by Shaun Hutson
Becky would be in bed by now, asleep with any luck.
He finished half the water and got to his feet, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his car keys. He passed the young couple on the way out. They were still kissing.
Rob sucked in several deep breaths as he stepped into the pub car park. He shivered a little, surprised at how chilly it had become.
The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he walked across to the waiting Audi.
It was parked beneath a large oak tree, and he noticed there were several dollops of bird shit on the roof.
That was meant to be good luck, wasn’t it?
On any other occasion, he probably would have smiled.
The car park was dimly lit, illuminated only by two sodium lights near the exit onto the main road.
Rob squinted in the gloom, trying to make out the door lock.
The tree towering above him and the bushes that grew so thickly around this side of the car park helped to blot out any natural light, and he was forced to bend forward to find the lock.
He heard the rustle of leaves, and was about to straighten up.
More crunching of gravel close behind him.
He realized in that split second that he wasn’t alone.
And then the first blow landed.
81
ROB FELT A crashing impact on the back of his head.
The blow was so hard it slammed his head forward, smashing it against the side window of the Audi.
He fell to his knees, the gravel digging into his skin, adding to the pain he already felt. But at least this added pain kept him conscious.
A foot connected hard with his ribs – once, twice.
The breath was torn from him, and he felt a crack as one of his ribs snapped from the force of the kick.
He tried to roll over, tried to clamber to his feet in an effort to protect himself from this sudden assault.
If he could just get up . . .
Something struck him in the face.
He wasn’t sure whether it was a fist or the same object that had clouted him around the back of the head.
Whatever it was, it split his bottom lip and he tasted blood.
Rob shot out a hand to block the next kick aimed at him, and he succeeded in deflecting the worst of the impact, but he shouted out in pain as his little finger was crushed.
With his other hand he clawed at the door handle, trying to pull himself upright, desperate to at least defend himself against this frenzied onslaught.
Another blow caught him in the mouth and shattered a tooth, but he grabbed at the hand that struck him and managed to ensnare the wrist in a vice-like grip. He pulled his assailant towards him, driving his own forehead towards the onrushing face of his attacker.
Rob felt the impact, but heard a satisfying groan from his assailant as he was headbutted.
He had little time to savour his triumph.
Another powerful blow caught him across the bridge of the nose, pulverizing the bone. Blood burst from it, and Rob fell to his knees once again.
He took another kick to the stomach. Then several to the small of the back.
He curled into a foetal position, hands covering his head in an attempt to prevent further damage.
But his attacker seemed to become more incensed by this, and started stamping on his head, on his protecting hands.
Rob was convinced he was going to die.
He was battling to remain conscious while kicks rained in from all directions, mainly aimed at his head now.
Where the fuck was everyone? Why hadn’t someone from inside the pub come to help him?
Blood was pouring down his face, and he felt agonizing pain from his broken finger and rib.
Still the blows rained down, and Rob was beginning to wonder if this madman was ever going to run out of energy.
This madman . . .?
One thought flickered briefly into his head.
Was this the same person who had tried to kill him the previous night?
Was . . .?
The assailant was now stamping on his arm, trying to knock it away from his face.
A kick cracked part of Rob’s bottom jaw. Two teeth spilled onto the gravel as he opened his mouth in pain. The blood that poured from his burst lips and lacerated face looked pitch-black in the gloom.
Rob was losing consciousness.
A particularly powerful kick sent him onto his back.
Like an upturned turtle.
He couldn’t protect himself any longer.
More kicks to his sides and stomach.
He couldn’t focus properly any more. Blood in his eyes. Pain. Fear.
A thunderous kick to his head.
Someone was using his skull like a football.
Something else broke. Another bone shattered.
Rob’s eyes rolled upwards in the sockets.
Darkness . . .
82
SHE WAS DREAMING: that was the only explanation.
Hailey rolled over in bed, trying to force her eyes open. Expecting the residue of her dream to vanish with the intrusion of waking.
She heard the sound again.
The doorbell?
She looked across at the radio alarm: 11.56 p.m.
Hailey was gripped by a feeling of unease.
Who the hell would be ringing her doorbell at this time of night?
Somebody playing a joke?
She was grateful she’d put the security alarm on. She glanced across at the phone beside the bed, thought how easily she could reach it if she needed to.
The doorbell sounded again.
Whoever was down there wasn’t giving up easily. She began to wonder how long they’d already been there.
She swung herself out of bed and pulled on a T-shirt, then she crossed to the window and looked out.
Either the person standing at the door had no transport or their car was parked out of sight.
Walker?
Why would he have come to the house tonight? She was meeting him tomorrow.
A smile flickered across her lips.
What if it was Rob? He’d tried his key and not been able to get in because of the bolts. Even now he could be standing there waiting for her to let him in. He’d had time to think, and he wanted to talk. That had to be it.
Surely?
She hurried towards the stairs, pausing briefly to look in on Becky, who was sleeping, undisturbed by the persistent ringing.
Hailey hurried down the stairs, crossing to the key-pad and jabbing in the four-digit cancel code. For long seconds she stood in the darkness of the hall looking towards the front door.
She could see shadows outside.
Two figures.
It wasn’t Rob.
Did you really think it would be?
Not Walker either, unless he had someone with him.
Perhaps he’d brought Caroline with him. Perhaps they had needed to tell her of their undying love for each other.
She exhaled deeply.
The doorbell sounded again.
Hailey took a step towards the front door, pausing to squint through the spyhole.
She’d been right: there were two figures standing in the porch.
The breath froze in her lungs. Her heart thudded alarmingly against her ribs.
Please God . . .
With shaking hands she slipped the bolts free, then scurried into the kitchen and fetched her front door keys. She left the chain on as she opened the door, feeling a blast of cold night air sweep into the house. It raised goose pimples on her flesh.
‘Mrs Hailey Gibson?’ said the first of the policemen.
She nodded. ‘What’s wrong?’ she murmured, barely able to force the words out.
‘It’s your husband,’ the uniformed man told her.
‘Oh, no,’ she said, her voice cracking.
‘If you get dressed, we’ll run you to the hospital.’
‘An accident?’ she said.
‘We’ll give you t
he details on the way,’ the other policeman said, smiling understandingly.
She wondered how many previous times he’d performed a similar task – or worse.
‘Is he badly hurt?’ Hailey wanted to know.
‘Yes, he is,’ said the second man.
She slipped the chain free and let the two men in, turning and bolting up the stairs.
Tears were already forming in her eyes.
You’ve got to be strong for Becky’s sake.
She stood in the doorway of her daughter’s room, looking at the little sleeping form.
Hailey waited a moment, then hurried into her own bedroom.
She dialled the number quickly.
Caroline Hacket was still up, still working.
‘I’m really sorry, Caroline,’ Hailey said. ‘I’ve got to go to the hospital. I need someone to watch Becky for me. I won’t be long. It’s Rob. I think he’s in a bad way.’
Caroline said she’d be there in five minutes.
‘Thanks,’ said Hailey, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. She hung up.
She pulled on jeans, socks, stepped into trainers, then ran a hand through her hair and headed for the stairs, pausing once more at the door to Becky’s room.
The little girl was still sleeping soundly.
No need to wake her.
Not yet.
Hailey made her way downstairs to the waiting policemen.
83
THE DRIVE TO the hospital seemed to take an eternity.
All the way there, Hailey sat gazing blankly out of the side window of the police car.
There were questions she wanted to ask, but she couldn’t seem to force the words out. And, as they drew nearer to the huge building, she felt as if her vocal cords had seized up.
The car pulled up outside the entrance to Accident and Emergency, and the younger of the two policemen led Hailey through the reception area into the hospital itself.
An ambulance had just arrived, its blue lights turning silently. Hailey briefly glimpsed someone being lifted onto a gurney from the back of the vehicle. She saw blood, heard a moan of pain, then it was gone.
She followed the policeman along a series of corridors; they passed nurses and porters on the way. But Hailey’s overwhelming impression was one of silence. At such a late hour most patients were sleeping: some soundly, some with the aid of painkillers. In this monolithic structure, people were in pain. Some were dying. Some were already dead.
She forced the thoughts to the back of her mind, or at least she tried to. And, all the time she trudged along with the policeman, that antiseptic smell she hated so much clogged her nostrils. To Hailey hospitals smelled of pain and suffering.
They passed a cleaner using a buffing machine to polish the floor of one of the corridors. He looked up briefly as Hailey passed, no doubt wondering who this sad-looking woman was here to see. Then he returned to his work.
Hailey and the policeman rode the lift to the third floor and he stepped out ahead of her.
There was a small nurses’ station to her left, lit only by a dull night-light. There didn’t seem to be anyone on duty.
The policeman crossed to the desk and looked behind it, towards a small inner office.
A tall, thin-faced nurse in a blue overall emerged and smiled efficiently at him.
‘Robert Gibson?’ he said.
‘Room 311,’ the nurse told him, returning to her duties, as Hailey and the policeman made their way towards the room she had designated.
There was a single plastic chair outside it, and perched on that chair, a copy of the previous day’s Mirror in his hand, was a man in a brown suit and a pair of unpolished shoes. He stood up when he saw Hailey and managed a smile.
‘Mrs Gibson?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘My name is Detective Constable Matthew Tate,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been assigned to your husband’s case.’
‘Please let me see him,’ Hailey asked.
‘Look, I’ll warn you now,’ Tate said almost apologetically, ‘he’s taken a bad beating. The facial damage is severe but . . .’
‘Please, just let me see him,’ she said irritably, and barged past the plain-clothes man.
During the drive to the hospital she had tried to prepare herself for every possible eventuality. Imagined what he might look like. How bad his cuts and bruises would be.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered softly, and the tears began to flow immediately.
Nothing could have prepared her for what she now saw.
Rob lay propped up on three pillows.
‘Oh my God,’ Hailey repeated, moving closer to the bed.
There were drips running into both arms. His right hand was heavily bandaged. So too was his scalp and most of the left side of his face. What remained exposed was a collage of purple, red and black flesh. Bruises and gashes seemed to overlap, and his whole face looked as if it had been inflated, so great was the swelling. Both eyes were almost closed. The skin around them was blackened with bruises, and one eyelid, she noticed, was slightly torn. Two stitches had been inserted into it.
His lips were cracked and split and his head lolled to one side, despite the neck brace he wore.
His upper body was uncovered, and that too showed a patchwork of cuts and bruises. Every single inch of flesh seemed to have been damaged in some way: his shoulders, his arms. His stomach and sides were tightly strapped.
Hailey crossed to the bed, only now noticing that there was a nurse in the room. She’d been so mesmerized by the appalling sight of her husband as soon as she’d entered, she hadn’t even seen another figure in the small room.
‘Rob,’ Hailey whimpered.
‘He’s heavily sedated,’ the nurse told her quietly.
Hailey stared again at the terrible injuries. She wiped tears away.
‘He’s stable now,’ the nurse insisted. ‘He’s going to be OK.’
‘How bad are the injuries?’
‘He’s got a broken finger, two broken ribs. He’s lost a couple of teeth. There’s a hairline fracture of the jaw and some very bad cuts and bruises. We did a scan when he was brought in. There’s no damage to his brain, despite the head injuries. No severe internal damage either.’
‘Can he hear us?’
‘Probably, but he can’t speak. His jaw is wired at the moment.’
‘I thought you said it was only a hairline fracture.’
‘It’s just a precaution. He’ll be chattering away again in a few days, you’ll see.’
The nurse paused by the door. ‘I’ll leave you for a few minutes.’ She smiled.
Hailey sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her husband.
‘Oh, Rob,’ she said, her voice cracking. She wiped her tears away. ‘Who did this to you?’
His eyes flickered open slightly – at least as far as the puffy swollen flesh around them would allow.
‘Can you hear me?’ she persisted.
He tried to speak, but the effort caused great pain. He winced instead.
She gripped his unbandaged hand.
‘Tol’ police,’ he croaked.
She leaned forward, anxious to hear his garbled words.
‘Did you see who did it?’ Hailey wanted to know.
‘Didn’t know them,’ he continued, pain creasing his battered features.
She gripped his hand more tightly.
‘Rob,’ she said urgently.
He closed his eyes.
84
‘NOTHING WAS TAKEN,’ said DC Tate. ‘Not even your husband’s wallet. So the motive obviously wasn’t robbery.’
Tate and Hailey sat in a small anteroom on the ground floor of the hospital.
The young DC sipped at his machine coffee, grimaced, and watched as Hailey ran her fingertip around the rim of her own plastic cup. She seemed uninterested in its contents.
‘The attack could have been random,’ the policeman continued. ‘Some bloody idiot from the pub – drunk? There doesn
’t seem to be any real motive for it. Or if there was, we haven’t found it yet. I’m afraid your husband just seems to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m sorry.’
‘He couldn’t identify who attacked him, then?’ Hailey asked, gazing past Tate towards a sign that proclaimed: AIDS – BE SAFE, WEAR A CONDOM.
‘Do you know of any enemies your husband might have had?’ the DC wanted to know.
It couldn’t have been Adam Walker, could it?
Hailey shook her head.
Perhaps the same person who tried to run him off the road the other night?
She looked directly at Tate. Perhaps now was the time to mention that?
‘Your husband couldn’t think of anyone either,’ Tate said. ‘Mind you, in his state I’m not surprised. I’ll have a word with him in a couple of days, when he’s feeling better. Perhaps I could call around to your house?’
Hailey nodded.
Why? Rob won’t be there, anyway.
‘Yes, that’d be fine,’ she told him.
Had it really been a random attack? Would someone almost kill a complete stranger just for the hell of it? Would Walker do that?
‘I understand your husband was staying at the local Travelodge when this attack happened,’ said Tate. ‘We found their key-card in his jacket.’
So that was where he’d gone.
Hailey nodded. ‘He’d been away on business,’ she lied.
Tate looked at her quizzically. ‘Who else knew he was there?’ he wanted to know.
‘I don’t know. Why does it matter?’
‘Well, your husband’s a businessman, isn’t he? Runs his own company? Men like that sometimes make enemies.’
‘He’s got a haulage company,’ Hailey sighed. ‘It’s hardly the Mafia, is it?’ She stretched her arms, hearing the joints pop. She had the beginnings of a headache. The product of tiredness and tears, she reasoned.
She sipped at her tea, wincing when she found it cold.
‘Can I see my husband again now?’ she said, almost pleadingly.
‘It’s not up to me, Mrs Gibson,’ Tate told her. ‘But if the hospital don’t object . . .’ The sentence trailed off.
She got to her feet and turned towards the door.
‘I can leave a car here to get you home,’ the DC told her.
‘I’ll call a cab. Thanks, anyway.’