It took only a minute before Bell made it to the car with Boar beside him. He cranked the engine with anxiety charged vigor and slammed the transmission into gear. Seconds later, they sped out of the basement carpark.
“He’s dead, not dying,” Boar said, hanging onto the overhead handle for dear life.
“You know as well as I do, those first minutes after a murder are critical to any investigation,” Bell said as he stabbed at the siren button on the dashboard.
“We don’t know it’s a murder.”
“What do we know?”
“They only told me that Morrison passed away about fifteen minutes ago. They didn’t elaborate on the cause. But the last time I saw him, he didn’t look good.”
With the siren blaring and his hand on the horn, Bell ignored the traffic lights and swung out onto Jervois Quay. He narrowly missed an approaching bus as he did so. The bus honked its horn back, as did several surrounding cars. Bell ignored all of them. He felt sure that he needed to get to the hospice as fast as he could. Every second counted.
“You’re insane. Slow down a little, will you?”
Bell ignored Boar’s protest and pushed the car harder, weaving in and out of the traffic. “Call the hospice and tell them to not let anyone leave. I want to interview everyone who was there at the time of the death,” he said.
“I’m on it.”
Bell puffed with relief as he turned onto Kent Terrace and pushed the car harder. The traffic here was lighter. But he knew that rush hour was about to begin. People could already be seen making their way to their cars in endless droves. If he was quick, he would miss the inevitable gridlock.
The traffic suddenly opened up. He could see a straight run, south, to the end of Kent Terrace where it curved around the Basin Reserve. But he could also see a line of traffic about to merge from Buckle Street, which would effectively block his path. He floored the accelerator in order to beat the merging traffic.
By the time he swung left at the end of Kent Terrace, they were moving at just under one hundred kilometers an hour. He made it to the turn just in time, but his elation vanished as he came face to face with someone riding a bicycle across the road, directly in his path. He only had a fraction of a second to react. Seeing the two lanes to his right still empty, he swung the car in that direction. He missed the cyclist by centimeters and he immediately tried to correct his turn. The laws of physics refused that possibility.
When they hit the tree on the side of the road, they were still traveling fast, much too fast. A mixture of glass and branches exploded around Bell as the impact came. It was as if he’d run headlong into a grenade blast. The sound of metal tearing, the noise, the carnage—all of the effects were there. But it was the stillness that followed that really terrified him.
With the siren still blaring through the smashed windows, the chaos settled into a fresh Hell. Struggling around the airbags, he stabbed at the button in an effort to silence the siren. He somehow felt that if he managed to do this, then everything would be okay. But as the relative silence ensued, he soon saw that everything wasn’t okay.
“Are you alright?” he called.
Boar gave no answer.
He looked in Boar’s direction, trying to get an idea of how his partner had fared. This wasn’t easy. Airbags, branches and other debris blocked his view. Amidst all of this, he could barely make out the form of Boar’s head. But he could see that Boar’s eyes were closed and blood covered much of his face.
“Boar! Boar! Are you okay?”
Still, he got no reaction from his partner. He tried to further clear the path to him. But a branch separating them made this difficult. He had no choice but to get out and go around to the passenger door.
As he tried turning to open his door, he felt something tug at his left shoulder. For a second, he thought the tug came from his seatbelt. He grappled for the release button and that was when the first wave of pain hit him. A moment later, he discovered the source of the pain. An inch-thick branch had passed through his shoulder and skewered him to his seat.
A wave of nausea flooded through him as the sight took hold. Blood flowed from the point of penetration. Voices echoed through the surrounding chaos. The voices were saying something, but he couldn’t tell what. His last thought before drifting into unconsciousness was for Boar. He knew he’d let him down and it may have cost him his life.
* * * * *
They’d barely spoken since Abn’s arrival. The only interruptions had been when Jane had informed the staff of Ron’s death and had made a brief call to Ed to tell him the news. Beyond this, the room descended into a silence that felt completely unnatural to Abn.
Chancing a glance at his watch, he judged that about twenty minutes had passed since Ron’s death. Jane held Ron’s hand in hers and he could see that she showed no signs of releasing her grip. He tried again and again to catch her attention. But the most he managed to get from her was a brief glance. He didn’t like what he saw in her eyes during these moments. Her eyes appeared to be as dead as Ron’s. Nothing escaped them. The light had gone out from inside of her and he found this detail difficult to comprehend.
As the minutes ticked by, he further realized the futility of his presence. She remained silent. Both of her hands clung to Ron’s with desperate strength. It appeared to him as if she had engaged in a silent battle where she was attempting to physically pull Ron back into the world of the living.
Abn supposed that he should feel upset in some form or fashion. He did not. In stark contrast to Jane, he only felt an unwavering sense of relief. Ron’s suffering had ended. Death had a way of procuring that outcome. But what did all of this mean? Jane seemed intent on holding onto Ron, despite the fact that this was impossible. What did this say about her? How could she be so selfish? In a logical light, selfishness appeared to be the only explanation for her behavior. Was this her true nature shining through? The thought of this stirred up confusing emotions inside him. As the minutes passed, these emotions amplified further.
He found himself drifting from the reality of the moment. It all seemed so surreal to him. He felt so alone, as if he were the only sane and conscious observer in a world that had lost its sense of reason. From somewhere within this blooming emotional storm, a spark of anger snapped into existence and began growing.
A knock at the door disturbed him. The spark within him lost its oxygen supply and dulled. He looked around to find a uniformed security guard standing at the door.
“Can I help you?” Abn asked.
“Sorry to disturb you, but the brother of the deceased has arrived. We want to know if it’s okay for us to escort him here,” said the guard.
“Mum, is it okay?” he asked.
No reaction to his question came from her. He could see there’d be no reaching her for the time being. She remained locked in the futile struggle to drag Ron back to the living.
“I think it is okay,” he said, looking back at the guard.
“Mrs. Morrison. We will need your consent,” the guard said.
“I do not think she can hear you.”
“Mrs. Morrison. After the previous incident, we cannot bring Mr. Morrison’s brother up to visit the room without your consent,” the guard said with a pleading tone.
Abn watched as she finally reacted. In what appeared to be a gigantic effort, she pried one hand away from Ron’s and lifted it into the air. The movement unfolded with prosaic momentum until the hand reached its zenith just over her head. Then the hand dropped back to its previous position as if an invisible magnet attracting it had suddenly been turned on again. But the gesture seemed to be enough communication.
“As you wish,” the guard said before turning on his heel and leaving.
Abn wondered what the guard meant? He searched Jane for answers, but again she’d fully vanished into the black hole of her existence. A minute later, he received his answer as two security guards led Ed into the room.
“Hello,” Abn managed as he wa
tched his uncle drag a seat to Jane’s side and sit.
He received no answer from Ed, not even a look. As the security guards took positions near the door, Ed settled into a state similar to Jane’s. Though Abn did notice one difference; instead of a hand, Ed chose a shoulder to latch onto.
He looked to Jane and then to Ed. They may as well have been emotional twins, both of them now synchronized with the same dead look in their eyes. Both of them remained silent. Both of them completely vanished from the world of the living.
In Abn’s view, they were not bringing Ron back. Instead they were voluntarily joining him.
The insanity of it all suddenly overwhelmed him. There really wasn’t much point in him being here for this morbid spectacle.
* * * * *
As Abn stepped out of the hospice, a plethora of emotion filled his thoughts. He’d been in countless stressful situations during the course his life, but none like this. Growing up in Iraq, whenever he’d bumped up against adversity, he’d withdrawn into his base survival mode. Food and shelter became the priority. Anything beyond that was deemed unnecessary. Here things were different. Food and shelter were guaranteed. Instead, he had new challenges that had to be faced.
Fight or flight felt like the order of the day. Except, deep down he felt as if both were necessary. The natural response he put into play was to jump on his bicycle and ride away from the hospice as fast as he could. At first, he didn’t know where to go. Only when his legs burned with effort as he reached the top of Adelaide Road did he regain enough clarity of mind to make a decision. A left turn around the Basin Reserve would take him home. A right would lead him onto Kent Terrace in the direction of Michael’s house.
Crossing over the road to the footpath, he swung the bicycle right. For the first time in his life, when crisis hit, he didn’t want to be alone. He needed to speak to someone. Or at the very least, he needed to be close to another human that he liked. Somehow, he imagined that such action would relieve his inner turmoil. This sensation, felt so unnatural to him, as if he were trying on a new set of shoes for the first time. Nevertheless, he found his legs pumping harder at the peddles as he rounded the Basin Reserve.
A siren blared somewhere in the distance. Was the noise real? Or was it just the inner alarm bells of his consciousness warning him to slow down and take stock of his senses? He didn’t know for certain and he quickly decided that he didn’t care. All he knew for sure was that he wanted to see his friend.
Ahead, a break in the traffic came into view as he rounded the east end of the Basin Reserve. He could barely believe his luck. Ninety percent of the time, he had to wait several minutes to cross the road here. He didn’t hesitate. Jumping over the curb, he peddled hard to beat the traffic flow, which he knew would resume in seconds. The siren in his head grew impossibly loud as he moved. He ignored it, intent only on the path ahead.
The intensity of the siren’s noise peaked just as his front wheel hit the safety of the footpath. An explosion of noise immediately followed, as if signaling the peak of the siren’s crescendo. Again, he ignored the sound and pressed on.
The siren faded as he pounded the peddles all the way up Kent Terrace. His legs began to burn again, but at least his sanity felt as if it were returning.
The silence in his head didn’t last long. As he neared the top of Kent Terrace, the sirens returned with a vengeance. This time there were more of them. This time they were louder. This time he could not ignore them.
Seconds later, a wave of relief washed over him when he saw three police cars with their lights flashing as they sped toward him. He wasn’t going mad after all. The lights were real.
He pushed on with renewed hope.
Several minutes later, he locked his bicycle in front of Michael’s house and climbed the stairs to the front door. He knocked and waited for Jenkins to answer like he always did. But today, he was surprised to find Michael answering the door instead.
“Abn, how are you?”
“Not so good. Dad just died.”
CHAPTER 21
Detective Bell woke with a start. The moment he did so, he realized that he was no longer inside of the patrol car. Curtains surrounded him here. The distant voices remained, yes, but everything else had changed. Even the pain he’d previously felt had disappeared. The pain had been replaced with a warmth that enveloped his entire being, from his ankles to his ears.
“Boar! Are you okay? Boar!” he said.
No answer came. Where was Boar? Where was the car? Where was he?
As the wheels of his fuzz filled mind began to turn and consciousness further took hold, he discovered that the car had been replaced by a hospital bed. In the same moment, he realized why his subconsciousness had been in such denial of the facts upon waking. He realized what he had done.
Pain now stabbed through the fuzz of his mind as he twisted his head to get a better look at his shoulder. A gown covered the area in question. But bandages could be seen protruding from the top of the gown.
The rattle of metal sliding on metal signaled the parting of the curtain surrounding him. He looked up to find the face of a woman poking through.
“Detective Bell. You’re awake. I thought I heard a voice from here. How are you feeling?” she said.
“Where am I? What time is it?”
“You’re in Wellington hospital. I’m your nurse. You were in a car accident.”
He tried sitting as she pulled the curtains aside to reveal a busy room, hosting several other patients. A wave of nausea seized him and he collapsed back onto the pillow as the nurse made her inspection of his bandages.
“I wouldn’t rush things if I were you. You’ve had quite a time,” she said.
“Jesus! What have you dosed me with?”
“You’ll still be dozy from the surgery. It will wear off soon enough.”
“Surgery?”
“From the accident. The surgeon will explain the details to you when he does his rounds.”
He felt as if he would rather not have the details explained. The last thing he remembered from the crash was seeing a tree branch stuck through his shoulder. How they’d got it out and just how bad the damage was, were details that could wait for the moment. Despite this, he found himself looking to his left hand and wiggling his fingers. His fingers obeyed his commands, moving just as his mind willed them to. That had to be a good thing.
With the immediate threat of a crippled limb eliminated, his thoughts turned to Boar again. “Detective Boar. Do you know where he is? Is he okay?” he asked.
“Your partner?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure. I can see if I can find out for you.”
Somehow, that didn’t feel good enough. He tried sitting up again. This time his head swam, but he seemed to evade the bout of nausea he’d previously experienced. “I really need to see him,” he said.
But a gentle hand guided him back onto the pillow.
“You really need time to recover.”
He wanted to protest but didn’t have the strength to do so. For the moment, he lay back and watched the nurse as she went about her duties. As she worked, his other senses began bouncing back online. The smell of disinfectant tickled his nostrils. The clatter of footsteps on vinyl echoed from every direction. And the heat of the room suddenly felt stifling.
“If you need water, there’s a jug and glass right here,” said the nurse.
He looked to the side table on his right. In the same moment, he realized his mouth felt like fifty miles of desert road. He snatched at the cup with his good arm and drank deeply.
“This is a trigger for countering the pain. If you feel like you need it, just pull on it at will. And don’t worry, it’s preset so you can’t go over the limit,” said the nurse.
He nodded and refilled the cup with water from the jug.
“I’ll be back soon to check on you. Meanwhile, if you need anything, just use the alert button here.”
He looked to where she i
ndicated and nodded his thanks as he drank. Then she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
As he placed the empty cup back on the side table, his worry for Boar returned with full force. He had to see him. He had to see him now.
His resolve firmly in place, he shuffled into a seated position once again. This time, the world steadied around him and his stomach remained stable. His confidence escalated. If he could sit, maybe he could stand and maybe he could walk.
Sliding his legs over the side of the bed, he let them drop to the floor. His head swam with the effort, but it soon steadied.
He noticed an old man sitting up in the bed opposite him looking on with a dull expression, his dead eyes showing nothing. He ignored the death stare, took a breath and prepared to try his legs out.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a voice.
Bell looked up at the old man. He saw no indication that it was him who’d spoken. The eyes remained dead, the expression also. He returned his attention to his task and braced his hands against the side of the bed. Gathering his strength, he pushed up. His legs held. For a moment, he imagined he’d be okay. Then, without warning, the world fell from beneath him and he tumbled to the floor.
The lightning bolt of pain that shot through his bad shoulder as it took the lion’s share of the impact, felt like nothing he’d ever experienced. He immediately rolled onto his good side and his stomach emptied. Lying there with the world spinning above him, he hardly maintained sense enough to turn his head so that he wouldn’t suffocate on his own vomit.
“Detective! What have you done to yourself?”
The image of the nurse’s face hovered above him. His jaw remained too rigid to answer her as he ground his teeth against the pain. The next thing he knew, he was back on the bed. Through some superhuman act of strength, the nurse had lifted him there. And as his head hit the pillow again, he decided his respect for nurses would forever remain in place, from that day forth.
THE LIFE LEFT: A GRIPPING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER Page 19