The Lover's Children novel Chapter 110

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 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…