1:04 A.M. A PLEASANT ROOM ON THE SIXTH FLOOR OF THE WADE-CHRISTIE PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL
A well-built, chestnut-skinned man with dark hair and a swath of bandages where his nose used to be, split to allow the breathing tube into his lungs.
His eyelids flicker. His fingers twitch.
A petal falls from the roses that stand in a crystal vase on the table by the window. As it tumbles downward, it is caught by the breeze that billows gently from the air-conditioning unit and the pinkish petal pinwheels across the air to land on the perfect white sheets that swaddle the comatose man’s body.
Though there is no way for him to be able to smell the bloom, perhaps he senses it. Perhaps he can taste a change in the air. As the petal lands, the rapidity of his eye movements increases. His finger jerks. He can see something in the darkness behind his eyelids. In his private world between life and death, he can sense himself being tugged between two tomorrows, racked and stretched by the hands that drag him between waking up or drifting away.
—
. . . Come on, Brish. Think. Think! You were pissed off, you know that much. Pissed off and scared. You’d fecked up. Val had played you and you’d lost your temper with him. You went after him and it all turned to shit. You had some Russian prick in the boot of the car and nowhere to go with him. What did you do? You’d been at the fat man’s place. Swanky gaff, like something out of a magazine. He’d been welcoming. Friendly, like he had been at church. All the love in the world for Father Whelan and who could blame him. Made you welcome, didn’t he? Even when you turned up with Shay and Valentine and smacked the little prick in the mouth so hard his tooth came out. He didn’t judge. Still the same kind eyes and happy smile, even though you could see the poor bastard was suffering. Smelled like sour milk. Needed all the luck he could get and still he gave you the charm. Handed it over like it was a lock of Mother Mary’s hair. Kept this safe for you, he said. You need it back. What is it? you asked. He said it was your face, Brish. And you were too polite to ask for an explanation. Felt right, though, didn’t it? Little soft leather pouch, dangling there on your chest. Don’t look inside, he’d said, as if it was Pandora’s fecking box. And you didn’t, did you? Just held it and let it take the edge off the pain in your gut . . .
Was different when you came back, though, wasn’t it? Different when you parked up in his garage with Chebworz in the boot. Molony had been drinking. Had taken his pills. And the way he moved, you could see he was hurting. There was blood showing through his pajamas, but he said it didn’t matter. You tried to be kind, Brish. Put him to bed and said you would be out of his hair as soon as you could. Fixed yourself a drink and watched the view while Shay slept in the armchair and you wondered if Valentine was dead or alive.
You shouldn’t have listened, should you? Shouldn’t have snooped around in another man’s home or played with his little old tape recorder. But you did. Listened to a man with a voice like a quiet scream, talking about the people he had hurt and the lives he had taken and begging, begging, begging for forgiveness in the name of the Father, the Son . . .
He heard, of course. Woke up. And you went mad, didn’t you, Brish? Wanted answers. Who the feck did the voice belong to? Was it real? Who was the sick feck who was talking about sacrifice? Penance? Atonement? And who was the girl, screaming and begging for water as he confessed and confessed and confessed . . .
He showed you, didn’t he? Showed you the wounds on his skin. And you wanted to puke. You wanted to puke even before he started talking. And once he started, you wanted him to stop. So you hit him. Knocked him down and laid the boots in and all the while he looked at you with big sad eyes, so full of disappointment and confusion.
What did he tell you, Brish? Why did you get your arse in that car and drive to those fecking woods? Where were you going? It cost Shay his life, you silly bollocks. Next thing it was all blue lights and that bumpy road and the trees getting thicker and darker and the snow beneath your knees as that bastard put his gun to your head and told you that this was what happened to people who stuck their noses in where they didn’t belong . . .
Remember, Brish. Remember . . .
—
On the monitor at his bedside, the readout begins to fluctuate, beeping more swiftly, frenziedly, as a tortured soul tries to find a way back into its body, trying the locked entrances and exits like a burglar, growing more frantic in its desire to live.