Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

She shone the light and peered in, saw the camping chairs, folded leaning against the wall, the clutter of bats and sticks and racquets next to them and then Dave, prone on the sun-lounger, his face white in the gloom.

The door wasn’t quite closed and Gill caught the stink of vomit, high and sharp, as she pushed it open and stepped inside, saw by torchlight that his lips and chin were speckled with sick, there was a pool of it by his right cheek and a patch on that shoulder.

He was too still.

Fear zipped through her, heart thundering in her chest, blood pounding in her ears, half-formed thoughts, risk of choking, asphyxiation, major cause of accidental death.

‘Dave!’ she shouted at him. ‘Dave!’

No response.

In the dark she heard the harsh cries of the magpie from the guttering. Those calls he’d made, the ones she’d ignored earlier in the day, would this be happening now if she had answered? Would it have made any difference?

She crouched closer, ignoring the smell, slapped his other cheek, repeating his name. Her mind raced ahead, tripping up over what she might have to do, clear the airways, start chest compressions.

A second slap and he groaned.

‘Dave!’

His upper body jerked, he made a gargling sound and bucked, flung up an arm, his hand slamming into her nose and cheekbone, sending a sickening pain through her face.

She fell back, giddy with relief, blinked away tears and got to her feet. He was breathing, harsh rasping sounds, eyes closed. ‘Dave,’ she said.

He hadn’t a clue what he was doing. Pillock, stupid pillock. Trembling with adrenaline, she pulled her phone from her pocket and took a photograph of him in all his glory. Proof, should she need it.

She saw then that there was blood on his other arm, the left one, lots of blood.

‘Dave, wake up!’

His eyelids fluttered, opened, he struggled to focus.

‘Sit up, get up,’ she said.

He moaned as if complaining.

‘Sit up, now.’

With effort he hoisted himself up on his right elbow. Gill grabbed his feet and swung them round.

He closed his eyes again. His jacket was slashed, the left sleeve, he must have cut it reaching through the shattered pane to release the latch.

Gill pulled at the sleeve, raised it a few inches, did the same with his shirt sleeve. She saw the cut, a gash on the lower edge of his arm, three inches long. Deep, gaping and glistening with blood.

‘You need stitches,’ she said. She might have been able to clean it up and dress it but what if it became infected, if he got blood poisoning? Besides, it might not heal properly without professional medical care.

‘Dave?’

He murmured, she had no idea if he could understand her.

‘Take this off.’ She tugged at his jacket, she wasn’t going to take him anywhere covered in vomit. ‘Come on.’ It was like trying to undress a sleeping fifteen-stone toddler but eventually she wrested the jacket from him and left it on the floor.

Dave swayed gently on the lounger, opening his eyes sporadically.

‘You stupid dickhead,’ she said, ‘what do you think you’re playing at?’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Stay there.’

In the house she collected a damp flannel and towel, a clean cloth and some water.

She wiped his face and neck then made him drink some water. She wrapped the cloth around the cut and pinned it in place. Then she brought her car as close to the lawn as she could and chivvied Dave until he got to his feet. She made him walk to the car.

He was unsteady and she knew if he keeled over she had no chance of shifting him, but thankfully he got to the car and she steered him into the passenger seat.

At the hospital she could feel the fury and frustration scalding inside her as they waited for him to be seen and stitched up.

The staff were practical, distant, unsmiling as they asked their questions and cleaned and sewed the wound and gave him the tetanus jab and Gill knew there was a subtext: here was a man who couldn’t hold his drink, who was only in A &E because of his drinking, who had brought injury on himself. A pisshead. It was clear from the smell of him and the sight of him with his bleary, bloodshot eyes and from his behaviour, the clumsy gait, the long pause before he replied to any questions, marshalling the words in the right order, the vacant smile he switched on at seemingly random moments to show what a good guy he was. Like the police, a great many of the people they dealt with in A &E were off their heads.

Back home in the depth of the night, she showed him to the sofa. He’d stopped nodding off but was quiet, avoiding eye contact. She imagined the tide of shame was rising, washing over him in ever larger waves. She made him tea, brought him paracetamols.

He thanked her, his voice whispery.

‘You could have drowned in your own vomit,’ she said, ‘or bled to death, another inch and it would have been an artery. Look.’ She swiped at her phone, pulling up the picture. ‘Look. Proud of that?’

His mouth tightened and he looked away.

‘It stops now,’ she said. ‘You’re obviously incapable of dealing with it yourself so in the-’

‘I’ll ring round tomorrow,’ he said, ‘find a clinic.’

‘You do that.’

He gave a nod and she went upstairs.

She ached everywhere, the shock and upset had lodged in her spine and her limbs making it impossible to relax, to rest. She lay awake, her mind circling around Dave and the grief he’d brought to her door, around the case and the muddle of it all, and in the end she gave up on sleep. She showered and dressed and watched the sun rise over the hills and heard the birds greet the new day, hoping it would be a damn sight better than the one that had gone before.

‘Did you sleep here?’ Janet found Gill already at her desk when she got into work early.

‘No, I didn’t,’ Gill said, her tone clipped, brusque. Janet looked at her; she had dark circles under her eyes. Janet knew Gill could manage on five hours a night but it didn’t look like she’d even had that.

‘Did you want something?’ Gill said without looking up.

Janet felt awkward. ‘No,’ she said. Pardon me for breathing. She retreated to the outer room, hung up her coat and logged on to the system but she found it hard to concentrate, wondering why Gill had been so short with her.

Gill could be sharp, critical, but only when someone had done something wrong or not done something important and needed a kick up the arse. She was fair, she didn’t lose her temper without good reason and she wasn’t ever manipulative or sulky. If something got up her nose she tackled it head on. Janet shuffled in her seat, tried to focus on the statements she was reviewing and shut out the voice in her head, quibbling about Gill cold-shouldering her.

Lee came in and waved hello, then Kevin.

Had she misheard? Had Gill just been so preoccupied with work that she’d made the remarks without being aware how curt she sounded? Or was it to do with Olivia’s death? Had something happened that Gill couldn’t tell her about?

This is bloody ridiculous. She got up and went to Gill’s door. Knocked and went in without waiting for permission. ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

‘What?’ Gill scowled, took her specs off.

‘Something’s up. I’d rather know what it was than sit out there trying to guess.’

Gill stared at her, looking annoyed, a glint in her gaze. Janet held her ground.

‘It’s nothing,’ Gill said, ‘just-’ Then her mouth twitched and Janet was stunned to see her eyes fill with tears.

‘Come on,’ Janet said. The ladies’ toilet was the place of sanctuary, somewhere away from prying eyes and the demands of phones and e-mails. Gill followed her there, perched against the sinks, arms folded.