Ken McClure: Trauma

McKirrop stared at the bottle. It was a cheap supermarket brand with a Russian-sounding name, but he wanted it. He wanted it badly. He ran his tongue nervously along his top lip and imagined the fire in his throat from the spirit. His mind was in torment. He wanted the liquor but he was afraid of the men. He wouldn’t get off with a kicking next time... On the other hand... Perhaps it wouldn’t matter if he... McKirrop laid his head back on the pillow and said with a sigh, “All right. I’ll tell you.”

The sergeant brought out his notebook and parked himself on a chair at McKirrop’s elbow. The inspector chose to stand at the end of the bed. McKirrop reached for the bottle but was again prevented from doing so again. “Talk first. Party afterwards.”

“There were four of them but I couldn’t see their faces because they had hoods on.”

“Hoods?”

“White sheets, like the Ku-Klux-Klan, with two slits for their eyes and one for their mouths. Except for their leader, that is.”

“What was he wearing?”

“He had on a sort of animal mask, like a sheep or a ram, with horns on it and he was carrying some kind of stick.”

“What kind of stick?”

“Like bishops have.”

“A crook?”

“A crozier,” said McKirrop.

The policeman’s mouth twitched as he looked for signs of mockery on McKirrop’s face. McKirrop remained impassive. Only his eyes betrayed signs of dumb insolence.

“Get on with it.”

“Two of them dug up the kid while the others watched. They stood round the grave and chanted.”

“What did they chant?”

McKirrop shrugged and said, “Don’t know, I’m not a Catholic.”

“You mean it was Latin?”

“Could have been.”

“Ye gods,” sighed the sergeant.

“Then what?” demanded the inspector.

“They opened the coffin and took out the kid’s body.”

“Go on.”

“They laid it out on the lid of the coffin and the leader said some words over it then... he brought out this long knife and...”

“And what?”

“I couldn’t stand it any more,” said McKirrop. “I tried my best to stop them but there were too many and they gave me a right doing.” He paused to finger his ribs tenderly before continuing, “Their leader said that if I told a soul they would come back and cut my heart out.”

“You did the right thing, telling us,” said the inspector quietly. “Did you get all that?” he asked his sergeant.

His colleague nodded, getting to his feet and snapping shut his notebook.

McKirrop reached out for the bottle but the sergeant beat him to it.

“We had a deal!” McKirrop protested.

“Everyone knows it’s against hospital regulations to consume alcohol on the premises.” He put the bottle back into his pocket.

“You rotten bastards. I told you everything! I’ve put my life at risk!”

The sergeant shrugged.

“Bunch of bastards,” mumbled McKirrop.

The sergeant looked questioningly at the inspector who nodded in reply. He removed the bottle from his pocket and poured some liquor out into the glass by McKirrop’s bedside. McKirrop gulped it down greedily and the policemen turned to leave. As they reached the door the inspector turned round and said, “About that hut, McKirrop — we’ve had the authorities put a new padlock on...”

Sarah Lasseter came in a few minutes later. She seemed pleased. “I hear that you gave the police a great deal of help,” she said. “I’m glad. The sooner they catch these people the better.”

McKirrop looked at her briefly before diverting his eyes. “Can I go now?” he asked.

“If you insist. I don’t think we can stop you.”

“Let’s be honest. No one would want to stop me. If I was the Queen Mother, they’d be tying me down to the bed with gold chains but John McKirrop? Get that old bastard out of here. He makes the place look untidy. Right?”

“Something like that,” agreed Sarah. She met McKirrop’s gaze without flinching. It was he who broke off eye contact, feeling suddenly uneasy again. Sarah left and came back with his bundle of clothes and a piece of paper. “You’ll have to sign this,” she said.

“What is it?”

“It’s a form to say that you are signing yourself out. It absolves us from blame if anything should happen to you because of your injuries.”

McKirrop signed the paper quickly and handed it back. “Te absolvo, te absolvo,” he said with a sigh.

“Thank you, Father,” Sarah smiled.

“You’re a Catholic?”

“Yes, but I overheard you tell the police that you weren’t?”

McKirrop shrugged but did not say anything.

“I’ll come back when you’re dressed.”

McKirrop was ready for the road again. He’d just fastened up the top button on his coat when Sarah Lasseter came back. She said, “I know it’s not very much but I hope it will buy you something to eat later on.”

She held out her hand. There was a ten pound note in it. McKirrop looked at her as if this was the last thing in the world he expected because it was. “That’s very good of you,” he said, annoyed at the embarrassment he felt. He took the money and pushed it in to his pocket.

“Good luck,” said Sarah, stepping back to allow him to pass.

McKirrop grunted and then paused uncertainly.

“Forget something?” asked Sarah.

McKirrop hesitated and then said, “About what you said...”

“Yes?”

“About the kid’s father feeling bad...”

“What about it?”

“Nothing,” said McKirrop as an internal wrestling match came to an end. The values of an old life had almost triumphed over the present, but not quite. He turned and left.

McKirrop found an off-licence less than three hundred metres from the hospital. Sarah Lasseter’s tenner bought him two bottles of Bulgarian wine on special offer and a can of strong lager. The transaction was carried out without he or the shop assistant saying a word to each other. He was one of the clients the business liked to pretend it didn’t have.

McKirrop turned into the first alleyway after leaving the shop and opened the lager. He gulped it down greedily and threw the can behind him without looking. He belched loudly and reached into the plastic carrier-bag at his feet to bring out one of the wine bottles. A quick rummage in his coat pocket and he came up with a small penknife which he used to deal with the cork. Practice had made perfect. He knew exactly the right angle to employ and the exact degree of insertion. Opening the bottle presented no more of a problem to McKirrop using his little knife than it would have done to the wine waiter at the Café Royal with his customized corkscrew.

With half a bottle of wine inside him the edge had been taken off life and he felt ready for the road.

McKirrop saw Bella’s group from up on the bridge. Bella was sitting on the wall laying down the law about something. She usually was.

“Well if it isn’t our very own mega-star,” announced Flynn loudly when he saw McKirrop come down the steps leading to the towpath.

McKirrop ignored the comment and came over to sit down beside Bella on the low wall beside the water. He put the plastic carrier bag containing the wine between his feet and asked, “How have you been, Bella?”

“Careful Bella,” urged Flynn. “He’ll probably whisk you away in his Porsche and take advantage of you.”

“Shut your face, Flynn!” snapped Bella. The comment froze the grins that were appearing on the other faces. Turning back to McKirrop she said, “All right John boy. How about you?”

“Up and down.”

Bella was a large woman with hawk-like features and a florid complexion. She had some claim to be leader of the group by virtue of the fact that she had kept her strong personality despite her circumstances. For some unknown reason she seemed immune to the apathy which affected all the others. It was much easier to obey Bella than cross her. She liked McKirrop and didn’t hide the fact. McKirrop found it amusing and occasionally useful. Whenever he was around, her voice changed from its usual bark to a more gentle and refined tone. This secretly intrigued McKirrop. Did she imagine he didn’t hear her at other times? Her mannerisms changed too. She became almost coquettish, constantly putting her head to one side and flicking her hair back from her forehead, like a teenage girl talking to boys at the school gate.