“I'm looking for Sarah,” Firdy said. “Who the fuck is Jerry and why the fuck should I care?”
The man spat blood. Firdy had hit him too hard. Or too many times. In minutes he would be no more use.
Jerry. Jerry. Jerry. That's all the man was saying. Who was …
“Geri,” Firdy said. “Geri is your wife?”
The man managed to nod.
“Sarah is with Geri.”
“I … don't know … I think … so.”
Firdy clenched and unclenched his fist. It wouldn't do to hit him again. Not yet anyway.
“And where is Geri?”
The man's eyes rolled back in their sockets and Firdy slapped him, grabbed his mouth between finger and thumb. “Tell me where she is, and I'll go. I won't hurt you anymore. I won't kill you.”
The man's teeth, those he had left, were bloody. “Play,” he spat. He pointed to the bedside table.
Firdy pulled open the drawer, expecting to find a dicta-phone, but instead he pulled out a bible, some scribblings and letters, more Ultimate Fighter magazines and a flyer.
“Oh,” Firdy said. “Play. Like the theatre.”
The man wheezed.
The play opened this afternoon and then would be performed again tonight. Geraldine was on the cast list. She'd probably be rehearsing.
“Th-theatre,” the man said.
“I understand,” Firdy replied, gazing down at him. “I smashed you up pretty good.” He wiped his bloody gloves on the bedsheets and put the flyer in his jacket pocket. “Thank you for this.”
As he walked towards the door, the man struggled to speak again.
“Don't ...”
“I don't have time,” Firdy said.
“Don't … hurt … Geri.”
“I told you. It's Sarah I want. As soon as I have her, I'll leave you both alone. You'll never see me again. I mean that.”
Nervous and excited, he skipped down the gloomy stairs and out into the street. It was no longer dark enough to hide what he was going to do, but he had to finish this anyway. It didn't have to be clean. It only had to be quick. In twenty-four hours, there would be no way to trace anything back to him.
*
George attempted to roll onto his side, gurgled and spat blood. As he inched across the bed, his chest burned. He couldn't move his neck enough to see the damage the man had done to him, but he suspected that that was for the best. If he saw the state of himself, he'd probably pass out. He'd already pissed himself and he was far from proud of that.
In the second drawer of the bedside table, he turned over a mass of envelopes and reached under a magazine until his fingers felt the leather of his mobile phone case. Aware that every second left Geri in danger, he stretched, cried out and hooked the phone with two fingers, dragging it towards him.
Eventually he was clutching the phone and he concentrated on not passing out. Not only did he have to warn Geri, but if he succumbed to sleep, no-one would find him until it was too late; he might not wake up, not in hospital, not ever. Geri was the believer in God. He believed in nothing and he wasn't ready to go yet. He hadn't given it enough thought.
He scrolled through the recent numbers and dialled Geri.
Waited.
The sun was streaming through a gap in the curtains. It was easy to mistake the shaft of light for something spiritual, but he tried to stay focussed; he was in bed and he was dying, this was what dying felt like, but he wasn't gone yet. The sunlight was warming his skin. This was a good sign.
Geri's voicemail message kicked in.
Okay. So maybe he would die after all.
Maybe Geri too.
“Jesus,” he said and sobbed.
He was surprised and ashamed of himself for giving the man Geri's whereabouts. He could have lied. But the pain had been terrible, the fear of a further attack had been worse and he knew that. He hadn't been able to think; he had only wanted it to end.
End.
He ended the call to Geri, realising that he had been recording his breathing, and dialled 999.