Sam Bourne - The righteous men

He was dying, like so many of the people in this place, not from the disease that had assailed him for months but of starvation and eventual dehydration. Once it was clear that the patient could never be cured, the organs would be allowed to pack up, one by one until death finally arrived.

It seemed a cruel way to let a person die. Djalu's father denounced it as typical of 'white man's' medicine, all science and no spirit. Sometimes Djalu thought he was right; after all, he had seen some terrible things in this place. Old women lying in pools of their own urine; men crying out for hours to be helped to the toilet. Some of the nurses quickly lost patience, shouting at the residents, telling them to shut up.

Or addressing them by their first names, as if they were babies.

In his first few months, Djalu had gone with the flow. He did not want to draw attention to himself, one of only two aborigine care assistants in the home. His position was hardly secure, not with a resume which included two spells in jail — one for burglary, the other for shoplifting. So he said nothing when the senior staff would hear moans or screams from down the corridor — and would turn up the TV to drown out the noise.

Even now he said nothing. He made no complaints to the matron or the manager; he wanted no fuss and no hassle.

Sometimes he even joined in the jokes about the 'crinkly old buggers'. But he did what he could.

So when he heard a resident crying out, he ran. He was part of what the nursing home called Team Red, responsible for about two dozen beds. But if he saw a light flashing for a resident in Blue or Green, he went anyway — often sneaking in, hoping none of the staff would see him. He made sure Mr Martyn sipped some water or that Miss Anderson was turned over. And if they had soiled themselves, he would clean them up, wiping them gently, afterwards stroking their hair, trying to soothe away their shame.

He heard how some of the residents referred to him.

'Matron, I don't want that boong touching me,' one had said when Djalu had first appeared at his bedside. 'It's wrong.'

But Djalu put that down to their age. They did not know any better.

Mr Clark had not been much friendlier. 'Which one are you?' he had asked.

'Which one, Mr Clark?'

'Yes, there's that other abo, whatisname? Which one are you?'

But Djalu could not feel angry, not with a man who was in the last days of his life. So he brought tea and biscuits when Mrs Clark visited; brought her a tissue when he found her quietly sobbing; and when she fell asleep in the chair by the bed, he draped a blanket over her.

Maybe his father was right that European medicine was a cold, metallic discipline. So he, Djalu, would give it a warm, human face — even if that face seemed to scare so many of these dying white folks.

This was his favourite time to work, late at night when he could have the corridor to himself. He would not need to explain his presence in the rooms, would not need to make up excuses for why he was reading the newspaper out loud to a woman on the second floor, not on the Red list, or simply holding the hand of a man who craved the touch of another human being.

So he jumped when he saw the door to Mr Clark's room creak open. The woman who came in had her finger to her lips, hushing Djalu. Her eyes were smiling, as if she were planning on giving Mr Clark a surprise and did not want Djalu to ruin it.

'Good evening, Djalu.'

'You gave me a fright. I didn't realize you were working tonight.'

'Well, you know death. It never sleeps.'

Djalu leapt to his feet. 'Did someone die tonight?'

'Not yet. But I expect it.'

'Who? Maybe I should-'

'Djalu, don't get excited. OK?' Calmly, the woman bent down and pulled out several of the CDs in the bedside cabinet, letting them fall to the floor.

'Hey, miss. That's Mr Clark's music. I'm looking after it-'

'Here it is.' She had reached behind the discs for what looked like a bandage. Now she lay it on the bed, on the square of mattress next to Mr Clark's chest, which was rising and falling like a set of bellows. The old man was fast asleep.

She opened up the bandage, pulling one flap of material to the left, the other to the right, to reveal a hypodermic needle alongside a vial of clear serum.

'Is the doctor coming? No one told me.'

'No, the doctor is not coming.' She snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

'You giving Mr Clark a shot? What you doing?'

'I'll show you if you like. Come closer.'

'Don't hurt him.'

'Relax, Djalu. Now come over here and you can see. A bit closer.'

The woman held the needle up to the window, where it made a silhouette against the moonlight. 'Now, Djalu, if you can place your hands on Mr Clark's shoulders. That's it, just bend slightly.'

Cleanly, the woman jabbed the needle into Djalu's neck, her thumb pushing the plunger hard, sending the drug swimming into his veins within an instant. Djalu had a second to turn around, his face frozen in astonishment. A second later, he fell forward, landing heavily on Mr Clark's heaving chest.

His killer had to use all her strength to haul Djalu off and lay him smoothly on the floor. She laid a blanket over him, stopping only to close his eyes with the palm of her hand.

'I apologize, Djalu Banggala, for what I have done. But I have done it in the name of the Lord God Almighty. Amen.'

She packed the needle and the empty vial back into the bandage, tucked it into her pocket and headed out, noiselessly.

Mr Clark did not stir. If he heard anything, it was only music — the insistent strings of one of Schubert's most famous pieces. Death and the Maiden.

Sunday, 10.10pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

TO was leading the way, fast and determined. She was not to be diverted. She last walked these streets a decade ago, but she had not forgotten where Rabbi Freilich lived.

Rushing to keep up, Will was firing out questions. But TO was staring straight ahead. 'They found the body a couple of hours ago. On the floor of my apartment. Apparently no one realized he had gone missing till this morning.'

'Christ. How long do they think he'd been dead?'

'Since last night. He was killed in my apartment, Will.' TO's voice wavered for the first time.

Will thought of the super's face: the Garry Kasparov of the basement. If he had been killed last night, it could only have been minutes after he had helped Will and TO escape. That was surely why he had been murdered. An image jumped into Will's mind. The man in the baseball cap.

First Yosef Yitzhok, now Pugachov. Two people who had come to Will's aid had paid for it with their lives. Who would be next? Rabbi Mandelbaum? Tom Fontaine?

Ever since Friday morning Will had felt as if he was falling down a mineshaft, getting further and further away from the light. He could see nothing clearly. The rabbi had explained what was surely going on, but how on earth did it involve him and Beth? What had they got to do with this mystical prophecy, a kabbalistic legend which now appeared to be fuelling an international killing spree? He was falling and falling.

And just when he thought he had hit rock bottom — hearing of the killing in Bangkok or of YY's death — he would fall some more. Now Pugachov was dead and TO was in dire trouble.

'Janey says the police knocked on every door, asking after the occupant of Apartment 7. Thank God she was in. She told them my name and said she hadn't seen me since yesterday afternoon, which is good. Luckily, she was smart enough to say she didn't know my cell number. They just left and she phoned me right away, to give me a heads-up.'

'And they definitely regard you as the suspect?'

'Janey says she got that impression. Why else was the guy in my apartment? Like, he went in there alive and now he's dead. I'm gone. What else does it look like?'