well should then, shouldn’t ya?”
Run for it … but two of the others were either side of him … Play for time …
Then a bottle smashed against the lamppost and the sweetheart holding its neck grinned at him – “See, you’re not wanted round here, mate”.
The others grabbed his sleeves as the glass weaved and glinted in front of him – he ducked, slid out of his jacket and bolted head down for the darkness of the playing field …
“Geddim!”
They were just behind him, at his heels –
One of them slipped in the mud –
He heaved in air, tried to make his legs go faster …
Risked a glance behind – nearest twenty yards back now but they weren’t giving up, must think he was cornered …
And they were right – ahead lay the dark curtain of the copse, beyond it the high brick wall –
He burst into the trees, switched left, dodging trunks and bushes… a crashing behind as they followed – then his foot caught a root and he toppled through the air and sleighed into a clump of bushes …
He wriggled around and lay still, winded … pushing his white hands under the dead leaves, he lowered his face into them …
They were running straight at him, they must have seen him, then they were running past –
“Old it …”
They stopped, the speaker just beside him … he could see his boots six inches in front of his eyes, knew he should shut them but he couldn’t …
“Where is ‘e?”
“Shaddup an’ listen …”
Complete silence save the breath whistling in their throats …
“’E’s ‘ere somewhere …” The speaker shifted and his heel came on the tips of Fraser’s fingers … “Kel, gedover by the wall … Zit, over ‘ere …”
They moved away. Kel found a stick and prodded at the base of the wall. They tried staying still again, but got bored. One of them lit a fag and a few minutes later, they started back over the playing field to the path.
He crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the copse and watched them against the light of the hospital. They got back to where they’d left his jacket, went through the pockets and then made a big deal of tearing it into as many pieces as they could. Then they wandered off.
Just the flower of English youth having a few laughs , he thought. No point in going to the police . He limped back to the flat to get cleaned up.
Chapter 8
The old man arrived the following week. He was called Harold Carter and he had advanced bowel cancer with secondaries, some of them in the brain, which were making him vomit on top of the pain.
“How are you feeling, Mr Carter?” Philip asked him.
“Not too special, truth be told, Doc.” His speech was slurred but Fraser could tell he was a Londoner.
“We’re going to treat you with dexamethazone,” Philip told him after he’d examined him, “You should start feeling better by tomorrow. After that, we’ll think about radiotherapy.”
“Thanks, Doc.” He swallowed and lay back. He was a small man anyway, less than five and a half feet, but was made smaller by his disease. His face was wizened, like a monkey’s, his hair brittle white, his eyes dulled.
In the corridor, Edwina said, “Can he stand another round of radiotherapy, Philip?”
“I’m not sure. As you know, he’s specifically requested it - let’s see how he is when his symptoms are under control.”
“He actually wants more radiotherapy?” Fraser asked.
“He thinks it might give him an extra few weeks,” Edwina told him, “Which, of course, it might.”
“Is it worth it?”
She shrugged. “He seems to think so.”
The next day, Harold Carter asked to see Fraser. He was looking a little better and Fraser told him so.
“I feel a bit better, thanks – “ he swallowed – “ ‘Cept my mouth’s so dry I can hardly talk.”
“Haven’t you got a glandosalve dispenser?” He looked on the bedside cabinet. “Yeah, here it is … “
Glandosalve was an artificial saliva spray. Although expensive, it was
Run for it … but two of the others were either side of him … Play for time …
Then a bottle smashed against the lamppost and the sweetheart holding its neck grinned at him – “See, you’re not wanted round here, mate”.
The others grabbed his sleeves as the glass weaved and glinted in front of him – he ducked, slid out of his jacket and bolted head down for the darkness of the playing field …
“Geddim!”
They were just behind him, at his heels –
One of them slipped in the mud –
He heaved in air, tried to make his legs go faster …
Risked a glance behind – nearest twenty yards back now but they weren’t giving up, must think he was cornered …
And they were right – ahead lay the dark curtain of the copse, beyond it the high brick wall –
He burst into the trees, switched left, dodging trunks and bushes… a crashing behind as they followed – then his foot caught a root and he toppled through the air and sleighed into a clump of bushes …
He wriggled around and lay still, winded … pushing his white hands under the dead leaves, he lowered his face into them …
They were running straight at him, they must have seen him, then they were running past –
“Old it …”
They stopped, the speaker just beside him … he could see his boots six inches in front of his eyes, knew he should shut them but he couldn’t …
“Where is ‘e?”
“Shaddup an’ listen …”
Complete silence save the breath whistling in their throats …
“’E’s ‘ere somewhere …” The speaker shifted and his heel came on the tips of Fraser’s fingers … “Kel, gedover by the wall … Zit, over ‘ere …”
They moved away. Kel found a stick and prodded at the base of the wall. They tried staying still again, but got bored. One of them lit a fag and a few minutes later, they started back over the playing field to the path.
He crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the copse and watched them against the light of the hospital. They got back to where they’d left his jacket, went through the pockets and then made a big deal of tearing it into as many pieces as they could. Then they wandered off.
Just the flower of English youth having a few laughs , he thought. No point in going to the police . He limped back to the flat to get cleaned up.
Chapter 8
The old man arrived the following week. He was called Harold Carter and he had advanced bowel cancer with secondaries, some of them in the brain, which were making him vomit on top of the pain.
“How are you feeling, Mr Carter?” Philip asked him.
“Not too special, truth be told, Doc.” His speech was slurred but Fraser could tell he was a Londoner.
“We’re going to treat you with dexamethazone,” Philip told him after he’d examined him, “You should start feeling better by tomorrow. After that, we’ll think about radiotherapy.”
“Thanks, Doc.” He swallowed and lay back. He was a small man anyway, less than five and a half feet, but was made smaller by his disease. His face was wizened, like a monkey’s, his hair brittle white, his eyes dulled.
In the corridor, Edwina said, “Can he stand another round of radiotherapy, Philip?”
“I’m not sure. As you know, he’s specifically requested it - let’s see how he is when his symptoms are under control.”
“He actually wants more radiotherapy?” Fraser asked.
“He thinks it might give him an extra few weeks,” Edwina told him, “Which, of course, it might.”
“Is it worth it?”
She shrugged. “He seems to think so.”
The next day, Harold Carter asked to see Fraser. He was looking a little better and Fraser told him so.
“I feel a bit better, thanks – “ he swallowed – “ ‘Cept my mouth’s so dry I can hardly talk.”
“Haven’t you got a glandosalve dispenser?” He looked on the bedside cabinet. “Yeah, here it is … “
Glandosalve was an artificial saliva spray. Although expensive, it was
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