Southampton. To be more specific, Southampton General. To be exact, Southampton General Hospital. It’s been one hell of a day, and I’ve been wondering if we’ll ever get out of here — hospital, that is. You see, my girlfriend, Alison, has Crohn’s Disease, which is, pun intended, a rather shit illness. She has had a flare-up of her condition, and we’ve been here for twelve hours.
Still, I’m free right now as I walk from A & E to the main entrance. It is hot, and this has only made things worse. As I wander down the pathway between the buildings, I think of all the other things that I could have done with my day off: play Call of Duty, smoke some weed, maybe have a cold beer . . . or two. Have sex. It is warm, after all. But no, Alison’s body had to give up today, so now we have been in the hospital for hours upon hours. It was our day off. Not that I’m complaining — I am, but I’m not — I love Alison, and I would sit with her in Hell, if the time came. But I am slightly annoyed with the system; I have been fulminating about it internally. Why does it take so long to treat someone?
Freedom found, I made straight for M & S and got myself a sandwich: Ham and smoked mustard mayo. A Classic. I wolfed down half of it in one go, and then removed the other half from the package, placing the wrapper in a nearby recycling bin as I went. I meandered through the lobby, passed Costa Coffee and took a slow walk back outside. You see, I was keen to get back to Alison, but I was also enjoying a break from sitting on a torturous small plastic chair — waiting. I made it out through the electronic double doors and back out into the stifling evening air. The temperature was still in the high 20s, and it was balmy. I rammed the rest of my sandwich into my mouth as I approached the stone steps, and amidst my masticating, that’s when I heard it . . .
. . . It was strange, like a dozen Wilhelm Screams all at once. I stopped chewing and looked back over my shoulder. There were shrieks, whistles, noises — it was carnage. And that’s when I saw it, or more accurately, him, coming towards me. He was a towering figure in jeans and a black hoodie — too hot for this weather — and he was muscular, too. In his left hand, he held a large blade of some description, and it was clear from his path of carnage that he’d already used it a few times. People were lying on the floor, clutching at their appendages and various bits of their bodies. There was blood; there were guts; there was viscera. And yet he was still striding towards me. Nothing was holding him up; if I remained where I was, he would be upon me within seconds . . .
What had I done? Why was this happening?
It didn’t matter; I had to react. I had to do something . . .
I fell into my brain, and all I could see was myself. Not any of the other stricken people. Not any of the other possible victims. Just me and my body. My life. I weighed it up: I could run, but I had an osteotomy a few years ago, and my knee just isn’t right anymore. I’d be slow. I’d lose. I could run away and be chopped down from behind; it would be an ignoble way to go. And I would go. Horribly.
Or I could stand and fight. I knew that my chances against a knife weren’t great. But what other options did I have?
So, I chose to stand and fight. If I got lucky, I might live to see Alison again.
The man approached me and took a swing at my head. I ducked, he missed, and then I righted myself. This was all happening so quickly, I was sure I was making it up. Then he took another swing, this time towards my abdomen. I just about managed to move, and the knife skimmed past me. Then my training kicked in. It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t for long, but I was in the military in a past life, and being military, we had many a scrap in the barracks. I was no karate master, but I had a few moves.
Instinctively, I threw a jab into his throat. My fist hit him mid-larynx, and he stopped what he was doing. Then, without thinking about it, I took my foot and stomped on the front of his knee. The knife plunged from his hands, and he slumped to the floor. I’m sure he should have been screaming, but the only sounds coming from his throat were a sort of gargling noise. I wasn’t sure what I had done. Regardless, as he dropped to the floor, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He was vanquished, and I was alive. I would get to see Alison again.
But that’s when I felt it — pain. I took my right hand and placed it against my abdomen. When I returned the hand, it was bright red and dripping with blood — my blood. I was bleeding, but I didn’t have long to think about it, because I found myself surrounded by people.
‘Ee’s stopped ‘im,’ came a voice from behind me.
‘What a hero,’ came another.
‘He’s saved us.’
‘What a hero.’
‘He’s saved us.’
The voices came thick and fast, and all I could really distinguish was that I was being exulted as a hero. Me. A hero.
‘I—I,’ I began, unsure of what to say. I looked around at the scene and saw four people on the floor (including the attacker), and I thought about what I had done. Sure, I had stopped him, but I didn’t for one second think about anyone else. And I was bleeding. A lot.
People paced about, and it wasn’t long before police and medical staff were on the scene. People poured out of the hospital’s main entrance and surrounded us. It wasn’t long before I found myself on a trolley being moved through the hospital. An oxygen mask went over my face, and I found myself taking deep gasps.
Deep gasps.
Suddenly, everything was getting rather surreal. And I found my eyelids closing. They drooped and sagged until they got heavier and heavier.
Heavier and heavier.
Until finally, they closed for good.
I came to to a beeping. I looked around, and Alison was at my bedside. She was ethereal in her beauty.
‘Hey,’ she said as she saw my eyes open.
‘Hi,’ I replied. On the inside, I was all smiles; I was so glad to see her. I reached my hand over to where she was sitting and found hers; I squeezed it so hard that I thought it might pop.
‘How’s my hero?’ she asked.
There it was again, the word ‘hero’.
Hero!
‘I’m okay,’ I said. I lied. I wasn’t sure how I was.
‘Well, the doctors said that the blade nicked your ascending colon. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.’
‘I was just doing what I had to do,’ I replied, still unsure about anything.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen the video.’
‘The video?’ I replied.
‘Yeah, shortly after it happened, someone released the CCTV footage to the Internet.’
‘Huh,’ I said.
‘You’re literally a national hero.’
The words hit me again, and I felt sick. It was a strange feeling, knowing that the CCTV footage of me confronting a murderer was out there in the world. It was haunting to know that I had only thought about myself.
‘I—I,’ I started.
‘Look, sweetie,’ said Alison, ‘there is something else you need to know.’
I looked at her and nodded my head. What was it? What was she going to tell me? What else could possibly be happening today? How was she doing?
‘The police want to speak with you?’
I swallowed.
‘Yeah, the police, the guy died. He’s dead! Apparently, you collapsed his windpipe, he suffocated right there and then?’
The words hit me like a freight train in the night, and still, I didn’t know how to feel. It all happened so suddenly. But now that I’ve had time to think about it, I am happier that he’s dead. I mean, being the person who took down a knife-wielding maniac would always have you looking over your shoulder. I’d always be checking to see that he was still in jail. I’d be forever worried about his retribution.
But still, I’ve killed a man. Me? A killer.
And so that was the day that we had murder in general. I think about it a lot now that I am afforded the time. I get plenty of that from my jail cell. Being behind bars brings lots of time. I am still a national hero, of course. But I killed a man. I’m in jail. I’m serving my time. Alison waits for me. But a man died because of me. I killed a man for my own sake. And so here I sit thinking about what I’ve done. Taking a life is still taking a life. And I guess that’s the problem with murder in general . . .
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