CHAPTER 29
He was sitting up in the bed, and the evidence of the attack was clear in his face. Blake busied himself in setting up our recorder while I took the more comfortable seat by the bed.

“You must be Inspector Powell. Pardon me if I don’t get up”

There was a grin fighting its way out through the dressings and bruises. Both eyes were now open, but I could see where they had been swollen shut from the beating.

“How are you feeling, Mr Mohammed?”

“Omar, please. Mr Mohammed makes me sound like my Dad”

“OK, Omar. First: did they give you the message from Scott?”

That was when the dam went, not burst, but simply no longer there. I kept my face as still as I could till he was ready to speak again, remembering other…other people, other human beings I had dealt with who had been raped.

“Your time, Omar. No need to rush, no need to worry”

“Ah, Inspector—“

“Elaine, Omar. And this is Blake”

My man gave a little wave. “Hiya. Nearly done, butt”

There was some blue tissue roll by the bed, left by a cleaner, and I tore some off for Omar to wipe his face.

“Such a stupid bloody argument, innit? Nothing big, nothing important, just what we watch on the telly. And so I do the stupid flounce out, off down the pub, and I don’t even get my second pint in. All over Pobol y Cwm, aye?”

I tried a smile. “Scott likes that?”

He gave me an old-fashioned look, some of his spirit coming back to him. “No, dydy Scott dim yn siarad yr iath, ie?”

Blake started to laugh. “He got you there, Ma’am! Assumptions, now!”

I glared at him, but I was too close to laughter to make it real. “Well, Tiger Bay was never exactly a hotbed of the language, was it? And anyway, that programme, they’re from all over, all different accents, aye? Silly, it is!”

I let out a snort, and then gave the boy a genuine grin. “When did you start learning?”

“Couple of years ago. Spent some time in one of the Welsh halls, till we found a flat. Scott’s just got the English, so he spends his time watching Corrie and bloody Emmerdale. They drive me up the wall, those two. Anyway, so there’s me wanting ess bloody pedwar eck, and he wants ITV, and, well, I threw all my toys out of the pram and off I trot”

“Omar, we’ll want to get this lot down on tape, aye?”

“Uhuh, but just for now, yeah, just a message to Scott if you can. Just tell him I love him, yeah, even if he does have shit tastes in telly. What do we have to do here?”

I looked at Blake, who nodded and gave me a thumbs up.

“What we want to do, Omar, is to get down as much as we can of what you remember. We’ll put it on tape, then sort out a transcript for when we catch the people who did this to you”

He looked at me in a very, very direct way. “Not just me, though, is it? Been more than a few boys had a kicking recently. I want them caught and I want them locked up. You know what gives me nightmares?”

I could imagine, I thought, but he was still speaking.

“The thought of it being Scott rather than me, that’s what. He’s not as strong as me, see? I… sod it, can we start?”

So off we went, Blake doing the formal introduction bit and most of the actual interview as I held back to add the odd clarification, and I was impressed how well Blake handled the interview. Sensitive, steady, calm, never less than professional but still showing a tenderness beyond what I had expected. He led Omar out, down the street to the pub, saying hello to the odd friend, but that first pint thrown down his neck as he still seethed from the argument. Slower with the second pint, and with the third the realisation that there were things more important than television.

“So I went off home, see, out down the road, and three pints and the fresh air hits me…”

What is it about men and their bladders? Can’t they plan ahead?

“So I assume you found a dark alley or side street for the purpose?”

Another sharp look. “No. What do you take me for? There’s a building site just round the corner from the pub, they got those plastic toilet thingies like they have at festivals. I popped into one of those. I do what I need to, I come out, and somebody punches me in the stomach, and then I think that was when they clubbed me on the head”

Blake looked up from his notepad as Omar fingered the dressings. “For the benefit of the tape, Omar Mohammed has been treated in this hospital for a depressed fracture of the skull. Do you feel fit enough to continue, Omar?”

“Yes, ta. Next bit’s not really all there, see? My memory’s a bit full of holes. If I simply tell you things I do remember, will that do?”

Blake nodded. “This is your evidence, Omar. You can only tell us what you remember. I’m sure it will make sense in the end”

The boy nodded, and winced. “Still hurts like hell, Elaine. Would you mind if I get the nurse in for some painkillers? I won’t take them till we finish; don’t want to lose anything else”

He buzzed, and we suspended the interview and paused the tape while she came in and went off to collect the necessary. One plastic beaker of pills was left by the bed, and we continued.

“I can remember being carried, dragged somewhere. More than one of them. I think two at least had hold of me, and one was in front, a driver, I think. He opens up some sort of van, and the other two throw me in, and then its doors shut and punchbag time. I was out of it for most of that, I think, and I wake up and it’s pain, and one of the bastards is putting his cigarette out on my back and I see his hand….”

He was staring into his past. “He’s got tats on his hand, lots of them, shit ones, no pattern. All separate, yeah? No structure, no unity? No fucking class!”

He was crying again, but waved Blake away when he went to pause the tape.

“I’m naked, now, and the first one, he’s not that big, but he’s not subtle, he just pushes straight in, and then I’m face down on some old sacking while the bastard rapes me, and I can feel him come, you know, all grunting, and he pulls out and I know I’m bleeding, and the second one’s at me, and he bites me on the shoulder as he fucks me, and he IS big, and that’s when it really hurts, and all the time they’re telling me what I am, what a piece of nigger shit, how I should be taught a lesson about how men act, and this is the lesson, and men, real men, don’t let themselves be fucked…. And I don’t remember if there was just the two, or if there was anyone else, because they beat me again, and I remember it was dark, and bloody cold, and I didn’t have any clothes on…”

Another, much longer, pause. Blake reached for the tape player, but Omar shook his head again.

“I can sort of remember the ambulance, and there was somebody else before that, and it was daylight just then. It’s all little flashes from then on. Sorry. Will I be able to see Scott?”

I touched his hand. “Omar, I think we’ve got as much down as I think is reasonable, and I don’t want to distress you further. Blake’s going to do the formal bits with the tape, but if you are OK, I’m going to give the nurse another shout when he’s done, aye?”

They signed it all off, and I went back out to the nurses’ station, where the girl from earlier was writing some notes. She looked up at my approach, eyes flinty and mouth set hard.

“Tell me you are going to lock somebody up soon, girl. Promise me that”

“I really, really hope so, love. I really do. There’s a lot going on I can’t talk about, aye?”

Her expression was feral. “Need to know, is it? How is he?”

“He’s taking the painkillers you left him. Bit distressed, aye?”

“Ah, those are antibiotics. I’ve got the approval for a bit more than that. I’ll be down once I get it signed out”

“Can I borrow a phone? He wants to speak to his other half”

“That one there will get you out. Dial 9 for an outside line”

Dai was in, and an hour after the nurse gave Omar a dose of morphine, her face far gentler than it had been at her desk, another young man was by the bedside. Blake and I cleared up our kit and left a uniform outside the little room. This was getting personal.

That night, it was my wife holding me while I wept. She didn’t need an explanation.

It was my sister I kept seeing in that hospital bed.