Dead at First Sight

57 Tuesday 9 October

As they swung into North Gardens, at speed, the officers saw the two figures sprinting away. Holly Little accelerated hard again, gaining on them.

‘That’s fifty-seven!’ John Alldridge called out.

She stood on the brakes. ‘Check the house, I’ll stay on them.’

‘OK.’ He unbuckled his belt.

She halted for just the fleeting second it took for him to jump out, then accelerated off.

He crossed to the front door. As he reached it a figure staggered towards him wearing an apron over a pullover, holding his right wrist with his left hand, blood spraying everywhere as if his arm was a hosepipe, a catatonic look on his face.

For an instant it was like a scene from a horror movie. Except, Alldridge realized, this was real.

The man’s wrist had been severed.

If he didn’t do something immediately the man risked bleeding to death. All his training kicked in. He put his hand higher up on the man’s arm, pushing his sleeve up, and squeezed hard. Blood spurted into his face.

‘Help me,’ the man was whispering. ‘Help me, oh Jesus, help me.’ He sounded faint.

John pressed his phone button. ‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five. I urgently need an ambulance and back-up.’

‘Charlie Romeo Zero Five, copy.’

The man’s face was draining of colour as he looked at his wrist. Had to get a tourniquet on him, he knew. And fast.

Tightening his grip on the man’s arm, he steered him back into the house, thinking desperately, What to do, what to do, what to do? There was blood everywhere, on the floor, the walls, the ceiling.

The man led him into the kitchen and to his horror he saw the reason for the severed wrist. A hand, looking like something from a joke shop, was skewered to a chopping board by a knife.

What could he use?

He spotted a tea towel. And a wooden spoon with a long handle. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way,’ he said, trying to reassure him. The man was now looking a deathly pale.

How much blood had he lost?

Somewhere in the distance John Alldridge heard a siren. Getting closer.

Hurry.

‘What’s your name, sir?’

‘Toby,’ he said, weakly.

‘Toby, I’m going to sit you down at the table, OK?’ Seward looked at him with barely comprehending eyes.

Alldridge grabbed the tea towel, wound it once round Toby’s wrist, then jammed the handle of the wooden spoon into it and, using it as a lever, began twisting until it was as tight as it would go.

The spurting blood dwindled to a trickle, then almost stopped altogether. The siren was getting louder.

Two Response officers came running into the room.

‘Oh my God,’ one of them said quietly. He was looking at the severed hand, his face going green.

‘Have you called an ambulance?’ his colleague asked.

‘The ambulance could take an hour. Take us to the hospital. NOW!’