Hathaway was aware that his entire left side hurt. It slowly dawned on him that he was lying on that side, on a hard floor. He cracked his eyes open, but the room threatened to spin and he shut them again.
"Hathaway, man, you awake?"
"No."
"C'mon, I need the bog and you're in the way."
He cracked his eyes open again and at last recognized that he was on the bathroom floor of Lewis's flat, directly in front of the toilet. Lewis was sitting on the floor on the other side of the small room with his knees up and his back against the wall. His shirt was open and his hair was a crazy mess.
"C'mon, get up. You know what Dean Martin said. 'You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.' I don't see you holding on, so get your arse out of the way."
"Dean Martin never went drinking with you lot. I can't even find the flipping floor."
Still, he managed to drag himself across the floor and out the door, collapsing flat in the hallway.
It was some time before he stirred again, and this time he was doing a bit better. He blinked his eyes into focus, deciding his contacts were indeed still there. The flat was rather chilly and dark. There were no lights on, and there was little light coming in through the windows.
Lewis emerged from the bathroom, his shirt buttoned now and his hair somewhat more orderly. Hathaway noticed a bruise and a cut above his left eye.
"You want some tea, Hathaway? There's no power, but the gas is on. Storm hit hard last night. It's still coming down."
"What happened to you?" James gestured to his own forehead, left side.
"Uhh, I think I hit the corner of the table. Not really sure."
"How come I ended up here?"
Lewis half-smiled. "I couldn't remember where you live. Sorry."
He came over and held out a hand to Hathaway, helping the younger man to his feet. "Tea?"
"Uh, yeah, I think so. Stomach's a little dodgy."
"Tea will help." He handed James the warm mug.
It did help. Hathaway peered out at the swirling whiteness. He could barely see as far as the street. He fingered the packet of cigarettes in his pocket longingly. Lewis never let him smoke in the flat.
He leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter. "I haven't been that drunk in ages. Maybe never. Did we finish that whole bottle of gin?"
"I think Mack did. The second bottle, you mean, right?"
Hathaway rubbed his temples. "Mack must think I'm a real lightweight."
"Aw, no, he was pretty impressed, in fact. Said all you needed was a little training up and you'd make a half-decent Geordie. That's a high compliment coming from Mack."
Lewis refreshed the tea. "Hey, why'd you pick gin? I didn't know you were a gin drinker."
"I'm not, especially. It's just, as of this morning I never want to drink gin again, ever. I didn't want one night of promiscuous drinking to destroy the intimate, loving relationship I have with whisky."
Lewis chuckled. "You're so considerate, Hathaway, that's what I like about you." He went in the kitchen and opened the fridge, rummaging around in the dark for a bit before pulling something out and shutting it quickly. "You want any breakfast? I've got kippers."
"Ugh, no. Maybe some toast. Aren't you hung over at all?"
"Oh, aye, me head's pounding. But kippers always put us right." He pulled out the bread and set up the rack for toasting on the burner.
Hathaway went to the window and watched the snow falling. The whole street was dark as far as he could see. Not one car in sight. He noticed his overcoat thrown over the back of a chair, and he picked it up, shook it out, and hung it in the front closet, taking his mobile out of the pocket. Dead.
He went over and watched Lewis deftly turn the toast. "I don't suppose either of your phones works."
"Naw, never got the mobile on the charger, and me landline is cordless, so that's out, too. It doesn't last too long off the charger, so unless we get power back soon, that'll need several hours to work, too. We'll just have to entertain each other."
Which they did. After eating and clearing up, Lewis found all the rugs and quilts he had, as well as a couple of heavy jumpers, and they bundled up for warmth. Hathaway decimated Lewis at Scrabble, twice, and taught him how to play backgammon after James found a board tucked in the back of the closet.
By late afternoon, Lewis was rinsing the chicken he had decided to roast. "It'll give us an excuse to have the oven on for a good long time." Hathaway cut up the vegetables and set them in the pan around the roasting rack. When they got the pan in the oven, they both stood looking out at the blizzard and the weirdly dark buildings lining the street.
Lewis spoke quietly. "This reminds me of the year me dad was out of work when I was a lad up in Newcastle. We had a manky little flat in Westgate with one of those electric meters you put coins into." He noticed Hathaway's blank look. "Like a parking meter. Ah, you're too young, and too rich, aren't you? Anyway, the money would run out and we would have to go without electricity until one of us could scrape together a few more shillings to put in it, or the next dole payment came. At night we'd all six huddle up together to stay warm. Well, we only had the one bedroom, anyway."
It struck Hathaway that Lewis's tone was nostalgic, rather than bitter. He and Lewis seemed so different at times he found it hard to believe they were even the same species. But he couldn't resist the tease. "Good thing you have two bedrooms now, Sir."
Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Don't you worry, Sergeant. It would have to be a little bit colder than this for me to huddle with you. This flat seems to hold the heat pretty well, at least."
By the time they finished dinner and cleared up by candlelight, the snow had finally stopped. Without a word, Lewis put on his coat, gloves, and boots and grabbed a broom.
"Uh, where are you going, Sir?"
"Well, my excuse is I'm going to sweep the walk, but really I just want to get out in it." There was a giddiness in his voice Hathaway hadn't expected.
"There's six inches of snow out there! You can't just sweep it!"
"Well, I don't own a snow shovel, do I?"
Lewis let the work of sweeping the heavy blanket of snow warm him. When he was done, he stood still, listening to the muffled sounds of the quiet city, his breath clouding with each exhale. Hathaway came out and stood next to him, finally getting his nicotine fix.
Lewis watched him out of the corner of his eye. "You've been dying for that all day, haven't you?"
"Yep."
They stood admiring the Christmas-perfect snow until Hathaway finished his cigarette, then they went back inside without a word.
* * *
He was way too hot, sweating even, and his discomfort finally brought him to consciousness. Hathaway was buried under a pile of blankets and quilts, and he kicked his way out to discover the flat was warm and morning light was streaming in the window. He stripped off all the layers he was wearing except the sweatpants he had borrowed from Lewis, and went out into the main room of the flat.
Lewis was just putting the kettle on. "Hey, you survived. Power came on about half five, but I didn't get up until about ten minutes ago. You should see this." He gestured to the television, showing footage of automobile accidents, downed trees, and piles of snow. The images reminded Lewis to plug in his mobile. Without the charger, Hathaway's phone would have to remain dead until he was able to get home.
Lewis threw his coat on. "I just want to see if anyone is moving out there." He headed for the door.
"In your slippers?"
"Well, the walk is swept, isn't it?" He went out.
Through the window, Hathaway watched him make his way down to the street. It looked like it was icier than Lewis had expected; he picked his way carefully. He stood at the end of the cleared pavement and looked both directions. He scooped up a handful of snow, pressed it, and tossed the snowball experimentally into the street. Then he turned and headed back to the flat.
Two things happened at once. Lewis twisted sharply and fell down on the walk. And there was a sharp crack from somewhere. James's first thought was I told him not to go out in his slippers and his second thought was That sounded like a gun.
Five seconds passed, and Hathaway realized Lewis was not getting up. He shoved his feet into Lewis's too-small boots and hurried down the walk. Lewis lay face down, shuddering.
"Sir?" He knelt down next to Lewis's face. The man was gasping for breath. Blood began to trickle from his mouth.
"Bastard . . . shot me. Can't . . . feel . . . m'legs. James . . . help."
So it was a gun he'd heard. Hathaway looked wildly in all directions but saw nothing. He hoped whoever had fired the gun was done shooting. He had to see what he could do for Lewis.
Hathaway rolled him partway over. There was a good-sized hole in his chest that bubbled when James lifted him up, and a spreading, crimson puddle beneath him. Hathaway laid him back down and started to stand up.
"Don't leave me . . . "
"I've got to get the phone, Sir. Hang on, I'll be right back." He sprinted inside, grabbed his coat and a plastic bag, snatched up Lewis's mobile, and hurried back out. As soon as he punched in 999, the phone beeped loudly: low battery. It hadn't been on the charger more than ten minutes. Please just last long enough.
When the dispatcher answered, the phone beeped loudly again. "Yeah, ambulance, quickly. Detective Inspector Lewis has been shot." He gave the address but realized when he finished that the phone was dead. Damn!
"Don't . . . go."
Hathaway rolled Lewis slightly on his side and spread the plastic bag out over the sucking wound in his chest, clamping it in place with one hand, cutting off the deadly flow of air that threatened to crush the lung within. Then he took Lewis's hand and held it tightly.
"Don't you go, either, Sir." But Lewis did not answer. His lips were blue now and he struggled fiercely to breathe. Hathaway held Lewis's hand up to his cheek and prayed fervently. It was all he could do.
He was vaguely aware of hearing sirens, and suddenly there were people rushing around, detaching Lewis's hand from Hathaway's grip, and nudging him out of the way. There was so much blood. The emergency technicians were bulky in their heavy coats, making Lewis look small as they strapped him to the gurney.
At last, one of the techs turned to him. "If you're coming along, Sir, you'd better grab anything you need."
Hathaway ran back to the flat, shut off the boiling kettle, and snapped up the mobile's charger and Lewis's keys. When he got back to the ambulance, he climbed in near Lewis's feet and hung on.
The ride seemed to take forever as the ambulance blundered through the snow. At last they arrived at the Radcliffe and Lewis was whisked away, leaving Hathaway alone and shivering with tension. A hand landed lightly on his arm.
He turned to face Chief Superintendent Innocent, her face knotted with worry. "I tried to call you two all day yesterday, but I couldn't get through. Her Majesty's Prison Service telephoned late Saturday morning to report that David Harvey escaped during the blizzard. It occurred to me he might want paybacks for you two getting him put away."
"David Harvey? This would be something he could manage, a single shot from a distance."
"After the call from Prison Service, we tried to send an officer out in a car. But by then the roads were impassable. So I was still stuck there when your call came in this morning."
Hathaway explained. "The phones were all out of charge. I could barely make the 999 call."
Innocent looked grim. "I couldn't believe it when the dispatch officer told me he'd just gotten a call saying Inspector Lewis had been shot and did I think that meant our Inspector Lewis."
She looked at him decisively. "I have to give this to DI Knox, he's the only one available. But he's between sergeants. Again. I'd like you to work with him if you think you can remain objective about the case. You know David Harvey, and I'm confident you won't let Inspector Knox drag his feet as he so often does."
Hathaway had worked with DI Charles Knox before. In retrospect, it was not the best experience. "Knox! I'll make myself be objective, if that's what it takes. I wouldn't leave it up to Knox to get this right." She frowned at him. "With all due respect," he added, his tone implying that none, in fact, was due.
But she still looked stern, so he continued. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, it's just not been the best day so far."
Her face softened. "It's not that, Hathaway. It's you. Look at you."
He glanced down and realized for the first time that under his coat he wore no shirt; his hands, bare chest, and borrowed sweatpants were red and sticky with Lewis's blood, and his bare feet were crammed into boots two sizes too small.
He smiled thinly. "Sorry for the way I look. Haven't shaved in two days."
"Why don't I drive you home and you can get yourself cleaned up? We can be back here in half an hour if I don't get stuck somewhere. You'll feel so much better."
"Uh, well, I don't want to leave in case . . . " Hathaway could not finish the sentence.
She understood. "We'll wait until we hear he's stable, okay?"
He did go into the men's room where he tried to wash off most of the blood. He left Lewis's mobile plugged into an outlet in the waiting area by Innocent, and when he came back from cleaning up, she went and brought them tea. It helped clear his head considerably.
"Shouldn't we call his daughter?"
"I phoned her on my way over here. The trains are running late, and some aren't running at all. She wasn't sure when she could get here."
After an hour or so, the phone held enough charge that Hathaway could get in contact with the SOCOs crew working on the site of the shooting. They were calculating possible trajectories and where the shooter would likely have been standing. In short order, they called back to report they found a place where someone had been standing in the snow for quite some time, on the roof of Lewis's flat, and they had good boot prints from that. DI Knox had not shown up yet, they said.
At long last, a surgeon approached them. "Are you here for Mister Lewis?" They both stood up at the same time.
"Doctor Adams." She shook their hands. "The shot collapsed the left lung, and that's what I've been working on all morning. Whoever patched him up with that plastic bag saved his life. We're still draining blood from the pleural cavity, but he's out of the woods as far as that's concerned. He'll live, though it's not clear yet if he's suffered any adverse effects from hypoxia—shortage of oxygen to the brain. He's lucky the bullet missed his heart."
She continued. "But he's still in surgery. The bullet ended up lodged against his spine. Doctor LaPeer is working on removing it, and then we'll know better if he has any spinal cord damage from that."
She assessed Hathaway's bloodstained appearance. "You must be the one who knew enough to plug the hole, I suppose. Good work, Sir."
Hathaway mumbled his thanks for the compliment and Doctor Adams turned to go. "Uh, Doctor? How long before we can see him?"
"He'll be in the operating theatre for a few hours yet. And he'll be sedated until tomorrow morning at the very least, quite possibly for longer than that, depending on any spinal injuries he may have."
* * *