Jolt

by Bernard Beckett

  Then I was up and running again and they must have stopped to check on their friend because I couldn’t hear them behind me. I took no chances. I ran until I had no running left in me and then I stumbled on some more. When I stopped I was too exhausted to think of anything.

  As my breathing settled, thoughts returned and they were thoughts of hatred. I hated him so much I wanted to turn back and hunt him down, but I knew I’d never find him. I hated him for what he’d done to Ms Jenkins, for what I’d had to see and how it made me feel every time I thought of it. I hated him for all the wishing I had inside of me, wishing that I’d done something more. That was his fault and I hated him for it, just as much as I hated him for the feel of his hands around my throat in the dark, and the look in his eyes. A look that said he would kill me, if he ever got the chance. Most of all though, I hated him for separating me from the people I needed most just then, for leaving me all alone. I needed Jonathon and his smartarsed mouth, Rebecca and her hard-arsed ways. I needed Lisa and her way of understanding me. I was alone, lost in the bush, with the taste of possible death in my mouth, and for that I hated him most of all.

  That hatred got me out. Hating so much that I couldn’t let him beat me. Hating him to the point where I could think of nothing else, only getting out and finding him and making him pay. There is a part of me that can’t give in, couldn’t give in there in the bush, can’t give in now, writing this down. I knew I would never get my bearings again in the dark so I decided to sleep again until morning. I made myself as comfortable as I could on some damp moss and hoped it wouldn’t rain.

  The next morning I felt the weakest I have ever felt. I had reacted badly to the eel and I had to squat in the bush. When I started to move again my legs almost gave way beneath me. I was dizzy and there was pain in my head and my stomach. My mouth was dry. I knew I had to back-track to the water. I tripped over too many times to remember on the way back down. I reached the river and drank straight from it, kneeling at its edge like an animal. I splashed the cool water over my face, trying to clear my head. I sat down on the side of what was now a small lake and made the following decisions.

  I would stick to Rebecca’s plan, climb directly up, onto the ridge, then straight down to the Waiohine. I would follow that out to the Wairarapa farmland. Without food any more resting was impossible, it would only use up precious time. I promised myself that no matter how I felt I would keep moving. And that was all I decided. It was as far as I could see. Images of the Doctor would keep me moving forward. Somehow, later, I would find him. I even remember feeling pleased that the others hadn’t seen his face, so I might have a chance of getting to him before the police did.

  I walked. The details here are hazy. The picture distorts, blurs, then disappears. I walked all day. I remember dark coming on. I remember nausea, and headaches like I have never felt. I remember seeing the Doctor again, as shadows moved and then later as full scale hallucinations took hold. Trees became skyscrapers and I found a Coke machine that was out of order, and followed a pathway of red carpet. Only luck can have kept me from circling about my own death.

  I remember a fence, the beginning of farmland. There was grass, and cattle, and I knelt at a water trough.

  And then I woke here, in this hospital. I can guess more now. I must have lain in the paddock a while before I was discovered. I don’t believe it was purely coincidence that led me back to the Doctor. He must have known this is where I would end up, if I ever made it out. So he got himself working in the emergency ward, and waited for me. I don’t understand why I wasn’t identified when I came in. The others must have told people I was still missing. Maybe he found some way of hiding my identity, before he decided to drug me to the point of forgetting. Or maybe the others…

  But I didn’t forget. I haven’t forgotten. I am starting to lose it now, the ability to place one thought in front of the other. I stop and howl with the fear of being alone again, forever this time, and the sound of it only frightens me more. I stopped taking his drugs. Somehow I stopped taking his drugs. Another chance was thrown to me. Too late now though. I am dying.

  19

  APRIL 24 I was dying. I felt that final fear creeping up through my bones. The Doctor’s crime was close to complete, close to perfect. But he lost his nerve. He grew scared I suppose, paranoid, the deed grew too large for him. He came back to the room, to check up on me, to finish a job that was finishing itself.

  I heard the lock turning and by then I was so sweaty weak with fear I wasn’t even sure it was real. I saw the door come slowly open and I took my chance to stay alive. I was lying in the corner, my back against the wall, this book and the plaited pillowcase hidden behind me. I didn’t move, but let my eyes half-open and follow him into the room. He closed the door and locked it. He stood, as far away from me as was possible in the small space, and watched me closely. I watched him back. He was dressed for the weekend, jeans and ski jacket. His face looked older than I remembered, the skin hung more loosely and there was darkness beneath his eyes. I realised this was the first time I had been able to look at him properly. I searched his eyes for the monster that lurked there but they were empty. Blank. I wondered what he was doing. I tried to anticipate him. There would be a moment. A single chance. I tried to find some strength, awaken my muscles without moving.

  The Doctor pulled a syringe from his pocket.

  ‘You can hear me, can’t you Marko?’ he said, speaking softly, like any Doctor to any patient. I nodded and made a noise in the back of my throat.

  ‘This won’t hurt at all. You’ll just fall asleep. You must be tired.’

  And if I close my eyes, and imagine hearing that same voice in a different place, it is almost possible to believe that in some sick way he actually cared. That he wanted to make it easy. I watched him, not trying to understand, trying to anticipate. He held the syringe up in front of him, checking it against the light. He stepped forward and I made as if to move away, but only weakly, like a person past resisting. I had one end of the pillowcase in my hand. My chance. Not yet though. He was moving too methodically, too carefully, as if ready for me to strike.

  ‘You don’t have to kill me,’ I croaked, watching his eyes for a reaction. They clouded with a sudden sadness, taking me by surprise, and I had to force myself to look past them, keep watching, waiting.

  ‘I’m not killing you Marko. I wanted you to live. That was my plan. I saved you, you know. You were half-dead when they brought you in, I helped stabilise you.’

  The hand that held the syringe fell back to his side, as if his mind was floating off the task. There were things he wanted to say, and I would help him drop his guard.

  ‘You’re killing me now.’

  ‘Not me Marko, circumstance.’

  He said it like they were old familiar words, an argument he’d had a hundred times before. I watched him and tried not to listen. ‘It’s what gets us all in the end. In different circumstances, it’d be you killing me. If you have to blame someone, blame Nurse Margaret. She was the one who had to know best, who had to experiment with your dosage, against my instructions. If she’d stayed out of this, you’d still be alive.’

  ‘I am still alive.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. This has taken long enough.’

  I pushed myself up off the wall, still sitting but leaning forward towards him, as if I was desperate, as if it was all I had left. I’ve never been much of an actor but I could see that he’d bought it. He didn’t even step back from me.

  ‘Why did you do it? Why did you kill her?’

  ‘It was an accident. That’s all.’ He looked away from my stare. ‘They happen. This isn’t personal.’

  He took my arm and again I was soft in my resistance. He moved his full weight onto me, his back against my chest, holding me down like a shearer pinning a stroppy sheep. I waited. The moment would come when he checked for a vein, a professional lost in procedure. I could feel his weight relax against me. I had no idea how much strength I had
left.

  I pulled my arm over his head as quickly as I could manage, whipping the rope around his neck and grabbing the loose end with my free hand. I was weak and it was a clumsy movement but again I had surprise. He hadn’t learnt much. When his hands came up it was to get at the fabric, to relieve the choking. His weight came off me and I knelt up behind him, leaning back on the ends of the crossed-over choker, and brought my whole weight to bear on his fragile neck.

  It was messier than it should have been. He bucked about frantically. He was much stronger than I was and I held on like a rider at a rodeo, pitting the last of my endurance against his, knowing that without air he would soon lose the battle. As he became calmer I tightened the grip, alert to any tricks. I could have killed him then, but my hatred ran deeper than my rage. He didn’t deserve anything quick.

  I kept leaning on the rope, maybe for a full minute, till he was sagging against it, close to passing out. Then I pushed him forward, face hard against the concrete floor. I knelt on his shoulder blades and brought one arm up behind his back, locking his wrist with my left hand, pulling his chin back with my right.

  ‘If you try to move,’ I told him, ‘I will break your arm first, then your neck.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ he gasped. ‘I never meant for any of this to happen. I beg you. I’ll come with you to the police. I’ll tell them everything.’

  I didn’t say a thing. There was nothing I could say that would add to my pleasure. I let his face fall back to the floor and searched his pocket. I found the key. A simple plan was forming. It was what he deserved.

  Moving quickly, so he didn’t have time to react, I tied one end of the rope around the hand I held. He tried to buck me then but I was ready. I grabbed a handful of his hair and smashed his face down hard. Then I passed the rope around his throat and brought his other hand up to meet the first. Another knot and he was well caught. I could hear him struggling to keep his airway clear. I stood back, safe from him at last. He wriggled onto his side, to return my stare.

  I expected him to kick out as I removed his shoes and socks, and then his trousers, but his spirit had crumpled without much of a fight. The trousers weren’t a perfect fit but with the ends rolled up they would do. I buttoned up the blazer. I must have looked odd, but not as odd as in hospital pyjamas. Still I didn’t speak. I was beginning to feel light-headed, not with weakness but with victory. I searched his pockets again and found his wallet. I took sixty dollars, all he had.

  ‘You can’t leave me here,’ he tried. ‘No, don’t do that.’

  Then he tried screaming, a sound so low and pitiful I had to gag him. My pyjama pants did the job well enough.

  I took the syringe and put it in my blazer pocket. I picked up my book and this pen. I was ready to leave the hospital.

  ‘We get what we deserve,’ was all I said as I closed the door. I got one last look at his eyes and it wasn’t fear I saw there; it was hope, desperate hope. That will fade, and then he will feel the things I have felt.

  I walked back out into a different world. Things I’d hardly noticed when Andrew had led me there seemed obvious now. I wandered half-finished corridors, empty of people and sound. I passed a roughly boarded-over lift shaft and then a dark passage without electricity, where cords for light fittings poked down from the ceiling. Twists and turns, a dungeon at the end of a maze, even a ‘keep out’ tape stretched across the corridor now, at the place where it met the main building. The Doctor should never have panicked. They wouldn’t have found me alive. They won’t find him.

  A nurse stopped me as I tried to find my way back through the wards.

  ‘You can’t go through there,’ she told me, but she said it with a smile and it made me think of Lisa.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve got myself a bit lost.’

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked. A normal conversation between two normal people. I was free.

  ‘The cafeteria.’

  ‘Oh, well you’re way off then. Go along here, to the lift, and take it down to the ground floor. From there follow the signs through to reception, it’s signposted from there.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘No problem,’ and another smile. Killing people, it’s easier than you might think.

  The cafeteria was empty. I could see through the windows it was light outside. Nine-thirty, according to the clock. I bought food and drink, lots of drink, two of the largest juices they had. The woman behind the counter smiled. I wasn’t the best dressed person she would see that day but maybe I wasn’t the worst either. I took the food outside and walked two blocks to a park before I stopped to eat. The day was bright and it hurt my eyes. I ate slowly. I felt far better than I’d expected to. I thought of the Doctor and a smile rose up through my chest.

  I am on a bus now, heading home. The other passengers must wonder at my smile. Maybe to them I just look crazy. I haven’t rung ahead. They don’t know I am coming. I want to surprise them. I want a chance to practise my story too, on Mum and Duncan, who won’t ask too many questions. I can hardly wait. I am only writing this to stop myself from looking up, from seeing how unbearably slowly we are moving. They’re only kilometres away now. They must think I’m dead. Everybody must think I’m dead. But here I am, alive, and with a story to tell that I can hardly believe myself.

  Not that I will be telling it, not at first anyway. I have been thinking this over. Only Jonathon, Rebecca and Lisa can ever know. If they’re still alive. I am sure they are. I can feel it. They’re the only people I can trust to understand. And not yet. Not until it is over, and I am sure he is dead. Rebecca might want to take over otherwise, and Jonathon would insist on going for a look, and maybe a spot of torture. So I will have to wait some more. That’s all right, I am used to waiting. They will be so surprised, that I have finally done something right. It will be my gift to them.

  So it is over. We have reached the place where the road is only half-built and it is getting too bumpy for writing. I have nothing left to say anyway. I have won. I am home. Good things lie ahead, waiting for me.

  20

  APRIL 26 Remember how it is when you’re little and you’ve been looking forward to Christmas ever since school broke up? Only now it’s happened. It’s Christmas night. The food’s all been eaten and it’s made you feel sick. The new game for your Playstation isn’t as good as the TV promised and anyway, everyone else is much better at it than you are. Your grandparents arrive late, with a present meant for someone half your age, and you don’t have any words for all your disappointments. So all you can do is cry. Then your Mum says, ‘It’s been a big day. You’re tired’, but that’s not it at all. The presents are crap, nothing’s ever as good as you think it’s going to be and it serves you right for wasting all that time looking forward to it.

  Well it has been a big day. It’s been two big days in fact, but that isn’t the problem. I’m exhausted but I’m too old to just break down and cry every time it gets too hard, so I’m staying here in bed this morning and I’m doing the only thing that still feels right. I’m writing it down.

  Nothing was how it should have been. I walked up from where the bus stops, but not through any city I knew. I was expecting it to be a mess I suppose, but no matter how you prepare yourself it will still be the details that trip you up. A favourite shop that isn’t there any more, because it was built too close to a bank; a house still standing, looking perfect, while just across the road another one has disappeared. Looking back down over the harbour, so much is missing I can hardly recognise the bits that are left. And everywhere machinery, bulldozers and cranes, the sounds of new ripping and tearing, of a whole city burying its memories.

  It was the shock, the strangeness and familiarity all in one, and being so close to home. Suddenly all the feelings of weakness my body was owed came back. The short climb up to our street became a mountain and, to stop myself from slipping back, I had to cling to the old wooden rail that should never have survived an earthquake.


  Our house looked okay from the road. The whole street seemed to have got off lightly. I found the front door locked and walked round to the back. Then I saw the damage. The conservatory Dad had spent so long on before he walked out, had collapsed. The tent we take up to Ohope every year was set up in the back yard, using most of the space. A tent in a campsite in the middle of summer can look like the most inviting place in the world, but cramped on your back lawn it looks sad and desperate.

  The back was locked up too, with a thick chain and a padlock, and when I called out no one answered. It was like I wasn’t there at all, like I had become invisible.

  So I sat down on one of the green plastic chairs we use for barbecues and I waited, and I felt a whole new set of fears creeping over me. Not how it was meant to be. Not why I wore such a wide smile when I stepped off that bus.

  I was asleep when Duncan found me. I woke to him shaking me, his bug-eyed face almost exploding, the veins on his neck bulging out as he screamed. It was evening.

  ‘Mum! Mum! Marko! It’s Marko! Marko’s here!’

  Then she was there, clumsy in her running, before stopping dead, like there was a wall between us, and just staring. Then there was laughing and crying and holding too tightly, and crying again. There was so much to say that nowhere seemed the right place to start, and all that came out was half-questions and broken exclamations. Eventually Mum calmed down enough to find her key and we all went through to the lounge where we sat and stared at each other, like none of us spoke the same language.

  ‘Oh,’ Mum kept on saying, then she’d smile strangely and look at me as if I was something she couldn’t quite believe in, or she’d go into another round of howling. And I’d say ‘it’s good to be back’, and it was, but not exactly. It wasn’t the way I wanted it to be. It wasn’t the normal I’d been missing, and that made me want to howl too. Mum got it together long enough to go to the phone and ring Uncle Bruce, to tell him the news and ask him to ring all the other people who needed to know.