bomber style jacket. No accounting for taste.
Finlay started to feel hot. He leaned his head onto the cold glass to get some relief and closed his eyes. Time slipped by. His eyes snapped open as his chest tightened hard. He pulled his fists up quickly and gasped. As he opened his mouth, he vomited. He couldn’t stop and he was trapped in his window seat. His chest was being squeezed, his insides being torn apart. His body was betraying him. The pain across his chest and the feeling that he was being shredded from inside confused him. He had never felt so bad. He hoped someone could see and would assist. Through the music still ongoing in his ears he could hear shouting and feel movement. He pulled on his earphones and tried to ask for help but could hear someone yelling at him. Calling him a druggie? He needed help. Someone, help . Pain clenched its grip around his chest again and in its fury Finlay jerked forward, banging his head hard on the metal bar of the seat in front. The pain stopped as the world passing by suddenly went black.
25
His position in the seat could suggest he couldn’t be arsed; head at rest on the bar in front, his hands in his lap. If it wasn’t for the vile-smelling puddle of puke on his lap covering his hands and trailing down over his black skinny jean-clad knees, onto the rucksack that was partway to the floor between them, you would never have known. Most people would probably have ignored him and left him here for heavens knew how long. Male youths asleep or in distress on public transport wasn’t uncommon and they didn’t engender support or sympathy. This boy however had made his death loud and ungainly, which made it difficult for his fellow passengers to ignore and in turn made it difficult for the driver to not call it in. So here we were, Aaron and me, stood side by side in the narrow walkway of the bus, looking down at the boy on the bus. A sad, early start to Friday morning.
All the passengers who were still around when we got there and hadn’t rushed off to work before police arrival were now off the bus and had been herded into a local coffee shop by Martin so he could contain them. He needed to obtain details and accounts of what they saw, regardless of which level of the bus they were on. The boy was on the top deck and even lower deck passengers were needed, as they might have seen him getting on or seen someone else that we needed to talk to.
If it wasn’t for the gang shooting in Bestwood last night, another team would have been drafted in to deal with this, but as our only current job – Lianne Beers – wasn’t yet identified as a homicide, we were told in no uncertain terms that this one was ours as well. Budget cuts were eating away at staffing and that meant we all had to take on more to provide the same service – or not the same service but a better service, because that’s what the government was promising, while at the same time it cut millions from public services.
A couple of uniforms were helping Martin keep the unhappy witnesses in one place and the gawking non-witnesses in another – which was further away from the bus and from us.
‘So suicide, accident or murder?’ I asked Aaron.
‘I don’t think we can tell just from looking at him, can you?’
I looked from the boy, to Aaron. ‘No, I suppose not.’ And at that moment, Jack made a timely appearance.
‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite Detective Inspector and Detective Sergeant. How the jolly well are you today? Made any headway with our digoxin toxicity job yet?’ he asked as he dropped his medical briefcase to the floor of the bus, making, I imagine, anyone downstairs think the ceiling was about to cave in.
‘Hey, Jack.’ I smiled. Aaron nodded and moved up the bus slightly to allow Jack better access to the boy, his Tyvek suit rustling as he moved. ‘Slow going on Beers so far, but we’ll let you know if anything significant comes up. Today we seem to have another odd one.
Finlay started to feel hot. He leaned his head onto the cold glass to get some relief and closed his eyes. Time slipped by. His eyes snapped open as his chest tightened hard. He pulled his fists up quickly and gasped. As he opened his mouth, he vomited. He couldn’t stop and he was trapped in his window seat. His chest was being squeezed, his insides being torn apart. His body was betraying him. The pain across his chest and the feeling that he was being shredded from inside confused him. He had never felt so bad. He hoped someone could see and would assist. Through the music still ongoing in his ears he could hear shouting and feel movement. He pulled on his earphones and tried to ask for help but could hear someone yelling at him. Calling him a druggie? He needed help. Someone, help . Pain clenched its grip around his chest again and in its fury Finlay jerked forward, banging his head hard on the metal bar of the seat in front. The pain stopped as the world passing by suddenly went black.
25
His position in the seat could suggest he couldn’t be arsed; head at rest on the bar in front, his hands in his lap. If it wasn’t for the vile-smelling puddle of puke on his lap covering his hands and trailing down over his black skinny jean-clad knees, onto the rucksack that was partway to the floor between them, you would never have known. Most people would probably have ignored him and left him here for heavens knew how long. Male youths asleep or in distress on public transport wasn’t uncommon and they didn’t engender support or sympathy. This boy however had made his death loud and ungainly, which made it difficult for his fellow passengers to ignore and in turn made it difficult for the driver to not call it in. So here we were, Aaron and me, stood side by side in the narrow walkway of the bus, looking down at the boy on the bus. A sad, early start to Friday morning.
All the passengers who were still around when we got there and hadn’t rushed off to work before police arrival were now off the bus and had been herded into a local coffee shop by Martin so he could contain them. He needed to obtain details and accounts of what they saw, regardless of which level of the bus they were on. The boy was on the top deck and even lower deck passengers were needed, as they might have seen him getting on or seen someone else that we needed to talk to.
If it wasn’t for the gang shooting in Bestwood last night, another team would have been drafted in to deal with this, but as our only current job – Lianne Beers – wasn’t yet identified as a homicide, we were told in no uncertain terms that this one was ours as well. Budget cuts were eating away at staffing and that meant we all had to take on more to provide the same service – or not the same service but a better service, because that’s what the government was promising, while at the same time it cut millions from public services.
A couple of uniforms were helping Martin keep the unhappy witnesses in one place and the gawking non-witnesses in another – which was further away from the bus and from us.
‘So suicide, accident or murder?’ I asked Aaron.
‘I don’t think we can tell just from looking at him, can you?’
I looked from the boy, to Aaron. ‘No, I suppose not.’ And at that moment, Jack made a timely appearance.
‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite Detective Inspector and Detective Sergeant. How the jolly well are you today? Made any headway with our digoxin toxicity job yet?’ he asked as he dropped his medical briefcase to the floor of the bus, making, I imagine, anyone downstairs think the ceiling was about to cave in.
‘Hey, Jack.’ I smiled. Aaron nodded and moved up the bus slightly to allow Jack better access to the boy, his Tyvek suit rustling as he moved. ‘Slow going on Beers so far, but we’ll let you know if anything significant comes up. Today we seem to have another odd one.
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