Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

Those nearby dropped to the ground as the motorbike simply evaporated, a few tiny pieces of metal spinning off into the air, others dropping, hissing, into the water of the Thames.

The concussion blast spread out and rattled windows in their frames.

The train on the Hungerford Bridge rocked for a second.

Even the waters of the Thames were forced into small waves for about a hundred yards around the epicentre of the fearsome explosion.

Black and red smoke spread across the sky like blood across blotting paper and the air seemed to be filled with millions of tiny black cinders, which floated on the breeze and settled on the clothes of those nearby.

Doyle included.

He had no feeling at all in his left arm or shoulder now but he could feel the burning sensation in his right leg where he'd fallen heavily on it. It wasn't a break, that much he was sure of. There was a cut across his forehead just below his hairline which was weeping blood down his face.

He could hear screams, shouts.

And sirens.

There were always bloody sirens.

Sean Doyle passed out.

It was going to rain. He was certain of it.

Doyle glanced up at the threatening banks of cloud and turned the key in the door of the Datsun.

He winced slightly as he did.

He'd left hospital two days ago with his shoulder heavily strapped.

More pain.

They'd wanted him to stay longer, make sure that the fracture of his collar bone was only hair-line, but he'd discharged himself after less than thirty-six hours. He wanted to be out of the hospital; he hated the fucking places even though it seemed, sometimes, as if he'd spent half his life in one or another. They all looked the same, they all smelled the same and he hated them.

Better off at home.

Better the solitude. He didn't want to be around other people any more than he had to be.

He opened the rear door of the car and carefully laid the bunch of red carnations on the back seat, gazing down at them for a moment.

Why did it always rain when he visited Georgie's grave?

He grimaced to himself and walked around to the driver's side.

'Doyle.'

The sound of his name made him turn and he noticed that a car had pulled up across the street.

Detective Inspector Vic Calloway was walking towards him, collar turned up against the wind that had sprung up, bringing an unexpected chill with it.

'How's the arm?' asked the DI, nodding towards Doyle's injured shoulder.

'Stiff,' Doyle told him. 'But it could have been worse.'

'You were lucky,' Calloway told him.

'So people say,' said Doyle wryly.

The two men looked at each other, the ensuing silence awkward. It was broken by the DI.

'Look, Doyle,' he began, the words faltering. 'I'm glad I caught you, I wanted to say thanks.'

'No need. I was doing my job.'

'If it hadn't been for you, Christ knows how many people would have been killed. That last bomb you-'

'Forget it.'

Doyle pulled open the driver's door, slid behind the wheel and lowered the side window.

Calloway watched as he dug in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit up.

'Was there anything else?' Doyle asked, starting the engine.

Calloway shook his head and stepped away from the Datsun, catching sight of the carnations on the back seat.

'Who are the flowers for?' he asked.

Doyle answered without looking at him.

'A friend,' he said softly. Then he guided the car smoothly away from the kerb.

Calloway watched until the car reached the end of the road, the indicator winking, then headed back towards his own vehicle.

When he looked again, Doyle was gone.

The first spots of rain had begun to fall.

'Don't ever try to change what you don't understand.

Live your life on the sharp edge…'

– Sword