Purgatory

12

Ridge woke up.

Her head hurt and she emitted a tiny groan. A nurse came, fluffed the pillows. No matter what state you were in, those fucking pillows had to be fluffed.

A lot.

The nurse asked,

“How are you?”

Took Ridge a moment to figure.

“Who am I?”

Then pieces of it surfaced, knocking on Brennan’s door, anticipating verbal aggression but not an onslaught. After the first blow, she was blank. Put her hands to her face, the nurse bringing some water, she asked,

“Am I. . damaged?”

Irish nurses, their very directness is refreshing. This one said,

“Ah, you took a fierce hiding.”

Right.

Added,

“But you’re awake, that’s good.”

Argue that.

The doctor came, did some hmming, a bit of mmm, said,

“Nothing serious, really.”

Unless you counted a coma.

She asked,

“Was I. . out. . for long?”

“Yes. Trust me, you’d prefer not to know.”

Then,

“A day, two, you’ll be going home.”

Ridge, relieved, said,

“Good as new.”

The nurse gave her a look, translated as,

“Don’t be bloody stupid.”

Yuppie, in dump café,

“Do you perchance have WiFi access?”

Owner,

“I don’t have bloody access to me kids.”

I was sitting in Elaine’s, the newest coffee shop off Shop Street. Kelly was sitting opposite, on her second Marciano. She’d been asking me about my hearing aid, then moved on to the loss of my fingers, said,

“Not enough of you left to even mail, fellah.”

I was developing a deep affection for her. She had a mouth on her, kept my game up, and she was that rarity,

Interesting.

I mean in a world of Lindsay Lohans, who is interesting any more? Romney was fast-tracking toward the Republican nomination, Barack was simply looking tired, and the brief dark glitz of Newt was dissipated. I said,

“I had a night out with Reardon.”

She laughed, went,

“Whoa, now that I would have paid serious wedge to witness.”

I debated, then,

“We ran into a spot of bother.”

And she literally guffawed, echoed,

“A spot of bother. What are you, a freaking Brit suddenly?”

Ignoring that.

“A gang of wannabes tried to take us out.”

Her eyes were lit. She said,

“Right up Reardon’s block. He likes to get down and dirty.”

Her glee set off an alarm.

I asked,

“You mean, Jesus Christ, he fucking staged it?”

She was saved from replying by a large man who, without asking, sat at our table, glared at me. Kelly went,

“Seriously?”

He produced a wallet, his plainclothes ID, said,

“Thought you might prefer an informal chat rather than the barracks again.”

Jesus, did anyone still call the cop station that?

I asked,

“You have a name?”

He showed some very expensive bridgework, allowed,

“Foley.”

I waited.

“Where were you yesterday, late afternoon?”

Kelly said,

“He was with me.”

I wasn’t.

Foley gave her a look of utter disbelief, said,

“And you are?”

Now she smiled, took a sip of her coffee, went,

“I’m what’s known in the trade as an alibi, presuming you wouldn’t be asking if something hadn’t happened.”

He looked like walloping her wouldn’t be too much of a reach, said,

“You need to be very sure, miss, of what you’re telling me.”

She was delighted, cooed,

“I love it! You are so rigidly. . anal.”

I asked,

“What happened?”

Like he was going to tell me. He stood up, turned to Kelly, warned,

“You’re a Yank, a visitor to our shores. Be in your interest to not. .”

He paused.

His big moment.

“Not to fuck with the authorities.”

She gave a mock shiver, said,

“Show me your weapon, Foley.”

After he’d left, I said,

“Watch your back. Those guys, they remember.”

She signaled for the bill, said,

“My treat.”

Added,

“Those guys, you can see them. It’s the motherfuckers who hide in plain sight I worry about.”

I had no idea what this meant but it sounded. . hard-core.

Thanked her for the coffee and she said,

“What do I get in return?”

I had my own question, asked,

“Why did you lie for me? You weren’t with me.”

And she gave me the gift of a full warm-to-warmest smile, said,

“Yeah, but you’re thinking, Wish she was.”

Not far off the truth. She said,

“Invite me to your apartment.”

“What, now?”

She sighed.

“Jesus, Jack. Get real, buddy. This evening, so you can prepare a meal, get ready to party.”

Had to know, went,

“Are you fucking with me?”

A kiss on the cheek and,

“That’s what you’re hoping for later, big boy.”

An hour later, unable to get Stewart on the mobile, I found out about Brennan and that Ridge had come around. Bought some flowers and headed for the hospital. Was I sorry about Brennan?

Yes.

Sorry the fuck wasn’t dead.

Laden with white roses, box of Ferrero Rocher, I arrived in Ridge’s room to find Stewart sitting by her bed. He went,

“What kept you?”

I ignored him, put the stuff down, moved to Ridge. Her face was covered with those yellow-blue marks that are a sign of healing. You can only surmise from their ferocity how bad the beating was. Her eyes were clear but something new in there, a wariness.

Fear?

I hoped to fuck not. A frightened Ridge raised a mayhem of biblical shouts in my head. I was saved from hugging her by the IV. She smiled, said,

“Tactile as ever, Jack.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a horse’s arse. I said,

“Good news.”

Ridge looked like that would be impossible. I added,

“The guy they figured did for you, Brennan, someone paid him a visit.”

She sighed.

“Oh, Jack, you didn’t?”

True, I had some mileage in this field, but protested.

“I’m guessing it’s the C33 lunatic.”

Stewart said,

“C33 doesn’t leave the victims alive. You’d remember that if you were paying attention.”

I swung around, snarled,

“The fuck is the matter with you?”

He waved at Ridge, said,

“I’ll be back later, babe.”

Strode out.

I was after him, Ridge calling me back.

Caught up with him outside the hospital, a batch of huddled smokers to the right, like the ones God cast out of heaven and as cowed. Stewart gazed at them, muttered,

“Wish I smoked.”

I grabbed his shoulder, snapped,

“The fuck is with you?”

He stared me down but something was amiss with his focus and for a bizarre moment I thought he was stoned.

Stewart!

No way, ever. He’d been a dealer, did his time in jail, he’d eat a bullet before that. But. .

He said,

“Brennan is at death’s door.”

I read it wrong and, Jesus, not the first time, asked,

“You think I did it?”

He gave a bitter smile.

“If it was you, Jack, the bastard would be dead, right?”

He moved to go, I asked,

“You’re thinking C33, but we didn’t get a letter, like the other times.”

“Jack, I’m working with all me might to think nothing, nothing at all.”

And was gone.

I went back to Ridge and tried to make desultory talk, until she exclaimed,

“Jack, you seem out of sorts.”

I sighed, sounding horrifically like my despised mother, said,

“Certainly out of something.”