Cuttin' Heads

2

2“I tell you what, son, escaping from Stalag was easier than getting out of this place. Food was better as well.”

“I don't doubt it, Duncy,” Ross McArthur says to the old man in the wheelchair he's pushing. “There's a few nurses in here I imagine would've been right at home on Hitler's staff.”

“Aye, yer no kiddin there,” Duncy Brown agrees. “Coupe of wee crackers as well though, eh? If I was a few years younger I'd be rattling them left right and centre.” He lets out a lascivious Sid James-esque cackle, thumping the padded armrest of the wheelchair a couple of times with his large bony fist for emphasis. “Young lad like you must do alright in that department, working here, eh?” He cranes his head round and looks over his shoulder at Ross, waggling his busy white eyebrows suggestively, a knowing grin on his deeply wrinkled face.

Ross laughs. “Ach, mon now, Duncy. A gentleman never tells. Though I've heard the big redhead nurse in your ward's mad for it, and has a thing for older guys. Can get a hold of a couple of Viagra for you if you fancy your chances?”

Duncy cackles again “Cheeky wee bugger!” he crows, throwing a playful but hard elbow backward into Ross's midriff. “I'll fuckin Viagra ye! The amount of bullets I've taken in ma time, son, there's enough lead in ma pencil to stock a Staedtler factory.”

A young dark haired nurse passing them in the corridor bursts out laughing.

“Aye, you know it, sweetheart,” Duncy says, tipping her a saucy wink as she goes by. Ross rolls his eyes apologetically at the nurse. She favours him with a pretty smile in response. Claire, he thinks her name is. One of the student nurses down from Strathclyde Uni.

“Christ sake, Duncy,” he says as they roll on down the corridor toward the X-Ray department. “Leave some for the rest of us, eh?”

Ross had got to know and like Sergeant Duncan Brown immensely in the two weeks he'd been in the Inverclyde Royal recovering from his knee surgery. The old boy, who'd spent much of his life as an active member of the 51st Highland Division, 1st Battalion of the Black Watch, had an endless store of anecdotes and war stories. Some that made you laugh, others that made you want to weep. Eighty-three years old, but lacking none of his mental faculties, and still possessed of a thousand yard stare that could wither an oak tree. The medals he'd shown Ross, the bullet wound scars that pocked his wiry body in alarming numbers, they were evidence of the depths of the old soldier's life. The faded military emblem tattooed on his right forearm, its blurred, barely legible Latin scrollwork reading the motto of the Black Watch. Nemo me impune lacessit.

They're passing by the A&E department when Ross hears the raised voice from the waiting room.

“How much longer is this gonnae take? Ah've got s**t tae dae!”

He pauses for a moment, looking through the doorway into the waiting area. Pretty busy for a Tuesday afternoon. There are six people in there, spaced out among the cheap chairs, most of which are badly worn and leaking padding from tears in the seats like yellow foam hernias. At the reception window is a big guy who looks like he's stepped out of the Neds R Us summer catalogue, resplendent in sovereign rings, a hand drawn neck tattoo, and wearing an expensive tracksuit, though he doesn't look like any sort of athlete. He's glaring through the glass at Linda, the wee receptionist on the other side. She's calmly telling him it shouldn't be too much longer, but they're busier than normal today.

“f**k sake, ah've been here for a fuckin hour awready. Ma wean needs seen tae.”

Ross sees the wean. A pale, scrawny limbed specimen in dirty tracksuit bottoms and a Power Rangers t-shirt. Dark, close cropped hair and bags under his eyes. Maybe eight or nine years old, sitting by himself. His bare right foot's propped up on the low coffee table strewn with torn dog-eared copies of Heat and Now from three years ago. His ankle's badly swollen. The kid looks scared, watching on as Neck Tat loudly expounds on the failings of the NHS with much finger pointing and colourful turns of phrase.

“Hold on a second, Duncy,” Ross says to his patient.

“Aye, no bother, son,” Duncy replies, watching the unfolding scene closely.

Ross walks unnoticed past Neck Tat, who's still ranting at poor Linda behind the reception window, and squats down next to the skinny kid, who regards him warily.

“Alright, wee man,” Ross says with a smile. “What you done to yourself here, then?” He nods at the kid's bruised, grapefruit sized ankle. The boy drops his eyes and murmurs something barely audible. “Sorry, pal? Say again?”

“Playin fitba,” the kid squeaks, only slightly louder, still avoiding Ross's eyes. His small hands twitch and fidget nervously in his lap.

“Fitba, eh? Dangerous game. Looks a sore one,” Ross says, now seeing the other bruises, four small, roundish marks on the left side of the kid's neck, just above the frayed collar of his t-shirt. He rises from his crouch and sits down in the empty chair on the kid's right. As he suspected, there's another single bruise on that side of his neck. Ross feels his jaw tighten. “You get injured a lot?”

The little kid glances up at Ross quickly, then goes back to studying his hands, still twisting in his lap. He doesn't answer, but the haunted look Ross sees in the brief second their eyes meet tells its own story. It's a look he's well acquainted with, one that a lot of the kids at Eastburn had. A look he'd seen in the mirror.

Ross goes to lay a hand on the wean's shoulder, but he cringes away as if expecting a fist. “It's okay, buddy,” Ross says quietly, withdrawing his hand. He nods toward the tracksuited marvel still berating Linda. “That your dad?” he asks the boy. Again, the wee man looks away, then nods.

“Okay,” Ross says. “I'm gonnae go and talk to him, then we'll get you sorted out, aye? Keep the chin up, wee man.”

The wee man's dad still hasn't noticed Ross, involved as he now is in making his point about the waiting time by kicking the wall beneath the reception desk window. He only becomes aware of his presence when Ross steps up beside him and says, “You need to keep your voice down, pal.”

He turns and glares down at Ross. He's a big bastard. About thirty. Broad across the shoulders and big in the belly, with a boxer's face and at least three inches in height on Ross.

“Or fuckin' whit?” Sheer contempt ripping right out him. There's a familiar angry deadness in the man's eyes. Another look a lot of the kids, and a few of the teachers and orderlies in Eastburn had. The hard ones. The nutters. Flat, sharkish eyes.

Ross smiles pleasantly, then turns to the receptionist behind the partition. “Linda, could you tell me this guy's name, please?”

“I certainly can, Ross. This is Mr Neil Edward Donaldson,” Linda informs him.

“Excellent. His son's name?”

“Jamie Liam Donaldson.”

“And their address?”

“Flat G, twenty-four Bank Street in Greenock.”

“Splendid. Thanks very much, Linda.” Ross turns back to the ASBO poster boy. “Now, Mr Donaldson. We'll be with you as soon as we can. As you can see, we're a bit busy for a Tuesday afternoon. So just chill out, sit down and we'll get wee Jamie sorted soon as poss, alright?”

“Listen, mate,” Mr Neil Donaldson says loudly. “I don't gie a f**k how busy it is for a fuckin Tuesday. Ah cannae be sittin aboot here aw day.”

“Mr Donaldson. Sit down and shut up, or I'll have to ask you to leave.” That gets his attention.

“Aye? You gonnae fuckin' make me?”

“If needs be,” Ross says.

He knows the punch is coming. He'd known it the second he looked into the guy's eyes, and sure enough, Donaldson's face twists, he leans back slightly and raises his fist.

The punch never comes though. As soon as the prick's arm's up, Ross's left hand clamps into the exposed armpit, his thumb planted firmly into the brachial plexus nerve. In an instant, the expression on Donaldson's face changes. He makes a strange wheezing noise and immediately collapses to his knees. Crouching and keeping his thumb pressed into the man's oxter, Ross leans in close. “This is what you call a pressure point, fannybaws,” he says affably. “Now, we're walking.”

Quickly stepping behind him, Ross sets his left hand with a fistful of Adidas polyester and his right on the back of the father's neck, his talented fingers deftly finding the sensitive little hollow just behind and beneath the man's right ear. He thinks of the bruises on wee Jamie's neck and presses a little harder, making Donaldson cry out in agony.

“There we go,” Ross says, “Uppsy daisy.” Despite the man's size, Ross coaxes him to his feet with a slight twist of the fingers working his greater auricular nerve. Donaldson emits a strangled yelping sound and stands up in a hurry. Unceremoniously frogmarching the big ned towards the waiting room exit, Ross glances back over his shoulder at Duncy Brown. The old veteran is smiling broadly and softly applauding.

“I'll just be a minute, Duncy,” he says.

“Take yer time, son,” Duncy replies. “I'll look after the wee yin.” He gets up from the wheelchair, spry as a man a quarter his age, and goes to sit beside the scrawny kid, Jamie, who's now wearing a priceless look of awe on his face as he watches his arsehole of a father dragged about like an empty binbag.

Outside, Ross propels the other man round the corner to the rear loading area of the hospital. He looks left and right, checking there's no one around, making sure he's out of sight of the CCTV, then pushes the larger man against the wall. Donaldson starts to slide down the brick surface. Ross again takes hold of him, keeping him on his feet, this time with his right hand clamped around the man's windpipe. Donaldson's eyes widen in alarm as his air's suddenly cut off. His hands claw ineffectually at Ross's fingers.

“Now you listen to me, ya fuckin prick,” Ross says. “You're gonnae to go back in there, apologise to Linda in reception, then you're gonnae sit on yer arse and shut the f**k up. Agreed? Nod if you agree.”

The man nods, his face now turning a definite shade of purple. Spit hangs from his lips as he gasps and croaks for air. Ross takes just a little pressure off. Just enough so the cunt can squeeze a breath in, then brings his face closer, so close their noses are almost touching.

“And if I ever see that wean in here again with bruises in any place they shouldn't be, I swear to Christ I'll find you and I'll break your legs. I know your name. I know where you live. We clear? Nod if we're clear.”

They're clear.

When they return to the casualty admission room a few minutes later, Ross finds Duncy Brown sitting next to young Jamie, who's looking up at the old soldier, enrapt as Duncy entertains him with the story of how during the 1943 invasion of Sicily, armed with only a half empty pistol, a dagger and a few well-aimed rocks, he single-handedly took out a nazi machine g*n nest in the foothills of the volcano Mount Etna while there was an eruption going on. Ross had heard the story. Was a belter.

Ross stands close behind the now contrite father as he mumbles an apology to Linda before sitting down. Quietly. It might be Ross's imagination, but the kid's demeanour isn't quite so whipped anymore as his father slumps down into the plastic seat beside him, a sullen look on his face as he by turns rubs at his armpit, neck and throat.

“Right, big man,” Duncy says to Jamie. “I best get on. Don't let the bastards grind you down. What's our motto?”

The boy smiles, then says shyly, “Nemo… me… im… impune… lacessit.”

“Excellent pronunciation,” Duncy says. “And what does it mean?”

“No one attacks me with impunity,” Jamie says. And Ross definitely reckons there's a bit less fear about him now. Then again, talking to Duncy Brown could make you feel like that. Duncy's also looking at Donaldson, that thousand yard stare of his in full effect.

Ross can't help but smile a little as he brings Duncy's wheelchair over and the old boy groans dramatically as he shuffles into it and gets himself seated.

“Take care, buddy,” Ross says to the kid, “and just holler if you need anything, okay?” He makes a point of flicking his eyes in the father's direction on that last point. Jamie Donaldson smiles and nods, and Ross tips him a wink before turning away and wheeling Duncy out of the waiting room.

“Nicely done there, son,” Duncy compliments him as they continue to roll on down the corridor to X-Ray. “You know your stuff.”

“Just hope the wee man's alright. You see the marks on his neck?”

“Aye. Cruel big cunt. Well, whatever you said to him outside, looks like you've put the fear of God into him.”

“Hope so.”

His blood's cooled, the anger's passed, and now Ross McArthur just feels depressed. He knows putting the frighteners on the father was no guarantee of Jamie Donaldson's long term safety or happiness. At most, he'd probably given the wee guy a reprieve, and maybe, hopefully, a little heart. Likely, though, his dad would chill for a few weeks, maybe as long as a month or even a year, then continue smacking his son about, right up until the day Jamie was big enough to fight back. Ross had once shared a room with a boy who'd been very much like Jamie, and on the day he was big enough to fight back, he'd stabbed his father to death.

“So what you up to tonight, then?” Duncy asks. “Playing with your band?”

“Aye,” Ross says. “Lookin forward to it.”

And he was. f**k aye he was. The porter gig at the hospital was alright, and paid well enough, but it could be a bastard sometimes. Getting little glimpses into the stories of those who came and went through the hospital doors, all their little every day cruelties and tragedies. It could bring a man down, and get him het up. The band cheered him up. Made him forget the anger. As satisfying as it sometimes was to temporarily cripple an oxygen thief with just the precise application of his fingers, Ross McArthur enjoyed the feel of his hands on the frets of his Fender Jazz bass infinitely more.