by Simon Logan
None are big enough to contain her guitar and so she pushes them to one side, revealing other, larger items lain out beneath them or stacked against the wall behind them.
“Hurry,” Nikolai says. “I think I hear more Policie.”
Katja mutters something then cries out. “Got it!” she shouts, and pushes aside more bags. She climbs over more bags to reach the instrument, grabbing it by the neck and pulling it free. She examines it quickly. It’s covered in a layer of grimy soot and scorched in one corner near the base, the paint there cracked and curling but aside from that and some snapped strings it’s in a pretty decent condition.
“What’s that?” she asks when she sees that Nikolai is looking down at one of the plastic bags.
This one hasn’t been sealed properly and lies open, revealing the glittery clutch bag within. Nikola reaches inside and takes it out then looks to Katja who nods for him to continue. He pops open the clip that holds the bag shut.
“Hello there,” Katja says when the wad of cash inside is revealed.
“You think it’s the gig money?”
“Does it matter? From the look of her out there I don’t think she’s going to be making much use of it anymore do you? Anyway the debt wasn’t even ours in the first place. Right?”
Despite her assertions they both continue to stare at the money as if it is somehow cursed. Finally Katja snatches it and stuffs it into the pockets of her oversized trousers before she can change her mind. Then she picks up the guitar by its neck and flicks off the light switch. She listens though the door before opening it barely an inch and peering through the gap.
“Okay,” she says, stepping out into the corridor. Nikolai closes the door behind them.
Katja takes a moment to regain her bearings then starts back up the corridor again, dissolving into the human traffic and heading for the exit, her guitar in one hand, the money in her pockets.
The crowds thin and they reach a junction. There’s a sudden burst of static from around the corner and the two of them freeze.
And a moment later a single Policie officer, one hand clamped over the radio strapped to his shoulder in an attempt to muffle it, steps into view.
44.
Lady D sits upright, an alarm of some kind going off nearby, and for a few moments she’s reaching around blindly to switch it off before realising that she isn’t in her own bed—or even her own home.
A nurse charges past her, grabbing the plastic curtain which hangs from the rail of the bed next to her and pulling it around as the figure lying on the bed thrashes around. Through the curtain Lady D can see the bleary outline of several figures tending to the patient before the alarm goes silent.
She flips away the thin sheet which has been spread over her, rubbing her head to clear it. Swings her legs off the side of the bed, watching the medical staff rush back and forth between the beds which line the room. In the middle is a circular reception desk, and only the top of the head of the person sitting at it is visible. A large whiteboard is suspended from the false ceiling above, names and numbers hastily scribbled across it in different coloured inks.
She stands up, assesses herself. Her muscles are stiff and her left arm throbs with a deep ache and her skin is covered in an oily grime which won’t come off no matter how much she rubs it but compared to most of the others she can see in the emergency room, she’s gotten off lightly.
Lady D runs a hands across her head and is appalled to find her wig gone, suddenly feeling exposed. Her dress is torn at the hem and stained with the same oily residue yet otherwise fine but she can’t find her heels. She attempts to get everything clear in her head and remembers the gig, then spotting the nurse, Soelberg, in the crowd. Going after her. Then . . .
She looks up the ceiling, momentarily blinded by the fluorescent lights.
Her bag.
The memory of taking the money from Dimebag Dexter and stuffing it into her clutch bag unfolds itself and the panic returns.
She blinks away the purple-red cloud which fogs her vision then searches around the bed, the checks inside the plastic-coated cabinet next to the bed. She lifts the mattress, checks the end of the bed in case it is hanging there. Nothing.
She grabs a young doctor as he strides past, snatching his coat by the sleeve.
“Where’s my stuff?”
His eyes are wide with fear at the sight of her and he attempts to form a response but none comes.
She jerks him closer, close enough that he’ll be able to see the fine grains of stubble beginning to emerge along her jawline. “I want my stuff.”
“It’s . . . you’ll have to ask at reception,” he tells her. “Any valuables—”
She pushes him away, letting him stumble into a crash-cart, then crosses barefoot to the circular desk in the middle of the ER. A pair of Slavic-looking women shove themselves back and forth on wheeled stools, going from phones to computers and back again, being shouted at by the doctors and shouting back. One of them spins around and scribbles on the board suspended in the air behind them, adding a series of indecipherable symbols next to one of the many names written on it. When she turns back Lady D is leaning over the counter towards her.
“I want my stuff,” she says.
A nurse calls across and the woman waves an acknowledgement to them. “I’m sorry,” she says in a thick accent. “You need to excuse us, we very busy.”
“Then tell me where my stuff is and I’ll get out of your way.”
“Personal belongings in secure room, they—” She turns away, shouts something to the other receptionist who has just rushed to hand one of the doctors a small stack of papers.
“Where is the room?”
The woman grimaces, sweeps a hand across her forehead to clear sweat-clotted strands of hair. “In the secure room,” she insists, briefly pointing towards one of two corridors which lead out of the ER. “You’ll have to put in a request but I don’t think we—”
“I’m putting in a request,” Lady D says, leaning in a little closer. “This is my request.”
The woman shakes her head, retrieves a pink form and hands it to her. “This is the form. You fill this out and wait. Someone will get your things for you. Please, we’re very busy.”
The phone goes and she picks it up, turning away and scoring out a couple of names on the whiteboard. Lady D waits a couple of moments then stalks away, across the ER and into the corridor the woman had indicated. It’s quieter than the chaos of the ER but there is still a steady stream of people. She finds the door that the receptionist pointed to and sees that it is padlocked. She cups a hand to her eyes and peers in through the little window adjacent but the blinds drawn across it afford her little view.
She becomes aware of an elderly man watching her, gnarled hands gripping a walking stick in front of him.
“You stare any longer and I’m going to have to start charging you, honey,” she snaps and he shuffles off, muttering to himself.
She tries the padlock and is surprised to find that it isn’t actually locked. The curved metal peg is in position but hasn’t been fully clicked into place. She pulls it out of the handle and opens the door, steps inside. She flicks a switch and a single light blinks into life, illuminating the mass of green plastic bags stacked against one another. Some are upturned and emptied, their contents strewn across the floor.
Someone has beaten her to it.
She grabs bags at random, instantly discarding those which are too heavy or too light to be her belongings, noticing that each one has a tag tied to it with either a name or a description on it. She tears open a couple of them and empties out their contents, kicking the items across the floor in frustration.
Then she spots another bag, this one also torn open and with its tag still attached. She bends down and picks it up, reads it.
Female Male 6' dark shaven hair (cheap blonde wig) Leopard print dress. Items: clutch bag,
wig.
“Cheap?” she says angrily, then checks the torn bag to make sure it is empty. She throws it across the room in disgust. Someone has beaten her to it.
This, she realizes, is the point where most collectors will give up and decide that the money isn’t worth it . So this, she knows, is exactly the point at which she will not give up.
She scans the room, looking for any clue as to who had gotten there before her, and quickly spots another tag and bag. This time the bag isn’t torn but instead twisted, as if it has been wrapped around something. She checks the tag. Again no name, just a description.
Female 5'5" shaved head multiple tattoos. Items: guitar.
Lady D crumples the tag as her hand becomes a fist. She stands up, rage boiling inside her now. It’s only when she uncurls her fingers that she notices the blood drops which stain the tag, then another couple of splashes on the floor. She touches one of them with a toe. Still tacky.
She drops the bag and leaves the room, not bothering to shut the door behind her, not caring if anyone saw her. Instead she looks for any more drops of blood and finds them, a little trail which leads into the corridor, most of them smeared by footfalls.
An orderly wheels a gurney towards her, shoving it up against a wall then rushing back into ER. A pair of shiny gold lamé heels stick out from beneath the bloody sheet which covers the body laid out beneath it.
“It’s what you would have wanted, Patty,” she says, taking them then stroking one of the corpse’s ice-cold feet.
She slips the shoes on, an almost-perfect fit, then follows the trail of blood drops up the corridor and around a corner into a farther, quieter passageway.
Smiling to herself now.
Knowing that she is going to get her money back, no matter what.
She follows the blood drops.
45.
“Normally we’d get someone to take you to the exit but under the current circumstances . . .”
“It’s fine,” Stasko tells the young doctor, waving him away. The man helps Stasko from the bed and to his feet, the scent of the antiseptic they had doused his wounds in clouding around him.
“The injuries are minor but should you feel any drowsiness or neck pains, please come straight back.”
Stasko nods as much as his stiff neck allows. His left side has suffered the worst but even then it’s only cuts and bruises. He is vaguely aware that something had fallen across him, protecting him from being crushed by the beams and burning timber which had crashed down around him.
“If you’ll excuse me I have other patients to—”
“Wait,” Stasko says, grabbing him by the arm. “My . . . friend. Do you know if she was brought in also?”
The doctor shakes his head. “I’m sorry, there’s a lot of confusion right now. We haven’t managed to identify most of those brought in so far but I’m sure if you check back later we’ll be able to give you some information.”
“I really need to find her.”
The doctor sighs. “What is her name?”
“Katja.”
“What does she look like?”
“Medium height. Shaved head. Tattoos across her chest.”
Stasko’s voice turns to a whisper as he describes her, his hand drifting across his own throat, mirroring the way he had earlier stroked her freshly inserted trach tube.
The doctor nods. “I remember her. Bed 13, at least when she was brought in. I think she was okay—”
And before he can finish Stasko is already hobbling away, past a row of gurneys lined up next to one another, empty and blood-stained, past the reception desk. Each bed has a plastic plate mounted onto its head, held in place by cable ties, large black numbers embossed on it.
He finds bed 13 empty.
His heart sinks as he stands next to it, running his fingers across the indentation left behind. And so she is gone again, taken from him. Perhaps Bridget is correct about the girl not being right for the project. Perhaps she isn’t the fitting replacement for Anna that he thought she was. Anna, at least, had been willing and although he feels certain that the punk would have come around to the idea of her transformation—at what cost? It had seemed such a perfect moment to have seen Katja’s poster that night but now it is beginning to feel fraudulent, that he had been tricking himself in a moment of desperation.
He turns and walks away, trying instead to spot the distinctive pink shock of Bridget’s hair, only now thinking of how she might be or even if she is there at all. He starts to cough, his esophagus raw and burning as if he were still breathing in the hot smoke from the fire, holding out a hand to a nearby wall for support.
Someone brushes past him, leaving behind a flowery scent-trail which cuts through the medicinal stench and is instantly recognisable.
“Anna?”
He looks up and sees the scent’s source walking away from him, their back to him. Shaven head. Barefoot. A skimpy leopard-print dress.
A vision of utter beauty.
And then she turns her head.
Stasko’s world comes to a complete halt.
He is wrong about Katja. She isn’t the one.
His misery had tricked him that night but now his mind is clear.
The creature turns away again and stalks into the corridor beyond the ER.
Stasko, a strange bliss now blooming within him, goes after her.
46.
With the Policie officer chasing after them, Katja and Nikolai charge towards the hospital’s radiology suite. They collide with a group of doctors in deep conversation, and then duck around a corner, the officer’s shouts echoing past them. They race ahead and then around one corner and then another.
A sign overhead reads Main Entrance but Katja grabs Nikolai when he starts towards it, pulling him in the opposite direction. They go through a set of doors, emerging into a dimly lit carpeted room lined with the sort of cheap plastic chairs found at low-rent conference halls. Spread out across three of the chairs which have been neatly aligned, a medical student is fast asleep. They creep around him as the sounds of the Policie officer’s boots thud past in the corridor outside, and exit through a door on the opposite side of the room.
“Where are we going?” Nikolai asks.
“We need to find another way out than the main entrance,” she tells him once they are out of the room again. “They might be waiting for us there.”
“Who might?”
“The trannies, Dimebag Dexter, that fucked-up surgeon . . . take your pick,” she answers as they reach another junction. A man in a bright green gown approaches one way so she takes the other.
They travel only a few metres before she stops suddenly.
“Shit.”
“What?”
Before she can answer he too recognises that they’ve hit a dead end. They both turn and are about to go back the way they came when Katja holds up a hand to block Nikolai. She nods at the floor in front of them and at the neat trail of blood that describes their route. She checks herself quickly then looks at Nikolai and her eyes go wide. Another drop of blood escapes his head wound and splashes to the ground.
“Oh,” he says.
“If anyone was trying to follow us . . .”
Her words, and the implication, drifts. She grabs his head and for a moment he thinks she is going to beat the shit out of him for being so careless then he feels something being pressed against his wound. The sleeve of her t-shirt. She pushes it against him in an attempt to help it clot then steps back. Tears at the garment, ripping a chunk of it away where the seam has already started to come loose.
“Here,” she says, offering him the chunk of fabric. “Now let’s get a move on before . . .”
“Before what?” Nikolai asks, pressing the piece of t-shirt to his wound.
But she’s looking right past him. Her eyes going wider still.
He follows her gaze and sees L
ady D coming towards them.
47.
The debt collector having now seen them and charging towards them, together Katja and Nikolai rush back to the junction. They duck around the corner and into the opposite corridor, the snap of the transvestite’s heels ricocheting around the floors and ceiling. They quicken their pace, going round another corner and then another, starting to put distance between them and their pursuer. Katja grabs an empty instrument trolley as they race past it and pulls it into the corridor behind them. A few moments later there’s a crashing noise and Katja turns in time to see Lady D tumbling to the ground over the cart.
They hurry onwards until Katja stops and pushes open a door.
“Here!” she shouts, shoving Nikolai inside.
She closes the door behind them, locks it, and they hurry down a short ramp into near-darkness. A wet heat washes over them and there’s the smell of fresh laundry. A row of washing machines line one wall, each one rattling and humming, the glow from their displays the only illumination in the room.
“Look for an exit!” she says. “There might be a loading bay or something.”
“I can’t see anything!” Nikolai replies, clumsily feeling his way along one wall then shrieking when he places a hand on a scalding hot pipe.
“Quiet!” Katja snaps. She palms her way through the darkness, looking for any slivers of light which might indicate a way out but can’t find any. “Shit!”
“Katja, where are you?”
“Here.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. Then, “There’s no other way out. We’re going to have to go back up.”
48.
“Motherfucker,” the woman growls.
Stasko looks at her, sprawled on the floor of the empty corridor next to the fallen cart, one long and beautiful leg spread out to the side, the ankle at the end of it red and slightly swollen. She reaches up to a nearby window ledge with one manicured hand and tries to pull herself upright but slips and she slumps back down again. The passageway’s lighting frames her, surrounds her in an angelic glow.