I moved on to the post-mortem. Like Cary had said, the age of the Toyota meant there was no airbag, and no real impact protection. The damage was severe: teeth had been found in Alex’s stomach and what was left of his throat, torn from the gum when his face hit the steering wheel. I read on a little further and then, towards the back, found two pages missing. Cary must have forgotten to pick them up when he’d printed them out. I made a note to ask him about it the next time we spoke.
A couple more pictures were loose in the Manila folder, showing Alex’s body. It was a horrific sight. His hands had been burnt down to the skeleton; his feet and lower legs too. His face, from the brow down to his jaw, was also just bone, and there was a huge crack in his skull, all the way down one side of his cheek, where his face had hit the wheel on impact. I turned back to the file. It got worse the more I read. His body had been pulverized: bones smashed, skin burnt away. Everything broken beyond repair. It was obvious from the damage sustained that he had died before the car caught fire.
Except, according to Mary, he hadn’t died at all.
The Corner of the Room
The first thing he could hear was the wind, distantly at first, and then louder as he became more aware of it. He opened his eyes. The room was spinning gently, the walls bending as he moved his head across the pillow.
Am I dead?
He groaned and rolled on to his side. Slowly, everything started to shift back into focus: the right angles of the walls; the dusty shaft of moonlight; the lightbulb moving gently in the breeze coming through the top window.
It was cold. He sat up and pulled a blanket around him. It brushed against the floor, sending dirt and dust scattering into the darkness. When he moved again, the mattress pinged beneath him. A sharp pain coursed through his chest. He placed a hand against his ribs and pressed with his fingers. Beneath his T-shirt, he could feel bandages, running from his breastplate down to his waist.
He breathed in.
Click.
A noise from the far corner of the room. A pillar poked out from the wall, a cupboard beside that. Everywhere else was dark.
‘Hello?’
His voice sounded quiet and childlike. Scared. He cleared his throat. It felt like fingers were tearing at his windpipe.
And now he could smell something too.
He felt a pulse in his chest, like a bubble bursting. The first scent of nausea rose in his throat. He covered his mouth, and moved back across the bed, trying to get away from the smell. Opposite him, lit by a square of moonlight, he spotted a metal bucket. The rim was speckled with puke. Next to that was a bottle of disinfectant. But it wasn’t that he could smell.
It was something else.
Click.
The noise again. He peered into the darkness in the corner of the room. Nothing. No sound, no sign of movement. Shifting position again, he moved right up against the wall, where the two corners joined, and brought his knees up to his chest. His heart squeezed beneath his ribs. His chest tightened.
‘Who’s there?’
He pulled the blanket tighter around him, and sat there in silence. Staring into the darkness until, finally, sleep took him.
He’s standing outside a church, peering in through a window. Mat is sitting at a desk, a Bible open in his lap. Across the other side of the room, a door is ajar. He looks from Mat to the door, and feels like he wants to be there. Standing in that doorway.
And then, suddenly, he is.
He places a hand on the door and pushes at it. Slowly, it creaks open. Mat turns in his chair, an arm resting on the back, intrigued to see who has entered.
Then his face drops.
‘Dear God,’ he says gently. He gets to his feet, stumbling, his eyes wide, his mouth open. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. ‘I thought… Where have you been?’
‘Hiding.’
Mat stops. Frowns. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve done something… really bad.’
He opened his eyes. A blinding circular light was above him. He tried to cover his face, but when he went to move his hands, they caught on something. Suddenly he felt the binds on his arms, digging into the skin, securing him to the chair beneath.
He turned his head.
Beyond the light, the room was dark, but immediately beside him he could make out a medical gurney, metal instruments on top. Next to that was a heart monitor. Behind, obscured by the darkness, was a silhouette, watching him from the shadows.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
The silhouette didn’t reply. Didn’t even move.
He could see further down his body now. His wrists were locked in place on the arms of a dentist’s chair. He wriggled his fingers, then tried to move his hands again. The binds stretched and tightened.
‘What’s going on?’
He tried moving his legs. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing. In his head, it felt like they were thrashing around. But, further up his body — where he still had feeling — he knew they weren’t moving. They were paralysed.
He looked to the silhouette again.
‘Why can’t I feel my legs?’
Still no reply.
He felt tears well in his eyes.
‘What are you doing to me?’
A hand touched his stomach. He started, and turned his head the other way. Standing next to him was a huge man — tall and powerful, dressed in black. He had a white apron on, and a surgical face mask. He lowered it.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘What’s going on?’
‘You’re standing on a precipice. Did you know that?’
‘What?’
‘You’re standing on the edge of opportunity, and you don’t even know it. You will know it, though. You will come to know opportunity in the coming days, to understand the sacrifice we’ve made for you. But first we need to take care of some things.’
‘Please, I don’t know wha—’
‘I’ll see you on the other side.’
The tall man pulled his mask back over his chin and stepped back from the dentist’s chair, into the darkness.
A woman came forward in his place, dressed in a white coat and wearing a surgical mask, a blue medical cap tied around her dark hair. A bloodstained apron squeezed her short, plump frame. She leaned into him. There were blood spatters on the mask too.
‘Please…’
The woman placed a hand over his eyes, over his face. Then she slid something into his mouth. A huge, metal object — like a clamp. It clicked. He tried to speak, tried to scream, but the clamp had locked his mouth open. All he could do was gurgle.
He watched her.
Please.
From somewhere, a quiet metallic buzz. His eyes flicked left and right, trying to see where the noise was coming from. It got louder.
What are you doing? he tried to say, but it was just another gurgle. He swallowed. Watched her. Saw her fiddling with something, and listened as the buzz got louder. Then, from her side, she brought up a dental drill, its point spinning.
He looked from her to the drill.
Oh God, no.
And then he blacked out.
He woke. Everything was quiet. It was the middle of the night, when the shadows in the room were at their deepest and thickest. And it was cold. Freezing cold. He pulled the blanket right up to his neck and turned on his pillow, facing the ceiling.