Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [43]
I sat on the floor, pulled Gonzo’s head onto my midriff, cradling his head. His face was contorted into a rictus, the skin fiery to the touch. I bent my face to his but I couldn’t tell whether he was breathing or not. When I slipped my hand inside his shirt to feel for his heartbeat, his chest was clammy with sweat. The heartbeat was there but the party was winding down.
“Alright, Gonz,” I whispered. “It’s going to be alright. Just hold on.”
I didn’t believe a word of it but I thought I should say something and I couldn’t remember any prayers.
14
Brady came through the door like it was last orders on Sunday night. If I hadn’t had other things on my mind, I might have wondered why it was Brady coming through the toilet door. I might have been surprised that the cavalry turned up so soon, too, and I might have thought it odd that Brady was still on duty. But I had other things on my mind.
The kebab house manager was standing in the doorway, rubbing his hands in a sweaty fret. Brady shouldered him to one side, shoved past Dutchie, got down on one knee. Feeling the side of Gonzo’s neck, staring into my eyes, waiting for a pulse. Then he stood up, surveyed the cubicle, not noticing that one knee of his pants was a sodden stain. He rasped: “What’re you on, Rigby?”
“Nothing.” I pulled Gonzo tight. “Where the fuck’s the ambulance?”
He didn’t answer. He hunkered down, rifled through Gonzo’s pockets. It didn’t take him long to find the plastic wrap. He opened it, tipped a tablet out onto his palm, grimaced.
“How many?”
“I don’t fucking know.”
“If he dies – and he’s dying – your name’s first on the report, in red fucking marker. Last time. How many?”
“He said five. Said he wasn’t getting a buzz.”
Brady looked around as Galway pushed past Dutchie, picking his way between the puddles of urine, deft as a poodle.
“OD,” Brady reported. “E, looks like Flats. He’s still breathing. Pulse faint. No blockage.”
Galway said, like he had a razor under his tongue: “And there was me thinking you were kidding about public toilets.” Then, to Brady: “Get him to casualty.”
Brady did a double take.
“Me?”
“You. And do it quick-like. I don’t want any fucker dying on my watch.”
“What about the medics? The ambulance?”
“No ambulance, they’re both out at a pile-up on the motorway. Some prick jumped the reservation, ploughed into a Renault coming on. A kid went through the prick’s windscreen, still in his safety seat. What the fuck a kid is doing up at this hour.”
Brady still looked dubious.
“You want me to take him? In the squad?”
“Do it fast or there’ll be no point doing it at all.”
Brady squared his shoulders.
“I’m taking no fucker to Casualty in the squad. What if he kicks it?”
“Christ.” Galway looked down at Gonzo, sour. “Alright, put him in the car. I’ll take him.” He nodded at me. “You take that fucker down the station. Book him on suspicion, possession, resisting arrest, whatever takes your fancy. Just don’t let him out of your sight until I get back.”
“Fuck you,” I said, clutching Gonzo tight. I was feeling a pull, a bond, that I wasn’t even sure had anything to do with Gonzo. “I’m going to the hospital.”
Galway poked Gonzo’s leg with the toe of his hi-shine shoe. He popped a mint under his tongue, worked it around his cheek.
“One more word, you’ll be going to the hospital and know fuck all about it.”
Dutchie spoke up.
“I’ll follow on to the hospital, Harry. Alright?”
Galway turned for the door, saying: “Let the cunt die in his piss, I give a fuck.”
Michelle was standing outside on the street, hugging herself, as Brady half-carried, half-dragged Gonzo to the blue Mondeo. Dutchie told her that Gonzo was fine, kissed her on the side of the head, but she stayed rigid, staring. I could read her mind. ‘Dutchie,’ she was thinking. ‘There but for the grace of God. Oh my God, Dutchie.’
I didn’t blame her. I was thinking it too.
The Mondeo pulled off, Gonzo lolling in the passenger seat, Dutchie in the back trying