Part 16 (2/2)
The sleet had stopped. The temperature had plummeted. Stars glittered against a clear black sky. Gonzo spotted the girls from the coat check, one wearing thigh-length PVC boots, the other chewing gum and looking bored. He sallied forth.
We piled into a booth in the kebab house and chewed on the plastic food while Gonzo tried to impress the two girls. Their ages combined would hardly have made up his, and they spent the best part of an hour giggling at his efforts. Then, without any visible sign of communication, they stood up and left. Gonzo stared after them, nonplussed.
”Are we right so?” Dutchie asked. Mich.e.l.le was snuggled against him, head on his shoulder, eyes closed.
”Yeah,” Gonzo said. ”I'll be back in a minute.” He winked and tapped his breast pocket. ”Just taking a whizz.”
He disappeared in the direction of the toilets. Dutchie looked at me.
”He on something?” he asked.
”You sit where you are,” Mich.e.l.le ordered without opening her eyes. Dutchie grinned, started reminiscing about chemically inspired mayhem. Twenty minutes pa.s.sed. Eventually Dutchie did the decent thing and went after Gonzo. Thirty seconds later he sprinted back around the corner, face drained.
”Harry!” He sounded choked, breath coming short. My first instinct was that Dutchie had got into a row, that a fight was brewing. Then I caught something in Dutchie's eye that told me there was no fight, that whatever was wrong was very, very wrong. I bolted out of my seat.
The urinals were empty, the stench of ammonia blinding. Dutchie pulled me down the line of cubicles, pushed in the door of the last but one. Gonzo was slumped between bowl and wall, jammed into the narrow s.p.a.ce. Shaking hard, head back, face bathed in sweat. A thin line of blood trickled from one nostril. Concrete settled in my stomach. I pushed past Dutchie into the cubicle, tugging at Gonzo's arm.
”Get up, you f.u.c.ker!” He was heavy, way too heavy, and it took a huge effort to dislodge him. When I finally pulled him loose he flopped forward onto the floor, face down in the p.i.s.s, the sodden toilet paper. The blood mingled with the p.i.s.s. A pink stain ebbed from his face.
”Is he...?”
”How the f.u.c.k would I know?”
”Take his pulse.”
”Where the f.u.c.k is his pulse?”
”His wrist!”
”I know it's his f.u.c.king wrist! Where on his wrist?”
”How the f.u.c.k would I know?”
”Jesus!” I groped at Gonzo's wrist but I hadn't the faintest idea of what I was looking for. ”Christ sakes, Dutch. Ring a f.u.c.king ambulance!”
I sat on the floor, pulled Gonzo's head onto my midriff, cradling his head. His face was contorted into a rictus, the skin fiery to the touch. I bent my face to his but I couldn't tell whether he was breathing or not. When I slipped my hand inside his s.h.i.+rt to feel for his heartbeat, his chest was clammy with sweat. The heartbeat was there but the party was winding down.
”Alright, Gonz,” I whispered. ”It's going to be alright. Just hold on.”
I didn't believe a word of it but I thought I should say something and I couldn't remember any prayers.
14.
Brady came through the door like it was last orders on Sunday night. If I hadn't had other things on my mind, I might have wondered why it was Brady coming through the toilet door. I might have been surprised that the cavalry turned up so soon, too, and I might have thought it odd that Brady was still on duty. But I had other things on my mind.
The kebab house manager was standing in the doorway, rubbing his hands in a sweaty fret. Brady shouldered him to one side, shoved past Dutchie, got down on one knee. Feeling the side of Gonzo's neck, staring into my eyes, waiting for a pulse. Then he stood up, surveyed the cubicle, not noticing that one knee of his pants was a sodden stain. He rasped: ”What're you on, Rigby?”
”Nothing.” I pulled Gonzo tight. ”Where the f.u.c.k's the ambulance?”
He didn't answer. He hunkered down, rifled through Gonzo's pockets. It didn't take him long to find the plastic wrap. He opened it, tipped a tablet out onto his palm, grimaced.
”How many?”
”I don't f.u.c.king know.”
”If he dies and he's dying your name's first on the report, in red f.u.c.king marker. Last time. How many?”
”He said five. Said he wasn't getting a buzz.”
Brady looked around as Galway pushed past Dutchie, picking his way between the puddles of urine, deft as a poodle.
”OD,” Brady reported. ”E, looks like Flats. He's still breathing. Pulse faint. No blockage.”
Galway said, like he had a razor under his tongue: ”And there was me thinking you were kidding about public toilets.” Then, to Brady: ”Get him to casualty.”
Brady did a double take.
”Me?”
”You. And do it quick-like. I don't want any f.u.c.ker dying on my watch.”
”What about the medics? The ambulance?”
”No ambulance, they're both out at a pile-up on the motorway. Some p.r.i.c.k jumped the reservation, ploughed into a Renault coming on. A kid went through the p.r.i.c.k's windscreen, still in his safety seat. What the f.u.c.k a kid is doing up at this hour.”
Brady still looked dubious.
”You want me to take him? In the squad?”
”Do it fast or there'll be no point doing it at all.”
Brady squared his shoulders.
”I'm taking no f.u.c.ker to Casualty in the squad. What if he kicks it?”
”Christ.” Galway looked down at Gonzo, sour. ”Alright, put him in the car. I'll take him.” He nodded at me. ”You take that f.u.c.ker down the station. Book him on suspicion, possession, resisting arrest, whatever takes your fancy. Just don't let him out of your sight until I get back.”
”f.u.c.k you,” I said, clutching Gonzo tight. I was feeling a pull, a bond, that I wasn't even sure had anything to do with Gonzo. ”I'm going to the hospital.”
Galway poked Gonzo's leg with the toe of his hi-s.h.i.+ne shoe. He popped a mint under his tongue, worked it around his cheek.
”One more word, you'll be going to the hospital and know f.u.c.k all about it.”
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