Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Read Online Free PDF Page A

around to read SURGERY
CLOSED. The Sikh was first to leave, followed by one of the women
doctors, then two of the receptionists, and finally Dr McKenzie
appeared, wearing a beige raincoat and carrying a black medical
bag. He walked around to the car park and got into a black BMW.
    ‘Don’t get too
close,’ said Nightingale, as the doctor drove out of the car park
and down the road.
    ‘Do you think?’
said Jenny, putting the Audi into gear.
    ‘I’m just
trying to be helpful,’ said Nightingale.
    The doctor
drove east along the A222 to Bromley, the turned off the main road
into a side street of terraced houses. He slowed and was clearly
looking for somewhere to park. ‘Best I drop you near him so you can
follow him on foot,’ said Jenny.
    ‘I’ll find a
place to park.’ McKenzie had spotted a gap between two SUVs and
switched on his turn indictor before slowly reversing.
    Nightingale
climbed out of the Audi and lit a cigarette as McKenzie parked the
car. Jenny drove slowly down the road.
    McKenzie got
out of his BMW with his medical bag and headed down the street.
Nightingale followed him on the other side of his road. The doctor
walked quickly, his head down, deep in his own thoughts, until he
reached a house with a blue door. He stopped, pressed the doorbell,
and a couple of moments later slipped inside. Nightingale wasn’t
able to see who had let him in. He crossed over the road. The house
was Number 26. He took out his phone and called Jenny.
    ‘I’m parked up,
not far away from where I dropped you,’ she said.
    ‘He’s gone
inside Number 26.’
    ‘Can you see
anything?’
    ‘Nah. I’m going
to try to get around the back.’
    ‘Be careful,
Jack.’
    ‘Careful is my
middle name,’ he said, ending the call and walking quickly down the
road. He counted the houses as he went. By the time he got to the
corner, he had reached eight. There was a narrow alley running
behind the houses. Nightingale flicked away what was left of his
cigarette and headed down the alley. There were wooden gates set
into the eight-feet high brick walls that ran either side of the
alley. Few of the gates had numbers on them but Nightingale was
able to count off the gates until he reached Number 26. He pushed
the gate and it opened. He winced as the hinges squeaked. He opened
it just enough to peer through. There was a small backyard with a
rubbish bin and an oblong earthenware planter that seemed to be
full of herbs. Or weeds. The backyard was illuminated by light from
a frosted glass window upstairs, presumably a bathroom, and a
softer light from a downstairs window. He pushed the gate again,
wincing at the squeak from the hinges. He squeezed through the gap
and gently closed the gate behind him.
    He stood with
his back to the wall, his heart pounding. The backyard was the
width of the terraced house and about twelve feet long. There were
two bikes leaning against one wall and a rotary clothes line from
which were hanging half a dozen men’s boxer shorts and several
dresses that looked as if they would be worn by a twelve-year-old
girl.
    There were
blinds over the window but they weren’t fully closed, allowing
light to spill out into the backyard. Nightingale moved forward on
tiptoe.
    Through the
gaps in the blind he could see into the kitchen. A young girl was
sitting at the kitchen table. She had rolled up the sleeves of her
shirt and was holding her arms out. Dr McKenzie was sitting
opposite her. His opened medical bag was on a chair next to him. A
man in his fifties, bald and overweight, was standing by the
cooker, his arms folded, a look of concern on his face.
    The doctor was
removing a dressing from the young girl’s right hand. The dressing
was bloody and when he pulled it away Nightingale could see a small
wound in the girl’s palm, not much bigger than a five-pence piece.
The doctor put the dressing in a plastic bag and then removed a
similar dressing from her left hand.
    Nightingale realised that he’d been