Mr Black exits the hospital room but looks back over his shoulder through the glass inset in the door. He scrubs his hand over his face, and then his arm drops to his side and his hands fist as if braced for an assault. His foot taps an impatient, unrelenting staccato against the floor.
When we met, he was a man constantly in motion – pacing, sitting and standing in endless repetition, lobbing rubbish into the many miniature basketball hoops he had a fondness for affixing over dustbins. Over the years, he’s become more subdued. He is a once fiery mortal man slowly tempering into hardened, unbendable steel.
The only time I’ve seen him regress is the night he told me about Lily. He walked ceaselessly up and down the library. Up and down. Up and down. It was an anniversary of some sort, either of her death or a milestone in their relationship, and he couldn’t stop himself from talking about her.
I was startled when he presented his wife’s driving licence to the intake nurse, establishing his right as next of kin to manage her care. I hadn’t been aware he carried her identification in his wallet, although in hindsight, I’m not surprised; he wants her with him everywhere. It’s even still valid for another two years, having been updated to her married name in the days immediately following their wedding. As fate would have it, his sentimentality was advantageous.
His head swivels towards me now as if only just recognizing that I’m close. “Witte.”
“Sir.”
“She’s conscious.” His gaze returns to the viewing window, and he stares – unblinking – for too long.
I remember Lily’s gaze when she spotted him on the street, the sheer, abject terror so vicious it spurred her to run directly into the path of oncoming traffic. I can’t reconcile her reaction with the man I know.
I lost her where I found her. I will never forget those words or how he paced like a beast in a cage when he finally told me about her demise. The depth of his anguish was so profound I understood how tempted he was to follow her into death, his will to live sinking deeper by the day into suffocating darkness. Now doubts creep into me, an insidious black fog slipping through hairline cracks.
I’m reminded that he never tasked me with arranging a funeral or memorial service. Sensitive to his unfathomable mourning, I waited for him to initiate such a public farewell, but he never broached the topic in the ensuing years. And while any grave for her would be empty, she wasn’t even memorialized with a cenotaph.
We endure the wait together, standing side by side. The dismal, scuffed corridor bustles with foot traffic. The smell of chemical disinfectant is pervasive, but it fails to hide the underlying scent of malaise and decay. Somewhere nearby, a man in agony shouts profanities.
There’s no other family to worry over Lily. No parents or siblings, no extended relatives. No one. At least she told my employer that was the case while they were together. Indeed, in the intervening years, no one claiming to be family has enquired after her. Only the police are asking questions, focusing primarily on gathering descriptions of the driver who fled the scene. It’s through witness interviews and traffic camera footage that they’ll learn the rest: a wife lost all awareness of surrounding danger because the greater fear was her husband’s pursuit. Then Mr Black will face a different tenor of questioning altogether.
It’s fortuitous that I spied Mrs Black’s slender handbag beneath the undercarriage of a saloon parked at the kerb and could tuck it inside my jacket unseen. It’s best if the authorities aren’t aware of the Nevada driving licence I found inside that bears a photograph of Mrs Black with the alias Ivy York. The handbag itself would raise further questions, as it’s a less than impressive counterfeit of a luxury brand. The detectives would undoubtedly find it curious that the wife of a notably wealthy man accessorizes with cheap knockoffs rather than the best money can buy.
If Mrs Black recovers from her ordeal, the detectives will pose their questions to her. How she answers could decide the fate of a man for whom I’ve committed to taking a bullet.
Mr Black crosses his arms. “We need to make arrangements for the necessary medical equipment and staff at the penthouse, with round-the-clock care.”
This statement sparks a million questions; I ask only one. “How quickly?”
“As soon as I convince the doctors it’s best, and we get through the paperwork. I want her under the same roof, every minute.”
Body language is a powerful thing; his is raising the hair on my nape. It doesn’t seem likely that Mrs Black will be in any condition to leave hospital soon. Is it a risk to her health to move her? The question must be asked. My extensive training includes managing medical emergencies and patient protocols. Still, is it my capabilities that make my employer’s request possible or a less than pressing concern for his wife’s welfare?
It frightens me that a single look from Lily has shaken the foundation of my deeply personal, intrinsic knowledge of the man my heart has adopted as a son. I have lived with the belief that no man has ever loved a woman as deeply as Mr Black loved – loves – his wife. Is it possible that his love is what she fears?
“I’ll see to it.” I begin sending messages to those of my contacts who can assist me in realizing Mr Black’s request.
“And put two guards in the elevator vestibule of the penthouse. No one leaves – or arrives – without my knowing about it first.”
I glance at him, disconcerted. Lily is not just to be a patient but also a prisoner.
Another doctor rushes towards Mrs Black’s room. Most of the medical staff wear theatre blues and athletic or orthopaedic footwear. This man wears expensive loafers and decently tailored trousers. The grey hair at his temples wars with the unlined youthfulness of his features.
My employer bars his way, looming ominously with a height advantage of at least a foot.
Introducing himself as Dr Sean Ing, the neurologist begins to speak to Mr Black. I move a short distance away to afford them privacy. The conversation is brief, then the doctor enters Lily’s room, shutting the door with a hushed click behind him.
“She’s disoriented and exhibiting paranoia,” Mr Black shares, his gaze locked on the view through the glass. “The CAT scan showed no brain trauma, but her symptoms are concerning.”
A nurse hurries down the corridor in our direction and joins the others in Lily’s room.
It’s an age before the two doctors step out and join us.
“Mr Black.” Dr Hamid manages a smile weighted with weariness. “Let’s go to Dr Ing’s office.”
“How is she?”
“She’s stable. We’ve given her something to calm her, and she’s resting now.”
“Don’t let her out of your sight,” Mr Black tells me, his gaze darting briefly to the door separating him from his wife. A muscle tics in his jaw, but he follows the doctors down the corridor to the lifts.
I am still looking in that direction when his mother and brothers emerge from the lift beside the one Mr Black departed in. Mrs Armand strides into view with her blond hair swaying around her shoulders and her voluptuous figure clad in a fitted white trouser suit.
She pivots neatly when she sees me, her youngest sons falling into rear flanking positions with near-military precision. The resemblance between them is evident, but she is a lustrous pearl in contrast to her sons’ dark colouring and black suits.
Subtly, Aliyah changes her mien, slowing her stride and softening the determined set of her features. With less effort than is required by a flick of the wrist, she appears strained with concern. The performance is for the staff and visitors who mill around the nurses’ station, and her audience is captivated. Gazes follow. Heads turn.
She ignores me when she reaches the door to Lily’s room, peering through the window. Before the hospital staff can intervene, she steps away without entering after noting the absence of the man she seeks. “Where is he, Witte?”
The exasperation in her tone chastises me for failing to volunteer information before she enquired.
I slide my mobile into my pocket, my preliminary tasks complete. “He is discussing Mrs Black’s prognosis with the physicians overseeing her care.”
Her head whips towards me. “What do we know?”
“Hopefully more when Mr Black finishes his conversation.”
Ramin huffs a humourless laugh. “Could you be more evasive?”
“Absolutely,” I say smoothly.
“So, we’re just going to sit around and wait?” Darius sets his hands on his hips, spreading his jacket open to reveal a lean, powerful torso beneath a fitted shirt. “I’d rather be spending time with my wife.”
“Me, too,” Ramin concurs with a wicked gleam in his blue eyes. Since he’s unmarried, the intimation is clear.
“Fuck you,” Darius snaps.
“What? Amy makes great martinis.”
“You’re a piece of shit.”
Aliyah snaps her fingers, marginally breaking the tension between the brothers. “Enough. Ramin, get us some decent coffee. Darius, get the names of the doctors.”
As the brothers walk away in different directions, Aliyah turns her dark gaze towards me. “You and I are the only ones who really worry about Kane. We need to keep an eye on things, make sure he’s protected.”
“As you say.” But my thoughts are with the woman beyond the door who has only a man she evidently fears to manage her care.