Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

‘Eh?’ Obviously Henry’s brain had been addled from the beating he’d just taken, compounded by the horrendous bloodbath. He thought he might have damaged something up there, because this was making no sense to him.

Donaldson drove to the far reaches of the industrial estate, which got grottier and grottier the further they went. He steered down a cul-de-sac and then turned in through some high steel gates, topped with barbed wire, and drove through an open shutter door into a cavernous industrial unit which was surrounded by a ten-foot-high steel mesh fence. The ambulance tailgated them in and the shutter door started to close as soon as the vehicles stopped moving.

The unit was similar to thousands of others: breeze-block built up to about ten feet, then the remainder constructed of corrugated steel walls and roof. There were no windows and illumination was provided by banks of strip-lighting hanging from the roof.

The floor was made of poured concrete and on it were parked many vehicles. Henry recognized Donaldson’s Jeep and amongst the others was a Royal Mail van, a United Utilities transit van and a Tesco home delivery box van; there were also several non-descript cars of a variety of makes and a liveried Lancashire Constabulary traffic car.

And the ambulance.

Donaldson eased his big frame out of Henry’s car and leaned on the roof, looking across at his bemused friend, who had also got out and was staring around the unit with a little-boy-lost expression.

‘Welcome to Homeland Security, Blackburn Branch,’ Donaldson said, with a wide sweep of his arms.

Henry nodded, still unable to take it in, but slowly beginning to slot things together.

He watched the paramedics pull the stretchered casualty out of the ambulance and carry him across to a door in one corner of the unit. With a bit of contortion, they managed to manoeuvre through without tipping him off.

‘That’s Bob and Bob,’ Donaldson explained for Henry’s benefit. ‘American Special Forces, both highly trained medics.’

‘Of course they are,’ Henry said, as if seeing two Delta Force soldiers dressed up as Lancashire Ambulance Service paramedics, carrying a man who had been shot on a stretcher between them, across the floor of an industrial unit on the edge of Blackburn, was the most normal thing in the world.

Henry’s legs went weak.

Donaldson saw him sag. He rushed round to him, held him up under the armpit and led him across the unit. ‘There won’t be too much time for explanation,’ he said. ‘I’ll just get you cleaned up, get some painkillers down you and then we’ll try to keep the American Secretary of State alive … how does that sound?’

‘Just doody,’ Henry said, using an expression bandied about by his youngest daughter Leanne, which seemed entirely appropriate for the situation.

Donaldson steered Henry diagonally across the floor of the unit, through the doors the paramedics/soldiers had gone with the injured man. This led into a narrow corridor off which were a number of half-glass doors on the left. Henry presumed that there were offices behind them. There was a wooden staircase at the far end, leading up to the first floor.

Donaldson took him to a door marked ‘toilet’ and said, ‘Get in there, wash yourself off, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with some new clothing for you.’

Henry complied and found himself in a tiled loo with a couple of wash basins and mirrors. He leaned on a basin and stared at his reflection. His eyes were sunken, his whole visage a scarred, swollen mess. His cheek was swollen and purple and he thought he could see it throbbing.

There was blood streaked all over him.

He slid his leather jacket off and had a look at the slashed arm, grateful that Kate had brought it for him when he’d set off for London. Its thickness had probably saved him from being seriously wounded. Four hundred quid to replace, he thought sourly, pulled his shirt off and tossed it on the floor. It needed to be incinerated. Then he got to work, washing himself down, aware that his jeans were a mess.

The water did little for him, other than to clean off the excess blood and make him look a little more presentable.

Donaldson reappeared bearing a change of clothing over his arm.

‘These should all fit you,’ he said and handed it all over — jeans, T-shirt, boxer shorts, socks. Henry stripped in front of him and stepped into the fresh, clean clothes, which fitted him snugly. ‘Sorry, but I ain’t got any trainers for you. You’ll have to stick with the ones you’ve got.’

‘No worries,’ Henry said.

The toilet door opened and a pretty, white-coated black woman in her late twenties entered, a stethoscope dangling around her neck and a notepad in one hand.

‘Walking wounded,’ Donaldson said, nodding at Henry, who managed a pathetic smile. ‘This is Dr Arlene Chambers, Henry. She’ll give you a quick once-over, see if your brain has been permanently damaged or not.’

‘Hi,’ she said brightly. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Er … been in a fight, was well on the way to losing it, got slashed by a knife.’ He held up his left hand, which he had washed and was bleeding again. ‘And got whacked in the face.’

‘OK — let’s have a look at you.’ She turned to Donaldson. ‘Karl, a bit of privacy, please.’

‘Ma’am,’ he said, and Henry saw the doctor quiver with pleasure and flutter her eyelashes. He reversed out and left them alone. Dr Chambers began a fairly thorough inspection, concluding with taping up the cut on Henry’s hand.

‘That cheekbone is undoubtedly broken. An X-ray will confirm it, but that’s one thing we don’t have here. Your hand could do with stitching, but those strips will hold it together for the time being … I know you’re not going to have time to go to hospital just yet.’

‘I’m not?’ Henry exclaimed.

‘The rest is just bruising, soreness and swelling — all the usual things you get when you fight. These will help with the pain.’ She handed him two tablets as big as pebbles. ‘Army issue — very effective.’

‘If you can swallow them.’

The door opened and Donaldson came back in. ‘Finished?’

‘He’s all yours,’ the doctor said, smiled at Henry, looked up gooey-eyed at Donaldson, and left them.

‘OK?’

‘Never better.’ Henry put his mouth to a tap, filled it with water, then swallowed the tablets with a bit of difficulty.

‘I think you’re only supposed to have one,’ Donaldson said.

Henry shrugged.

‘Follow me.’ Donaldson led him back out into the corridor and in through a door which had ‘The Swamp’ scribbled on it. Beyond was a large office with a big window, blinds drawn. A roomy old settee dominated one wall and three easy-looking armchairs and two plastic chairs made up the rest of the seating. A microwave, oven, kettle, coffee-maker, toaster, fridge and an array of loaves of bread, packets of bagels, jam, marmalade, peanut butter, tea, coffee and milk cartons covered a worktop next to the sink. This was obviously a chill-out room.

‘Take a seat,’ Donaldson said, and Henry lowered himself gratefully into one of the armchairs as the American boiled the kettle and made two mugs of instant coffee, handing one to Henry.

‘Fuck, I’m sore,’ Henry said, adjusting his position.

‘You look it … but Arlene’s magic medicine will work wonders in no time, especially a double dose of it.’

Henry raised his eyebrows. Chit-chat time was over.

‘OK — quick story from me,’ Donaldson said.

‘I’m all ears.’

‘The American Secretary of State is visiting the north of England at the request of your Foreign Secretary, who is also your local Member of Parliament.’