The old man pushed the two pills between his lips and, with a shaky hand, raised the glinting crystal tumbler to his mouth. Two sips were all he could manage, but it was enough to wash the medication down his throat. Then he placed the glass down upon the crescent-shaped, walnut side desk next to him. The tremors in his hands were worse than usual and he prayed the drugs would calm them, because writing was proving nearly impossible. These days he even struggled to pick up the TV remote without dropping it, so constantly had to rely on someone else to retrieve it for him.
How the hell had it come to this?
There was a time when his energy knew no bounds, and then, in what seemed like no time at all, it had been taken away from him, reducing him to little more than a cripple who needed help to simply take a piss.
Time was a cruel mistress.
The room was large, with a finely woven red carpet and an ornate crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, bathing the antique furniture below in a dim glow of crimson light. His eyes were far too sensitive now for a regular bulb, and forget about sunlight. Even a thin ray of natural light stung his corneas and felt like red-hot tongs being jabbed into his pupils.
The old man gazed around at his luxurious surroundings with a heavy heart. Here he was with his own personal library, filled with books so rare, and yet his eyes were so far gone he could barely read a word – with or without spectacles.
He was still wallowing in self-pity when there was a knock at the door.
‘Come,’ he managed, with a croak that made his chest ache.
The door slowly opened, the lights outside it emitting the same crimson light, and a neatly dressed man wearing a black suit and tie entered and made his way over to the old man’s wheelchair. He then knelt beside him on one knee and whispered quietly into his ear.
‘Harker made it out of Spreepark.’
This information drew raised eyebrows from the old man. ‘How did he look?’
‘Shaken up, as you’d expect.’
‘Quite. Did he secure the pages?’
‘We don’t know yet. The police picked him up afterwards and he was just released.’
The old man looked content with that answer and he forced a smile through his discoloured lips, revealing blackened teeth behind them. ‘Very well. Have our man initiate contact.’
The neatly dressed man offered a nod and began to stand back up, but he stopped halfway and returned to his original stance. ‘Would it not be best just to kill him?’
The question received a dismissive grunt form the old man and he waggled one of his bent fingers without moving his hand which was resting on the chequered blanket draped across his lap. ‘No, Harker deserves more than that.’
‘Very well, sir. But I do suggest we keep things moving along.’
The old man thought for a moment, and then smiled. ‘All in good time, my friend. All in good time.’
The neatly dressed man said nothing but rose to his feet and headed back through the open door, closing it behind him.
Alone once more, the man in the wheelchair reached under his blanket and pulled out a small colour photograph of Alex Harker delivering a lecture to his students. He gently ran his feeble index finger across the image.
‘All good things come to those who wait.’