The Cleaner

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sally sits on the couch and stares at the goldfish bowl. When she reaches out and sprinkles in some food, the two fish inside quickly head toward the surface and begin eating.

The surgery, if she can call it that, has gone well. She suspects the chances of infection are slim. She has neatly removed the damage done by the pliers, and used dissolvable stitches internally and normal stitches externally. Of course only time will tell. Now that she’s finished, she’s hung the crucifix back around her neck.

She had figured Joe needed it more during that time.

She’s decided that as much as she wants to call the police, she won’t do it. She wants Joe to be healed professionally, and she wants the people who did this to be caught and convicted, but she’ll wait until she can discuss it with him. There isn’t room out on the streets for people who can commit such an evil act. She thinks about the Christchurch Carver, about the hell he’s been putting women through. It’s true that the devil can walk among us.

Joe’s life is different enough, and she doesn’t blame him for not wanting to be the mentally challenged man who was deprived of his money and his dignity. She respects Joe’s right to not be known as the man who has lost a testicle. When he is capable, when he is fully aware, she will help him understand that the right path will be to involve others who can help him.

She thinks about the scars on his chest. What sort of life has he had? Who abused him? Is this why he never speaks of his parents?

Joe is unconscious, so she rolls him onto one side, then the other, maneuvering the bloody sheets from beneath him. She wraps the pieces of flesh she has cut away in the plastic sheet and places it in a plastic bag, then throws the bedsheets, jeans, underwear, and shirt into the washing machine and sets the cycle going. She finds a second plastic shopping bag and begins filling it with all the rubbish from the surgery. She wraps the scalpel blade securely to ensure it can never hurt anybody. She takes off her latex gloves and drops them in the bag too.

She puts on another pair, then starts tidying and cleaning the apartment. The dishes piled up in the sink haven’t even been rinsed. The food stains on the countertop match the food stains on the table. When she finds a vacuum cleaner, she decides to run it briefly over the floors. None of the noises wake Joe. When the washing machine is finished, she bundles the items into the dryer and sets it going. The paperbacks on the couch are all romance novels. Martin never read anything like this; he only ever read comic books. She finds it odd at first, but encouraging that Joe would read something with more of a story. As she picks up the folders next to the books, the contents of one spill.

“What are you doing, Joe?” she whispers to herself. She recognizes the photograph of one of the dead women. She scoops them up, flicks through them, then puts them back into the folder before moving on to the next. Joe has the complete set-the Christchurch Carver’s victims. He also has information on the detectives investigating the case. She looks through them, trying to figure out why Joe would have these here. Does he know the women in these pictures are dead?

Joe wouldn’t bring these things home unless there was a good reason, and she’s sure he wouldn’t be doing it for money. Either somebody’s threatening him, or he’s got them for himself. But why? Does it have something to do with his attack?

When she looks over at Joe, she sees another folder, this one on the small bedside table. It’s a psychological profile of the Christchurch Carver. No way in the world could Joe possibly understand any of this. So why have it? And why have it next to his bed, as if he had recently been reading it? Outside, the streetlights have come on. The road is empty except for a few parked cars and for the first time it’s starting to feel like autumn. She closes the window.

She empties the bucket in the sink and rinses it out, then fills it a quarter of the way with water and sets it next to Joe’s bed. She imagines he’ll use it to urinate into-he won’t be able to walk for a few days. She checks the dressing on his wound. No signs of blood. When the dryer stops its cycle, she pulls out the sheets, rolls Joe to one side, then the other, tugging one sheet beneath him. She tucks the second sheet over him, but it’s still too warm in here for a blanket. His briefcase, which is heavier than she thought, she puts within reach of his bed in case he needs it. She spends a few seconds thinking that she should open it, that perhaps there are answers in there, then decides against it. Joe trusted she would come and help him, not to go through his belongings.

She checks that everything is tidied away, picks up his keys, her first-aid kit, and heads back out to her car.