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Something in his expression must have informed the girl that if she didn’t comply immediately she’d spend the night behind bars. Reaching under the counter she drew out a white cardboard box. He grabbed a simple silver whistle, one used by referees.
“I’ll be back,” he said, taking it from her.
“Okay, Arnie,” muttered the girl.
Gardener ran outside and covered the distance to the injured man in no time at all, blowing his whistle all the way. By the time he reached his destination he had everyone’s attention.
The man was still on his knees but had now lowered his head to the ground, as if he was praying; maybe he was. He was very quiet.
Gardener blew the whistle once more and he realised he had absolute silence. He flashed the warrant card. “I am a police officer, I need to ask if everyone can please stay where they are.”
Reaching for his mobile, Gardener glanced at the man on the pavement. “Excuse me, can you please tell me your name?”
There was no answer, aside from a deep, guttural moan followed by a hissing sound.
Gardener gloved up and pulled out a disposable mask from his pocket. He noticed the man’s neck was red raw and blistered, swollen up much larger than normal. Judging by the movement of his stomach he was having trouble breathing. There was something
seriously wrong with him. Gardener was already dialling for an ambulance.
He leaned in closer to the man, touching his shoulder. “Excuse me…”
The man immediately recoiled from Gardener’s touch. He raised his head from the ground and wailed something unintelligible. Gardener could immediately see why. His eyes were as red as his skin, and his lips resembled boiled sausages. Gardener doubted they would be having a conversation.
Having made a connection on the phone, Gardener spoke to an operator, told them as much as he could about what was happening and where they were; who he was and the fact that he needed an ambulance as soon as humanly possible.
“Do you need any help, mate?” asked a teenager in a red jacket, with blue trousers, a shock of blond hair, lip studs and earrings. His phone was at the ready and he was snapping pictures of the man on the floor.
“Yes,” said Gardener. “I need you to put that phone away and step back over to that shop window… now!” As his voice rose for the last word he was pointing in the direction he needed the idiot to go.
The teenager didn’t need telling twice.
Gardener had walked into a scene from hell. It wasn’t immediately evident what was wrong with the man, where he’d come from, or what had happened to him. Or whether or not someone had actually done something to him.
He doubted it was an acid attack. What really concerned him was that he didn’t know what it could be, whether or not it was contagious; or if there was a lunatic around the next corner plying whatever substance he had to someone else’s face.
He definitely needed to contain the situation, but how? The whole world and his brother had suddenly turned up. The crime scene was contaminated to buggery now.
Saving the man’s life was a bigger concern. He was going to need backup.
Gardener glanced at the man. “Did someone do this to you?”
There was no reply but Gardener detected what he thought was a perceptible nod of the head.
Suddenly the man let out a scream that sounded like a chainsaw backfiring. Whatever was wrong with him it had affected his breathing. Gardener saw that his breathing was becoming even more erratic. The man fell to the ground with body tremors, as if he had gone into a seizure.
Gardener had absolutely no idea what to do. He’d been on the force all of his working life; he’d seen things that would turn people’s stomachs without trying but he’d never witnessed anything like the man on the floor.
Hazchem and Special Ops ran through his mind. That would be a game changer.
As he raised his head he noticed a rather tall vehicle with flashing lights but it wasn’t an ambulance. The council refuse wagon had pulled to a stop in front of the NCP Car Park. Four men with hi-vis jackets jumped out, two of them staring at him. The other two were peering down the ramp leading to the underground car park.
Gardener glanced at the injured man who was now writhing around on the ground. He really needed to think very quickly about what to do and how to contain everything.
He dialled the station, setting off immediately toward the bin wagon, blowing his whistle, as if he’d lost his mind.
“You lot, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”
“Who, me?” asked the desk sergeant on the other end of Gardener’s mobile.
