Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The sound that came from him was almost inhuman; an anguished, animalistic scream.

Detective Inspector Helen Grace crouched over the injured teenager, her hands clamped to the bloody hole in his stomach. She was working hard to convince the young man that he was going to be OK, but he was obviously terrified. Despite Helen's words of reassurance, the injured man cried out again, wild and desperate, appealing to his mother, God, anyone to end his torment, a thick belch of blood spurting out over Helen's hands as he did so.

‘Jason, I need you to look at me. Can you look at me?'

‘It hurts so bad,' the teenager moaned, his eyes scanning the heavens.

‘I know, but I'm right here with you and I'm going to make sure you're OK. I'm a police officer, I know what I'm doing. You'll be fine …'

To her surprise, the teenager started to weep. Whether this was provoked by the pain racking his body or the realization that the best he could hope for tonight was to be arrested and charged, Helen wasn't sure, but it made no difference. Either way he was a pitiful sight. This boy, no more than seventeen years old, had wanted to play at being a gangster, but now faced the prospect of bleeding out in a cold, dark street.

‘The paramedics are coming,' Helen added soothingly. ‘Any minute now, you'll be on your way to South Hants Hospital. They'll have you patched up and back on your feet in no time.'

And then what? Helen knew that the teenager would be surplus to requirements in the criminal fraternity now, even if he did somehow manage to avoid prison. He had messed up big time, ambushed whilst ferrying a holdall of cash across town, and would surely pay for his failure, via exile or death. Helen sincerely hoped it would be the former.

Turning, Helen craned round, trying to see past the crowd of onlookers. Despite her comforting words, the teenager was dying in front of her, so it was to her immense relief that she now heard the squeal of brakes, the sound of doors slamming, then two paramedics hurrying into view, pushing through the crowds. Racing over, they crouched down next to the injured teenager, the lead medic slipping on a pair of latex gloves as he relieved Helen of her charge.

‘His name's Jason Matthews and he's seventeen years old,' Helen reported, wiping the gore from her hands as she straightened up. ‘Significant blood loss caused by two pistol shots to the abdomen. No other signs of injury. The shooters are long gone, so you're safe to move him whenever you like.'

‘Let's get cracking then,' the paramedic breathed, nodding his thanks to Helen.

As he spoke, a third paramedic approached, pushing a stretcher, so Helen retreated, giving the emergency team the space they needed to work. Turning, she directed her steps towards the teenager's dented moped, which remained on its side, its engine purring. Slipping on her gloves, Helen reached down to switch it off, before turning her attention to the ripped holdall that lay close by, now devoid of its precious contents. A few twenty-pound notes had been lost in the struggle, fluttering around the hushed street as the wind picked up. Methodically, Helen chased them down, gathering and bagging the notes in the hope of shedding some light on the hidden faces behind tonight's bloodshed. As she did so, however, she noticed a young boy, no more than eleven, attempting to steal one of the missing notes, which had blown across to the other side of the street.

‘I wouldn't if I were you …' Helen growled.

Startled, the child retreated swiftly, disappearing into the shadows, leaving the abandoned note behind. Helen scooped it up quickly, sealed the bag, and then turned once more to take in the scene. It was a sight that was depressingly familiar, the escalating feud between rival drugs gangs in the city becoming ever more blatant, ever bolder. This was the third such incident in as many weeks, all of them played out in heavily residential areas, all of them involving deadly weapons, be they zombie knives, machetes or pistols. People in the city were desperate, ground down by spiralling living costs, rising crime and family breakdown, and when people were desperate, the dealers thrived. Drugs were big business in Southampton right now and competition was rife, which meant only one thing – bloodshed. Helen had the sickening feeling that the gangs in the city were gearing up for all-out war, a development that would have serious consequences for everyone, not least her own unit, which often found itself chasing thugs who shot first and asked questions later. Helen had been quickly on the scene tonight, hearing gunfire as she drove home, the shooters vanishing moments before she arrived. What would have happened if she'd arrived seconds earlier? Would she have found herself in the firing line?

Pushing these thoughts away, Helen returned to the paramedics, who were gently lifting the injured teenager onto a stretcher. This was the human cost of people's desperation, the price of their addiction. Two years ago, this kid would have been at school, messing around with his mates, flirting with girls, behaving like an ordinary teenager. Now he was fighting for his life, blood seeping from his wounds, even as he screamed for his mother.

Would he live to see her again? Or would he die before he made it to the hospital? Helen couldn't be sure. She had done all she could for him, might even have saved his life, but was it enough? Was it ever enough? With the situation worsening day by day, with each new outrage presaging further bloodshed, Helen felt increasingly helpless and despairing, as the city she knew and loved prepared to plunge headlong into the abyss.