Second Opinion

by Claire Rayner

  It had to be true, she told herself firmly as she began to edge forward through the craning people clotting the mouth of the ambulance entrance; it all fitted so elegantly and the sooner she managed to get Gus to see it the better. The end of the case was in sight. Well, the Rajabani part, if not the Oberlander, at any rate, and she pushed a little harder, impatient to tell Gus so. Unwillingly people made way for her, until at last she was at the front. Now she could see what was happening more clearly and her mouth dried with apprehension.

  The crowd had grown even greater as passers-by joined in and there had been reinforcements of the rent-a-mobbers, (as she now assured herself they were) bearing even more banners with racist slogans. In addition, a TV camera crew had arrived; she could see them on the opposite pavement craning to pick up with their camera the thickest part of the crowd where the chanting that filled the air seemed to be most tightly orchestrated.

  But orchestrated or not, it was hard to hear what they were actually shouting and she stopped trying to, concentrating instead on looking for Gus. There was no reason why he should be here, of course, she realized. This was a job for the uniformed branch of the police, rather than CID; but for some reason he had arrived this morning and must surely still be around. No policeman, whether he had been detailed to deal with such a fracas or not, would willingly walk away and leave his colleagues to it; certainly not Gus. Anyway, she told herself then, he would never have left without checking on me in A & E and that was a thought that warmed her; even in the middle of all this she found herself grinning for a moment.

  She saw Professor Hunnisett pressed against the wall at the side of the ambulance entrance and her grin widened. Clearly he felt he had to be there, but the last thing he wanted now was to be seen; his experience of trying to talk to this mob and being howled down must have terrified him, for he was almost clinging to the greasy old brickwork as he peeped out at the crowd with an expression of almost childlike alarm on his pallid face.

  Matthew Herne, on the other hand, was right at the front of the hospital contingent, shouting back at the crowd for all he was worth, his face scarlet with the effort he was putting into his stentorian roars — that were impossible to hear above the din of course — and clearly in a huge rage. He went up several points in her estimation at that moment; whatever else the man was — and he could be very awkward, not to say obstructive, to deal with on many hospital matters — he didn’t lack guts. She had to admire that in him.

  The line of uniformed police that stood between the hospital contingent and the demonstrators seemed to move and shiver and then tightened again and to her huge relief she saw Gus as he ducked under a constable’s arm and appeared on the hospital side of the scene. She shrieked his name at the top of her voice.

  How he heard her she couldn’t imagine, but he did, lifting his chin like a dog scenting a lead and looking around. When he spotted her his forehead snapped into a deep frown and he loped over, his face like a sky threatening thunder. He took her arm, scowling ferociously.

  ‘What the bleedin’ ‘ell you doin’ out ‘ere?’ he said roughly. His street accent had never been stronger and she blinked in some surprise, for he was clearly very angry indeed; this was not one of his jocular protests. ‘You get out o’ this and back to A & E — what the bastards there were thinkin’ of to let you sneak out this way —’

  ‘Hey, hey, back off,’ she protested. ‘Hattie said I could come and find you. I’m fine. Nothing more than a bruise and a bit of a shaking-up, so cool it, buster! I have to tell you — I know what happened to Harry.’

  Still scowling, he had left one hand on her arm as though to lead her back to A & E, no matter what she did, and she shook herself free crossly.

  ‘Will you lay off and listen to me, Gus! I’m telling you I know what happened to Harry! They confused him with Choopani — this is all happening because Choopani raised a hundred thousand to start a special unit for sickle cell anaemia.’

  ‘Sickle-cell what?’ He was diverted from his anger at last.

  ‘It’s a form of genetic-inherited disease that affects mainly people of African origin. Needs special care and research and all sorts.’ She spoke as urgently as she could, for the shouting of the mob was unabated and indeed seemed a bit more intense now. ‘He was the one who set out to save black lives with the unit — and that lot are racists and are dead against it, obviously. They confused Harry with Choopani and that was why they killed Harry. When they assaulted Choopani in your shop it was all part of the same thing — it’s got to be, Gus. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’

  He opened his mouth to answer her but there was no time. Behind him there was a sudden shrieking that rose shrilly above the ugly noise and Gus whirled, let go of her arm, and headed for the line of uniformed backs that stood between him and the crowd. He pushed his way through, and George, caught in his wake and with not the least intention of being left behind, hung on to his coat tails.

  Somewhere in the middle of the crowd fist-fighting had broken out; people were falling back to give those who were attacking each other more space, while others tried to push forward to be able to join in.

  The aggression and hatred were so intense that George could almost smell them; it certainly sent her own adrenalin into overdrive. She felt the rush of fear-tinged excitement in her muscles and all through her to her fingers’ ends; and the back of her trained mind threw up a little voice which lectured her on the effects of subliminal pheromonal scents on human behaviour and their role in triggering the ‘fight/flight’ response. But she ignored that, and pushed forward herself to get closer to the centre of the action.

  A tall wooden placard, bearing this time an anti-racist slogan which shrieked, ‘Death To All Fascists!’, rocked overhead, shuddered and came down, crashing on to heads below. Bellows of rage and pain went up and more people joined in the fighting. Blows were flying, and some people had sticks and other weapons (George caught the glint of knuckle dusters on one burly fist) and the sounds of flesh being hit and squeals of pain and anger increased sharply.

  And this was the point at which Gus clearly became hugely angry and he bawled something at the senior uniformed officer behind George, where the line of constables was still trying to prevent any contact between the mob and the hospital. He waved his arm furiously, and the other man shouted something back and all hell broke out. The police line wavered, widened and split into its component men and at the same time, it seemed from nowhere, more policemen with riot shields and truncheons appeared and the next minutes were a complete mêlée.

  George was never to know quite what happened next; she was aware of fists flailing and legs kicking and making contact with her, but she felt no pain (though later she found the bruises to prove she should have done), rather a huge exhilaration. Responding at last to her adrenalin, she hit out with her own fists balled tightly inside her thick winter gloves. It was a species of mad game and she felt no more fear than if she had indeed been playing, as well as a sense of delight and complete lack of concern for the welfare of others that the professional part of her mind protested at; but she didn’t listen to that either.

  Suddenly there was a balaclavaed figure next to her. She lifted her head and looked up and the wide blue eyes that glared out at her through the black eyeholes sent a stab of the most primitive terror through her. She hesitated, then reached forward with her hand open wide to push him away, but the figure seized her hand and bent it back against her arm so that her wrist swirled with pain, pain she definitely felt this time. She yelped and pecked her head forward hard, and with the most instinctive move she could ever remember having made, bit the hand that was pushing. The balaclavaed figure let go, yelled something unintelligible and went for her again, but once more Gus was there; he grabbed the figure from behind and held on tight, though his captive struggled and went on shouting; and then, out of nowhere it seemed to George, there was someone else beside them. A tall man, panting hard; George felt his breath hot on her
cheek. He lifted his hand in which he had a large stout stick and brought it down with a sickeningly loud crack on to the balaclava in spite of the fact that Gus was holding the man by his arms. It was as neat a blow as it could be; the man in Gus’s grasp slumped and seemed knocked out, for he remained still, and the other, a quite well-dressed man of about thirty, looked almost startled at the effect of his blow.

  ‘He’s a fascist bastard,’ he gasped in an accent so cultured he could have been a character in a 1950s Ealing film, and he looked from George to Gus. ‘I thought he was trying to hurt you.’

  ‘He was,’ George shouted back — for there was still a great deal of din, though it was beginning to lessen now. ‘Thanks a whole lot.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Gus grunted. ‘I’m a police officer and I had him in my hands, and —’

  ‘Police?’ the tall man said and shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry! I didn’t know that though, did I? I only know that this is the chap who’s been organizing these bloody fascists and causing a lot of the aggro round here and I wanted to get him — and help you at the same time, of course,’ he added hastily. He looked around. The fighting seemed to be contained, the police in control, people were running away, though some were being collected by the uniformed men and shoved into police vans which were arriving, and all around them were broken placards and banners on the ground. ‘I think I’ll hop it too, if you don’t mind. Take it from me, though, you’ve got the leader there.’

  ‘Hey,’ Gus shouted as the man began to slip away. ‘Don’t you bloody dare! You’re under arrest for —’

  ‘Some other time, thanks all the same,’ the man called back. ‘I have to get to work. You hold on to him! He’s trouble!’ And he was gone, legging it down the street and dodging through the remnants of the crowd with the ease of long practice.

  Gus cursed but held on to the slumped figure in his arms, a burden which had prevented him from grabbing the runaway. George reached out for the man’s other arm, helping Gus to deal with the weight of him.

  ‘Good luck to him,’ she said. ‘If he’s right and this is the ringleader, he’s done a great job. He doesn’t deserve to be collared for it. There, let’s take a look at him.’

  The man was stirring now, moving his head and his arms in a groggy fashion and seeming better able to stand. Gus shouted over his shoulder at another policeman who came running as George pulled carefully on the fabric at the balaclava’s chin, pulling it up over the face to leave the woollen material sitting bundled incongruously on the top of the head.

  And caught her breath in cold shock. The face that stared out at her, with swimming eyes and a trickle of blood on the forehead from the blow on the skull, was that of Philip Goss, the male nurse on the Paediatric Unit.

  26

  By the time they reached the A & E department, the peace of the morning that George had found so comforting earlier when she had shared coffee with Hattie and Adam Parotsky was shattered. The place was a maelstrom of stretchers, people with bloody heads and limbs, and distracted staff trying to impose some sort of order on to the chaos.

  Gus, grim-lipped and silent, almost carried Philip Goss there and handed him over to one of the uniformed constables in the waiting area with strict instructions not to let him out of his sight, even if the medical staff tried to separate him from his charge, and told him he’d be within shouting call if he had any problems. And then turned to glare at George.

  ‘Now, Dr B., what am I to do about you? You lay yourself wide open to Gawd knows what in the shape of injury and then bugger me if you don’t go and do it all over again.’

  ‘Oh, Gus, do stop being such an old biddy,’ George said impatiently. ‘Listen, what —’

  ‘Old biddy!’ Gus was affronted. ‘Because I worry over you and want you to be safe, I’m an old biddy? That’s just about the most —’

  ‘Gus, shut up, will you? And listen. That guy — his name’s Philip Goss, I know him.’

  ‘That hooligan? You know him?’

  ‘I tried to explain outside there, but you wouldn’t stop! Now, will you shut up and listen so I can explain properly? Philip Goss is one of the male nurses on the Paediatric Unit. He’s a good guy — or at least I thought he was. Great with the kids and very supportive of Harry that day Dave Ritchard went for him. I can’t imagine that man who hit him was right — but he seemed so certain, didn’t he? And if he is, it just doesn’t make sense, though he did once say something …’ She frowned, trying to remember, but shook her head. ‘It’s gone. But he said something to me once that could have meant he was a bit devious. ‘I’ll try and remember. The thing is, he’s got a friend — I think he’s gay. There’s a new guy on the medical team in Paediatrics, Alan Prior. I’ve seen them together. I think — well, all I can think is that he’s around here as well — I mean, if he was involved in this demo too, it might be worth talking to him about Philip. Because you can’t just take that man’s word for it, can you? The man that hit him, I mean, and who said he was the leader of the racist lot.’

  ‘You’re damned right I can’t.’ Gus sounded very gloomy as he looked about at the crowded waiting room. ‘Evidence, that’s what I need. Not that it should be that difficult to sort out — not now we’ve got so firm a lead. I’ve always thought there was some organizational skill in operation somewhere on the pitch. Some of the racist incidents haven’t been — well, haphazard enough, know what I mean?’

  ‘I can imagine,’ she said. ‘Look, let me have a wander, hmm? I can borrow a white coat, look like some of the A & E staff. See if Prior’s here. I’ve met him so I know what he looks like. Maybe I can get something out of him.’

  ‘No!’ Gus began to protest, but at that moment the officer in charge of the uniformed police came bustling over to him in a fussy, somewhat self-important manner. ‘Shit!’ Gus said under his breath and composed his face into a semblance of a welcoming expression. ‘You lookin’ for me, Bannen?’

  ‘I certainly am.’ Chief Inspector Edward Bannen peered closely at Gus. ‘I want to know why you were here this morning. We got a call from the hospital to cover the incident. I don’t see that CID have any place in a situation that involves public order in this sort of way and —’

  ‘Listen, it’s like this, Edward, me old pal.’ Gus put an arm over the man’s shoulders and with a flick of an expressive eyebrow at George led him away to the side of the waiting area. George watched them go and grinned. Poor Gus, she thought, much less in control than he thinks he is. And went in search of first a white coat and then Alan Prior.

  She found him sitting with his head in his hands in a cubicle in the minor ops unit, waiting for someone to come and put a couple of stitches in a small split on his forehead. He lifted his head hopefully as George looked round the curtain, as she had with all the other cubicles, and looked at her with his eyes wide and pleading.

  ‘You’ll try and get a good cosmetic effect?’ he said. ‘It’s not that I’m vain, you know, but scars can be so —’

  ‘I’m not here to stitch you,’ she said, leaning over him and looking at the wound judiciously. ‘You could dress that with a butterfly plaster and you wouldn’t need stitches at all, you know. If someone said they would stitch it, then it’s because of wanting a good cosmetic result. You get slightly wider scars with butterfly dressings.’

  ‘I asked for a stitch.’ He put up one hand and touched the skin near the cut gingerly. ‘I know you, don’t I, from somewhere? Tell me, is it a very big cut? Have you a mirror I could borrow?’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ George said. ‘And yes you know me. I mean we’ve met. I’m George Barnabas, Pathology. I met you with Philip Goss in Paediatrics one afternoon.’

  ‘Er — yes,’ he said. He put his hands back on his lap and ducked his chin down so that he had to look at her from beneath half-lowered lids. ‘Well — er — I think I remember.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter if you don’t. I remember you.’ She looked at him thoughtfully. Maybe the blunt way in woul
d be best; even if it weren’t, she had little time for more. At any moment someone would come and treat the man and she’d lose her opportunity, and Gus was still fussing about. Once he got away from Bannen he’d be sure to come back, wanting to tuck her up somewhere. She might just as well go for broke.

  ‘Philip Goss — he’s a special person in your life?’ she said baldly.

  Prior blinked but otherwise held her gaze. ‘Is he?’ he said.

  ‘Oh come on! No need to be coy with me. It’s legal, so why worry? He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?’

  ‘If he is, it’s no concern of yours.’

  ‘Was it his idea you should come down and get involved in this? Did he warn you you might get hurt?’

  Prior flushed suddenly. ‘He did not! I don’t pretend to be anything but what I am, and that’s a devout coward. I’m not one for bashing and shoving. I won’t go on gay rights marches and I wouldn’t have come down here for this if he hadn’t said it was going to be peaceful. He told me he’d got the whole thing really tightly organized, there’d be no opposition to us — and wasn’t he wrong! He was furious when those communist types turned up.’

  ‘Communist?’ George murmured. ‘What an old-fashioned word.’

  ‘Well, you know what I mean,’ Prior said fretfully. ‘These so-called anti-racists. Stupid creatures — if they’d grown up in South Africa like I did, they’d know better. But Philip had promised me we’d be safe, and I thought wearing those damned woolly helmets’d make it really OK. No one’d recognize us, you see, and we’d be — well, safe. But they managed to cut me even through all that wool! Look at this!’