Gatecrasher (2 page)

‘I know a little first aid,
’ she said and then looked from him to the figure on the floor.

‘OK,
’ he nodded blankly.
Campbell
’s head was still swimming and he blinked hard twice to try to clear his vision. It failed. He tried to think about how much he’d drunk. A lot.

He stepped forward and reached his hand out toward the man’s neck. A hooded top obscured all but the back of his head, the hair there dark and matted with blood. Neither of them spoke; not when
Campbell
had drawn back the hood to expose a number of vicious gashes in the man’s neck, blood flowing freely from the wounds. Not when
Campbell
took up the man’s wrist and rolled his eyes in relief when he found a faint pulse.

Shards from a wineglass lay broken in the blood and the long thin stem rocked gently back and forth on its circular base next to the man’s head.
Campbell
guessed that he had fallen and somehow the glass had ended up between the floor and his throat as he landed. He speculated about this aloud and they both winced at the thought, picturing it as they stared again at the wound.

‘
Pass me a dishcl
oth or something,
’
Campbell
instructed trying to sound decisive, but she was kneeling now and rolling her sleeves up.
Campbell
grabbed clean dishcloths from a drawer and tossed them about in the pooling blood, pressing firmly on them as they began to colour a deep, deep red.

‘How’s that first aid looking?’ he said. She looked up at him with a pale face and red hands.

‘All I can think is that you’re supposed to stop the bleeding by applying pressure. But I’m not exactly sure how we do that without strangling the guy.’

‘Shit… Ambulance.’

She nodded and he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and began dialling.

‘Where’s the nearest A and
E?’ she asked looking back at the motionless figure and his pallid looking face.

‘Not far actually. Five minutes up the road maybe.’ he said and then started talking into the handset, fighting to keep the panic and the booze from his voice, trying not to look at the prone figure next to him.

When he finished he looked up at her and nodded,
exhaling noisily. ‘Who the hell
is this guy?’

After a protracted silence she spoke. ‘Party’s over then.’

Campbell
was staring at the blood. So dark, he thought. He nodded but said nothing.

Saturday. 11.30 pm.

He shifted his backside on the thin cushioning of the waiting-room seat and looked again at his watch and then the clock on the wall.

Campbell
shook his head. Where was this guy, he thought. How long was this going to take?

He had been sitting here for a little over an hour now. Half past eleven on a Saturday night in the waiting room of
an
A and E. The last place on earth he wanted to be and he wasn’t allowed to leave. The identity of the man he had brought in had yet to be established and he had been asked to stay until some official people asked some official questions.

Campbell
squirmed in the seat and tried to stay calm. The drink was not helping. And the cheap machine-coffee in the plastic cup was worse than useless.

He tried hard to count up the number of drinks that he had got through that evening, recalling numerous glasses of wine, a couple of beers early on as he milled about on his own waiting for guests to start arriving.

T
hen there were the tequila shots. A sambuca? Had there been anything else? He couldn’t remember exactly but one thing was for sure; no amount of shock or black coffee was going to change the fact that he was drunk. He’d tried to remain as composed as possible with the ambulance crew but had become so conscious of slurring his words that he had then tried hard not to say anything at all. That only made him worry that in clamming up he might seem suspicious or uncooperative.

A
nd then they’d asked him to stay. Asked him if he’d mind answering a few questions about the man, about what had happened. And he’d nodded dumbly and taken a seat, trying hard to fight down the clamouring sense of fear and panic.

But that wasn’t it.

H
is short term memory had been swilled away earlier that evening and already he was struggling to recall the scene in his kitchen. He was alarmed that the details evaded his recall when so little time had passed since it happened. He tried to piece it together. The brunette woman had said ‘Party’s over then’ or something and he’d nodded. You can say that again love.

And then he’d ushered her out into the hallway, told them all that an ambulance was coming and that it was probably best if people headed off now. Nobody needed asking twice and he went back into the kitchen to the man lying there in his own gathering blood hearing the noise outside drop until it was silent. Five minutes it had taken them to clear his flat as he sat wishing that he could go too, thinking about what would happen, what he would say to the paramedics. Soon the keening of the ambulance siren rose in the background and he felt the panic growing again as it drew closer. Homing in on him, seeking him out.

Which was when the man moved.

And spoke.

What had he said?
Campbell
frowned as he tried to remember,
tried to blink his vision clear
–
to focus
–
but the memory just wasn’t there. Just a fleeting image of the head rising from the floor, something mumbled. Something. What?

Campbell
slid further into the uncomfortable chair, the seat back now digging into his shoulders. He looked toward the far side of the room where a tall, well dressed man was walking slowly and deliberately toward the reception desk, blood streaked down his face from his hairline and across his brow where a large cut traced a line to his eyebrow.
Campbell
winced and squirmed in his chair, the train of thought abruptly derailed. Another thirty minutes passed, the room began to fill with more unfortunates; cuts and burns. Twisted ankles, broken bones. Still no-one came to him.

He racked his foggy brain again and again but all he could summon was that same fleeting image like a blurred, grainy instant-replay on loop.

As the waiting room filled with more hurt and pain, he began to feel as though he had been forgotten entirely and began to doze off before finally a suited gentleman in rimless spectacles called his name and ushered him through into a small office. Brisk and efficient he sat him down and offered him a drink in a tone that made it quite clear that to accept would have been an inconvenience. He seemed irritated by
Campbell
’s obvious inebriation.

‘
Sorry to have kept you waiting for so long. Terribly busy out there as you can see and there are always a million other things to do to keep a place like this running. Hope
its not too much trouble,
’ he said with rehears
e
d sincerity.

‘No, no problem,
’ said
Campbell
politely. Whilst he didn’t mean it he was careful not to say so. ‘Can you tell me anything?’ he asked, his words slow and deliberate.

‘Well we’re rather been hoping that you might be able to do that for us actually...’ he replied and pushed his glasses up his nose.

Campbell
’s irritation was already simmering at nearly two hours on a cheap plastic seat, tired and paranoid. ‘Look, I’m sorry mate, but I’ve already said that I don’t know who he is, where he came from or what happened.’
Campbell
was aware as he spoke that he was still slurring his words and he became instantly self-conscious about it again.

‘Of course, of course. Its just difficult to deal with when we have no identification, no-one to contact... I’m sure you understand.’

Campbell
shrugged, said nothing.

‘Well unfortunately
he’s not in a good way
,
I’m afraid. He’s lost a lot of blood already and he lost consciousness completely more or less as soon as you arrived with him. It’s impossible to say at this stage what will happen, very touch and go. We’re doing all we can for him of course but his injuries...’ he trailed off and looked at
Campbell
, seemingly watching for a response. ‘Did he speak to you? Were you able to find out anything at all?’

Campbell
was careful not to let his expression betray him. He thought for a moment, saw again the briefest flash of memory, of that dark, blood-matted hair raising itself up… ‘Nothing.’ he said flatly and hoped that his slow wits would be put down to drunkenness.

The gentleman scribbled and
Campbell
tried to read his writing upside down but couldn’t. He seemed to contemplate the words he had written there for a moment, as if he might suddenly be able to figure out what this all meant.
Campbell
thought that the man was probably far less important than he was making out and was playing this up for effect.

‘
Right. OK,
’ he said wit
h a mournful shake of the head.
‘Well, we have no desire to inconvenience you further. Of course we appreciate you trying to help out. I think the best thing is that we take some contact details from you so we can get in touch if needs be but in the meantime, you might as well go and get some sleep.’
             

Campbell
hurriedly scribbled his home and mobile phone numbers on the piece of paper that was handed to him and was already at the door before the suited man
could stand up and show him out.

Sunday
.
10am.

The usual Sunday quiet of the East
London
street was punctuated by the occasional sounds of passing cars and barking dogs. A radio played through the open windows of a parked Mercedes as a teenage boy worked a large sponge over the bonnet. The paintwork gleamed proudly in the morning sun and streams of soaped water ran against the edge of the pavement down into the drain.

C
lose by, a car pulled up to the curb across the street and Julius Warren, a slim muscular black man, climbed out, locked it and crossed the road. Walking around the front of the sparkling vehicle he walked through the gate of the nearest house, up the short path which he covered in three strides, and pressed his finger to the bell.

The door opened and the man was invited in and pointed along the hallway.

In the kitchen, disturbed by the doorbell, George Gresham stood at the counter with a large knife in his hand and was staring at the doorway as
Warren
walked in.

‘Mr Warren. Always
a pleasure old son. Lovely day,
’
Gresham
greeted him brightly.

‘George.’ he replied with a curt nod.

‘
Rabbit stew,
’
Gresham
jabbed the knife toward the chopping board where a
pair of long, limp dead rabbits
lay. He began
slicing through their beige fur,
working h
is thumbs underneath as he deftly skinned the animals.
Warren
noted both the fact the knife seemed far too large and cumbersome for the seemingly delicate job that
Gresham
was using it but equally how adept the man was at handling the blade.
Gresham
, without looking up, picked up on
Warren
’s train of thought.

‘I love this big bastard,
’ he said holding it up for a better look. ‘You could skin a fucking Rhino with this Jools. Beautiful isn’t it?’ he said and went back to the
rabbits
. ‘Not that you’d want to I s’pose. Even so, lovely piece of work.
Keep this sharp and this sharp,
’ he said as he tapped his temple with the tip of the blade and then thrust it into the air in front of his face.

Warren
raised his eyebrows and nodded again, attempting to convey his affirmation.
Gresham
’s attention was back on the lamb.

‘Lovely meat, rabbit
. You cook Jools?’
Warren
opened his mouth to answer but
Gresham
was still going. ‘I love cooking. Very stress relieving, you know, chopping things up. Taking out your frustrations after a hard day in the office on a pound of carrots and a chicken. But there’s art in it too, you know? Craft. Getting the perfect balance, getting everything just right. There’s a lot of technique and skill. Timing. You know what I mean son? You cook?’
Gresham
’s voice was thick and deep and always sounded to
Warren
as if the big man had just woken up.