The Broken Ones

by Stephen M Irwin

  Oscar’s mouth suddenly went dry as he remembered the rustle of feathers, the tick-tick of sharp claws, the smell of ancient rot. He changed the subject.

  “Florica,” he said.

  Mother Mim stopped chewing.

  “These were hers,” he said, and rocked the fired-clay scorpion with his fingertip.

  “I didn’t steal them,” she said.

  “She had the stall next to yours.”

  Mim fell quiet, as if trying to divine where this conversation was going. When she spoke again, her voice had a harder edge.

  “You’re police,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She was silent a long moment.

  “Fine, that was her stall. Florica and I looked after each other’s things sometimes. When I had to duck off for a wee, et cetera and so on, she’d look after my gear. And I’d look after hers. And sometimes we’d sell each other’s stuff. But one day she left”—she took the figure from under Oscar’s finger—“and she never came back.”

  “Did she ever meet someone here?”

  “She met lots of someones here—this is a market.”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Oscar said. “Someone you’ve connected in your mind to her disappearance.”

  Emotions played across the blind woman’s face, as tiny as pond skaters. Then she nodded. “There was a man here. The day before she never came back. An older man—I didn’t care for his voice. It was worn. Worn and tight.”

  “How old?”

  “I didn’t see,” Mim said tartly. “He was either sixty or more, or he’d done sixty years’ worth of nasty.”

  “What did he talk with her about?”

  “Chitchat about these figurines and how she made them.”

  “And then?”

  “Then she asked me to mind her shopfront, and they went into her tent to talk business. I didn’t hear, and when they came out and he was gone she went all mum and wouldn’t say anything. But she was excited. Money excited.”

  “And?”

  The blind woman shrugged. “And the next market day she didn’t come. Haven’t heard from her since.”

  Oscar thought. An older man talking business. Was he the important client that the prostitute Dalmar had been shuffled out Florica’s door for—the man who’d commissioned the hideous idol now in pieces on Gelareh’s kitchen table? He was sure they were the same man, but his only eyewitness was a blind woman.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Mim asked.

  “I think so. Is there anything about him you can tell me?”

  Mim grinned. “Like the color of his eyes? Gold tooth and polka-dot pants?”

  Oscar nodded. “Thanks.”

  He turned away.

  “He had a ponytail,” the woman said.

  Oscar hesitated.

  “I heard him,” she continued. “When he was first talking to Florrie. I heard his shirt wrinkle as his arms went up, and I heard the twing-twang of a rubber band.” She mimed pulling back her hair and stretching elastic on opening fingers. “Ponytail.”

  “Thank you,” Oscar repeated.

  “Nothing for nothing,” Mother Mim said loudly.

  Oscar sighed and dug into his pocket. All he had was a gold two-dollar coin. He dropped it on the counter. Her speedy fingers plucked it up.

  “For that you get info plus.”

  “Plus what?”

  “Plus more info.”

  She reached into the fish tank full of skinks and plucked a little brown lizard from the branch in the tank.

  “Touch it,” she commanded Oscar. “On the head.”

  He could see the small lizard’s pulse throbbing in its neck. He touched its hard, cool skin.

  Mim nodded and produced a brass tray and a small, very sharp knife. With practiced fingers she flipped the lizard onto its back and ran the knife from its throat to its anus, just deep enough to penetrate skin and muscle. Then she peeled the creature open and ran a careful finger over its still beating heart, across its tiny pink liver, and through its intestines. Oscar suddenly felt unwell. He saw the animal’s heart stop. The woman looked up.

  “You’ll be dead soon,” she said softly.

  He left.

  Back at his car, he jiggled his keys in the door lock. He noticed that his fingers were trembling. When his phone rang, he dropped it. He picked it up, but didn’t recognize the number.

  He answered, “Mariani.”

  “Oscar Mariani?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is the Emergency Department at the Royal Hospital. Your father’s been brought in. It looks like he’s had a heart attack.”

  Chapter 18

  Endocarditis. There’s an infection in the valve of his heart.”

  The doctor had a strong South African accent, and “heart” came out “haaht.” She stood beside Oscar at the foot of Sandro Mariani’s bed in the crowded Emergency Department cubicle. She looked very tired. The ED was a quiet storm of subdued panic—the power was out and the backup generator was giving trouble. Fluorescent lights would gutter and wink out, then surge brightly again; monitors would blank out, then startle awake with warning beeps. Nurses moved as quickly as Olympic walkers; doctors called for manual sphygmomanometers and ran worried fingers through their hair. The corridors were lined with patients on gurneys. Someone was crying loudly in pain, and a man nursing a bandaged arm soaked in blood yelled that he’d been left alone here Three Fucking Hours Now.

  In contrast to the chaos, Sandro Mariani was still, his papery eyelids closed. On one thin biceps a pressure cuff hung limply. In the other arm was a cannula that led to an IV bag. The hairs on Sandro’s chest were nearly white, and among them diagnostic electrodes stuck to his skin sprouted wires that tentacled back to a monitor where colorful lines moved as sluggishly as drying creeks. His face was a sickly oyster-gray. The only sign of life was a light fogging inside the clear plastic oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.

  “We think a piece of the vegetative mass broke off, and that was the cause of the infarction, not a clot,” the doctor continued. “We’ve put him on intravenous antibiotics.”

  “So, a couple of days?” Oscar asked.

  “Well, no. Normally, that’s a six-week course. But the Doppler scan wasn’t encouraging. To be frank, we don’t think his heart will keep going six weeks, not as it is. It looks like he also has stenosis of the mitral valve, so his heart is having to work very hard to push blood through a narrow gate. There’s a risk of heart failure.”

  “So, surgery,” Oscar said.

  The doctor nodded. “The cardio surgeon wants to see another CT of the chest, but we’re looking at a valve replacement as soon as possible.”

  “Three Fucking Godless Fucking Hours!” the unseen patient yelled. Nothing wrong with that guy’s heart, Oscar thought.

  “How bad was the heart attack?” he asked.

  “Well, time will tell.” She nodded down at Sandro’s hands. “We were initially worried about that, thought it might have been some kind of Parkinsonian symptom presenting.”

  Oscar saw that both of Sandro’s thin-fingered, big-knuckled hands cupped empty air, as if they were holding something. Something the size of an infant.

  “That’s nothing to fix,” Oscar said quietly. He glanced up and saw that the doctor was looking at him.

  “Would you like us to check you over?” she asked, her eyes roaming over his bruised face and the clots of blood still in his hair.

  Oscar shook his head. “When will surgery be scheduled?”

  “The medical team will meet tomorrow.”

  “I’ll check in later, then.”

  The doctor nodded good-bye and then headed toward the glassed-off central offices for another patient file.

  He stepped out into a long corridor punctuated by overhead signs. Every second strip light was off, so the effect of light and shadow was like being inside a tiger’s tail. Far down the corridor, two doctors conversed, and an orderly wheeled a canvas cart full of
laundry. Nearer, a large man and a thin woman sat silently on plastic chairs. The dead boy stood beside the stairwell, watching Oscar expectantly.

  Oscar didn’t move. Something was awry. He didn’t know what, but he felt it: something had changed the instant he stepped into the passageway, something subtle. Not the dead boy, something else. He’d missed it, but he felt its tiny wake.

  Oscar stood still and forced his eyes to relax. He stopped himself from probing the corners and the shadows and simply let his eyes flow over the hallway. It was a trick he’d learned hunting rabbits—they were nearly impossible to spot in the semidarkness of morning, their brown fur almost invisible in the dry grass. He had taught himself to lie still and simply wait for an ear to twitch or a tiny, glossy eye to suddenly appear between the grass leaves. He watched and waited. The doctors parted and went separate ways. The orderly went through double doors. An orderly wheeled a man wearing an oxygen mask out of Outpatients. A flicker of movement, reflected in a framed print twenty paces down.

  Oscar’s eyes fixed on the picture.

  It was a print of stylized flowers and hung on the passage wall next to a map of the wing and a fire alarm and nearly opposite an adjoining corridor.

  Oscar walked toward it. The overhead sign at the junction read ATRIUM—CRITICAL CARE—MEDICAL IMAGING. He walked faster. More movement in the reflecting glass, diminishing now.

  Down the adjoining passage, a figure was walking away. It was a girl. She wore a baggy jumper, a skirt, black stockings, green boots. Her hair was short. It was the young woman from Elverly, the caregiver who had calmed Megan.

  “Zoe,” Oscar called, remembering her name.

  She didn’t seem to hear. Her shoulders hunched and she walked faster.

  “Zoe!”

  She turned a corner.

  Oscar jogged. By the time he reached the corridor she was halfway down the adjoining passage, walking even faster. Oscar ran. She cast a glimpse behind her but didn’t slow. Her boot steps were sharp on the vinyl floor. Beside her, two plastic sheet doors opened and a woman with a catering trolley backed into the corridor. Zoe slipped through the open doors. Oscar blundered into the cart and the caterer swore in a language he didn’t understand.

  The kitchen staff, in white aprons and puffed plastic caps, turned only bored glances toward the darting, slim woman and the puffing, untidy man slowly gaining on her. Zoe’s boots had inch-thick soles and were not made for running. She slammed through another set of translucent plastic doors into gloom. Oscar lifted his knees into a sprint. His head throbbed with every footfall.

  This murkier passage was choked like a diseased artery with dusty IV stands, broken gurneys, dull-eyed monitors, and lame wheelchairs. A single light flickered over a patch of floor before a service lift; opposite the elevator were two doors: a stairwell and an electrical service room. Oscar opened the stairwell door and listened. Boot steps echoed, but it was impossible to tell whether from above or below.

  A door slammed, definitely below him. He took the stairs three at a time, passing one door and reaching a second one at the bottom of the stairwell. He looked down at a puddle of dank, oily water there—faint ripples were dying on its surface. He pulled open the door.

  Another passageway. A door on the left, MAINTENANCE STAFF ONLY, locked. Two doors on the right: one unsigned, the other labeled HYDROTHERAPY. He opened it.

  She was on the opposite side of a small, empty swimming pool with wide steps and stainless-steel rails. A single downlight shone on the circular cavity and bounced up off gray tiles. Twin doors were behind her, and through the tiny gap between them he caught a glimpse of chain. She held a small sharp knife in front of her, as an angler would hold his rod. Her chest rose and fell as she panted between set teeth. Her pale, sharp cheeks were coloring pink and her eyes sparked green.

  “You followed me,” Oscar said. He, too, was panting.

  She said nothing, but looked left and right. As long as he stood there at the door, she could not leave. Not without using the knife.

  “Put it away,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She took a step to her left, to see if he would take one to his right. When he didn’t move, she retreated, keeping the pool between them.

  “I said, I won’t hurt you.”

  She laughed, a harsh and bitter gallop in the tiled room.

  “You’re awesome, Mariani,” she whispered. “You sound just like a real cop.”

  Zoe stepped to her right again, but this time the knife led the way. When Oscar didn’t move, she stopped.

  “How long have you been trailing me? Since Elverly?”

  She licked her lips. They were painted pale pink to match her skin. He could see her hands shaking.

  “Cops never think they can be followed,” she said.

  “Congratulations.”

  Oscar looked her over. The baggy sweater hid a slight figure. The boots were almost comically large. Her nails were short but clean. Clever hands. The blade was a double-edged boot knife, a serious little thing that could stab and slice. He thought he could defend himself, but in this half-light a scuffle could easily lead to a lost eye. At least he was in a hospital.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “You follow me, then you pull a knife on me. What do you want?”

  She inclined her head—let’s not be children about this.

  He continued, “You’re not leaving till you talk.”

  She took a step toward him. Her pupils were wide, and he could see the pulse racing on the side of her white throat.

  “Sides,” she said. “I want to know the sides.”

  He frowned. He had no idea what she was talking about. She took another step toward him. “Look,” he said, “if you know something—”

  The knife slit the air just a centimeter in front of his face.

  “You stay away,” she hissed. “I’m not ending up like Penny and the others.”

  Oscar felt strings pull tight in his stomach.

  “Others? What others?”

  Zoe froze. Her eyes narrowed, then the corners of her mouth turned down.

  “Don’t fucking bullshit me.”

  “What others, Zoe? Other children?”

  Every pore of her pretty face seemed to tighten, and her eyes flickered over him with the intensity of a surgical light. And widened, just a little.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You really don’t know.” She pushed past him.

  “Wait.” He grabbed at her arm.

  The knife whipped down and a bee sting of pain fired on his knuckle; a ruby pearl welled. As he pulled back his hand, she kicked the flesh of his left calf and bright agony flared like the mother of all cramps. He bent to the pain.

  She opened the door and ran.

  Now he knew why she wore boots.

  He limped quickly to his car. This case was waging a war of attrition on his body. So far, he had a lot of wounds in exchange for very few leads. He phoned his own office desk, ready to ask Neve for help.

  A male voice answered. “Yo?”

  “Foley?” Oscar said. “Why are you answering our phone?”

  “Neve’s in the loo.”

  Oscar frowned. “But it only rang once. Are you in her chair?” There was a long, awkward silence. “Never mind,” Oscar continued. “Can you log on to Prophet?”

  “I’ll try,” Foley said. There was a tapping of fat fingers. “Hey, you know Moechtar’s looking for you?”

  “I heard.”

  On the street, Oscar saw a parking officer keying his car’s license plate into a handheld device. He limped faster.

  Foley whistled, waiting for Prophet. “So are you investigating something?”

  “Yes.”

  “So me looking now, this is part of an investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sweet. Okay, we’re on. Better hurry while Loss is playing ball.”

  “Missing Persons.”

  More tapping. Oscar arrived at his car.
He cleared his throat. When the parking officer turned, Oscar showed his ID. The parking officer inspected the badge, nodded, and put the ticket under his wiper.

  “Hey,” Oscar said. “I’m a cop.”

  The officer pointed to the sign. “Emergency Vehicles Only. Sorry.”

  “It’s a cop car!”

  The officer gave Oscar’s tired sedan a sympathetic look, then went to the next vehicle.

  “I’m on,” Foley said.

  “Look up Elverly House.”

  “Elderly?”

  Oscar pulled the ticket out from under his wiper and walked back to the parking officer.

  “Elverly. With a v.”

  “Dates?”

  “Let’s try the last eight weeks.”

  The parking officer looked up, annoyed. “No returns, mate.”

  Oscar took his phone from his ear and snapped a photograph of the parking officer and his name badge.

  “Hey, Jesus, what the hell?”

  “If I get pinged,” Oscar said, tucking the ticket in the officer’s shirt pocket, “I’m coming to find you.”

  “Mariani!” Foley called.

  Oscar left the parking officer holding the ticket, the scales in the man’s mind teetering unpleasantly. “What?”

  “Ah, fucksticks, Prophet’s just crashed,” Foley said. “But there were three kids missing.”

  Oscar felt his throat tighten. Three?

  “Did you write them down?” he asked. Another awkward silence. “Okay, listen—”

  “Wait, no, wait!” Foley said, and Oscar could almost hear him concentrating. “Three, all girls. One was Penelope. Penelope something. And one’s surname was White, something White. Fiona? Faye?”

  “And the third?”

  “Tara something. No, not Tara. Taryn.”

  What drew Oscar’s attention was Taryn Lymbery’s shoes. Sneakers, scuffed but neat, matching in style but one notably smaller than the other. They sat at the bottom of the small wardrobe under a hanging bouquet of dresses.

  “Intellectually disabled,” Oscar said.

  “That’s right,” Leslie Chalk said softly. She stood in the doorway, stiffly upright and motionless. Her hair and clothes were impeccably neat, but the shadows under her eyes were as dark as bruises. “From birth. Fetal alcohol syndrome, we think, though Taryn never knew her mother.”