At the last moment, Rik twisted, but the knife was thrust into his shoulder, drawing a gurgling, inhuman scream.
In the surreal way in which incidents like this unravel in the gap between vision and thought, it all slowed down to an agonizing speed and clarity as Henry saw the tip of the blade touch Rik’s shoulder, enter through the fabric of his jacket and disappear a millimetre at a time into his flesh.
Then real time clicked back in.
Rik bellowed in agony and stumbled down to his knees.
Pearson shrieked with rage.
Henry Christie yelled as he went for Pearson, contorting toward him and looping his left arm across Pearson’s chest, but not in time to prevent him from going for Rik again, this time angling the knife into his neck and forcing it into the unprotected flesh just below his ear. Rik screamed again, fell, clutching the wound which spurted a fountain of crimson, causing Henry to think, ‘Shit, he’s hit his jugular!’
Henry managed to wrap his left arm across Pearson’s chest and yank him backwards, frighteningly aware that the knife was now searing toward his own face. Henry’s only thought was to overbalance Pearson and dodge the blade at the same time. He was bigger, heavier and stronger than the out-of-shape offender, and he used this to his full advantage, pulling him backwards and sticking out a leg, over which he dropped Pearson who, realizing he was falling, tried to keep upright, failed, and let out a yell as Henry slam-dunked him to the floor.
All the while, Rik’s predicament was there in his mind.
He knew he would have to deal quickly, efficiently and ruthlessly with Pearson.
As the man hit the carpet, Henry reached out and grabbed his right wrist, then dropped his full weight on to the guy, landing across him and pinning him down. Henry’s other hand went for the wrist too, and he bashed the knife hand down on the floor repeatedly. The grip gave almost immediately and the knife rolled away just out of reach. At that exact point, Henry knew he now had the power … particularly as Pearson simply went weak and lost the will to fight. He began to sob.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean …’ he blubbed.
Henry kept him held down as he readjusted his own position, straddling his chest, trying to control his own breathing and temper — two things which did not happen. He glared down and bunched the fist of his right hand, nostrils flaring, shaking angrily. Then he had a thought and checked himself.
Instead of punching him, he slapped Pearson hard across the face, employing the technique he had learned from his recent defensive tactics training, then slapped the other way, then the other, and kept going until his anger had dissipated.
It was satisfying to see Pearson’s face swell and hear him whimper.
Then he spun him over on to his front, dragged his arms behind his back and cuffed him tight so the ratchets ate into his flesh, right on the wrist bone.
He stood up, kicked the knife away, growling, ‘Do not fucking move,’ and turned his attention to Rik, who was lying across the threshold of the bedroom, clutching his neck and shaking uncontrollably as though he was being jabbed with a cattle prod. Blood pumped through his fingers. Lots of it.
‘Jesus, Henry, Jesus …’ he gasped. ‘Oh, God, I’m gonna die.’
‘Are you fuck,’ Henry said reassuringly, wondering when he’d last seen so much blood flowing; not in a long time. It was everywhere. ‘Come on,’ he said, bending over Rik. ‘You need to get up and sit on a chair, keep the wounds high up for a start, OK?’ Rik tried to respond, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, eyelids fluttering like a doll’s as he went into the first stage of shock. Henry panicked internally, but outside stayed calm, forceful. ‘I’m going to help you get up and sit down, OK? Then we’ll sort out the wound.’
‘Whatever.’ For a second, Rik took his hand from the cut and a fresh spurt of bright blood shot out across Henry’s trousers.
Henry instinctively squirmed away, then overcoming his squeamishness said, ‘Get your hand back over that wound and keep pressing.’
Rik nodded, no colour, only deathly grey in his face. He put his blood-soaked hands back on to his neck, clamping them there. Henry quickly searched around for something else to put on the wound, his eyes settling on a grubby tea towel thrown over the side of a chair. He grabbed it, folded it and eased it under Rik’s hands. ‘Keep that there. Hold it on tight. You’ll be OK, promise. Now come on.’
He eased Rik into a sitting position, then gradually up on to his knees, then up on to wobbly feet before steering him into an armchair. All the while, the blood flowed incessantly, filling the towel, drenching it, and Rik’s condition deteriorated.
Then Henry got on to the radio, and moments later comms at Blackpool had contacted the ambulance and other patrols were en route to assist.
After that he gave Pearson a cursory check. He was still secure, lying there uttering blubbering sobs, watching Henry nervously. His attention returned to Rik. He found some more towels in the kitchen, folded them and placed them on top of the one already there and pushed Rik’s hands back on. ‘Pressure, keep pushing.’ He sat on the chair arm.
Rik shivered.
Henry checked his watch: two minutes since he’d called in.
Time crawled with unbelievable slowness in situations like these. He’d experienced it many times before, but took comfort because he knew his colleagues would be tear-arsing to the scene, putting their own lives in danger, and the paramedics would be doing the same because they were as mad as cops.
‘Henry,’ Rik rasped worryingly, blood bubbling from his lips. ‘I’m gonna die.’
‘Are you fuck,’ Henry repeated, aware his bedside manner wasn’t what could be called overtly caring, but he knew it was pitched right for Rik. The new towels were filling with blood. It looked like the jugular had been severed as Henry suspected. ‘Why … why …’ Rik continued, ‘why attack me?’
Henry got to his feet and walked to the bedroom.
A strained, ‘No,’ came from Pearson’s lips.
Henry gave him a sneer and stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. In the distance his ears caught the welcome sound of sirens approaching. There was the aroma of sandalwood from a number of candles dotted around the room. The curtains were drawn, almost no light chinking through them and though there was light from behind, it was not easy to see.
He paused one foot beyond the threshold, his instinct as a detective telling him this could be a crime scene.
Henry flicked on the light using the switch by the door. Even that wasn’t much of a light, just a low wattage bulb. Henry’s eyes adjusted and saw the shape in the bed underneath the crumpled duvet. He drew back the cover and revealed the reason why Pearson had reacted with such astounding violence.
At his feet, Nigel the kitten rubbed its head on his ankles, purring loudly, having recovered from its subsonic flight.
Six
After the slowness of those minutes when Henry was waiting for the arrival of assistance and relief, three hours later found the world revolving very rapidly indeed, threatening to spin him off into the stratosphere.
Rik Dean had been dragged off to hospital, tended by a couple of cool-dude paramedics who made Henry insanely jealous by their calm approach. The initial prognosis was good, confirmed subsequently by the A amp; E doctor: Rik was going to be OK. He needed emergency surgery to stitch up the jugular and the wounds, but he hadn’t lost as much blood as Henry had feared. It just looked bad.
The two detectives sent to Harrogate had returned, both slightly weepy and emotionally drained after having to deal with a family whose daughter had disappeared and could be dead. They had brought back the DNA swabs, everything packaged and secured precisely, and some dental X-rays. A comparison would be done first thing Monday by the forensic lab. Henry sensed the brittleness of the women, but they refused to go home when ordered.