Flat 3

During a routine delivery, an Uber rider stumbles upon a wounded man and races to save his life, with dangerous consequences.

12 min read.

I veered off the high road and peddled down a quiet side street, coming to a stop in front of a small and empty car park. My crotch was white hot with pain and my legs stiff with lactic acid. Dismounting my bike took some effort. I propped it up against the rusty white car park gate, took my tobacco pouch out from my jacket pocket and rolled myself a thick fat rollie. The type to knock your head sideways. I lit it and inhaled the tobacco deep into my overworked lungs.

My phone glowed with a new notification. I glanced at it strapped to the handlebars of my bike and decided to ignore it. Someone else can accept that, I said to myself.

I blew smoke into the night air and mentally tallied up my takings for the day, desperate to see how close I was to my goal of being able to afford a scooter. The competition in food delivery was fierce, and with the distances I was cycling everyday, I was struggling to afford the calories needed to keep some weight on. I caught my reflection in the window of a car parked in front of me, and even in this dimly lit street I could make out my gaunt, skeletal features.

I took one last drag of my cigarette and flicked it out on to the street. My phone lit up again; a McDonalds delivery, less than mile away. I accepted the request and mounted my bike, wincing from the pain. This was going to be my last delivery for the day.

The usual motley crew of drivers were gathered outside the McDonalds as I pulled up. Laughing and joking as they leaned against their scooters, shrouded by a cloud of cigarette smoke. Of course they were all in good spirits. The fuckers didn’t have saddle soreness to worry about. I secured my bike to a pole and stepped inside.

It was after 10pm on a Thursday night and the McDonalds was void of any customers. Only delivery drivers ferried up and down, carrying sustenance for the drunk and high in the surrounding areas. I approached the counter where a frumpy woman in a short sleeve shirt stood, tapping away at a terminal.

“Hi. I’m here to pick up an order,” I said, presenting my phone.

She peered at it through a pair of thick lenses. “One moment,” she said, and waddled to a counter at the back. I watched as she picked up a large bag and brought it over to me.

"Here," she said.

“Thank you.”

I grabbed the order, made weighty by a large vanilla milkshake and shoved it into my delivery bag, checking with a quick glance to see if the package was sealed with a sticker. A recent addition in the delivery world. An addition I cursed. A finger pinch of fries along with the odd cheeseburger kept me going on days when funds were low. Outside, I strapped the delivery bag to my back and pedalled to my destination half a kilometre away.

My phone alerted me that I’d arrived and I mounted the pavement and scanned the surrounding area for 15 High Street. I found it sandwiched between a small coffee shop and a fancy kitchen showroom with an aggressive German name.

15 High Street stood out from the buildings either side of it. In place of where a shop or retail unit should have been, was a solid brick wall made filthy by the fumes of passing traffic over the years. To the right of the wall was the entrance, a wide black door with a thick brass handle. I checked my phone for the flat number and pressed ‘3’ on a shiny new intercom unit.

The intercom buzzed a number of times and then went silent. I pressed it again, but still it went unanswered. I pulled up the delivery app and dialled the number for ‘Erol’, the person listed on the delivery. The call went straight to voicemail.

Siuations like this angered me. It robbed time from my day and with it the missed opportunities for other deliveries in this cut throat game. And if the food went undelivered, the prick who placed the order and then decided to take a shit minutes before its arrival, and so couldn’t answer the door (this happens a lot), would complain, resulting in repercussions for me. Not today. I buzzed ‘2’ on the intercom.

"Hello?" answered a soft female voice.

"Hi. I have a food delivery for number 3 but they’re not answering. Could you please let me in?"

"Yeah, sure," came the reply.

"Thank you."

A prison like buzz announced the door was unlocked and I pushed it open with a shove of my shoulder. Inside, the hallway was long and narrow and smelt of thick dust. I dragged my bike in and propped it against a discoloured hospital white wall. At the end of the hall was a door with a silver “1" nailed to it, and next to it a flight of stairs. I approached the stairs and began my ascent.

The building was dimly lit with a few naked lightbulbs. I passed flat 2 and continued to the third floor, but what I saw next cemented me in my place a few steps short of the landing.

The door to flat 3 was slightly ajar and smeared with what appeared to be blood. Pressed next to me on the white bannister was a hand print, also in blood. It was fresh and wet and glistened under the glare of the fluorescent bulb that hung above. I leaned my ear towards the door, but it was dead silent. The only sound was that of the TV from the flat below.

"Hello?" I whispered. I slowly creeped forwards and came to a stop in front of the door. Like the bannister, the blood on the door was wet and fresh.

"Hello?" I called out again. Nothing. I peered through the crack in the door, but only darkness met my eye.

With the side of a clenched fist, I gently pushed the door open and peeked inside. The hallway was quiet. At the end of it, a low and warm glow of light was visible from behind a half open doorway

“Hello? Anyone here?" I said. I debated on my next steps. Call for help or enter the flat in case urgent assistance was needed? I decided on the latter given that I had no grasp of the situation. If I was to call for help what would I even say?

I stepped inside the flat and inched towards the light. Even in the dark of the hallway I could make out the dark stains of blood on the walls and the floor. I drew closer to the door and peered inside. It was a living room, and immediately the signs of a struggle were evident. A glass coffee table had been shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. Shard of glass coated the grey shaggy rug where it once stood. A dark brown suede sofa had been ripped apart, its cushions lay strewn amongst the debris of the coffee table.

I pushed the door open and stuck my head inside. The room was open plan and to the right was a small kitchen. The cupboard doors had been pulled wide open and its contents scattered on the floor. Broken plates, shattered glasses, saucepans and canned goods. There was still no sign of life.

I stepped into the room and thats when I saw him. Propped up against the wall behind the door was a man in his early thirties with dark Mediterranean features. I guessed Turkish given the name on the order. His eyes were closed and his head was rested against a radiator. His white t shirt was soaked in blood and his left hand rested on top of his abdomen. On the floor beside his limp right hand, lay a Glock 17 handgun. A sign that I should have bolted out of the flat. But there I stood, focusing my eyes on his chest, which rose and fell ever so slightly.

“Mate are you ok?" I whispered out. His eyes remained closed.

I slowly walked up to him and knelt down, placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking him gently. He stirred and slowly opened his eyes.

“Mate are you ok? What happened?" I said. He looked up at me through pained and blood shot eyes and suddenly life came to him. He fumbled for his Glock and aimed it straight at me.

“Woah! Woah! Woah! Woah!” I cried, jumping back and holding my hands up high. The McDonalds bag crashed to the floor. “Dont shoot!”

His arm shook as he pointed the barrel straight at me and I was petrified that he might let off a shot by accident. “I’m the delivery guy! I'm the delivery guy! Don’t shoot!” I pleaded.

"Who are you?" he croaked, delirium in his voice, the gun still aimed at my chest.

“Please put the gun down! Im the delivery driver! I saw blood on the front door and came in to see if everything was ok!”

“Who?”

“Uber Eats! You ordered a McDonalds! Look!” My hands still raised, I pointed to the McDonalds bag on the floor. The base wet from the milkshake leaking inside. He directed his eyes to the bag, taking a second to process it, and then let his arm fall limply by his side. The gun fell out of his loose grip and clattered onto the kitchen tiles. I dropped my hands, relieved.

“Are you ok?” I asked.

He ignored me and lifted his hand off his wound, peering down at it. It was clear that he had lost a lot of blood. The material around the wound was sodden and dark red.

"Fuck…mate you need help,” I said and reached into my pocket for my phone. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

"No!" he barked.

“What?” I replied, confused. “But…you’re bleeding badly."

He peered at his wound again.

"Let me call for help?."

"No,” he barked again, trying to stand up. But the pain seemed too unbearable and he slid back down to the floor.

“What happened?” I asked as he groaned in pain. “Look, I’m calling an ambulance.” I began to dial.

“No! I cant have police here,” he groaned.

“Why?”

No response.

“Look how much blood you’re losing? You could bleed out and die."

This rattled him and he inspected his wound again.

“I’ll survive."

"You sure about that?"

He went silent, and then after a short pause, “You take me."

"To where?" I asked.

“To the fucking hospital!"

"Oh.” I did not plan for this, but the man clearly needed my help. Whether I liked it or not his life had been dumped in my hands. “Ok…ok…let’s go.”

I walked over to him and wrapped an arm around his chest. “Ok, i’m going to lift you up. Ready?” He nodded. “Ok…one…two…three." I hoisted him up and he stood there swaying, unsteady on his feet. “Hold on to me,” I said to him.

We made our towards the front door, when it suddenly occurred to me. “Ahh wait…I don’t have a car.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“How did you get here?”

“Bicycle.”

He groaned. “Take mine.”

“Keys?” I asked.

“In my left pocket,” he replied. His arm was wrapped around my neck for support, so I reached into his pocket and fished out the fob.

The descent down the stairs naturally took a while. I tried to hurry him along, he was turning paler by the minute. I glanced back as we reached the main entrance to see dots of blood trailing behind us.

“Which way,” I asked as we stepped out onto the street. He pointed to an alleyway left of where we stood.

The alleyway was dark, narrow and poorly lit. Huge industrial sized bins took up most of the space and soured the air with the stench of days old rubbish. The alleyway widened as we hobbled its length and at the end were a few parking bays.

“Which car is yours?” I asked.

He nodded at the direction of a shiny black Mercedes C63 AMG coupe, and if I'm honest, in that moment I felt giddy with excitement. It was a car I had long admired. I unlocked the car and eased him into the passenger seat. His eyelids were beginning to droop and life was slowly draining from them. Haste was in order. It was a good thing I had a 6.3 litre V8 at the disposal of my right foot. I rushed around the side and slid into the comfort of the supple leather seats and thumbed the push to start button. The engine gurgled to life and I put the beast in reverse and manoeuvred it down the tight alleyway.

Barnet General hospital was located about a mile away. I knew the area well and with it all its shortcuts. It was late and the roads were quiet. I eased my foot down on the accelerator and the car powered forward with the deep menacing growl of an AMG. I turned my attention to my wounded passenger.

“Mate you ok?" I said.

His eyes were closed and his head rested awkwardly in the gap between the headrest and the door pillar.

“Wake up," I said, shaking him gently. But he didn’t stir. “Wake up. Don’t sleep. We’ll be there very soon."

I shook him again, this time with a bit more vigour and he opened his eyes.

"Don’t sleep. Stay awake. We’ll be at the hospital very soon. Don’t close your eyes," I said, with no idea whether or not he was registering this information. I opened his window in the hope that the icy cold air would keep him awake.

"Talk to me. Tell me what happened?" I asked, trying to engage him in conversation. I threw quick glances at him as he tried to formulate a sentence, but the effort was too much and he soon gave up.

“You have to tell me what happened," I pressed. "I need to know what to tell them at A&E. Were you shot?"

He shook his head.

“Stabbed?"

He nodded and closed his eyes.

“Eyes open, eyes open," I said, shaking him again. “Who stabbed you?"

He said nothing. I didn’t press him. It was clear that he had chosen Omertà. We reached an open stretch of quiet road, and with two hands gripped on the steering wheel, I eased my foot to the floor and watched the needle climb effortlessly to 70mph. Ahead, a Volvo 4x4 peeked from a side street.

"Stay there," I muttered under my breath, my eyes fixed on its nose and my foot still pressed down on the accelerator. “Stay fucking there.”

My telepathic efforts went unheeded and the driver pulled out on to the road. I stabbed the brake pedal with the full force of my right leg and the ceramic brakes locked. We skidded towards the Volvos rear end, but we’d been going too fast. Impact was inevitable. And then we crashed.

The last few seconds had been a blur. I was in a daze but felt fine. Shaken, but fine. So effective were the Italian made Brembo brakes that we’d slowed to a twenty before impact. Erol however had been propelled forward by the force of the crash and his face had smashed hard against the dashboard. I hadn’t strapped him in given the position of his wound. I gently eased him back into his seat, wondering why the airbags hadn’t been deployed.

“Are you ok?” I asked. His eyes were wide with shock and blood was dripping from his nose.

"Wait here," I said, and I unstrapped my seatbelt and climbed out of the car.

The damage to the car was bad. The bonnet had crumpled and the grill had collapsed, the radiator too, and oil was leaking all over the tarmac. The door of the Volvo opened and I swung around to see a portly white man step out. He was in his fifties, with white hair and a Benidorm tan.

“Are you fucking blind!” I screamed at him. He swayed where he stood, looking shaken and dazed, but not in the manner of a man involved in a car crash. Something else. “Hello?! Did you not fucking see us?!”

“No,” he whispered under his breath, his eyes wide and uncentered.

Thats when I noticed his lips and teeth. They were stained red. The prick was drunk. “Are you drunk?!” I said, more accusatory than a question.

“No,” he barked defensively.

“You are fucking drunk!” I shouted back.

“Listen mate,” he stuttered. “You’re the one who was driving fast!”

“I’ve got a man with a stab wound in the car! And if you saw me driving fast why did you pull out?!”

“You’ve got a what?” he asked, confused.

“A man with a…never mind.” I headed back to the car. I didn’t have time for this.

“Where are you going?” he shouted at me.

“I have to get to the hospital,” I responded without turning back.

I got back in the car. Erol looked a state. The top of his shirt was drenched with blood from his nose and he was sat quietly looking out in front of him, stunned.

“I’m going to get you the hospital, I promise,” I said.

In the back of my mind I knew the damage was to the car was too severe, but it was still worth a try so I pressed the push to start button. Nothing. I tried a couple more times and still nothing. “Fuck!”

The drunkard was stood by the window peering in. I opened the car door and nudged him out of the way with it as I got out. "You have to take us to the hospital," I said to him.

"What?" he replied.

"You need to drive us to the hospital. That man is dying," I said, pointing to Erol.

"Thats not my problem."

"It is your fucking problem! If you weren’t tanked up on red wine we’d already be there!"

“You’re the one who’s driving like a nutter!"

“Have you not listened to anything I’ve said?!” I shouted, levels beyond frustrated. But frustration was not going to get us to the hospital so I quickly changed tact. “Look. The hospital is two minutes from here. If we dont get him there, he will die."

“Call an ambulance."

“It’s quicker to drive him," I said through gritted teeth, my hands clenched, wanting nothing more than to drive them into his fat red face.“Do you want this mans death on your hands?”

He thought about it for a second and slowly shook his head.

“Ok. Then help me," I said pleadingly.

“Alright,” he said finally.

I hurried over to the passenger door and opened it. “Erol, listen, we’re going to move you to the other car. Ok?” We’re almost there." I turned to Mr Volvo. “Help me, grab his legs."

His face dropped at the sight of Erol. “What the fuck happened?" he asked.

“Not now,” I said. “Grab his legs.”

Together we lifted Erol out of the passenger seat and carried him over to the Volvo and layed him across the backseat.

“Ok. let’s go. Wait…” I said, and studied Mr Volvo’s eyes. “Are you even ok to drive?"

“Im fine," he said, and went around to the drivers seat. Time didn’t allow me to challenge him and I climbed into the passenger seat and we set off.

“Do you know where the hospital is?"

“Of course," he replied. “What happened to him?"

“I dont know."

“What do you mean you don’t know?"

"I dont know. I found him like that."

"Found him where?"

“At his flat,” I said impatiently. “Do you mind driving a bit faster?"

“I’d rather not crash again, thank you,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Well then you shouldn’t drink and drive then should you."

“I haven’t been drinking and driving," he clapped back.

“Mate look at your teeth. They’re stained fucking red."

He bared his teeth in the rear view mirror. "Oh fuck," he whispered.

“See,” I said. “Twat.”

“The police are behind us."

My eyes darted to the side view mirror and the unmistakable livery of the Metropolitan Police stared back at me.

“Fuck," said the driver. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Oh shit," I muttered under my breath as blue lights started flashing.

***

PC Norris angled his walkie talkie towards his mouth, keeping a close eye on his colleague stood by the two handcuffed men. “This is Sierra Oscar 5-1,” he said into the walkie talkie. “We’ve just pulled over a badly damaged Volvo. The driver is an IC1 male and is the registered owner of the car. He’s currently serving a driving ban for drink driving and is over the limit. The second passenger is an IC6 male. He’s refusing to give me his name and is claiming that he doesnt speak any English. There’s no ID on him. The third passenger, possible IC2, male, is dead, with what looks like a stab wound to his lower left abdomen. There’s a lot of blood. Paramedics are on their way. Please send a support vehicle. Over.”