The Abrupt Physics of Dying (47 page)

Clay read the piece twice more, savouring Rania’s use of her second language, her ability to meld technical precision with passion. A pang swept through him, spreading from his chest and surging down his legs,
lingering in his knees, in the wrist he’d lost. Jesus. He stamped his feet on the concrete pavement, stuffed the paper into his backpack, combed his hand through his wet hair. The island of love. Definitely.

Clay picked up the phone and dialled his Cayman Islands banker. It was the first time he’d made contact since the killing. Clay gave the password, his account number. There was an urgent message for him, the banker said. It had arrived only three days ago. Clay jotted down the name, the telephone number, the South African prefix, Johannesburg area code. He put down the phone, checked his watch, and dialled. A receptionist directed his call. He was put through to the clinic’s director.

‘This is Declan Greene.’ Clay’s new identity, an unintentional gift of the Yemeni secret police, complete with offshore bank accounts, an Australian passport and an apartment in Perth. ‘I had a message to call.’

The doctor paused, as if searching his memory. “Yes, thank you for calling, Mr Greene. We were expecting to hear from you sooner.’

‘I’ve been busy, Doctor.’ Doing nothing.
Waiting
.

‘I am very sorry to disturb you like this, but you see …’ The doctor stopped, cleared his throat. ‘There is no easy way to say this, I am afraid, Mr Greene.’

The line crackled, empty. ‘Then you’d better just tell me.’

‘Yes, of course. We traced you through the payment you made to the clinic earlier this year, Mr Greene, and since there are no living direct relatives, you were the only person we could contact.’

Clay’s throat tightened.

‘I’m very sorry to inform you that Eben Barstow died four days ago.’

Clay’s legs quivered, weak. Eben, the best friend he’d ever had, wounded in action in Angola all those years ago, a bullet to the head. Clay had carried him to the helicopter and he had survived, if you could call it that, physically functioning but otherwise dead. How many times had he tried to ask Eben’s parents to let him die? Now it was done. Relief surged through him, a decade of regret. It took him a moment to catch his breath, to fully process this information. ‘Did you say no living relatives?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What about his parents?’

‘They died the same day.’

Jesus. ‘The
same day
?’

‘Yes. Tragic. But there is something you should know, Mr Greene. The circumstances of Mr Barstow’s death, were, how can I put this, unusual.’

Just say it, for Christ’s sake. So many times he had anticipated this moment, such had been the inevitability of it, but now that it was here he couldn’t quite believe that Eben was gone, that the tiny shard of hope he had carried with him all those years, wrapped up in a teardrop, a pearl, hidden away somewhere so secure that he’d forgotten it was ever there, had turned out to be the folly he always knew it was.

‘Mr Greene, are you there?’

‘Tell me.’

‘He was shot, Mr Greene.’

Clay thought he had misheard. He was hot. Died of fever.

‘Someone broke into the hospital at night, went to his room, and shot him three times. Twice in the chest, and once in the head.’

Clay’s blood stopped pumping. Jesus Christ.

‘And whoever it was, they also broke into our records department. It seems they were after information about Eben, about our accounts.’

‘What did they get?’

‘Everything, I’m afraid, Mr Greene. The police said it was a very professional job. The perpetrators were in and out without being seen by any of our staff, or waking any of the other patients.’

Jesus. ‘And Eben’s parents?’

‘They died in a car accident. As I said, a tragedy.’

Clay’s mind blanked, raced. All three of them, on the same day?

‘Mr Greene, are you there?’

‘Yes.’ No, not really.

Outside, the rain was coming down again, hammering against the thin steel of the supermarket’s cantilevered roof. He pushed the receiver onto his ear.

‘There is a sizeable credit on Mr Barstow’s account,’ came the voice, faint against the din, ‘which you paid in advance, if you recall. What would you have us do with it, Mr Greene?’

‘Are there any others?’

‘Pardon me, Mr Greene? Others?’

‘Any others like Eben.’

‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’

‘Vets.’ Fucked-up unfortunates. The half-digested shit of a forgotten war, a failed system. Him.

‘Yes, of course. There are three others.’

‘Give it to whoever needs it most.’

Silence there, so far away, in a place he used to call home. And then, ‘That is very generous, Mister Greene.’

Clay said nothing, waited a moment, was about to hang up.

The doctor’s voice again, urgent. ‘Mr Greene, before you go. There is something else.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘You must understand. We are all very shocked, here.’

Clay waited for the doctor to continue.

‘When we found him …’ The doctor paused, cleared his throat. ‘You can imagine. It was a horrible sight.’

Yes, he could imagine. All too well. Did so on a nightly basis.

‘The killer, or killers, left a message. We have no idea who it was intended for, or what it means.’

‘Tell me.’

The doctor paused, then continued, his voice wavering. ‘It was written on the wall, in Mr Barstow’s blood. It said: “
She’s next
”.’

Clay stood staring down at the wet concrete, the implications of this moving through him now like a slow dose of poison. ‘Are you sure, Doctor? Absolutely sure that’s what it said?’

‘No question at all, Mr Greene. The words were very clear, well spelled out, as if they had taken their time. They used a brush.’

‘Did you say
brush
?’

‘A paintbrush, yes. They left it in the room.’