Doug Johnstone - Hit and run

Billy closed his eyes and took a slow breath.

‘You OK, Kiddo? You don’t look so good.’

He pushed the button for morphine.

‘Want me to get a doctor?’

He shook his head. ‘Just tired.’

‘Right, I get the message, I’ll leave you to it. Got some loose ends to chase on this story anyway.’

Billy watched fireworks dance on the inside of his eyelids, and felt Rose’s hand on his. He smelt her flowery perfume, a familiar and comforting smell.

‘I’ll pop back in tomorrow, see how you’re doing. Take it easy, Scoop.’

He gave a vague nod of the head but didn’t open his eyes.

The clack of her heels on the floor faded away, then he opened his eyes. He lifted his hands to his temples and began to push in, scrunching his face up and trying to fill his lungs with air.

He eased himself out of bed with small, tentative movements. Didn’t feel too bad. His legs were weak but stable. His head wasn’t pounding too much. His heart raced in his chest, but when had it ever not done that?

He crouched down, still attached to the drip, and opened the bedside cabinet. Shoes and socks at the bottom, shorts, jeans and T-shirt, then jacket on top. Methodical, precise. He’d never seen his clothes so tidy before.

He rummaged in the jacket pockets. He pulled his jeans out, and felt the heft of his phone. A whiff of beer and piss. That’s what came from passing out on the floor of a pub toilet. He pulled the phone out. No messages.

He thought of Adele. Dean knew about him and her. He flicked through till he found her number and pressed call.

She answered after two rings.

‘Billy.’

Her voice was quiet, upset. There was a sniffle and a hesitant breath. She’d been crying.

‘Adele, are you OK?’

She laughed, a croaky sound. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’

Billy rubbed at his bandages. ‘I’m fine.’ His haunches were sore from crouching, so he slumped on to the floor and leaned against the bed. It felt secretive, whispering on the phone down there. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Her voice was cracking.

‘Come on, something’s obviously happened. Is it Dean?’

‘Did he come to see you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, Adele, don’t worry about me. It’s you that’s been crying. Tell me what he did.’

She burst into thick sobs, emotion crackling down the phone. He felt helpless.

‘Adele, shhh, it’s OK, calm down.’ He tried to sound in control.

Eventually her crying settled and calmed, and she sniffed loudly.

‘Just tell me,’ Billy said.

Another deep breath. She was gathering herself.

‘He knew I’d met you. I think he had one of his guys follow me. I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone in the pub. But somehow he knew.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was obviously upset when I got in, after you had collapsed. I couldn’t hide it. He was there, interrogating me. Not just asking, demanding.’

‘Did he hit you?’

‘He fucking…’ She crumpled into tears again.

‘OK, take it easy, deep breaths.’

She spoke through the sobs. ‘Fuck off with your deep breaths.’

‘Sorry, just trying to help.’

‘Deep breaths aren’t going to bring my baby back.’

‘What?’ Billy felt part of his brain leak out of his head, his skull came crashing in on itself. ‘Adele, what did you say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What has he done? Is it Ryan?’

‘Ryan’s fine.’ She was trying to regain composure. ‘Forget I said anything.’

‘Don’t be stupid. What baby? What did Dean do?’

A long silence down the phone. Adele trying to calm down. Billy softened his voice.

‘Come on, you can tell me.’

Another lengthy pause.

‘I was pregnant. Just a few weeks.’

‘Frank’s?’

‘Fuck you, of course Frank’s.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’

A different silence on the line now, simmering rage.

‘Dean knew. He was so angry when I told him about us. He hit me in the stomach.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘It was only a few weeks. Just a grain of sand. But it’s gone now.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

Adele didn’t speak, just gentle sobs.

‘Adele, you have to get out of there.’

‘Don’t, Billy.’

‘Just get out.’

‘We’ve been through this. Where would I take Ryan?’

‘I’ll sort something out.’

She laughed. ‘You’re in hospital with a broken head.’

‘I’m fine, the doctor says I could be out in a week.’

A sudden seriousness in her voice. ‘Billy, you can’t save us. Don’t even try.’

Billy leaned forward till he was hunched over on the floor. ‘I can save you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not being ridiculous.’

‘You’re in hospital.’

‘I can walk out of here any time I like.’

‘You’ve just had brain surgery.’

‘So what?’

‘Billy, you have to get better.’

Billy was rocking on the floor. ‘Where’s Dean now?’

‘What?’

‘You’re on the phone to me, so he’s obviously not there. Where is he now?’

She sighed. ‘He said he was going to deal with the Mackies once and for all.’

‘What?’

‘He took his little posse and headed out half an hour ago. Revenge for Rebus, that’s what he said. But he never gave a shit about that dog, it’s all about saving face and getting control of this town.’

‘Just leave then. Before he gets back. Go to the police.’

‘The police can’t help. They’re as scared of Dean as I am.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘It is.’

‘I’m coming to get you.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I’m coming.’

He ended the call before she could say anything else. The phone rang immediately, but he switched it off.

He stayed on the floor for a few seconds, then carefully heaved himself up to his feet. Dragging his drip-on-wheels with him, he pulled the thin privacy curtain around his bed, checking up and down the ward as he went. There were no nurses or doctors, just patients. It was properly dark outside now and a few bedside lamps were on. Some old-timers were sleeping, their snores reverberating up and down the echoey room.

Once the curtain was drawn he leaned against the bed for a few moments then reached down and pulled out his clothes, placing them on the bed. He began to get dressed, slowly, carefully. No extra pain. When he got to his T-shirt, he realised the drip was still attached to his hand. He quickly pumped the switch a dozen times, felt the comforting swathes of morphine engulf him. He examined the drip. There was a junction where the needle fitted into a tube, with a small plastic tap attached. He turned the tap then, using his chin to keep the needle in place in his skin, he pulled out the tube leading to the drip bag. The needle stayed in place, taped to the back of his hand. Nothing leaked out.

He pulled on his T-shirt and jacket, then sat down on the bed to get his shoes on. Some coughing from a nearby bed. Sounded like the old guy was bringing something up. No sign of a nurse coming to help, though. He struggled with his shoes, his fingers clumsy with morphine and nerves. He felt sweat dampen his armpits as he finally got the laces done.

He sat on the bed for a few minutes getting his breath back, gathering himself. Then he pulled aside the curtain and peeked out. No movement. He began walking toward the doors. An old-timer glanced up at him and raised his eyebrows. Billy smiled and gave a little wave. The old guy shook his head in a ‘kids today’ gesture.

Billy was at the entrance to the ward. In one direction was a desk with two nurses stationed at it. He recognised them from earlier, which meant they would recognise him. In the other direction were more wards and corridors, doors leading off to other parts of the hospital. He began walking, not looking back, waiting for the nurses to shout after him. He was sweating along the edge of the bandages on his head, the bandages that were blasting out a signal like a beacon — patient escaping, patient escaping — then he was round a corner, more identical corridors and doors, people in scrubs and uniforms, patients in nighties and pyjamas, and him, striding through it all like he was completely at home, examining the stream of incomprehensible signs, hoping to find a way out.