Splinter

43

Within the space of a heartbeat Benny had grabbed Emma’s wrist and forced her arm upwards, complete with gun. The second shot went off right beside her head. The agonizing pain took only an instant to have the desired, paralysing effect.

She let go of the gun and sank to her knees beside the car with both hands clamped to her left ear. The blast had ruptured her eardrum.

‘What have you done?’ yelled Marc, slow to grasp what had just happened before his very eyes. All he saw was the blood oozing between Emma’s fingers and staining the collar of her white jacket. For one horrific moment he assumed that Benny, the kid brother who’d never hurt a soul in his life, had actually shot her in the head. Then she tried to get up and although she was only emitting hoarse cries of pain, he guessed that her injuries could not be life-threatening after all.

‘What now?’ he demanded, more quietly. This time the question was directed at Emma as well as Benny, who had retrieved his gun.

‘I’m going,’ said Benny.

‘You can’t just push off!’

Marc knelt down beside Emma, at his wits’ end. The bleeding was worse, if anything, and had plastered the hair to her temple. In a kind of displacement activity, he felt her forehead like a mother checking her child’s temperature. It was burning hot.

‘We must get her to a hospital. Please Benny, you’ll have to drive us there…’ Startled, he broke off and clutched Emma’s hand, which had suddenly gone limp. She’d passed out again. ‘At least help me get her into the car. Benny?’

He looked up, expecting some objection, but none came. His brother had disappeared.

‘Shit, shit, shit…’ Marc broke out in a sweat despite the cold. He was desperately tired and his headache had spread to his neck. He was afraid he didn’t have the strength to manhandle Emma into the car.

Damnation.

He got out his mobile, intending to dial emergency, but the battery gave out after one keystroke.

Shit!

He patted Emma’s jacket in search of her mobile. Then it occurred to him that Benny had had it last, so he’d probably pocketed it.

He rose to his feet, leant against the car and surveyed the buildings across the street. As far as he could see, there was no one at any of the windows, and the balconies were deserted.

Why hasn’t anyone called the police? Someone must have heard those shots.

He was just about to bend over Emma again when he was startled by a voice he’d heard once before.

‘Hello there, mate.’

Though very much quieter, the voice was definitely the one that had complained about the noise. Marc looked up. The old man was standing on the pavement with his dog on a length of chain.

‘What do you want?’

The dosser seemed to take as much care of his clothes as the circumstances of his life on the streets permitted. It was easy to overlook the fact that he was destitute, because only close proximity revealed the crumbling layer of grime on his once expensive, crudely patched serge overcoat, beneath which lurked a sports coat far too big for him. Close proximity also enabled them to smell the cloying, rancid body odour that provided a further indication of his homelessness.

‘No worries, mate,’ the old man said with a toothless grin. ‘I didn’t see a thing.’

‘It isn’t the way it looks. I’m taking this woman to hospital.’

Marc caught hold of Emma under the arms and, with his last remaining strength, hauled her to her feet. Her breathing was fast and shallow.

The dosser just nodded indifferently and watched him struggling with his burden. He didn’t start chuckling until Marc had managed to drag Emma to the other side of the car, open the passenger door and buckle her into her seat.

‘Some night, eh?’

Marc turned to him, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Look, if it’s money you’re after, I’m sorry. I’m skint myself.’

He made sure Emma’s head couldn’t sag forwards and shut the passenger door.

‘I know.’

Marc, who was about to make his way round to the driver’s side, stopped in his tracks.

‘How?’ he demanded.

‘I’m sorry, I looked, but there wasn’t anything in it. Here.’

The dosser extended a grubby hand. Only one of his four fingers boasted a nail and the thumb was missing altogether, but that wasn’t what puzzled Marc so much. He stared at the wallet in disbelief, feeling in his pockets. It really was his own wallet the dosser was trying to return.

‘Freddy found it. He’s a great one for picking up things lying around on the ground. Aren’t you, mate?’

The old man patted his dog on the head. It promptly rolled over on its back in the hope of further caresses.

‘Thanks,’ said Marc, still bemused.

‘Don’t mention it, I’m an honest man. Come on, mate.’ He gave the chain a gentle tug and the mongrel got to its feet.

‘But next time keep the noise down,’ he said with another chuckle. He tapped his forehead and ambled off.

‘Yes, sure,’ Marc said pointlessly, turning the wallet over in his hands. He put it in his pocket. Emma had begun to whimper in the car behind him. She was evidently coming round.

He got into the Beetle, started the engine and put it in gear. Before driving off, he obeyed a spontaneous impulse and took out the wallet again. He opened it just to make sure his ID card – one of the few remaining proofs of his identity – was still there. Fortunately, it was in the pocket provided. He pulled it out, meaning to glance at the old passport photo in which he looked so much younger and fitter, but it resisted. When he withdrew it completely, a little piece of paper fell out on to his lap.

What on earth…?

He unfolded the slip of paper and stared at it incredulously.

What’s this?

Marc felt sure he’d never seen the note before, let alone kept it in his wallet. He turned off the engine, undid his seatbelt in feverish haste, and got out.

‘Hey!’ he called in the direction of the dark doorway into which the dosser had just disappeared. ‘Come back here!’

He broke into a run, although he hardly had the strength and already knew what awaited him at the end of his desperate sprint: nothing.

The dog and its owner, who had just brought him a handwritten message from his late wife, had both disappeared.