by steve higgs
Stammering, the consultant lady finally instructed the nudgy girl to get on with the task of checking his chart and determining if he was fit enough to be discharged.
‘Um,’
‘Come on, Doctor Stephenson,’ snapped the consultant, who looked flushed and annoyed. ‘You know how I hate mumbling.’
‘Mr. Winters has suffered a penetrating abdominal trauma,' she managed, flicking over a page on his notes as if hoping the information she needed would leap from it. She was having trouble diverting her gaze from Big Ben though. He had now relaxed back onto the bed and fixed her with a smouldering stare of encouragement. I wondered if she might dribble.
‘What are the dangers of abdominal wounds?’ The consultant asked the group while also staring at Big Ben.
There were two young male doctors in the group, one of whom was staring slack-jawed at the aftershave model relaxing on the bed in front of them. The other one was immune. By dint of being heterosexual, I assumed. He was looking around the group in wonder, probably trying to work out what spell had bewitched his colleagues.
When no one else spoke, he started, ‘Abdominal wounds are particularly likely to cause internal bleeding, which can be life-threatening due to the number of major blood vessels that run through the area. Peritonitis is an especially common complication if the weapon punctures the intestines.' He delivered the answer as if reading from a textbook. When he finished, he fell silent again, waiting for the consultant. Nothing happened. They were all just staring at Big Ben. Seeing the lack of impetus from his colleagues he stepped forward, grabbed the chart from the unresisting hands of Doctor Stephenson and then moved between the crowd and Big Ben as he moved in to inspect the dressing.
‘How are you feeling, Mr. Winters?' he asked.
‘I’m just fine, brother,’ Big Ben replied in his usual relaxed manner.
‘No temperature, no nausea?’
‘Nothing at all. The wound is sore when I move, but they said it was superficial and would heal quickly.’
‘Yes. Yes, this all checks out. Thank you, Mr. Winters. Please do not participate in any strenuous activities for a week and keep the dressing dry during that time. You will receive a letter advising you of an appointment to have the staples taken out. You are free to go.'
The consultant seemed startled as if woken from sleep to find herself in an unexpected place. ‘What? Dr. Coruthers are you blind?' she asked fixing him with a glare. ‘This man is clearly not ready to be discharged. The wound might produce all manner of complications.' Which she then went on to list. I understood very little of what she said but she made it sound like he would most likely explode if he attempted to leave the hospital. She moved closer to Big Ben and took his hand. ‘Mr. Winters, I am afraid you will have to stay here for a while at least. But don't worry, I will be taking very special care of you myself.'
Big Ben looked at the consultant. She was mid-forties by my reckoning, was not wearing a wedding band and was attractive enough to have held my attention. The younger female doctors were a mix of different races, heights, and levels of attractiveness but I could see that each one was considering the possibility of keeping Mr. Winters around as a positive action. She placed a hand on his tight toned, abdominal wall, made some hmming noises then placed it on one of his bulging pectorals.
‘Yes, yes. Mr. Winters, I think is imperative that we keep you here for a day…'
‘Two days?' enquired Doctor Stephenson, taking hold of his arm tactilely from the other side of the bed.
‘Two days,’ confirmed Doctor Harman, ‘for observation. It would be irresponsible to let you go now when there could be… complications.’ Her voice was getting huskier by the moment.
‘Ladies, I place my firmness in your hands. I mean I place myself firmly in your hands,’ Big Ben replied in his best bedroom voice clearly making the word order error on purpose.
Doctor Harman shook herself physically and somewhat reluctantly took her hands from his body. ‘Doctor Stephenson see to it that Mr. Winters is found a private room where I can give him the best treatment.'
‘Doctor Harman is this really necessary?' asked Dr. Coruthers, the only one immune to Big Ben's charms. ‘Mr. Winters is clearly fit and healthy. The surgical notes state that the wound did not penetrate the abdominal cavity…'
Doctor Harman cut him off with a wave of her hand. ‘That will be all Dr. Coruthers, thank you. Do not question me on my rounds unless you wish to be back on geriatrics.'
The man closed his mouth. I guess working geriatrics was not a task he relished.
I picked up my phone and put it in my pocket. It looked like I was leaving by myself. Big Ben was grinning at me. When we locked eyes, he waggled his eyebrows to show he was up to no good. He was going to stay here and enjoy the company of whichever doctors, nurses, orderlies and other persons elected to sneak into his room. This was not untypical behaviour.
I bid him good luck, though I doubted he would need it and headed for the exit.
I had an advice leaflet which could be summed up as: Don't do anything. Don't exercise, don't do anything strenuous. Don't drive if I have taken pain relief. The list of don'ts went on for a while. Big Ben had it better than me and would heal quicker too. Nonetheless, he was out of action for seven to ten days while the wound healed. Once the stitches were out, he should be okay, but that was all moot because he was going to stay in the hospital and be used as a rather tall sex toy for the next couple of days.
There were taxis available from the hospital reception, so I hopped in the one at the front of the queue and caught a ride home.
My House in Finchampstead. Sunday, October 23rd 0956hrs
As the driver pulled up outside my house, I checked my watch: 0956hrs. Nearly ten o'clock on a Sunday morning. I could not remember what I had planned for the day. Amanda and I had a few open cases but nothing that demanded my immediate attention. The fare was more than twenty pounds, so I handed over twenty-five, instructing the man to keep the change before I clambered tenderly out of the cab. Given how I felt right now, I reckoned the day was going to involve lots of sitting on my bottom on the sofa watching TV. The dogs would be happy enough with that.
I got to my door, fished for my keys and opened it, pausing so the two savage hounds could tumble out to greet me. I slowly bent down to pat and fuss them both but did not pick them up as I often would; my ribs were just too sore.
Inside the house, there was evidence that my parents had been there in my absence. On the drainer were two clean glasses that my mother had washed up by hand rather than put them in the infernal dishwasher. The dogs buzzed around my feet and stared at the cupboard that contained their food and bowls. Like most dogs, they were everlastingly hungry and would ask for a second breakfast if the first was more than a few seconds ago. I felt certain that my parents would have fed them but called my mother to check anyway.
She answered on the third ring, ‘Hi, Tempest. Everything okay?’
‘Good morning, mother. Thank you for looking after the dogs last night and yes everything is just fine. The dogs are asking for breakfast. Did you feed them already?’
‘Of course, Tempest.’
‘I thought it would be so.’ I scowled down at the two hopeful creatures still circling my feet and pointing to the cupboard with their noses. ‘Shoo, the pair of you,’ I instructed. Disappointed, they gave up and wandered through to their bed in the lounge.
‘How are you feeling?’ mother asked.
‘I'm fine, mum. Just sore. I cannot take a deep breath so I will not be going to the gym for a while but otherwise, there is nothing wrong with me and I will recover fully in a few weeks.' I knew that mum just wanted to hear that I was okay. She did not like to consider that her children might be hurt or upset or anything else with a negative connotation. I expect most parents are the same regardless of the age of their children.
We chatted for a couple of minutes while she once again reminded me that I needed to plant my overwintering vegeta
bles if I wanted a crop next spring. She had already forgotten my broken ribs and that I would not be digging in the garden anytime soon. I bid her a good day and disconnected.
I needed a cup of tea. Tea was a great healer for me, it had been for as long as I could remember. I started every day with a cup, I made one every day when I got in from work and I wanted one right now. They had offered me one in the hospital, but it had been terrible, making me wonder what they could have done to make it taste so bad. Tea is hot water over tea leaves with an option of milk and some sugar/sweetener. How does a person get that wrong? Anyway, I made myself a cup of tea and took it through to the lounge where I slowly eased myself onto the sofa. I had to put my cup on the floor to do so, which instantly attracted the attention of both my dogs.
Bull’s head came up first, but Dozer was not far behind him. I gave a warning growl, but it did little to deter them. Edging forward as they were, I was caught halfway between sitting down and turning around again to retrieve my cup. It became a race, which I only just won, snatching the steaming cup from the carpet as they got to it. The beverage was too hot for me to drink still, so either or both of the daft hounds would have scalded themselves as they shoved their faces in it to steal a slurp.
As a consolation, I encouraged them onto the sofa to sit with me. As they settled onto my lap and curled up, I found Gardener's World on BBC2 where Monty Don was teaching me that right now was the perfect time to put in bare-root stock fruit trees and reminding me that I needed to get my overwintering vegetables in now if I wanted a crop next Spring. I sunk back into the comfortable depths of the fabric, a dog keeping me warm on each hip and the tea balanced on my right thigh.
I awoke briefly some time later when the sound of my tea being drunk reached my ears. I had fallen asleep, which didn't surprise me. Forcing myself to alertness, I let the dogs finish my tea. That the dogs had saved me from spilling it was my final thought as I drifted off again.
The next time I came to, it was my phone that woke me, its ring cutting through my slumber uninvitedly. I had to roll Dozer off my hip to get to it. He was either still asleep, despite the vibration and noise coming from under his head, or perhaps dead. I would check once I had worked out who was calling me. It was a number I did not recognise, so I assumed it was a client. ‘Blue Moon Investigations, Tempest Michaels speaking. How may I help?'
‘Hello? Is this the man that investigates ghosts and what not?’
‘I am a paranormal investigator, yes,’ I answered. The voice at the other end belonged to a man. He had a deep rolling baritone that gave me the impression he could sing. He sounded hesitant but not unsure of himself, if that makes sense. I gave him time to gather his thoughts.
‘My colleagues and I may have a case for you.’ he replied.
‘Jolly good. Are you able to come to my office tomorrow morning? I asked.
‘What? Oh, yes. I suppose we can do that.’ I heard him speaking to someone, but in a muffled manner as if he had put his hand over the phone to mute the conversation at his end. ‘Yes, that will be fine,’ he confirmed.
‘Shall we say 0900hrs?’
‘What?’
‘Nine A.M.’ I translated. Civilians were so weird with how they said the time I thought to myself for the millionth time.
There was more conferring at the other end before he said, ‘Yes, Mr. Michaels. That will suit us.'
I made sure he had the address and bid the fellow a good day. Then I realised I had not enquired what the case involved or even taken his name. I was slipping. The painkillers were allowing me to breathe and were taking the edge off the pain in my ribs but now I might find myself being engaged to look into a case of alien, killer-robot chickens. There were some crazies out there and many of them wanted me to prove their theories correct.
I focused on the television, the gardening show had ended, replaced by a political debate show of some kind. It was of no interest to me. I chose a news channel instead, catching it mid-way through a bland report. This one was on political unrest in a European country that I would struggle to find on a map. It soon ended though and went to adverts. The clock on my mantlepiece assured me it was almost 1100hrs so I would get headlines soon.
The Klown story had been on the headlines of the National news broadcasts several times recently as the scare tactics had changed to assault and then to assault with a deadly weapon. Initially, I had believed it was just one person, dressing themselves up and scaring people because they thought it fun or because they were a little deranged. My early assumption was wrong though. This was not a lone player, there was an extensive team.
The news headlines started, the two anchors talking to the camera in serious tones. I figured the Klown story would be third or fourth on the agenda, but I was wrong again. It was the lead story. I listened as they reported the first murder associated with the Klowns. Last night while I was being attacked there were yet more Klowns perpetrating a worse crime in Ightham – a village a few miles to the west. The victim was a man, no name released yet though his relatives had been informed.
Murder.
They had escalated their level of violence again. The report also covered the attack in Maidstone that I had been party to but in much less detail. A few injuries cannot trump a murder. The camera swung to the female anchor where a map of Kent was superimposed on the screen next to her. She was showing where all the attacks had taken place thus far. They were scattered from the Hoo peninsular down to the Thanet Sound and right across the Weald. It looked utterly random. Ironically her next words were outlining how random the locations seemed. The camera switched then to the chief constable for Kent. He was sat at a desk flanked by two other senior police officers. There were several microphones in front of him and flashes going off continually as photographers captured the moment for their papers or online blogs.
The news anchor finished up speaking just as the footage of the chief constable started. He said, ‘I can report that this evening three persons in Klown costumes were seen running away from a house in Ightham. Calls for help were responded to by neighbours, who upon entering the property, found a man to have been repeatedly stabbed. Emergency services were called but the man died at the scene before he could be transferred to hospital.' He paused before continuing. ‘This and the attack in the Lockmeadow district of Maidstone bring the tally of Klown related incident to thirty-five in the last two weeks. In a co-ordinated raid conducted by officers in seventeen towns across Kent, a total of twenty-two individuals have been arrested. The case continues at this time and we urge everyone to be vigilant. If you see a Klown do not approach them, call the police on this number.' On the screen, a number in bold red letters was displayed. The television then went to split screen with the chief constable on the right-hand side and footage of the arrests last night on the left. I strained my eyes at the screen. In the flashes of film, they showed men being led out of their houses or being stuffed into police cars. They were not what I had expected. They were not of the same ilk as the men I had fought with last night. In fact, they looked to be mostly late middle-aged and out of shape as if the police had misunderstood the instruction and rounded up all the postal workers instead.
At the end of the report, I levered myself off the sofa. I was wrestling with my options for the day. I could not do much, but I was already getting bored with sitting on my bum. I have nervous energy, or at least I think that is how some would classify it. It manifests as an inability to sit still for very long unless I am distracted by something that can hold my attention. Typically, I will sit down for a short period but then remember a task that I intended to perform and will get on and do that instead. Generally, if I have something that needs doing, I will do it. Is this a positive trait? Probably, but not always. Anyway, I was restless and in need of activity, so I made a new cup of tea, this time in a thermos cup with a lid and took both it and the dogs for a slow walk around the village.
It was cold out. The last of the overnight frost was still vi
sible where the sun had not yet penetrated the shade. I zipped my winter coat all the way to the top and forced the Dachshunds into coats that had been specially made to fit their sausage-shaped bodies. They wore them with great reluctance, but they needed the extra layer to keep the cold at bay.
The village was quiet at 1127hrs on a Sunday morning. It was a quiet village anyway, but at this time of the day any churchgoers were in the church enjoying being preached to, it was cold enough to put children off playing outside and too cold to wash the car on the driveway, so I had been walking for several minutes before I saw my first person. As I passed the pub, I realised that this was one of those Sundays where I could legitimately excuse myself from abstinence and have a couple of drinks. More normally, I do my drinking on a Friday or Saturday and spend a good hour thrashing myself at the gym on a Sunday. Gym was not an option today but almost tearfully I accepted that beer was not an option either. My painkillers were unlikely to mix well with alcohol and I wanted the painkillers more.
As I turned off the main road and down a side street, I could hear a susurration. It sounded like a lot of people talking though I could not see anyone. I walked a few more yards and drew parallel with another street whereupon I spied the source of the noise. Outside a small terraced house about halfway along the short street was a small crowd of perhaps fifty people. They were spilling off the pavement and into the road. Mostly they were chatting between themselves, but I observed that they were all looking at one house in particular. As I watched, a young man in his twenties took two paces and kicked the front door of the house in a manner that suggested he was trying to kick it in.