Blood Sports (31 page)

The
ICU
rooms were clustered around the central nurses’ station. Jeremy’s room was divided in two sections by a glass wall. The outer room had charts, signs, tables, equipment. Tom stood stupidly by the bed, waiting for Jeremy to wake up, until a nurse booted him out to do tests. Tom went back to the waiting room.

In the morning, his cousin was awake and deep in conversation with a man in a suit, so Tom thought things couldn’t be that bad if Jer was already talking to a lawyer. But Jeremy stared so long
when Tom walked in the room that he thought maybe Jeremy wasn’t actually seeing him.

“Get out,” Jeremy said.

When Tom didn’t move, Jeremy picked up a bedpan and threw it at him.

“Get out! Get the fuck out! Are you deaf? Get out!”

“Well, what did you expect?” Paulie said. “A parade?”

“No,” Tom said.

Paulie opened the oven door and lifted the cake pan out. The chocolate cake peaked at the centre like a volcanic mountain, cracked and burnt.

“Damn. Martha made it look easy.” She turned the cake onto the cooling rack, and it broke apart to reveal oozing, uncooked insides. “We’ll call it your I-saved-Jeremy’s-worthless-ass cake.”

Tom laughed. “That’s about the size of it.”

“He’s going to blame you,” Paulie said. “That’s the way his little brain works. If Tom hadn’t called the fucking ambulance, he’s going to tell himself, I wouldn’t be up on possession charges.”

“He was dying, Paulie. He did die.”

“Is he thanking you? Is he showering you with gratitude for helping him when everyone else buggered off?”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Well, this’ll learn you,” she said, poking at the cooling cake. “Did you get the tapes?”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “They’re in the rental car.”

“I’m glad something went right. Hand me the garbage, will you, hon? I don’t want to look at this stupid cake any more. Martha I ain’t.”

9 JULY 1998

Mel rolled her old-fashioned baby walker close to the bars. Her mouth was smeared with yellow icing from her Big Bird cookie, the walker and the cookie distractions provided by Firebug. She bounced in the canvas seat that held her upright and banged her free fist against the pink plastic tray that formed an O around her waist. The rusty metal legs holding up the tray were attached to wheels that squeaked as Mel manoeuvred, her bare feet paddling the painted concrete floor like Fred Flintstone in his caveman car. She paused, looking back over her shoulder, eyebrows rising hopefully. She wanted to be chased.

“No can do, babe,” Tom said, raising his cuffed hands. The duct tape had left a sticky residue that clicked as he talked. “I’ll watch you though.”

Mel gnawed off Big Bird’s shoulders. She paddled over to Paulie, who stood with her arms crossed, talking to Firebug and Leo like she was talking to a neighbour through the fence. Mel bumped into Paulie’s leg, and Paulie absently reached down and
patted Mel’s head. Mel buzzed around the room, laughing her hiccuping gurgle as she rammed her walker into the bed, the sink, the toilet.

Firebug knelt and dropped Tom on the bed. The basement had no windows, just recessed fluorescent tubes in mesh cages above them. Paulie stayed near the bars, hip jutting out to hold Mel. Leo stood against the far wall, aiming his revolver at them. Mel screamed her outrage, reaching for the walker that Leo was holding.

“Neil will be watching you on the monitors,” Firebug said as he stood. “Behave.”

He slammed the cell door behind him. Leo went up first and Firebug followed. Neither of them looked back. The trap door shut. Firebug would come back and deal with them if there was nothing on the tapes. That was their only hope of getting out of the basement.

Paulie made soup in the microwave by the sink. Instant noodles, shrimp flavour. He could tell by the spices. Mel cried by the mattress. She had a juicy diaper. Tom lifted her onto the bed.

“Don’t,” Paulie said. “I’ll change her.”

“I’ve got her,” Tom said. His voice was hoarse from screaming. It sounded scratchy and thin, like he’d been drinking whiskey straight and chain-smoking. “Shh, baby, shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Tom rubbed her stomach until she calmed down. He felt as raw-eyed as he had the first sleepless week she was home from the hospital. The pain was still distant but the patch seemed to be
wearing off. Tom automatically changed her diaper, shushing her. Mel crawled off the bed.

Paulie placed the cup of noodles on the nightstand, pushing aside the baby wipes. She dropped the soiled diaper in a trashcan.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything.”

She sighed. “If we start saying sorry for everything, we’ll be going all day.”

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

She looked him up and down. “What did he do?”

Tom shrugged. Paulie didn’t push. She walked over to the sink. She ran one of the washcloths under the tap. She came back and sat beside him, carefully cleaning the dried blood off his chest.

Mel pulled herself up on the bars and she took a few wobbly steps. She tumbled forward, smacking her face on the concrete. She paused, stunned, and then wailed, holding her arms up for Paulie to come get her. Paulie crossed the room in leaping steps, scooped up Mel and checked her teeth, making soothing noises as she brought her to the bed.

Tom pulled the blanket over his lap and ate some of the soup. Mel noticed food and came bumming, opening her mouth whenever he lifted the spoon. Paulie went to make another cup. Mel caught a slippery noodle in her fist, squished it to mush, and then sucked it off her palm.

Afterward, she crawled into his lap and he crooned as he rocked her. Paulie stood in the yellow glow of the microwave light. Their eyes met. He hoped he was hiding his fear better than she was.

Mel lifted his eyelids, tilting her head.

“I’m awake,” Tom said. He couldn’t remember falling asleep.

She let his eyelids go, snap. He leaked. He forced himself up onto his elbows as he felt blood rolling down his side and soaking beneath them.

“I’m bleeding on the sheets.”

“Use one of Mel’s diapers,” Paulie said.

Tom reached over and grabbed a clean diaper off the nightstand. He mopped himself up. He limped to the toilet. He sat down, holding the diaper to his left tit. He could feel something grating, deep down. He suspected a piece of needle had broken off and was floating through his muscle.

Mel scooted over to him and pulled herself up on his legs. She let go for a second, balanced, showing off, waiting for him to notice.

“You’re doing good, babe,” he said.

“Huh,” she said as she grabbed his thigh and pulled herself along, cruising the walls and the furniture. Paulie ran the sheets under the faucet. Tom yawned, fighting the urge to keel over and lie on the floor.

He came up behind Paulie. She stepped aside to let him wash his hands. He kissed her forehead. She lifted the hand he was keeping over the diaper.

“I’m okay,” he lied.

“You just had a seizure,” Paulie said.

“Oh.”

“When was the last time you had your meds?”

It felt like years. “Three days ago, I think.”

She used her nails to scrub the blood. “No one’s come to check on us. Neil usually comes to take the diapers at lunch and supper. I think they all left.”

Her expression was more annoyed than anything. He loved her for that. Faced with being abandoned in a locked basement
bunker with a weaning baby and an epileptic having rebound seizures, she still scrubbed the sheets clean and wrung them out in the sink and hung them over the microwave to dry.