The Lover's Children

Chapter 110 – Autumn’s Fury – Part 2

HARKNESS

Needles…

Sutures…

Dressings…

I grab what I need from the ambulance supplies, then dump it in the basement level of a parking lot.

Sleep…

I’m longing for sleep. I head back to my apartment on foot, but I’m exhausted. I don’t know how far I ran

today. Miles. And the wound’s killing me. Every time I move, it burns, searing up my arm.

Maybe a sling would help?

Could improvise something…

No, too noticeable…

Instead, I shove the hand into my pocket. It's not perfect, but at least it restricts the movement. The

pain subsides a little.

Taking side roads and back alleys, I keep my head down. No one looks at me twice.

Home soon.

Deal with it there…

But as I turn the corner into the end of my road, I halt mid-stride.

The door to my building is cordoned off. The area’s thick with police. They're everywhere.

The old bag from the next floor down totters to the cordon, carrying a groceries bag and dragging that

rat-dog she keeps. Some cop on duty nods her through but calls over another one, who takes her bag

of shopping, nodding and talking with her.

Even from here, I can see the buzz of activity at my door.

They're in there. Going through my stuff. Taking my things.

I can’t go back…

Got to hide somewhere. Lie low

Where do I go?

*****

I have to walk another half mile or so before I spot what I’m looking for.

The house looks run down and badly kept.

Windows dark…

No car outside…

No one home?

Experimentally, I try the bell.

No answer.

No barking…

Stepping smartly, I go around the back, smash a side window, reach in to lift the catch, then climb Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

through.

*****

Despite the shabby outer appearance, it’s clean inside. The cupboards are well-stocked. The

refrigerator too. A couple of beers settle my nerves.

How long do I have?

Do the job, then get out fast.

Maybe strip out some of the easy stuff so it looks like just a break-in…

The kitchen seems best. Enough light to see by and a good, solid table.

The slash gapes at me, an ugly flap of raw skin and flesh; welling dark and liquid, crisped black at the

edges, arterial red in the centre. Gashed from knuckles to wrist, and biting into my forearm, it’s got to

be five inches long.

How many stitches?

My fingers haven’t gone numb. There’s no tell-tale tingling of damaged nerves, but flexing the hand or

wrist sets flames scorching up my forearm.

My mouth tastes foul. Swilling around some water, I swish it from cheek to cheek, spit, swish again,

then swallow a couple of gulps. The drink helps to steady my nerves.

I’ve seen this done, know how it’s done. Dipping the curved needle through the alcohol, I set myself

ready, needle in one hand, suture at the ready in the other…

Prop one wrist against the other to steady myself…

…but as I try, at the slight pressure, pain shrieks through my injured wrist, the fingers spasm, and

screaming, I drop the fucking needle.

Collecting myself again, I take a couple of breaths. This time, I lean forward over the table, supporting

myself by my elbows.

Trying to hold the needle, simply making the pinch between the thumb and forefinger, my hand

trembles as I try to line up needle and suture. Thread and eye waver wildly as I jab at the eye with the

end of the suture.

The fucking thing won’t go in…

Straightening up, I take a break.

Breathe…

Take your time…

Pain gnaws at me. I’m cold inside, but my face burns. My stomach writhes and knots. Shivering, I drink

a little more water.

This time I sit, propping my wrist on the tabletop. Filling my lungs, I hold the breath, my hand steadies

and…

Got it!

The end of the suture slips through the eye. Quickly, I thread through again to make the locking loop.

Another deep breath and I poise the needle over my seeping wound.

It reflects the daylight, a curved sliver of steel, the tip glinting, a three-inch claw, a cat’s or a hawk’s, a

scythe of metal set to impale.

Puncturing the skin…

Penetrating the flesh…

Like skewering meat…

My hand trembles uncontrollably, but I press forward, press the tip of the needle the flap of flesh…

The skin indents slightly, a small well…

Stabbing in…

Lacerating me…

Blood welling…

The pain…

Pushing the sharp, sharp point in and through…

I can’t do it…

I can’t do it…

But I’ve got to.

As I hold the needle to the wound again, my mouth tastes of salt, and tears drip to the tabletop.

*****

KLEMPNER

White…

Everything is white…

Something smells odd…

Antiseptic?

Cabbage?

I should know where I am…

I think…

But nothing connects to anything else.

A blur of red and green swims into view…

A face…

Is it a face?

…

From somewhere far away, a voice,… “Larry? Can you hear me?”

Then another voice. “We’re all here, Dad. We’ll still be here when you wake up properly.”

*****

Christ!

That hurts…

Blurred shapes move against a pale background. Trying to focus hikes the banging in my head to

pounding. I try to move and fire spears down my neck. Something under my ribs pounds.

Where am I?

My thoughts won’t knit. Closing my eyes helps, taking the edge off the pressure in my skull. But nausea

churns my gut.

What’s happening?

Around me, sounds, garbled…

Voices?

But they make no sense, won’t focus…

Something bleeps… And keeps bleeping…

The yammering under my chest subsides…

… and I try opening my eyes again. Everything feels too bright, but at the window, the slats on the blind

are almost closed.

One of the blurred shapes detaches itself from the others, hovering above me. “Larry?”

Something swishes over me, tickling my face. The blur looms closer. Another scent…

Mint?

Why do I smell mint?

I know it should mean something, but…

“Larry? Can you hear me? Do you know me?”

And as though someone twisted the focus knob, the blur resolves into a face. “Mitch?”

Or that’s what I meant to say, but nothing comes out.

The other blurs coalesce into more faces: Jenny, James, Haswell…

Stanton…

Stanton?

The pale background morphs into a white ceiling, white walls, white sheets; and another blur into a

white-coated medic. From a seat beside me, Mitch holds my hand in hers.

A hospital?

And this time, my voice works. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

Expressions of concern crackle into laughter. Stanton’s voice booms... “Sounds like you’re feeling like

yourself again, Mr Waterman.” … My skull vibrates.

“Will someone turn off that fucking bleeping racket.”

The medic Tuts. “There’s gratitude for you. The bleeping stays on, Mr Waterman, while we keep an eye

on you. You should be dead. As it is, you’ll have another scar to add to that collection you already

have.”

“A scar? What am I doing here?”

Stanton speaks. “Don’t you remember?”

I’m still foggy, but something emerges from the clouds… “He was ahead of me… The Surgeon… He

ran into the traffic and I followed him.”

My head bangs and I press fingers to my forehead… “There was… a car… I think…”

Then the memory surfaces, sharp and bright. “Yes, a car. I didn’t have time to react. It hit me.”

Stanton huffs, then perches a hip on the side of the bed. “You may think you didn’t have time to react,

but I’ve seen the footage from the traffic cam. And I’ve read the witness reports. I’d say reflexes and old

training are what saved you. At the last instant, you lifted yourself and rolled over the hood, then curled

up with your arms protecting your head…”

He sniffs. Rubs his nose. “It’s a move you see used by stunt-men in the movies. On the hood, your

back and shoulders impacted the windscreen and the glass absorbed most of the shock. But as you

rolled off again, your head cracked the ground. And although you were fast, you weren’t quite fast

enough. The fender caught one leg. Nonetheless, you avoided the full force of the collision. Almost

anyone else would have been dead as they hit the ground.”

The doctor breaks in, brisk and curt. “Which is why, Mr Waterman, you’ll be staying here for a day or

two. Over your body, you’ve not received much more than bruises. But you’re certainly concussed and

we want to be sure there’s nothing worse involved with that head injury. We need to be sure too, that

there’s no internal damage. The leg is a clean fracture and should heal in six to eight weeks.”

“Six to eight weeks? I’m supposed to stay here for…”

“No, Mr Waterman. But we do want you in here for a few days to be…”

“How many days?”

Mitch’s mouth purses. Jenny stands behind her. “Be sensible, Dad. You’re not going anywhere right

now.”

Stanton stands again. “It astonishes me to admit, Larry, that I’m pleased to have you still with us.” He

levels a finger at me. “Deal. You stay put. Don’t give the nurses any grief. And I’ll bring you files on

Harkness with what we know about him.”

“Sounds fair to me. I’ll stay put, then.” It’s bravado. Exhaustion sweeps over me. My eyelids are fighting

to droop.

“That’s enough,” says the doctor. “And now, I’d like you all to leave...”

“But…” Mitch’s grip on my hand tightens…

“You may stay, Mrs Waterman, if you wish. But only you.”

*****

HARKNESS

Lily…

My Lily.

Where is she?

What have they done with her?

Was it the police?

Have they taken her from me?

But they wouldn't empty her apartment…

Take away her furniture…

Would they?

The one with the knife?

Or was it that big blond schmuck?

She was friendly with him.

And she had his card.

I turn the card over in my fingers, over and over. I've handled it so much that the print is rubbing off.

The edges have lost that sharp-edged new feeling, now furred and soft.

It doesn't matter. I know what it says.

Michael Summerford…

Life and Beauty. Live the Dream. Be the person you dream of.

Is he fucking you?

He's taken you from me and he's fucking you.

He's a big bastard.

Gotta be careful. Take the time to heal.

But I know where to find you…

*****