by Vanda Symon
‘Try it,’ he said with a voice that was more threat than invitation.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ I said as I ran alongside him and grabbed at the carton. ‘Put it down right now.’ I wasn’t used to having my authority flouted and it wasn’t doing anything for my mood. I might have been a fraction of his size, but I wasn’t about to be walked away from by anyone.
‘Fuck off,’ he said as he jerked the carton away from my grasp.
‘Let it go.’ Now it was me gritting my teeth, as I reached and got a grip on it again. Once again he flicked it to the side, pulling me off balance, forcing me to let go to avoid a dive into the sand.
‘Okay, you’re starting to piss me off,’ I said, my dander rising. ‘I warned you, I’ll arrest you if you don’t stop what you are doing.’ I made one more grab for the carton. ‘Now let go of the box right fucking now.’
Before I could register what was happening, he did let go, and as I dealt with the unexpected weight of the carton he swung around and punched me, right in the side of the face, hard. White-hot stars and searing pain exploded in my head, and the next thing I felt was cold wet sand as my cheek hit the beach. My water-filtered and swirling vision took in the sight of Moustache Guy tackling my assailant, and getting in a few hits, before the red curtain descended and the lights went out.
2
‘How are you feeling?’ The words sounded muffled to start with, then cleared in that weird, whistley kind of way, like when your ears pop after swimming. ‘Whoa, don’t sit up so fast, here you go.’ I felt hands reach around my back as an almighty head-spin took hold. I put my head between my knees.
‘Ugh, what happened?’ I asked. The movement of my jaw sent sharp jolts of electricity through the already substantial burning pain on the right side of my face.
‘Some idiot threw a punch at you. You’ve been out cold for a bit. Here, maybe we should lie you back down.’
God, yes, it all came back to me: the unexpected weight of the carton pulling me forwards, then wham. Didn’t see that one coming. I put my hand up to him to indicate, no, I didn’t want to lie down again. Now I was sitting upright, I intended to stay upright.
‘Did someone nail the bastard?’ I tried to speak without moving my mouth. I could taste the sharp tang of iron and the smell of blood filled my nostrils.
‘Ah, yes.’ Finally my voice-recognition software kicked in. The voice in question belonged to John Farquhar, the Port Chalmers constable. Judging by its close proximity, he was the one propping me up. ‘He got well and truly nailed; too nailed in fact. We’re waiting for an ambulance.’
I tried to recall those last moments from my horizontal viewpoint. ‘By the older guy with the mo?’
‘Stronger than he looks. Mind you, by the look of you, the other chap deserved everything he got.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Let’s just say I hope you’re not lined up for any beauty pageants this week.’
I did a little gentle testing to check out the damage. I swung my jaw from side to side, and although it hurt, it did move, which was encouraging. A run of my tongue over my teeth told me they were all still there, although, to my horror, a couple had a bit of a wiggle. The inside of my cheek was a bit mashed; the source of the blood, I imagined. I wiped the sand on my hand off onto my trousers, and then gingerly lifted it up to check out the face.
‘Hey, watch where you touch, Sam. You’ve got a bit of a split there. Here’s a tissue for you.’
I reached up with the tissue and, yup, as suspected, the swelling was pretty much proportional to the pain. There was an egg, complete with lashes, where my right eye should be. When I touched my cheekbone a flash of searing white fire shot through my head, and I sucked my breath in with a hiss. My eyebrow felt sticky, and when I looked at my fingers they were coated in blood. Jesus. I only hoped nothing was broken. I folded the tissue into a wad and tried to apply pressure to my brow – enough to stop the bleeding but not so much that I wanted to pass out with the pain. With my good eye I looked up and noted I had a bit of an audience. I wondered if anyone else had come to my assistance, or if it had been left to Moustache Guy to defend my honour? Judging by the prone recovery-position state of the young guy, Mo Man might have been a little overzealous in his administrations.
‘What’s your name?’
I pulled my focus back to the legs squatting beside me. Dumb question. ‘You know my name, John.’
‘Humour me. I need to check you’re functioning properly. What’s your name?’ He sounded like a schoolteacher.
‘Samantha Shephard, Detective Constable Samantha Shephard. Do you want my serial number too?’
I heard a little snort. ‘And what’s the date today?’
I had to grapple for that one. I wasn’t good with dates at the best of times, let alone when someone had smacked the crap out of me. I had to work backwards. I knew this Friday was Dad’s birthday, but through my foggy head the maths still took a while. ‘Ah, it’s Sunday, Sunday the thirtieth of August, I think.’
‘Can you lift both your arms up above your head?’
I didn’t feel like I could do anything other than hug my knees right now. Bloody stupid question, I thought, until it dawned on me he was checking brain function, not whether I’d done my shoulder in.
‘I copped a wallop, not a stroke,’ I said, but obliged.
‘Good, now smile for me.’ That was pushing it, but I managed a pained grimace that might pass.
‘We’ll put you in the ambulance too, when it gets here. You were out cold for a few minutes, so they’ll want to check you over and make sure you haven’t got concussion.’ I could pretty much guarantee I did. ‘That cut’s going to need stitches, and I imagine an X-ray will be in order too, make sure he didn’t break anything.’
Terrific.
The throbbing in my head had developed a gut-churning accompaniment that shifted from being insistent to urgent, and with a groan I leaned away from John and added to the detritus on the beach.
This day just kept getting better.
3
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be too pleased about being in such close proximity to someone who’d just beaten the crap out of me, but today was turning out to be far from normal. The young guy was strapped securely into the gurney in the back of the ambulance and looked a damn sight worse for wear than me, which was saying something. Lying there, pale and hurt, he seemed so innocuous and vulnerable, the ferocity of his attack now felt unlikely and unreal, despite the very real and painful evidence I bore. What the hell had he been thinking? To hit anyone like that, let alone a police officer, let alone a woman? Didn’t his parents teach him anything?
I was the kind of girl who was reluctant to take any kind of medication, reserving paracetamol for the stiffest of headaches, but with the hammering and underlying ache going on in my head and face right now, I was willing to adjust my standards. Bring on the dancing drugs, and now would be good, please. The swirling stomach persisted and, despite the earlier emptying out, I still felt nauseated, and clutched at a plastic pot, just in case. Not that I was going to get pain relief any time soon. The ambulance was crewed by the grand sum of one, and he was driving. It was just me and Mr McFists in the back. No kind paramedic to make ‘there, there, ever so there, there’ noises and dole out the good stuff. No one other than me to make sure the beat-up guy was doing all right and not about to make trouble. Not that I thought he would, given he was still unconscious and strapped in. Great to see our emergency services so well staffed and resourced.
I looked out of the ambulance window at the wall of shipping containers stacked behind the chain-link fence alongside the road from Carey’s Bay, and then saw the bums and giraffe-like necks of the huge blue-and-white cranes at Port Chalmers loom up, filling the sky. Two more police cars whizzed past on the opposite side of the road, heading out, a bit belatedly, to deal with the mess at Aramoana. I never thought I’d ever see a scene like that in New Zealand. That was the sort
of thing that went on in places like East Timor, or even in the United States in moments of desperation and despair after hurricanes, not in little old Dunedin. It just went to show that beneath the thin veneer of civilisation, we were all capable of violence and crime. Even this guy.
At the time I remember he had appeared handsome, clean cut, well groomed and harmless, yet he’d turned feral in an instant and attacked me over nothing – a box of random goods. It showed how all our social conditioning and manners could fly out the window in the face of greed and opportunism. Common sense certainly went south, because this chap clearly didn’t think about the long-term consequences of assaulting an officer. Not just being beaten up himself – who could have foreseen that? – but a criminal conviction, and maybe even a jail term. That would put an end to a vast number of job prospects, and even opportunities for travel. In this day and age, with many countries twitchy about terrorism, even a minor conviction could put paid to any sightseeing trips abroad. Bet he didn’t think about that.
Taking a sideways glance at him my internal alarm mechanisms rang, and I examined him more closely. Something wasn’t right. I leaned over and angled my head to get a better look at him with my good eye. An oxygen mask covered his bloodied face, making it difficult to see anything. What was bugging me? I looked him over once again, and then realised: shit, his chest wasn’t rising. I got to my feet, reaching out to brace myself against the side of the ambulance as we went around a bend, then reached out, fingers searching for the carotid pulse in his neck. Nothing. Fuck.
‘He’s stopped breathing,’ I yelled to the ambulance driver.
Training immediately kicked in, and I flipped the bed back to the horizontal, released the top strap on the gurney and pulled back the blanket covering him.
My eyes searched the cabin for the AED, but I couldn’t see it anywhere obvious.
‘Where’s the defib?’ I yelled.
‘Some bastard stole it while we were down on the beach. Start CPR.’
Fuckity fuck.
My fingers felt down his sternum, until I found the right place, clasped my hands, and tried to balance as I felt the ambulance swerving and slowing to a halt.
I pressed down vertically.
Press and release.
Fast and hard.
Press and release.
Having to tiptoe to do it.
Press and release.
Feeling the give in his ribcage.
Press and release.
Praying for his life.
Press and release.
4
‘Gidday.’ Paul’s voice sounded strange through the infrequently used neural pathway via my left ear. The right one, normally used, was out of commission and would be for a while. It felt damn weird holding the phone on this side. Paul Frost was a detective in Gore, and despite my previous mantra of not screwing the crew, was the current object of my affections. It was quite a convenient arrangement. He lived there, I lived here, we had fun in the weekends. Nothing too taxing. Although, I had to admit, today Paul and Gore seemed all too far away.
‘Hi.’ My voice gave a tell-tale crackle.
‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’ I gave him full marks for picking up on the cues. He was good like that.
‘I’m sitting in A&E.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘What’s happened, are you hurt?’
‘Kind of.’
‘What do you mean, kind of? Were you in an accident?’
‘Sort of.’ The sound of his concerned voice eroded my fortitude. I took a big shuddery breath. ‘Someone had a go at me.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘Black eye, five stitches, big bruise, no fracture, hopefully vision’s okay – too swollen to tell. Loose teeth. Concussion. Bloody sore.’ Short sentences managed to stave off a girly breakdown.
‘Jesus. Did they get the guy?’
‘Yeah. Shared ambulance. He’s not good. He…’ My mind flashed back to the image of standing over him, desperately pumping, the blast of pain through my face as I pressed my mouth over his to breathe life back in. ‘I … I had to jump-start him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Stopped breathing, had to resuscitate him.’
‘You saved the life of the guy who beat you up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sam.’
That one word expressed his concern, sorrow and amazement. The tears flowed hot and stinging down my face.
‘Who dealt with him? Not the police, surely?’
You could only imagine the furore if it had been one of us. Even in defence of another officer we’d be pilloried by the media as heavy-handed.
‘No. Public. Someone came to my aid.’
‘They must have got a bit carried away, then.’
‘Guess so. Don’t know, didn’t see. I was out of it.’
‘Was this all to do with that ship I saw on the news?’
‘Yeah. People went a bit nuts.’
There was another short pause.
‘God, I can’t even come up tonight. I’m completely tied up with work. Listen, I’ll make a few calls, but I don’t fancy my chances, we’re overrun here. I’m sorry, Sam.’
My heart sank. Normally I’d vote against being rescued by an overprotective male and instead plump for standing on my own feet. But after the day I’d had, heck, sometimes all a girl needed was a knight in shining armour.
5
I was feeling a little more together after a hefty dose of something containing a Class B controlled drug and a chat to a friendly voice, even if the voice wasn’t going to be able to make it here in person. Perhaps that was just as well because I doubted I was looking my most attractive.
By the time Smithy turned up, the pain relief was kicking in, the lovely lady from Victim Support had calmed me down somewhat, and I was a little more objective about the events of the morning. Detective Malcolm Smith was my kind of mentor; he was supposed to keep an eye on me while I was still a puppy-detective, although he seemed to like the ‘give ’em space and let ’em learn by their mistakes’ approach to supervision. This normally suited me just fine, although I certainly could have done with his guardian angel presence this morning. Smithy had a face like a dropped pie, a beautiful set of cauliflower ears and a don’t-mess-with-me demeanour. All set in a six-foot-plus frame, it made for a menacing package. Perfect for a detective, or a front-row forward dishing it out in the rugby scrum.
I was getting used to people’s reactions when they caught a look at the face. Smithy didn’t disappoint.
‘Jesus effing Christ, Sam. What does the other guy look like?’
The drugs must have been working, because I managed a laugh. ‘Far worse than me, that’s for sure.’
‘Just goes to show, you shouldn’t pick on the little guy, or gal.’ He gave me a look that hung halfway between sympathy and something I think might have been admiration. ‘I heard about what you did for him. For the record, I’d like to have you around if I have a heart attack someday, because you seem to have a knack for bringing people back from the dead.’
I smiled, appreciating the vote of confidence. ‘Duly noted. I can’t promise anything though. It might be a more effective life-insurance policy for you to lay off the beer and the chips.’
‘What? I’ve spent years cultivating this splendid motor,’ he said, jiggling his belly with both hands. ‘Why have a six-pack when you can have a keg? I’m not about to give it all up now.’
I noted the now-familiar awkwardness of those who talked to me – do I look her in the left eye, or do I look her in the right eye and appear to be rude and staring? So far most were non-committal and flicked between the two, so of course my eyes followed theirs, and the constant sway gave me a feeling somewhat like motion sickness. I tried to look down at the floor, but that hurt the muscles in my eyes so I settled for a spot just below Smithy’s Adam’s apple.
‘So, what’s the story then?’ I asked.
‘The beach
combers seem to be under control now.’ That was a nice euphemism for what I saw going on. ‘Was it just me, or did everyone seem to go a bit crazy?’
‘It wasn’t just you. It was like a Hollywood disaster movie, with the scavengers moving in, except the people I saw weren’t extras hamming it up for the camera. They were deadly serious.’ As I spoke my hand drifted to my face. I didn’t wince this time; those drugs were damn good.
‘What about the woman who found that human skull?’ Smithy said. ‘Everyone seems to feel sorry for her – you know, poor old lady gets a big shock. But I’m thinking, what was a supposedly nice old granny doing out stealing other people’s property on a beach? What were any of them doing? It was like stick them out there, isolated with all that temptation and suddenly all morals go out the window.’
‘Can’t answer that one for you, I’m afraid,’ I said. I was starting to feel a touch spacey. ‘It’s a bit of a worry though.’
‘Yeah, very Lord of the Flies.’
I looked back up at Smithy, surprised. ‘I didn’t know you read … Golding.’ I’d had to fumble around in my brain and memories of fifth-form English for that name.
‘I’m full of surprises, but don’t tell anyone. I have an image to maintain.’ He certainly did a good job of maintaining it, with his rough-cast exterior. But now he was showing himself to be a thinking man’s meathead, Richie McCaw on platform shoes.
‘By the way, the guy who did over the guy who bashed you.’
‘Moustache Guy?’
‘Yes, Moustache Guy; he’s been charged with assault. There were so many arrests out there because of all the looting, the court had to do a special sitting to process everyone. He wasn’t remanded in custody though.’
‘Assault? That hardly seems fair. He was just protecting me.’ If he hadn’t come to my rescue, would anyone else have stepped in? I wondered. My normally unshakable faith in human nature had been a bit rattled this morning.