Yes, yes, lucid now.
Full of pain and life once again. Emerging as if from sleep.
I don’t let on. I play possum. Eyes closed, slurring and swaying. It’s the last tool I have.
As expected, all this emboldens the liars and thieves around me. The staff are slipping. I hear them with the radio on down the other end of the house. Phone calls come in without messages. They are readying themselves for my departure.
But I’m back.
Afternoon and the house is empty, bar for the echoing of my voice. I’m shouting for Elda. ‘Bring the phone! Elda! Bring the phone to me.’
She does it slowly, convinced it’s a deranged whim. ‘Who are you calling, Victor?’
‘Everyone.’
I make a big show of placing several mundane calls: my accountant, the yacht club manager, my insurer. I pretend to ring my children and pretend they don’t pick up.
‘I’m … I must put my affairs in order,’ I tell her.
Elda says, ‘Sure, sure.’
It makes sense.
An old man finally accepting his fate.
But in reality, it’s all about getting an extension lead on the phone. It’s all about having the phone available to me in my new bed in the living room. A lifeline.
Deep in the darkness and deep in the pain, it takes every ounce of strength I have to force myself awake. I can hear a distant murmur. I can feel movement and tension.
I reach over with tremendous ache and slowness, and gently pick up the white plastic receiver.
Elda is speaking with someone.
A voice on the other end says, ‘He always was a wily old fuck.’
I know her.
Colleen Vinton.
Queen of the Damned.