The stark, early morning sun blinded him as he staggered out of the apartment complex. His mind was hazy—he had only gotten two hours’ sleep that night—and he could barely remember the way to the bus stop.
He stumbled onto the bus and threw his handful of change at the driver. As he reeled down the aisle to the back seat the passengers all averted their eyes, not wanting to look at him. He wasn’t conscious enough to realise he was the object of public contempt, but everyone knew him and everyone either pitied or despised him, sometimes both.
Even his own mother.
In the tiny apartment, Joan Hegarty sat with her head resting on the kitchen table, breakfast dishes scattered around her, not yet tidied.
She was crying. Though she never showed it around him, she truly felt deeply sorry for him. It was hard not to; his very appearance evoked pity in even the most hard-hearted, though they usually concealed it with disdain.
She was always strict with him, perhaps overly so. She couldn’t show any weakness around him. He was weak enough himself.
She had cried herself dry when she raised her head from the table. She looked at the clock and hurried out the door, no time to clean her bloody nose.
No time to dispose of his used needle.
“You’re late,” David Hegarty’s boss said to him when he ambled into the office complex. “Again.”
“I… I know. I’ll make it up at the end of… of…” He trailed off. He had been prone to doing that lately.
“That’s not good enough. You and I both know that. See me in my office at lunch.”
“Your… yeah.”
He slumped in his desk chair, head throbbing like a trip hammer. The walls of his cubicle began to close in on him.
Closer. Closer.
The fluorescent light tube shattered on the floor beside him.
The ceiling tiles came loose.
They fell into the sky above.
The floor beneath melted into the earth.
He was swimming, no, floating on rock.
The clouds came crashing down like gargantuan steel birds.
A face?
No. Another cloud.
Yes! A face!
A face!
Speaking… what?
Speak up. Speak up, face.
No, it’s not a face after all. It’s me.
Reflected in that glass.
Is it?
“You’re late,” her boss said to her as she stumbled into the café at half past ten. “And look at your nose. Clean yourself up, for God’s sake; you’re a food service professional.”
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled.
She trudged into the staff toilets—a filthy, dreary affair—and collapsed into one of the cubicles. She sat there crying for a few minutes until someone came in. It was an effort for her to stay silent while the other person used the toilet, flushed it, walked to the sink, opened the tap, washed their hands, closed the tap, walked to the hand dryer, turned it on, dried their hands and left.
She remained alone in the cubicle for some time, the whine of the still-going hand dryer drowning her sobs.
Eventually she came to her senses enough to realise that she had been in the toilet for half an hour now. She tried to get up and go back to work, but she couldn’t face the real world.
She sank down again, not crying any longer, having cried all her tears, but dry heaving. She threw up in the toilet.
“David?... David?”
“Are you OK?”
“Jesus, someone go get a doctor.”
The voices of his assembled colleagues faded into existence around him. Reality seemed hazy, as though seen through intense fog. Images of the outside world slipped around in his head like liquid in a cocktail shaker. A face appeared from behind the curtain of fog.
Julia Simmons. The closest thing he had to a friend.
“David? David, what happened? Are you alright?”
He sat up with great difficulty. His head felt like it was in a vice. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just… just slipped.”
“You did more than just slip. You were having a seizure.”
“No, really. It’s nothing.”
A man’s head appeared around the corner of the cubicle. “I’ve called for a doctor,” he said. “He should be here in about ten minutes.”
“No!” screamed David. “No doctors! I’m fine, really. I’m OK.” He tried to get up but his legs were too foggy to hold his weight. “What time is it?”
“One thirty.”
He thought about this for a moment, and eventually it passed through the fog. “I… I have to see Carrington!”
“David, you can hardly stand.”
“I’ll be… am… I’ll be fine.”
He struggled to his feet, using the desk as a support. “I’ve got to see Carrington.”
Joan heard a loud hammering on the door of the ladies’ toilets. “Hegarty!” She recognised her boss’ voice. “Get out here, now!”
She rose from the toilet and exited the cubicle. She splashed water on her face to get rid of her running mascara before leaving the toilets.
Ripley, her boss, was waiting for her outside the door of the toilets. “Now listen here, Hegarty,” he spat as he viciously grabbed her arm, “I honestly couldn’t give a shit what happens to you outside this restaurant, but when you’re in here, your problems stay out there, where they belong. Got it?” A tiny blob of spittle landed in Joan’s eye.
“Yes,” she replied quietly.
“Good. Now get out there and take some fucking orders. And don’t let me catch you near these toilets again!”
He released her arm as viciously as he had grasped it and disappeared into the kitchen. She fell to the floor, cracking her head on the hard tiles. She lay there alone.
Her blood crept slowly across the white floor.
A knock at the door of Carrington’s office. He rose from behind his desk and answered it.
David Hegarty stood in the doorway, pale as a sheet of paper, with black rings under his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. He stumbled into the office, and collapsed on a chair in front of the desk.
“You am… you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, David. It’s about your… condition.”
“Condition?”
“Yes. Your mother informed me of your addictions.”
“She did?”
“Yes, she did. And I can’t say I approve, but I do sympathise.”
“You sympathise? What makes you think I want your sympathy?”
“Maybe you don’t, but I want to do something to help you.”
“You want to help me?”
“Yes, David. I do.”
“Well, I don’t want your fucking help, you cocksucker.”
“David, please.”
“Fuck you! I don’t need your help! I don’t need anybody’s fucking help!”
“David, calm down!”
“Don’t you tell me to calm down, you fucking yuppie!”
“David, your mother and I both feel that it would be best…”
“So you’re my fucking father now, are you?”
“No, David. I’m just concerned…”
“Well stick your fucking concern up your fucking ass!”
“David, listen to me.”
“No! I’m sick of listening! You listen to me for a change!”
“I will listen, David. But first you need to let me help you.”
“Let you help me? Let you fucking help me? I DON’T NEED YOUR FUCKING HELP! It’s because of assholes like you sitting behind fucking desks that my father is dead. Don’t give me your fucking concern or your fucking help!”
He began to cough wildly, blood spurting from between his lips. He leapt from his chair, heaving blood all over the carpet.
“David!” He touched a button on his intercom. “Get a doctor in here now!”
“No! No doctors, I said!”
The doctor was rushing through the office block, weaving his way through the tortuous maze of cubicles. Julia Simmons was rushing after him, giving him directions.
They were hurrying towards Carrington’s office door, when it burst open and David Hegarty reeled out, knocking over a cart of files into an air conditioner. Shards of paper filled the air, like a bizarre parody of a snowstorm.
He shoved Julia and the doctor aside, and ran out the door to the stairs.
He missed the first step of the stairs and sent himself flying down the entire flight, somehow landing on both his knee and shoulder. He lay there for a moment, recovering.
Voices. Someone burst through the stairwell door, calling his name. He struggled to his feet and ran down the next flight of stairs, the doctor in hot pursuit.
His feet flew out from under him. He fell down the stairs again, somehow remaining upright, his heels striking every step on the way down. Eventually, he cracked his tailbone against the final step on the ground floor. His lower back turned numb, his breath caught in his chest.
The doctor caught up with him. “Jesus, are you alright?”
“F… F… F… Fine…,” David replied in gasps.
“Come on, we have to get you to a hospital.”
“O… OK.”
The doctor helped him to his feet, an arm around his shoulder. His legs felt like jelly but, with whatever strength he could glean from his limited supply of oxygen, he lashed out randomly with a fist. The doctor fell to the floor unconscious, his eye already turning black.
“I t… told you,” David said. “No doc… doctors.”
He limped out the stairwell door of the building and onto the bustling streets of the city.
The waitress smiled meretriciously at the customers, who had left her a meagre tip, as they left the café. She entered the kitchen and hung up her apron. “I’m taking my break now, Jim,” she said to the chef.
She walked out to the staff toilets, lighting a cigarette. It fell from her mouth when she saw the horrific scene before her.
David ran as fast as he could down the busy street. He was aching all over and out of breath. Moreover, he needed a fix.
He spied a tiny coffee shop in a small, quiet, out-of-the-way street. The door tinkled invitingly as he walked in. The man behind the counter was understandably wary of this bedraggled twenty-something with a limp, a bloody nose and mouth and deep black circles under his eyes.
“I’ll have a black coffee,” he said in a scratchy voice.
The man turned to the coffee machine behind him and, with that distraction, David picked up the large goldfish bowl of tips and left in quite a hurry. It was a few moments before the shouts of the man behind the counter reached him.
Once he deemed he had run a safe distance, he took out the wad of bills from the bowl and tossed it aside. It shattered on the pavement. He counted the bills. Not as much as he would have liked, but it would do.
The alley was eerily dark in the daylight as David approached the shadowy figure in the corner.
“What you want?” it said gruffly.
“Where’s the usual guy?”
“Never mind. You want somethin’ or not?”
“How much can I get for this?” David asked as he handed over his cash.
The man fumbled about in his coat for awhile, eventually producing a single syringe. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at David. “Now go. Quick.”
David turned to leave, but there was another man blocking his exit. He turned back to the dealer, who was now holding out a police badge.
“Detective Norrington,” he said. “You’re under arrest for possession of an illegal substance.”
The other cop approached him from behind. He could hear the clanking of handcuffs.
“Drop the needle and put your hands on your head.”
David’s mind was racing. He decided to put his hands up, but keep a hold of the needle.
“I said drop the damned needle!”
David spun round and plunged the needle into the cop’s eye. He screamed and collapsed to the floor. David ran as fast as he could.
Norrington pulled out a gun and yelled “Freeze!” David completely ignored him and kept running. He saw the steps down to an underground station before him, and decided to take them.
A gunshot echoed and the wooden sign beside his head announcing the name of the station shattered to pieces. He heard Norrington behind him. “The next one won’t miss! Now freeze!” David continued running down the steps, managing to keep his balance this time. His mind was becoming more and more fuzzy by the minute. He needed his fix. Badly.
He managed to vault over the turnstiles. The piercing shriek of a whistle followed him down the escalators. He was trying to push his way through the hordes of people crowding the escalator. He looked back. Norrington was having the same trouble, but seemed to be making slightly more progress.
He looked around him for another path, and found one. Between this escalator and the adjacent one there was a length of smooth steel at the height of the handrail, down which David supposed he could slide. He leapt up onto it and began to slide crazily down.
A problem soon arose, however, in the form of signs placed about every five metres instructing people to “Keep Left.” David’s already injured knee impacted painfully with one of these small wooden signs, causing him to try to turn so that he was sliding feet-first. This he accomplished, and with every impact he felt a jolt of pain rush from his heels up through his legs.
Eventually, after about twenty signs and countless impacts, David slid off the steel mediator and slumped painfully on the floor. He looked back up the escalator. Norrington was about halfway up, and was talking to a walkie-talkie. A smug smile grew on his face.
David ran to the closest platform. No train. He looked at the electronic notice board above the platform.
TRAIN APPROACHING: STAND CLEAR
it declared. David looked up and down the tracks, but couldn’t see any lights or hear anything. A man’s voice came over the PA:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologise for the delay, but due to unexpected circumstances all service to this station has been temporarily deferred. Normal services are in operation at the adjacent stations, Palmer’s Green and Lakewood. We apologise once again for the delay.”
With that, there was a mass exodus of prospective passengers from the platform as they all made their way out of the station.
David was left alone on the platform. He knew that he couldn’t leave the station. Norrington had disrupted the trains, and he was surely down the escalator by now.
As this was floating through his head, David heard Norrington’s voice behind him.
“Looks like we can add assaulting a police officer and evading arrest to those charges of yours.” He considered this for a moment, then aimed his gun at the electronic notice board and shot it. It fell between them with a shower of sparks. “And destruction of public property,” he added.
David feverishly looked about him for a means of escape.
“Don’t bother,” Norrington said. “In a few moments this entire station will be surrounded by police. There’s no escape.”
Joan Hegarty lay unconscious in her hospital bed. Mim, the waitress who had found her, paced uneasily around the ward. A doctor entered. She looked up in hope, but he went to another patient. She turned to Joan.
“Don’t worry, Joan,” she said, “they’ll fix you. Don’t worry. Y’know, you should sue that bastard Ripley for all he’s worth. That cocksucker never knew a good thing when it came to him.”
The doctor now approached Joan’s bed. He looked at her for a moment and then said to Mim, “You’re with her?”
“I guess,” she replied. “Will she be okay?”
The doctor took a deep breath. “She’s suffered extreme cranial trauma and massive internal haemorrhaging. It’s possible that she could be left with permanent brain damage.”
“Brain damage?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Will she ever wake up?”
“Oh, yes. She’s not comatose, just heavily sedated. She needs plenty of rest until she can replace all the lost blood. We’ve already given her a transfusion, but she lost too much to replace in one go.”
“Can she hear me?”
“I doubt it. She’s deeply unconscious, and should stay that way for a couple of days at least.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
“It’s my job.” He moved on to the next patient.
“Just stay with us, Joan. You’ll be fine.”
Norrington heard the rumble of an oncoming train. It crescendoed quickly down the tracks, culminating in a rush of wind and noise through the station. Tiny particles of dust blew into his eyes, and blinded him for an instant.
That instant was all David needed to make his escape.
He jumped down off the platform and began to run down the tunnel. Norrington’s voice echoed after him: “There’s nowhere to go! We’ve surrounded the next two stations down the line! You won’t get far!”
Norrington jumped down from the platform to give chase, but slipped. He put out his hands to break his fall, and landed on the middle rail.
Hideous screams followed David down the tunnel, then came the smell of burning flesh. He had to stop. He felt like throwing up. His head was spinning, his body was aching and his nose was burning. He collapsed in a service alcove designed for technicians to step into to avoid the trains.
He slumped against the wall and felt it move slightly.
He saw beams of light from torches making their way down the tunnel, and official-sounding voices. He quickly stood and pushed the wall behind him. It opened. It was a door to a long flight of steps that led to a service tunnel, which branched off in several different directions. They couldn’t have covered all those tunnels, could they?
He set off down the steps. At the bottom he chose a tunnel at random, took it, and found himself staring at another intersection, and another, and another. He was feeling quite lost when he finally came across a map of the underground system. He was under a station on another line! He was going to take the chance that they hadn’t covered this station.
He ran up the steps to find himself in an identical train tunnel. He ran down it for some time until he came across the station platform. The passengers were giving him odd looks. One of them helped him up onto the platform, but was too dumbstruck to speak.
David ran up the escalator and discovered at the top that you had to have a ticket to get out of the station. He stood staring at the turnstile for a moment, when an attendant approached him.
“Sir, do you have a ticket?”
“A ticket?... Oh, no. I am… I … lost it. On the am… t-train.”
“Well, you’ll have to buy another one.”
“I have no… am… no… money.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I’ll have to call the police.”
“No! Don’t do… do… that. Am… here.” He took off his watch and handed it to the attendant, then vaulted the turnstile and left the station.
He blundered down the street for a while, lost in his own despair. He had to get home somehow. But how? He had no money, and couldn’t remember where he lived anyway.
He felt his head become light. But if his head was so light, why was he going down?
Look, who’s that in the puddle of water?
That’s me.
No, that’s not me.
Is it?
He was flying. Flying towards an intense blue light. Wait, now it was red. Blue again. Now red. Somebody’s crying. No, not crying. Wailing. Who could that be? He fell. He was no longer flying, but falling. Falling interminably. He hit something. Landed on it. It was soft, though. He wasn’t hurt. He couldn’t see the lights anymore. He wanted to see the lights. They were comforting. Now he was being pulled backwards. He couldn’t resist it. His heart was turning to cold metal. It was so cold. He could hardly bear it. Too cold. Now he was warm. Hot. Too hot. His body was a fire. It was so hot. Then it stopped. He was comfortable. Now it was cold again. Like a block of ice was resting on his heart. It’s very hot in there. His body is too hot. The fire is spreading. Spreading to his legs and to his head and to his arms and to his feet and to his hands and to his ears and to his fingers and to his nose and to his hair and to his toes. Now he was being crushed. Weight. Too much weight on his chest. He can’t breathe. It’s gone. It’s fine. More pressure. His lungs are in a vice. Now there’s too much air. Forcing its way down his throat. That’s it. He can breathe normally. He’s stopped moving. He’s not being pulled backwards anymore. Now he’s flying again. This time towards a dazzling white light. No, not flying. Falling. Feet first, he’s falling into an abyss of light. Now the light is alternating. On. Off. On. Off. A crash! He’s crashed into something. Now it’s gone. Something’s biting him! Biting into his flesh. Liquid. Warm liquid. It’s inside him. Flowing around. No more light. Darkness now. Impenetrable darkness. He’s slipping into it. Drowning in it. It’s covering him….
Buzz.
The buzzing woke him. The buzzing of a fluorescent light in the hospital room. His breath caught in his chest. He vomited violently.
Where was he? The hospital. This is the hospital. Something must be wrong with him. He must be sick. Yes, that’s it. He’s sick.
He found the call button near his bed and pushed it. He vomited again. Now he knew why he was sick. He needed some. He needed it badly. But he had no money.
The nurse came in and saw the mess he had made. She went to get something to clean it up. He called her back.
“I need… need to go to the am… oh, am… the… the toilet.”
“All right. Come on, I’ll help you up.”
She helped him out of the bed.
“I can make my own way from here, thanks.”
He wandered off down the corridor trying to find the bathroom. After half an hour he had to ask a nurse, who gladly pointed him in the right direction.
As he was using the bathroom, something occurred to him: He had to leave. It was absolutely imperative that he get out of the hospital as soon as possible. He couldn’t say exactly why, he just knew it had something to do with his illness, if it could be called as much. He knew the cure. He knew how to get it. Most importantly, he knew it wasn’t here.
He left the bathroom and set off down the corridor. He found a sign with strange symbols and arrows on it. He couldn’t make out what they said. Another thing occurred to him: he couldn’t expect to just walk out of the hospital in that silly robe, could he? He had to get clothes somehow.
He entered the nearest ward to look for clothes. In one of the beds he saw a familiar woman sleeping. He didn’t know why she was familiar. Nor did he know who she was. All he could see was that face. That sleeping face. It looked so familiar. He knew it… he knew it…. Like seeing something from the corner of your eye, he could feel vague, unfocused emotions take hold at the sight of that face. Strong emotions. Very strong.
He shook the feeling off. He saw a pile of clothes draped over a chair next to a sleeping patient. He took the clothes to the ward bathroom and changed into them.
He then walked right out the doors of the hospital, with a little wave to the nurse at the station.
He emerged onto the street with more than a hint of déjà vu. Night had fallen, and the streets were illuminated by the eerie yellow glow of sodium arc lights. He had to get money. Somehow, he had to get money.
He knew how.
He turned a corner to an almost deserted street. A little old lady was hobbling alone down the footpath. The picture was almost comical. But it was perfect.
He broke into a run and snatched the handbag from the old lady before disappearing around another corner.
He had reached the nadir of his life: stealing money from little old ladies to finance his own vices. He didn’t care. One woman’s money was little price to pay for the satisfaction that he could buy with it.
He removed any money he could find from the handbag before tossing it aside. It was hardly enough. He ran through a string of logic and arrived at one conclusion.
Conveniently, he found a kitchenware shop nearby. This time the man behind the counter didn’t regard him quite so spuriously. He had been washed in the hospital and his clothes were clean, if somewhat dated.
He paid for the butcher knife with his stolen cash and left.
He felt as light as a feather as he walked down the dark street, the knife concealed under his shirt. He kept to the alleys to avoid being seen.
The man walking the opposite direction looked about forty. He was well built and, most importantly, looked rich. Ordinarily, David would not have even considered taking him on. But tonight was no ordinary night.
They passed each other by without as much as a glance at one another. David immediately spun and plunged the knife into the large man’s back. He dropped to his knees. David pulled the knife out and slit his throat. No sound, just a lot of blood.
He reached into the man’s pocket and removed his wallet. There was no cash, just credit cards.
He was very angry by now. He slashed at the man’s face again and again and again until there was nothing left but muscle and bone.
Now he had no way of getting money, except another robbery. No. Not robbery. Murder. He didn’t want to murder again. He hadn’t wanted to the first time, but he had felt so inalterably compelled to.
No. He wouldn’t kill again. Petty theft was one thing, murder was entirely different.
The clerk was just about to close up for the evening when he walked into the shop. The madman held out his knife at the clerk’s head and demanded all the money. The clerk was far from courageous and handed it over immediately.
The madman took it and stood there for a moment, perfectly still, as if thinking about something. Then he seemed to grow angry and with a swipe of his arm knocked the cash register off the counter.
He ran out of the shop, leaving the young clerk standing in a stupor.
Crouching in a dark corner, he counted the money he had just stolen. There was enough. He didn’t like stealing, but it was better than killing.
He went to a phone box and called his usual guy.
“Yeah?”
“You got some?”
“Yeah.”
“I want it.”
“How much?”
“Thirteen.”
“Where are you?”
“Wilkinson avenue.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
He hung up. David was about to receive thirteen grams of heaven.
To pass the time, he had wanted to go for a walk. He decided that it was too dangerous. He had cops and the hospital after him. And besides, his legs were too weak with anticipation.
After the hour had passed excruciatingly slowly, the guy showed up. David practically ran to him, money outstretched.
The guy held out a syringe, took the money and was gone.
David pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and forced the needle through his flesh. It felt as though a wild animal were biting into him. But this animal could be tamed.
The catharsis was unbelievable. Suddenly, everything seemed so clear. Everything came into focus. He remembered the woman in the hospital, remembered who she was. Remembered the hatred for her.
He looked at the knife in his hand and knew what he had to do.
He ran. The rain came down, soaking him to the skin. The thunder pierced his ears. The lightning stung his eyes. Yet he never lost sight of what must be done. He never once deviated from his thought pattern.
The cold stung him to his marrow. It reminded him of something. Something that seemed long ago. Maybe it was that his life had been cold and only now did he remember that he was still alive. He knew he was alive. He lived for one purpose. He lived for that intense euphoria, those moments of clarity.
But he had another purpose. He knew he had. He knew what must be done.
He burst through the doors of the hospital. Nurses tried in vain to restrain him, but he brushed them off as though they were flies.
He strode into the ward, pulling the knife out from under his shirt.
He approached the sleeping woman in the bed, the blood-soaked bandages enveloping her head.
He held the knife out in front of him, slowly drawing nearer.
The light from the nearby lamp glinted on the knife and caught his eye.
Look, who’s that reflected there?
That’s me.
No, it’s definitely not me.
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