With each new room, a new calamity of memory. A new disastrous, deadly (wonderful) explosion of sights and smells and sounds, bubbling-up from the past, like liquid pouring into a mould; taking its time to slip into the deepest recesses.
Or, like dust blowing free from a hidden treasure.
Like cataracts dissolving.
His Holiness the Abbot John-Paul Rohare Baptiste allowed his minions to wheel him through the great, secret facility beneath South Bass Island, saying nothing, and felt his memories slither back one by one. They gathered pace the deeper he went, with each new level, each new string of concrete walls, each new dim light fixture that flickered and illuminated as it sensed movement.
Until eventually he remembered it all, like it had just been yesterday.
He'd arrived here, on the Island, five years ago: angry and bitter. It was below him, he'd thought. A man of his experience – of his record – sent to keep an eye on a bunch of backroom nerds.
Sergeant John P. Miller, the reassignment form had said. NATO Liaison Officer.
It should have said: fucking nursemaid.
But still the facility had been a pleasant surprise. Hidden away beneath the monument, below vaults supposedly for the Lake Eerie dead – in fact crammed with generators and feeds from the solar panels above – down creaking elevator shafts and plunging stairwells. Always the drip-drip-drip of condensed water.
Oh-so-very exciting. Oh-so-very impressive. It almost made up for the ignominy.
Here and now in the present, his assistants wheeled him past doors marked LAB#1, LAB#2, LAB#3…
He didn't like using the chair – it created the wrong impression – but it'd been an exhausting journey from the city and he wasn't as spry as he was. He was forty nine years old. He looked approximately seventy.
This was living with anaphylaxis. Constant pain.
This was living with AIDS, and more drugs than he could count administered by Clergy-doctors who'd have their testicles ripped-off and fed to them if they breathed a word to anyone.
This was three anti-coagulation shots every day, and antihistamine solutions three times a week.
This was the AB-Virus, eating his blood cells every second, staved-off only by communing with the divine.
This was living by numbers.
This place, it'd been a nuclear bunker once. So his superiors told him. Secondary or tertiary governmental; an alternative to the presidential chambers beneath Washington and NY. Somewhere safe to rule an irradiated country. Somewhere cosy for a ragged government to sip clean water and make comforting addresses.
The whole thing had been converted at short-notice to the requirements of the UN team. Dormitories and armouries stripped-out, curious equipment shipped-in for days on end. 'Project Pandora', they'd called it. An international attempt to stop the virus in its steps.
Out loud, as his wheelchair squeaked its way down the ramp to the sub-third floor, he mumbled:
"When all the evil spills out, there's still a… glimmer of hope…"
Pandora's box.
His chief minder must have heard him. An effete man named Marcus, good for very little but wheeling a chair and kissing arse, he gave John-Paul a concerned glance and crouched down to address him, unintentionally condescending. John-Paul approved of ignorance and ineffectuality. The soldiery were all very well; the cardinals and their units served a purpose, but one couldn't trust them. They were too full of their own ideas. Too focused.
"Your holiness?" The man said softly. "Did you say something?"
"Mm? No, no…" he closed his eyes and let the memories absorb him again, enjoying the concern on the man's face. "Everything's fine, Marcus."
He remembered wondering, at the time, why they'd sent the team here. Why not to some scholarly lab in New York? Why not out in the open?
And then the riots had started. They'd listened to the news every day before work, gathered together in the social-room. Riots and police actions and union strikes, and embassies closing-down at a rate of knots.
Then the diplomatic wrangling.
Then the rumours of Def Con escalation.
Then the standoffs and false alarms and real-actual-genuine-fear-of-Armageddon type talks, and suddenly everyone was living in a bad disaster film, and Sergeant John P. Miller became very very grateful indeed that his superiors had sent him deep underground.
Even then, he'd been bored out of his brain. The team's progress was just so slow.
No – correction: the team's progress was non-existent. It just happened to take them forever to find out how impotent they were.
Outside the world went to hell in a handcart, and inside… inside test-tubes clinked and microscopes whirred and men and women in white lab-coats made fussy notes with fussy biros. A lot of them had families. A lot of them looked unwell.
More rooms glided past the wheelchair, now circuiting the fifth level. COMMS, RESOURCES, the door names went, RECORDS, STUDIO, ENGINEERING…
The place was enormous. He remembered thinking that, too, all those years ago. Far too big for the research team. They'd set themselves up in their little corners and got on with it, and with nothing to do but file reports that said 'NO PROGRESS' he'd taken to wandering, exploring, poking in the dark.
A mothballed war room, with its displays darkened and tactical consoles disconnected.
A water purification plant.
A dozen storerooms marked NON-PERISHABLE. All empty.
And the communications room. And the broadcast suite.
And the Presidential Address studio. Plush red and blue walls. Elegantly draped flags. TV cameras jacketed in plastic wraps and rubber covers.
That was it. That was what brought him back here, now. In the flash of a triggered memory – those records unearthed from the Secretariat, presented to him by Cardinal Cy even as the doctors fussed over his bleeding skull – he'd remembered the place, the resources, the cameras and broadcasting equipment and security.
And as the exodus convoy had slipped away from the overrun UN headquarters – lost, futureless, despairing – that crumpled file from all those years ago had been like a bolt from the heavens. A sign. In that perfect instant he'd known, clearly and immediately, where to take his Clergy to find safety and security.
It was perfect. An island with its own tiny airstrip. Easily defendable. Perfectly secure quarters for the luminaries of the sect. Plentiful housing for the soldiery and devotees. Vast holding-rooms below ground where anything could be conducted in secret and silence. Airports a mere spit away in Cleveland, Toledo, Detroit…
And the studio. It couldn't be any better.
Halfway down the main hallway of the fifth sub-level a priest stood waiting, dressed strangely. He wore not robes but overalls – oil-stained and heavy with tool pockets – but in deference to his spiritual allegiance they were pale grey with a scarlet circle on the breast, and the same pattern tattooed over his left eye.
Marcus waved towards him with an introductory nod. "Chief Engineer Maclusky, your holiness."
"Mm. Yes? Yes?"
The man dipped in a bow that combined deference, religious awe and sphincter-tearing-terror. John-Paul resisted a smirk.
"Studio's up and running, your holiness. Cameras work fine. Shocking, frankly, but then again they built this shit to last and I guess we can't be surpr…" The man stopped. His eyes snapped wide as his brain caught up with his rambling and noticed what it'd just said. "Uh… E-excuse my French, your holiness, i-it's n…"
"Please go on, child."
"W-well, uh."
"The cameras"
"Yeah, yeah, well… they ain't maybe as advanced as we're used to, but…"
"That doesn't matter. We can find new ones, eventually. As long as we can broadcast."
"Yeah, yeah." Another mad little bow. "The dish needs some tuning – but no problem. Up and running whenever you want it."
"Good. Very good. One hour."
The man's eyes bugged out again. 'Whenever you want it' clearly hadn't included 'right now.'
"One h…! B-but…"
"That's a problem?"
"B-but… uh, no. No, your holiness, no. It's just… I assumed you'd want to wait for Sunday. H-how will people know we're going to be broadcasting?"
John-Paul treated the sweating man to a look that contrived to inform him his assumptions weren't worth a scrotumful of diseased spunk, then broke into a friendly little smile.
He liked to keep people off-balance.
"Aha." He said. "The people aren't my first concern, my child. The Cells need to know we've moved. London, Paris, Moscow, Beijing… All those little mini-churches, happily ferrying the Divine Initiates to LaGuardia. What will they do, I wonder, when they get there?"
The terrified man shook his head. He dripped.
"No, no. What we need is a message of reassurance. Just to… let them know where we are. Where to re-route. A permanent broadcast. A loop. You can manage that, I trust?"
"W-well, yes, I should think that would b…"
"Good. One hour, then. I believe I will be feeling rather stronger, by then."
The wheelchair squeaked on, and left the engineer behind. John-Paul hummed to himself.
At the end of another corridor, round a pair of sharp right angles, was one final doorway. It was marked: DETENTION.
His smile dipped.
Here.
Here was where it all began.
It made sense, he supposed. A nuclear bunker, containing dozens of important personalities and their families, all crushed together for an extended period. It was inevitable, perhaps, that tempers would fray. Behaviour would slip. A wise precaution, then, including somewhere to let troublemakers cool-down. To keep them out of harm's way.
Another aide opened the door, infuriatingly casual, and John-Paul felt cold prickles shivering across his entire body. Didn't they know? Didn't they understand?
Here.
It began here.
Five years ago, this was where it happened.
The research. The virus getting inside. The first symptoms. The discovery of the trend – the O-negatives unaffected, the antigens revealing their secrets – and the broadcast to the UN to let them know. Then the luckiest ones shutting themselves away, fearing the anger of the dying. The place was supposed to be airtight. How did the disease get in? Who was to blame?
For just a little while, the place became… hell.
There were gaps in what he remembered. Something a little like insanity had gripped the bunker, for a time. But here in this room he'd let God touch his blood, and let his memories swallow themselves up, and let purity cleanse his bitter soul; and then there was nothing… nothing at all… until he staggered out of the haze and into New York, to claim his destiny.
It was a curious sensation; returning.
They wheeled him into the dull little chamber, stepped formally aside and let him see.
The prisoners.
He smiled. He smiled with a vicious little glimmer of glee at seeing these fuckheads, these arch-devils, stripped of their clothes and humiliated, beaten and captured. He stared with an imperious smirk at their exposed genitals and the bruises criss-crossing their bodies. He sneered and smiled and tittered quietly. He was smug and arrogant and self-righteous, and the best thing was: he didn't care.
"Leave us." He told the aides. "Wait outside. Someone find Cardinal Cy. He'll want to watch, I think."
They were smart enough not to argue, leaving in a silent gaggle of grey and white. John-Paul called out to Marcus as he reached the threshold.
"Y-yes your holiness?"
"Prepare the equipment, Marcus. Hurry back."
"The… the cameras?"
"No, Marcus. The other equipment."
"Oh… oh, y-yes. Of course." The young man swallowed, blinking. "Where would you like to… uh…"
"Here, Marcus. Right here. I shall… commune… with the Lord before we broadcast. I will perform the miracle, I think. People must see that all is as it should be."
"I understand, your holiness."
"See to it."
"Y-yes, uh…" he lingered, shifting his weight awkwardly.
"What is it?"
"The… the communion. Would you like me to fetch an… an initiate?"
John-Paul stared at him for a moment or two, then broke into a wide smile.
"No." He said. "No, Marcus. My friends here are all I require."
And he smiled up at the prisoners, and Marcus scraped and kowtowed his way through the door. It swung shut with a heavy clang behind him.
And then there were three.
His Holiness the Abbot John-Paul Rohare Baptiste turned to face the pair of bruised fucks who'd caused him so much annoyance, and said:
"Blessed are the children."
"You what?" I grunted.
He smiled.
My arse, for the record, continued to hurt.
The detention room was a boring cube with a grille-fronted cell set into each of the three walls unoccupied by the door. Rather than sling me and Nate into the cells themselves – oh no, that would've allowed us all sorts of unfair luxuries like being able to bloody sit down – Cy and his goons had cuffed us with our hands behind our backs to the front of the grilles themselves, then taken great pleasure in stripping off our clothes and covering us from head to toe in foul smelling antiseptic powder. The upshot was that we were standing there buck-naked, stinking like necrotic kippers, unable to either turn, sit or slouch without dislocating our shoulders, and now faced with an unlikely audience with a chair bound old git with a gargantuan hat.
My top ten surreal moments had a brand new highest entry.
"The children." He repeated, watery little eyes glimmering. "Blessed, blessed, blessed. Mm. Yes."
He twitched and giggled.
I exchanged a silent look with Nate. Whatever unspoken enmities might exist between us, this overrode them all. I looked back at the mummified vision and chose my words with care.
"You," I said, "are mentally diseased."
Nate moaned quietly. For the fifth time he tried to reach out with his foot towards the red case on the floor, the same pack he'd been lugging about ever since the raid on the Secretariat. Cy had positioned it carefully next to our discarded clothes with a gleeful sneer, ensuring it was just out of Nate's reach.
Glancing now at my companion, in this light – with none of his daft costume-clothes to cover him – I could see the needle marks, the collapsed veins, the train track bruises of a lifetime. He was sweating. Coming down again.
John-Paul Rohare Baptiste barely even looked at him, sitting directly before me and jerking strangely to some silent beat. He had eyes, as they say, only for me.
"They called the prophets insane," he said quietly, like he was talking to himself. "They called the apostles madmen."
I shook my head and looked away, more disappointed than anything. All this grief, all this bloodshed, all this struggle: caused by an incontinent chimpanzee in a squeaky chair.
"They had a point." I said.
The first shock was: his frailty. On the telly, during those annoying bloody broadcasts, he looked old, true enough. He looked old and calm and maybe a tad doddery, like a friendly old boy who'd had his share of an eventful life and more besides. He looked like the sort of human raisin who'd fall asleep halfway through his favourite soap opera but could shout and rant with the best if someone mentioned 'The War'.
He looked, in other words, like an old man with a lot of life left in him.
In the flesh, in that cold detention room, under strip lights that strobed just too fast to notice, he was a cheap zombie special effect from an art-student B-movie. Skin so paper-thin you could make out the veins beneath the surface, hands so withered they looked like finger bones dipped in molten plastic. His eyes were set so far back in his head the sockets looked like volcano calderas, ready to bubble-up with pus and rheum.
Nice image.
This close up, under these lights, without the benefit of makeup, he wasn't old. He was sick.
I remembered the photo I'd seen inside the Secretariat. The NATO Staff-Sergeant, sat with an expression of quiet seriousness, staring into the camera. Forty, forty-five years old, well-groomed, no-nonsense.
The man before me hadn't got older. What had changed about him had nothing to do with age. It was simpler than that.
He'd just… withered.
He saw me staring.
"The Lord has sustained me." He said, like he could read my thoughts. With one hand he reached down to pluck a long coil of rubber tubing from a pocket on the side of the chair. "The Lord has shown me the Way."
"The Lord has taken a shit in your brain." I told him.
The second shock was: his smile.
It wasn't friendly. It wasn't pure. It wasn't the beatific expression of extreme serenity that basked in the studio lights every Sunday in the weekly broadcast. What it was, was:
Fucking vicious.
"The Lord has given me life in the midst of death. He has scoured the world with plague and fire, and wiped away those who bore his mark, and only I – whose blood runs with impurity – have been spared by his hand. The Lord favours me, Englishman, and in the hour of my greatest need – when the arch-Satan stormed at my door – he has delivered me from evil."
"The arch-Satan?"
"The arch-Satan."
"That'd be me?"
He smiled again. He smiled and underneath the God-talk, underneath the brimstone bullshit, I think maybe I saw…
– yes, I'm sure of it…a rational man staring out. A rational man who knew the truth.
A rational man who wasn't such a nutter after all.
Just a great liar.
"What happens to the children?" I said, suddenly exhausted. My body ached. My head hurt. Felt like it always had. I couldn't be bothered any more – not with any of it. With my own journey, with the goals I'd picked-up en-route like a travelling orphanage, with the whole twisted plate of crap this stupid bloody journey had become.
Don't you fucking give up, soldier!
Training. Secret Intelligence Service. MI6. Drill Sergeants screaming and yelling, shattering conventional wisdom, plumbing the depths of each grunt's soul for reserves of anger, for animal resilience, for the snarling shadow-lurking wolf loping about in the pits of the mind.
"The children?" John-Paul said. "Oh. Oh, yes. Oh, I see…"
Don't you fucking give up, soldier!
Blah, blah, blah-the-fuck-blah.
Not your problem, said Bella, and I believed her.
"That's it, isn't it?" The little man sniggered, chair squeaking. He carefully fitted a bung to one end of the rubber tube and drew back the fabric of his sleeve. A plastic canula, stoppered-up, sat in the crook of his elbow, lodged deep in the vein underneath. "That's what it's for. That's why you came to get me." He looked pleased with himself.
I scowled. "Come again?"
"A little boy, was it? A little girl? Hmm? Did I… Did I steal one away from you? Some little blonde slut, eh? Some filthy little brat with his finger up his nose?
"Came all this way, did you, English? All this way to get back your kiddiewinks?"
Slowly, lip twisting, he fitted the tube to the end of the canula and pushed.
"Think you're the first, do you? The first disgruntled daddy to come get his brat?"
I could see the way his brain was working. It was logical, I supposed. It made sense. It was the same lie I'd told the scavs in Central Park; the same idea of aching loss, borrowed from Bella and Malice and all those others, who'd surrendered or deserted or handed over their own children.
It was the best rational reason for someone – someone like me – to do all that I'd done.
To clamber over piles of bodies. To cross oceans. To lock horns with the great Church.
It was so wrong it was funny.
"No." I said. "I don't have children. Never have."
The old man's eyebrows furrowed together. He stopped fiddling with the rubber tubing, let it hang loose in his hands.
"Then… but. Then why? Why did you come after me?"
I laughed, and I admit it must have sounded manic. Even in my head, the stupidity was too much to bear. The arrogance. This dried-up old lizard, this piece of desiccated skin.
He thought I'd come all this way for him. He thought this thing, between him and me, was personal.
"I didn't." I said in-between chuckles, which grew thicker and damper with each breath, until my eyes fuzzed with water and I could barely see. "You silly old twat. I didn't."
I said:
Listen.
Her name was Jasmine Tomas.
She was… she was more beautiful than a new moon reflecting off a perfectly still sea. She was so beautiful I spouted corny old movie bullshit like that all the time, and I could get away with it and not get even a little bit embarrassed. She had skin and hair the colour of coffee – one with cream, the other without – and curves in all the right places. When she laughed it was too loud and made people look, but they always looked then smiled, because when she laughed it was like… an infection. Like everyone caught it straight away.
We disagreed about almost everything, but we disagreed in a weird way. Like it meant we thought just the same as each other, but would go hammer and tong to disagree over details. Ha. The colour of wrapping paper. New music. Pretentiousness of art. We couldn't start a conversation without arguing. It was great.
We loved each other so much it scared the living fuck out of me.
An aide came shuffling into the room, then, as silent as death. He didn't speak. He wheeled a medical stand before him carrying a small steel machine with a glass front and a system of tubes dangling below it. I ignored him. I carried on talking.
A week before Jasmine Tomas moved into my flat, she told me to get rid of all the photos I'd taken of her. This was six years' worth. She said… she said when we lived together all our photos should be of both of us, or neither of us.
She said that sort of thing a lot.
The thing about Jasmine Tomas was, it would be easy to mistake her for a romantic. It would be easy to be fooled by the things she said, the gestures she made. And then just when you figured you'd got her pegged she'd switch on the footy, or tell a sick joke, or come home from work with stories of scalpels and infections. One time, I cooked Jasmine a stew. I mean, fuck… my job was to go overseas and kill stuff. I don't cook. Still, it turned out okay, you know? Cheese, leeks, you name it.
So I took the lid off the stew when she arrived – wearing the purple-and-blue dress with the earrings I got for her birthday – and oh god I wanted her, and everything was just perfect, and the first thing she said was:
Looks just like the inside of a gangrenous leg.
And then she laughed too loud, like a drain, and I laughed too. I couldn't help it.
The aide took the end of the rubber tube John-Paul had fitted to his arm. He slotted it neatly onto a spigot on the side of the steel machine, and turned towards me. He avoided my gaze.
My arse hurt. I kept talking.
He pulled a needle out of a plastic wrapper, and came forwards.
The first time I met Jasmine Tomas, for the record, she was teaching a group of wankers with too much testosterone about biohazards. All part of the training. She'd been seconded to the MOD from some governmental research-team or other – had more letters after her name than an episode of Sesame Street – and there she was, stuck in front of a room of leering arseholes who spent far longer staring at her tits than at the projector presentations she brought along. So… a few of those same arseholes dared another arsehole to ask her an embarrassing question about the dangers of sexual infection during fieldwork, and she didn't skip a beat. Told him she'd examine his infected areas after the lecture as long as he promised not to leak pus on her, then kept on talking over the top of the laughter.
I was the arsehole. I went and apologised after she'd finished. She took it well.
A week later we got dinner, then coffee, then the best fuck I ever had.
Three years later I was still killing people for 'Her Divine Majesty's Government', only now I was looking forward to the weekend just like every other guy, bored of his job.
Jasmine Tomas was my weekend.
The canula was in my arm, somewhere. Fitted to the tube that was fitted to the machine. I couldn't see behind my back.
My arse continued to hurt.
The aide flicked a switch with a devotional smile towards his master, then stood with his back to me, fussing over the machine.
And the tube – oh fucking hell I understood – the tube that led from me to the machine to John-Paul, it filled with blood like a long thermometer; red mercury bulging upwards.
My arm felt warm and cold at the same time. A prickling sensation. Pins and needles, killing my cells, spreading across me. And oh Jesus fuck shit I got it, I got it you withered old bastard, and I felt sick and weak and faint, but I kept talking because it's all I could do.
I said:
Listen.
I was never really designed, you know, for the romantic thing. Wasn't sure how to do it, I guess. But then nor was she, so we got on fine. Squabbled and sniped and smarmed our way through it all, awkward as you like. Never happy for long, but never sad for long either. Fuck fairytales. Fuck 'perfect'. We loved each other like nobody else, and that's enough.
So she decides to move in. I asked her, she said yes. The thing is, she works all day every day and I'm… out of the country. Business trips. Frequent flyer, blah-blah. So we figure we'll see more of each other if it's all cosy. All domestic. No need to schedule it every time.
Then the disease started. You remember? Right at the very beginning, it was just… some new thing. Nothing to worry about. They sent me to the East, to… Well. It doesn't matter where or why. I got back and Jasmine Tomas was supposed to move in that week, and all I got was a bloody text message telling me we'd have to postpone.
She'd been reassigned. Couldn't say where. Couldn't say why.
So I waited.
And the world died around me.
John-Paul just stared.
With my blood pouring out of me, filling him up like a greedy mosquito, bringing colour and warmth to his shrivelled face, he just stared and listened. He groaned once in a while, like a man in the throes of passion, and it made me feel sick to imagine him balls-deep in someone, grunting like a pig.
I felt sick in a lot of ways.
The world wobbled around me. Nothing was the right shade. Greyness was creeping out of every corner, and stinging the insides of my arms. My eyes rolled. My arse hurt.
I twitched my fingers behind my back, certain now that the aide was too busy watching the machine to turn around. I worked with all the speed and focus I could muster as everything slid away into bloodless limbo.
I kept talking. I kept fucking talking.
It was all I could do to cling-on. To stay awake. To stay alive.
I said:
I did some digging. Pulled some strings at the SIS; found out what she'd been sent to do. Where she'd gone, even.
UN mandate. That's all I got. Reassigned to a secret location as part of an international research team. Supposed to find a cure for the AB-virus.
'Project Pandora,' it was called.
John-Paul looked up.
And moaned, softly.
My fingers moved behind my back.
My arse stopped hurting.
Blood moved on my hands.
I said:
Listen.
Everybody died.
Jasmine Tomas, who I loved in that old movie way… I never heard from her again. Not for five years.
People died and lay on the streets, ambulances rushed back and forth, the world shat out its own guts and sat there like Elvis, poised on a toilet, dying by degrees.
I went back to Vauxhall Cross. I checked her records. Blood-type AB+.
As good as dead.
John Paul wasn't listening any more. Not so you'd know it, anyway.
His eyelids fluttered and his lips twisted in a smile, and I could see the strength filling him up, my own blood giving him life, turning him back into that man in the photo, the man on the TV, the calm and peaceful saint.
He communed with God through the medium of my fucking blood.
Blood-type O, rhesus negative. Safe to transfuse into anyone, more-or-less. Not quite good for him, not quite recommended. Risk of anaphylactic shock if conducted too fast, but still, but still…
My fingers twisted.
My body slumped. My brain started to slip away.
Something clicked quietly behind me.
I said:
For five years, I didn't exist.
I was just… alive.
And then one day the machines in the SIS comms-room chattered to life, and the correct passwords slotted into place, and the power fluttered through the consoles, and in a string of exchanged information a single word rushed-by.
'PANDORA.'
And a voice said:
"Are… Are you there?"
And it's a long shot. And maybe it's coincidence. Maybe it's fluke.
She should be dead. I know that.
But…
But you listen to me, you fucking leech. You listen to me, because you're still alive and you should be dead, and so nothing in the whole world – you hear me? – nothing, no one, no fucking old reptile or his gang of delusional pricks, would stop me from finding out.
So here I am.
And John-Paul Rohare Baptise smiled, like he'd been catching-up on what I was saying, and his eyes weren't sunken any more, and his lips were red, and he said:
"Mm, yes. Yes. Here you are. And… hah… And maybe you aren't the arch-Satan after all. Maybe you didn't come to get me, eh? Maybe I just got in your way? That's it, I think. But it doesn't matter, you see? No. No, it doesn't. Because here you are, and here you die."
And I smiled despite the weakness. Despite the nausea. Despite the rushing in my ears.
"It won't be as perfect," he said to himself, eyes closed, rapturous, "as a child. A child is perfection. The communion is… perfection. Yes. Mm."
His eyes opened.
He looked right at me.
"But you'll do. For today. It's only fitting. After all the trouble you've caused, mister. It's only fitting that you make a donation."
I smiled and I dropped the handcuffs to the floor by my feet, and the sliver of metal that was buried in my arse tinkled from the lock – the lock it had helped me pick – to the floor.
And John-Paul Rohare Baptise was opening his mouth to protest, to shout for help, to cry-out in baby like shock, but it wouldn't do the old fucker any good, because my fist was already in his face and his teeth were already shattered, and I was already moving onwards and head butting the aide and cracking his nose, and he went down quick and quiet, and I was turning back to the groping old bastard with my knuckles bare and bloody, and this time I didn't stop until he was silent on the floor, and lying in his own juice.
Scratch that:
My juice.
And then I pulled out the tubes from my arm, and threw up like a trooper.