clutched feebly at her throat and the side of her head, but was unable to move by herself. Behind me, the light from the tipped-over lantern fanned and died to a faint blue pulse.
Perhaps I had stretched the tag just enough to let her breathe; I couldn’t see because it was buried in her neck, covered in thick dark blood. I ran and brought her a beaker of water, blundering and spilling most of it in the darkened flat. She winced and allowed the water to overflow her mouth.
‘I have to go for help,’ I said. She fell back, and now I saw that something else was wrong.
Moving the lantern closer, I was finally able to see the side of her head. A bleeding lump rose at the base of her right ear, up toward the occipital outcrop of her skull. I had seen something similar on When Operations Go Wrong. A blood vessel had burst in her right eye. She’d been hit hard. I needed to get her into the light, so I slipped my hands under her armpits and pulled. The stinging reek of the burned coverlet made my eyes water. I lowered her against the wall and pulled the scorched duvet from the bed, wrapping the unburned part around her shivering body.
I wondered if the psychiatrist next door had any useful medical knowledge. I knew I should at least bring him here, but really didn’t want to involve him if I could avoid it. I needed to think and lay down beside her, less a gesture of solidarity than an inability to act decisively. Shoving the spatchcock shears into the rear pocket of my jeans, I put my head back, listening as our respiration matched and phased.
Then it seemed that only one of us was breathing.
I had seen on television how you blow into someone’s mouth and hammer on their chest but I couldn’t. There wasn’t any point – no air could get past the plastic tag. I could feel nothing coming from her nose or mouth. I should never have faffed around for so long. I had acted too late.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Help
W HEN I OPENED the front door again I made damn sure that the stitch-headed man had gone. Only the black candle remained, guttering in the sudden draught. My inability to help the girl was upsetting, but I have no history of being useful to strangers.
I failed to find the battery torch in the lounge, and left the lantern behind because it seemed wrong to leave the body in darkness. When I tried to unglue the black candle the wick was extinguished in splashed wax, and as the spirit of the flame departed I found myself stranded with the front door closing behind me, a truly blind panic tamping down my senses.
The bell on the lintel of Dr. Elliot’s door failed to work without electricity. I slapped my hand against the wood but there was no answer. He’s out, I thought, he’s asleep, he’s refusing to help me, just like the others he told me about . I pressed my ear on the cool maple grain and listened. Nothing. Perhaps I had only seen his dummy at the window. What kind of man kept a dissected corpse on display in his lounge? These people weren’t my kind, I didn’t understand them or want to be like them. The backs of my arms were sweating ice. How much time had passed since I discovered the girl: seconds, minutes, half an hour? The absence of light seemed to rob me of other senses.
Knowing that there was nothing to be achieved by staying in the building I ran on to the stairwell, clinging to the balustrade. I needed light and space, and outside air. The London streets suddenly seemed a place of greater safety. I ran across the darkened lobby and slammed into the glass doors, banging them wide, down the steps and across the quagmire of the quadrangle to the hissing roads beyond, then struck out in the direction of the Embankment road.
Not a soul on the street, a dead stretch of riverside too bare and rainswept for anyone to be walking at night, only a distant garage and the black towers of Lambeth Palace framed in dying oaks. A boarded-up shop, a closed pub, steel shutters, some kind of warehouse, a
Perhaps I had stretched the tag just enough to let her breathe; I couldn’t see because it was buried in her neck, covered in thick dark blood. I ran and brought her a beaker of water, blundering and spilling most of it in the darkened flat. She winced and allowed the water to overflow her mouth.
‘I have to go for help,’ I said. She fell back, and now I saw that something else was wrong.
Moving the lantern closer, I was finally able to see the side of her head. A bleeding lump rose at the base of her right ear, up toward the occipital outcrop of her skull. I had seen something similar on When Operations Go Wrong. A blood vessel had burst in her right eye. She’d been hit hard. I needed to get her into the light, so I slipped my hands under her armpits and pulled. The stinging reek of the burned coverlet made my eyes water. I lowered her against the wall and pulled the scorched duvet from the bed, wrapping the unburned part around her shivering body.
I wondered if the psychiatrist next door had any useful medical knowledge. I knew I should at least bring him here, but really didn’t want to involve him if I could avoid it. I needed to think and lay down beside her, less a gesture of solidarity than an inability to act decisively. Shoving the spatchcock shears into the rear pocket of my jeans, I put my head back, listening as our respiration matched and phased.
Then it seemed that only one of us was breathing.
I had seen on television how you blow into someone’s mouth and hammer on their chest but I couldn’t. There wasn’t any point – no air could get past the plastic tag. I could feel nothing coming from her nose or mouth. I should never have faffed around for so long. I had acted too late.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Help
W HEN I OPENED the front door again I made damn sure that the stitch-headed man had gone. Only the black candle remained, guttering in the sudden draught. My inability to help the girl was upsetting, but I have no history of being useful to strangers.
I failed to find the battery torch in the lounge, and left the lantern behind because it seemed wrong to leave the body in darkness. When I tried to unglue the black candle the wick was extinguished in splashed wax, and as the spirit of the flame departed I found myself stranded with the front door closing behind me, a truly blind panic tamping down my senses.
The bell on the lintel of Dr. Elliot’s door failed to work without electricity. I slapped my hand against the wood but there was no answer. He’s out, I thought, he’s asleep, he’s refusing to help me, just like the others he told me about . I pressed my ear on the cool maple grain and listened. Nothing. Perhaps I had only seen his dummy at the window. What kind of man kept a dissected corpse on display in his lounge? These people weren’t my kind, I didn’t understand them or want to be like them. The backs of my arms were sweating ice. How much time had passed since I discovered the girl: seconds, minutes, half an hour? The absence of light seemed to rob me of other senses.
Knowing that there was nothing to be achieved by staying in the building I ran on to the stairwell, clinging to the balustrade. I needed light and space, and outside air. The London streets suddenly seemed a place of greater safety. I ran across the darkened lobby and slammed into the glass doors, banging them wide, down the steps and across the quagmire of the quadrangle to the hissing roads beyond, then struck out in the direction of the Embankment road.
Not a soul on the street, a dead stretch of riverside too bare and rainswept for anyone to be walking at night, only a distant garage and the black towers of Lambeth Palace framed in dying oaks. A boarded-up shop, a closed pub, steel shutters, some kind of warehouse, a
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