Chapter 12. The aftermath

Two police cars screeched to a stop outside the O’Neil house. An old man appeared from behind a hedgerow and approached the officers who were grouping beside the lead car.

"The man is still inside," he said nervously. "The kid is badly hurt. Is an ambulance on its way?"

The tallest of the four officers, Richard Bunt responded.

"Grimes, you check on the kid." He turned to the old man. "Did you call the incident in?"

"Yes.”

A siren sounded from down the street.

"Wait here one minute." Bunt rushed over to meet an ambulance and directed the medics to Jim.

The old man provided the best accounting of the events as he could. He was clearly in shock and was treated by a medic when he finished.

Bunt dispatched an officer to the back of the house while he and officer Steward prepared to go in the front door. Violent crimes, those beyond pub brawls and domestic disputes, were rare in Portrush. Bunt and the rest of his crew had rarely drawn their guns in the line of duty.

Bunt and Steward approached the house. The front door was slightly ajar. Bunt pushed it open and looked into the hallway. Empty.

"Police!" he shouted. "Come out with your hands raised."

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He waited. Nothing stirred. He eased into the hallway, Steward a few steps behind. The first door on the left was closed. Bunt pushed it open until it bumped against something. He peered through the narrow gap into a room that looked as if a bomb had gone off. He pushed harder on the door and entered.

The room was trashed, furniture upturned, the carpet covered in debris, nothing, including paintings on the walls, untouched. It looked as if a team of ax-wielding thugs had recently visited. A large TV cabinet lay in the middle of the room, with a door hanging from a hinge. Jammed through the door, half in and half out, was a black shoe. Beside it, a blood-soaked sock.

"Christ!" Bunt muttered. "Did he do this with his bare hands?"

"What did you say?" Steward asked.

"Let’s check the other rooms."

A downstairs bedroom, the kitchen, and what looked like an office were all in similar condition. Every cupboard was emptied, contents strewn over the floor. Every piece of furniture was overturned and in pieces. And then there was the blood, long streaks on the walls and ceiling as if sprayed from an aerosol can. The scene in each room looked part frantic search and part reckless mayhem. The destructive intensity went far beyond mere vandalism.

"I can't believe one guy did this," Bunt remarked. "Let’s check upstairs."

They stopped at the base of the stairs. On every second step, a footprint in blood marked the path of the madman's retreat.

"Police!" Bunt shouted and looked at Steward for ideas. Steward shrugged, not one for ideas and happy to take directions. Bunt proceeded slowly. Each stair creaked, betraying his progress to the lunatic waiting above.

All doors of the landing were open except one; its handle smeared in blood. Bunt opened it, but it jammed against something, leaving a twelve-inch gap. Further force failed to move it. The section of the room that was visible was in the same condition as the others.

Bunt eased his head through the gap. "Fuck me!" he yelled as he leaped backward and tumbled over Steward.

"What is it?" Steward asked, ready to put six bullets through the door.

"Don't shoot," Bunt shouted. "There is a guy inside. He's covered in blood. It’s like he was hit by a train." Bunt was shaking.

"What do we do?" Steward mumbled; his gun still pointed at the door.

"We get more help. I’m not going to take this guy down without backup."