I thrust the knife deep into his neck. Warm blood spilled onto my fingers. He shook his head and I gagged at the blood, at the cut, the vibrations and sight of the knife breaking his skin.
I cut, sawing and forcing the knife through his trachea and esophagus.
Blood spurted and pulsed onto the tarmac. I kept cutting at his neck, pulling his head back. Blood wet hands worked the knife, grating against cartilage as his throat sucked at life. One last spurt of blood hit the ground and his body collapsed, the life force departing his sorry arse.
Blood oozed from the ragged gash as I allowed his head to fall to the pavement.
The sirens screamed at me to leave, but I needed to justify my actions as a heap of guilt ground at my soul. I wasn’t looking for his blessing but I felt a need to speak, to justify the heinous crime I’d committed, but I couldn’t find the words.
A drink fountain lined the wall behind me. I thought of the kids drinking at break time as the water washed the blood from my hands. I held my clean, wet hands up in the air and backed away from Cooper’s body. His head lay askew in a thick sticky pool of blood. I couldn’t stop looking at him. He died because I cut him.
The first flashing light pulled up to the school, but I’d set off at a slow run, keeping to the dark of the building. Before I reached the fence another two cars arrived. Spotlights illuminated the macabre scene. Bodies, bent low, approached the bodies with guns drawn. I crossed the road and sheltered in the shadows, watching the coppers attend the casualties littering the schoolyard.
I turned my back on the drama and headed back to the Camps.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Lights alcohol Cut
Chaos ruled at the Camps. Weismann sat with an old boy feeding him a thin gruel while slapping at his face. Harry lay on the kitchen server, his head propped in young Alex’s lap, sipping at a flask. A young lad swabbed at his leg with a wet cloth. Pots of water sat on the griddle with steam clouding the marquee. Hurricane lamps swung above the server with the gusting wind, the canvas walls flapping and the tent poles creaking.
The broth Weismann spooned into the toothless mouth of the old boy smelt of rancid cabbage. He struggled to keep the gruel in his mouth and Weismann kept dabbing at his wet grizzled chin and ramming another spoonful past his thin lips.
Gray, tired stubble covered most of his face. Deep creases scarred his forehead and lines cut through his cheeks. A battered hat sat back off his forehead with wisps of hair protruding. His eyes screwed shut each time the spoon of gruel approached his mouth. They opened wide after each mouthful, revealing the yellow of jaundice. His mottled scabby hands came together in prayer as the spoon tapped against the metal soup bowl. His face bore the dirty tinge alcoholics wear as battle scars.
‘It’s old Doc, isn’t it?’ I asked Weismann. ‘He’s not looking so good.’
‘No, his liver don’t work so well, but jaundice is the new suntan on the streets this season.’
‘Last seen begging outside Sylvia’s Coffee Shop,’ I said. Weismann stopped spooning the gruel and nodded. ‘Is this Harry’s medical help?’ Weismann resumed spooning. ‘You need to stop feeding him that crap if you think I’m letting him go anywhere near Harry’s leg.’
‘But we have to sober him up.’
‘We haven’t got that long. Give him a drink.’
Old Doc’s yellow orbs showed a glint of life. He wanted the drink.
‘The last thing Old Doc needs is another drink. Look at him.’
Old Doc turned to Weismann, a snarl forming amid the mess of gruel covering his face. He wanted to kill for the drink.
‘Listen, Weismann,’ I said, grabbing Doc’s filthy hands. ‘Get them clean, scrubbed and get him something strong to get rid of the shakes. You can cure him with the bowl of shite in your own time, eh?’
Old Doc looked at his fingers, fascinated by the jerking and trembling. ‘A drink might help,’ he said.
The Doc talked posh. Alas, the phrase ‘a drink might help’ had pulled the poor bugger way down into the murky currents of begging on the streets of Ostere.
‘Of course it will,’ I said. ‘What instruments we got?’
‘I’ve got my old medical bag with me,’ he said. ‘It’s got all we need and some meths for the instruments.’
I pulled my flask from my pocket and took a quick slug before passing it to Doc. He needed to hold the container in two hands, but the transformation the alcohol offered gave me confidence the Doc might help us mend the boy.
‘Did I tell you about the time,’ he said, ‘when I was on the front line with the troops? We had no anesthetic or tools, just a saw and a kitchen paring knife. I was amputating those poor blighter’s limbs by the quarter hour. This little task will be no problem.’
Weismann shook his head and threw his hands into the air as I grabbed Old Doc and gave him a gentle shake. ‘Harry don’t need his leg cut off,’ I said.
‘No?’
‘No, he’s been shot and needs first aid. Perhaps a stitch or two. And maybe the bullet is still inside, but don’t you go cutting the wee tyke’s leg off. I can’t have that boy limping home, Doc, because his mother will have my balls if I take him home broken.’
Doc rattled my flask, licking at the last drop as it fell. He held out his hand and our breaths paused as we waited for the nervous jerk. A slight tremor persisted, but Doc smiled and rubbed his hands together.
‘What else we got to drink, Weismann?’ I said. ‘I reckon a couple more slugs and he’ll be ready to have a look at Harry’s leg.’
A large bowl of hot water sat on the table as a body ran off to find more alcohol. Doc plunged his hands into the soapy liquid and scrubbed. Confidence returned as Doc went through an age-old ritual. He scrubbed hard at his nails with the brush and then took the bristles to his palms, the fingers and the wrists. His fingers emerged from the suds red raw.
He held his hands up, letting them air dry as he barked orders for the set-up of his field theater. A wee lad stood on a chair to pour a red, sour smelling liquid into the old boy’s throat. He sucked long at the bottle. Thick droplets crawled over his whiskered chin, but he came up for air, smacked his lips and smiled.
‘Let’s have a gander at the wee soldier,’ he said. He stepped away from the bench, wobbling and tripping before I grabbed his arm and steadied his gait. ‘Age is necessary, but still hard to live with.’ He went to touch me, but I backed off waggling a finger in rebuke.
‘Don’t you go touching me Doc, not when you going to dig inside young Harry’s flesh, eh?’
Bent double, he shuffled toward the kitchen counter. Harry sat with a gang of lads hovering around the table. Alex sat on the server with Harry, spoon-feeding him a golden fluid. The undead emerged from their tents and gawped at the bustle occurring in the mess tent. A sense of excitement buzzed throughout the Camps.
‘You all right?’ I asked Harry.
‘Yeah, like it hurts, but I’m cool.’
‘The Doc will take a look at your leg and get the problem sorted.’
‘He don’t look so good.’
We turned to Old Doc, his body bobbing and his thin, long, crooked fingers held up, fidgeting as his head nodded to a tune no one could hear.
‘He’s worked war zones,’ I said. ‘He’s seen worse than this. We’ve got experience here Harry and I don’t think you could be in better hands.’
‘Mum’s going to be pissed at us.’
‘Only with me. Don’t worry about your mother. She’ll be happy to have you back in one piece.’
Harry tried to take the bottle from Alex, but she slapped his hand away and offered him another spoonful.
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘Medicine.’ Harry smiled and opened his mouth for another spoon.
‘Helps with the pain,’ Tyson said. He took a slug himself.
‘We did ‘em, didn’t we, Ben?’
I nodded as Tyson offered me the bottle. I took a tentative sip. ‘Scotch. Malt and smoot
h.’ I let Doc have a whiff and poured a quantity into his gaping mouth before handing the bottle back to Tyson.
‘Jolly fine libation that. I must be placing your camps on my house visits in future.’
A child rattled in Old Doc’s big weathered medical bag, fixing a metal mining helmet to the balding head. With the light shining he bent his back, bones cracking and whining as he got his head lower, his face deep inside Harry’s wound. His lips pursed as the same child peeled the gauze from Harry’s leg.
‘Jeez,’ the child exclaimed as the last piece of gauze came free.
I pulled the swaying pallid child away from the action and took up scrub nurse duties. Old Doc muttered to himself and nodded as he took in the different angles of the gory mess. He pointed to a set of tweezers. I swished them in the glass of alcohol before passing them to Doc.
‘Hold him, here and here.’ He pointed at Harry’s upper thigh and knee. The whole Camp held its breath as he prodded at the wound. Harry’s leg jerked, but the boy kept silent, grimacing as the tweezers hit metal.
‘Very good,’ the Doc said. ‘It should be easy enough. I should be able to save the leg.’
‘Jesus, Doc, not so the boy can hear.’
‘That’s all right, Ben. It’s best I know the truth, like.’
‘Just get the bullet out and let’s sew up his wound. No more talk about amputations. You listening, Doc?’
‘I’ll need to wash the wound before I start and I’ll need a flame to cauterize the bleeding vessels.’ He smiled at Harry. The lop-sided grin revealed a black hole of reddened gums and a moldy tongue. ‘How you holding up, soldier?’
Harry nodded, but his teeth clamped on a thick cloth and his face screwed tight as tears streamed over his bloodied face.
Again the Doc instructed me to hold the boy.
Tyson returned from the cooker telling Doc they had all the flame he needed. Tyson grabbed Harry’s upper body while a couple more children helped me with his legs. Alex held his head in her hands, stroking his forehead with a damp cloth. Harry complained about the heavy tactics, but the burn from the alcohol a child tipped on Harry’s wound gave him other issues to protest. His scream woke the night. Birds chirped and a wolf howled long and loud. Torch lights sparked to life in the tents and the slumbering dogs rattled at their chains.
Old Doc bent over the leg, the tweezers picking at flesh, digging to gain access to the bullet. Harry kicked and bucked and, twice he threw Doc off his game, but with a push and grab the flattened bullet came free and Old Doc held it up to the crowd. A cheer erupted and applause ensued and Harry drank more medicine. He smiled as the Doc placed the bullet on his chest and shuffled toward the flame with a metal prong in hand. When he returned the end of the prong glowed red.
‘This might sting a bit,’ he said to Harry. ‘But it’ll be over quickly.’ He removed a swab from a sterile packet with his tweezers and dabbed at the wound, then prodded with the red hot prong. A sizzle and the pungent scent of burning caused us all to grimace and turn away as Harry grunted.
Old Doc stepped away from his work. ‘All done, soldier. I’m just going to need to wash the wound and sew it up. Have another drink. I know I need one.’
The Doc leant against the kitchen server as a child topped him up with more of the curious red fluid.
Harry sat up and gazed at his bloodied leg and the hole left by the Doc’s digging.
‘It looks bad,’ he said.
‘Once I’ve stitched it up, you won’t even remember the day.’
‘But I’ll have a scar, won’t I? A scar would be cool.’
‘Oh yes my young soldier, you’ll have one serious scar. Children from far and wide will envy your scar, as I’ve never been good at stitching. Not even when I was an intern, but unless there is a hero willing to step up amongst my theater crew who can sew, I’m all you have.’
I left the Doc to his task and joined Weismann outside at the open bag. I stepped back as the rancid scent hit me. Weismann had left a good couple of feet between himself and the bag and a look of horror had etched into his furrowed lines.
‘Not what we expected?’ I said.
‘Not even close.’ He walked away, leaning on his stick. ‘It doesn’t make sense. We know Cecil had been skimming for years and keeping duplicate accounts. When he first presented at Ostere nick, he told Wynona what was in the bag.’
‘When I handed it over to Cooper, he didn’t want it. He said it was the wrong bag.’
‘But it isn’t. That’s the right bag.’
‘Cooper said it was the wrong color.’
‘What color should it be?’
I shrugged and took another step back from the bag. ‘Tommy mentioned two bags. He said Billy saw Marvin with another bag.’
‘So where’s the other bag?’
The bag repulsed me, but curiosity forced me closer to view its contents. I approached from behind, like up wind, hoping to find a less horrific view of its contents. Weismann sat shaking his head muttering his despair about the other bag. I reached out and pulled one of the straps loose and a big arsed fly buzzed out of the bag and knocked against my head. I gagged, my eyes watered and breathing through my mouth coated my tongue with the fetid stench. A light blue cloth stuck out of the bag and a hand, minus a finger, sat beneath the cloth. The ruptured purple skin housed a mass of squirming, writhing maggots feeding on the mortal flesh.
I stepped back, tripped over a stray tree root and a shot of pain ran the length of my leg as I fell to the ground. I sat in the dirt looking up at the bench, my leg throbbing and my stomach churning, desperate to throw up the horror living in the bag.
‘Is it…?’
‘Cecil,’ Weismann said. ‘It has to be.’
I eased my body upright, keeping a wary watch over the bag. ‘But why? Why keep the body?’
‘Wynona said they’d sent Marvin’s mother a finger in the post as a warning. Each day she didn’t give them the bag, they’d cut another piece of Cecil and send it to her. She and Marvin believed they were cutting from a live body, not a corpse.’
Weismann looked unwell. He gripped the long crooked staff with both hands, his body relying on the staff to keep him upright. ‘We needed that bag,’ he whispered. ‘The Projects needed the cash and the contacts from the books Cecil kept. It was their chance to take on the East End.’ He shook his head. ‘And we need a new toilet block. One of the campers was bitten the other day.’
He smiled as I winced at the news of the beasts feeding off the campers’ bare flesh. The children exited the canteen with Old Doc stumbling after a child with the bottle of whisky.
The child ran at the bag and both Weismann and I shouted ‘NO!’
Everyone froze. I didn’t want to go near the bag, but someone needed to close the horror within. The zipper stuck halfway, but the straps buckled into place. I retched and ran for the toilets. When I returned Weismann raised his stick in farewell and shuffled back to his hut, his back stooped, his body clutching the stick with both hands. The children had gone and Old Doc sucked on the whisky bottle, his head nodding to the beat playing in his head.
Harry called out from the mess tent. ‘I want to go home now, Ben.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Is he broken?
Harry sat in the shopping trolley, facing me with his legs stretched out through the opening beneath the handle. The trolley wobbled and squeaked, but it rolled well enough.
‘Do you think my leg’s going to be all right?’
We trundled along the quiet, tree-lined laneway heading for the ornate lamppost with the directional signs.
‘For sure,’ I said. ‘According to Weismann, Old Doc was head man in some war overseas. The best, eh?’
‘But that was like years ago, wasn’t it Ben?’
‘Yeah, but our health service isn’t what it was. You haven’t got insurance and the closest hospital is a good day’s walk, eh? And you can’t be turning up to a hospital with a bullet wound. Jesus the Man and hi
s troops be looking to give you all manner of grief trying to find where the bullet came from.’
‘So Old Doc did us all a favor, like?’
‘You still got your leg and you can wiggle your toes, so yeah. The Old Doc saved the day.’
***
Wynona fell into step beside us, keeping pace with my slow hobbling walk. Harry dozed in the trolley with light breaths and the occasional mumbled word.
‘You never sleep?’ I asked. She smiled and shrugged. ‘I mean, you got to be at your desk soon, don’t you?’
‘There is no desk.’
I’d forgotten about the attack on the police station. ‘Thanks for sorting Tilly out.’ Wynona curtsied long and low. ‘So you got the day off.’
‘Jackie John wants to speak with you.’
‘If he’s after the spoils from the bag, he’ll be disappointed.’
‘You haven’t got the bag?’
‘Wrong bag, it turns out.’ My momentum stalled as Wynona fell back, her steps faltering. ‘Marvin gave me a gruesome bag full of bits and pieces of his old man.’
Wynona’s head dropped. ‘So Cecil is dead.’ She sighed and dropped to her haunches. ‘I feared as much. Cecil wasn’t cut out for the role his father passed onto him. He came to the police station a year ago, confessing that he worked for the Black Hats. He wanted to turn evidence over to the Law about their activities in the drug and slave trade. I suggested immunity to prosecution if he turned evidence against the Black Hat Cartel, but something went wrong a month back. No one answered my questions or correspondence. I hacked into my sergeants emails and discovered messages between him and Cooper’s right-hand man. I told Cecil to leave, to run but…’
Wynona rubbed at her eyes, squeezing the bridge of her nose. ‘Marvin contacted me about the finger in the post and I helped him negotiate the terms for his father’s return. But once Cooper had the evidence he reneged on the deal.’
‘So how did Marvin end up with the bag? Bags?’
No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series Page 27