He couldn’t go to hospital, because he couldn’t go to prison. That brought his work to mind and the fact that he was due to report for duty at six the following morning. No way he could go in like this! There was no alternative this time: he’d have to call in sick. At least on this occasion he wouldn’t have to lay things on thick. He’d tell his superiors he’d been in an accident, fallen down the stairs and broken a rib. Once he was strapped up, should they require proof, he would appear to have a genuine case for absence. Perhaps he should start looking at his injury as a boon, instead of the hindrance he first feared. Off work and incapacitated, who’d ever think he was involved in the spate of killings that was about to happen?
He snorted at his egocentricity. Right then he had barely the energy to think straight, let alone continue his agenda. His ribs hurt, but everything else hurt too. No, he shouldn’t think like that. His other injuries were superficial and he wouldn’t allow them to stop him. They were only sprains and scrapes, nothing to worry about. Once he cleaned and dressed his ribs he’d dose himself with antibiotics and painkillers. Then he’d get on with his plan. The night was young, and one thing he was certain of was the bastard who shot him wouldn’t expect him coming so soon.
He thought about the stranger. He was a dangerous enemy. He’d proved that quite succinctly. He had survived a house fire; a car crash; and, most recently, avoided his bullet. When he’d turned up at Takumi’s house Markus had assumed that the man was a hired protector brought in by the murder ring, and now he was sure of it. There was no other reason for him to be waiting at Parnell’s apartment. As to the man’s background, Markus had no firm idea, but he took it as fact that the man had experience with firearms, and was probably handy in a fistfight. Markus relished meeting the man toe to toe in battle, and had no doubt who would be the one walking away — despite his injury. But there was no harm in raising his odds of winning. Next time they met he would have to ensure that he held the ace hand. From a drawer he fetched a length of ceramic fashioned to a wicked point, electricians’ tape wound around the flaring end to act as a handle. He’d taken the shiv from a prisoner who’d tried to sink it below his ribs one time, and now thought he’d employ it in similar fashion. He stooped down and concealed the makeshift blade in his boot. Just wait until he had the stranger at his mercy; he gleefully pictured the look of surprise on his face when Markus jammed the blade into his ribcage.
Next he thought about the two muscle-heads, and what their reason for assaulting Parnell’s home meant. Had the thugs gone to Hayes Tower to hurt the old man — as he’d first reasoned — or to settle a private score with the stranger? If it was the latter, it added an entirely new dimension to the proceedings. Was it something he could use to his advantage? Markus knew people who knew other people, and was sure that a few well-placed telephone calls would identify who the tough guys were and whom they worked for. From there he would learn the identity of the stranger and with that knowledge he would be in a position to take the initiative.
Before anything else, it was imperative that he cleansed his wound. His main concern wasn’t the cut in his flesh but the damage to the ribs beneath: an infection in the bone could prove life-threatening. He pulled off his shirt, wincing as the bloody fabric tugged at the torn skin. Blood had streamed down his side, pooling at his waistband and staining his trousers. He took them off, as well as his underwear, and went to the shower stall. The shower was an antique that barely dribbled warm water, but he stood under it, washing the blood from his body and watching it swirl down the drain. Watching the water go from red, to pink, then to translucent, it felt like his agony was washing away with the tainted water. He felt a little stronger.
When he’d set off on his mission he had understood that injury might be a possibility, and had compensated for that by purchasing a first-aid kit. Apart from the crêpe bandages and a tube of antiseptic ointment, it was wholly inadequate for the injury he bore now. So, naked and dripping water, he headed downstairs to the kitchen and rooted among the bottles and containers beneath the sink. He found what he was looking for and screwed off the cap, even as he headed for his living quarters. He lay on the settee, propped on his right elbow, and using his left hand he held the bottle poised over the wound.
He really wasn’t looking forward to the next few seconds.
He took in a few quick breaths, steeling himself. His martial arts training told him that pain was but a figment of the imagination and that a man who controlled his mind controlled pain.
A label on the bottle indicated the hydrogen peroxide was only four per cent proof; when it hit his wound he would swear it was pure rocket grade fuel. His scream was short-lived, but only because he collapsed into unconsciousness.
He slept fitfully on the settee, the memories coming fast and furious to build a nightmare montage of his past. At first he saw events through the eyes of his younger self, and there was no break as he segued from one scene to another.
He was a small boy, hiding under his bedclothes when a man he didn’t recognise entered his room, rocking on his heels as he swigged from the neck of a liquor bottle. The guy stank of sweat and piss, and the vest he wore over drooping boxer shorts was grimy. His stubble was grey, his forehead mottled by a birthmark. When he pulled back the blankets and leered down on Markus, his slug-like tongue lolled from between a gap in his upper teeth. ‘Howdy, boy?’ the man slurred, as he dumped the empty bottle on the floor, transferring his hand to fumble at the front of his shorts. He teased out his penis. ‘Come on out from under there and say hi to your new daddy.’
Markus was about twelve years old. He was down by a culvert drain, floating twigs on the gush of muddy storm water. He was head down, intent on the voyage of his make believe pirate ship, and didn’t at first hear the other boys gathering on the dirt embankment above him. A stone struck his shoulder and Markus yelped. He turned quickly, his hands making fists. Then he staggered back as another stone struck him in the forehead, the blood immediately flowing into his eyes. Bastard, bastard, bastard, the other boys from his class were chanting. They rained more stones and broken branches down on him, and Markus fled from them. He ran until he fell gasping and crying in the dirt of his front yard. His mom was sitting in her chair on the sagging porch and when he looked up at her, seeking sympathy, all he received was the same bitter twist of her mouth and stone-hard glare as he ever did. ‘Get the hell up outta the dirt,’ she snapped at him. ‘Look at the state of you. You been running from them other boys again? What’d I tell you, boy? You don’t run from no one but me.’
In his dream there was no transition from where his mom got up out of her chair to fetch her switch, to where she had him inside the house, whipping the skin from off his back.