Poetic Justice

2-1

2

Kieran Wright kept his eyes shut with an effort all through the ride from Oakhurst to the hospital in town. It wasn’t easy; every time the ambulance hit a bump or made a turn he wanted to look around to figure out where he was. He was determined not to do that, however. So long as his hands remained cuffed, he had no intention of letting either the crew of the ambulance or the police officer watching over him know that he was conscious.

It did not become any easier to conceal that he was no longer unconscious when he reached the hospital. He was transferred from the ambulance’s stretcher to a trolley and wheeled away somewhere, which he struggled to identify as a cubicle in the emergency department using just his hearing — he had never before appreciated how hard it was to work out where he was, or what was going on, without looking, and he could only wonder how much longer it would be before someone realised that he was faking being unconscious.

Fortunately, neither the nurse nor the doctor who appeared gave him more than a cursory examination before sending for a porter to take him for an x-ray.

It was when he and his escort, Constable Pritchard, reached the x-ray department, where he was to be examined for a possible fractured skull or a concussion, that Kieran heard what he had been waiting for.

“You’re going to have to take the cuffs off.”

Constable Pritchard could only stare at the technician for a quarter of a minute, that was how long it took for him to find his voice. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He eyed the teen on the trolley nervously. He had survived the arrest of the murderer without serious injury but had seen what had happened to Sergeant Mitchell and DI Harrison, and to his partner, whom he was sure must have died from his injuries by now. “Have you got any idea how dangerous he is? There’s no way I’m taking those cuffs off.”

“How dangerous can he be?” The technician, who was waiting to x-ray the teen, didn’t really care whether he was dangerous, so long as he personally wasn’t in danger. He had a queue of people waiting to be x-rayed that morning and he didn’t want to be delayed. “He’s unconscious, and I doubt he’s gonna wake up in the five minutes it’ll take for me to x-ray him. Come on, man, five minutes, that’s all it’ll take. You take the cuffs off and help me shift him over to the couch, five minutes for me to run the x-rays, then you can have the cuffs back on him. What can he do in that time? He’s unconscious and unarmed, and you’ll be right here with your baton thing.”

Kieran wanted to laugh, or at least to smile, over the fear evident in Pritchard’s voice. Even to him it seemed ridiculous that a man almost twice his age should be afraid of him. He resisted the urge to react to what he was hearing, though, and kept his body as relaxed as possible, despite being sure he was going to give himself away at any moment.

Pritchard looked nervously at the teen who had killed his sergeant, probably killed his partner, and who had tried to kill him, while he thought about what the x-ray technician had said. He couldn’t understand where the two officers who were supposed to be with him had got to, and their absence worried him. He could do nothing about their absence, however, and much as he wanted to, he realised that waiting for them would only give Kieran more time to wake up.

Finally, after an agonising period of indecision, he made up his mind.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Taking out his keys he undid the first of the cuffs.

Kieran felt it when his wrist was released from the cuff, it was what he had been waiting for. He allowed himself to smile as his eyes flew open and he launched himself from the trolley, catching both the room’s other occupants by surprise. He crashed into Pritchard, bearing the constable to the ground, where he proceeded to repeatedly slam the older man’s head against the hard surface under them.

Pritchard had no time to react to Kieran Wright’s sudden attack. He was on the floor and seeing stars before he had a chance to realise that the teen had been faking being unconscious. He made one, feeble, attempt to protect himself, but that came to a quick end when Kieran shoved his hands away and punched him twice in quick succession, once in the ribs and then on the jaw.

Kieran went back to smashing his head on the floor after that, doing so with energy and enthusiasm. A part of him knew he had done enough to prevent the constable being a threat by the time he had beaten his skull against the floor the third time. He continued, however, only stopping when a rush of noise from behind reminded him that there was someone else in the room.

He let go of Pritchard and surged to his feet. He saw the technician darting for the door and raced after him, shoving aside the trolley on which he had been delivered to the room on his way past. He couldn’t afford to let the technician get away, if he did he would have hospital security and the police after him before he could get to the end of the corridor — he intended getting much further than that, even if he was aware that he could not avoid what he had done being discovered.

He caught up to the technician as he was pulling open the door. Grabbing him by the back of his tunic, he yanked him away and sent him spinning across the room to fall into the trolley, which he hit with a crash.

Kieran cringed at the noise of the impact, and quickly yanked open the door so he could look up and down the corridor. By some miracle there was no-one around, and he could see and hear nothing to suggest anyone was coming to investigate the noise.

Relieved by his good fortune, he let the door swing closed and turned his attention to the technician.

“That was really stupid,” he snarled as he stalked towards him. “Really...Fucking...Stupid.”

**