Doctor Who_ Deep Blue - Mark Morris [30]
he said.
„All hell broke loose in there, and I don‟t just mean a few blokes throwing punches,‟ Andy said. „Someone chucked a glass, and next thing I knew everyone was going at it hammer and tongs - men, women...‟ He tailed off, shaking his head.
„Right,‟ Reg said, and even his eyes were glittering a little,
„I‟ll follow my boys in, see what the damage is. You coming?‟
„Wouldn‟t miss it for the world,‟ Andy said without enthusiasm.
Reg and Andy followed the uniforms through the open double doors. Inside the pub, which had been comprehensively wrecked, PCs had drawn their truncheons and were setting about their task of breaking heads. Andy tried to avoid watching them too closely, not because he was squeamish, but because he didn‟t want to see how undisciplined his colleagues had become; didn‟t want to see the glee on their faces as they brought their truncheons cracking down on skulls. Instead he concentrated on tending to those who had been bludgeoned and beaten out of the fight.
Most of them had relatively minor injuries - scratches, bites, broken noses, missing teeth, black eyes. Others were injured more seriously: there were broken limbs and ribs and gashes to the head, some of which were quite deep.
Almost every one of those who had been too badly injured to continue fighting seemed dazed, confused, as if they had emerged from a hypnotic trance. Several of them asked Andy what was happening; one or two even seemed to have difficulty remembering where or who they were.
Andy made as many of them as comfortable as he could, assured them that ambulances were on their way, then moved deeper into the melee. The police were getting on top of the situation now, hauling people outside. Some battlers still struggled furiously as they were dragged away, whereas others became quiescent, the blank-eyed fury on their faces giving way to a sleepy bewilderment. Glass crunched beneath Andy‟s feet and the floor was strewn with debris. A large wooden table-top, cracked and splintered, was lying on the ground, the legs smashed off it, no doubt used as weapons.
Andy lifted the table-top aside, intending to prop it against the wall, help to clear the way for his colleagues. As he did so he froze. Beneath the table was a man lying in a very large and still spreading pool of blood.
„Over here!‟ Andy shouted, shoving the table-top aside and dropping to his knees. He grabbed the man‟s wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, but it was flickering, erratic. He saw almost immediately what had happened. The man had been stabbed several times in the stomach and chest. The points of entry were ragged as though something other than a knife
- a broken glass perhaps? - had been used. Andy hoped that this meant the wounds were not too deep, though the amount of blood that was still gushing from them seemed to suggest otherwise.
Andy and two uniformed constables tried to stem the bleeding as much as they could, first with beer towels taken from the bar and then, after Bob Walker had risen dazedly from his hiding-place, with bigger, thicker towels from the airing cupboard upstairs. It was not long, however, before the towels were saturated and the men‟s hands and clothes covered in blood.
It seemed to take an age for the ambulances to arrive, but eventually two paramedics in yellow jackets were there beside Andy.
„He‟s been stabbed several times,‟ Andy said, moving aside for them. „His pulse is very weak.‟
„All right, let‟s take a look,‟ said one of them, a balding man with a darkly stubbled chin, who exuded an air of calm efficiency.
He produced a small scalpel, which he used to slice open the front of the man‟s blood-soaked shirt. Pulling the shirt open, he instantly recoiled. „Jesus, what the hell‟s that?‟ he exclaimed.
His colleague, Andy and the two policeman stared in horror and disbelief at what had been revealed. All over the man‟s chest, shoulders and upper arms were masses of small, black quills.
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