Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,64

block. The door to the flat itself was shut but unlocked when Purkiss tried it. They piled in.

Close up, Purkiss could see that Rossiter had been wrong, that it was in fact serious. His face had the hue and texture of lard, except at his lips where a veiny blue was apparent. His eyes rolled like those of a horse after a fall. Purkiss took his hands, prised them away from his chest, bringing the soaked wad of cloth with them. Rossiter was in shirtsleeves. The front of the shirt was wallpapered to his chest, apart from low down on the left hand side where a ragged tear started to weep fresh blood as its covering was removed. Shreds of cloth from his shirt were mingled with the torn flesh.

Purkiss used the tail of Rossiter’s shirt to sponge the wound, feeling the chest flinch under the pressure. He watched the blood well again. No spurting. He put the back of his hand near the wound, felt no air against his skin. Nor, when he put an ear close, was there any tell-tale sucking sound. Rossiter started coughing and there was foam at his lips, but it was clear, not pink or bloody.

Purkiss watched Rossiter’s chest, his throat. His eyelids were fluttering and his breathing was quickening and becoming shallower until it was no more than a rapid sequence of tiny gasps, the breaths barely slipping across the threshold of his blueing lips. Purkiss put three fingers of his hand on his throat, the middle one on the thyroid notch and the ring and index ones on either side. The cartilage was off-centre. He pressed his ear against Rossiter’s ribs, first the right side and then the left, trying to avoid the blood. It was a poor substitute for a stethoscope, but even so Purkiss could detect the difference between the two sides.

On the right, the echo of air through the pulmonary tubes. On the left, ominous silence.

Purkiss turned his head to Elle. ‘Give me a pen.’

She stared back. ‘What?’

‘Give me a bloody pen, will you? A ball-point.’

She fumbled in her pockets, passed one across, a cheap and basic piece of plastic.

‘Got a knife?’

This time she was quicker and handed him a pen-knife. Purkiss removed the cap from the pen, pulled out the nib with its inky tail, and picked off the round plastic tab at the other end, leaving a hollow tube. Carefully he broke the other end so that the plastic came to a sharp point. He probed Rossiter’s chest just in front of the armpit on the left, feeling for the space between the fourth and fifth ribs. Then he opened the smallest of the blades on the pen-knife and made a shallow slit with the tip. Rossiter gave a tiny cry, as much as he could muster given the minimal quantity of air that was getting into and out of his lungs. With his finger Purkiss enlarged the slit a little before positioning the thin end of the hollow plastic tube against the hole and pressing it in. There was the faintest crackle as the tube slid through the subcutaneous fat and fibres before he felt resistance. He pushed harder and the membrane gave and he was through into the pleural space. The air shot through the tube with a hiss. As it escaped, so did a long, drawn-out groan from Rossiter’s mouth. Purkiss felt the thyroid cartilage again. It had shifted back to the midline.

He took a long breath.

‘What happened?’ Elle’s voice was raised in volume a notch but the pitch was calm.

‘It’s called a tension pneumothorax. Air was getting sucked into the sac around his lung but couldn’t escape, and it was compressing the other side. I’ve relieved it for now, but he needs medical attention urgently.’

Through lips that were pinking up rapidly Rossiter hissed, ‘Impressive.’

‘You pick up a few things here and there.’ Purkiss’s hands were roving, probing at Rossiter’s abdomen. There was no wincing, no involuntary resistance from the muscles. ‘It didn’t get you below the diaphragm, luckily for you.’ To Elle: ‘He needs an ambulance.’

‘No.’ Rossiter spoke perhaps more loudly than he’d been intending, and grimaced. ‘Too many… questions. Slow us down.’

After a moment Purkiss said, ‘He’s right. The ambulance crew would call in a stabbing. We’d have the police to deal with. They’re bound to be on the alert tonight and they might get difficult with us, especially given how messed up Kendrick and I look.’

‘But you said he needed a