Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [31]
Jack saw a nurse coming towards him. Celia blew her nose into a crumpled tissue that she pulled out of her sleeve.
‘Another package arrived with a note,’ she said, trying to swallow her sobs. ‘I was with you when it arrived.’
Jack winced as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. ‘What did the note say?’
Celia did not answer. The nurse had stopped beside them.
‘This way, Mr Susko.’
Jack smiled at the nurse and then turned to Celia. ‘Wait for me, I won’t be long. Okay?’ He patted her gently on the arm.
Celia Mitten nodded, wiping under her eyes with the tissue.
Jack was ushered into an examination cubicle. He sat down in a plastic fold-out chair. He could hear groaning next door and the odd squeak of rubber shoes, then an orderly telling somebody to take a deep breath. He lifted the corner of his shirt and looked down at the bandage on his stomach: blood had soaked through.
‘Mr Susko? I’m Doctor Armstrong.’ The doctor walked in. She dragged the cubicle curtains together with two swift movements. ‘After some stitches, I believe?’
She was young looking, maybe mid-thirties, and had sandy hair tied in a plait. Her eyebrows were darker, curved over large brown eyes that glistened in the stark, tiled room, lit by nauseating fluorescent light. A kind, soft face. She was slim, athletically curved, dressed in grey slacks, a white short-sleeve shirt and a pair of red Adidas sneakers.
‘Shirt off and flat on the bed, thanks.’
‘Oh, good. I was hoping you’d do all the work.’
The doctor smiled but continued with her preparations. ‘Do you want this to hurt, Mr Susko?’
‘Whatever you’re into, Doc. Just hit me with some pethidine and go for it.’
Jack removed his jacket and shirt and lay down on a narrow bed. The plastic sheet beneath him popped thickly like bubble wrap. The doctor wheeled over a tray of bandages and bottles and long pointy instruments. Jack closed his eyes. He had never been good with this kind of thing.
It did not take long. He received a tetanus injection as well, which only added to his wooziness. He thanked the doctor, who handed him a strip of painkillers.
‘One every three hours. Better if you can go longer, though. They’re strong.’
Jack moved out of the examination cubicle and walked down to where Celia had been. She was gone. When he asked at the front desk, they told him that she had already left with her father.
‘Heart attack?’
The male nurse scoffed. ‘Panic attack.’
11
IT WAS WELL AFTER 10.00 A.M. the next morning before Jack climbed carefully out of bed. As tired as he was when he got home, he had spent most of the night waking up every five minutes. Each time he moved, something hurt. He had to breathe through his mouth. And all his half-dreams were surreal and unsettling, playing out the last week of his life like a Buñuel montage. Detective Peterson had haunted most of them.
He dragged on a white bathrobe and pulled open the curtains. He rubbed his eyes at the day. Mid-morning light sharpened itself on the wet glass of the window. The damp grey wall opposite looked as lonely as it did yesterday. His nose ached. He needed a cigarette and a strong cup of coffee.
Before Jack had crossed the lounge-room floor he heard Lois outside the front door, complaining. When he let her in she looked up, held his eyes for a moment, and then sauntered into the flat, offering only a quick, unimpressed miaow in greeting.
‘Nice to see you, too.’
He followed her into the kitchen. She nudged up against Jack’s shins and flicked her tail. He bent down and gave her a scratch behind the ear. ‘How about you go into work for me today, huh?’
He was in no hurry to get to Susko Books. The police had barred the damaged rear door from the inside, so for the time being nobody was going to get in. He had earned at least half a day off. And there was no boss to convince. Just a pity the sick day had to come out of his own pocket.
He opened his bathrobe and inspected the bandage on his stomach. Blood-tinged yellow fluid had seeped through the dressing. The whole area was