There is only silence and darkness. A black fire rages through every fibre, and yet with it the bitterest cold. A strong reflex to gag, his mouth tasting of iron, his throat stripped dry with acid. He is crawling though blood and vomit towards the door. It doesn’t matter what that bastard has done to him, whether he’ll bleed to death, die of a brain haemorrhage, choke on his own tongue. He knows now that if he has one purpose left in life it is, before he dies, to save his brother. It’s all been leading here. This is the sequence that began the moment Alex took flight along the cliff path. Daniel had been tested then, and by his failure had set in motion a chain of events that would bring this one last chance of redemption. With the aid of a cupboard handle he pulls himself to his feet. From the cutlery drawer he pulls out his sharpest cook’s knife. At Alex’s doorway he pulls on the handle, turns on the light, ready to pull the knife on that great blubbery fat fucker and shove it straight into his kidneys.
But Alex lies there alone. The light has dazzled him. He clings to the blankets, but Daniel takes them from him and rolls him over. Oh God, no, please God, let it not be true. There is blood down there. He raises the pyjama top – sees scratches all down Alex’s back. He can barely bring himself to do it, but he pulls down the trousers – there’s yet more blood, and worse. Alex is becoming hysterical and frantic, screaming in short syllables.
‘Nu, nu, noh! Izaal-a-mizde. I yav be rape!’
The words aren’t important. His blind terror says it all.
“No. I’m not going to rape you,” Daniel sobs. “I’m sorry, Alex. Sorry… sorry…”
She’ll have been sleeping when the phone goes. Yet still she manages to pick up before the call is diverted. In hearing his thin, trembling voice, she must know at once that something unspeakably awful has happened, even though he simply implores her to come and refuses to say why. It can’t take her long to realise that he is too incoherent to explain, and to clock that telling him to ring the police or an ambulance is quite futile. Why else just cut him off? She’ll be phoning for a cab now, to bring her straight over.
And when she does arrive, bursting unannounced into his flat, the scene before her makes no attempt to reveal the real story. The stench, the empty bottles and cans, the trail of sick through the kitchen, they invite few readings. She barely looks at Daniel, huddled in the corner by the fridge.
“What on earth’s been…? Where’s Alex?”
Before he can speak, she is through to the bedroom – “Ugh, Daniel, he’s filthy! What are all these marks down his back!? Has Alex had a fall?”
Daniel shakes his head. “No… a, a man came.”
“An intruder? You’re saying someone broke in and attacked him?”
“No, he was from the pub.”
“What?? You deliberately brought someone back here who did this?? And look at his neck. It looks like someone’s tried to strangle him!”
His howling, his contrition, his begging, this time they don’t touch her.
“Alex, can you hear me? Don’t worry; I’m taking you out of here right now.”
And then she’s standing in the doorway. “Get up, Daniel. Now you listen to me. First thing in the morning I’m calling Social Services. Until they can sort things out, Alex is coming with me. Before anything else happens.”
She’s calling the waiting cab, saying she’ll be out in two minutes.
“I’m taking the wheelchair. Have his bags packed by morning. And phone the police. If you don’t report this pub friend of yours then I will!”
How can he just stand there and let her do this? How can he permit her to take Alex from his bed, to dress him and gather up his crutches and lead him from the bedroom? How can he do nothing to prevent her from reaching that waiting taxi, to stop her from robbing him of his brother all over again?