It’s impossible for me to positively identify him as O’Shea; for all I know O’Shea’s the perp who’s attacked this guy. But I have to deal with what’s in front of me, regardless of my almost overwhelming misgivings. The dark stain soaking the floor beneath the man indicates that he’s losing a lot of blood. Staunching the flow is my priority.
I stuff the pepper spray canister into my pocket, ensuring it’s still within easy reach but not about to fall out when I need it most, and immediately start searching the limp body for wounds. He starts gurgling again and I curse aloud. ABC, I tell myself sternly. Airway, breathing, circulation, in that order. I need to get him into the recovery position.
I realise that his hands are secured with an old-fashioned set of steel cuffs. I keep my own pair, passed down from my father for old times’ sake, but I prefer using plastic ties these days, like most people. The fact that he’s been tied to a chair with a cumbersome old set means something. Not that I have the time to muse about it right now. The cuffs are looped around the wooden bracket at the back so I lift my foot on to it and kick downwards. Thankfully the chair is as rickety as the rest of this godforsaken house and it snaps with one blow, allowing the daemon’s arms to fall backwards. I extricate the hanging piece of wood and chuck it to one side, then yank him off the seat and onto the floor as quickly as I can, manoeuvring his body and neck to force his airway clear. He coughs weakly and my face is sprayed with a mist of blood droplets, letting me know I’ve been successful. Then I return to searching his inert form for the wound.
There are two: one piercing his side, just to the left of his upper rib cage, and one higher up at the base of his neck. Clearly it’s the neck wound I should be most concerned about. Using the base of one hand, I press hard to try and slow down the pulse of blood that’s pumping out. With my other hand, I dig out my phone and tap out 999 with my thumb. I lift it to my ear and, as it starts to ring, the daemon’s eyes snap open, orange slitted pupils taking me in through a glaze of pain. Well, it’s definitely O’Shea.
‘999, what’s your emergency?’
O’Shea shakes his head.
‘I’m in a house on Wiltshore Avenue,’ I say.
‘No.’
‘Number 23,’ I continue. ‘I need an ambulance immediately.’
He moans. ‘No. Stop.’
‘Is that Wiltshore Avenue in Belvedere or Trockston?’ enquires the voice.
O’Shea reaches up and grabs my wrist. Given the state that he’s in and the blood loss he’s suffered, his grip is surprisingly strong. ‘Tell them,’ he rasps, ‘and we’re both dead.’
I stare down at him. Death threats are nothing new in my line of work; daemons, even quarter-daemons, bleeding out in front of me, are. His eyes implore me.
‘If you don’t get to a hospital in the next five minutes, then you’re dead anyway,’ I tell him.
I can hear the emergency responder repeating her question. The futility of the situation hits me. We’re in Trockston, the worst end of Trockston, no less. No paramedic is going to rush to get here. They’d rather take their time so that whatever is going down has gone down by the time they arrive. Which means Devlin O’Shea won’t make it.
‘False alarm,’ I mutter into the receiver and hang up.
O’Shea blinks gratefully at me.
‘Don’t,’ I say, kneeling down and shoving him onto his side, then pulling out a pick so I can undo the cuffs and free his hands. ‘Don’t thank me. You’re about twenty breaths away from rejoining your maker down in the depths.’
I’m surprised at the ease with which I manage to unpick the lock. The cuffs fall, one steel circle hanging loosely from his left wrist. He mumbles something into my ear.
‘Nope,’ I reply with as much forced cheeriness as I can muster, ‘you’ll need to speak up if you want me to hear you.’
O’Shea doesn’t bother responding. I heave him onto my back in a piggyback and force his uncuffed hand up to his throat so he can continue to press on the wound. His weight drives my knees and shoulders downwards, but I do my best to ignore it and stagger to the door and on to the landing. I haul both myself and him down the stairs, this time thumping loudly with every step.
We’re barely at the bottom when my watch beeps, indicating I should at this point be entering the property to find him, not leaving the property with him. And certainly not with him half dead. Those last seven minutes felt more like a bloody hour.