The Going Down of the Sun by Jo Bannister Page B

in round the edges where the panic was receding. He seemed uncertain where he was, what he was doing, and how he came by the crystal weapon in his hand. It was as if he was waking from a nightmare only to find he had brought the essence of the horror out with him. There was the makings of fresh panic in that, the incomprehensible loss of sense and self and time. I sensed it bubbling up in him, like nitrogen bubbling lethally in a diver’s blood. I sensed, like before, the silent cry of desperation from his soul to mine.
    He was still crouched in his corner, half naked, his plastered arm braced against the wall, the jagged glass in his hand extended towards my throat. But I knew he was no danger to me, knew how desperately he needed someone to take control of the situation and end the vicious little drama in which, unaccountably, he found himself. It was thus an act of no bravery at all when I stepped quietly, steadily towards him, my hand out, palm up.
    â€œGive me the glass, Alex, before someone gets cut.”
    Neil Burns behind me murmured, “Careful,” and Baker hissed, “He’ll carve her.”
    But Alex Curragh was never going to hurt me, not unless I forced him to. His dark eyes ached for help. Compassion twisted a hard knot behind my breastbone.
    His voice came with difficulty and deliberation from somewhere low in his throat. The words came out slow and measured, as if that was the only alternative to screaming them. He got out, “I don’t know what I’m doing …”
    I said, “It’s all right, Alex. It’s just the shock. Give me the glass.”
    I couldn’t take it by the points. My hand touched his as I closed my fingers round the unbroken heel, and he yielded the ugly thing to me not only willingly but with relief. I heard the air sigh out of his lungs. He straightened a little in his corner and his eyes half closed.
    There was quick movement behind me. Neil Burns swept me into the protective compass of his long arms, and extracted the broken glass from my fingers as carefully as I had taken it from Curragh. By then Baker and his oppo had the boy pinned to the wall, not violently but with some force: I heard his back thump against it and the rest of the air rush from his lungs, and the sharp crack of plaster on plaster.
    I cried, “Don’t hurt him!” and Neil shouted, “Mind that arm!”
    For a moment he all but disappeared behind the greater bulk of the two policemen. Then, once they had their hands on him, they relaxed a little, their broad shoulders parting, and I saw his eyes, lonely and afraid and crying out for help. He didn ‘t make a sound.
    Baker’s sergeant was reaching for handcuffs. “Don’t you dare,” exclaimed Neil Burns, the tremor of his anger racing through his body into mine. After a moment’s thought the sergeant put them back in his pocket.
    â€œWell,” said Baker heavily, “that was some performance. Where do we go from here?”
    â€œHe’s not leaving this hospital,” Neil said firmly. “And, in my professional opinion, he is not at this moment sufficiently rational to be answering your questions.”
    â€œWhat do you suggest?”
    â€œMedically? I could sedate him, but if it was an IR it would likely make him worse and he still couldn’t answer your questions. I think I’d prescribe a pot of tea, and discussing the weather until he’s calmed down enough to start making some sense.”
    â€œHe was making sense enough before,” growled the sergeant. “We asked him about the death of Alison McAllister and he went for us with a broken glass.”
    It was near enough fair comment. You couldn’t blame them for thinking it was cause and effect; maybe it was. I said, “I know what it looks like, but don’t read too much into it. It could just be shock: sheer physical and emotional overload. This time yesterday I was trying to start