Speed

by D C Grant

pay for our purchases – overpriced as far as I can see – and I’m beginning to think this is really stupid, Ben, in front of me and nearer to the entranceway, says, “Hey, isn’t that Mike who’s just come through the door?”

  He’s right, Mike is standing in the lobby, looking around, and we both quickly turn as he swivels our way, concentrating on our wallets and fishing out the correct money for the soft drinks we’ve just bought. When we look around again, Mike is walking forward with purpose as a man approaches him – an Asian, dressed casually in jeans and T-shirt, and I wonder if he came in with the coach tour group.

  “Who’s that?” Ben asks, as we hang back just inside the entrance to the café so that we can duck back inside if either man looks toward us.

  “I don’t–” I say and then stiffen. There’s something about the way the man moves that looks familiar to me. Then I get it – it’s the guy who was in my house, the one who kicked me … but I think that can’t be right because why would Mike be meeting him?

  “They didn’t even shake hands or talk or anything,” Ben says. “Hey, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Not a ghost,” I say. “That guy – I think he was the one at my house.”

  “Are you sure? Wait, they’re leaving together. What now, Detective Shaw?”

  “Let’s go,” I say as I pull Ben away from the cafe. “Let’s find out where they’re going.”

  The two men have moved through the lobby together, toward the elevators I presume, and we race after them, our progress catching the attention of the concierge again, but we are through the lobby and out in a marbled corridor just as the elevator doors close.

  “Was that them?” Ben asks.

  “It was the Asian dude. I didn’t see Mike.”

  I watch the elevator numbers light up; it lingers on 31 and then starts to come down. When the elevator doors open, it’s empty.

  “Let’s go!” I say, dragging Ben in with me.

  I press 31 but just as the elevator doors are about to close, a couple step in, forcing the doors to retract again and we have to wait until they close before the elevator will move up. I jiggle a little on my feet, anxious that by the time we get to floor 31 we will have lost sight of Mike and the man he met. The couple get out at floor 26 and we have to wait for what seems ages for the elevator doors to close again to continue its ascent to floor 31. We use the time to finish off our soft drinks.

  “So remind me again, why are we doing this?” Ben asks when the elevator doors close again.

  “I don’t know, but it feels like fun,” I say and smile at him. For the first time in the six days, I feel happy, like it’s a big game we’re playing. The heaviness on my heart lifts a little and for once I have a purpose.

  The elevator doors open and we’re in a hotel corridor with either end bending away so that we can only see a short distance either side, the smooth floor tiles reflecting the bright lights in the ceiling. I realize that we are in the Pike Street Tower, which is triangular from the outside, so I presume that this corridor is matched by two others that angle off from one another and meet in an apex behind us. I throw my empty drink bottle in a nearby bin.

  “Where do we go now?” Ben asks.

  “You go that way,” I say, indicating to my left. “I’ll go this way. I’ll meet you back here.”

  “Right … I mean left,” Ben says with a grin and moves off.

  The hotel is hushed; all I can hear is the hum of the air conditioning. I have no idea what I’m doing, what I’m looking for, but for once I’m doing something of my own free will, not being pushed along by forces outside my control. But I can’t knock on every door until I find the Asian man, and I realize how silly it all is.

  I reach the end of the corridor, turn the corner, losing sight of Ben and walk back toward the apex.

  I hear raised voices coming from a room about halfway down the corridor. I guess the rooms are soundproof, but the angry voices carry through the door, and I recognize one as belonging to Mike.

  “It’s got to end!” I can’t hear the reply so I lean against the door and put my ear against it. “Call Sandman off,” Mike says.

  The Asian says something but the words are so soft that I can’t hear them.

  “The boy knows nothing,” Mike says so loudly that I hear it clearly through the door.

  “Excuse me,” says a voice from behind me.

  I get such a fright that I lose my balance and fall against the door with a thud. As I recover I look over my shoulder to see a maid standing next to me with a pile of sheets in her arms. I haven’t heard her approach.

  “I … I …” I hear someone within the room coming to the door and before I can move, it opens. I’m face to face with the Asian.

  “Who’s there, Chan?” Mike calls from inside.

  “Wrong room,” I blurt and step away from the door, bumping the maid as I do so and she loses her pile of sheets. I take off down the passage.

  “Hey, come here!” Chan shouts. I ignore him.

  I reach the side corridor and run straight into Ben who’s coming the other way. I grab his shoulder and pull him back.

  “We’ve got to get out!”

  “Why?”

  “Quick, this way, the stairs are here, by the elevators.” I fling open the door and push Ben through it, following him as quickly as I can.

  We rush down the first two flights. Are they following? I listen as we run, just in case, and it’s lucky I do. I hear a door open above us and I grab Ben and flatten him against the wall. Just as he’s about to open his mouth in protest, I put a finger to my lips and point upward. We stand and listen.

  “No one here,” Mike calls out to someone that we can’t see, and then the door closes and the stairwell’s quiet.

  “I think they’ve gone,” I whisper. “Let’s go.”

  We make our way down the stairs, not daring to take the elevator in case Mike and the Asian guy are in it. It’s all downhill, but let me tell you that thirty-one floors is a lot of steps, and the breath is searing in our lungs when we exit out into the lobby, running straight into the concierge.

  “Hey, what are you up to?” he says and makes an attempt to grab me, but I duck away with Ben close behind. “Stop!” he shouts. We race toward the door and, as we exit, I look back. The concierge is still following us, beckoning to a couple of the hotel staff in the lobby.

  In a moment of defiance, I turn and give him the finger then run as fast as I can from the building, disappearing into the crowd before reinforcements arrive.

  “What was all that about?” Ben pants as we walk back down the main street toward the bus terminal.

  ‘I don’t know.” I tell him about the parts of the conversation that I heard and he’s as puzzled as I am.

  “Are you sure it was the guy from the house – the Asian guy?”

  “No, I’m not sure, as I didn’t see his face back then, just his eyes.”

  “And who or what is Sandman?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “And what’s Mike up to?”

  I shrug – that’s the question that is worrying me the most.

  Paralyzed

  We get a hamburger from a takeout joint near the hotel and take a bus to the hospital. My aunt is alone inside the room with my father. She smiles when she sees me and envelopes me in a big hug.

  “Does your friend want to come in too?” she asks when she releases me.

  I look at Ben through the window that looks out into the corridor. There’s a vending machine there and he is considering the options.

  “I think he’d rather be out there. I’m not sure he’s good at this sort of thing.”

  “That’s okay, then, I’m just waiting for the doctor. I asked to see him before we leave to go home tomorrow.”

  Dad looks much the same, although the ventilator is standing to one side now, close by if it’s needed, but he seems to be doing okay without it. I can imagine that he’s sleeping if I can just
ignore the tunes and wires. The heart monitor shows his regular heartbeat and that is all the evidence I have that he is alive. The rise and fall of his chest is almost imperceptible.

  “Here’s the doctor now,” she says and I look up as he comes in.

  He’s consulting a chart as he walks but smiles and looks from the chart to me.

  “Hello there, you’re the son, aren’t you? Jason?”

  I nod. “Is he getting better?”

  “He’s improving,” he says as he puts the chart down at the end of the bed. “His vitals are good and he’s been breathing on his own for some time now.”

  “If I ask him something, can he hear me?” I ask.

  “It’s possible that he can hear you, but I don’t think he’ll be able to respond just yet. There is increased brain activity which indicates that he’s coming out of the coma and we’re pleased with his progress.”

  “Do you know how long before he wakes up?” I ask.

  “There’s no way of knowing. Everyone’s different.” He glances over at Dad and lowers his voice. “Even if he does, he could have some brain damage, but we can only assess that later. There may be some memory loss, this may be temporary or it could be permanent. Only time will tell.”

  “How long before he can come home?” I ask. I’m keen to restore my life to its ordinary normality, even if that normality is not going to include my mother.

  “It’s impossible to put a time on it,” he says. “I can understand how you are keen to have him back home after all that’s happened, but he’s got a long road ahead. He’s going to need lots of physiotherapy and he’ll have to spend time in our spinal unit, getting used