“Why don’t you pour some alcohol over the wound and set fire to it,” Rodent suggested enthusiastically. “That’s what they do in the films when someone’s been shot.”
Garston stared at him incredulously. “What are you talking about, you idiot? Claude hasn’t been shot.”
“Yeah, but an open wound’s a bit like a gunshot, innit? I’ve got a bottle of Russian vodka hidden away for special occasions. It was a Christmas present from me nan, but you can use a drop of that if you like, and I could heat up a screwdriver to seal the wound.”
“What a ridiculous thing to say,” Garston snapped. “What we need to give him is antibiotics, not third-degree burns.”
The angry rebuke didn’t seem to deter Rodent. “Well, it always works in the films,” he persisted, “so there must be something to it.”
Garston slapped him across the top of the head. “I told you, he hasn’t been shot; his surgical wound has opened up and might be infected.”
“I was only trying to help,” Rodent said, rubbing the top of his skull dejectedly. He looked like he was going to cry.
“He needs to see a doctor,” Angela said, filling the kettle with water. “Those steri strips Rodent got us yesterday aren’t strong enough to hold his wound together. It needs re-stitching.”
“Impossible,” Garston said with a firm shake of his head. And then a thought occurred to him. “I don’t suppose you know anyone with medical experience who might be willing to help us on the quiet, do you?” he asked. “Obviously, it would have to be someone whose discretion we could rely on and not someone who’ll go straight to the Old Bill and sell us out.”
Angela thought about this for a little while. “Well,” she said, dragging the word out, “if you’re really desperate, I suppose you could always ask Horace Cribbins. He’d be able to stitch Claude’s wound up.”
Garston’s eyes widened in disgust and he shuddered. “Horace Cribbins? The bloke who likes shagging dead bodies?”
“So the rumour goes, but he was never charged with it.”
Garston snorted. I haven’t been charged with most of the crimes I’ve committed, he thought cynically, but I’ve bloody well done them all the same.
Horace Cribbins had worked as a mortuary assistant in his younger days, preparing the bodies for post mortem and then sowing them up afterwards. The story went that he had been sacked for having sexual relations with some of the corpses. No one knew if it was true or not, and as Angela had pointed out, he had never been charged, but he had been dismissed under a dark cloud, and in Garston’s book there was no smoke without fire. These days, old Horace worked as an embalmer at a funeral home, preparing bodies for burial or cremation.
“Claude’s wound needs to be stitched up,” Angela said pragmatically. “You said so yourself. We can’t exactly take him back to hospital, so unless you fancy having a go with a needle and cotton, what alternative do we have?”
He would certainly know how to stitch up a wound, Garston thought, reluctantly seeing some merit in the suggestion
“Do you think he would be willing to help out?” he asked, struggling to overcome his natural revulsion at the thought of using the services of a man like that.
“We could ask him,” Angela said.
“Do you know where he lives?”
Angela nodded. “He lives nearby, with his elderly mother.”
Garston shuddered. “How very Norman Bates,” he said drily.
◆◆◆
Ting-a-ling-a-ling.
The old-fashioned bell above the door jangled like wind-chimes as Rodent entered the chemist shop in Barking Road.
Less than ten minutes after slapping him around the head, Garston had sent him out to get further supplies, medical stuff for Winston and food and blankets for the rest of them. He felt undervalued; no matter how hard he tried, or how helpful he endeavoured to be, no one ever seemed remotely grateful. As far as Deontay Garston was concerned, he was just a dumb gofer, a minion whose opinion and feelings were completely irrelevant.
The frumpy pharmacist he’d spoke to yesterday was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a plain-looking beanpole of a girl with long brown hair stood behind the counter. She wore black-framed glasses with thick lenses and a smattering of freckles dotted her face. She was dressed in a thick, tan coloured turtleneck jumper and pleated red skirt. She was a little geeky, he decided, but he found that strangely alluring. There was something vaguely familiar about her, although he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He walked up to the counter and hesitantly removed the crumpled shopping list from his jeans pocket. Perhaps it was just that she reminded him of a taller, slimmer version of Velma Dinkley from the Scooby-Doo cartoons.
“Morning,” she said cheerfully. “How can I help you?”
“Er, I’ve got some errands I need to run for a … for a friend. Do you have any…” he ran his eyes down the list, “…iodine?”
“Of course,” she said, walking over to a shelf and picking up a bottle. “Here we are,” she said, holding up the 20ml bottle. “Iodine tincture for wounds, cuts, and abrasions,” she read aloud. “I think we’ve got a cream version too if you would prefer?”
Rodent shook his head. Garston hadn’t said anything about a cream. “No, a bottle’s fine.”
She raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“Er,” Rodent consulted the list, feeling flustered by her steady gaze. “I need dressings and bandages for a wound, enough to last for several days.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How big is the wound?”
Rodent didn’t know. He hadn’t seen it. “About six-inches long,” he said, guessing.
“That’s a big wound. Has your friend seen a doctor?”
“Of course,” Rodent said quickly.
“And didn’t the doctor give this friend of yours enough spare dressings and bandages to last until their next appointment?”
“Well…” Rodent began, but couldn’t think of anything else to say so he just stood
