Sunset
…
It's nearly dark, the sun sinking slowly out of sight behind the houses and buildings of the surrounding landscape. The light, washed-out and pale grey, is fading, weakening rapidly. Rather like the tough shell of leadership that is, for the moment, still just about protecting and containing the jumbled mix of emotions that are battling inside him. Standing in the middle of the remnants of chaos, the aftermath of senseless destruction, his throat raw and sore, his body pounding from abuse, Boyd sees it all, feels it all.
Seething, boiling rage.
Anger is his old companion, one he's usually far too familiar with to bother taking much notice of, but this time even he is awed by its strength, by the depth of the pure, white hot fury rippling along every synapse, through every fibre of every bruised, aching muscle.
Flashes and sparks of lingering heat-of-the-moment fear, coupled with tiny flickers of those few, horrifying minutes are replaying themselves over and over in his mind. It's a chaotic loop of colour, noise, uncertainty and pain, one that makes little sense, but claws at him, trying desperately to overwhelm him, crack through his defences.
His mind picks out a few stray truths that shock him, wound him just a little further with each repetition. He clings to them anyway, grounding himself. Trying to.
The thick, steely arm locked around his throat, the hilt of the knife connecting solidly with his temple. Pain and confusion blinding him, slowing him down. Spencer screaming in agony. Grace lying on the hard, unforgiving ground.
Blood everywhere.
Eve's face, expression twisted with grief. Metal flashing in the warm rays of dying sunlight. The explosive sound of a weapon discharged far too close by.
Blood-lust grips him; an almost overwhelming need for revenge. Hints of bewilderment and confusion are amongst the mix too – the questions of how and why this happened repeating themselves with each remembered moment of it all.
A fresh-faced constable – the first responder to Eve's frantic call for back-up – is stood at his elbow, talking to him. She's young, shocked, appalled. Was sick just feet away. But still professional, still holding the scene together around him.
Boyd has no idea what she's just said to him. Turning his head, he makes a herculean effort to concentrate, to understand. An ambulance is on its way. So are more police. As she speaks, sirens break through the fog in his mind, their whining impatience still far off in the distance.
Paramedics. There to save lives.
Mostly.
Today they will be too late.
Today they will pronounce death has already been – and taken. Left a gaping hole in the world.
Three holes.
A pathologist will be called instead. To steal away for the rituals of autopsy and tests. To determine what he already knows, what they all saw. What they were part of. His stomach churns horribly at the thought, his mind supplying him with more detail than he's ever wanted.
Not Eve though.
Eve is a witness. Involved, but still safe.
He thinks. Is… was… sure.
Boyd turns to check, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in his neck, the trembling in his thigh as it protests at having to bear both his weight and an injury. Eve. His gaze settles on her, and he breathes again, reassured, not knowing the anxiety had even been blocking his lungs in the first place.
She's sitting on the ground, hasn't moved from beside the body she tried to save. Her jeans are torn from the fight, there's blood on her face, oozing from her ear. Matted in her thick braid. Some of it is hers, some of it isn't.
Blood on her face, and tears. Hot, heavy and salty, they wind tracks down her dirty cheeks, clearing streaky pathways as she sits, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around them. A sentry, protective of her friend, her colleague. Someone she couldn't save.
The knife is still buried hilt-deep in flesh, a stark reminder of the final blow. One none of them were quick enough to prevent.
Two more bodies lie nearby, untouched. Unaided.
Unguarded.
A silent reminder of division. A two-sided battle.
A door slams across the road and he flinches, the boom of that gunshot echoing in his mind. The one that saved his life.
A voice inquires softly, "Sir?"
Who? What?
Eyes scanning around he finds a uniformed constable. Vaguely familiar, he's sure. The wind changes direction, brings him the faintest trace of vomit and he remembers.
His head is pounding furiously, every breath that passes through his abused throat is like a knife scouring his skin.
A knife…
Skin, blood, pain. Screaming. Sirens. Vomit.
Fists, thick-soled heavy boots.
Grace sprawled on the ground like a ragdoll. His vision blackening from lack of oxygen. Eve lashing out at one of the attackers with the heavy weight of her torch, the sickening crunch of breaking bone.
"Sir!"
The tone is more insistent this time, the woman behind it made of stern stuff. He blinks and fights to focus, looks in the indicated direction.
Grace.
Stood by the wall of the building where she crawled to her feet in the middle of the fight, she hasn't moved since. Her shoulder is a bloody mess, gashed open and still bleeding heavily. The sleeve of the deep purple sweater he remembers surreptitiously admiring when she arrived at work that morning is torn, revealing pale skin and the softer lilac of her bra strap. On any other day he'd find the sight unbelievably tempting, tauntingly erotic even, in its forbidden nature.
Not now. All he can focus on is the blood, the jagged edges of that deep wound. The stream of red flowing down her arm, disappearing beneath delicate fabric. It appears again further down, runs across the back of her hand, drips off her fingers. Pools on the ground at her feet.
No one has approached her. He wonders why, then realises it's been minutes, if that. It feels like hours, days.
Only minutes… really?
His watch confirms it.
It's… unbelievable, almost.
Her eyes are empty, unseeing; her face blank, unreadable. One eye is puffy, swelling rising from the blow that split her eyebrow. The blood there is already congealing, sticky and dark where it mars her cheek.
Panic rises in his chest – she hit her head. Again.
Memories, terror, threaten to swamp him, but her pupils are normal, even.
He checks again, and again as he moves closer. Observes for any other signs. The ambulance is getting nearer – they will check as well.
He will make sure of it.
"Grace?" He barely recognises the sound of his own voice, it's so raw and bruised.
She doesn't hear him, and he calls again. Watches as she blinks, sees the struggle to look up at him, the time it takes for her to focus, to see.
Understanding… he sees it in her. The moment reality crashes down and brings her back. Reminds her of what she has seen, what she has done.
The anguish that crosses her face, twists in her expression… it tears into him, claws at him. This is unreal. Surely, this is unreal.
It's not, and sadly they both know it.
Worse, they have been here before. Twice now, in fact.
Bad things come in threes.
Death, too, it seems.
He wants to wrap his arms around her, and not just because it's cold out and she's shivering. He wants to hold her, needs to know – really know – that she's still here, and that he is too.
But the gun is still in her hand, hanging limply beside her, and she doesn't seem to know it.
Paramedics and back-up arrive at the same time, experienced officers flooding into the scene. Boots – standard issue this time – tread carefully, skirting the evidence, picking out and following a common approach path. Someone takes charge, paramedics assess. The weapon is made safe.
The moment it leaves Grace's fingers, Boyd steps in, arms winding around her, folding her against him. The bulk of his body shielding her from the chaos around them.
She's warm and real in his arms. The scent of her perfume reaches his nose, its familiarity burning away some of the acid. It grounds him, is unbelievably reassuring. Her fingers grip tightly, her blood soaks through his shirt, but she doesn't let go.
Neither does he.
It's nearly dark now – the people milling about at the hastily placed perimeter tape are barely distinguishable. Blurred together, Boyd can see them watching like hungry, speculative vultures as multiple sets of blue lights flash; out of sync they are discordant, yet somehow harmonious.
Uniforms move, orders are issued, calls are made. Eve is helped to her feet, wrapped in a blanket and led away to an ambulance.
It's surreal.
The paramedics pronounce. Once, twice, three times.
There are no tents, but there's a crowd. That means mobile phones, social media. No dignity in the face of death, murder.
Sheets are produced, draped over the two attackers first.
Then it is Spencer's turn.
He's covered slowly, carefully. The two uniforms pause for a moment at the end, their heads bowed in a show of respect for a fallen officer. Boyd's chest freezes, the air in his lungs evaporates. Grace's nails dig into his arm as she sways on her feet, trembling uncontrollably. He tightens his grip, refuses to let her fall as well.
It's all just so wrong. He can't believe it, doesn't want to.
But the sun is gone now, darkness has arrived.
Above them a street light flickers on, building slowly into steady, artificial light that falls down around them. It illuminates much, but it leaves a vast expanse of shadow too.