She had no time to answer. The front door slammed. He was gone. His closing words hung in the air, weighing on her with crushing force. The energy drained from her legs again and she collapsed to the floor with her head in her hands. She cried.
CHAPTER 19
Despite the threats of the suspicious deaths, Jane felt good that Ron had been moved back into the hospice. It felt like progress to her. It felt like he was moving in the right direction. Even the emotions of her earlier confrontation with Ed faded with this new spark of hope.
So, as the wind and rain of the Wellington afternoon pushed her into the hospice lobby, her spirits lifted surprisingly high.
She immediately noticed two things as she entered Ron’s room. For the first time in days, he was sitting up in his bed. This encouraged her more, even though he appeared to be dosing. Then she saw the Dominion Post splayed across the sheets before him.
As she took a seat beside his bed, she wondered about the ethics involved in giving a hospice patient a newspaper with such an article on the front page. What thoughtless nurse had made that happen? For a moment she wondered if she should turn right around and make a complaint at reception. But she quickly decided that the damage had already been done.
“You’re here,” Ron whispered as his eyes fluttered open.
She forced a smile and took his hand. “You’re awake,” she said.
“Barely. Whatever they plugged into my IV line a few minutes ago has knocked me for a six.”
“A six?”
“It’s a cricket expression.”
“Aha… cricket,” she said. Even after over three years of marriage to a Kiwi, she still found it difficult to get her head around some of the local slang. And she certainly didn’t understand cricket.
“You look tired.”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
She sighed. “You read the article?”
“We get the papers here just about every day. Yes, I read the article. Is that what’s wrong? Are you worried?”
“There may be some psycho murdering people here. Of course I’m worried. Maybe we should think about moving you to another hospice.”
“I’m not moving from here. You don’t need to worry about me. And from what I see in that article, there’s no need to worry at all. It looks like nothing more than the usual media hype and speculation.”
“I don’t know.”
“But that’s not all you’re worried about. What else?” he asked.
She tilted her head and smiled at him as best she could. He could always read her mind like that. She could never escape his observations and sometimes that power infuriated her. “It’s nothing,” she said.
“Tell me?”
“It’s just Abn is all. We had a fight.”
“He’s a teenager. There will be many more fights, believe me.”
“Not like this one, I hope.”
“What were you fighting about?”
So far, she hadn’t told Ron much about the detectives and Abn. So far, she’d managed to keep much of that detail secret. But the time had come. She knew she had to tell him now. So, she began from the beginning, explaining every aspect of the situation with Abn, the detectives, Michael and the camera footage; everything. A half hour had passed by the time she’d completed her story. By this time, she noticed Ron’s eyelids becoming heavy.
“That’s it?” Ron said, a spark returning to his lifeforce and his eyelids lifting once again.
She breathed a sigh of relief. She felt as if a massive burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She now realized how dragged down she’d been by the entire affair. “Yes,” she agreed.
“Abn has already told me all of this. The police are only doing what they do best; fishing wherever they can. It’s normal when they have no certain leads.”
She felt a degree of surprise at this revelation. And she somehow felt cheated. She could now see that important family conversations had unfolded behind her back and her ignorance to them cut deep into her already waning confidence. “What else has Abn said to you?” she asked.
“I may be terminally ill, but he’s still my son just as much as he is yours. He tells me everything.”
“And you tell him everything?”
“Yes, of course.”
“A lot more than you tell me, apparently.”
“What do you mean? I love you. I have never lied to you.”
“You may not have lied to me, but you never told me that you want your life to be over.”
“Aha… Abn told you about that,” he said, as a pained expression washed over his face.
“Yes.”
“…I’m hurting, Jane. The meds take the edge off, but they don’t do the whole job. I can literally feel myself being eaten alive by the cancer. No torture machine in existence can equal that pain.”
“He’s fourteen years old. There are things you should and shouldn’t say to him.”
“He’s old enough to be told the truth. And need I remind you, he’s not a normal fourteen-year-old.”
“That much, I can’t argue.”
“Which much? …What?”
“The normal bit,” she said, but in the same moment biting her tongue.
“You’re still holding back. What else haven’t you told me?”
“Have you ever seen any of his artwork? Have you ever looked inside of that sketchpad he’s always carrying around with him?”
“No, why would I? Why should I? He never once showed it to me. And besides, that’s his personal property. I’m no snoop.”
“Well, I’ve looked, so I suppose that I am a snoop.”
“Jane, you have to respect his privacy. He’s never had that luxury until now. Why would you threaten it?”
She suddenly felt superbly defensive. She made a vain stab at explaining herself. “It was the fight we had. What he said, the way he worded it. I felt as if I needed some kind of confirmation that what he’d said was nothing more than an emotional reaction.”
“And did you get that confirmation?” Ron asked with a sour expression.
“Quite the opposite.”
“Well, you know what they say about curiosity and the cat, don’t you?”
“But his drawings. They’re disturbing. They’re not the normal things you’d expect coming from a normal teenager’s imagination.”
“You’d be surprised. You should have seen what I was coming up with when I was that age.”
“I’d wager that your work was warm and fuzzy compared to Abn’s. Death and…”
“I don’t want to know,” Ron said, holding up visibly trembling hand.
The tremble in his hand reminded her of how sick he was. She could see that their conversation had taxed him to the point of exhaustion. She knew she had no choice but to back off. Looking at him now, she had a sudden, overwhelming view of his true state. It was as if she were observing a leashed animal being mercilessly punished by its master, unable to break free. There was no escaping the persecutor at hand. For the first time, she could see his suffering as a physical force beyond his control. Emotion welled inside of her and nothing could stop it erupting into a fit of tears that quickly morphed into uncontrollable sobs.
“Jane!” he said.
She continued to sob. But in an attempt to muffle the noise, she buried her face into the bed.
“Jane!”
She felt his hand on the back of her head. She drew some comfort from this. But another full minute passed before she managed to regain control of her emotion. Shame replaced her sadness as she finally peeled her head from the bed and looked at him through bloodshot eyes. She had no right to break down in front of him like this. She knew her suffering paled in comparison to what he endured every minute of every day.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be so foolish. It’s me who should be sorry,” she said as she took his hand in hers.
“No, you’re right. You’re out there and I�
��m in here. If you’re worried about Abn, then I know you have good reason.”
She smiled and whipped the tears from her eyes. “It’s okay. I really have no right to put this on you.”
“You have every right.”
She felt emotion welling up from inside of her again, searching for an exit. But this time she somehow managed to suppress it.
“Come on, let’s eat some of that chocolate you bought. Let’s forget about all of this for a minute,” he said with his best attempt at a grin.
She chuckled. She knew that he hadn’t enjoyed his last remaining treat in days. But the lift she got from the change of subject evaporated as she realized she’d forgotten to bring a fresh bar of Whittaker’s. “Hell’s bells,” she said.
“What now?”
“I forgot to stop by the dairy on the way here.”
“No…!” he breathed with an animated expression of pain.
She snapped to her feet. “It won’t take long. I’ll make a run down the road to get it. I’ll be right back.”
“You don’t have to go.”
She levelled her best determined expression at him. “I do have to go.”
She didn’t wait for him to answer. But as she stepped toward the door, she heard him call from behind her.
“Jane?”
She turned on her heel. “Yes?”
“I love you!” he said, smiling through his pain.
She smiled back. “I love you too.”
As she made her way out of the hospice, she noticed a heavily tattooed man entering the lobby. She recognized the man from previous visits. She knew he was the father of the boy who’d been murdered there and she briefly wondered why he was back. But this thought disappeared as the full force of the Wellington weather hit her in the face. The rain and the wind seemed to have intensified in the short time she’d been inside the hospice. On a fine day, she would have walked to the dairy and her umbrella was useless in today’s conditions. Sideways rain and hurricane-force wind made sure of that.
She cursed the weather as she dashed across the carpark to her car. Even over that short distance, she became soaked and disheveled. As she settled into the driver’s seat and looked into the rearview mirror, she started at her appearance. Her thick blonde hair stuck out in every direction as if she’d been electrocuted. Her mascara ran beneath her eyes. She wondered for a moment if she’d looked this bad while visiting Ron. He hadn’t said anything.
It didn’t take much reckoning for her to understand that a patch up job was out of the question. She would need a full overhaul before returning to the hospice. A quick trip home presented the only solution.
* * * * *
An hour had passed by the time Jane made it back to the hospice. Fresh makeup installed, new outfit in place, chocolate secured and Ron’s hooded raincoat as protection assured her state of perfection to be intact as she entered the safety of the lobby. A pause in the lobby’s bathroom confirmed this, while giving her an opportunity to remove the raincoat and stuff it into her oversized handbag.
Despite having taken much longer than she would have liked to get the chocolate, she felt good as she made her way through the hallways. The experience of the outdoors had somehow broken the mood she’d been in earlier. In fact, she could barely remember what had gotten her so upset in the first place. And as she stepped into Ron’s room, she reveled in the idea of spending some more time alone with him again.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” she said.
No Answer.
“I had to go home and change. The weather out there is terrible.”
Placing her handbag beside the bed, she dug into a side pocket and pulled out the king-sized bar of Whittaker’s. However, as she straightened out and placed the bar on the bedside table, she noticed Ron was sleeping. She cursed herself for having spoken so loudly. The more rest he got, the better. Sleep had to be the greatest relief he could wish for.
She sensed the reality before she saw it. As she settled into her seat, she realized she could no longer feel Ron’s lifeforce occupying the room. His body was there, yes, but the part of him that made up the man she loved was not. Something had changed in her absence.
She raised a trembling hand and placed it over Ron’s. It felt cool to her touch, lifeless. She knew that could just be because of his limited circulation, so she placed her hand under his nose, hoping beyond hope to feel his breath. None came. A cry caught in her throat. Unable to escape, the cry remained trapped there, as if stopped by some higher power that told her that to set it free would do no good. There was no bringing Ron back now. The best she could ask for was to spend a few final minutes alone in his presence. Letting the world know of his death could wait. She deserved this time. She needed this time.
“Mum. Are you okay?”
She looked up from her tear-filled eyes to find Abn standing beside her.
CHAPTER 20
Ed downed his third drink and stared aimlessly through the front windows of The Office. Outside, rain and wind lashed at Riddiford Street. Cars and busses charged through the weather, determined on their route. And people did the same, braving the environment with seasoned indifference.
The madness of it all mostly eluded him. Only at times like these, when he paused to observe, did he wonder if there was a better place out there to live. But he always came to the same conclusion; this was his home. For better or for worse, he knew deep down that he’d never leave Wellington again.
Pulling his eyes from a lady trying to control her umbrella on the opposite side of the street, he looked around for Jena. He found her chatting with two youths in a booth at the back of the bar. The fact that all three of them had their phones out and were stabbing away at their screens didn’t seem to interrupt their conversation.
“Bartender! What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?” he called.
He instantly regretted his brashness as Jena looked up from her phone with an angry glare. He knew that look. He’d seen it before. It was usually followed up by him being kicked out into the street. However, today seemed to be his lucky day. Instead, Jena chose to ignore him as she went back to her conversation with the youths. It took several minutes before she broke away and took her position back behind the bar.
He slid his empty glasses toward her with the best pleading eyes he could muster.
“Trying to make up for lost time?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” he said, as he watched with relief while she went about her duty.
“You’re late is what I mean.”
“I am?”
“It’s almost three. I don’t remember the last time you weren’t here by noon,” she said as she served two fresh drinks.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy being beaten up by the look of it. You look like Hell.”
“I bumped into a door,” he said, while feeling the fresh gap in his front teeth with his tongue.
“Hmm, that door wouldn’t have had bars on it, would it?”
“Don’t you start.”
“…I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Right about what?”
“You weren’t here yesterday. You’re late today. I’m guessing you spent some time in a jail cell.”
“Maybe,” he said, not really caring if she knew about his incarceration or not.
“What were you in for?”
“For trying to see Ron.”
“People don’t get arrested for trying to visit dying brothers. What were you in for?”
“I may or may not have punched a nurse.”
“Jesus!”
“I really don’t remember exactly what happened. It’s not like me. I don’t hit people.”
“As I recall, you were discharged from the Defense Force for hitting a superior officer,” she argued.
“That was different. He was an asshole.”
“What about the nurse?”
“I told you, I don’t remember.”
“So, how is
he? How’s your brother?”
He felt an element of relief that she’d moved on to another subject. “He had a turn,” he said.
“A turn?”
A crash sounded from the rear of the bar before Ed could answer. The noise startled him. His nerves were still in the process of steadying as they sought release from sobriety. He needed two more rounds before explosive sounds could be tolerated. He looked around to find that one of the youths had knocked over a chair as he’d stood up. Somehow, the youth still hadn’t managed to pull his eyes from his phone screen amidst this act.
“I’ll get that, Jamie,” Jena called.
“Thanks,” Jamie called back.
With a sick sense of curiosity, Ed watched as Jamie trailed his partner to the exit. Both of them didn’t so much as look up from their phones as they left.
“What the fuck is it with you kids and your phones, these days?” he said.
“What the fuck is it with you and drinking and punching?” she replied with a chilled expression.
A snappy comeback failed to spring into his mind. As he watched her go and right the fallen chair, he had to admit that she had a point, everyone had their medicine. What did it matter? If you drank, so what? If you spent your waking hours mesmerized by a three-inch screen, so what? One man’s pleasure was another’s poison.
As if mocking his silent philosophical moment, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it. He already had his medicine. Adding another to the cocktail wouldn’t do any good. But when the phone vibrated again and again, he realized the caller wasn’t going to give up.
* * * * *
“We’ve got another one!”
“What?” Bell said, looking over his desk toward Boar.
“Another one. We’ve got another stiff.”
“At the hospice?”
“Where else? They just called my direct line. And you’ll never guess who it is.”
Bell searched Boar’s face for answers. He found none. “Who?”
“Ron Morrison.”
“Jesus! Let’s go,” Bell said as he stood up and snatched his coat from the back of his chair.
THE LIFE LEFT: A GRIPPING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER Page 18