Kick Back by Val McDermid Page A

barrier. I could hear the scream of metal on metal, I could feel the rise in temperature from the friction heat, I could see the barrier buckle, I could hear myself sobbing, “Don’t break, bastard thing, don’t break!”
    The front of my car seemed to be sandwiched between the struts of the crash barrier. I was tilted forward at a crazy angle. Below me, I could see the lights twinkling on the black water of the Ship Canal. The cassette player was silent. So was the engine. All
I could hear was the creaking of the stressed metal of the crash barrier. I tried to open the driver’s door, but my right arm was clamped in place by the crushed door. I tried to wriggle round to open it with my left arm, but it was no use. I was trapped. I was hanging in space, a hundred feet above the empty depths of the canal. And the Ford Transit was long gone.

9
    I came to a very important decision sitting in a cubicle in the casualty department of Manchester Royal Infirmary. Time for a yuppie phone. I mean, have you been in a casualty department lately? Because I was a road traffic accident, I was whizzed straight through the waiting area on a trolley and deposited in a cubicle. Not that that meant I was going to be attended to any more quickly, oh no. I realized pretty soon I was supposed to regard this as my very own personal waiting room. And me not even a private patient!
    I stuck my head out of the curtains after about ten minutes and asked a passing nurse where I could find a phone. She barked back at me, “Stay where you are, doctor will be with you as soon as she can.” I sometimes wonder if the words that people hear are the same ones that come out of my mouth.
    I tried again a few minutes later. Different nurse. “Excuse me, I was supposed to be meeting someone before I had this accident, and he’ll be worried.” Not bloody likely, I thought. Not while we’re in the same calendar month. “I really need to phone him,” I pleaded. I didn’t want sympathy, nor to allay his non-existent worries. I simply didn’t feel up to walking the half-mile home or coping with a taxi. Yes, all right, I admit it, I was shaken up. To hell with the tough guy private eye image. I was trembling, my body felt like a 5’ 3” bruise, and I just wanted to pull the covers over my head.
    The second nurse had clearly graduated from the same charm school. “Doctor is very busy. She doesn’t have time to wait for you to come back from the phone.”
    â€œBut doctor isn’t here,” I said. “I’m not convinced that doctor is even in this hospital.”

    â€œPlease wait in the cubicle,” she ordered as she swept off. That was when I realized that my resistance to a mobile phone was a classic case of cutting off my nose to spite my face. Never mind that they always ring at the least convenient moment. Never mind that even the lightest ones are heavy enough to turn your handbag into an offensive weapon or wreck the line of your jacket. At least they can summon knights in shining armor. I’ll rephrase that. At least they can summon rock journalists with customized hot pink Volkswagen Beetle convertibles.
    They let me at a phone about an hour and a half later, when they’d finally got round to examining me, X-raying me and prodding all the most painful bits. The doctor informed me that I had deep bruising to my spine, ribs, right arm, and right leg, and some superficial cuts to my right hand, where the starburst from the driver’s window had landed. Oh, and shock, of course. They gave me some pain killers and told me I’d be fine in a few days.
    I went through to the waiting room, hoping Richard wouldn’t be long. A uniformed constable walked over and sat down beside me. “Miss Brannigan?” he said.
    â€œThat’s right.” I was beyond surprise. The pain killers had started to work.
    â€œIt’s about the accident. A few questions,