Dangerous Boys
Page 12
‘But . . . ’ I stop, and try my best to focus. This is all happening too soon; I was supposed to have longer, to think things through. To get my story straight.
‘I’m scared,’ I whisper, feeling the sting of tears in the corner of my eyes.
Weber softens. ‘It’ll be OK,’ he tells me, and I want to believe him. ‘Everything’s going to be just fine.’
We sit there another hour in silence, watching the bustle of activity around us. People go in and out of the double doors, but there’s still no word of the surgery, just the smudges of blood, smeared like an accusation on the floor.
Weber doesn’t say another word and, as the moments stretch, my panic slowly blooms. He should have questions for me, about what happened tonight, about why someone is lying in surgery with a knife wound torn through his gut. But instead, he just sits there, marking the crossword of the discarded newspaper he found on the waiting-room table. The only time he speaks is to ask me if I want coffee, ambling to the machine down the hall and returning with two cups, hot and bitter.
I accept mine with a faint nod, curling my hands around the polystyrene cup. My eyes stay fixed on those doors to surgery and, every time someone steps through, I brace myself, expecting the worst.
I just don’t know what the worst would be.
Finally, the door opens on a face I recognize, the doctor who shocked him back to life. His scrubs are bloodstained, his expression grim.
I don’t move. Just like before, the world feels like it’s poised on a knife’s edge, ready to tumble either way, depending on the next words out of his mouth.
‘He made it.’ The doctor pulls off his green cap with a weary sigh. ‘He lost a lot of blood, but we were able to patch the arterial valve and stop the bleeding. He’ll pull through.’
Weber lets out a breath beside me, but I shiver, anxiety still snaking like ice across my skin. ‘Is he awake?’ I ask quickly. ‘Can I see him?’
‘I’m afraid the surgery was complicated . . . ’ The doctor pauses, ‘We were able to stabilize him, but it might be a while before he wakes up.’
‘But he will wake up?’ My voice quavers.
The doctor nods. ‘Barring any more complications, he should make a full recovery.’
I exhale.
‘See?’ Weber turns to me and I can see the relief on his face. He pats my shoulder, swallowing hard. ‘Now it’s going to be OK. Just a domestic, self-defence.’ He nods, as if talking to himself. ‘We see it all the time, they might not even press charges. You’ll be fine.’
I nod slowly, wanting so desperately to believe him, but knowing all the same that he’s wrong. There’s still a stormcloud looming, ominous and black, and when I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to see one of the younger deputies heading towards us, his expression panicked, I know that the storm’s touched down.
‘Weber?’ He pauses a safe distance away and loiters, skittish. ‘They need you back at the fire.’
‘What is it?’ Weber sounds impatient. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy here.’
‘It’s important.’ The deputy meets my eyes for a second, then whips his gaze away as if he’s been burned. ‘You really need to come now.’
Weber sighs. ‘I don’t have time for clean-up. Can’t you find someone else to go?’
‘It’s not just clean-up.’ The deputy swallows, nervous. He tugs on the collar of his uniform, clears his throat.
I take a slow breath and brace myself, waiting for the next part to begin.
‘They found a body.’
‘Ethan, please,’ I beg again. ‘Don’t hurt us.’
His eyes come back into focus for a moment, looking at me. They soften, a glimpse of the old Ethan, the boy I used to know.
‘Please,’ I say, desperate. ‘Just let us go!’
The house is silent around us, thick with paint fumes, plastic still wrapping the furniture; blank picture frames marking places on the walls. Building tools and discarded boxes; candles and champagne.
An unholy mess. The last thing we might ever see.
‘Put the knife down,’ Oliver says firmly, edging towards him. ‘We won’t say a word, I promise. We’ll go, and this will all be over.’
Ethan shakes his head, stumbling back. ‘You’re tricking me. I don’t know how, but this is another of your f**ked-up games. You’re lying. The minute I put this knife down . . . ’
‘Then what?’ Oliver finishes for him. Another half-step closer. ‘You’re scaring Chloe. You don’t want that, do you? You love her. You would never hurt us.’
‘No!’ Ethan holds out the blade, pointing it directly at him. ‘No, but you would.’
‘This is crazy, Ethan.’ Oliver tries to reason with him. ‘I’m your brother!’
‘You don’t care about anyone!’ Ethan yells. ‘You’re sick, you always have been!’
Oliver stops moving. Instead, he spreads his arms wide. ‘Fine, do it then. Kill me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Oliver!’ I plead with my eyes, but he shakes his head slightly. Trust me, his expression seems to say, so I wait, barely breathing. I don’t understand him, calling Ethan’s bluff like this, it won’t work. He’s not thinking straight – anything could happen.
‘Come on, get it over with,’ Oliver urges him. ‘Get rid of me for good, have her all to yourself. I’m right here.’
There’s silence. Ethan doesn’t move.
Oliver snorts. ‘That’s right, I forgot, you never do anything. You don’t have the guts.’
‘Shut up!’ Ethan snaps, the blade shaking in his hand.
‘You just sit around, playing nice with Mommy and Daddy,’ Oliver continues, relentless. ‘One happy little suburban family. No ambition or imagination. Even Chloe can’t stand it any more. Why do you think we’re here, Ethan? You think there was ever any contest?’
‘I said shut up!’
Ethan suddenly swings, knocking Oliver’s face back with the hilt side of the knife. I scream. Oliver stumbles back, but right away, he lunges. He grabs Ethan’s midriff in a tackle and they go down hard, slamming to the ground, a bloody tangle of punches and gasps. The knife skitters out of Ethan’s hand, spinning across the floor.
‘Chloe!’ Oliver yells, as Ethan rears up, slamming his fist down so hard I hear Oliver’s head crack back against the ground. Oh God, he’s gasping now, bloodied on the ground. ‘The knife!’
‘I’m scared,’ I whisper, feeling the sting of tears in the corner of my eyes.
Weber softens. ‘It’ll be OK,’ he tells me, and I want to believe him. ‘Everything’s going to be just fine.’
We sit there another hour in silence, watching the bustle of activity around us. People go in and out of the double doors, but there’s still no word of the surgery, just the smudges of blood, smeared like an accusation on the floor.
Weber doesn’t say another word and, as the moments stretch, my panic slowly blooms. He should have questions for me, about what happened tonight, about why someone is lying in surgery with a knife wound torn through his gut. But instead, he just sits there, marking the crossword of the discarded newspaper he found on the waiting-room table. The only time he speaks is to ask me if I want coffee, ambling to the machine down the hall and returning with two cups, hot and bitter.
I accept mine with a faint nod, curling my hands around the polystyrene cup. My eyes stay fixed on those doors to surgery and, every time someone steps through, I brace myself, expecting the worst.
I just don’t know what the worst would be.
Finally, the door opens on a face I recognize, the doctor who shocked him back to life. His scrubs are bloodstained, his expression grim.
I don’t move. Just like before, the world feels like it’s poised on a knife’s edge, ready to tumble either way, depending on the next words out of his mouth.
‘He made it.’ The doctor pulls off his green cap with a weary sigh. ‘He lost a lot of blood, but we were able to patch the arterial valve and stop the bleeding. He’ll pull through.’
Weber lets out a breath beside me, but I shiver, anxiety still snaking like ice across my skin. ‘Is he awake?’ I ask quickly. ‘Can I see him?’
‘I’m afraid the surgery was complicated . . . ’ The doctor pauses, ‘We were able to stabilize him, but it might be a while before he wakes up.’
‘But he will wake up?’ My voice quavers.
The doctor nods. ‘Barring any more complications, he should make a full recovery.’
I exhale.
‘See?’ Weber turns to me and I can see the relief on his face. He pats my shoulder, swallowing hard. ‘Now it’s going to be OK. Just a domestic, self-defence.’ He nods, as if talking to himself. ‘We see it all the time, they might not even press charges. You’ll be fine.’
I nod slowly, wanting so desperately to believe him, but knowing all the same that he’s wrong. There’s still a stormcloud looming, ominous and black, and when I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to see one of the younger deputies heading towards us, his expression panicked, I know that the storm’s touched down.
‘Weber?’ He pauses a safe distance away and loiters, skittish. ‘They need you back at the fire.’
‘What is it?’ Weber sounds impatient. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy here.’
‘It’s important.’ The deputy meets my eyes for a second, then whips his gaze away as if he’s been burned. ‘You really need to come now.’
Weber sighs. ‘I don’t have time for clean-up. Can’t you find someone else to go?’
‘It’s not just clean-up.’ The deputy swallows, nervous. He tugs on the collar of his uniform, clears his throat.
I take a slow breath and brace myself, waiting for the next part to begin.
‘They found a body.’
‘Ethan, please,’ I beg again. ‘Don’t hurt us.’
His eyes come back into focus for a moment, looking at me. They soften, a glimpse of the old Ethan, the boy I used to know.
‘Please,’ I say, desperate. ‘Just let us go!’
The house is silent around us, thick with paint fumes, plastic still wrapping the furniture; blank picture frames marking places on the walls. Building tools and discarded boxes; candles and champagne.
An unholy mess. The last thing we might ever see.
‘Put the knife down,’ Oliver says firmly, edging towards him. ‘We won’t say a word, I promise. We’ll go, and this will all be over.’
Ethan shakes his head, stumbling back. ‘You’re tricking me. I don’t know how, but this is another of your f**ked-up games. You’re lying. The minute I put this knife down . . . ’
‘Then what?’ Oliver finishes for him. Another half-step closer. ‘You’re scaring Chloe. You don’t want that, do you? You love her. You would never hurt us.’
‘No!’ Ethan holds out the blade, pointing it directly at him. ‘No, but you would.’
‘This is crazy, Ethan.’ Oliver tries to reason with him. ‘I’m your brother!’
‘You don’t care about anyone!’ Ethan yells. ‘You’re sick, you always have been!’
Oliver stops moving. Instead, he spreads his arms wide. ‘Fine, do it then. Kill me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Oliver!’ I plead with my eyes, but he shakes his head slightly. Trust me, his expression seems to say, so I wait, barely breathing. I don’t understand him, calling Ethan’s bluff like this, it won’t work. He’s not thinking straight – anything could happen.
‘Come on, get it over with,’ Oliver urges him. ‘Get rid of me for good, have her all to yourself. I’m right here.’
There’s silence. Ethan doesn’t move.
Oliver snorts. ‘That’s right, I forgot, you never do anything. You don’t have the guts.’
‘Shut up!’ Ethan snaps, the blade shaking in his hand.
‘You just sit around, playing nice with Mommy and Daddy,’ Oliver continues, relentless. ‘One happy little suburban family. No ambition or imagination. Even Chloe can’t stand it any more. Why do you think we’re here, Ethan? You think there was ever any contest?’
‘I said shut up!’
Ethan suddenly swings, knocking Oliver’s face back with the hilt side of the knife. I scream. Oliver stumbles back, but right away, he lunges. He grabs Ethan’s midriff in a tackle and they go down hard, slamming to the ground, a bloody tangle of punches and gasps. The knife skitters out of Ethan’s hand, spinning across the floor.
‘Chloe!’ Oliver yells, as Ethan rears up, slamming his fist down so hard I hear Oliver’s head crack back against the ground. Oh God, he’s gasping now, bloodied on the ground. ‘The knife!’
