by Amy Cross
"With you?"
"He was gonna kill me," I say.
John drinks some more of his beer. He picks up the official report, but his hands are shaking. "How did he kill them? It says here -"
"Blade," I say.
"Right," John says, his hands still shaking, his voice sounding weak. "And... if he was going to kill you, what stopped him?"
I close my eyes for a moment. In my mind, I see that dark, burnt man towering over me again. I open my eyes. "Someone got in his way."
John turns to the second page of the report. "My father was found with his head..." He pauses for a moment, as if it's too difficult for him to continue. "My father was found with his head impaled on a piece of glass in a broken window. The cause of death was loss of blood." He puts the report down. "Who did that to him?"
I grab the report and leaf through the pages. Page after page, line after line, it's full of so many facts and tiny details, it's disorientating. There still seems to be a general failure to connect the dots, though, and a failure to really understand what happened.
"There was someone else there that night," says John. "There has to have been. And -" He grabs the report back and turns to one of the last pages. "This paragraph -" He points at a block of text. "There's mention of a burned patient, alive but horribly burned, who vanished. The report says it was a paperwork fuck-up, that the patient died and was buried, and that someone just forgot to note his death down, but..." His voice trails off. There's an air of desperation in his tone, and I understand that: he's trying to make sense of the last moments of his father's life, a father he never met but who still casts a heavy shadow over his own life. "There are too many loose ends here," he says. "Too many moments that don't make sense."
I finish the last of my beer. "Interview's up," I say, getting to my feet. "Good luck, kid."
"No!" he shouts, grabbing me and pushing me against the bar. "You know more than you're telling me!"
The barman comes around and pulls him away. "Out!" he shouts, dragging John to the door and throwing him into the street.
"You didn't have to do that," I say,
"No fights in my bar," the barman says.
"Whatever, Wormwood," I reply, heading out into the street and finding John getting to his feet. It's dark outside, late at night with few people nearby. "You want my advice?" I say. "Live your own fucking life. Your father died a long time ago, and it doesn't matter exactly what happened. Okay? Don't waste every moment of your own life trying to untangle something that's never gonna make sense. You didn't meet him. What good does any of this do?"
"I have to know!" he shouts, with tears in his eyes.
I pause, not sure what to do. "Fine," I say. "There was a burnt man, and he was alive. He still is. Your father was a murderer and a rapist, and the burnt man - whose name I believe is Patrick - stopped him by ramming his head onto a shard of glass in a broken window. And your father deserved that, because he was a fucking evil bastard. Do you understand me? A horrible, rotten man who should have died sooner." I take a deep breath. "There. Does that make you happy? Does that make everything okay?"
"Patrick," he replies, seemingly awestruck. "Are you sure that was the man's name?"
"Damn sure," I say.
He stares at me. For a moment, I worry that he might be about to turn violent. There's a look of pure anger in his eyes, pure hatred. Clearly he's been pursuing the truth about his father for all these years, and it's eating him up inside. I've seen this kind of thing before. People lose their minds and there's nothing that can be done to bring them back.
"This isn't over," he says, and then he turns and runs. I watch him disappear along the dark street.
"Damn it," I say under my breath. I'm getting too old for bar fights. I lean against a lamp-post for a moment, and I light a cigarette. It's almost midnight. I should be getting home. I'm sixty-three years old, a veteran of the First World War, a man who has lost all the fingers on his hands - twice - and got them back. I'm also a husband and, despite my advanced years, a father of some great kids. Life is strange sometimes, but that's okay. Strange is exciting. Strange is interesting. And my children are happy. I can say that, at least. I'm a good father to them. Maybe it's time to focus on that, and forget the past.
It starts to rain as I head off along the street. I guess it's not too hard to forget the past. If only I could forget the future as easily. But a deal's a deal. What happens, will happen. I agreed to pay Patrick's price, and the day is drawing nearer and nearer when he'll return to claim his prize.
Part Four
February 1990
Dedston, USA
Joe Hart
The hospital waiting room is cold.
And bright. A single fluorescent strip bathes the room in an empty blue-white light.
Somewhere in the distance, a young nurse walks along a corridor. I can tell it's a nurse because of the sound her shoes make, and the way she clips along at a fair old pace. For a moment, I hope that she's coming to get me, but then I hear her stop and go through a door.
I guess they've forgotten about me.
That's fine.
I'm not the focus of attention tonight. Old Grandpa Joe has been conveniently parked in his wheelchair, left in the waiting room with a cup of tea and a promise that someone will be back soon to let me know if there's any news. It's been two hours since anyone came to see me.
I understand, though. Today isn't about old folk like me. It's about the young. It's about new life.
I cough into my hands. When I look, there's a small amount of blood. There's been blood in my urine, too, for a couple of days. At ninety-eight years of age, I guess my days are numbered now. But that's fine. I always knew I wouldn't hang on much longer after...
I sigh.
Today's the day, eh?
I look at my hands. They still look so young. I swear there's not a wrinkle anywhere; they look like the hands of a young man still. The rest of my body is old and tired. At the age of ninety-eight, my skin is loose and sagging, and I have pains and aches all over. Arthritis, too, in my feet and knees. But my hands? My hands haven't changed in more than fifty years, not since... well, not since I got them fixed up by Patrick. If only he could've done the same to the rest of me, maybe I'd have a chance of living forever. As it is, I'm only two years from hitting the big one hundred. That'd be quite some achievement. Me. Joseph Hart. Almost killed in Passchendaele, ending up living to be almost a hundred years old.
Almost, but not quite.
I hear a noise nearby and I look up. At my age, even a simple movement like this is something of an inconvenience. Skin hangs from my face, jowls collected under my chin. I'm an old, old man. I can't stand up by myself, I can't pee by myself... Hell, I can't do anything by myself. Except sit and wait. I can do that by myself. My kids probably expected me to fall off the perch before now, but I've hung on for this night. I have to see her before I go. After all, it's all been about her, all along. Sighing, I turn and stare at the window, but there's nothing out there except rain. Anyway, we're so high up in the hospital, what did I expect?
Then again...
It's raining hard. So hard, it reminds me of things I'd rather not remember. Passchendaele. I think about that damn battlefield every time I hear the sound of rain. It's been seventy-three years since I was a young man in that mud, scrabbling about, listening to the sounds of my friends die. Seventy-three years since I first saw that burnt man looming out of the darkness. Seventy-three years since I watched the same burnt man kill Doctor Tarmey. And only a little less, fifty-eight years, since Patrick and Hamish appeared at my door and offered to help me out.
Fifty-eight years.
That's a long time for someone to wait to collect on a deal.
But I guess Patrick's a patient man.
Suddenly there's a sound in the distance. I look over at the door. Somewhere nearby, there's a baby crying. I grab the wheels of my chair and slowly move myself across the waiting room. It's just a coupl
e of meters, but I'm exhausted by the time I get over to the door. My heart must be about ready to give up. Damn it, I shouldn't exert myself like this. But -
The door suddenly bursts open and a nurse rushes out.
"Sorry," she says as she almost clatters into me, then she rushes off.
Before I can open my mouth to ask if anything is wrong, she's out of sight.
But I can hear the baby crying. That's a good sign, isn't it? A crying baby is alive, at least. Even if it's five weeks premature. Crying is a sign of life, a sign of strength, a sign that this child isn't going to let anything stop it from being alive.
The nurse rushes back through, not stopping to speak to me. Damn it, I understand that I'm not their priority, but couldn't they tell me something?
Deciding I can't give up, I wheel myself through the doors and into the corridor. Ah, this brings back memories. Whenever I'm in a hospital corridor, I always remember that night when I crawled along the floor to find the source of that other nurse's screams.
"Hey," says a voice nearby. A familiar voice. My daughter's husband, Anthony. My son-in-law. He comes out of a small room, a look of shock and wonder on his face. "Sorry, Joe, I was about to come and find you."
I try to speak, but at my age, speaking is so difficult. It's kind of okay, though. After all, no-one really expects me to speak. I just sit there as my son-in-law takes my wheelchair and pushes me into one of the rooms. It's a large, tall space with light green walls and large windows on two sides. My daughter is in a bed, and she's holding a newborn child in her arms.
I'm wheeled over and parked next to the bed. The rain seems to be intensifying outside, and there's the first sound of thunder.
"Can I?" Anthony asks my daughter. He gently lifts the baby and holds the child on my knee. "Joe," he says, "meet your granddaughter. We've decided to name her Sophie."
I look down at the little pink face. Welcome to the world, Sophie Hart. I reach out my right hand, a hand that Patrick healed all those years ago, and I stroke the side of her face. She's so beautiful. I mean, I know all grandparents say that about their grandchildren, but Sophie really is gorgeous. She'll grow up to be a heart-breaker, for sure. If she gets the chance...
"She's doing fine," Anthony says. "The doctors say she's much stronger than you'd expect, given that she was born so early."
As I look at her, Sophie slowly opens her eyes and looks up at me. Then she starts to cry again, and Anthony hands her back to my daughter.
I look over at the window, just as there's a flash of lightning. With shock, I realize that there's a human shape at the window, looking in. I didn't catch its face, but there's a feeling deep in my stomach, a sick, horrified feeling, that tells me all I need to know.
He's here. He's come to collect on our deal.
"Okay, Joe," says Anthony, making sure that little Sophie is wrapped up with her mother. "I think everyone's pretty tired right now. Time for a rest."
I open my mouth to say something, but what can I tell them? As I'm wheeled back out and along to the waiting room, I sit and try to come up with something, anything, but what can I do?
"I'll come and get you in a few minutes," Anthony says as he parks me in the waiting room. "I just need to check a few things, okay?" He doesn't even wait for me to reply; he just heads off, busy with his own life. And I know that 'a few minutes' means an hour or more. Here I am, a ninety-eight year old man who can't even stand up without help, and I'm the only one who knows about the evil forces that are gathering at this hospital tonight.
But it's all my fault, isn't it?
I'm the one who made the deal with Patrick and Hamish all those years ago. I'm the one who accepted their money, and their help, and their healing. It's just that, back then, all this talk of grand-children seemed so far off. I didn't even have children of my own. I thought the price was worth paying. But now... The moment I looked down into little Sophie's face, I knew that I couldn't possibly allow Patrick to get what he wants.
I have to stop him somehow.
I try to get up from the chair, but it's useless. My old arms won't support my weight, and my legs are next to useless. Giving up on that idea, I start wheeling myself back over to the door. Even this simple act exhausts me, but I have no choice. I have to find some way to make Patrick change his mind. Even if it kills me.
Heading into the corridor, I wheel myself past the door where my family are gathered around baby Sophie. They don't notice me, so I head along toward the main entrance to the ward. Somehow there has to be something I can do to stop Patrick, to make him see that it would be wrong to take this child right now. It's too soon.
"Are you lost?" asks a nurse, coming over.
I shake my head.
She crouches down in front of me. "Can you tell me your name?"
I nod. She's talking to me as if I'm stupid, but I'm not stupid. My mind's all here, I just struggle to speak these days. Realizing that this nurse won't understand, I slowly turn my wheelchair around and head back in the direction I came from. That was a waste of time. I have to find a solution to this problem by myself. If only I could go back in time, if only I could go back to that night when I made my hellish bargain with Patrick. I'd undo it all, I swear. I'd give him back his money, every cent; I'd tell him to put my hand back the way it was... Just leave my grand-daughter alone. Please...
"Hello, old chap," says a familiar voice nearby.
I stop wheeling myself along and turn to see Hamish standing in a nearby room. I wheel myself in to confront him.
"Long time," he says. His Scottish accent sounds sadder now, but the really shocking thing is that he doesn't appear to have aged at all. It's been six decades since I last saw him, but he looks the same as he did all those years ago.
"Don't look at me like that," he continues. "You knew this day would come. It was part of the deal, and you did alright out of it."
I stare at him. What kind of creature is he? A demon? I close my eyes and pray: Dear Lord, please give me the strength to stop these monstrosities from taking my grand-daughter. She's so young and innocent; she doesn't deserve to be punished for a mistake that I made all those years ago. Take me instead. I open my eyes to find Hamish staring at me, a confused look on his face.
"Are you praying?" he asks, sounding surprised and amused. "Seriously, man? Is that what you're doing? Fucking hell..."
Oh, what's the point? Why waste time praying to the same God who let the war happen in the first place? The same God who put creatures like Hamish and Patrick on this planet. The same God who put monsters like Doctor Tarmey here. Why would God listen to an old man like me?
"It's not so bad," Hamish says. "You know Patrick means the baby no harm, right? What's her name, anyway?"
I stare at him. "Sophie," I say finally, my voice cracked and old. It's a shock to hear myself. I hate my voice these days, the way it betrays my age and ill-health. I remember when my voice was young and strong.
"Sophie, eh?" Hamish says. "Sophie. Sophie. Yeah, that has a certain ring to it, doesn't it? Nice name. Good choice." He steps closer and crouches down in front of me. "This day was always coming," he says, looking up into my eyes. "When you made that deal with Patrick, you accepted certain things. But I promise you, he's not gonna hurt her. He wouldn't do all this, he wouldn't wait this long, just to turn up and hurt her. It's just that he needs her. I guess... it was always gonna be her."
I take a deep breath. "Why?" I ask. "Why her? Why me?"
Hamish sighs. "When you first met Patrick, on the battlefield at Passchendaele, he was at the end of his own very different war. It was just luck - good luck, bad luck, whatever - that he happened to emerge right next to you. Just luck, nothing more. But from that moment on, you two were bound together and it was always going to be the case that he would come back to you and offer you this deal. And trust me, my friend; you were always going to accept. Always. It's how the world works. So don't beat yourself up about it, okay? Accept the world as it is."
&
nbsp; I look into his eyes. He seems sincere, but I can't let this happen. "Leave my grand-daughter alone," I say.
"It's not up to me."
I look up, and I see that someone is standing right behind Hamish. It's Patrick, looking down at me with an expression of compassion. He knows that I've dreaded this day for so long, and he knows that I'll do everything in my power to stop him stealing my grand-daughter. But he also knows that, with my frail old body, I have no hope of stopping him.
Joe Hart
"It's time," Hamish says, turning to Patrick. "But be kind. Do it quickly, and try not to hurt anyone."
Patrick nods, and then he starts to walk out of the room.
"No!" I shout, and I launch myself from the wheelchair, grabbing hold of Patrick's arm and hanging from him, my useless legs flopping on the floor.
Patrick stops and looks down at me.
"Leave her alone!" I shout at him.
"Come on!" Hamish says, trying to pull me off.
"No!" I shout again, elbowing him in the face. He falls back for a moment. "Anything," I say, begging. "Anything you want. I'll give you anything, but don't take her. Don't take my grand-daughter. Don't punish her for the mistakes that I made. Take me. I'll give you anything."
Patrick looks at me for a moment, and then he pushes me away. I land hard on the floor. At my age, even a slight impact is painful. I guess I was wrong to expect any mercy.
Hamish tries to help me up as Patrick walks away.
"You don't have anything that he wants," he says. "Not anymore. He just wants the child."
"No," I say, turning to him. "You have to help me. You know this is wrong. He's a monster. You can't let him take my grand-daughter. You can't."
