(20th August 1988)
Huyton hadn’t a clue where he was when he came round. That is to say he was obviously in an ozzie bed . . . but which ozzie? And where the fuck was he? Manchester? Liverpool?
He tried to sit up and found he couldn’t move. After a few moments of panic he realized the bed had been articulated into a position designed to keep him in place. And brick-like NHS pillows had also been used on him. He was as weak as he’d ever been, but wasn’t completely paralyzed.
Thank fuck for that!
Determined to be systematic, he took stock. He could feel his toes and they wiggled when his brain told them to. Ditto for his fingers. His cock felt strange, though. Slowly turning his head, he saw why. There was a clear plastic tube running between him and a bag of piss on the floor. He’d been catheterized.
Bastards, he thought angrily. Can they do that without my permission?
On with the research. He was on some sort of drip; it was attached to one of those multi-purpose thingies stuck in the back of his hand. And he was surrounded by machines, most of them silent but one of them constantly bleeping.
‘Ah,’ said a female voice, ‘you’re back with us.’
Huyton tried to reply but couldn’t. His tongue was too swollen and he had budgie-cage sandpaper stuffed down his throat.
‘Have a sip of this,’ the nurse said. ‘But steady with it.’
The water actually tasted sweet. Amazing, he marvelled. Where have I been? Crawling through the Sahara?’
‘Say something,’ the nurse prompted.
‘Is the ale house open?’ Huyton replied, trying to be funny, sounding hoarse.
‘I’m sure there’s one open somewhere. Not that you’ll be indulging for a while.’
‘Where am I?’
‘Airedale General.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Steeton. It’s between Keighley and the Dales.’
Fuck! What am I doing back in Keighley?
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘That’s what the police want to know. But don’t worry; they won’t be interviewing you for a while.’
‘You keep saying “for a while”. Can’t you tell me what I’m being treated for?’
‘Multiple stab wounds. It’s not my place to go into detail, but the doctor said you were incredibly lucky. Seven wounds to the torso and no organ damage at all. There was a lot of cleansing and a bit of a transfusion, then she sewed you back together as good as new. All you need to do now is rest and heal.’
Left to his own devices Huyton started to remember. Or at least he started to try. Bingley Main Street. A feeling of well-being. And then . . .
Although it was misty memory time, it must have been Dwyer. But there’d been two of them, so Dwyer wasn’t totally defenceless after all.
Going into survival mode, he banished Sean Dwyer from his mind. Okay, so Dwyer owed him at least twenty grand, but he wasn’t going to collect that from an ozzie bed, was he? The trick was to recover, get back on his feet . . .
Before the bizzies came a-calling.
He scowled. He couldn’t see the local plods making it an offence to get stabbed. There again, if they were anything like their mates in Manchester, they might have a good go at it. Not that he couldn’t stonewall with the best of ‘em. No, his concern was about shootings, not stabbings.
What if Mrs Cardboard Cut-out’s dobbed me in?
The nurse came back perhaps half an hour later. Huyton turned on the charm, well aware that a lot of women liked his supposedly ferocious grin. Could she adjust his bed a little, so he felt more like a human than a useless vegetable? And could she please get him something to read. He was going crazy here, staring at the ceiling. Local newspapers would do. He wasn’t expecting classic works or anything.
The nurse was quite sexy . . . for a very white girl. She grumbled and complained as nurses do, but did adjust the bed. And within five minutes she was back with a big bundle of papers.
‘I raided the day room,’ she said. ‘It’s only the last few issues of the Telegraph and Argus, I’m afraid. Try not to rip them to shreds; I’ll have to put them back when you’ve done.’
‘You’re my hero,’ he told her. ‘Whenever I do get to go to an ale house, you’re coming with me. I owe you a drink.’
She smiled and blushed and looked sexier than ever. Then she left and Huyton concentrated on his newspapers.
The Telegraph and Argus turned out to be the daily Bradford rag. Huyton supposed most cities had similar publications . . . and probably with all the same adverts. Flicking back a few days he found an article about “gang warfare” in Keighley. And a front page article at that. Two dead, two critical. Firearms involved. The bizzies wanted witnesses and were interested in “a gentleman of Asian appearance”. Huyton frowned at that. He reckoned the “Asian appearance” came from Mrs Cardboard Cut-out, and wondered at the gullibility of the powers of law and order.
By now he knew it was Saturday. Friday’s T&A said there had been an “incident” in Bingley Main Street and witnesses were required . . .
Okay, Huyton thought, no link. And they ain’t getting no link from me.
*****
‘What are you doing to me? What the fuck is this?’
Pat had become used to Sean’s plaintive wailing by now. There really wasn’t anything the spoiled brat could say that would make him think twice.
Spoiled brat? Well yeah; being lifelong mates didn’t stop a guy from seeing faults, did it? And, when it came to faults, Sean had them in JCB-sized bucket-loads. DeeDee was right to keep on about all his failings. The ungrateful so-and-so didn’t deserve any help. But somebody had to take care of him, didn’t they?
‘You’re in a safe lock-up,’ he said evenly. ‘And you’re staying here as long as I say so.’
‘I’m chained to the fucking wall!’
‘So you are. Thanks for pointing that out.’
‘Bitch,’ said Sean. ‘You’ve always wanted to chain me up. You’ll be bringing sex toys with you next.’
‘In your dreams,’ said Pat, slamming the door behind him.