“Where?”
“Outside a pub.”
“Which pub?”
A pause. Too long.
“Don’t know.”
I nodded, like that made sense. It rarely did. I checked his pupils, pressed gently along his ribs. He flinched hard on the left, breath hitching despite himself.
“That hurts?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Reckon.”
There was a shape to the injuries that didn’t sit right. The bruise on his cheekbone was well developed, hours old. The blood on his knuckles fresh and the cut above his eye not quite swollen enough to be more than an hour old. The cut to his lip was older, scabbed and dried.
The injuries spread across his torso. This wasn’t a single impact. This was controlled. Repeated. Someone taking their time. A punishment. Or a lesson. Torture. My stomach dropped, unease settling low.
“You lose consciousness at all?” I asked.
He shook his head quickly. Too quickly, closing his eyes as he muttered. “Nah.”
The paramedic caught my eye. A flicker. The smallest shrug. I thanked them and they peeled away, already being called somewhere else. The man was quiet as I cleaned him up, compliant in the way people are when they don’t want attention.
“Any medical history I should know about?” I asked.
“No.”
“Medication?”
“No.”
“Allergies?”
“No.”
I sighed inwardly and straightened. “We’ll need X-rays. Ribs, face. Possibly a CT if you start vomiting or get a headache.”
“Do I have to?” he asked, finally looking at me, before glancing away again and out into the corridor behind.
“Yes,” I said. “You do.”
He nodded, saying nothing more.
“We’ll get you down to imaging as soon as we can,” I smiled, feigning confidence, pulling the curtain open to leave and turning into them.
Two pillars of dark denim and leather stood just outside the cubicle. They wore cuts, worn and familiar, badges creating a chaotic pattern on the front. An arc was stitched down the left-hand side. Red and black. Ominous. Not the same as the man earlier. Their colours were different, their energy still but oppressive. And just something about them felt dangerous.
They stepped away as I stepped out. They didn’t block the curtain nor crowd me, respecting my space as I moved past them. Nothing they did was unusual. But there was just something off. One leaned against the wall and folded his arms over a wide chest. The other stood straight, eyes tracking the corridor with bored efficiency.
“Family?” I asked as I moved back towards the cubicle.
“Friends,” one of them answered.
The man on the trolley made a sound then.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too loudly. “Just need patching up.”
