Edward stared at her. His eyes blazed with embarrassment. This look told its own story and Helen raised a smile. “Come on hun, otherwise you’ll be late. Stop pouting; you look like you’ve chewed a raw onion.”
Edward finished concocting a round of sandwiches, picked up some fruit and a mini cheese from the fridge, and vaulted out of the house.
The rain started falling heavier by the time Edward alighted from the bus outside the entrance to Accident and Emergency. The hospital site was a gargantuan complex of buildings, all loosely connected to each other. Sod’s Law dictated that Dr Wells’ clinic was in the paediatric suite, on the other side of the hospital. He would have to cut through a recreation ground and along a footpath to reach it.
Whilst making his way along the path, he remembered the call he’d missed before leaving the house. A voicemail, left by Dr Wells, intrigued him. With the rain overwhelming him, he chose to ignore the notification and marched on briskly. Whatever she wants, she can tell me in person, he reasoned.
No one else was in sight, except one figure ahead of him. Edward could tell this person was dressed in a black pullover and grey tracksuit bottoms, but the onslaught of rain made it impossible to discern any other features. He did not give this person a second thought and kept his head down to shield himself from the blustery gale. That was until the stranger was close enough to be heard.
“What’s up?” An innocent question to the untrained ear, but to those who recognised Simon Wainwright’s thick voice, it oozed obnoxiousness. “Long time no see, eh?”
Edward froze; his path obstructed by the stocky build of his aggressor. His loathing for Simon remained a deeply ingrained and mutual repulsion.
It struck Edward that this was a strange spot to bump into him, the first time in over three years. What was Wainwright doing here of all places, on the grounds of a major hospital? It was not inconceivable in Edward’s mind that Simon enjoyed larking around the infants’ playground nearby. He’s got the mental capacity for it, he thought. More likely, it occurred to him that Simon could have been visiting the hospital for an appointment. Edward really didn’t have time to dwell.
“Can I get through?” Edward innocently played the card of diplomacy. He knew this maturity would not work. How right he was.
“Where are you going?” Simon asked. Not that he really cared.
Edward took a step forward; Wainwright side-stepped and impeded his way. They were close enough for Edward to make out the logo of a local letting company stitched onto Wainwright’s sweater. ‘Perkins Properties’ or ‘Parkers Properties’ or something shitty like that. Who knew Simon Wainwright had a job?
The rain lashed down and Edward’s hood no longer offered any protection – to the rain or the abuse. Simon’s repugnant face, together with his personality, grossly offended him. Thick matted stubble. Cauliflower ears and a chin indented into the shape of an arse. A hairy arse. In one admirable effort, Wainwright pressed the tip of one stubby index finger against the side of his nose and exhaled extensively to evacuate the contents lodged within his nostril. A gust of wind blew the stringy gunge in Edward’s direction.
“You should be at school, shouldn’t you? Eh, gimp-boy?”
“Forget it,” Edward sighed and turned around. He still had time to make the appointment, even if it meant keeping away from this maniac. He backtracked down the footpath, but Wainwright tailed him.
“Where you walking off to, huh? Come on you fucking little fag-head. Don’t be rude.”
Edward felt some resistance, like a tugging on his backpack. He threw a cursory glance over his shoulder and noticed Wainwright unzipping its main compartment. He swivelled round to face Simon and launched a kick towards his foe’s leg. Edward stumbled backwards as the thug reeled. He was nimbler on his feet than Simon and able to dodge an incoming punch with a deft pivot. Then, Edward let rip with a rapid jab-cross to the head. Simon tried to retaliate with a flurry of strikes to Edward’s upper body. These were successfully parried and Edward returned the favour by aiming a shin at his midriff. Simon keeled over to protect his groin and Edward seized the chance to set off on a blistering run. The rain poured with a vengeance and he was disorientated. The adrenaline coursing through his body messed with his head.
A forceful kick from behind knocked him off-balance and he planted his face into the ground. He spun around in time to see Wainwright pull at his backpack, wrenching it open and spilling its contents over the ground.
“No!” Edward squealed with an impassioned cry. His tablet computer flew out and lay splintered next to a fence. It was the sight of his belongings in the main compartment that turned his blood cold. He could only look on helplessly as his diary and scrapbook became sodden and ruined on the walkway.
Wainwright went for the tablet first. Realising it was as good as destroyed, he flung it into a puddle and trod on it with his muddied trainers. “Looks like you won’t be needing that anymore,” he snarled over the blustery gale and sheet rain. He picked it up again, recoiled his arm back and launched it with all his might towards the bushes that lined the path.
Edward was in a tremendous amount of pain. Blood mingled with the rainwater, but he was not deterred. Crawling along the ground, through the puddles, he scooped up as much of his precious journal and scrapbook as he could. Simon approached and Edward instinctively curled up, like a hedgehog, protecting the damaged books under his body.
“What’s all this, your schoolwork?” asked Simon, naïvely.
“Yes, just leave it. Please, it’s due in today,” Edward pretended. His voice was muffled from inside his jacket. He shivered. The rain was unrelenting and he could feel the wounds on his face stinging.
Wainwright grabbed his collar and dragged him away from the diary he was shielding. Edward would not give it up, so Wainwright resorted to thumping his back with hammer-fists. This only made Edward curl up tighter and clench every muscle to deflect the pain and lessen the force of the blows.
“What the fuck is your problem, you minging little cunt!” screamed Wainwright through the gusts and the torrent.
“You’re just a psycho, Simon!” Edward yelled back.
For Simon, this was the final straw. He stood up and took a few paces back, deliberately treading on pieces of paper strewn over the ground. With the might of a turbo-charged steam roller, he ran at Edward and delivered a violent flying kick into his right abdomen. In an instant, Edward keeled onto his side, let out a scream and choked on his own blood and phlegm.
In his blistering fury, Simon stamped and kicked the sheets of paper that Edward had been forced to let go of.
“No, please,” Edward spluttered through closed eyes. He could make neither head nor tails of anything. He struggled to breathe, he felt nothing but indescribable agony. He retched and brought up a mass of vomit, tinged black with bile. In spite of the cold wind, it steamed slightly on the grass.
In a final act of explosive fury, Simon picked up a soggy fistful of paper that had formerly been Edward’s diary. He stormed over to the side of the footpath and slammed the messy pulp on to a substantial mound of dog mess. Scenes of brazen wickedness culminated in him pulling down his tracksuit bottoms and throwing a glance left and right. Then, tugging his saggy manhood to and fro, he used Edward’s pride and joy as objects for his own venereal gratification.
“Oh yeah,” he groaned when all was done. “Fuck yeah. Fuck you!” Wrenching up his bottoms, he sprinted off into the rain, kicking a wall of water into Edward’s face on his way past.
In the wake of such unprovoked savagery, Edward lay motionless amongst the detritus and bodily fluids. He began to spasm as the shock set in. Then, he started seizing as the blood flowed and his will to live slowed.
XVI
Edward was not a fan of hospitals. Having spent enough of his life on wards and in surgery, his appreciation for the medical professionals’ life-saving work had long subsided. What scared him, above all else, were the connotations tied to being in a hospital
setting. People at their most frail, in their greatest time of need. Helpless. Powerless. At the unconditional mercy of machines and other people. The fact that none of the advances in modern medicine could have saved his parents. An overarching nod to his own diminishing mortality.
A passer-by had spotted him, one might say fortuitously, sprawled in a lifeless heap on the sodden ground. He’d had scans, tests, pain relief, blood clotting agents and anaesthesia to prepare him for the marathon surgical procedure he needed to repair the tissues that had ruptured.
“It is very touch and go, Mr and Mrs Regis,” the consultant reported to Edward’s parents when they reached the resuscitation bay. “Edward is in surgery now. He has a perforated liver and fractures to the nose, ribs and vertebrae. He lost a copious volume of blood, triggering hypovolaemic shock that led to the seizure.”
Helen and Michael stood frozen to the spot, aghast.
“No one said anything about a seizure!” Helen wept profusely and was forced to hold her husband’s arm for dear life, to prevent herself slipping on the blood that had pooled around the trauma cubicle. They both had so many questions yet could hardly string a sentence together.
“The police are here to take a statement,” the doctor continued. “We believe he was mugged on the footpath near the paediatric suite.”
Helen’s hand shook as she clutched a tissue against her nose. Her husband embraced her, nesting his chin on the top of her head. A police officer tried to offer reassurance, but whose empty words did little to console them.
“We are doing everything we can to catch the people responsible,” he said.
“Our boy, our boy,” Michael cried. “Who could have done this, who? I’m asking you!”
“I am sorry,” was all the policeman could manage. “We are searching the area, taking witness statements—”
Michael cut in. “We shouldn’t be here! How could this happen?” said he in a hushed voice.
“We shouldn’t have let him go to his appointment on his own. Oh, God!” Helen added in despair.
Hour after painstaking hour crawled by. Eventually, the door to the waiting room – in which they sat and fidgeted, or stood and paced – opened. In stepped Elizabeth Wells.
“Helen, Michael – we’ve met before. I’m Elizabeth, Edward’s psychiatrist. I heard about what happened from the police officers outside. I am so, so sorry.” Her voice was sombre and she trailed off towards the end, on the assumption Edward’s guardians would interrupt.
“We don’t even know if Edward was on his way to or from seeing you,” Michael whimpered.
“He didn’t show up. I tried calling him earlier. I needed to reschedule with him, and then I called each of you but nobody answered,” Dr Wells explained.
“Our son!” Helen wailed uncontrollably. She wrapped her arms around Michael and the doctor. This three-way hug gave the parents a little strength. Dr Wells bit her lower lip, ruminating deeply. “We should have driven him. We should have driven him!” Helen cried out, her own lip trembling of its own free will.
“What sort of parents let their son go to a hospital appointment in the pouring rain?” Michael agreed.
“Social services will have our guts for garters,” Helen added.
Dr Wells tried to calm them and encourage them to think rationally. “I assure you both, it was not your fault. Neither of you is in any way to blame for this.”
But to no avail. It was only the sound of a side door opening that abruptly halted their clamour. The trauma surgeon walked into the waiting bay. His overalls resembled a butcher’s tunic. Very slowly, he closed his eyes and bowed his head.
Helen and Michael gawped at the surgeon, expecting something a little more definitive. Dr Wells interpreted his body language for them.
“Edward has been stabilised and is in the recovery ward now, I take it?” she presumed.
The surgeon introduced himself as V.J. Ananthaswarmy and briefed the parents. “Edward has sustained a number of challenging injuries. Please, Mr and Mrs Regis, take a seat with me. Please.” He spoke with an uppercut, English accent that was tinged with Hindi vibes. “He has a broken nose, which we have fixed. He has two cracked ribs, which we have left to heal on their own. We feared he may have suffered serious damage to his spine, but scans have shown only bruising.”
Mr Ananthaswarmy paused to allow time for his words to sink in. Michael dabbed his eyes and Helen buried her head into his jumper.
“Edward is gravely ill in the ITU,” the surgeon continued. “My colleague earlier mentioned he sustained traumatic lacerations to his liver. We know from his medical history that his liver was badly affected by a car crash some years ago, and the assault this morning has resulted in massive blood loss and release of toxins around his body. We have had to remove part of his liver, plus his gall bladder.”
The parents’ heads swam. They tried to think straight but their world had been upended. The haunting silence was broken by Helen’s intermittent sobs.
“Will he pull—”
“When can we see—sorry, you carry on dear.”
“But he will pull through? He’s a fighter, and you were working on him in there for the better part of eight hours. Don’t tell me he won’t make it,” Michael huffed with his signature bullish voice, reserved for his most impassioned demands.
“Edward lost around three pints of blood, which we had to transfuse back into him. He needs help breathing and is very poorly. He does however,” the doctor lowered his voice for emphasis, “have youth on his side. His liver can regenerate, his bones can heal, his body can recover.”
Helen and Michael hugged each other and burst into bittersweet tears. Dr Wells remained standing with her arms folded beside the door. “Is he under sedation?” she asked.
“Master Kreus’s brain has been deprived of oxygen and there are still elevated levels of toxins in his body. He will need to remain under constant monitoring in the critical care unit for some time until we can bring him out of his induced coma,” Mr Ananthaswarmy explained.
“We would like to see him, please,” Michael said firmly. Helen nodded.
“Of course, sir, but I must say—”
“Show us to his ward. Now, please,” Michael reiterated through clenched teeth. His reserves of common courtesy were faltering.
“Of course, Mr Regis. There are, however, people here to speak to you first.”
As if by a magical divination, the door opened behind Dr Wells. She stepped aside to allow a posse of police officers, detectives, nurses and social workers to enter the room. It had been a cosy place for just four people; one could only imagine how much of a squeeze it was with twelve.
The surgeon and Dr Wells offered their best wishes then vacated. It was now time for the authorities to pursue their enquiries.
“Mr and Mrs Regis, hi. I’m DS Alison Demetriou from Force HQ.” She brandished her warrant card but Helen and Michael took no notice. “First, an update on our investigation. We are combing through several leads: CCTV, witness statements, DNA at the scene.”
Finally, the Regises paid attention. The detective made sure they were sitting comfortably. Helen gratefully accepted a plastic cup of scalding, milky tea, a gesture that Michael declined.
“Whoever did this,” he began, “I hope you find the bastards and string them up.”
Helen looked up. “Are we saying it was a group? Like, like a gang?”
“That’s one avenue we’re exploring Mrs Regis,” the detective replied. “I understand your frustrations, and we really are working flat-out on this.” Her voice was measured, neither rising to the bait of Helen and Michael’s understandable fury, nor trivialising the matter at hand.
“We have dog units, aerial support, regional forensics experts all drafted in. Extra stop-and-search powers are in place for the area as well. In addition, we’ve briefed the media and are carrying out door-to-door enquiries. But…” She breathed in and held for a moment, refraining from overloading the weary parents with info
rmation. “The rain, though, is slowing down our progress. No CCTV covered the precise area where the assault took place.”
With Edward’s parents only marginally reassured, DS Demetriou opened a fresh page of her notebook. “So, I would like to take the time to ask yourselves a few questions that might help our inquiries.”
XVII
Edward was awakened by the effects of the heavy-duty sedatives wearing off. He absorbed all the new sensations flooding his body. A metallic, furry taste in his mouth. The machines beeping and whirring. A numbness in his penis. His breath wheezing; the audible relief from Helen and Michael.
He could barely feel anything else, save for the pressure of their hands clutching his arm and the irritation of his feeding tube, catheter and IV cannula. His field of vision was hazy; he could make out the whitewashed walls and the rough outlines of Helen, Michael and two others who were presumably medical staff. Everything else was indistinguishable. It was like someone had coated his eyes in Vaseline.
Once his eyes had adjusted to the light, he carefully swivelled his head on the pillow, then lifted his hand towards the face mask helping him to breathe.
“Ah, best you leave this on for the time being, Edward,” said one of the strangers. He wore a smart shirt and had an identity card attached to a lanyard around his neck.
“He’s trying to speak, can you take it off so we can hear his voice?” urged Helen.
The doctor pondered this for a few seconds. He then stepped towards Edward and leaned over him, undoing the tape and gingerly removing the apparatus from his mouth. Edward hacked repeatedly, several dry coughs that were painful to listen to. A machine bleeped in the background.
“Water,” Edward gasped, his voice hoarse and mouth arid.
Screams of Thy Neighbour Page 12