Ducie

by Chris Freeman

  Chapter 52. Hippy wants tea

  PC Kevin was three quarters of the way through a bag of McCoy’s Cheese & Onion crisps when he heard the groan coming from one of the cells at the far end of the corridor. It was a short, intense yelp; the kind of sudden, involuntary noise that a person would let out in reaction to an unexpected impact to the abdomen. Like a football to the stomach. Or a bullet to the chest. He’d heard no gunshot. Kevin stopped mid-crunch, a whole crisp resting on his tongue, the tangy cheese flavour intensifying on his tastebuds, as his eyes darted in the direction of the noise, as if to assist his ears in conveying the sound to his brain. Most of the drunks and troublemakers they’d taken in for the night had collapsed in sorry, unconscious heaps in their cells by this time, but it wasn’t unusual that one would vomit or piss himself, or find some other reason to start causing a fuss and demanding attention. He reluctantly put down his crisps and began a quick tour of the cells. As he walked the corridor, he listened for a repeat of the sound he’d heard, but there was just an eerie silence. Too quiet almost. He checked one cell, sliding open the wicket hatch to reveal a long-haired hippy-looking man asleep on the floor. The man woke at the sound of the hatch opening and squinted towards Kevin, catching his eye for a brief moment before the hatch was snapped shut. Kevin moved on, checking a further two cells, before the hippy man eventually called after him.

  - Ay! Plod! What d’ye have t’dae t’get a cuppa tea and a smoke round here?

  PC Kevin ignored the request, along with the subsequent banging on the cell door and incomprehensible rant that followed in a thick Scottish accent. Hippy wasn’t happy! Kevin moved on. There seemed to be little to report from the fifth cell he checked. A skinny little wretch curled up in the foetal position in the middle of the floor. He was the kind of frail and gaunt that was severe enough that it had to be owing to some sort of addiction or disorder rather than just a genetic slimness. It was a good few seconds squinting at the man before he noticed him twitch; spasm almost. Just once. Then he lay still. Then once again. Now still again. Then repeatedly gyrating in an erratic, rhythmless fit. Kevin unlocked the cell door and flung it open with enough of a clatter to intentionally shock the man out of his episode if he were faking it or just twitching in his sleep. Then he saw his face. Eyes wide, but pure white, bar a glimpse of the bottom of his pupils that hadn’t quite made it to the back of his head yet. A white foam seeped from the corner of his mouth. A trickle of blood escaped from the ear furthest from the floor.

  - Oh shit man! Fucking hell.

  Kevin covered his mouth and ran to get help.