by TL Dyer
A grin is pinned across Boucher’s features, and his eyes dart around us all, seeing but not seeing. He’s still bouncing on his feet as if he’s got this all under control, but it’s the fingers of his free hand I’m watching. How they roll up and clench into a fist, then unroll again and straighten. And each time they do, there’s a tremor there that means his agitation is real. It’s the fact that he’s really not in control – of this, of us, of himself – that scares him. And fear’s another component that’s deadly. Right now, Maxime Boucher is an explosive primed to go off. But of more concern to the rest of us, is what the fallout will be.
‘Let’s do this properly, yeah, Maxime?’ Russell suggests. ‘One step at a time. You wanted me to back off, I’ve backed off. Okay, so what next?’
‘Got a cigarette?’ He smirks. But Russell reaches into the pouch of his vest.
‘I’ve got a few. You want one?’
Boucher snorts a laugh, eyes flicking around us all before landing on the female officer beside me. Jane or Jen, I think her name is, her features smooth and hair clipped into a bun at the back of her head, but an officer with more years in the job than she looks. Her neutral expression doesn’t falter under Boucher’s scrutiny, and unlike Peghead, there’s no sweat over her forehead.
‘She can bring it to me.’ Boucher flicks his chin in her direction.
‘Sorry, no can do,’ Russell says, the cigarette propped at one side of his mouth. He cups his hands to light it, before dropping the lighter back in his vest pocket and stepping into the ring. Peghead takes a couple of steps with him, but Russell flattens his palm at his side in a signal for him to stay where he is.
Only a few feet away from our armed convict, Russell pauses, the burning cigarette resting between his fingers. ‘Put the knife down, Maxime.’
‘Fuck off. What the fuck you take me for?’
Russell holds out the cigarette. ‘I’m not approaching you with that in your hand, fella. So here’s what we do. You put the knife down there. I pass you the cigarette. I back off again.’
‘I look like a fucking mug to you?’
‘You want me to answer that?’
This is Russell all over. He’s got balls the size of watermelons, but I wonder if he knows what he’s doing. I glance around at the others and imagine they’re all thinking the same thing. Still, not one of us will make a move unless our colleague does. Or the suspect.
Boucher’s dark eyes have narrowed. But his lips split into a grin, and suddenly I’m nervous. Not just adrenaline, that heightened sense of awareness preparing me for action, but honest-to-goodness, no-nonsense nervous. Throat dry, heart fluttering, blood draining from my face. If I hold up my hands now, they’ll be trembling. If I open my mouth to let out a breath, it’ll shake.
I see everything without looking at it – the too-blue sky above, the green patch of grass flattened beneath Boucher’s boots, the silver railings behind him, the dry road, the flashing lights in the distance, the black uniforms stoic beside me, yellow vests.
I hear everything – the silence in which everyone is still, and only the planes too high above, and the birds flitting from roof to roof, carry on as if nothing of note is happening.
I feel everything...
And nothing.
‘You have my word,’ Russell says.
I bring my focus back, realising he’s been speaking and I haven’t paid attention. There’s a man with a knife pointed at my colleague and I haven’t been paying attention.
Russell holds out the cigarette. It feels like an age in which Boucher weighs up the pros and cons of this exchange. With eyes remaining on the officer before him, he bends his knees to lower the knife to the ground. The cigarette is in Russell’s right hand, his left palm still outstretched at his side, still telling us not to move.
Sweat prickles on my forehead and a stifling heat burns around my collar as I concentrate. Another blinding ricochet of sunlight bounces off the blade. A flash of light off sequins, yellow and orange, burning up under my fingers, hands on my neck, whispered words in my ear, smooth and slick, dripping hot oil through my veins...
The knife’s on the ground. Russell holds his outstretched hand closer. Boucher reaches for the cigarette, neither taking their eyes off the other and none of us letting go of a breath. With the blade resting against his boot, if we rush him now, will we get there in time? Only one of us needs to move, and we all do. But Russell’s warning us not to, and once the exchange is made, he backs off. Boucher retrieves the knife, the slightest window of opportunity passed as quick as that. A gesture of trust. I picture later when I’ll clasp Russell’s palm in mine and tell him what an arrogant idiot he is, but we’ll both know what I mean is my admiration of him has gone through the roof.
I breathe again, my stomach muscles unclenching for the moment as the immediate danger recedes. And for the first time in a while, I long for that cigarette Boucher is drawing on right now like he can’t get the nicotine in quick enough. The lightest of breezes sends the smoke in my direction, and I suck it in, let it find my lungs, calm some of the unease. Boucher’s most of the way through the cigarette when he points it to his new pal and nods his thanks, receiving a mutual nod in response. Once he’s taken the last draw, he launches the cigarette end to the ground. A peel of smoke goes on rising from where it lands on the dry tarmac road.
Boucher still bounces side to side, his eyes signalling his brain is moving twice as fast as he can keep up with, but something’s different. An edge has gone. Or maybe it’s the way he looks at Russell now, a line drawn, one he understands.
‘Lydia,’ Boucher says, pointing the knife behind him at the factory, before it drops again to his side, the blade swiping against his cargoes. ‘I just wanted to see her. That’s it. Just once.’
‘Okay. I get it,’ Russell says. ‘Does she want to see you?’
The back of Boucher’s hand brushes over his mouth and I catch the quiver there again. ‘I need to talk to her. Before...’
‘Before what?’
Behind me there’s movement, boots on the ground. I’ve never been so relieved. Now this can end.
‘You know before what. Before you fuckers lock me up again.’ Boucher forces the words out, but some of the vehemence of earlier has gone. It’s as if he’s worn out or punch drunk. He’s flagging.
‘I’ll get a message to her,’ Russell tries. ‘How about that? You tell me what you want to say to her.’
The boots behind are coming closer. Boucher must hear them too. Maybe that’s why he’s shaking his head. ‘No, no. Tell her I need to see her.’
‘Okay.’
‘No. Not okay. Now. I need to see her now.’
Russell relays the request into the radio, but we all know it’s a perfunctory gesture. Maybe Boucher knows it too. His eyes slide in my direction and beyond, to what I know is there. Officers in full body protection and helmets, rifles clutched across their bodies.
‘Now,’ Boucher repeats, watching the approaching armed officers.
His fingers tighten around the handle. He takes a step back. Another, and another, until he bumps against the railings. But it’s the flicker in his eyes that tells me this isn’t over. He brings the knife up and grips the steel blade with his other hand, using both to hold its edge against his throat.
‘Maxime.’ Russell steps forward, his palms up. ‘Don’t, mate.’
‘Tell them to stay the fuck there,’ he spits, his gaze still over my shoulder. But the boots stopped advancing the second that knife came up, the guns got into position. But none of us move yet. Not until we’re given the order. And then it’ll be down, flat on the ground.
‘I need to think. I just need to fucking think a minute.’
Boucher’s breath is coming quick and his eyes are alert. The knife trembles in his fingers, but his knuckles are white and the blade dents his skin.
‘Alright, alright,’ Russell says, and I know him well enough to catch the edge of tension in his tone that means he
’s afraid of making a wrong move. Afraid that someone might get hurt and it’s on him to stop it. He takes another few steps towards Boucher, his palms up, and this time when Peghead goes with him, he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
‘You don’t need to do this, Maxime. They don’t want to hurt you, okay? They’re for safety only, so that no one gets injured.’
‘Fuck. Fuck.’ The quivering hands grip the handle tighter and Boucher squeezes his eyes shut, throat bobbing with a difficult swallow. A bead of blood balloons on his skin. He opens his mouth and roars, spit flying in every direction. ‘Lydia.’
‘Maxime. Put the knife down, mate. Please.’
The eyes open, their darkness lost to tears. And there’s something about the hopeless vacancy there that tells me what he’s going to do. And he does. With jaw clamped together and gaze fixed somewhere ahead of him at something none of us can see, he slides the knife in slow but forceful movements, back and forth, side to side, lips twisting into a grimace. A soft gasp comes from the officer beside me, one that’s so sad I feel it in the pit of my stomach.
Blood peels down Boucher’s neck to the collar of his shirt, wet gasps come from his mouth when he can hold it closed no more, but he goes on, sawing and sawing. And it might only have been a few seconds, but it feels like hours and that’s more than enough for Russell, whose words are falling on deaf ears. Less than a second after he rushes forward, the rest of us do the same. Russell’s there first, clamping his hands to Boucher’s right wrist and yanking at it. Peghead takes the left, and between them they struggle to pull the knife from his skin, knuckles sliding over the blood that coats the man’s throat.
I lunge for his feet, wrapping my arms around his ankles. Someone else is above me, beside me, and we descend into chaos. Because from the moment Russell moved, there was no going back. I’m bumped and jostled but I don’t relent my grip on him. Voices shout, orders for Boucher to let go of the knife, get down on the ground, his garbled, choking replies. The blade swishes the air beside my ear and I duck without knowing how close it is to me. Seconds later it clatters as it hits the ground, and a thump from a boot sends it skittering away. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard, because now we have him.
There’s more movement above, enough that I can lift his feet and we bring him down. There are uniforms all over, but still a struggle as Russell tries to get the cuffs on him. The female officer, Jen or Jane, is beside me, folding her arms around his legs and freeing me up to help.
That’s when I notice Peghead. He’s on the ground, his mouth open, features contorted, and his hand clutching his left bicep. An armed response officer hauls him away from the struggle.
‘Stop resisting. Stop resisting,’ Russell shouts, his knee in Boucher’s back, but his hands slick with blood so he can’t get him in the cuffs. I grip the man’s wrist firm enough for Russell to slip one cuff on. We do the same with the other, but the second they’re on, the fight goes out of him and he sags to the ground. We flip him over to see why. He’s passed out.
‘Shit, if he’d have just done that about half a minute ago,’ Russell says, sitting back on his heels, breathing heavily, the back of his hand wiping over his forehead and leaving a trail of Boucher’s blood all the way up to his hairline. He keys the mic on his radio. ‘Control. Suspect detained. Medical assistance required for self-inflicted laceration to the throat.’
Control issue confirmation that ambulances are on route.
‘That his?’ I ask, pointing at Russell’s blood-stained fingers. He looks at them, then at Boucher, and nods. There’s about a four-inch gash across Boucher’s throat, which is only seeping blood now. All the same, my colleague takes off his vest, then his polo shirt, which he presses against the cut.
Behind me, Peghead’s growling through gritted teeth. He’s surrounded by officers and they’ve got him sat upright. ‘Jesus fuck...’ he spits, fighting as they try to get his jacket off him so they can see what they’re dealing with.
‘It’s alright, mate,’ I say. ‘It’s just a scratch.’
He turns to me, eyes as hateful as I’ve ever seen them. More hatred than I knew he had in him. ‘Scratch, my fucking arse.’
‘Nah, you’re alright. I’d rather not, Peg, if it’s all the same with you.’
There are a few sniggers despite what’s happened, despite the slice on Peghead’s arm that runs from two inches below his shoulder almost down to his elbow and is pissing blood. It’s a strange relief from the tension of a minute ago. Relief that the danger’s over and no one else will get hurt now. The rest of us quietly pleased we weren’t the ones to take the hit.
Paramedics arrive to work on the two men and I retreat a few steps to examine the scene. The road is littered at either end with squad cars and vans, marked and unmarked, officers everywhere, paramedics, ambulances arriving from the hospital at the other side of the river. In the factory yard beyond, Piece by Piece, the reason for Boucher’s visit, a small crowd has come out to watch proceedings up close. One woman has her arm around another, the latter with her hands to her mouth, fair hair fluttering loose from an Alice band and tapping at her cheeks. I look at what she sees. The place is like the scene of a massacre. There are dark patches of spilled blood all over the pavement, and in the road, on officers’ hands, their clothes, my own hands, my own clothes. It’s the first blood since Anna’s. More blood that isn’t mine to be washed down my shower drain.
I drop my hands as Russell approaches, bare-chested beneath his utility vest.
‘Sodding hell, what’s this?’ I tease. ‘One short in the Village People, are they?’
But Russell’s not laughing. ‘You get hit?’
‘No, I’m good. You?’
‘You sure, mate?’
‘Course I’m sure.’
‘Turn around.’
I do, but only to humour him. His hands go to my head, turning it to one side, then the other. I snort a laugh. ‘You know, if you wanted to run your hands through my hair, John, you only had to ask.’
But again he ignores my joke, shouting past my ear, ‘Over here.’
‘John, what the hell are you—’
He holds his hand in front of my face, fresh blood glistening on his fingers. I reach for my head. And it’s as if someone has flicked a switch, because now I feel it. Not so much the cut, but I feel everything dissolving. Russell’s grip on my shoulder, the paramedic jogging towards me, another paramedic taking Peghead the other way, on his feet but his arm bandaged, Boucher still on the floor but coming round now and looking to the factory, tears on his cheek, the fair-haired woman turning, walking away, back inside. It all dissolves into silence, into nothing. The blood drains from my face for a second time, and I close my eyes.
Chapter 23
We drive home from the hospital in silence. My car’s still at the station where I left it yesterday at start of shift, so we’re in Ange’s. I don’t know what she’s upset about more, that she had to hear from Fred that I’d been taken to the hospital, or that she had to take a day off work today to bring me home. I’d have thought she’d be pleased it didn’t turn out to be anything more than a two-inch gouge, the overnight stay just a precaution. A row of stitches, a clear brain scan, and sent on my way. Peghead, on the other hand, is in for another couple of days at least, maybe more. Not because of the knife wound, but because they detected an irregular heartbeat while he was in there, and now they’re running a shitload of tests he never expected and doesn’t want. Had it been Clayton, he’d have been in his element. But it’s more likely our resident hypochondriac is healthier than the rest of us put together.
Ange drops me at the house and asks if there’s anything I want from the shop while she’s there. I tell her I’m fine and to go back to work if she wants. She shifts her weight to her right hip and says that’s not what she asked.
Once she’s gone, I drop onto the sofa and prop my head in my hands to think for a minute. Ever since Russell showed me the blood on his fingers from
the hit I hadn’t even realised I’d taken, it’s as if I’ve been moving in a daze. When I finally got some sleep last night in the hospital room, it was to wake in the darkness to a feeling that someone was plucking pieces from me, bit by bit, and from the inside out. Sleep was useless after that. Something to do with the way the mind works in the middle of the night, stripping all barriers to fear and laying them right out there in the open, so that I was close to suffocating with the terror that if I fell asleep, when I woke again there’d be nothing left of me.
I make a strong coffee and take both it and a beer into the sitting room, making a start on the beer before Ange comes back. It’s not even eleven yet. I switch on my phone and it pings with a ton of texts, most of which are well wishes from the Newport Central ward. Russell joking that he’d thought Boucher had beheaded me, but couldn’t stop to check because he had to get his man first. Standard messages of support and gratitude from those higher up. I respond, extolling the actions of my brave colleagues, letting them know my role in the incident was purely supportive, little else. There are three messages from Dalston, two from yesterday, loaded with concern – Freddie the mate as opposed to Dalston my superior – and the latter, more formal message, timed at 8.30 this morning. That’s the one I reply to, telling him I’ll return to my shift tomorrow.
After what he told me the other day, I’m pleased to see Sacha’s message among all the others. She sends her wishes for a speedy recovery, and I tell her thanks and to stay safe out there. For some of the others, jokes abound – to quit skiving, to man up and grow a pair. And from Custody Sergeant Chris Lewis, his suspicions confirmed that there’s been nothing going on inside my cranium all along, not even sensation. He signs off the message with, ‘Careful of the rabbit holes, Alice.’
In the reflection from the screen, I see myself smiling at their jibes, but it’s Chris’s that pokes at that uncomfortable spot. Who doesn’t notice a knife to the head? Or was it I was so focused on what I had to do, it was to the detriment of my own safety? I’d like to think it was that, but I’d be kidding myself.