Dark Side of the Street

not in the mood for fraternising today.'

'Suits me.' Chavasse stretched out on his bed. 'What's wrong-aren't you feeling so good?'

'Restless,' Youngblood said. 'Let's say I feel like cracking the walls wide open and leave it at that.'

Chavasse opened a magazine and waited and after a while Youngblood got to his feet and moved to the washbasin. He lit a cigarette, keeping his back turned and then placed the box of matches on the side of the basin.

Chavasse took a cigarette from one of his shirt pockets, got to his feet and moved forward quickly, reaching for the matches. Youngblood was staring down at his open palm. He closed it quickly, but not before Chavasse had seen the small brown capsule.

'Mind if I have a match, Harry?'

'Help yourself,' Youngblood said.

Chavasse lit the cigarette and returned to his bed. So Atkinson was the contact man? They must have paid him a small fortune, but then, there was a lot at stake. He lay down and behind him, Youngblood filled a plastic cup with water and drank it slowly.

There was a strange fixed expression on his face as he sat on the edge of his bed and Chavasse said,

'You sure you're okay, Harry? You don't look too good to me. Maybe you should go sick.'

'I'm fine,' Youngblood said. 'Just fine. Probably the spring and all that jazz. I always get restless at this time of year. It's the gypsy in me.'

'Who wouldn't in a dump like this,' Chavasse said, but Youngblood didn't seem to hear him and sat there staring at the wall, a strange far-away look in his eyes.

It was hotter than usual in the machine shop that afternoon, mainly because the air circulating system had broken down, and most of the men had stripped to the waist.

Chavasse worked at one end of the bench cutting plates with a hand guillotine and Youngblood was grinding steel clips to size on a high speed wheel. He had been sweating profusely for some time now and there was a strange dazed expression in his eyes.

'You all right, Harry?' Chavasse called, but Youngblood didn't seem to hear him.

He paused for a moment, leaning heavily on the bench, rubbing sweat away from his eyes and when he reached out to pick up another clip from the stack on the bench beside him his hand was trembling. He groped ineffectually for a moment and then the whole pile went over, one of the clips ricocheted from the wheel like a bullet in a shower of sparks.

And then Youngblood started to shake. He staggered back, rebounding from the bench behind, driving headfirst into the mass of working machinery opposite.

Chavasse got to him just in time. Youngblood's eyes had retracted, sweat poured from his body and his limbs jerked convulsively. There was no question, but that he was undergoing a perfectly genuine fit, however it had been induced-the second stroke for which the governor had been waiting, the one which would earn him a fast trip in an ambulance to Manningham General Hospital. And afterwards …?

There were cries of alarm from all parts of the workshop, a rush of feet and as Youngblood's body was racked by another convulsive spasm, Chavasse did the only possible thing and allowed himself to fall backwards across the bench still holding him. When he ran his left forearm along the edge of the grinder, the flesh split open in a nine-inch streak and blood spurted across the bench in a satisfying stream.

He started to slide to the ground, clutching at his arm, letting Youngblood fall and Nevinson caught him just in time. Strangely enough there was no pain and Chavasse sat there pressing his thumb in to the brachial artery in an attempt to stop the bright flow.

For a while there was considerable confusion and then Atkinson arrived, pushing his way through the crowd.

'What in the hell happened here?' he demanded of the Duty Officer.

'Youngblood threw another fit. He'd have gone into the machinery if Drummond hadn't caught him. He opened up his arm on the grinding wheel.'

Atkinson inspected it briefly. 'Doesn't look too good, does it?' He turned to the Duty Officer. 'I want a couple of stretchers up here fast from sick bay and tell them to ring through to Manningham General. Tell them Youngblood's had another stroke and we're on our way.'

'What about Drummond?'

'Him too, of course. You don't think we can deal with an injury like that here, do you? He's going to need a dozen stitches in that arm. Now get moving.'

Strangely enough it was at that precise moment that Chavasse's arm started to hurt like hell.

5

Nightwatch

When he opened his eyes the room was festooned with cobwebs-giant grey cobwebs that stretched from one wall to the other and undulated slowly. He closed his eyes, fighting the panic that rose inside him. When he opened them again the cobwebs had almost disappeared.

He was lying in a narrow hospital bed and his left arm felt strangely numb. When he looked down he saw that it was heavily bandaged and then he remembered and looked around him.

The ward was small-no more than half a dozen beds. Two of them were occupied. One by Brady who lay with a cage over his legs, the other by Youngblood. Both men seemed to be either sleeping or unconscious.

Two prison officers were sitting at a small table by the door playing cards. As Chavasse stirred, they glanced across and one of them got to his feet and walked over.

'How do you feel?'

'Terrible.' Chavasse tried to moisten dry lips. 'What happened?'

'They gave you an anaesthetic and stitched you up.' He turned to his companion. 'Better get the doctor. He said he wanted to know when he came round.'

Chavasse closed his eyes as the other officer picked up the telephone. His mouth was bone dry and he felt curiously light-headed, but otherwise he was fine. He looked down at the arm. He could feel nothing except that curious numbness which indicated the use of painkilling shots and he wondered how bad it was.

He'd taken one hell of a chance back there at the machine shop. What if he'd severed a tendon, for instance? He closed his eyes, sweat springing to his forehead, and opened them again in time to see one of the prison officers unlock the door.

The doctor who came in was African, a tall cheerful Nigerian with tribal caste marks prominent on one cheek and a ready smile. He sat on the edge of the bed and took Chavasse's pulse.

'How are you feeling?'

'A bit light-headed and my mouth's very dry.'

'After-effects of the anaesthetic, that's all. Nothing to worry about.' The Nigerian poured water into a glass from a jug on the bedside locker. 'Drink this-you'll feel a lot better.'

Chavasse did as he was told and then lay back. 'What about my arm-is it serious?'

The Nigerian shook his head and grinned. 'You'll play the violin again, isn't that what they would say on television? Thirteen stitches-I hope you are not superstitious, but I couldn't find room for an extra one.'

'Are you sending me straight back?'

'To Fridaythorpe?' There was something close to compassion in the Nigerian's eyes when he replied. 'No, I think we'll hang on to you for a day or two.'

Chavasse tried hard not to show his relief, but in his weakened state found it impossible. 'What about Youngblood-is he very ill?'

The Nigerian shrugged. 'A second stroke is never a good thing. We'll know more after our tests tomorrow. But we've talked long enough. Now you must sleep again.'

He went out and they locked the door behind him. The two screws went back to their card game and Chavasse turned and looked at Youngblood. He was sleeping peacefully, his face in repose looking strangely