Common Murder

Deborah lay face down in the ditch, blood flowing from a gaping wound in the left side of her head. “Oh my God,” she cried, fighting back tears of panic as she grabbed her by the shoulders. She remembered all the rules of first aid that instruct not to move victims with head wounds. But Deborah would drown if left lying face down in the mud. So she pulled at her left shoulder till she managed to turn her on her side. Lindsay pulled her scarf off and gently wiped the mud from Deborah’s face. She gritted her teeth and cleared the silt from her nose and mouth and checked if she was still breathing by putting her ear to Deborah’s mouth. She could feel nothing. “Debs, Debs, breathe, you bastard, breathe,” she muttered desperately, pummeling Deborah’s chest. After a few moments that felt like an eternity, she was rewarded by a sputtering cough as Deborah retched. Lindsay, herself facing nausea, then stood upright, yelling for help at the top of her voice.

It seemed hours before another couple of women appeared with a torch, looking bewildered.

“Get help, get help!” Lindsay almost screamed. “Debs has been attacked. Get the bloody police. We need an ambulance.”

The next half hour was a blur of action as first police and then ambulance drivers arrived and rushed Deborah to hospital. Lindsay realised how serious the situation was when a young constable helped her into the ambulance, and she found herself racing through the lanes with flashing lights and siren.

At Fordham General, Deborah was immediately hurried away on a trolley with the policeman still in attendance. Lindsay sat, exhausted, wet, and filthy on the steps of the casualty unit, smoking a battered cigarette. She was numb with fear for Deborah. One of the ambulance drivers stopped to speak to her on the way back to his vehicle. “You did well, back there,” he said. “Your friend might have died if you hadn’t got her head out of the mud. Just as well you kept your head.”

Lindsay shook her head. “I didn’t keep my head. I panicked. I just acted on pure instinct. I was so afraid I’d lost her. How is she? Do you know?”

He shrugged. “Not out of the woods yet. But they’re good in there. You should go inside in the warm, you’ll get a chill out here. Get yourself a cuppa.”

Lindsay nodded wearily. “Yeah.” She got to her feet as he climbed back into the ambulance. As she turned to go, a heavy hand clapped her on the shoulder. It belonged to a reporter she recognised by sight.

“What’s the score?” he demanded. “We heard someone had been attacked, but the cops are saying nothing.” Lindsay stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Come on, Lindsay,” he pressed. “Don’t be selfish. I’ve only got half an hour to close copy time on the next edition. You’ve had every bloody other exclusive on this job. Give us a break.”

She wanted more than anything to put a fist in his face. Instead, she simply said, “Fuck off,” and turned on her heel, shaking his hand loose. But the incident had reminded her that there was something she could do to put a bit of distance between the attack and her emotions. She walked like a zombie into the hospital, asked a passing nurse where the nearest phone was, and transferred the charges to the Clarion newsdesk. Luckily, Cliff Gilbert took the call himself.

“Lindsay here, Cliff,” she said, speaking very slowly. “Listen, I’m in no fit state to write copy, but there’s a very good story going on here, and I’ve got chapter and verse on it. If I give you all the facts, can someone knock it into shape?”

“What?” he exclaimed. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Are you pissed?”

“Look, someone’s just tried to kill one of my best friends. I’m exhausted, I’m wet, I’m probably in shock, and I’m at the end of my rope. I need help.”

He realised from her voice as much as her words that Lindsay was serious. “Okay, Lindsay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll put you on to Tony, and you tell him what he needs for the story. No problem. Do you need back-up? I can get someone down there in an hour. Or a local freelance-”

“I don’t want anyone else, Cliff. Maybe you should get some more cover down here, though. I’m through for tonight. Now give me Tony.” A series of clicks followed, and Lindsay found herself talking to Tony Martin, one of her reporting colleagues. Cliff had obviously warned him what to expect, for his voice was quiet and coaxing. Lindsay forced the lid on her emotions and stumbled through the events of the evening. At the end of her recital, he asked for the number of the police station and the hospital. Her mind was a blank.

“Never mind,” he said. “Listen, I’ll make sure they put your by-line on this. It’s a helluva story. I hope your mate pulls through. But you go and get yourself a stiff drink. You sound as if you need one. Okay?”