No Way to Say Goodbye - Anna McPartlin [112]
He entered a room. The kitchen merged with the bedroom, which was also the sitting room. The bathroom was a tiny cubicle off the kitchen. He knew it was the bathroom because of the shit stench coming from it. The guy was sitting on the sofa with his back to him. Sam called from the door. He noticed the paint peeling down the walls and the frayed furniture from a different era, which didn’t meld with the large-screen TV and hi-fi system in the corner. He called again but the guy just sat there. He closed the door behind him. He was annoyed that the fucker thought it OK to ignore him.
Then he was facing him. The guy’s skin was a translucent blue against deep purple lips. A needle was stuck in his arm, which was bent and ready to receive. The elastic was tight around his forearm. His eyes were open and he was hunched as though the end had come in a second.
Sam took a chair and sat close to absorb every detail, as though the dead man was some sort of macabre museum piece.
“Oh, my God!” Sam heard Mary say. He hadn’t spared her the graphic details. Why should he? He wanted her to know. She needed to know what a rotten degenerate he really was. She deserved a fair chance to run.
“After that I robbed him of his stash. I closed the door good and tight and left him to rot.” No more than he deserved.
“Jesus!” he heard her mumble.
“But just as I was leaving I heard something. I could have sworn I heard him take a breath. It was barely audible and there was no movement when I stared back at him – but I was sure I heard something. An hour or two later I was choking on my own vomit in my Manhattan penthouse.” He spoke as though the story had ended.
“I don’t understand.”
“I lived. He died. What’s not to understand?”
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” she asked.
He laughed as though she’d told a joke. “Why would I?” he asked bitterly.
“But if he was still breathing?”
“Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t.” A tear slipped down his face.
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I was a drug addict in a dealer’s apartment.”
“Why did you leave him to rot?”
“Because that’s what he deserved!” he shouted.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted him dead!”
“Why?”
“I despised him.” He got up and walked to the bathroom door.
“Why?”
He leaned against the door.
“Why?” she repeated.
He opened the door and she fell back a little. “You know what the worst thing is?”
“No,” she whispered.
“When I left him I had a fucking smile on my face.” He walked past her and into his bedroom.
“Why?” she called. Tell me!
He turned to her. “You don’t understand. I’m so full of hate, Mary, I rattle with it. Fucking Topher!” He mumbled the last words and fell onto his bed.
She flushed the joint and pocketed the lighter. She sat on the floor at the end of his bed.
“Go home.”
“No,” she said, and she listened to him cry until at last he fell asleep.
Later, alone and in the half-light, she sat in her sitting room with her sleeping dog at her side. She recalled every aspect of his story up to the final mumbled “Fucking Topher!” She closed her eyes. She no longer needed sleep to see the boys circle the kid in the hood. She heard, “Look, Topher’s excited!” She saw the kid, and the ring-leader leering. She heard him direct the other boys: “Give Topher a go!” She saw the boy-bear called Topher move towards the kid lying on the ground. Oh, Sam, what did they do to you?
26. Down but not out
It was six the following evening before Sam saw