Title: A Man Almost Lost
Author: Bernadette
Main Characters: Hathaway (centric) and Lewis.
Summary: During a police pursuit, a killer in a desperate need to escape, attempts to distract his pursuers by committing a crime that DS James Hathaway finds hard to deal with, emotionally and physically.
Disclaimers: Characters (owned by ITV and Colin Dexter) were created and inspired by the 'Inspector Morse' novels of Colin Dexter.
Beta: My always most wonderful comma wrangling-ninja-meh monkey-whacking-spyentist virtual spouse winks7985
Spoilers: None.
Status: WIP
A Man Almost Lost
Detective Sergeant Hathaway held onto the dashboard with a worrying death grip, his knuckles white as Detective Inspector Lewis almost lost control of the car as they turned off Richmond Road onto Walton Street. Ahead of them, a patrol car – its siren loud in the early morning – moved at a speed that was difficult to match but somehow (so far without incident but with a lot of near misses) they managed to keep up with the patrol car and the vehicle it was pursuing.
The vehicle in flight was being driven by Harold Green, a murdering bastard with a taste for young women. Green had been caught in the act by a pair of uniformed officers who had been unable to detain him and now Green was on the run, driving in a manner that was both desperate and unpredictable, without concern for others and Hathaway feared that the woman Green had killed earlier wasn't going to be his only victim today.
It had suddenly become a catch-22 situation– they couldn't let him get away, not a second time. It was a certainty that he would kill again if he succeeded in his escape but if they kept up this dangerous pursuit surely someone – a pedestrian, another driver – would become not only Green's victim but a victim of a police pursuit. Hathaway knew that if it were to happen, Lewis would never forgive himself, his own wife a victim of a hit-and-run accident.
Hathaway grunted in pain, his shoulder slamming against the door, the side of his head smacking the window when Lewis struggled with the car, forcing it to turn a corner onto Botley Road when it didn't really want to. As though it were fighting back, the car swerved toward the foot path. To Hathaway, the large foreboding building to his left, loomed larger than life and he was sure he was about to become Green's next victim but his side of the vehicle didn't slam into the building as he had thought it would.
Lewis had managed – Hathaway was almost sure that it had been with more skill than luck – to correct the steering, accelerating out of the turn, like a father controlling a rebellious child and guiding them onto the right path. The back end of the car missed the building by what Hathaway feared was a whispered breath, as Lewis successfully turned the corner without harm to the car or its occupants.
Botley Road stretched out before them, giving both Hathaway and Lewis a clear view of Green's vehicle, the winning distance it had held in front of the patrol car now diminishing rapidly. Side streets extended out from Botley Road, fingers stretching out on either side. The Thames, like a blue vein, broke up the green fields of Port Meadow and Binsey Green on the right. The fingers were dead end streets and if Green, not familiar with the area, turned down one of these streets they would have him. But he kept going, hoping to outrun the police on the long elongated stretch of road, his driving even more erratic in his desperate attempt to keep his freedom.
There was a small amount of traffic on the road, the meager amount of cars gladly giving Green all the space he required, but not every driver was in such a giving mood. A lorry, taking up more than its share of the road, the sun gleaming off its side, refused to move, its speed deliberately slowing.
Lewis swore, whether in gratitude or frustration, Hathaway wasn't sure. Then Green attempted to do something only a desperate man would do– overtake. Holding his breath, Hathaway was tempted to close his eyes, not wanting to witness what might be the result. There was a car coming the other way toward Green and the killer was now blocked in: the lorry beside him, the patrol car behind him and a car headed straight toward him. Maybe it had been a moment of panic on the part of each driver; a refusal to believe that they were about to die, but neither of them gave way, slowed or backed off. Lewis, the only sane one of the lot, eased off the accelerator, allowing the car to slow, its pace now unhurried.
By divine intervention, as though God himself had stepped up to the plate, making the final decision and overriding the stupidity of those below, Green reached the corner of Binsey Lane before the approaching car reached him. Green took the corner quickly, a little too quickly, accelerating instead of slowing, his car spinning out of control, coming to a stop at an awkward angle on the side of the road, the engine stalling.
Hathaway allowed himself a small smile. It was over, they had him. But life wasn't that easy. God had stepped back, taking his seat once more and allowing the game to play on. The driver of the patrol car, also thinking they had him, slammed on his brakes, allowing the oncoming car to pass before attempting to block Green. It was a mistake. Green grabbed the opportunity, starting the engine, revving it like a shout of joy, the tires spinning, the back end turning, straightening and speeding forward.
Lewis didn't wait, leaving the patrol car behind where it sat in a cloak of embarrassment, passing it and accelerating down Binsey Lane after Harold Green. Hathaway, knowing that the chase would soon come to an end – Green had nowhere to go once he passed through the village of Binsey – unbuckled his seatbelt, giving himself that extra precious moment of time to go after Green when the chase came to a stop.
The Perch, the pub that had formed part of the inspiration to Lewis Caroll's Alice in Wonderland, sat on the edge of Binsey, a thatched cottage set back from the river. It was almost deserted, its kitchen not opening until Midday, tourists and locals would be wandering the river banks, creating a whining appetite that some will only suppress with alcohol.
A delivery van blocked the lane to the village, an inconvenience to some but a fortunate piece of luck to others.
God was enjoying himself today.
Green now had two choices: drive onto the meadows of Binsey Green and hope for the best, or abandon the car at the pub and leg it. He chose the latter, running to the right, along the walking track toward the Thames River, his long legs pumping, his arms failing wildly.
DI Lewis wasn't inclined to run after Green, driving off the road onto the track behind Green but the car wasn't built for such an environment and Lewis had no other choice but to stop. Hathaway was ready, opening the door before the car had come to a complete stop. He took off after Green, the long legs of his six foot three frame allowing him to gain ground on the killer.
For some unknown reason, Green stayed on the track, following it as though he thought it would lead him to freedom, but it would only lead to water. Hathaway, unsure of which direction Green was going to take once he reached the river, stayed on the track, gaining more ground with every passing second.
With sudden clarity, Hathaway understood that Green was going to go right at the end of the track, the Bossoms Boatyard now in sight in his peripheral vision but he had no understanding of why Green thought he would manage to escape in a boat that was in need of repair. Hathaway went off track, onto grass still damp from the morning's dew, with the intention of cutting Green off before he could reach the boatyard.
Green did go right, glancing back over his shoulder as he went, spotting Hathaway closing in, the detective's thick overcoat billowing behind him. The killer stumbled, somehow managed to keep his balance and kept going but he was already beginning to tire– it showed in those stumbling steps, his struggle to breathe.
Hathaway was getting so close, his feet pounding against the ground, the sound like a drum. If he could just get closer, reach out, stretch his long fingers . . . but Hathaway knew that would be a mistake, he could overbalance, fall as Green had just almost fallen. No, he needed to get much closer and then he could take him down; maybe smack the killer's head against the ground in a very painful way . . . possibly more than once.
The voice of a small child, a scream of delight, caused Green to pause then change his course, heading down to the water. Hathaway, surprised by the sudden change of direction, took a moment too long to follow and with a dread that made his heart clench with fear, he realised what Green was about to do.
But Hathaway's assumption was wrong. Green didn't take the child as a shield– he did something much worse, something no one would have expected, a despicable act committed by a man without conscious. A young child wearing a bright red anorak, his mother watching from a short distance away, played on the edge of the river, his paper boat floating on its surface. All it took was a couple of seconds, Green didn't even stop, continuing to run as he picked up the child and then throwing him – as though he was a small sack filled with an unwanted litter of newborn kittens – as far as he could into the river. It happened so quickly, so suddenly, an attempt to evade capture, to distract his pursuers. The child was silent, shocked, unaware of what was happening but the mother screamed, her terror cutting through Hathaway's fear, stabbing him, cutting him deeply.
Hathaway didn't slow down, didn't think to remove his coat, his need to save the child so strong, so urgent, overriding all other thoughts of Harold Green. But he could feel the breeze on his face, cool against the heat of his flesh, the feather soft touch of the child's mother's fingers when they brushed against his shoulder as he ran past her. He could see the sun glinting off the water just before he broke its surface, taking a few steps through the water before diving in, the paper boat tipping over, sinking.
In that instant, everything felt so vivid, so alive, and yet, in front of him, there was only death.
The Thames River was cold, chilling Hathaway instantly– his face, his fingers quickly going numb. His lungs were already fighting for air, the fact that he was already out of breath from the chase not helping. The water made his eyes sting, his chest ach and his lungs burn as he searched. He dared not go up for air in case he lost direction. He was sure he was swimming straight, and that at any moment he would see the child before him. But he couldn't see him, couldn't find him. As the precious seconds passed, Hathaway began to lose hope, opening his mouth and letting out a silent scream of frustration. He swallowed water into his lungs, gagged and he knew he had lost.
Blackness swirled behind Hathaway's eyes and a thick fog filled his mind, pulling him down, attempting to drag the life from him. Then time seemed to slow, to stop all together when he believed he would not find the drowning child– the water too murky, the boy swallowed by its depths. Hathaway prayed, for the first time in weeks, for the safety of the lost child.
There was a flash of red amongst the swirling blackness and Hathaway felt as though he were about to faint with relief. His body heavy with not only fatigue but his lungs filling with water, his life slowly ebbing away, Hathaway forced himself to go just that little bit further; he could die after he saved the child.
The child's eyes were a clear sky blue – a vibrant blue that pierced even through the murky water of the Thames – which Hathaway would remember until his dying day. He felt like giving up, dying right there and then with the child but he couldn't; how could he blame himself, wallow in a drowning stupor of self pity if he were dead?
Numb fingers gripped the anorak, pulling the child to Hathaway's chest where he held him while the river did its best to take them both. Hathaway closed his eyes and kicked upward, breaking through the water's surface a few seconds later. He could feel the sun on his face, the wind against his chilled flesh. He could hear the mother's screams of anguish before they were abruptly cut off when the water pulled them back under, his heavy coat a weight that was now a hindrance to his safety.
When he kicked upward a second time and then a third time, it took longer to reach the surface, breaking through after what seemed to Hathaway as minutes instead of seconds. He wasn't sure he wanted to take a breath before going back under, too tired to care any longer.
Something grabbed him from behind, a grip on his coat that pulled him up and back. An unfamiliar voice, full of worry and fear whispered, a warm breath against his ear, "You're okay. I got you."
With the stranger's help, Hathaway struggled back onto the bank of the river, his eyes downcast, refusing to look at the mother, to see the anguish in her eyes, on her face, in her body language; to see her blame. He'd failed. Green had claimed his second victim for the day. He fell to his knees, the palm of his hand pressing painfully into the ground as he tried to stop himself from falling forward; the child still against his chest. He struggled to breathe, his coughs painful, the sound loud amidst a mothers screams of grief.
Hathaway hadn't realised that someone was trying to pull the dead child from his embrace, not until a voice told him to let go. Looking up, Hathaway caught the intense stare of DI Lewis and quickly averted his own gaze.
Lewis, his voice soft, authoritative, said, "James, give him over."
He nodded, numbly, awkwardly and released his tight grip; if the child weren't already dead, he probably would have suffocated him. Hathaway watched as his boss took the child from him, carrying the body a short distance away and laying it on the ground but Hathaway couldn't watch the desperate attempt Lewis made to revive the child; he refused to watch, instead standing on legs that weren't ready to hold him up. He fell back, and with no one to catch him, he fell hard onto his back.
"Go help him!"
It was the voice of Lewis, the tone scared, urgent, drifting away from Hathaway, and fading into a vacuum. He felt like he was choking, the fluid in his lungs pressing down, constricting his uncontrolled breathing. His body felt heavy, soaked through to the skin and even further, his insides chilled, so very cold. He coughed, feeling a spray of water on his face. Staring up at the sky, a clear blue, much like the child's eyes, Hathaway swore at the God he had once believed in so strongly. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to drift, the sounds around him now muffled, as though they were trying to reach him through a thick haze. He felt lightheaded, ready to fade away into darkness and he was willing and ready to accept the embrace.
"Come on, mate, let's get you taken care of."
Hathaway opened his eyes, the movement slow and sluggish. A man, heavyset, his grey hair thick, his features soft, his eyes worried, his clothes dripping wet, reached down toward Hathaway, ready to pull the detective to his feet. But Hathaway wasn't ready to get up, not yet, not when the darkness felt so close.
"You can't stay here, not like that. You'll catch your death," said the man.
Hathaway laughed at the reference to death, the emotional outlet turning into a bout of painful coughing. The man quickly turned Hathaway onto his side, placing his open palm against the back of the Detective's head and said, "You'll be okay."
But Hathaway worried that he wasn't okay. He began to think the coughing would never stop, a runaway train tearing through his chest, his throat, destroying everything in its path. His eyes were clenched so tight, his fists closed, knuckles white, the fingernails digging into his flesh so painfully he thought they would draw blood. After what felt like a tortured eternity, the coughing finally began to ease and without interruption Hathaway drew in a breath– short, wet, painful.
The man gripped Hathaway's shoulders, pulling him up into a sitting position, and Hathaway, not yet ready to move, was sure he was going to faint, the sudden dizziness so overwhelming. Everything had tilted, and the world before him turned to a position that was both nauseating and unwelcomingly familiar. He wanted to greet the darkness with open arms but the stranger, a man who seemed to be stubborn beyond his years, attempted to haul Hathaway to his feet. Hathaway's knees buckled, his clothing waterlogged, his body heavy with fatigue, and he collapsed under the weight. The older man struggled and unable to keep Hathaway upright, he allowed the detective to fall back to the ground- this time less painfully.
Hathaway prayed the darkness would take him, cradle him in its embrace but it refused, staying just out of reach, watching him, tormenting him, teasing him with its kindness. It left him to suffer, his chest aching and his lungs feeling as though they were on fire, burning through him. His eyes stung and watered and he wasn't sure if they were his own tears or the river's. His shoulders shook, the tremble quickly moving through his thin frame. Hathaway wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, lie back and let the world take him. He coughed again, tasting the river's water at the back of his mouth, mixed with the bile from his nauseated stomach. His body, so tired, swayed, falling backward, his mind dizzy with each struggled intake of breath. A hand pressed against his back, stilling him, guiding him back until he sat straight, staying there and supporting him, stopping him from falling again.
Hathaway dragged his legs inward, crossing them and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face in the palms of his hands. The position constricted his breathing even more, making it feel as though he were breathing through a gag.
When his stomach rolled, a tidal wave of nausea, Hathaway leaned to the left – the stranger's hand gripping the collar of Hathaway's coat to stop him falling forward – and threw up. River water and bile blended, the sight of it making him feel worse.
It was as though he'd lost control, the now dry heaves sending a spike of pain through his chest, his skull– it felt worse that any hangover he'd ever had. He felt weak, the last ounce of strength draining, his muscles shaking like jelly on an unbalanced plate, the position he was in no longer viable. A hand stroked his back, painting it with kindness, keeping him where he was as he continued to go through the motions, his now empty stomach unwilling to stop.
Darkness, still sitting on the sidelines, finally took pity on Hathaway, believing he'd suffered enough. It moved in quickly, surrounding Hathaway and dragging him into a world so black, so painless, so forgiving; into an embrace that Hathaway accepted with much welcomed relief.
TBC …..
