The needle was pushed into the Golem’s ruined flesh. Poked through, pulled out again, leaving a visceral red trail. He watched, his eyes flat, his expression detached. His mind somewhere else altogether.
When he had woken up, the interior of his car looked like an abattoir. The thought was almost amusing. Because the only meat butchered in there had been his own.
Before he passed out, he had phoned Michael Sloane. Told him it hadn’t gone to plan, that he was injured and needed picking up. He left the phone on so the GPS could track him down.
Sloane, clearly not wanting to be seen to be involved, sent two of his lieutenants. They hauled the Golem from his car, laying him in the back of a Transit van, and torched his car. That didn’t upset him. He was never angry at the loss of possessions. Besides, he would invoice for the cost of a replacement.
He had lost consciousness again then, but he knew where they would be taking him. Dr Bracken. The Golem didn’t know whether ‘Doctor’ was an honorary title or an actual one, or whether Bracken was currently a doctor or not, but it didn’t matter. He had been treated by the man before. And no doubt he would be again. And he wasn’t the only one.
Bracken was well known as the go-to guy for patching up people who didn’t want to leave a paper trail or go through the system. He never asked questions.
The Golem knew where he must be. Down a secluded path off a roundabout between Romford and Ongar in the badlands of Essex. The road was quite picturesque at first, with overhanging branches and muntjac deer skipping about. There was even a large old country house at what seemed like the end of the road, nestling in amongst the trees. But take the unmade road at the side of the country house and travel down there until the branches were no longer overhanging but closing in claustrophobically and the deer dared not go because they might not make it out alive again, and there was the house of Dr Bracken. A huge, heavy metal gate sat at the far end of the unmade road, the kind that survivalists or a far-right group might hole up behind. All around the house was a high fence, electrified, topped with razor wire. Several signs, hand-painted and not always accurately spelled, had been erected to deter anyone not put off by the gate: Keep Out, Private Propity, Strangers Not Wellcome.
And that was where the Golem was being patched up.
He studied Bracken as the man worked on his arm. He was small, frail-looking, but his eyes burned with an intensity that often seemed to be the only thing animating his scrawny frame. Like he was lit and powered by an individual fire within. A fire that burned with a dark, ugly light.
Probably the same light that powered the soldiers who killed my mother, raped my family. Destroyed my village and homeland, the Golem thought. But it didn’t matter at the moment. The doctor was helping him, patching him up, so he would call a truce.
Besides, he knew where he lived.
Bracken pushed the needle in again. The Golem smelled what he always did coming off the man. Alcohol, sweat. And something more. Fear and despair. Bracken didn’t do this by choice. Perhaps this wasn’t his place after all. Perhaps he was just a prisoner here. The Golem didn’t care. As long as he patched him up, got him working again.
‘Met you before,’ Bracken slurred as he worked. ‘Don’t usually remember them, but you stick out. The skin.’
‘I killed some people who killed my family. Then I was dead inside. My skin turned grey. Then I was dead outside.’
Bracken nodded. ‘You take any colloidal silver?’
‘Of course,’ said the Golem. ‘I take many things to keep me healthy and strong. Is good. Heals you. Keeps you fit. Stops Aids, they say.’
‘And turns your skin grey.’
The Golem thought about that. ‘No. It is because I am dead inside.’
‘Whatever works for you, son,’ said Bracken, and kept pushing the needle.
Bracken used big, looping strokes, like he was stitching leather or hide, and thick black thread. The local anaesthetic hadn’t blocked out all the pain. The Golem had to rely on himself to do that.
His side had been done first. The easiest wound to clean, treat, stitch and bandage. Then the knife slashes to his arm. Again, relatively simple. But his left arm was proving problematic. It had been chewed to bits.
‘You should probably have a skin graft on this,’ Bracken had said. ‘Reconstructive surgery. It’s the only thing that’ll save it. Make it good again.’
‘I don’t have time,’ said the Golem. ‘I am working. Put me together again, send me back out there.’
‘You’ll be going nowhere for the next few days, state you’re in,’ Bracken said.
‘No,’ said the Golem, not arguing but stating. ‘Patch me up. Send me back. I am working. I have job to finish.’
Bracken waved his hand, shrugged. Not his problem. ‘As you wish … ’
He pulled the last length of thread through the Golem’s arm, tied it, cut it. Stood back. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Best I can do.’
The Golem stood up, looked at himself in the mirror.
‘I wouldn’t do that, you’ll be unsteady on your feet … ’
The Golem stood firm. Regarded his reflection.
More wounds to heal. More life markers on his body. More scars to carry. He could live with them. But Bracken was right. His left arm was a mess.
‘Bandage me up,’ he told Bracken.
‘That arm needs more than bandage.’
‘And it will get it. After I finish job.’
Shrugging once more, Bracken bandaged the Golem’s arm. The Golem kept looking at himself.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Pills?’
‘What?’
‘Pills. You give me pills. You know the kind. You give before.’
‘Oh, now look … that’s not, that’s not a good idea … ’
‘Pills now. You know. The kind to make me strong. To make me not give in. The kind that make me feel no pain.’
‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea. You don’t … They’re dangerous. They could damage you when you take them. Hurt you.’
‘If they do,’ the Golem said, eyes hard and flat, ‘then I won’t feel it. Pills. Now.’