Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

She loved him. None of this had been necessary. He could have just killed me and told her about it, and she probably would have raged for a while but dealt with it because she fucking loved him. It would have been better that way too. Andy, Fergal, Scotchy, Sunshine, none of them had to die. She loved him, she would have understood. He shouldn’t have been so overprotective. Jesus, Darkey. You just didn’t have confidence enough in yourself. Darkey White-a lack of confidence in himself? Could have fooled me. Maybe it was that bloody gut he’d got, or his dyed hair. But it hadn’t mattered to her. He should have just topped me and been done with it. Scotchy would have done it. But he wasn’t sure enough of her and that had killed him.

You fucking idiot, I told him.

And now I remembered that I’d wanted to ask him if he’d ordered Andy’s beating way back then. It didn’t really matter. It was water under the bridge. I sat on the bed and fixed my foot. Bridget was out for the count. I put her in the recovery position and found Darkey’s wallet beside the bed. There was at least five thousand dollars in big bills. That would help. I grabbed the money and found the key to the Jag. I looked at my side and stomach. It seemed quite bad. Vital organs are in your side. I couldn’t remember what, but I knew they were pretty important. At least it wasn’t hurting yet. I cut off a whack of bed-sheet with the Stanley knife and wrapped it around me. I duct-taped it into place. I bent down and hog-tied Bridget with tape. She was still well gone, which was good. I threw a sheet over Darkey so it wouldn’t be the first thing she saw when she came to. I grabbed a sweater and a leather jacket from the closet and put them on. I pocketed the.22, so the coppers would have a harder time comparing slugs when the doctors took one out of me.

I went downstairs and checked in on my guard. He hadn’t moved a muscle. I regretted killing Marley, it would have been a neater operation without that, but it was too late now. I was dying of thirst, so I drank some water. I went into the garage and turned the light on. I opened the door manually and started up the Jag. I reversed it out of the driveway, closed the garage door, drove to the gate. I had to get out again and open the gate. If I hadn’t been wounded, I would have gone to the camp and dismantled it, but there wasn’t the time now.

I drove the car down the hill and found a sign pointing to New York. The car handled beautifully. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was pale, losing blood but not too fast. I found the right slip road, drove on, and everything turned into a bit of a blur; I think, but I’m not sure, that I went through a tollbooth and paid a couple of bucks. The drive was all hazed and dreamy, but at one point I stopped at a lay-by and threw the.22 and all the other weapons far into the woods. I got back in the car and drove on again.

In about an hour I was back in the Bronx, and not long after that I reached Manhattan. I left the Jag, doors open, keys in, on 123rd and Amsterdam. Someone would have it within ten minutes, but that’s what I’d thought about the Cadillac too, so I left the engine on as well, as extra incentive. I got about a block and took a breather and sort of fell down and then, of all people, Danny the Drunk caught up with me on his way to the twenty-four-hour boozer. Saved my skin, really. He was already wrecked, but I persuaded him to lend me his shoulder at least as far as Columbia U. He did, and went off and started yelling at the guards at the Columbia gates. Somehow by myself I managed to walk up the final bit of hill to St. Luke’s Medical Center. I was close to passing out, and I had to stop many times to catch my breath. I found the emergency-room door and went in.

It was the scene you would expect. Packed, noise, fucked-up people, harried doctors and nurses. “Christmas in Hollis” from a tinny stereo.

A nurse gave me a clipboard.

I blacked out for a minute.

A voice, voices. Comforting.

Always the same, Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve.

Yeah.

I don’t know. People go crazy.

Yeah.

Well. What happened to you?

I, I don’t want to go into it.

Lemme see? What is it?

Uh.

You been shot?

Again, I don’t want to talk-

I suppose you know we have to report this to the police?

You do?

Yes.

What about doctor-patient confidentiality?

Doctor-patient, my ass.

Funny.

Here, let me see… Whereabouts you hurt?

Here, side, here.

Ok, let me see now, just lift, oh, oh my goodness. Sylvia, get over here. Quickly, come on.

They put me on a gurney and when they took my jacket off they saw it was actually very serious. Off came my sweater and T-shirt, and I felt a drip go in.

The doctor was black, the other doctor was Indian, all the nurses were black. I was in Harlem, I was back home. There were Christmas decorations, and I realized again it was Christmas Day.

Hey, Merry Christmas, everyone, I said.

You save your strength, son.

I wasn’t sure what they were doing now, but it hurt like a motherfucker.

You know, I don’t think your anesthetic’s working, I said.

It’s working, a nurse said, holding my head, while another began inserting plastic tubes up my nose.

No really, it hurts, a lot.

You’re lucky you’re not dead, the doctor said, very irritated, and started doing something incredibly painful to my chest. My eyes were heavy. I blinked slow.

Fortune… favors… fools, I said, and smiled at him before finally contriving a way to lose consciousness.

Atap dripping. A car idling. A dog barking. The distant roar of automobiles. The occasional plane. Heat. The hum of the air conditioner. Blue water in the pool. A glass of orange juice undrunk because I think it must be grapefruit by mistake. It’s bitter. A leather sofa. A computer, a bookshelf, the blinds half drawn. Dust on them. The dust spiraling up from a faux Aztec-patterned rug. A long hair on my suntanned arm. Hers. A coffee table with The Economist and a couple of letters. A painting of a moon and deer. Also hers. A pencil sharpener in the shape of HMS Victory . An ashtray. Cigar clipper. Typing paper and soda cans in the wastepaper basket. A coffee cup, the crossword. Sleeping plants. The window. The enormous sky complete with vapor trails. The manicured and watered lawn that will never be quite green.

The room is inert, frozen, still. I look at Granpa’s photograph with the sepia faces of the dead. The tap. The dog barking furiously. My stomach growling: it’s an hour before she gets home, before I have to make dinner. Depending on traffic, of course. At least I’m not out there. The people running with buckets along the battlements. Fire in the keep. Stress. It’s the new millennium and transport is still vehicular and ground-based. How disappointing. In fact, the whole century’s been a bit grim so far. I reach out and turn over the cover on The Economist . Sometimes it’s best not to know. My hand twitches and I close my eyes. Black fields. A faraway place. Observe, see us, see Patrick in the forest rehearsing his prayers, see us walking through it, a wounded arm and cuts on the barbed wire and the bog sucking down our packs. Cold rain that never gets this cold, not in the temperate brother of the Temperate Island. Aye. Jesus. I blink awake. I stare at the computer, whose background image is the Hubble Deep Field. I stare, and finally the screen saver kicks in, which is the Earth in daylight and nighttime portions. The AC. Reliable, relatively quiet. A rivulet of condensation from off the cooling ducts. Far off, a carnival of pneumatic drills. I get up from the sofa and look in the mini fridge. There is no grapefruit juice. I lie back down again. Think. The tap. The dog. The sound of the engine idling. What foul conspiracy is this? She poured it for me at eleven A.M., just before she left for her afternoon job at the marketing agency. Odd. I lie under the counterfeit mahogany and the multiplications of the ceiling fan. Think. I roll off the sofa and pick up the glass and sniff it.