Trauma (3 page)

That poor man must be going through hell,' said the doctor.

'What man?' asked McKirrop.

'The child's father.'

McKirrop screwed up his face. 'I don't understand,' he said.

'Mr Main,' said the nurse. 'A couple of months ago he and his family were involved in a car crash. His wife was killed outright but their child was still alive when they brought him into hospital. He was put on a life support system but he had suffered irreversible brain damage. Last month the man had the heartbreak of allowing the machine to be switched off.'

'Poor bastard,' muttered McKirrop.

The doctor looked at him but didn't pick him up on his language. McKirrop was obviously unaware of anything out of the usual. 'And now this,' she said. She laid the paper on the bed for McKirrop to read for himself. McKirrop felt his pulse quicken as he scanned through the tabloid text.

‘
Last night the scourge of satanic ritual struck at the very heart of a city. The body of a recently buried small boy was disinterred and removed from its coffin leaving horrified church and police authorities with only nightmare speculations on what might have happened to it. The baby's father, John Main (33) was last night too upset to comment. A man who had been sleeping rough in the cemetery and who was believed to have disturbed the intruders was admitted to hospital after apparently having been severely beaten after trying to stop the outrage. Police were waiting to interview him.’

The paper went on to report details of the car crash which had led to the death of Mary Main and eventually, their son, Simon. Inside, the paper featured an interview with a church authority on devil worship in which he deplored the spread of the practice and warned that it was much more widespread than people realised. An editorial headed, 'Our Sick Society' went on to labour the point and blamed materialistic values for falling standards of behaviour.

'Do you think you will be able to give the police any help?' asked the doctor gently when McKirrop had stopped reading.

McKirrop didn't reply for a few moments then he said, 'I didn't see anything.'

'But surely you must . . .' began the doctor.

'I told you! I didn't see anything,' growled McKirrop.

The house officer didn't take offence at McKirrop's sudden change of mood. She simply stood her ground and shrugged. She said, 'Well if you didn't, you didn't. Now let's get you ready to receive your visitors. McKirrop again felt slightly vulnerable as he felt her hands fuss around him. 'I'm sorry I snapped at you,' he said. The words tasted like acid in his mouth. Apologies were like quadratic equations. It had been a long time since he had dealt with either.

'I get a lot worse,' said the doctor.

'What's your name?'

'Sarah Lasseter, but what's more important. What's yours?'

McKirrop looked at her. 'Is that really necessary?' he asked.

''Fraid so,' said the doctor. 'If you won't tell us you'll have to tell the police. We didn't find a wallet or credit cards on you ...'

McKirrop saw the hint of a smile on her face and managed the semblance of a smile in reply. 'McKirrop, John McKirrop. No relatives mind you!' he insisted. 'Nobody.'

'As you wish.'

McKirrop was examined by the senior registrar of the Head Trauma Unit who didn't take too much trouble to hide his distaste for the job and made washing his hands afterwards seem somewhat more than routine. 'You've had simple concussion. You've got three cracked ribs and various bruises but otherwise you're OK.'

'Does that mean I can go?' asked McKirrop.

'The sooner the better as far as I'm concerned but the police want to see you. Not a novel experience I should imagine.'

The doctor moved off leaving McKirrop to glare after him. 'Toffee nosed git,' he snarled as Sarah Lasseter returned.

'Dr Logan is a very good doctor,' said Sarah.

'Doesn't stop him being a toffee nosed git does it?’ retorted McKirrop, surprised at himself for entering into a dialogue.

'I suppose not,' agreed Sarah, surprising McKirrop.

'Are you ready to see the police?'

McKirrop nodded.

Sarah Lasseter took a few steps then turned round. She said to McKirrop, 'You will try your best to help, won't you? '

McKirrop nodded again.

Two policemen arrived to interview McKirrop, an inspector who looked more like a bank manager to McKirrop's way of thinking - he was small and neat with a clipped moustache and a slight pot belly - and a sergeant who appeared to have a streaming cold. The area of skin beneath his nostrils was red raw. Both were hostile from the outset and obviously saw the best approach in being to bully as much out of him as they could. When they failed to get anything using this tactic they became even more aggressive.

'So what the hell were you doing there in the first place anyway?' demanded the sergeant, removing the handkerchief from his face briefly.

'I told you! My room at Holyrood Palace was being decorated at the time so I chose to kip there.'

'Don't push your luck McKirrop,' threatened the inspector.

McKirrop didn't feel threatened at all. He saw the police as his natural enemy. He had long since become immune to anything they could threaten him with. After all, when the worst they could do was lock him up in a warm, dry cell with three meals a day and a roof over his head, they didn't have a lot going for them. He was much more at ease with police bullying than he was with Sarah Lasseter's genuine concern.

'You must have seen something!' insisted the sergeant.

McKirrop shook his head. 'Didn't get a chance. They were on to me before I could open my mouth. I'm lucky to be alive.'

'You said 'they'. How many were there?'

'Hard to say. More than one.'

'Young? Old?'

'It was dark. 'Couldn't see.'

'Their voices?'

'They didn't say anything. 'Just beat the shit out of me.'

'Maybe you were part of it? Is that it? Were you the look-out man? How much did they pay you to keep your mouth shut you old rat bag?' demanded the inspector bringing his face down close to McKirrop.

'Don't know what you're talking about.'

'Like fuck you don't. You're covering up for them you old git. What beats me is why? These bastards dig up the body of a kid. A kid! I ask you! And you say nothing! Doesn't it mean anything to you? Can't you imagine what that that does to the kid's folks?'

'I told you. I didn't see anything.

The two policemen looked at each other and shrugged. 'Take a look at life again soon,' sneered the inspector. 'I don't know why I've stuck this job so long, God help me. Dealing with shit like this makes me want to puke.'

McKirrop remained impassive.

'We could always play our trump card boss,' said the sergeant.

All right then, go on.'

The younger man, holding the handkerchief to his face with his left hand, took out a half bottle of Vodka from his pocket with his right and stood it on the bedside locker so that McKirrop could look at it. McKirrop reached for it but the sergeant stopped him. 'First some information.'

McKirrop stared at the bottle. It was a cheap brand, supermarket shit with a Russian sounding name but he wanted it. He wanted it badly. He ran his tongue nervously along his top lip and imagined the fire in his throat from the spirit. His mind was in torment. He wanted the liquor but he was afraid of the men. He wouldn't get off with a kicking next time . . . on the other hand . . . Perhaps it wouldn't matter if he . . . McKirrop laid his head back on the pillow and said with a sigh, 'All right. I'll tell you.'

The sergeant brought out his notebook and parked himself on a chair at McKirrop's elbow. The inspector chose to stand at the end of the bed. McKirrop reached for the bottle again but was prevented from doing so again. 'Talk first. Party afterwards.'

'There were four of them but I couldn't see their faces because they had hoods on.'

'Hoods?'

'White sheets, like ghosts, two slits for their eyes and one for their mouths except for their leader.'

'What was he wearing?'

'He had a sort of animal mask, like a sheep or a ram, with horns on it and he was carrying some kind of stick.'

'What kind of stick?'

'Like bishops have.'

'A crook?'

'A crozier,' said McKirrop.

The policeman's mouth twitched as he looked for signs of mockery on McKirrop's face. McKirrop remained impassive. Only his eyes betrayed signs of dumb insolence.

'Get on with it.'

'Two of them dug up the kid while the others watched. They stood round the grave and chanted.'

'What did they chant?'

McKirrop shrugged and said, 'Don't know. I'm not a Catholic.'

'You mean it was Latin?' asked the policeman who was taking notes.

'Could have been.'

'Ye gods,' sighed the sergeant.

'Then what?' demanded the inspector.

'They opened the coffin and took out the kid's body.'

'Go on.'

'They laid it out on the lid of the coffin and the leader said some words over it then ... he brought out this long knife and ...'

'And what?'

'I couldn't stand it any more,' said McKirrop. 'I tried my best to stop them but there were too many and they gave me a right doing.' He paused to feel his ribs cautiously before continuing, 'Their leader said that if I told a soul they would come back and cut my heart out and eat it at midnight.'

'You did the right thing telling us,' said the inspector. 'Get all that?' he asked his sergeant.

His colleague nodded, getting to his feet and snapping shut his notebook.

McKirrop reached out for the bottle but the sergeant beat him to it. 'We had a deal!' McKirrop protested.

'Don't you watch telly?' sneered the policeman with the nasal problem. 'We don't make deals. Everyone knows that. Besides, it's against hospital regulations to drink on the premises.' He put the bottle back into his pocket.

'You rotten bastards. I told you everything! I've put my life at risk!'

'You should have told us a bloody sight sooner and if there's any more crap out of you we'll book you for obstructing the police in the course of their duty.'

'Bunch of bastards,' mumbled McKirrop.

The policemen turned to leave. As they reached the door the inspector turned round and said, 'About that hut ... we've had the authorities put a new padlock on it.'

Sarah Lasseter came in a few minutes later. She seemed pleased. 'I hear that you gave the police a great deal of help,' she said. 'I'm glad. The sooner they catch these people the better.'

McKirrop looked at her briefly before diverting his eyes. 'Can I go now?' he asked.

'If you insist. I don't think we can stop you.'

'Let's be honest. No one would want to stop me. If I was the Queen Mother they'd be tying me to the bed with gold chains but John McKirrop? Get that old bastard out of here. He makes the place look untidy. Right?'

'Something like that,' agreed Sarah Lasseter. She met McKirrop's gaze without flinching. It was he who broke off eye contact, feeling suddenly uneasy again. Sarah left and came back with his bundle of clothes and a piece of paper. 'You'll have to sign this,' she said.

'What is it?'

'It's a form to say that you are signing yourself out. It absolves us from blame if anything should happen to you because of your injuries.

McKirrop signed the paper quickly and handed it back. 'Te absolvo, te absolvo,' he said with a sigh.

'Thank you Father,' Sarah smiled.

'You're a Catholic?'

'Yes, but I overheard you tell the police that you weren't?'

McKirrop shrugged but did not say anything.

'I'll come back when you're dressed.'

McKirrop was ready for the road again. He had just fastened up the top button on his coat when Sarah Lasseter came back. She said, 'I know it's not very much but I hope it will buy you something to eat later on. She held out her hand. There was a ten pound note in it. McKirrop looked at her as if this was the last thing in the world he expected because it was. 'That's very good of you,' he said, annoyed at the embarrassment he felt. He took the money and pushed it in to his pocket.

'Good luck,' said Sarah, stepping back to allow him to pass.

McKirrop grunted and started towards the exit. He had almost reached the door when he stopped and turned round. He looked as if he was about to say something.

'Forget something?' asked Sarah.

McKirrop hesitated for a moment then said hesitantly, 'About what you said ...'

'Yes?'

'About the kid's folks feeling bad . . .'