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“Sir! Look out!”
Lewis barely has a chance to glance up in response to Hathaway’s warning when a solid mass of flesh and bone – Hathaway himself? – cannons into him, shaking the breath from his body and sending him flying to the ground.
In the same instant as he crashes to the ground, pain shuddering through bones and making him thankful again for his anvil-like skull, there’s a loud crack somewhere close by. For a moment, he thinks it’s him, that Hathaway’s gone and made him break his leg or something. But, as he rolls over, he realises two things: first, he can move without the kind of pain that would involve, and second, Hathaway’s crumpled on the ground near him, groaning. Bleeding.
And then a third thing: their suspect’s fleeing, running downstairs at breakneck speed.
That crack wasn’t a bone snapping, and he should have known that. Did know it. It was a handgun discharging.
He fumbles for his mobile and speed-dials Control even as he struggles into a sitting position and leans over towards Hathaway. “Lewis. Send an armed response team immediately to 235 Botley Road. Armed suspect fleeing on foot, five foot eight, white, dark hair, early twenties, wearing a grey Everton hoodie...”
The description and instructions come automatically as he makes a quick visual assessment of his sergeant. Winged, by the look of it: right arm, just above the elbow. No sign of the bullet, but he’s not exactly had time to make a full search. Hathaway’s clutching his injured arm and clenching his jaw against the pain, and the stupid bloody idiot’s trying to stand up.
He adds a request for an ambulance – “injured officer” – to his instructions to Control and cuts the call, immediately pressing his hand on James’s left shoulder and pushing him back down until he’s lying on the floor again, Lewis sitting beside him. “You’re not Superman. Stay put, Sergeant.”
James stares up at him through unfocused eyes. What, did he hit his head as well? “The sus... suspect, sir.”
“ART’ll get him.”
A tiny nod’s the only acknowledgement of that. “Are you all right, sir? I shoved you pretty hard...”
“More okay than you, man.” He frowns. The way Hathaway’s looking at him is definitely not right. He holds up two fingers in front of his sergeant’s face. “How many?”
Hathaway just looks uncertain, and very young. “Sorry, sir, I don’t...”
“Never mind.” The pool of blood’s getting bigger. “Sorry, lad, this is gonna hurt.” He grips James’s arm at the elbow and just below the shoulder, and gently raises it to elevate the wound. It won’t stop the bleeding, but might slow it.
James hisses sharply as he completes the movement, and his eyes close, jaw tensing. Has he ever been shot before? It always hurts like hell, of course, but it’s less of a shock once you’ve had it happen to you two or three times.
Is that sirens? It is, and they’re getting closer. An ambulance and a couple of squad cars, by the sound of it. “Paramedics are coming,” he tells Hathaway, who mutters something indistinct in response.
“Soon have you sorted,” he says, more for the sake of saying something – the bloke’s going to be in pain for a while yet, and then out of commission or on desk duties for a month or so while his arm heals.
James fumbles with his free hand until it covers Lewis’s. “Thank you... sir.”
He’s saved from answering – what does James have to thank him for? If it wasn’t for Hathaway’s observational skills and lightning-fast reactions, he’d be the one lying wounded on the floor. Or dead.
Thundering footsteps on the stairs provide welcome relief, and he’s glad to get out of the way as the paramedics take over, assessing James quickly, confirming the possibility of concussion along with the bullet-wound, and preparing the stretcher to take him down to the ambulance. Lewis helps to lift James and strap him in, then hesitates, torn between the case and his partner.
James opens his eyes as the paramedics lift the stretcher, and makes a faint movement with his good hand. “Go. Got... criminal to arrest.”
So he does. Hathaway’s in good hands, and Lewis is the officer in charge, after all. Duty calls.
***
It’s close to ten hours later when he finally manages to get to the John Radcliffe and make his way to the side-room where Hathaway’s recovering from surgery to remove the bullet. He’s phoned a couple of times during the day, of course, but got frustratingly little information.
James was lucky, the doctor Lewis managed to catch for five minutes just now explained. No nerve damage in the arm; the bullet lodged in the fleshy part and didn’t go any further. Hurt like hell, of course, but it could have been a lot worse. He’s got concussion too, and will be under observation for the next twenty-four hours. James won’t be getting much sleep tonight.
Lewis lets himself into the over-bright room, reminded immediately of the last time he visited his sergeant in hospital. James’s eyes are closed and he’s still and pale against the white sheets, one bandaged arm lying on top of the cover. But he stirs and opens his eyes as Robbie closes the door.
He can’t resist a quip. “You do know I was only joking when I said it’d be your turn to save my life next?”
Hathaway tries to drag himself into a sitting position. “Sir?”
“Stay where you are.” Robbie strides forward and, for the second time today, prevents James from trying to get up. “This is gettin’ to be a habit, Hathaway – you, me, hospital room.”
James flushes. “Sorry if it’s an inconvenience, sir.”
“Ah, don’t talk rubbish.” He moves the visitor’s chair closer to the bed and sits down. “How are you feeling? They give you anything for the pain?”
“I’m fine.” He glares at the lad. “All right, it hurts,” James admits. “They won’t give me the good stuff because of the concussion.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Was wondering if I could persuade you to smuggle in a bottle of Glenfiddich, sir? That’d do the trick nicely.”
“As if.” He sobers. “I owe you me life, you know. If you hadn’t acted so quickly... SOCO reckons, given where I was standing before you pushed me and where you ended up, there’s a good chance that bullet could’ve nipped my heart. Wish you hadn’t got hurt, though.”
James’s gaze shifts to a distant point. “It’s worth it, sir.”
It’s Robbie’s turn to glance away. But, he realises, he does know exactly how James feels. He didn’t think twice about running into Zoe Kenneth’s burning house, after all, and there’s no way he would have left without his sergeant.
“We got him, by the way.” The change of subject’s easier to cope with. “Spent most of the day down at the station doin’ arrest reports and interviewing.”
“What, you had to do the reports yourself?” Hathaway’s mock incredulity is reassuring; the bloke can’t be in that much pain. “Oh,” James adds after a moment. “You need to interview me.”
“Tomorrow. You’re in no fit state right now.” What, did James actually imagine that was why he was here?
James just nods. He’s looking grey now; Robbie should leave. But then a thought strikes him; he kicks himself for not thinking of it sooner. “Where are your keys?”
“Car keys, sir?”
“Keys to your flat.” He’s tempted to remind the lad of their agreement over the sir thing, but decides that it’s best to keep things simple for now. “You’ll be here for a couple of days. You’ll need some stuff.”
“Oh, right. Thank you.” James gestures to the small cabinet beside the bed. “Somewhere in there. A change of clothes would be great – and if you wouldn’t mind bringing my iPod? It’s beside the bed.”
“Want to give me a list while you’re at it?” Robbie’s tone is gruff, faintly sarcastic, but the amused smile he gives James is genuine.
“I appreciate it, sir.”
Robbie waves away the thanks, then reaches over to find James’s keys. He’s getting up to leave when he remembers one other thing that’s been bothering him ever since he watched the man who, unlikely as it seems, has somehow become one of his closest friends being driven away in the ambulance. “Look, I realised earlier I don’t even know who – the hospital says you don’t have anyone listed as next of kin on your health record, an’ I checked with Innocent. There’s no-one on your employee file either.” He scratches his ear. “There has to be someone I should phone for you.”
“No need, sir.” The reply is one of James’s most studied drawls.
“No need because someone’s already done it, or...?” No chance Robbie’s letting this one drop. He already suspects the answer – he talks about his kids and Val and occasionally his parents all the time, but James has never once mentioned family. Not even in connection with his crisis of faith in the seminary.
Why? Don’t they get on? Or doesn’t he have family at all? But everyone’s got someone, surely? And if the situation were different, if this were his Mark in hospital, he’d want to know.
James sighs and says, in an exhausted tone that Robbie suspects might be feigned, “Don’t suppose it’ll do any good to ask you to drop it, sir?”
“Nope.”
After a pause, James says, “No-one to call, sir. One less thing for you to do.” He’s using the voice that says he’s completely fine and the topic’s closed – but that Robbie knows now means that the question’s touched a nerve and his sergeant’s hiding stuff again.
He’ll leave it – for now. But the topic’s definitely not closed.
“All right. Best leave you to get some sleep.” He rests his hand on James’s uninjured shoulder. “Not sure what time I’ll be able to get in tomorrow, but I won’t forget to bring your stuff.”
James’s face relaxes and he smiles, completely unguarded. It takes years off him, and Robbie’s heart twists. Because he’s alone in the world? Or because whatever happened to him or his family – or both – was so painful he tries to hide it from the world? “Thank you, s- Robbie.”
“That’s better.” He smiles himself, and without conscious thought his hand shifts to James’s head, strokes his hair. “Um.” Awkwardly, he pulls the offending hand back and stuffs it in his pocket. “Night, then.”
“Goodnight.” James’s eyes drift shut.
***
It’s almost eleven o’clock, Robbie realises as he walks through the hospital lobby on his way out. What on earth was James doing still awake at all? The combination of pain and medication should have had him asleep hours ago.
There you go, worrying about the lad, when he’s a grown man and doesn’t need you fussing over him. He smiles wryly to himself. Other than a few moments of vulnerability here and there, he’s never met anyone as self-possessed as Detective Sergeant James Hathaway. He certainly doesn’t need his Detective Inspector worrying about him.
But, on the other hand, he’s starting to suspect that James Hathaway may just be a very good actor. And, even if he doesn’t need his governor worrying about him, maybe he needs his friend to do so instead?
Well, if the bloke’s got no family, then he’s got no-one to look after him when he comes out of hospital – and he can’t manage on his own with that arm out of action.
It’s just as well Robbie’s already got that sofa-bed, isn’t it?
- end