammer used to smash in Aishe’s skull. Mick groped for it, and finally clasped it in his hands.
Then, as proof of how truly blind he was, he began to swing: long large arcs in front of him, as if he were swatting giant flies. In his adrenaline and pain soaked clarity, Tommy saw exactly what he needed to do – the backup would of course be arriving soon, but with Mick swinging madly, and Colleen tied up just a meter from him, Tommy had no choice but to intervene to prevent a death. He looked at the hammer head, flying through the air, looked at the wardrobe behind Mick, and felt the handcuffs on his belt – grimacing at the oncoming pain.
How did I end up here?
Tommy stepped forward, allowing the arc of the hammer to land on his right shoulder – the heavy metal head landing straight onto Tommy’s collarbone, which cleanly shattered under the weight of the blow – he felt tendons rip and his shoulder be knocked clean out of its joint, and the blow jammed his right elbow so that the entire limb became unusable.
Still, there was compensation, as Tommy had used the momentum of the crash to step his left leg between Mick’s spread legs, pressed hard against his chest, forced him from his feet and, most importantly, Tommy had managed to cuff Mick’s right hand. When Mick fell back then, limbs a-flailing, he crashed head first into the wardrobe behind him. The wardrobe stood strong.
Tommy dived with his knees first, crashing them straight into Mick’s head. Mick reached up, and, whether by luck or design, grabbed onto Tommy’s stiff right hand and pulled. Tommy roared as he was dragged down onto Mick O’Reilly by his broken shoulder. His head crashed into Mick, until Tommy found the left arm pulling at him, and he bit into Mick’s forearm.
Mick let go, and blindly began to grope for Tommy’s throat, but it was all the respite Tommy needed. He grabbed onto Mick’s right hand, and threw it against the door. First time he missed, the second time he struck gold, as the handcuffs attached to Mick’s wrist latched onto the door handle of the wardrobe. By now Mick had managed to close his left hand around Tommy’s throat, but summoning the last of his strength Tommy butted his forehead into Mick’s nose. Then he rolled off onto the filthy carpet.
Mick roared, and made an attempt to blindly jump after him, then howled even louder when he realised his right hand wasn’t coming with him. He began to claw madly at the handcuffs, but nothing would budge them.
Gotcha.
Tommy turned his head, and made eye contact with Colleen, still tied up. From her eyes he knew she understood, she understood she was safe.
It couldn’t have taken the Rapid Response Unit more than five minutes to arrive, but with the pain Tommy was in, it felt closer to hours. They crashed in, subdued Mick O’Reilly, uncut Colleen and took her out, before finally tending to Tommy. The placed him on a stretcher, and took him out to an ambulance. He recognised the paramedic, it was the same one who had picked him up from Claire’s house.
‘This time, I.. I think I may need some painkillers.’ Tommy found the calmness to say.
The paramedic laughed, before he took down a clear vial, and injected Tommy’s arm with the slightest inch of liquid.
His shoulder, his stabbed stomach, all faded as he fell into the sleep of the sane. Tommy knew one thing; I want to live.
E
After she’d sat down on the bedside chair and crossed her bare legs, Tommy finally spoke.
‘So you’re allowed to see me in public now?’ Tommy said.
Jenny smiled.
‘You’re the lone wolf now, media fucking loves you. So yeah.’ She said.
‘And what does Fionbar think of this?’ Tommy said.
‘Fionbar and I are getting a divorce.’ She said.
‘Oh? And what does your party’s leader think of that?’ Tommy said.
‘Well, I’ll know after he finds out.’ She said.
Tommy smiled at that.
‘I’d like us to move in together.’ She said.
Tommy looked at her.
‘I think I’d like that too.’ He said.
She smiled, he tried to smile.
‘I brought along some of the tabloid headlines by the way. From the day after you had that, fight.’ Jenny giggled as she took the papers out of the bag.
‘Please. Please don’t. Anne’s already been in, she’s framed some for our office and all.’ Tommy said, grimacing.
Tommy’s finding and wrestling with the Ripper had made the front pages for a number of days, knocked back only when Gary Clancy pleaded guilty to assault and was sentenced to two years in jail with an additional two years suspended.
‘And are you going back to the job?’ Jenny asked.
�
��Yes. It is me. But I’m definitely going to take full advantage of the sick leave I’ve generously been given.’
‘Ooooh, where will you go?’ Jenny asked.
‘Nowhere, I’m going to stay put in this dirty old town. I’ve to learn to shoot again with these artificial tendons. Plus, I think I’m going to go back to painting, like I used to do as a kid.’ Tommy said.
‘Well maybe you can paint me like-’
‘Do not even think of making that reference.’ Tommy said.
‘-one of your French girls.’ She finished.
Tommy grimaced as he tried to pull himself from the bed – thirty four stitches in his side was quite enough to be getting on with.
‘Where you going?’ Jenny asked.
‘The coffee machine at the end of the hall, cmon and walk with me.’ Tommy said.
‘Ok, DI Bishop, let’s go. Oh, are you going to go on the Late Late Show now that you’ve been invited?’
‘Never.’ Tommy said.
‘Maybe a career in politics for the hero cop?’
‘Never.’ Tommy said. ‘You guys are all fucking parasites.’
She stood behind him, ready to stop him stumbling, but three weeks of walking practice meant he was feeling sound on his feet.
Behind him, as he stepped out into the hospital’s hall, he left an organised room, unadorned by any personal affections bar one. Beside the bed a simple black frame stood, and fading to yellow behind the glass was a picture that was easily more than eleven years old. In it, a freckled woman with long brown hair was blowing out the candle of a cake, keeping her eyes on the camera that was making her so self-conscious.
Beyond the small frame, the window was fogged, as the rain outside poured heavily upon the streets, turning the mud into the brown tears that caked the roads of Dublin.
THE END
First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) Page 23
