The Rule of Fear. Luke Delaney
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‘Why not?’ he answered, knowing that domestic disputes were always good for an arrest. ‘I’m just round the corner. ETA two minutes.’
‘OK, 914,’ the female voice told him. ‘I’ll sort some back-up out and send them to your location.’
‘Fine,’ he agreed and picked up his pace, determined not to let a mobile unit beat him to the shout and any possible arrests. But as he turned into Gillett Avenue and began to walk past the rows of neat terraced houses, a feeling quite unlike anything he had experienced before began to wrap itself around him – an unpleasant feeling of something terrible happening close by. The street was deathly quiet, only the sound of the leaves in the small trees moving in the faintest of breezes disturbing the stillness. The birds had stopped singing.
When he reached number 15 his sense of dread only increased as he found the house in complete silence with none of the usual reassuring sounds of screaming and shouting coming from inside – the small house looked somehow foreboding and threatening.
He slowly reached for his radio, pressing the transmit but ton a second before speaking. ‘914 to Control.’
‘Go ahead, 914.’
‘Any informant details for the domestic at 15 Gillett Avenue?’
‘Negative. Caller was using a mobile number – declined to leave a name.’
‘Can you call them back?’ he asked. ‘It’s all quiet here.’ But before Control answered, the front door began to slowly open, the darkness from inside seemingly spilling into the light outside as an unseen malevolence chased the warmth of the sun from the street. He slowly took two steps forward – unnerved enough to carefully draw his telescopic truncheon, extending it to its full length with a flick of his wrist as the door continued to open inch by inch, but still he could see no one.
‘Police,’ he called out to reassure himself as much as anything. ‘Show yourself.’ But his command was met only with a deathly silence, as if the street had been sucked into a vacuum in time and space. He took another step forward, squinting into the darkness of the house as a faint shape began to form – small and flowing white, moving towards the light like an ethereal being. His pounding heart sent torrents of blood rushing past his ears, creating an internal deafness as his vision tunnelled towards the shape that became increasingly human as it approached him. A young girl, no more than ten, slim and pale, dressed in what appeared to be a long white nightdress with long straight blonde, almost white, hair, staggered into the light – red blood spreading through her clothing as she walked towards him trembling, arms stiff by her side before falling forward into his arms. He caught her safely and lowered her to the ground, his mind still struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.
The girl’s eyes blinked fast and hard as she used the last of her strength to whisper into his ear. ‘They’re inside.’ Her eyes rolled back inside her head as she went limp in his embrace, dead or passed out, he couldn’t tell.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he pleaded quietly as the adrenalin began to flow through his body, snapping him from the nightmare and allowing his training and experience to force his mind and body to act. But as he reached for his radio to call for an ambulance, a man came screaming from the house – his clothes and hands covered in blood, a kitchen knife held aloft above his head as he ran full pace straight towards King.
Without thinking, his instinct to save the girl made him turn his back on their screaming assailant – his own body becoming a human shield as he felt the first punch land on his shoulder. Only he knew it was more than just that – it was the knife being buried deep into his body. There was then a far more intense, violent pain as the knife was ripped from the muscle before he felt another punch, this time lower in his back, close to its centre, before once again the pain of the knife as it was torn from his body.
He screamed in pain and anger, the primeval response to fight for his life superseding all other emotions as he instinctively knew he had to react or die. He spun fast, brought the truncheon down hard on the madman’s kneecap, but it had no effect. It was as if the man hadn’t even felt it as again he plunged the knife towards him, only this time King was able to deflect it away as he pushed himself powerfully from the ground, launching his shoulder into the madman’s midriff, driving him backwards until they both lost their balance and clattered to the ground. The man took the brunt of the fall as the knife fell from his grip and skidded away across the pathway.
King didn’t hesitate in seizing the initiative, ignoring the pain and nausea sweeping through his body as he raised his metal truncheon and smashed it down over his attacker’s head, splitting his skin to the bone as blood instantly poured from the wound, but in his wildness the man didn’t even try to protect himself. Instead he clawed and grasped at King’s face until his hands found his throat and wrapped around it, constricting his breathing. Over and over again King brought the truncheon down on the man’s head and across his face until finally the man became human again and released his grip of King’s throat to use his hands to protect himself. But still King rained down the blows, all thoughts of reasonable force banished to another time until the man underneath him was nothing more than a moaning bloody pulp.
Near exhaustion, he rolled his attacker onto his belly and stretched his arms out to the nearby metal railing and handcuffed him to it. The fight for survival over, he instantly felt close to passing out, drawing in long deep breaths to steady himself, but he knew he had only minutes, if that, before his injuries overcame him and when that time came he would welcome it – a blissful escape from the pain and sickness into darkness, but not yet. He had to check the girl. He had to check the house.
He staggered to his feet, but could only manage a crouching walk as he crossed the short distance to the motionless girl, although it seemed a mammoth trek to him. He kneeled next to her and first touched the base of his own back where all he could feel was a warm oily liquid. When he looked at his hand it was soaked in the darkest red blood he could ever remember seeing. He shook the image away and pushed the fingers of his other hand firmly into the side of the girl’s neck, feeling for a pulse from her carotid artery. After a few seconds he found it – weak, but there – enough to spur him into tearing the bottom section of her dress clear and using it to press hard on the only wound he could find – a deep knife stab in her abdomen. He placed the little girl’s own hands across the desperate bandage to provide some weight and breathed a sigh of relief as the bleeding seemed to slow, although he knew that her only chance of survival was to get her to an A&E unit as fast as possible. Suddenly he remembered his radio – pressing the transmit button, he steeled himself to speak.
‘Officer needs urgent assistance and an ambulance on the hurry up at 15 Gillett Avenue.’ He waited for the response from Control.
‘All units, officer needs urgent assistance at 15 Gillett Avenue. Repeat, officer needs urgent assistance at 15 Gillett Avenue.’ The female voice was then instantly followed by a cacophony of voices and call signs accepting the call to urgent assistance before Control spoke again. ‘914, are you injured at all?’
He managed the smallest of ironic laughs as he looked at his bloodstained hand before answering. ‘Yes,’ he spoke into the radio. ‘Two, maybe more stab wounds.’
‘Where have you been stabbed?’ Control demanded.
‘In the back,’ he stuttered, his strength failing, giving him the urgency to press on. ‘I have to check the house.’
‘Wait till we get back-up to you, 914,’ Control insisted. ‘Stay out the house until we can get you some assistance.’
‘I can’t,’ he told them. ‘She said “They’re inside”. I have to know.’
‘Wait for back-up, 914. Stay clear of the house.’ But King wasn’t listening any more as he dragged himself to his feet and stumbled towards the doorway and the darkness beyond.
He steadied himself against the frame, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness, trying to blink the increasing amounts of sweat