Page 76 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a searching look. Whatever he saw didn’t seem to reassure him. “Christ, Tom.”
“’M okay,” I croaked.
“The fuck you are.” He turned on Alex with an air of quiet menace that threatened to turn extremely loud if he didn’t get an answer he liked. “What the hell happened?”
“Daddy wasn’t here,” Vi put in, obviously not liking the implications. “Tom came round to fix a pipe, and someone attacked him when he left.”
“You saw them?”
“No, but it’s perfectly obvious what happened.” Christ, she wasn’t giving an inch.
Phil took a deep breath, then let it out. “Come on, we’re getting you to hospital.”
“What?” I whispered. “’M fine.”
Which, obviously, I wasn’t, but it was a hell of a lot easier than saying all I wanted was a hot drink and a cuddle, followed swiftly by bed, not to be prodded and poked by a load of strangers. If that was what I was after, I’d have gone on Grindr. And let’s face it, next stop was gonna have to be the police—I didn’t want to drag it all out any longer than I had to.
“No arguments. I mean it. Don’t fight me on this one.” Phil’s voice and the look he gave me were intense, almost angry.
I subsided. If he was that bothered, I’d go with it. Still thought it was a waste of time—I mean, what were they gonna do? Send me home with a throat sweet and some painkillers, most likely.
Phil half lifted me out of my seat and kept his arm around me as we made for the front door. Alex and Vi didn’t get a goodbye, but they did get a “You’ll be hearing from the police.”
He helped me into the Golf, buckled my seat belt, and generally looked like he wished he had a snuggly blanket and/or a whole load of cotton wool to wrap me up in. Worryingly, I wasn’t sure if I’d have protested right then.
Phil spoke up once we’d got on the way.
“When I was a new PC, one of the sergeants told me about a domestic abuse case he’d been on years back—bloke tried to strangle his wife. Course, this was before the crackdown, all the emphasis on taking positive action. It was all ‘Sure you want to press charges, love?’ in those days. She didn’t. She didn’t want to see a doctor either. No one insisted.” He huffed unhappily. “He went round to check on her the next day. She was dead. Internal injuries.”
Christ.
“You don’t mess about with strangling injuries. You could have a fractured hyoid bone,” he went on. “Or larynx. Or internal swelling, or fluid in your lungs—”
I made a—hah—strangled noise and held up a hand. I got the picture, okay?
Then I closed my eyes and just tried to rest.
Turned out I didn’t have a fractured anything, or even water on the larynx, but the doctors insisted I stay in overnight anyway. After Phil’s grim tales of domestic abuse, I wasn’t gonna argue. To be honest, by then I just wanted to find the nearest bed, crawl into it, and sleep for a week.
Course, before I could get my head down, there was the plod to deal with.
I’d have preferred a visit from Dave Southgate, but he was still on paternity leave, so they sent a PC in a headscarf down from the local cop shop to take a statement. That was a laugh in itself. Not only did I have bugger all to tell ’em—yes, it was dark, no, I didn’t see a face—I didn’t have a voice to tell ’em it with, either. Lots of scribbled notes and failed attempts at sign language, while Phil glowered at the poor woman from the corner of the room. Of course, there was the obligatory question as to whether I had any idea who might want to shuffle me off this mortal coil sooner rather than later.
I glanced at Phil. He nodded, and filled PC Iqbal in about dear old Amelia and my part in her downfall. Her eyes got wider and wider—I was guessing murder was well above her pay grade. Phil suggested she liaise with the St. Leonards force. She sent him a look that strongly implied she was holding herself back from suggesting he go and teach her grandma to suck eggs.
Then she packed up her notebook and went off to liaise, and Phil kissed me on the cheek and left for what remained of the night.
Waking up in hospital is never a lot of fun. Then again, looking on the bright side, at least this time I’d been conscious when I came in and I didn’t have a concussion. Still a bit of a downer, though, opening your eyes to bright lights, institutional green walls, and, lest we forget, a fair amount of actual pain. Especially when your subconscious has been doing its best to kid you all you have to do is roll over and get an armful of hot, muscular man.
On the plus side, said hot, muscular man was sitting in the visitor’s chair by the side of the bed, which improved the looks of the place no end.
“Morning,” I said. Well, if by said you mean croaked like a bullfrog who’d just been gargling with rusty nails half dissolved in battery acid, which was pretty much what I felt like too. I tried not to look too horrified at the sound. Phil was doing plenty of that for me already.
“Water?” he suggested.
I nodded, and he helped me sit up and take a drink.
And all right, yeah, I could’ve managed by myself, no problem. But sometimes you just wanna go with the TLC. ’Specially given how much it hurt just to swallow water.
