Hell to Pay (18 page)

He returned to the car. “No one in.”

“Okay, shove a card under the door.”

Hirsch stirred at last. “Shouldn’t we check around the back?”

“Oh, it speaks,” Nicholson said. “The place is dead, all right? Got better things to do.”

“Let me check,” said Hirsch, climbing out.

“Fucking Boy Scout.”

Breathing in scented air from the garden beds, Hirsch strode through the gate to the side path and down it to the backyard. He was reminded of Grandma Hirschhausen’s garden in Burnside, neatly cropped lawns, pansy beds, ivy trellis, a geranium in a cracked teapot, rotary clothesline. The screen door was ajar, a weak spill of light over the concrete steps, and just inside it, lumpy on the lino floor, her top half caught in the smashed glass that was the inner door, lay an old woman. Her stockings were this way and that and blood was pooling.
Tripped
, he thought, and a neighbor heard the glass break and alerted the police.

He called for an ambulance and a moment later a voice came through the darkness: “Yoo-hoo.”

Hirsch headed for the side fence, where there was some light. “Yes?”

An old man’s creaky voice said, “Is Crystal all right?”

“She had a fall. I’ve called the ambulance.”

“That’s good.” Pause. “You’re new.”

“Temporary assignment. I’m stationed at Tiverton.”

“I try to look out for Crystal,” the neighbor said, “but it was dark and I suppose things are a bit rowdy tonight and I didn’t want one of those policemen shouting at me for wasting his time.”

A wobbly challenge in the voice, daring Hirsch to doubt him.

“My colleagues shout at people?”

“Great shouters. Quick to breathalyze you, too.”

Hirsch returned to the old woman. Her breath was fluttery, her pulse slow, but he didn’t think she was dying. But she would have if it had been down to Nicholson, the lazy shit. He heard a siren, went out to greet the ambos, just as a call came in: all officers, a brawl outside the Woolman. Well, he’d have to walk. Nicholson and Revell had abandoned him.

He was halfway down the street when he turned back. “If it’s on the way, can you guys drop me off at the Woolman Hotel?”

“Yeah, sure, done, too easy,” the ambulance driver said.

“You might even pick up some business,” Hirsch said.

O
WING TO THE BRAWL
, the ambulance officers set him down on the opposite side of the town square. As Hirsch crossed it, passing the rotunda, where a couple of kids were sharing a bottle, he could hear shouts, see a jostling crowd, figures straggling away among parked cars.

Reaching the footpath, Hirsch broke through. Nicholson and Revell were back-to-back between two indistinguishable gangs of young men and women. Half crouched, batons extended, they were lunging and retreating, screaming,
“Break it up, break it up.”

“Evening, gents.”

“Took your sweet fucking time.”

Hirsch waved his baton at one ragged clump and then the other. Derision greeted it, the women screeching, the men full of spit and jutting chests.

Just then Nicholson charged, shouting “Got you.” Bodies retreated and a kid, backpedaling with Nicholson in his face, sprawled onto his coccyx. He cried out, and Hirsch recognized him: Nathan Donovan. Nicholson laughed. He began to strike the boy, landing meaty thumps with his baton. Revell joined him, booting Nathan’s spine.

Nicholson paused, telling Revell, “I’ve got this. You go after his mates.”

“Gotcha,” Revell said. He lumbered away, down the side of the pub, not quite at a run and too heavy for it.

Just as Nicholson readied himself for another swing of the baton, Hirsch grabbed his arm. “That’s enough.”

“What?”

“You’ve made your point.”

Nicholson shook him off. The mob didn’t like it either. Raw voices called to Nicholson, “
Get the cunt
.”

“Fucking Abo, smash his head in.”

“Fuck him up good, the black cunt.”

Hirsch selected the brawniest Redruth local, a kid of twenty, and charged him, windmilling his baton, up into the groin.

The kid doubled over. His mates were shocked. “What did you do that for?”

“Piss off home,” Hirsch said. “It’s over for the night.”

“Nikko,” they said, “tell your mate to leave us alone.”

Hirsch lunged; they retreated. One by one, they straggled away into the night.

He returned to Nicholson, who had a knee in Nathan’s back, screaming into the boy’s face, “You gunna behave?”

Hirsch grabbed again. “I said leave him alone.”

Nicholson jerked away. “Get your hands off me.”

“Let him go.”

Nicholson stood. They were panting, Nathan prone on the ground. “You better have a fucking good reason …”

“There was no need to lay into him like that.”

“Big fucking deal. You saw it, disturbing the peace, assaulting a police officer, inciting a riot.”

“I didn’t see that. They were retreating,” Hirsch said. “There was no actual fighting, nothing damaged.” He bent and hauled on Nathan’s arm. “Up you get.”

The boy complied, wincing.

“You okay?” Hirsch asked, seeing scrapes, a bleeding nose.

“Had worse from that bastard.”

“Can you get home okay?”

Nathan shrugged.

“A lift with your mates, perhaps? Have they been drinking?”

“No.”

“Off you go.”

Nicholson was disgusted. “A true legend.”

Hirsch ignored him. He could hear strained shouts in the night, disembodied and far away. He saw movements like tricks of the light, far back in the shadows. All of the tension had leaked away, and then Revell came stumbling in from the dark, holding an injured right hand, blood dripping from his elbow. Sounding astounded he said, “I went and fucking cut myself.”

“What happened?”

“I need stitches, I think.”

Hirsch fished for a handkerchief and pressed it against a gash in the man’s palm. “What happened.”

“Get off me,” Revell said, jerking away. He shook his head. “Cut myself on a piece of roofing iron. Me best jerking-off hand.”

Nicholson’s disgust grew. “Another moron.” He paused, computing rapidly. “This is what happened. We broke up a brawl. Someone pulled a knife and slashed you with it. He got away. Too dark and confusing to see who it was.”

He shoved his chest at Hirsch’s. “Are we agreed on that version of events,
Cunt
stable?”

Hirsch shrugged. “Whatever you like, but I don’t see where it gets us.”

“It gets our mate ten thousand bucks compensation, that’s what.”

“Hey, yeah,” Revell said.

“No skin off my nose,” Hirsch said.

“So long as we’re on the same page.”

They drove to the hospital, deeply fatigued now. The streets were deserted. The car made the hill climb quietly; even the radio was muted. Hirsch was lost to dreams, sprawled across the backseat in his regular position.

“Will they buy it?” Revell asked at one point. Hirsch barely heard him; had his eyes closed.

“Piece of cake,” Nicholson said.

“Voice of experience.”

“I’ll tell you a story,” Nicholson said. “I was with this chick, my car, she’s driving—and she prangs it.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Mate, no license.”

Revell’s light switched on. “You said you were the driver.”

“Give the man a cigar.”

I
T WASN’T MUCH OF
a hospital but performed minor procedures and offered a few beds. Sometimes kids were born here, and there was a small nursing home wing. Tonight McAskill and another of the town’s doctors and handful of nurses were stretched to the limit, so the three policemen waited. The waiting room full, they leaned against a wall of the main corridor. A tiny surgery bustled at the end; neon lights buzzed; the white walls were blinding. Four men and a teenage girl were already seated in the plastic chairs outside the surgery, holding their heads in misery or pain. Some blood was evident, soaking through bandages. Nicholson loved it. He was like Kropp with the local populace: he strode up and down, full of badgering mirth, knowing them all by name.

Eventually Revell came out, bandaged, pale and grinning. “Good as new.”

“About fucking time.”

They drove down to the square, through pockets of waist-high night mist. Dew glistened on parked cars and here and there broken glass glinted in the gutters. Hirsch felt hollowed out. “Can’t we pack it in? The town’s dead.”

“Not yet, boss’s orders.”

Hirsch closed his eyes. The tires rumbled through the night. Then the radio crackled:
“Get over to the motel, possible drunk and disorderly.”

Nicholson swung the wheel and planted his foot. The town dwindled behind them and on its shadowy outskirts a Budget sign came into view. Nicholson slowed to a crawl, casting an eye over the cars parked in the motel grounds. Standard police procedure. Hirsch himself had done it a million times. It was like breathing. The place looked dead. He closed his eyes again.

Snapped them open when his tired mind caught up. The police car was adjacent to the motel entranceway and a pair of headlights was hurtling at them from inside the grounds. He cried out involuntarily. The other car struck where his left shoulder had been resting. He felt shocked, his head full of the percussive sounds and his fright.

A ticking silence, broken by Revell: “The cunt’s only gone and run into us.”

They got out, Hirsch obliged to scoot across to the other door. He blinked to clear his head, rubbed his sore shoulder, then shuffled around to inspect the damage. It had been an almighty bang, but all he could see was a Honda with a broken headlight and dented bumper, and the dented rear door of the police car.

Meanwhile Revell was jerking the Honda driver out of his car. “Bloody moron. You realize you hit a police car?”

“What?”

“Been on the grog, is that it? Judgement impaired?”

“What?”

The driver struggled, gaining focus, and Hirsch saw who it was. “Mr. Latimer?”

Ray Latimer, ignoring him, tried to attract Nicholson’s attention: “Nick? Nikko?”

“Don’t fucking move,” Revell said. He turned to Nicholson. “You know this bozo, Nick?”

“Who you calling a bozo?” Latimer said, shrugging him off.

“Sir, stay where you are.”

“I’m not at fault. Why the hell did you stop there? How was I supposed to avoid you?”

“Sir, I need you to calm down.”

“I am calm.”

Latimer craned his head around Revell’s bulky shoulder. “Nick, for fuck’s sake.”

Nicholson had been standing back as if hoping it would all go away. He shook his head, disgusted, and came closer. “It’s okay, he’s not going to do anything silly.”

“Tell this prick to get his hands off me,” Latimer said.

“You’re dreaming,” Revell said.

“Fuck you.”

“Just calm down, Ray, all right?” Nicholson said.

“I am fucking calm.”

Nicholson, still disgusted, turned to Hirsch and gestured at the cars. “Don’t just stand there, get this mess sorted.”

“All over it,” Hirsch said, reaching into the police car for the camera. He started snapping.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“For the insurance. For the report.”

“Don’t be a moron, just clear the bloody driveway, all right?”

“Keep your shirt on.”

Hirsch climbed into the Honda, reversed it a few meters, metal shrieking, and got out. Suspecting radiator damage, he lifted the hood. The radiator had been pushed closer to the fan, but wasn’t touching. No leaks. He took more shots with the camera, then photographed the damage to the police car. One of the rear panels was buckled and seemed to be touching the tire.

Finally he backed the Honda into a slot outside an empty unit, his attention caught by a spill of light from a neighboring doorway, then another, and another: guests, peering out at the racket. Catching his gaze, they retreated, curtains twitching.

One guest didn’t. She stepped out of the light and crossed the dewy lawn in bare feet, wrapped in a bulky motel robe. Hirsch recognized her as the woman who’d been drinking with Latimer in the Wheatsheaf.

Closing in on the men at the street entrance, she called, “Ray?”

Latimer stiffened, slumped. “Oh, Christ. Finola, please, go back inside.”

She stopped. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Tell you later. Please, Fin, just go inside.”

She came closer. “Did you have an accident?”

Hirsch pocketed the Honda keys and intercepted her, touched her forearm. She flinched. “Let’s leave them to it,” he said.

The tension went out of her and she let herself be turned around and guided back across the lawn to her doorway.
Number 6
, noted Hirsch. Behind them, the three men were shouting now:

“Not fucking drunk.”

“Sir, will you consent to—”

“
I was barely moving when I hit you. Get off me
.”

“Ray, I need you to blow into this.”

Hirsch saw the woman into the room and hovered at the door. The interior was generic and held no interest, but the bed was a mess, an empty champagne bottle neck first in a bucket of ice. He turned his attention to the woman, who perched dejectedly on the end of the bed. A tousled forty, with a pretty but sundried face, the face of someone deeply fatigued or a drinker with her good looks accelerating downhill. An outdoors woman, he guessed, her tanned skin dark against the white of the dressing gown. The gown gaped; she was naked under it. Her clothes were heaped on a chair. As if reading him, she pulled the toweling close around her breasts and knees. Girlfriend? Pick-up?

“He was going out to find a bottle shop.”

Hirsch nodded. Latimer’s shouting had escalated, and she glanced past Hirsch, gnawing her lip.

“May I know your name?”

“Finola. Finola Armstrong.”

The name rang a bell. “From Bitter Wash Road?”

“How did you know?”

“Have you been drinking, Finola?”

“I’m not much of a drinker.” She paused. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You might need to drive him home.”

She looked at the floor. “What a god-awful mess.”

“Are you okay to drive? Can I call someone to come and get you?”