by Ed James
THIS FUCKIN’ COUNTRY.
So I get round the other side and Elvis is trying to get in the front. ‘No fuckin’ way!’ I push the prick back and get in.
Fuckin’ fuming here, I tell you.
Mo gets behind the wheel and drives off. This thing barely makes a sound. Expect it to take off any time soon. Fuckin’ hell, it’s like being in that film with Harrison Ford, Blade Runner or whatever it’s called.
I sit back and just want to tear my mask off but fuck that for a game of soldiers. ‘Thanks for giving us the lift, pal.’
7
Cullen
Cullen got out of the pool car. The rain was battering down, but the covered walkway shielded him from the worst of it.
Angela wasn’t so lucky, getting out into the teeming rain on her side. She darted round to his and was soaked again in seconds. ‘So what did Methven say?’
‘He got called away.’ Cullen was trying to take in the scene. The hospital’s gleaming white exterior was dampened by the Scottish rain, travelling at an almost-horizontal angle, squalling in the harsh wind. ‘Which is why we’re here.’ He made to set off towards the prison van, all the doors opened and man-marked by three uniforms. A suited arse pressed against the nearest window.
Angela blocked his progress. ‘So you didn’t pick it up with him afterwards?’
Cullen knew he wasn’t getting past her. ‘Okay, so maybe I did.’
‘And?’
He paused for a few seconds, drawing it out. But her frown was turning into a scowl. ‘Angela, you’re now an Acting DS.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Nope.’ Cullen used her confusion to barge past.
The arse in the window was replaced by a masked face, but there wasn’t that much difference. James Anderson, the lead SOCO, the top edge of his thin goatee just visible through his goggles. He made eye contact with Cullen and looked away.
Cullen caught the attention of the female uniform manning the entry. ‘What’s the skinny?’
‘The skinny?’ The uniform fiddled with her protective facemask, enough for Cullen to catch her eye roll. ‘A guard got stabbed, the other’s head got used as a football. Luckily they’re here so they’re inside in A&E.’ She looked them up and down. ‘And if you want in the van, you’ll need to suit up.’
‘Right.’ Cullen popped his lips a few times. ‘Sergeant, can you have a look inside the van? I’ll head up to the ward.’ He walked off through the rain.
But Angela ran after him and rounded him. ‘Are you serious? I’m an Acting DS?’
‘Deadly serious. Congratulations.’
The Edinburgh Royal Infirmary’s Accident and Emergency department was like one of those ships found drifting at sea. The flipside of a world struggling with a pandemic was that people kept away from hospitals for anything that wasn’t needing to be on a ventilator. And that’d have a cost further down the line. All those heart attacks, missed cancer treatments and—
‘Can I help you?’
Cullen swung round.
‘Well, well, well.’ Dr Helen Yule stood in a doorway, shaking her head. Arms folded over her green scrubs, glasses dangling from her neck. Half of her right eyebrow was missing, an old scar intersecting it. ‘Scott Cullen, as I live and breathe.’
‘Hi Helen. Looking to speak to the guard who—’
‘They just had to send you, didn’t they?’
Cullen ran a hand through his hair, then put his mask back on. ‘No need to be like that.’
‘Really?’ She jabbed a finger at the scar bisecting her eyebrow. ‘This was your fault, Scott.’
‘And there’s no upper limit to how many times I can apologise, or how profusely. I’m genuinely sorry, Helen. It was my fault and if I could undo it, I would. You trusted me and I let you down. I’m sorry.’
She shook her head, but it seemed to get through to her. ‘Why are you here, Constable?’
‘It’s Inspector now.’
‘O-kay.’
‘The prison guards atta—’
‘Well, Officer Gilchrist is in surgery just now. It’s one of those where you might be better taking it up with Prof Deeley.’
‘That bad?’
‘Just missed his heart.’
‘And he was stabbed?’
‘Right.’ She touched a finger to her eyebrow. ‘And the other guard, Carl Kelleher, he’s with one of the nurses just now.’
‘How bad is he?’
‘He’s fine. Ish. He was kicked in the head. We’re just assessing the level of concussion. He’s the type who wants to play on.’
‘Still a Hibee, then?’
She smiled. ‘For my sins.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
She nodded slowly. ‘I don’t suppose I have any choice, do I?’
‘Thanks, Helen.’
‘Come back in ten minutes.’ Her eyes creased through the goggles, showing a trace of humour. ‘After you’ve been tested.’
‘What for?’
‘For Covid-19, Scott. Your old partner in crime, Craig Hunter, is upstairs getting tested just now. While it’s all well and good wearing a mask, I still expect you to get a test, otherwise you’ll be infecting all and sundry.’
Cullen leaned back as far as he could and then tried to push back even further, but she still stuck the swab up his nose and down the back of his throat. Like an ice lolly stick being shoved into his brain. And it tickled like he was going to be sick.
And then it was done and his gag reflex was under control.
The nurse – Apinya, according to her name badge – stuck the swab into the bag. Her ancestors were from somewhere in south-east Asia, most probably Thailand, but her accent was very clearly West Lothian. And even with a mask on, she was stunning, like she should be a model rather than a nurse on the Covid-19 ward. ‘Okay, that’s you done.’
‘Do I need to self-isolate?’
Apinya looked down at her sheet and pursed her lips. ‘Well, the contact tracing form says you weren’t in direct contact with the subject.’
‘Correct. I wore a mask at all times too.’
‘But DC Hunter didn’t?’
Cullen knew that was going to come back and bite him. ‘Fights are dynamic situations and I believe DC Hunter’s assailant must’ve ripped it off.’
‘Well.’ She clicked her tongue a few times. ‘Here’s the thing. You don’t need to self-isolate unless you present with symptoms.’
It hit Cullen in the gut. His whole life was built around his job, about going out into the community to help people. And being stuck at home, watching Netflix while idiots like Keith Ross torched phone masts or infected cops? That didn’t sit right. Like a second punch in the balls.
Apinya was still frowning. ‘Listen, I need to run this past my supervisor, okay?’
‘Sure thing.’ Cullen smiled at her. ‘Any chance I can speak to Craig?’
‘Follow me.’ She led Cullen over to an internal window, keeping her two-metre distance all the way, and it was like visiting someone in prison.
A glass barrier sat between normality and someone’s personal torment. Hunter was sitting on a hospital bed, slumped forward, head in his hands.
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ Apinya gave Cullen a flash of her eyebrows as she walked off.
Cullen picked up a handset with a gloved hand and kept it away from his head. ‘Hey, Craig.’
Hunter frowned at him. ‘Scott? You okay?’
‘Hopefully. Just had a test. Hoping I won’t have to self-isolate.’
‘I will.’ Hunter slumped back on the bed. ‘The nurse told me… Christ, a whole load of things. Bottom line, I’ve got to stay at home for seven days.’ His voice sounded thin and distant.
‘Seven?’ Cullen couldn’t handle seven hours at home, let alone seven days. Didn’t bear thinking about.
‘I know.’ Hunter sat up, rasping a hand through his hair. ‘That’s how long the tests are taking. If I’m not symptomatic by then, I should be fine.’ He rubb
ed at his throat and it was like he could still taste the spit. ‘Barely any point in running them, is there?’
‘Have you told Chantal?’
Hunter rubbed a hand across his neck. ‘Working up to it.’
‘That won’t be easy.’
‘No. I won’t be able to stay in the same flat as her. Don’t want to expose her. She’s fit and healthy but I’m not risking her catching it.’
‘You shouldn’t. Can you stay with your brother?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘Murray’s away again, stuck in Kenya or something. And our useless twat of a dad is house-sitting. So I’d better avoid contaminating the old pervert as well.’
‘What about your mum?’
‘Same rules, mate. Her immune system is shagged.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ll have to go to a hotel. Might end up being Happy Jack’s fourth wife.’
Cullen laughed. ‘He’ll be lucky to keep any of the others.’
‘True.’
‘Look, you can take my flat. It’s yours, anyway. I’m just subletting it.’
‘We really need to switch the lease over, don’t we?’
‘I mean it, Craig. Stay there.’
‘But what about you?’
Cullen scratched his neck. ‘I’ve got options, mate.’
‘Like what? Yvonne?’
‘Scott?’ Apinya was back, clutching a sheet of paper.
Cullen smiled at Hunter. ‘I’ll catch you later, mate. And seriously, I’ll grab a bag of clothes so you can head to your old place.’
‘Thanks, Scott.’
With a final nod, Cullen replaced the handset and walked back to Apinya’s station. ‘So?’
‘You’re sure you wore a mask?’
‘It was a standard-issue cloth mask and, yes, all the time.’ Cullen was nodding like a kid on his best behaviour in the run-up to Christmas, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘And the suspect went in the other car, which I didn’t enter.’ He sighed as the truth hit him. ‘And we interviewed him at the station. I’m not even sure he’s got Covid-19.’
‘Okay.’ Apinya smiled. ‘Well, the good news is we don’t think you have to self-isolate, but you do need to keep that mask on and monitor your symptoms, okay?’
Dr Yule stood in the corner, arms folded like she didn’t trust Cullen. And with good reason too. But she did trust Methven and only had eyes for him. ‘This is what happens when public services are underfunded. Fewer prison guards means greater risk of incidents like this. Meaning I’ve lost two beds to avoidable injuries.’
‘You’re preaching to the converted, Helen.’ Methven did his eyes shut thing. ‘Listen, I’m chairing a recovery meeting with the prison service and the local policing superintendent about getting the escapees back where they belong. I’ll make sure your voice is heard, so they appreciate the downstream impacts.’
‘Thanks, Colin. You’re one of the best.’
Cullen wanted to throw up. ‘Have you got a name for the other inmate yet?’
Methven shook his head. ‘Paperwork issues and a lockdown at HMP Edinburgh.’
‘Great. Do you mind if I have a word with Mr Kelleher?’
Yule nodded slowly. ‘Be my guest.’
Christ. Cullen didn’t realise that he just needed Methven’s presence to deflect her. ‘I mean, is it okay?’
‘Sure. I’m going to rewire his jaw, but he’s perfectly lucid just now.’
‘Thanks.’ Cullen pulled the curtain back, stepped in and sat alongside the bed.
Carl Kelleher put a finger to his temple and immediately yanked it away. He was all PPEed up, facemask and gloves. His skin was purple with bruises everywhere and his head looked like it’d been made from clay. And something had gone very wrong in the kiln.
He smiled at Cullen and it looked like it really hurt. ‘You and me are the same, eh? Both bosses. In there, I’m a supervising officer, in charge of – ow – five laddies. Some good guys, some dafties. Sure it’s the same in the police.’
Cullen nodded. ‘Pretty much.’
‘Well, the big jobbie floating in the shallow end right now is that half my bloody team are pussies. Using this whole thing as an excuse to go off on the poke.’
Cullen had seen this guy’s type, alright. Acting the hero to everyone, and he was the most put-upon guy in the world. And so easy to play like a fiddle. ‘Meaning you had to step in, right?’
‘Right. I mean, three guys are off sick and the wing’s under lockdown.’ Kelleher fiddled with the strap, pulling his ear out wide. ‘This isn’t in the papers, but we’ve had ten infections. Someone brought it in and that bug’s staying. So we’ve got to bring them in here, give them the best care blah blah blah. After what some of these boys have done?’ He laughed. ‘Give me a break.’
Not only did he have a hero complex, but Kelleher had let a promotion away from the shop floor turn into rust. He’d let himself go sloppy, probably over-delegated to his staff too. Cullen constantly worried that rank would do that to him, which probably meant it was unlikely to be true. Didn’t stop those late-night thoughts creeping into his head, though.
‘Okay, so our priority here is tracking down the prisoners. Fastest way to do that is to speak to their known associates, family, you know the drill. Good thing is that, because they’re prisoners, we’ll have a lot of information on them. We can speak to the arresting officers, all that good stuff. So. You got their names?’
‘Paperwork’s in the van.’
‘We found nothing.’
‘Crap, they must’ve taken it.’ Kelleher frowned. ‘Only thing is, I don’t know who one of them was.’
‘What?’
‘Dude, it’s not my fault.’
‘Not saying it is.’ Cullen tried to hide his disappointment. A mystery missing prisoner wasn’t going to be much fun. ‘Just tell me what happened?’
‘We were just about to leave when Davie, David Gilchrist, came over with the unknown prisoner. The other lad was already with me.’
‘We couldn’t find any paperwork.’
‘Ah, crap. How’s Davie doing?’
‘He’s in surgery, sir.’
‘Heard he was stabbed. Christ.’
‘Any idea who did it or how they got a knife?’
‘That little shite.’ He bared his teeth. ‘The lad I was looking after is called Kenjo in there, but his Sunday name is Kenny Falconer.’
Cullen felt himself groan. He wouldn’t have to look far for the arresting officer. It was himself.
8
Bain
And just like fuckin’ that, the traffic appears. Mo has to pull up behind a wave of arseholes in all the cars. And they’re fuckin’ massive over here. Aside from the electric things like Mo here’s driving, they’ve got these tanks that pretend to be cars. The kind of shite Elvis was keen on hiring down in Texas. And they’re all petrol, so they must burn through the fuel like Art through cheesecake. Or me through a box of IPA, in fairness.
I swivel round and the boy’s looking not too shabby, considering he’s fuckin’ dying here. ‘Won’t be long, pal.’
‘He’s not got long, Bri.’ Elvis has that look of the piss artist caught mid-session with some earth-shattering event, struggling to sober up but too far gone and is just … lost. ‘Any shortcuts round here, Mo?’
‘Sorry, man. This is New York.’
‘Be quicker walking…’
Mo grins at him in the rearview. ‘I’d agree with you, if you hadn’t left the wheelchair back there.’ He pulls forward, drumming his thumbs off the steering wheel in time to that band I like but can’t remember the name of. ‘Won’t be too long, man.’
‘Who’s this?’
Mo looks at us with this big grin. ‘The War On Drugs.’
Makes us nod. ‘That’s who it is…’
‘You a fan?’
‘Quite like them, aye. Prefer Kurt Vile’s solo stuff, but hey ho.’
‘Huh.’ Mo pulls forward almost at the junction now. ‘Just two blocks to go.’ And we’re almost
through, but a homeless guy runs across the crosswalk. Mo slams on the brakes and we all jerk forward. ‘Goddamnit!’
The tramp batters the bonnet with both fists, then points at Mo for a good few seconds, tongue out and waggling in the air. Then he scurries off to the pavement.
‘Goddamn asshole.’ Mo’s torn his seatbelt off and is out of the car. ‘Hey, asshat! Get back here!’ And just like that, he’s off, chasing after the guy down some fuckin’ street in Manhattan. Christ.
I take one look at Elvis, then at Art. ‘We are fucked.’
‘Bri, he’s left his keys.’
And holy crapballs, Elvis is right. A big metal star ring is dangling from the ignition thingy. A ton of keys on there, like he’s a jailer.
Even so, I shake my head. ‘We can’t take his car.’
‘Aye we can.’
‘That’s grand theft auto!’
‘Aye, and Art’s going to die here!’
Another check and, fuck me, Mo’s number is printed on a bit of card stuck to the dashboard. No sign of his phone either. Usually those fannies have them in cradles on the dashboard, but his must be in his pocket. Must’ve taken it. So we can borrow his motor and get it back to him. ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers.’ I shuffle over to the driver side and fuck me is it a tight fit.
‘Need to cut down on your pork life.’ Art’s staring at me, lucid now.
‘Those in glass houses, pal.’ I shove the seat back.
‘Ow!’ Art’s glaring at us.
‘Sorry, pal.’ I stick the car in drive and – OH MY FUCKIN’ DAYS – I’ve got a green light, so I floor it and whizz across the junction onto the next block.
The traffic’s backed up at the end but I’ve got a clear run at it. Must be three or four blocks now.
I check in the back. Elvis and Art are both looking to the side. Is that where the hospital is? ‘Everyone okay—’
‘Stop!’ Elvis’s peepers are almost out on stalks.
I slam the brakes and we squeal to a stop.
An ambulance is sitting there, blocking the road. The back doors are hanging open. The two paramedics are getting a fuckin’ shoeing off a gang of kids. Looks like a ton of them, too, swarming the van in sheer numbers with fists. One hits a paramedic and he swings round to chase, but another hits from behind. Rinse and repeat.
