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Seeing the first flashes of blue splashing across the walls at the far end of the street, Nicks knew he had to abandon his search for the knife. Despite the handkerchief beneath his jacket, he could feel the warm wetness of the blood oozing out of him. Leaving the alleyway, he turned right and stopped briefly to get his bearings, shielded by the building line. He could hear the siren closing rapidly; more, almost iridescent, blue bouncing over the walls and windows of the buildings further down on the main road.
The path through the little un-gated ‘park’ opposite beckoned. He desperately tried to remember where it exited, if at all. Pall Mall! It had an exit there! He crossed the narrow street and was quickly absorbed by the darkness, masked by the old Exchange railway station. As he walked, he took out his phone.
“What’s up?” Simon answered.
An unscheduled call from Nicks was not common, especially at this hour.
“Si, I need a bit of assistance. I’ve been stabbed,” he said casually.
“You’ve been stabbed! How the fuck’ve you managed that?” Simon replied, incredulously.
Nicks sighed. “Too long a story, mate, but I need to get to a doctor.”
“How bad is it?” Simon wandered around his bedroom trying to remember where he’d thrown his pants.
“I don’t know, but it’s hurting and I’m losing blood.”
“Well, take a look, for fuck’s sake! How much is it bleeding?”
He sighed again, impatiently this time. “I don’t know. Enough. I don’t want to look and I’m not in a position to start stripping my kit off.”
“Ok, fine. I take it you’re not at the hotel, so where are you?” Simon danced on one leg as he unsuccessfully attempted to insert the other into his trousers before collapsing sideways through the curtained opening of his walk-in wardrobe, bringing the curtain and rail down with him.
“I’ll be on Pall Mall at the entrance to the little park behind Exchange Station.” He stopped walking. “What the fuck was that? You ok? Simon?”
He leapt back to his feet, phone still in hand. “Yeah! Everything’s fine. No problems. You stay there, and I’ll have somebody with you within five minutes.”
The phone went dead. Nicks looked forlornly at the screen then pocketed it. He was almost at the exit point, a long narrow path bordered by a wall and shrubs to his right, a low wall and trees to his left. He crouched down amongst the shrubs and removed his day sack; pulling out the fleece which he stuffed up the inside of his jacket against the wound. He wasn’t sure how effective it would be, but it made him feel better. Something was throbbing.
It was the phone in his pocket. “Yeah,” he said laconically.
“Black hackney cab. Two minutes. Plate number 723. Driver’s called Phil. He’ll sort you out. I’ll speak to you later.” It was Simon. The phone went dead.
On the soil under the shrub, hidden from the road, he took out the small bottle of water from the day sack and gulped down several mouthfuls before replacing it in the bag. He didn’t feel too bad under the circumstances, ‘all things considered’, as his Dad would say. He stood up and hugged the bag to his chest, grimacing slightly. He was tired again. The adrenalin gone.
The phone buzzed in his pocket. Before he could say anything, a voice said: “Hi, it’s Phil. I’m on Pall Mall now. Will you be able to make it to the cab or do you need some help?”
He smiled. Relief flooded through him. “I can make it to the cab ok.”
Seconds later the hackney pulled up, exactly opposite the exit to the park, and Nicks left the shadows, clambering into the rear.
Phil got out and jumped in the back, wrapping him in a foil ‘space’ blanket then a tartan rug. He pulled down the ‘jump’ seat and rested Nicks’ feet on it.
“You sure you’re ok for now? It won’t be a long journey,” he said, then got back into the driving seat.
As they drove away, he initiated a long conversation which just about covered everything. Football (it was evident from the pendant dangling from the dashboard he was an Everton supporter); politics (socialist, definitely); religion (agnostic bordering on ‘God’s a spaceman’); holidays (Europe’s fine, but Wales has a lot to offer) and cookery (you can’t beat a good Sunday roast). It was an interesting 15 minutes or so. Nicks knew what he was doing and joined in as enthusiastically as he could, in the circumstances ... all things considered.
Phil stopped the cab midway along a deserted and silent Marine Crescent in Waterloo. The Crescent was remarkable for two things. It was once the home of Captain Edward John Smith, the first and last Captain of the R.M.S. Titanic, and it wasn’t actually crescent-shaped at all. Constructed between 1826 and 1830, the Grade II listed buildings sat serenely gazing out across the adjacent marine lake and its sand hills; the River Mersey and Welsh mountains beyond. In winter, a walk past its snow-covered Victorian lamp posts evoked memories of Narnia.
Phil quickly jumped in the back of the cab. Lifting the free portion of the rear seat he took out what Nicks recognised as a ballistic bag. “Do you want to unload it or shall I do it for you?” he asked, pulling on a pair of forensic gloves.
Nicks slowly slid the weapon from his leg pocket, carefully offering it to Phil, then the same with the suppressor. “You ok doing it? I feel a bit too shaky at the moment. It’s loaded with one up the spout.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Phil grinned.
He pointed the pistol into the ballistic bag, unloaded and cleared it then placed everything inside, zipped it up and returned it to its hiding place. Taking the day sack, he jumped out and held the rear door open.
“Ok, you still alright? Manage by yourself?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I should be able to.” Holding the improvised fleece ‘bandage’ with his left arm, he levered himself up by the door frame with his free hand and eased himself onto the footpath. For some reason, he ached all over. Phil handed him his rucksack and said: “Straight up the path. They’re expecting you.”
Nicks’ eyes followed the line of the path from the wrought iron gate to the Victorian stained glass panelled front door, two wide floor to ceiling bay windows guarding the entrance. A warm glow was visible through the curtains on the left-hand side. At that moment the stained glass panels flickered into life and the front door opened, the gentle hall lighting escaping into the garden. A small matronly figure came out to greet him. Putting her arm around him, she waved at Phil and guided Nicks into the house.
“I believe you’ve been in the wars, my dear. Come this way and my husband Maurice will sort everything out for you. And after, if you’re able, I’ll give you a nice cup of hot sweet tea.” Then she called: “Maury, the young man’s here.” Young man. A faint smile flickered over his lips. She smiled sweetly at him. For the first time that night, he felt completely safe.
Doctor Maury was a short stocky man with faded sandy coloured hair and matching moustache. He looked Nicks up and down.
“You know you’re very lucky. If it hadn’t been for your padded jacket and that bit of excess weight you’re carrying around your waist, it could have been much worse.”
“How much worse?”
“Oh, considerably worse,” Doc Maury smiled. “If it had perforated your large intestine, it would have opened up a whole can of worms. Lots of problems involved there, but the blade didn’t penetrate further than your internal oblique muscle, so I’m satisfied you’ll be fine. Judging by the wound and the amount of blood it produced, I’d say you were stabbed with a double-edged blade, quite sharp, something like a ‘commando’ dagger or a ‘switchblade’ I think they call them. Anyway, you’ll need to come back in ten days and I should be able to take the stitches out then. In the meantime, don’t exert yourself too much.” He smiled again. “Now, I just have to give you a tetanus injection and we’re finished here, but you’ll be staying the night in the guest room.” As Nicks tried to protest, Doc Maury raised his left hand, palm towards his patient, then placed his forefinger against his lips briefly. “Don’t waste your breath. You will be staying in the guest room. My wife will have made a considerable effort to make you comfortable and we mustn’t disappoint her. There, that’s done. Good for another ten years.”
He looked for his bloodied T-shirt. It had gone, replaced by a fresh one. He hadn’t even noticed her.
The Doc patted his arm. “Right! Time for some hot sweet tea and a chocolate digestive, I think.”