Screams of Thy Neighbour

by Alexander Cowley

  “Sorry, can I ask— can I ask,” Edward found himself raising his voice a little to get the woman’s attention. “do you ever fear dying?”

  The woman was taken aback. Another passenger had overheard and turned to him as if Edward was unhinged. His glance across was met with an impenetrable stare from Edward.

  “Why, no, not really. I’ve lived a long, full life. I’ve got a wonderful family, four beautiful grandchildren. When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go. As long as I get to say goodbye to my children and not in a godforsaken care home.” A glint in her eye suggested her fond reminiscing bubbling to the surface.

  “Knowing you’re soon going to…” Edward changed tack. “It doesn’t scare you? How can you enjoy something that’s not going to last?” He pinged the stop button in front of him.

  “My husband passed away two years ago, bless him. He was so peaceful, and so happy to have his family with him. We’d been married fifty-six years, would you believe. He loved sailing and wanted a burial at sea, but we couldn’t afford it.” She chuckled. The twinkle in her eye reflected the strip lighting in the bus. “Why?”

  “Death’s something we don’t talk about enough.” Edward got up and was already disembarking the bus when the passenger had processed this.

  To reach his next destination, he could either walk the long way around the perimeter road; or take a short-cut along a secluded footpath that risked summoning ghoulish memories to the front of his mind. Selecting the obvious choice, he marched through the spitting rain. In the near distance, a cacophony of horns and sirens announced the impending arrival of a fresh cavalcade of emergency vehicles, on a blue-light run to the casualty department.

  High in the sky above, a helicopter circled. Edward was reminded of the air ambulance that had helped to save his life all those years ago. He figured that this chopper flying overhead was just another one waiting to land with critically ill cargo on board.

  XXXIII

  “Yeah, the suspect is walking down Meadow Road, towards the junction with, er, Cranston Road. Identity code one male, wearing white long-sleeved top and dark-coloured cargo trousers. He’s got a large rucksack over his shoulders.”

  “That’s all received India Four-Five. Do we know if he's armed at all?”

  “Standby, we cannot be sure if the suspect is armed. Do we have ARUs en route?”

  “ETA one minute for the ARUs.”

  “OK, received. Do we have a positive ID from the CCTV control room?”

  “The council control room have tracked an individual matching your suspect’s description, heading away from the scene at the police station. Continue following your person of interest.”

  Nestled in the cabin of the circulating police helicopter, call-sign India 4-5, the observer scrutinised the high-resolution camera display. Given the current circumstances, he knew this guy they were tracking ought to be more than a mere ‘person of interest’.

  A few seconds’ pause, then the crewman gave an update. “OK, the suspect is now following the perimeter road circumventing the hospital grounds. He is on Cranston Road, heading away from A&E. Traffic is moderate and there are pedestrians nearby. Visibility is moderate.”

  “Yeah, that’s understood sir, we have ARUs peeling off from casualty escort to intercept him.”

  “Keep sirens off, keep sirens off. Suspect is looking edgy. He’s glancing behind him and taking the rucksack off one shoulder.”

  “Copy that, we are turning onto Meadow Road now.”

  “Suspect is taking his bag—oh now look, he’s running. The suspect is running. Pursue with extreme caution. All units, suspect is running towards the Cranston Road hospital entrance.”

  “Speed up mate, come on,” an officer on the ground muttered to his colleague driving the armed response vehicle. These comms were picked up over the radio, by the helicopter crew and colleagues in the control room.

  “The suspect is on hospital grounds. He’s in the car park—”

  “This is Trojan 2-0, we see him; the suspect’s sighted.”

  “India Four-Five to Trojans, be advised: pedestrian access only.”

  “Let’s go. Out-out-out. This is Trojan 2-0, suspect sighted. We see him.”

  “He’s legging it towards the, er, standby. One of the satellite buildings. Is that, is that the paediatric wing?” The helicopter’s observer consulted his map and GPS.

  “Trojan 2-0 to Control, we need more units into the Cranston Road entrance, suspect approaching the psychiatric department.”

  “Confirm it’s the psychiatric wing?”

  “It’s the modern three-storey building ahead of us.”

  “No, that’s paediatrics.”

  “Whatever, he’s heading for it now.”

  “Negative on that, the suspect is headed for—”

  “No, correction. The suspect’s heading for the psychiatric facility.”

  “Control to India 4-5 and Trojan 2-0, please clarify suspect’s location.”

  “Suspect has taken out a—”

  “Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer down! Shots fired in the Cranston…Road…”

  “Stay with me buddy. Code zero, now! We need EMS! Medic!”

  “…I’m hit.”

  “India 4-5 to all receiving units, open comms: all units to secure the psychiatric building. The suspect has entered the psychiatric facility. We have one times officer down beside the pay and display machine, south-east of the Cranston Road entrance. Suspect is armed. Proceed with extreme caution.”

  XXXIV

  Edward made it into the foyer of the psychiatric department. Sirens rang out in the car park, so he had no chance to see if one of his rounds had struck its target. He had retrieved his gas mask from the main compartment of his bag. His helmet was too cumbersome, meaning he’d had to give it up at the Martlets. Covert tactical body armour underneath his beige vest afforded some security.

  People scattered in all directions. The high ceiling in the contemporary building made the yells echo. Edward marched to the reception desk, underneath which a group of staff huddled.

  “Where’s Elizabeth Wells?” he screamed from behind his aspirator. “Tell me where she is!”

  No one answered. Shuddering in terror, the fight-flight-freeze response was obvious in the faces of the staff. They cowered, weeping, on the other side of the counter.

  “Where. Is. Elizabeth. Wells? Tell me or I shoot!”

  Edward lost his patience. He swung round and aimed his Colt at a porter who’d tripped while shepherding visitors out of the building. A gunshot. Screams. Sirens grew even louder outside. The porter wailed, and the fire alarm wailed with him.

  “One of you had better tell me pretty quickly, or else—”

  A young lady popped her arms up into the air, behind the protective separation glass and revealed herself.

  “OK, OK, OK, please, don’t shoot. I’ll tell you where she is.” Slight in stature, she was impossibly pretty. Wide, doleful eyes and shiny, long black hair tied in a neat ponytail, she looked barely older than Edward.

  He glared at her, then shook his head and grabbed her shoulder over the dividing pane.

  “Nice try, but you’re coming with me.”

  “Please, please,” she stuttered, in an accent that Edward took to be from around the Indian subcontinent.

  “Move then!” Edward screamed, clenching his fists tight.

  The nurse froze, head tucked against her raised arm. Edward swung his head towards the car park and could see a wall of blue lights. A wave of emergency responders that would end him any second now if he dawdled.

  “Just move!” He slammed his bloodied hand onto the counter as he shouted.

  She scampered round the back of the reception desk, leaving her trembling colleagues to fret in her absence.

  “Please, don’t hurt us,” she whispered.

  Edward fumbled in a side pouch of his bag for a bottle, his last one. This he launched towards the automatic doors at the entrance. The i
mpact set off an explosion that triggered the sprinklers. Fragments of chairs, tables and glass door were strewn across the entrance.

  “Oh for—” Edward cursed, striding through the torrent of water to accompany his innocent captive.

  A green-tinged haze wafted from the shattered bottle into the waiting room. Edward’s aspirator provided some protection against the noxious cocktail of putrid solvents that he had hurled at the front doors. Just within earshot, he could hear the stricken porter crying out for help, unsure if he was long for the world much longer.

  The petite nurse led Edward along a network of corridors. Vision obscured by the sprinklers raining on them, he nevertheless kept pace with ease. Despite her high heels, she succeeded in navigating her way to the first floor, via a twisting staircase and series of security doors. Another waiting room beckoned.

  “Through here, please,” she said, not daring to meet his eye.

  Edward could hardly hear her timid directions over the sound of the blaring alarms. From her gestures, he understood that he should head into a side room offset from the waiting hall.

  “Wait,” Edward called out. “Hey, get out! Come over here, now.”

  He brandished his gun in the direction of two figures, hugging each other tightly against a partition beside the nurses’ station. One of them, a boy no older than thirteen, vomited over the floor. Some of it spilled onto the lap of his older companion. She – a brunette, possibly in her twenties – held him tighter as he covered his ears and let out a high-pitched screech that almost matched the pitch of the fire alarm.

  Edward made his way over to them, barrel of the handgun taunting them from his grip. The nurse tried impeding his progress, pleading for him to stop.

  “Let me talk to them, please,” she begged.

  “You, piss off. You two, get the fuck over here, now!”

  The youngster retched but no more of his stomach contents escaped. The young woman who was with him (family? Edward thought) gingerly lifted her arms into the air and whispered in the boy’s ear. Edward could not hear what she said. It worked though, and the boy staggered to his feet. He promptly lost his balance and tumbled over the pool of wretched fluid. It was diluted by the standing water from the sprinklers; even so, it coated his T-shirt. Edward cursed and growled. At least he was wearing a respirator. His bubbling rage had the desired effect of forcing all three hostages to their feet and towards the nearby consulting room. On the door was attached a sign that read ‘Elizabeth Wells – Vacant. Please knock.’

  The nurse forced the door. Into the room they scuttled. The sprinklers no longer sprayed them but the alarms were just as loud; screaming banshees that terrify the living would have had less impact. No one else was in the room. Edward was keen to force his captive audience away from the cupboards and windows. He sat on a chair, grateful to take the weight off his leaden feet.

  Gun still staring down the innocents, all shivering from the soaking they had received. All fearing for the sake of their very existence.

  “Where is she then?” Edward demanded. He could see the nurse’s teeth chattering dramatically. She turned her head as a reflex to avoid inhaling the offensive stench of vomit and wet clothing.

  “Sh-sh-she m-m-must have evac-ac-acuated when the-e-e-e alarm w-w-went off-f-f-f-f,” she stammered.

  No matter, Edward thought. It had dawned on him that the doctor’s mobile number was stored on his phone. Ignoring the dozen or more missed calls and voicemail messages, he dialled. He hoped she hadn’t left her mobile on the desk as she evacuated.

  He didn’t have to wait long before a nervous voice picked up.

  “Edward? Oh, Edward. Where are you?”

  “Good morning Liz,” Edward taunted. “Better question is where’re you?”

  “Edward, I am outside now. I need you to tell me you’re OK and that no one else has come to harm. Where are you right now?”

  Edward gestured for the boy and two young women to scurry to a different corner of the room, farthest from the door and closer to the window. Out of it he surveyed a quasi-apocalyptic scene unfolding in the car park and beyond. Scores of emergency vehicles. An ocean of blues lights. Throngs of uniformed workers dashing from A to B. Dozens of civilians, some wearing nothing but hospital-issued gowns, milling around. Lazy, light green smoke drifting from the toxic chemicals he had set off in the entrance below.

  “All you need to know is that I’ve got hostages—” he was interrupted by the boy, who again clasped his hands flat against his ears and let out more demented shrieks. “Shut up, ya little whiny—”

  “Edward, please, keep talking to me. Walk away now. Remember those breathing exercises I showed you before. The calming strategies we went through. The coping mechanisms...focus on your breaths.”

  The young boy thumped his head with his fists, letting out a cry when each blow landed. The woman prised his arms away and soothed him into silence. This was no mean feat, since he was a large boy. She gave him a tender peck on the top of his head for good measure, and this seemed to placate him for now. The nurse sat helplessly underneath a basin, shielding her face with her hands.

  “I want to speak to you, in person,” Edward ordered.

  “Edward, you know there’s no way I’m going to be able to get back into—”

  “Make it happen, or else there’s no point me keeping the hostages alive.”

  “Where are you?”

  Edward took his time before answering. “Go to your office. I’m not telling you where I am. Hurry now, or there’ll be more blood on your hands.”

  “Edward, don’t, there are—” she sounded inaudible.

  Edward grew indignant. Was the reception fuzzy, or was she talking to someone else in the background?

  “Is anyone else listening in?” he demanded. “Cause if they are, you might as well be on trial as an accessory to murder.”

  A little static could be heard, then Dr Wells hastily returned to the speaker. “Don’t do anything rash Edward, we’ll work something out. Is it just me you want?”

  Edward’s cynicism reached a fever-pitch. “Have you just put me on speaker-phone?” he bellowed. The child in front of him began to pound his head on his knees, which were tucked up by his chin.

  “No, Edward, I simply moved out from under a tree to get better reception.” Her breathing sounded quicker, deeper. Sirens came and disappeared in the background.

  “Yeah, and this is the sound of a car back-firing.” Edward aimed his handgun and squeezed the trigger. The line went dead.

  XXXV

  Screaming continued, long after the sound of this latest gunshot had ceased reverberating off the walls in Dr Wells’ office. Edward was close to the end of his tether.

  “Do you wanna be next, you little dickhead?” he roared at the distraught boy.

  Together with his sister (yes, definitely his sister, Edward concluded), the youngster had bolted from the foetal position and froze rigid against the wall. There they looked down on the nurse, all colour drained from her face. While the boy buried his trembling head into his sister’s chest, the nurse groaned. She clutched a puncture wound on her leg. Her head swayed and her chest heaved with each pained breath she took. She muttered something incoherent.

  “What’s that? Are you speaking in tongues or praying?” Edward hissed.

  The nurse continued speaking to herself, tripping over her words as she reconciled her faith in perfect Hindi.

  “Oh, you want to speak to God? Look down the barrel of my gun; I am God,” Edward yelled as he raised his Colt to the level of her head. The siblings collapsed to the floor and entwined themselves to form a tight ball. Steeling themselves for the inevitable, they bit their lips and pushed their hands against their ears.

  A click. Edward swore and released the magazine housing.

  “No. No!” he hollered. “Aargh! Count your fucking shots.” With that he hurled the gun against the window on the opposite side of the room. It cracked the glass, but no further damage was
caused.

  His Uzi had been ditched after expending all its ammo at the Martlets. Now his secondary firearm was redundant. For a Plan B, he pulled out from under his waistband a knife. No larger than a vegetable knife, but the teeth on its serrated edge instilled more fear in his captives.

  “It’s not the size of the tool, it’s how you use it that matters,” Edward said, more to himself than anyone else.

  Two strides were all he needed to close in on the nurse. Blood seeped through her tights and spread onto her tunic. She huffed and clenched her jaws, but the pain kept its grip on her, making her feel light-headed.

  “Please, don’t,” she simpered. “I have a husband and a beautiful baby girl.”

  “Hakuna matata,” Edward sneered. He dropped to his haunches and took off his gas mask. It had left an indelible red mark around his face, and beads of sweat merged to form rivulets of perspiration that flowed down his cheeks.

  Launching a playful jab with the blade, he intentionally missed her but only by the narrowest of margins. It was a specially designed hunting knife, no more than six inches long and finely serrated close to the wooden hilt. The nurse stared at it with all the world’s horror etched on her face. Dried crimson stains already coated the metal and she pushed back against the wall in fright.

  “No-no-no-no,” she begged through a cascade of tears. She sobbed some more. “No-no-no-no.”

  Edward disregarded her plaintive pleas for clemency.

  “Too many people think you get more damage by just stabbing people with a knife. End up making them spill blood from little holes, like a human colander.” He prodded the blade backwards and forwards, thrusting it into thin air mere inches from her neck.

  “No, the more effective way of dispatching someone is with deep slashes, like so—” he swished the knife in rapid diagonal movements from side-to-side. “When you cut bread, you don’t stab it, you saw at it. Same with hacking a giant lump of raw meat,” he added, almost as an afterthought.