APRIL 24 I was dying. I felt that final fear creeping up through my bones. The Doctor’s crime was close to complete, close to perfect. But he lost his nerve. He grew scared I suppose, paranoid, the deed grew too large for him. He came back to the room, to check up on me, to finish a job that was finishing itself.
I heard the lock turning and by then I was so sweaty weak with fear I wasn’t even sure it was real. I saw the door come slowly open and I took my chance to stay alive. I was lying in the corner, my back against the wall, this book and the plaited pillowcase hidden behind me. I didn’t move, but let my eyes half-open and follow him into the room. He closed the door and locked it. He stood, as far away from me as was possible in the small space, and watched me closely. I watched him back. He was dressed for the weekend, jeans and ski jacket. His face looked older than I remembered, the skin hung more loosely and there was darkness beneath his eyes. I realised this was the first time I had been able to look at him properly. I searched his eyes for the monster that lurked there but they were empty. Blank. I wondered what he was doing. I tried to anticipate him. There would be a moment. A single chance. I tried to find some strength, awaken my muscles without moving.
The Doctor pulled a syringe from his pocket.
‘You can hear me, can’t you Marko?’ he said, speaking softly, like any Doctor to any patient. I nodded and made a noise in the back of my throat.
‘This won’t hurt at all. You’ll just fall asleep. You must be tired.’
And if I close my eyes, and imagine hearing that same voice in a different place, it is almost possible to believe that in some sick way he actually cared. That he wanted to make it easy. I watched him, not trying to understand, trying to anticipate. He held the syringe up in front of him, checking it against the light. He stepped forward and I made as if to move away, but only weakly, like a person past resisting. I had one end of the pillowcase in my hand. My chance. Not yet though. He was moving too methodically, too carefully, as if ready for me to strike.
‘You don’t have to kill me,’ I croaked, watching his eyes for a reaction. They clouded with a sudden sadness, taking me by surprise, and I had to force myself to look past them, keep watching, waiting.
‘I’m not killing you Marko. I wanted you to live. That was my plan. I saved you, you know. You were half-dead when they brought you in, I helped stabilise you.’
The hand that held the syringe fell back to his side, as if his mind was floating off the task. There were things he wanted to say, and I would help him drop his guard.
‘You’re killing me now.’
‘Not me Marko, circumstance.’
He said it like they were old familiar words, an argument he’d had a hundred times before. I watched him and tried not to listen. ‘It’s what gets us all in the end. In different circumstances, it’d be you killing me. If you have to blame someone, blame Nurse Margaret. She was the one who had to know best, who had to experiment with your dosage, against my instructions. If she’d stayed out of this, you’d still be alive.’
‘I am still alive.’
‘Yes, you’re right. This has taken long enough.’
I pushed myself up off the wall, still sitting but leaning forward towards him, as if I was desperate, as if it was all I had left. I’ve never been much of an actor but I could see that he’d bought it. He didn’t even step back from me.
‘Why did you do it? Why did you kill her?’
‘It was an accident. That’s all.’ He looked away from my stare. ‘They happen. This isn’t personal.’
He took my arm and again I was soft in my resistance. He moved his full weight onto me, his back against my chest, holding me down like a shearer pinning a stroppy sheep. I waited. The moment would come when he checked for a vein, a professional lost in procedure. I could feel his weight relax against me. I had no idea how much strength I had left.
I pulled my arm over his head as quickly as I could manage, whipping the rope around his neck and grabbing the loose end with my free hand. I was weak and it was a clumsy movement but again I had surprise. He hadn’t learnt much. When his hands came up it was to get at the fabric, to relieve the choking. His weight came off me and I knelt up behind him, leaning back on the ends of the crossed-over choker, and brought my whole weight to bear on his fragile neck.
It was messier than it should have been. He bucked about frantically. He was much stronger than I was and I held on like a rider at a rodeo, pitting the last of my endurance against his, knowing that without air he would soon lose the battle. As he became calmer I tightened the grip, alert to any tricks. I could have killed him then, but my hatred ran deeper than my rage. He didn’t deserve anything quick.
I kept leaning on the rope, maybe for a full minute, till he was sagging against it, close to passing out. Then I pushed him forward, face hard against the concrete floor. I knelt on his shoulder blades and brought one arm up behind his back, locking his wrist with my left hand, pulling his chin back with my right.
‘If you try to move,’ I told him, ‘I will break your arm first, then your neck.’
‘No, you can’t,’ he gasped. ‘I never meant for any of this to happen. I beg you. I’ll come with you to the police. I’ll tell them everything.’
I didn’t say a thing. There was nothing I could say that would add to my pleasure. I let his face fall back to the floor and searched his pocket. I found the key. A simple plan was forming. It was what he deserved.
Moving quickly, so he didn’t have time to react, I tied one end of the rope around the hand I held. He tried to buck me then but I was ready. I grabbed a handful of his hair and smashed his face down hard. Then I passed the rope around his throat and brought his other hand up to meet the first. Another knot and he was well caught. I could hear him struggling to keep his airway clear. I stood back, safe from him at last. He wriggled onto his side, to return my stare.
I expected him to kick out as I removed his shoes and socks, and then his trousers, but his spirit had crumpled without much of a fight. The trousers weren’t a perfect fit but with the ends rolled up they would do. I buttoned up the blazer. I must have looked odd, but not as odd as in hospital pyjamas. Still I didn’t speak. I was beginning to feel light-headed, not with weakness but with victory. I searched his pockets again and found his wallet. I took sixty dollars, all he had.
‘You can’t leave me here,’ he tried. ‘No, don’t do that.’
Then he tried screaming, a sound so low and pitiful I had to gag him. My pyjama pants did the job well enough.
I took the syringe and put it in my blazer pocket. I picked up my book and this pen. I was ready to leave the hospital.
‘We get what we deserve,’ was all I said as I closed the door. I got one last look at his eyes and it wasn’t fear I saw there; it was hope, desperate hope. That will fade, and then he will feel the things I have felt.
I walked back out into a different world. Things I’d hardly noticed when Andrew had led me there seemed obvious now. I wandered half-finished corridors, empty of people and sound. I passed a roughly boarded-over lift shaft and then a dark passage without electricity, where cords for light fittings poked down from the ceiling. Twists and turns, a dungeon at the end of a maze, even a ‘keep out’ tape stretched across the corridor now, at the place where it met the main building. The Doctor should never have panicked. They wouldn’t have found me alive. They won’t find him.
A nurse stopped me as I tried to find my way back through the wards.
‘You can’t go through there,’ she told me, but she said it with a smile and it made me think of Lisa.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve got myself a bit lost.’
‘What are you looking for?’ she asked. A normal conversation between two normal people. I was free.
‘The cafeteria.’
‘Oh, well you’re way off then. Go along here, to the lift, and take it down to the ground floor. From there follow the signs through to reception, it’s signposted from there.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘No problem,’ and another smile. Killing people, it’s easier than you might think.
The cafeteria was empty. I could see through the windows it was light outside. Nine-thirty, according to the clock. I bought food and drink, lots of drink, two of the largest juices they had. The woman behind the counter smiled. I wasn’t the best dressed person she would see that day but maybe I wasn’t the worst either. I took the food outside and walked two blocks to a park before I stopped to eat. The day was bright and it hurt my eyes. I ate slowly. I felt far better than I’d expected to. I thought of the Doctor and a smile rose up through my chest.
I am on a bus now, heading home. The other passengers must wonder at my smile. Maybe to them I just look crazy. I haven’t rung ahead. They don’t know I am coming. I want to surprise them. I want a chance to practise my story too, on Mum and Duncan, who won’t ask too many questions. I can hardly wait. I am only writing this to stop myself from looking up, from seeing how unbearably slowly we are moving. They’re only kilometres away now. They must think I’m dead. Everybody must think I’m dead. But here I am, alive, and with a story to tell that I can hardly believe myself.
Not that I will be telling it, not at first anyway. I have been thinking this over. Only Jonathon, Rebecca and Lisa can ever know. If they’re still alive. I am sure they are. I can feel it. They’re the only people I can trust to understand. And not yet. Not until it is over, and I am sure he is dead. Rebecca might want to take over otherwise, and Jonathon would insist on going for a look, and maybe a spot of torture. So I will have to wait some more. That’s all right, I am used to waiting. They will be so surprised, that I have finally done something right. It will be my gift to them.
So it is over. We have reached the place where the road is only half-built and it is getting too bumpy for writing. I have nothing left to say anyway. I have won. I am home. Good things lie ahead, waiting for me.