Cath Staincliffe: Stone Cold Red Hot

I laughed. I could still laugh. “No, nothing like that. But she needs to get to hospital. I don’t know whether it’s just shock or whether she’s had a stroke of some sort.”

“Well, what on earth was she doing?” She stooped down beside Mrs Pickering who lay with her eyes closed, her breathing regular.

Trying to kill me. “She thought I was an intruder, just a stupid mix-up.”

“Did she fire it at you?” She said appalled. “Yes, your arm. Oh, good heavens.”

“I’m fine. Nothing broken. Just a few cuts. Most of it ended up in the ceiling.” I wanted to get out of there away from her questions. I felt fragile as though I might dissolve if I had to stand about much longer. I limped over to lean on the wall.

“And your leg!”

“That didn’t happen here. It’s a long story.”

The ringing of the doorbell signified the arrival of the ambulance. I gave them a quick resume of events. Glances were exchanged when the gun was mentioned but I told them it was an accident. I had to give my name and address in case anyone needed to follow it up and I told them that Roger, her next of kin was on his way to the hospital. Once the facts were established they wasted no time in strapping her onto a stretcher and taking her away.

I rang a taxi immediately after.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” Mrs Clerkenwell asked.

“Yes. I just need to get home.”

“You might be better getting someone to look at that arm.”

“I will,” I said. “If it’s not a cream and plaster job I’ll get it seen to.”

“It’s a good job you had that coat on. I mean look at the state of the place.”

I looked. The dust had settled but the splintered wood and pock-marked plaster showed where most of the shot had ended up. And if she hadn’t been so weak, if her aim had been surer, if the gun hadn’t kicked her back at that particular angle, it could have been my face, my eyes.

A car horn sounded.

“That’ll be my cab. I expect Roger will have a key.”

“Yes. I’ll make sure it’s locked.” She opened the door. “All this – it’s got something to do with looking for Jennifer hasn’t it?”

I gave her a look.

“I know,” she raised her hands in surrender, “you can’t say. Go on then, and be careful with that arm.”

I kept my arm bent on the journey so the blood wouldn’t drip onto the seats. The dustbin lorry was making its way down my road so I got dropped at the end. I limped home, the rifle in my good hand, wrapped in its black plastic, like some gunfighter from a B-movie. All I needed was High Noon playing in the background or the whistling from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. I’d never been able to work out the words to that one, always sounded like ‘who ate my lego’.

I didn’t feel much like a hero. I was wasted, battered and burnt. There were no townsfolk ready to pat my back and tip their hats. It seemed such a long walk home. And what was there to celebrate? A job done well? I argued to myself that I had done my best, that I had done what I could, that it wasn’t my fault that things had turned out so badly. I knew intellectually that my persistence and my wits had led me to uncover the truth about Jennifer. But she was dead, all I could bring her brother was her corpse and a story to shatter his world. As for the Ibrahims, whatever happened to their tormentors they had lost a child. Their son had been murdered. And a young policeman had died with him.

I shuffled past the dustbin lorry, avoiding the men who pulled the wheelie bins onto the automatic fork-lift at the back. My teeth ached in my mouth, my leg was pulsing with pain and my arm was aflame. I felt so sick. My face was wet. Stupid tears. I hadn’t any tissues. It was hard to get my key in the lock. I was cold too. I sniffed hard and tried again.

Once inside I used my good arm to push the gun on the high shelf in the hall, as I turned away it slid off and cracked me on the temple, sending a sickening sensation through me and I lost my temper.

“Stupid fucking thing,” I screamed and triggered a coughing fit. I wanted to get hold of it and smash it to bits, bang it on concrete until it was broken and bent but I was too hurt. I pushed it back up, crying with frustration now.

I went upstairs to the bathroom to examine my arm. I eased my jacket off. The tape recorder looked intact. I rewound it and played a fragment. Barely audible. It didn’t matter now. I wasn’t about to forget what she had said. I took off my fleece and my t-shirt, pausing each time the movements made the pain ripple and made me sway. Several pellets had lodged in my upper arm, one in the shoulder. They looked like bits of gravel. Blood had streamed from each of them and run down to soak my cuffs. Like long ago days, when I’d fallen off my roller skates and pebble-dashed my knees and sat wincing in the kitchen while my mother picked the grit out with tweezers and daubed the lot with sweet smelling Germolene. I collected the first aid kit and made my way gingerly down to the kitchen. I laid it all out on the table. Talking aloud I enumerated all my woes and cursed and swore while I sorted out the essential items and mixed up some disinfectant. I made tea and took two of the painkillers that the hospital had given me. Everything took me twice as long as the injuries made my left hand useless.

My arm was swelling, the pellets sinking deeper into puffy flesh and bruising edging the wounds. It was hot to the touch. I used the tweezers to dig out the bits letting myself howl and moan when it hurt. Which it did. A lot. Some of the fragments were sharp edged and tore at my skin as I pulled. Each wound bled afresh which I hoped would wash out any dirt. At last I thought they were all out. I dabbed disinfectant on the first one and screamed at the bite. I couldn’t bear it.

I mixed water from the kettle with salt and used that. That hurt too. Holding my breath I slathered Germoline around the holes and wrapped a large sterile dressing over the area. One-handed I couldn’t fasten it as snugly as I wanted, I’d ask Sheila to re-do it later. The huge dressing had been in the first aid box for ages, I’d always wondered why they had included it – it seemed so extreme. Now it had found a home.

In the lounge I poured myself a generous measure of brandy and sat on the sofa with my legs up. I sipped at the drink, the glow fierce in my tongue and warm as it went down my throat to my stomach. I gazed out at the garden, losing myself in the patterns of the tree branches against the sky. The sun edged its way into the garden and in through the large windows, it reached the sofa. I drained the brandy and got the cotton throw off the easy chair, lay down again and covered myself with it.

The sun was warm on my face and chest, amber light through my eyelids. I soaked in the glow as I spiralled into sleep.

I woke with a start. It was three o’clock. For a moment I panicked about picking the kids up until I remembered Ray’s assurance that he would do it. The phone was ringing, then the answerphone kicked in.

I sat up, balking at the pain as both my arm and leg protested. My mouth was dry, my tongue like a pumice stone, my throat felt raw. I could hear a man’s voice leaving a message. I got to my feet testing my weight on my damaged leg. I could walk if I took it slowly.

I got a glass of water in the kitchen and chugged it down. Digger looked at me expectantly then padded over. His wagging tail thumped against my leg and all the nerve endings shrieked in agony. I gasped aloud and gripped the sink until it felt safe to let go. Digger had slunk back under the table. I chucked him a dog biscuit. No hard feelings.

The light on the answerphone told me there were two messages. I played them back. Dianne had heard about the fire, from Ray, and would call round later to see how I was getting on. The second message was from the detectives following up an enquiry into the fire; they would be contacting me for a statement. Good. I wanted those thugs sent down. I wondered whether they had other witnesses; had anyone actually seen who threw the petrol bombs? Could they prosecute them all for involvement, conspiracy to endanger life or whatever? The tapes would help build the case, too. Had Mandy Bellows heard about it all yet? If she’d not been ill would action have been taken already and the fire not happened? If we’d got into the house more quickly, if we could have got in the front? If the police had sent a riot squad instead of two patrol cars? I realised what I was doing and shook my head. All the supposition in the world wouldn’t change the facts. Nor would feeling guilty.