by C. P. Wilson
“What’s his name?” Steph asks no-one in particular.
“Douglas,” Frankie replies. “Dougie.”
Steph nods to herself.
Frankie wraps her arms around herself. Sudden awareness that someone else is nearby prickles her consciousness. Finding Lisa beside her, Frankie takes her boss’s presence as permission to place down her courage and simply suffer the emotions waging within. Frankie lowers herself to sit on her haunches, leaning her back against the wall. Lisa remains silent, but takes one of Frankie’s hands into her own. Lisa and Frankie’s eyes stay fixed on Dougie and the paramedics working alongside Jan.
Steph scans along Dougie’s body, wiping at various wounds to better examine them, or moving aside parts of his shredded shirt. Frankie winces at the apparent roughness of Steph’s ministrations.
She clips various monitors and electrodes to him, whilst her partner retrieves items from their bag, preparing to tend to the injured man. The entire time, Steph speaks to Dougie in a strong voice that’s equal parts demand and concern.
“Can you hear me, Dougie?” A beat. Steph places three of her fingers into Dougie’s hand. “Dougie? I want you to squeeze my hand if you can hear me.” No movement from Dougie.
Steph has a quick verbal exchange with her partner that Frankie doesn’t catch, sending the male paramedic back to the bag for some oxygen and a mask, which he hands to Steph. Frankie watches Steph slip the mask over Dougie’s face and thanks God silently when she sees the inside of the mask fog up with his breath.
Steph gets low down, face near Dougie’s chest, to examine the knife protruding from his lower chest.
Some detached part of Frankie expects the paramedic to yank the blade out, movie-style. Steph, of course, leaves the weapon where it is.
Leaning near to Jan, Steph speaks softly to the office clerk as her partner begins passing her a series of instruments and packages which he’s torn open slightly.
“Okay, love. What’s your name?”
Jan takes a few seconds to remember then relay her name.
“J... Jan”
“Okay, Jan,” Steph says, whilst tearing wrappings from medical equipment. Steph’s partner, hand filled with gauze, moves around Dougie to come to a kneeling position opposite Jan.
“That’s Dave. He and I are going to lift one of your hands at a time from these wounds. Don’t help, or move your hand by yourself, just let us do it. Each of us will lift a hand and slip some clotting agent and some gauze and wrapping in place of what you have over the wounds just now.”
Jan nods her understanding,
Steph places a hand over one of Jan’s. Bringing her face low to Dougie’s body again, Steph lifts an edge of Jan’s hand and the sanitary towel beneath. Immediately dark, urgent blood flows. Steph replaces the pad swiftly.
“Right,” Steph says firmly. “That’s good. His blood pressure is very low, but his blood is still flowing. You’ve done a great job keeping the blood dammed here, Jan.”
Jan smiles half-heartedly an instant before a loud sob breaks loose.
“Just hang on a little longer, Jan. Here we go.”
With practiced, sure hands, the paramedics triage then patch up Dougie’s wounds. Jan joins Frankie in a hunkered crouch against the wall, hands held out between her knees, blood dripping onto the ghastly-patterned hallway carpet. Jan lets out a long breath filled with all the tension and fear she’s succeeded in holding in check until now. Some vital component shifts in her. Jan breaks down. Bloody hands held from her, she presses her face into Frankie’s shoulder and sobs softly.
Frankie’s eyes, fixed on the working paramedics, glaze over, an act of self-preservation.
The sounds of schoolchildren at a distance along the corridor, held back by several staff members, drift along the corridor, unnoticed by either of the women who weep freely.
At length, the paramedics slide a heavily bandaged Dougie onto a gurney. Frankie gently nudges Jan, who raises her head to observe.
Rising to stand beside the gurney, Frankie’s eyes move along her friend. Held tightly in place, his wounds are dressed, he has an IV in his left arm, and is breathing rapidly into the oxygen mask.
Despite his condition, the cleanness of his dressings and the security of his body on the gurney bring a surge of hope to Frankie. Steph smiles sadly an instant before she and Dave wheel Dougie off down the hall, leaving Frankie to stare at the hall carpet, swamped and stained by Dougie’s blood. Suddenly that sliver of hope vanishes with the evidence before her of just how much of Dougie’s life-force lies on the floor.
Abruptly, Frankie releases Jan from her arms. Taking off down the corridor after the paramedics, Frankie yells, “Wait, I’m going with you.”
Chapter Three
“I’m really sorry, love.” Lewis Gilmour leans back into his chair, a long, exasperated sigh escaping.
His wife’s voice over the phone offers honest reassurance that does nothing to ease his guilt.
“It’s not your fault, Lewis. Just one of those things. We had all this when Fraser was wee. Besides, you’ve got to work, it’s important.”
Gilmour sits forward, retrieves a pen and begins scribbling meaningless swirls on a scrap of paper.
She’s right, it’s just that stage in a kid’s life when they’ve started nursery and pick up every germ going. They did have it with their son when he was little, and now it’s their daughter’s turn, but DS Lewis Gilmour feels not one less shred of guilt for being absent whilst Mandy is at home cleaning up vomit and trying to get Fraser organised and out the door to school. Today was supposed to be a day off; instead he’s pulling another shift and Mandy has been left having to call in sick to her own work to look after Poppy.
Gilmour drops his pen and his doodling.
“Thanks, Mandy. Look, just call me if you need anything, okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll text you later, let you know how she is. Bye, love.”
Mandy rings off before Gilmour can reply.
Clicking disconnect, Gilmour catches sight of an arm and leans back as its owner drops a pad on his desk.
Leaning one arse-cheek onto Gilmour’s desk, DI Stephens nods his Sergeant a greeting.
“Ye alright, Gilmour?” He nods at the phone laid on Gilmour’s desk.
Stephens is a good guy, three kids of his own, all grown and out in the workplace or at Uni. He’s been there, family-wise, and is generally supportive when Gilmour’s having a tough spell, but Gilmour likes to keep home at home.
“Aye,” Gilmour shrugs. “I’m good, sir.” Gilmour juts his chin at the pad DI Stephens has dropped on his desk. “What’s this?”
Stephens eye-balls him for a moment, clearly deciding whether to mention how tired the DS looks. Opting to give Gilmour his privacy, he cocks his head in the direction of the pad. “Incident round at Cambuscraig High. Serious assault on a classroom teacher, could be attempted murder.”
Gilmour’s eyebrows shoot up. “Cambuscraig?” he asks, retrieving the notepad. “Good school that, as well. Nice kids there for the most part.”
Stephens nods his agreement. “Yeah, well one of those ‘nice’ kids took a knife to his maths teacher, it seems. A Mr Black. Multiple stab wounds, happened in the corridor, mostly in front of twenty kids.”
Gilmour reads a list of names from the pad.
“These are your first interviews. Mainly teachers. Social services will attend also and we’ll get the kids in the class who witnessed the incident to give statements today, and over the next couple of days.”
“They’re still in the school?”
“Yeah,” Stephens confirms. “The head teacher has them in his office. They have a counsellor speaking to them just now, but they want to keep them out of the general population… so to speak.” Stephens smiles crookedly at his own joke.
“What time did this happen, sir?”
“Less than an hour ago.”
Gilmour shoves his chair with the back of his legs, standing to meet his superior’s eyes.
> “Shall I take DC McCreadie?” he asks.
“Yeah. She’s good with kids, good call, Gilmour.”
“Is the suspect still in the building, sir?”
“Aye. He’s in his guidance teacher’s office.”
Gilmour merely nods once.
Stephens heads for his office. Watching him go, Gilmour feels a pang of regret that his former-DI, his mentor, no longer works at Fettes with him. Gilmour misses her guidance almost every day, but former-DI McGuire retired following an unsolved high profile case nearly five years ago.
Stephens, whilst a genuinely supportive boss, is a whole other personality than the woman who’d mentored Gilmour. Shoving the useless regret and the memories away, Gilmour makes his way to the office pods where the DCs work their reports.
Spotting DC McCreadie, Gilmour catches her eye, gesturing for her to grab her coat.
Joining Gilmour, the young DC only just manages to contain her excitement.
“The school stabbing?” she asks.
Gilmour nods. “Word gets around fast, eh?”
“It’s all over Twitter, and Facebook, sir.”
Gilmour shakes his head. “Course it is.”
He bobs a nod towards the door.
“C’mon, Beth. Let’s get a move on.”
Interlude
Facebook:
Mary Murray: I hear it’s old Blackie that’s been stabbed.
Link attached: Edinburgh Evening News—Reported serious assault in Cambuscraig High School
- 17 comments: 23 shares
- Steven Taylor: Heard a pupil stabbed him.
- Jade Christie: Aye, my wee girl is in the year group. Seen Miss Maloney and an office lady helping Mr Black and a boy named Harry getting taken away by the head teacher.
- Fred McKay: More holidays for that teacher then. Lol.
- Jordan Thom: Seriously Fred McKay? Mr Black’s a great teacher. That’s a shame.
- BradyBob: I dunno, nobody stabs some cunt for no reason. Teacher must’ve done something.
- James McLatchie: Na, he’s a great teacher. Dragged me through my Highers.
- Jordan Thom: Blood everywhere, apparently.
- Tam McTavish: Need to bring back hanging for these wee bastards.
- Jamie Tiller: No discipline in schools, bring back the belt.
-------view more comments.
Chapter Four
The paramedics, Dougie laid on the gurney between them, crash through the rubbery outer doors into the Accident and Emergency Department at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. Pulled along in their wake, Frankie catches a single door as it swings back towards her. As she enters the reception hall, the paramedics, shouting requests and instructions, are greeted by a group of medical professionals who are clearly expecting them. Before Frankie can process the room, they disappear around a bend and along a corridor. Frankie stands dazed, blinking foggily, watching their backs disappear.
Taking a single step to follow, she finds a nurse blocking her path. “Did you come in with the school teacher?” she asks. “The police will want to speak to you,” she says, matter of fact, chipping one more chunk away from Frankie’s capacity to keep processing the hell her day has become.
Frankie nods absent-mindedly. The nurse takes Frankie’s arm by the elbow, leading her to the reception desk. Leaning over the wide desk, she accepts a handful of forms from her colleague before turning her attention back to Frankie.
The nurse’s manner is tart: she’s clearly busy. Without making eye-contact with Frankie, she hands her a clipboard which goes unnoticed and clatters to the floor.
Annoyance flashes across the nurse’s expression, but is quickly replaced by concern when the ever-pressing bureaucracy of her role fades into insignificance and her eyes finally settle on Frankie’s face.
Taking in the young teacher’s appearance, she notes the bloodstained clothes, hands and face, and Frankie’s chalk-white colouring. Frankie’s wide eyes lock on the nurse’s and watch her expression soften.
“Sorry, miss.” The nurse nods towards the open door of an unoccupied treatment room. “Come on in here, we’ll get you cleaned up.”
She leads Frankie into the room, directing her to sit on the sterile-looking bed.
Frankie accepts the nurse’s ministrations, passively turning her hands this way or that, undressing, discarding her jewellery, not caring for its fate. Redressing in borrowed scrubs, Frankie moves languidly, as though submerged under an ocean of numbness and shock.
Finally, when she is clean and her clothes lie in a bio-waste bag, wrapped for the police, Frankie remembers that she isn’t alone in the room.
“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is less than a whisper.
The nurse smiles sadly. “You’re welcome.” She juts her chin at the bed, dims the lights and pulls the privacy curtains. “The police will be here soon. Try to rest.”
Her tears threaten once again. “I couldn’t, not…”
“Just lie down for a while, let your brain work through what’s happened, ok? I’ll come get you when the police arrive.”
“Police?” Frankie asks, genuinely confused.
“Of course,” the nurse says, a sliver of her formerly curt manner returning. She cocks her head to the side, regarding Frankie for several uncomfortable moments before retrieving the bag of Frankie’s blood-sodden clothes. The nurse sits the bag near the doorway before leaving the room.
Finding herself more alone than she has ever been, Frankie follows the nurse’s advice and lies back onto the paper-covered bed. The rustling beneath her deepens the sense of isolation. Frankie brings her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs. On her side, in an embryonic huddle, Frankie lets the world of pain and hurt, fear and confusion the day has burdened her with escape her.
∞∞∞
“I know, John, it was just all so quick.” Fearful of getting a ticking-off from one of the staff for using her phone, Frankie’s eyes flick to the door momentarily.
The voice of her husband, John, seeps concern, but there’s a tint of anger present also.
“You could’ve been killed, Francesca. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I honestly don’t know. I didn’t have time to think, he was just there with the knife, then Dougie was bleeding… and he needed my help.” Frankie wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. “It didn’t occur to me to be frightened.”
A long silence from John’s end allows Frankie time to take a few steadying breaths. She had been feeling better, not fine, not even close to fine, but better, until John had called.
Hearing his voice had been the grown-up equivalent of a kid holding it together until their mother cuddled them and the dams broke.
John is clearly choosing his words carefully. Fighting the urge to admonish, he elects to comfort.
“Well, you’re safe now… How’s Mr Black?”
“I don’t know, John. No-one’s been to see me yet. I think I dropped off for about fifteen minutes. Bloody cried myself to sleep like a child. The nurse who cleaned me up said the police would be along soon, but I haven’t heard anything about Dougie.”
“You should just come home when the police have interviewed you, love.” John’s tone is speculative.
A pause before his wife answers disabuses him of the notion that she’ll be home anytime soon.
“I… I think I should stay here… for Dougie. Just until he’s stable.”
Another long silence from John prods Frankie to add, “He doesn’t have anyone else.”
John sighs. “Okay, love, but will you keep me updated, and phone me straight away if you’re upset, or—”
“I’ll be fine,” Frankie interrupts, a half-smile on her lips.
“Thanks, John, love you.”
“Love you too.”
Frankie jumps, guiltily hiding her phone under her leg as someone clatters through the door into the treatment room.
A young doctor, mid-thirties, around Frankie’s age, and who loo
ks like she hasn’t slept recently enters at speed.
Realising that she has startled Frankie, she makes a placatory gesture with both hands.
“Sorry, Ms Malone. I’m Doctor Sweeney. I have news about Mr Black for you.”
Swinging her legs over the bed, Frankie stands to accept the hand the doctor offers.
“Thanks, Doctor. How is he?”
Sympathy darkens Sweeney’s expression.
“Mr Black has sustained damage to his large and small intestines, his liver, and an artery in his abdomen was cut and three ribs broken.”
Frankie’s hands cover her mouth.
The young doctor's eyes narrow before she continues speaking.
“The intestinal damage has resulted in faecal matter leaking into his body cavity. Sepsis is a very real risk at present.”
Frankie ignores the growing pounding in her head and nods twice sharply, motioning for the doctor to continue.
“The damage to the artery,” subconsciously the young doctor points at a specific part of her own abdomen, “has been repaired, but Mr Black lost a significant volume of blood.”
Frankie’s eyes dart to the bag of bloody clothes and acid rises in her mouth.
“He has received a transfusion and responded well to it… so far.” The doctor folds her arms across her chest. “Our most pressing concern is Mr Black’s liver.”
Frankie nods along.
“The liver was damaged by two wounds. One, straight and deep which damaged the hepatic portal vein. This caused much greater blood loss than would have occurred otherwise from the other wounds Mr Black received.
“A second wound, which was more across the liver, has affected the structural integrity of the organ and affected some areas responsible for vital functions.” Again, the doctor’s hand moves along her own body, simulating both wounds’ origins.
Frankie feels her legs become unstable. Seating herself against the bed, she takes several deep breaths.