I hold the phone to my ear. Already I am up from my seat and heading down stairs to find Mrs BW.
“You’ve been what?”
“Shot in the leg dad, I’m at the hospital in Buxton.”
“Shot?” I repeat. Mrs BW looks up from her knitting. Concern etched across her face. “Alex says he’s been shot” I tell her. Well there is no easy way. ” He is at Buxton hospital.” Jenson Button would have come second in the race to the door. She grabbed her car keys “I’ll phone you when I get there” she says as she disappeared into the damp dark night.
The line is dead. I stand and stare helplessly at the phone. And wait. Twenty minutes, half an hour, a year later it seems, she phones. He’s okay she says the police are here. He has been shot in the leg. They think its a high powered air rifle. He has a nasty wound in his thigh. The armed response unit are here.
None of this really sinks in, accept for the bit about him being safe. And I had been speaking to him. He must be okay. I phone the Weasel to give her the low down before the face book rumour mill starts cranking into action. She is understandably mad and upset by turn. She vows vengeance on the bastard who did it. “If I find him Dad I’ll……”
24 hours later a friendly genial PC sits in the front room, sipping my Ethiopian Highland coffee. “Nice coffee, this, I’d like some for my flask. Anyway so where did you feel the pain in your leg exactly.” This to the Munch. He sits at the table, a strained look on his face but half amused. This is not me, this is somebody else.
He still has the pellet in his leg. He has been shot, had a general anaesthetic, and woken up in a strange hospital bed all in the space of 24 hours. That’s enough excitement for 24 hours thank you.