EXHAUSTION
Ward slumped back in his chair, eyes closed. 4.06 p.m. He took out the disk and switched off the computer. That was it for the day.
Enough was enough.
As he got to his feet he felt something he had not experienced for a long, long time. It was a sense of pride.
He set the alarm in the office, locked up then stepped on to the back lawn and stood with his hands on his hips taking deep breaths of the still air. His head was spinning.
In one of the gardens nearby, a dog was barking. He could hear kids playing noisily.
Ward waited a moment longer then wandered back to the house. As soon as he stepped inside the phone began to ring. He wondered about answering it then decided to leave the call to be collected by the answerphone.
He walked into the sitting room, heading for the drinks cabinet. Holding his glass of Jack Daniel’s, he sat down in one of his armchairs.
Within minutes, he was asleep.
RUNNING ON EMPTY
The glass fell to the floor and bounced once on the carpet.
Ward woke with a start, staring around the darkened room. At first he could see nothing.
Not a hand in front of him.
For one second of madness he thought he’d gone blind. Then he realised that night had descended. How long had he been asleep in the chair?
He sat up, looking down at the dropped glass as he slowly became accustomed to the gloom. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at his watch. 8.56 p.m.
Ward hauled himself out of the armchair and stumbled backwards and forwards turning on lamps. Their welcome glow spread through the darkness, banishing the blackness like an unwanted dream. He finally switched on the television, not caring which channel he found, wanting only the familiar sight and sound.
He drew the curtains and shook his head.
There was a gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach and he realised how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, over seven hours ago.
He picked up the glass he’d dropped, thankful that it had been empty, and made his way to the kitchen,
switching on lights in his wake. The fluorescents buzzed like somnolent bluebottles and he winced as their brilliant, white light seemed to sear his eyes. He crossed to the fridge and took out a bottle of milk, drinking straight from the bottle in an attempt to quench his raging thirst. Then he studied the contents of the fridge.
Some tomatoes, a cucumber, lettuce that was beginning to turn brown, cheese and a couple of yogurts.
He exhaled wearily.
There was a frozen meal in the freezer, he remembered. It took less than ten minutes in the microwave. That would do.
He stuck the meal in the oven and made his way back into the sitting room where he poured himself a drink and waited for his dinner to cook.
He noticed there were three messages on his answerphone. He chose to ignore them for the time being. He would eat first and they couldn’t be that important anyway. Not much was these days.
He watched a little of the news while he waited. A plane crash in India. An earthquake in Mexico.
He flicked channels. There was some American sitcom on Channel 4. A programme about World War II on BBC1. He watched that until his meal was ready.
And he drank.
ELECTRICAL PROBLEMS
Ward woke again at 12.15. He rubbed his eyes and moved quickly around the room switching off lights and electrical appliances, then he made his way up the stairs to bed.
As he set the alarm he glanced again at the answerphone and decided to check his messages the following morning. He was too tired now.
Undressing quickly, he climbed into bed without brushing his teeth. He hoped that he would fall asleep quickly. He didn’t.
He tossed and turned for over an hour before dragging himself irritably to his feet.
The moon, despite the abundance of cloud, was bright and cast a cold, white glow over everything. Ward stood looking out into the night. He opened the window and sucked in several deep breaths.
His head was throbbing. A combination of drink and insomnia. He decided his prolonged naps during the day and evening must have caused his inability to sleep.
Ward looked at his office and saw the now familiar silvery grey light. He must have forgotten to switch off the monitor again.
One part of him said leave it, the other that he was up, he was awake, why not switch it off?
He pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt and headed for the stairs. He pressed the four-digit number to neutralise the alarm then passed through the kitchen to the back door.
The moon emerged from behind a bank of dark cloud just as he stepped out into the garden so he didn’t bother switching on the outside light.
He made his way quickly towards the office and let himself in. He climbed the stairs and stood in front of the monitor. It was, indeed, still on.
Ward switched it off, muttering to himself, then turned and wandered back down the stairs and out into the garden. As he did so the moon retreated behind the clouds, plunging him into darkness.
Ward hesitated as he heard rustling sounds. One of the many cats that infested the neighbourhood, he told himself. He bent down, picked up a small stone and threw it in the general direction of the noise.
There was a loud yowl and Ward smiled. That might keep some of the cat shit off his lawn, he thought as he opened the back door.
He looked back at the office. Everything was in darkness. As it should be.
THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD
It was almost daylight by the time Ward finally drifted off to sleep.
He didn’t hear the alarm clock when it rang three hours later. He slept on.
MAKING AN EFFORT
Ward woke at 11.30 that morning. He showered, dressed and wandered out to the office, not hopeful of being able to write but anxious to make an effort.
There was a dead bird on the lawn. Probably killed by the cat he’d thrown a stone at the previous night. He made a mental note to move it when he’d finished for the day.
As he entered the office he shivered. But it was always cool at the bottom of the stairs, no matter what the time of year.
He climbed the stairs to the office.
The monitor was switched on.
A MYSTERY
He knew he’d turned it off. He would have sworn on a Bible if he’d had one handy.
He sat before the blank screen, gazing at it. Some kind of electrical fault, perhaps? A power surge in the night?
That had to be the answer. Either that or his memory was worse than he thought.
Had he dreamt coming out to the office the previous night? It was possible.
He rested his fingers on the keys, sucked in a deep breath and began to type.
Doyle hated the smell of hospitals.The cloying,antiseptic odour made him feel
nauseous.
He wondered why. He’d been inside enough of the fucking places in his life. He should be immune to it by now. And the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast smelt the same as all the others.
He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision. He couldn’t remember if he’d passed out in the ambulance or if his drowsiness was the result of anaesthetic.
He tried to move and felt pain in his side and left leg. ‘Shit,’ the counter terrorist murmured and pushed the sheets down.
All the old, familiar scars were there. The ones that criss-crossed his body like a street map. The result of bullet wounds, explosions. Whatever the weapon, Doyle bore a scar as testament to an encounter with it.
He looked down at his heavily bandaged torso and leg.
More to add to the collection.
A doctor had once told him that with the amount of injuries he’d received, he had no right to be alive. That he should be grateful. He looked down again at the scars on his body and shook his head.