‘I felt it break, not with a snap but with a crunch...’ – Out in the Cold, by Stuart Johnstone, Part 4

‘You OK?’ asked John, rolling his head towards me, his arms crossed on his chest, ready to nod off.

Out in the Cold

‘Fine,’ I lied. I fished the keys from the dirty floor under the pedals. The ache in my gut was constant, a film of sweat was creeping over me. I arched my back, trying to shift it and slipped the key into the ignition before another wave of shooting nausea and agony overcame me. I tried to stop the pain leaving me audibly, grinding my teeth and clenching my fists around the wheel, but a grunt escaped.

‘You want me to drive?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said again, with depleting plausibility.

Former police officer, crime writer and dog shop owner Stuart Johnstone with Holly the dog

‘You probably just need to fart,’ said John, lying back again, eyes closed. ‘It happens to me on the nightshift sometimes. Let her rip, just crack a window.’

I smiled, and got the car started, taking advantage of a short reprieve. I punched the gearstick into first and set off tentatively. I reached the end of the street without further cramps, and I put my foot down with more confidence. I had just shifted into third when my stomach pitched once more. The pain that then flooded my abdomen made the other spasms feel utterly insignificant.

In my panic I must have stamped on the brake. I shot forward, doubling over at a perfect height for the top of the wheel to connect with the bridge of my nose. I felt it break. Not with a snap, but with a crunch. Light flooded my eyes as the two areas of pain waged a vicious war. Blood was dripping into my cupped hands and John

was saying something, but I didn’t hear. I needed to get back to that bedroom.

Out in the Cold

I don’t recall turning the engine off or applying the handbrake as I fled the car. I vaguely remember John calling after me, and the taste of blood. I do remember running, and the banging of doors, and the fishing of keys.

I entered the flat and immediately realised I had forgotten a torch. I fished my phone from my pocket and selected the torch function, which would deplete the battery in minutes. Some part of me expected to see Carly’s mother when I reached the room, but I found only an empty bed, my mind painting a residual image of the woman as I’d just seen her.

I swept the light from the phone around the room and began tentatively kicking over piles of clothes and boxes. I reached the clothing, piled high on the far wall and my stomach churned. I held the light high and began to remove items onto the bed, the odd drip from my still-bleeding nose falling onto them.

The snowdrift turned out to be more of a light dusting, I realised, as my hand hit something solid. I cleared a large blanket from the pile and was faced with thin wooden bars.

A child’s cot.

I cleared the remaining garments from around it and raised the phone over the top. He was 18 months old, I would later learn. His name was Ewan, I knew even then. The child’s eyes were open, staring straight up. The sleeve and shoulder of his Babygro were thick with white vomit, long dried.

I could hear John wheezing from the hall, approaching. My hand shook as I reached into the cot. I placed the back of my fingers on the boy’s face expecting cold confirmation. But he was warm, hot even. His eyes rolled towards me and I laughed. I’m not sure why.

To continue reading Out in the Cold, by Stuart Johnstone, published by Allison and Busby, priced £12.99, click here

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