The Sh0ut Page 5

  Mitchell and Jones came into the room and rushed over to pull away the rest of the debris that covered her legs.

  Beech went to lift her up but Noller grabbed his arm. ‘No mate, there’s no way of knowing what state’s she’s in. We need a stretcher, and a neck brace.’

  Beech nodded and stood up. ‘We need a stretcher, asap,’ he said into the radio.

  ‘Vicky!’ shouted Noller. ‘Vicky, can you hear me?’

  Her eyes stayed closed. Her chest didn’t seem to be moving but the heavy jacket could account for that. Noller felt for a pulse and again he couldn’t find one. He looked up at Beech and Beech nodded. He was sure she was alive.

  Noller ran his hands down her legs. He couldn’t feel any obvious breaks but again the insulated leggings could conceal a multitude of sins. He winced when he saw the damage that had been done to her left hand. She’d lost a glove and burning debris had been lying on it, the flesh had been cooked like barbecued steak, black streaked with red.

  He looked at Beech and grimaced. ‘She’s a fucking mess, all right.’

  ‘She’s alive, Colin. That’s enough. After what she’s been through, she’s lucky.’

  Noller pointed at her mangled face. ‘You call that lucky?’

  ‘Leave it, mate. Let’s just get her to hospital and they can sort it out.’

  The basket stretcher arrived within minutes. It was made of lightweight aluminium with plastic padding. The firefighter who brought it was from the Soho Fire Rescue Unit, and he also had a neck brace with him. Beech undid her tunic and fitted the brace, then he and Noller gently lifted her onto the stretcher. They carried her downstairs with Mitchell and Jones and rushed her over to a waiting ambulance.

  Abbey and Blackwell ran over. ‘How is she?’ asked Abbey, just beating Blackwell to the question.

  ‘She’s got a pulse,’ said Beech. ‘Faint but it’s there.’

  A paramedic wearing green overalls went over and he winced when he saw the burns to her face and neck. ‘Get her in the back of the ambulance,’ he said, his voice a low monotone.

  The firefighters were used to handling casualties and they got Vicky into the ambulance quickly and efficiently and then piled out to give the paramedic room to move. The paramedic spoke to the driver, slammed the back door shut, and the siren and lights kicked in as the ambulance drove away.

  As the siren faded into the distance, a red Volkswagen fire investigation unit drove slowly through the police cordon and parked behind one of the Soho pumps. A grey-haired man in his fifties climbed out, wearing a fluorescent jacket over his uniform. Blackwell waved over at him. His name was Willie Campbell, one of the brigade’s most experienced investigators. ‘The early bird, Willie?’ said Blackwell as Campbell walked over. Investigators wore the same uniforms and boots as regular firefighters as more often than not they entered premises that, if not actually burning, were still smouldering. Fire was an efficient destroyer of evidence so the investigators tended to move in quickly.

  ‘It’s been a quiet night up until now,’ said Campbell, pulling on his white helmet with its black comb and thin black horizontal line that denoted his watch manager rank. ‘So what’s the story?’

  ‘The fire started in the bar,’ said Blackwell, pointing to the left of the building. ‘Spread across to the hotel and has now moved into the top floors. We’ve had to pull out. The stairs are pretty much gone and it’s just too dangerous in there. There’s a turntable ladder en route from Soho and another from Old Kent Road. Soon as they’re here we can attack the top floor. The first floor is under control but we’ve had to move back from the second. As you can see we’re putting water in through the windows we can reach. The difficulty is it’s all wood and plaster, and God knows how many layers of wallpaper.’

  Campbell nodded. ‘It’s an old building, all right. Should have been torn down years ago.’

  ‘It’s listed,’ said Blackwell. ‘Of architectural interest or whatever they call it.’

  ‘A bloody death trap, that’s what I call it,’ said Campbell. ‘Who phoned it in?’

  ‘Anonymous passer-by saw smoke. By the time we got here the bar was burning. There were persons inside so we sent in a BA team. Two casualties were retrieved but Vicky was injured. She was in that ambulance that just left.’

  ‘Vicky? Your Vicky Lewis?’

  Blackwell nodded.

  ‘Shit. Sorry to hear that. How is she?’

  ‘Badly burnt. The third floor collapsed underneath her and she fell down to the second.’

  There was a crashing sound from the top of the building and several slates smashed to the pavement.

  ‘It’s going to be a while before you can get in there, Willie,’ said Blackwell.

  Campbell nodded. ‘No problem, I’ll be in the van getting started on the paperwork.’ He headed back to his vehicle as Blackwell looked up at the burning building.

  6

  The first time Vicky woke up she was fairly sure she’d only just arrived at the hospital because she was in a lot of pain, mainly down the left-hand side of her body. An Asian woman was looking down at her, the bottom of her face hidden behind a pale blue mask. The woman was either a doctor or a nurse and she knew Vicky’s name, her first name at least. ‘You’re okay, Vicky, you’re in hospital. Don’t worry, we’re going to take care of you, just stay calm and breathe slowly and evenly. You’re going to be fine, Vicky. Don’t worry.’

  Vicky didn’t believe the woman. She doubted that she was fine. All the strength had gone from her limbs and it was only the pain that convinced her she wasn’t dead already. Doctors and nurses lied. They had to, because sometimes the truth was too brutal and people couldn’t deal with it. Firefighters lied too, sometimes. They had to. Vicky had lied to a ten-year-old girl once, trapped under a bus as her life blood drained away into the gutter. The ambulance had been on its way but there was no way it was going to get there in time. Vicky had been just six weeks into the job and it was her first fatality. The little girl’s name was Sara and she had been going to school, tapping away on her smartphone as she stepped in front of the bus. The bus had gone right over her and then stopped and the car behind had rammed into it.

  The pump had arrived before the ambulance, but after the police. The two police officers had no medical gear and were clearly out of their depth and Vicky had been left to deal with the injured child. Except there was nothing she could do, the injuries were just too severe, the wheel had gone over her midsection and crushed her internal organs. Vicky had started carrying out emergency medical care procedures but she realised that it was pointless. Sara didn’t seem to be feeling any pain, though she kept saying she was cold even though it was a hot summer’s day. Vicky had taken off her helmet and her tunic and she had lain down next to the little girl and held her and hugged her and told her that everything was going to be all right. It was a lie, and one that Vicky repeated over and over again until the little girl had given a final shiver and died. So when the nurse or the doctor or whoever she was told Vicky that she was going to be fine, she didn’t believe her and when she closed her eyes she truly thought it was going to be for the last time.

  The second time she opened her eyes there was a nurse standing over her, red-haired with round spectacles and a kindly smile. ‘Can you hear me, Vicky?’ she asked. She had a Newcastle accent. A Geordie. Vicky tried to talk but her throat was red raw, ‘It’s okay, Vicky, you just relax,’ she said. ‘The operation went well, you’re going to be fine. You just relax now and get better.’ Then Vicky felt something warm flow through her left arm and she closed her eyes and slept a dreamless sleep.

  The third time she woke up her father was standing at the side of her bed, in full firefighting gear and with his yellow helmet on his head. He smiled down at her. ‘Look at the state of you, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘You’ve been in the wars.’

  ‘I saved that man though,’ she said. ‘I got him out.’

  Her father nodded. ‘Yes you did, sweetheart.’

>   ‘Are you proud of me, Dad?’

  He chuckled. ‘Of course. As proud as punch.’

  His uniform was wet, she realised, as if he’d just come from a shout. And there were dirty smears across his face.

  ‘I love you, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘I love you, too, sweetheart.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you now?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, sweetheart. You stay where you are.’

  ‘I’m so tired, Dad.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But I saved him. I got him out.’

  ‘And that’s what’s important.’

  ‘Yes. And you’re proud of me?’

  ‘I said I was, sweetheart. And I am.’

  She sighed and closed her eyes. She had no way of telling how long she kept them closed, but when she opened them again he had gone and her mum was there, sitting at the side of the bed, reading a book.

  ‘I saw Dad,’ said Vicky, and her mum jumped.

  ‘You’re awake,’ she said.

  ‘Dad was here,’ said Vicky.

  ‘They’re pumping you full of all sorts of painkillers and drugs,’ said her mum.

  ‘He said he was proud of me.’

  Her mum smiled tearfully. ‘We all are, honey,’ she said. ‘You did a very brave thing. You saved that man’s life.’ She wiped away tears. ‘I thought I’d lost you, Vicky. They said …’ She sniffed. ‘I don’t know what I would have done …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  ‘No need to be sorry. You and your dad, peas from the same bloody pod.’

  ‘Mum …’ Vicky tried to say more but she felt as if she was wrapped in warm, cosy, cotton wool and consciousness slipped away again. She lost all sense of time as she lay in the hospital bed. Sometimes when she opened her eyes there was someone there, usually her mum, sometimes she was alone. She never saw her father again. There was a constant beeping noise and there was always a drip connected to her arm. She presumed the drip was feeding into her veins whatever it was that was keeping her feeling all warm and cosy.

  After a week she was moved out of intensive care and they cut back on her medication. She was still weak and couldn’t get out of bed and she hated the fact that she wasn’t able to get to the bathroom. But the nurses were friendly and helpful and her mum was there most of the time.

  The surgeon who had removed a big chunk of her spleen came around most days, always with the same message: she was getting better and he was pleased with her progress.

  There was a dressing on her left hand and arm and her left leg was in plaster. And there were dressings on her face and neck. They were the ones that worried her the most. Whenever she asked the doctor how bad the burns were on her face he would just smile and say it was early days, that she would take time to heal. She realised he was avoiding answering the question but at least he wasn’t lying to her.

  7

  ‘Miss Lewis?’ The voice seemed to be coming from a long way away, as if whoever was speaking to her was at the end of a tunnel. ‘Miss Lewis, are you awake?’

  Vicky opened her eyes. There were two men standing at the side of her bed. They both wore dark suits, pale blue shirts and striped ties. One was older with grey thinning hair, the other was in his early thirties with a tan that looked as if it might have been sprayed on. She couldn’t tell which one had spoken. She frowned up at them. ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is William Goldberg,’ said the older of the two. ‘I represent the company that owns the building where you were …’ He hesitated before finishing the sentence. ‘Where you had your accident.’ He nodded at the man standing next to him. ‘This is my colleague. Mr Allsop.’ The younger man smiled and nodded. Goldberg held out a business card to her, then realised that she couldn’t take it with her bandaged arms and hands. ‘Sorry,’ he said. He put it on the tray next to her bed. ‘I’ll leave it here. It has all my office details and my mobile number.’

  ‘What is it you want, Mr Goldberg?’

  ‘We want you to know that our clients are horrified by what happened and want you to know that they will do whatever they can to put this right.’

  Vicky frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Compensation, Miss Lewis. We are in the process of putting together a substantial compensation package for you. After what has happened … your injuries … my clients want to make sure that you are looked after.’

  ‘Looked after?’

  ‘My clients will take care of all your medical bills, and will compensate you for your injuries.’

  ‘Medical bills?’ she repeated. ‘This is an NHS hospital.’

  ‘Of course it is, yes, but it might be that you will get a better standard of care in the private sector. Then there is the plastic surgery.’

  ‘Plastic surgery?’

  ‘I’m told that extensive cosmetic surgery will be required and it might be quicker if it was done privately.’ He grimaced. ‘I know the NHS does its best, but they are over-stretched at the best of times.’

  ‘Who said I’d need cosmetic surgery? Have you been talking to my doctors?’

  ‘We needed to know what surgery will be required in order to put together your compensation package, that’s all. Miss Lewis, please, we’re here to help. We just want to make sure that you are taken care of.’

  ‘Because you’re scared I’ll sue, is that it?’

  ‘Why would you sue us, Miss Lewis? You are a firefighter who was injured in the course of performing her duties. The premises had been adequately secured and were in the care of a reputable security firm. So far as anyone knew the building was unoccupied. If at any time the security company had been made aware that someone had gained admittance, they would surely have done something about it.’ Goldberg had been speaking quickly, as if he was delivering a prepared speech. He stopped, and smiled, though his eyes were cold and calculating and not in the least bit friendly. ‘We’re here to help, Miss Lewis. To make good what has happened. You’re a hero. You went into a blazing building to rescue a homeless person, and you paid a heavy price. We want to help you get through this as best we can, that’s all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Vicky coldly.

  ‘We’ll get an official proposal drawn up and you can have a look at it. But I can assure you it will be a generous settlement. The company I represent is very well aware it has obligations to you and they are committed to fulfilling those obligations.’

  ‘Who are the owners?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘The building is owned by an investment vehicle,’ said Goldberg. ‘They purchase properties and redevelop them. The company is in a very healthy state financially so making good on their commitment to you won’t be an issue, Miss Lewis.’

  The door to the room opened. It was Zachary Khan, the surgeon who had operated on her. She had called him Dr Khan the first time he had introduced himself but he had reminded her quite forcefully that doctors were ‘doctor’ and surgeons ‘mister’. He’d been in to see her more than a dozen times and wasn’t one for small talk. She knew he was from Scotland from his accent but other than that and his name and the fact that he’d saved her life, she knew nothing about him.

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I need a few words with my patient. You can wait outside if you want.’

  Goldberg smiled without warmth. ‘No, we’re finished here.’ He looked back at Vicky. ‘We’ll be in touch, Miss Lewis,’ he said.

  Vicky nodded and smiled.

  The two men left the room. ‘Lawyers?’ asked the surgeon.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘The suits. The briefcases. The cold dead eyes.’ Vicky chuckled. ‘One thing is for sure, they’re not firemen,’ said the surgeon.

  ‘That’s the truth,’ said Vicky. ‘They represent the company that owns the building.’

  ‘Worried that you’re going to sue them?’

  ‘Actually no. They were talking about compensation.’

  He looked at her over the top of his spectacles. �
��Sounds as if they’re getting their defence in first,’ he said. ‘You should talk to a lawyer. Your own lawyer.’

  ‘I’m not going to sue, Mr Khan. I made the decision to go in, no one forced me.’

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t had ambulance chasers queuing up in the corridor. Bloody parasites.’ He looked at the iPad in his hand. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to pop in and say that all’s good. You’re making tremendous progress. As you know we removed a large section of your spleen but what is left is functioning nicely. As I explained, you can live quite happily without a spleen but it’s better to have one if you can.’ He looked up from the iPad. ‘And you still have one, so that’s good. Your broken bones are all healing nicely. The big issue now is your hand. It’s healing but we have to deal with the motor issues, and for that I’ll be handing you over to another specialist.’ He clasped the iPad to his chest. ‘So my work here is pretty much done. It’s been a pleasure working with you. I wish all my patients were as easy to deal with as you.’

  ‘Thanks for all you’ve done,’ she said. ‘You saved my life.’

  The surgeon shook his head. ‘You’re the hero, Vicky. I just patched you up.’

  ‘The lawyers were talking about cosmetic surgery.’

  ‘Yes, well, they could probably do something to improve their looks,’ said the surgeon. ‘The older one would definitely benefit from a facelift.’

  Vicky laughed. ‘They were referring to me.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the surgeon.

  ‘So are they right? Am I going to need cosmetic surgery?’

  ‘That’s not my field, Vicky. I’m more internal.’

  ‘I understand. But I’m going to need plastic surgery, right?’

  ‘If you do, then it’s for down the line. The important thing now is that we get you up and about. As I said, the work on your spleen has gone well and your fractures are healing. I can understand you are worried about the damage to your face, but on a positive note your eyesight is fine and your hearing in your left ear hasn’t been affected.’