The shrill ringing of fire alarms and police sirens wailed through the hot, sticky summer night as Christine part walked, part dragged Eric away from the grisly, horrific scene behind them, and north towards St. Michael's Hospital.  She tried to shut it out - the screams of Eric's dying friends - and concentrate on her task of getting Eric to the hospital, but it was almost impossible.  The way they had screamed - it had sounded like the scream of the damned, and it made her blood run cold. 

 

      Christine wasn’t really thinking - she was absolutely terrified and shaking with fear.  Got to get to the hospital, she thought, over and over.  I can fall apart then.  

 

      Meanwhile, Eric was muttering and crying, repeating “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod...” over and over again like a mantra, and looked like he was about to totally freak out.

 

Come on Christine!  You've got to pull yourself together!  She grabbed Eric, and continued to haul him down the street.  His whole world is falling apart... he needs treatment - he needs time.  I have to keep him safe.   Determine to get him to safety, Christine turned to Eric, who began continued babbling to himself.  "Eric!" she yelled.  "Eric, calm down!"   She hauled off and slapped him across the face - hard.  "Dammit Eric, get it together!"

 

      Eric felt the sting of the slap, and flinched, as if Christine's hand had been electrified.  The pain, though, cleared his mind.  "I'm okay Christine... No, I'm not okay, but where are we?  Where are we going?”

 

      “You’ve been hurt – I’m taking you to the hospital.”  Christine said.  “C’mon, dammit - I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

 

      “Oh - Okay.  Are Dave and Norm going to be alright?”  Eric asked.

     

      “No, Eric.  They’re not alright.”  She couldn’t say anymore - it was too much to deal with.

 

      The two of them stumbled the rest of the way to Saint Michaels Hospital.  Eric shuffled and groaned at the pace, but Christine's urgency, and her dragging him, gave him some extra speed.  His chest felt like it was on fire, and his cheeks, ears, nose and hands felt cold and numb, and yet burned at the same time.  The voices in his head were strangely silent.

 

      "Eric, we're there." 

 

      Christine looked around.  Emerg seemed pretty quiet for late on a Wednesday afternoon - there was maybe only 10 people before them.   The two of them looked dishevelled, covered in smoke and dirt.  Eric was bleeding.  Christine’s adrenaline fuelled strength finally failed as she fell to the floor of the Emergency ward.  “Help us!”  She wasn’t sure if it was her or Eric who called for help first.  A nurse saw them, and hit an alarm, and soon Christine and Eric were surrounded by nurses and orderlies with stretchers.  Eric finally reached his limit as well, and collapsed on the floor.  He was helped into a stretcher and whisked away to an examination room. 

 

      A nurse - her name tag said “Barb” - approached Christine. “Are you hurt?  Do you need help?”

 

      Christine took a moment to get her breath.  “I... I’m not hurt - but my friend was beaten up by a bunch of guys.   I'm a social worker for Metro Toronto Social Services, and that young man over there is one of my cases.  He's schizophrenic, but not violent, and I found him beat up and hurt while I was out trying to get him off the street, and onto his medications.  I have all his papers and information in my bag."   Christine motioned to her purse, still slung over her shoulder.   How it had stayed there in their flight from the alley, she never understood.  “Can I get cleaned up for a minute - then I’ll give you everything I’ve got on him.”

 

      “Sure thing, miss.”  Barb helped her up.  “Washroom’s down that way, third door on the left.  I’ll be here when you get back.”

 

      Christine walked to the washroom and let herself in...  I’m shaking like a leaf!  Holy crap - we nearly died there today.  Oh my god.   She tried to splash some water on her face, to wash off the soot and dirt - and it helped a little bit.  She sat a moment on the toilet seat, needing somewhere to sit a moment and gather herself.   Where did Eric come from?  He wasn’t there - then he was.  He must have been hidden by smoke – it’s the only rational possibility.  “Gahh.”  Her voice was still hoarse from when she vomited, and her mouth tasted foul.   She sat for another minute, then got up and returned to the sink.  Making herself presentable, she put everything else on hold for now.   Just get through today.  She thought.

 

      Stepping out of the washroom, she actually felt a bit better.  Just being able to wash some of the dirt off helped get Christine back in her zone, at least a little, where she felt a bit more in control.   She walked up to Barb’s desk, and pulled out her file on Eric.  “Got a minute?” 

 

      “Yeah, sure.”  Barb answered.  “What’s the situation?”

 

      “Like I said, I’m a social worker for Metro Toronto Social Services, and Eric is one of my cases.  He’s a non-violent schizophrenic with a long history, and when I found him, he had had the crap kicked out of him by a bunch of guys.  Eric van Helstrome, age 20.  Lives in an apartment in Toronto when he’s not living on the street.”   She handed the nurse the relevant parts of Eric’s file, and showed her ID.  

 

      Barb nodded.  “So pretty much as you said when you came in.  You two looked a mess - what the hell happened?”

 

      “I’m not really sure, aside from what I said.  It happened so fast.”  Christine wasn’t really lying either - the entire altercation had taken perhaps a minute or a minute and a half from start to finish.   

 

      Barb nodded again, and gave back the ID and the files.  “Come with me – he’s in examination room three.”

     

      When they got to examination room three, Eric was lying on a stretcher, being examined by another nurse - Anne her nametag said.  Barb introduced Anne to Christine, and left them to go over Eric’s condition.  Eric himself was lying there, barely awake, trying to answer questions without much luck.  Anne was white, middle-aged, and had mid-length brown hair.  She looked fairly strong, and she was dressed in hospital green and white scrubs.

 

      “How old is he, miss Vallan?”  Anne asked.  “Is he on any medications or drugs?  Is he violent?”

 

      “He’s twenty years old - and as far as I know he doesn’t do drugs, and isn’t on any medications at all.”  Christine answered.  Then again, he lives on the street - I don’t KNOW what he does or doesn’t do.  A lot of people on the street do do drugs after all.  “He’s non-violent.”

 

 

      “We should probably take some blood, to make sure then.  Any allergies to medications?”

 

      “None that I know of.”  She said.  “I’ve known Eric a long time.”  

 

      “From what Eric’s said, his ribs hurt and he was kicked a number of times.”  Anne said.  “We’ll probably have to send him to X-Ray, to see if anything is broken.  The blood and the bruises we can patch up – that’s no problem.”   Anne started taking Eric’s temperature, and his blood pressure.  She took a stethoscope and started to listen to his chest and back - and Eric winced in pain a few times when she touched his chest.

 

      “Ouch!”  Eric said.  “My hands hurt too, ma’am... I think I’m getting blisters on them.”

 

      "Blisters?  Have you been near a fire?  Is it sunburn?"  No - it couldn't be sunburn, Anne thought.  His face and hands are pale.  She reached over an looked closely at one hand, and then the other.  The tissue seemed very white, and little blebs - water-filled blisters - were forming.   Anne checked her own start of surprise... she'd seen this before, but never in this weather.  How in the hell did this man get frostbite in the middle of an incredibly hot summer?

 

      "Have you been in a freezer, Eric - been somewhere cold?"  Anne asked.  A deep-freezer or walk-in freezer was the only thing that made sense. 

 

      "Yeah..." Eric said.  He didn't really know why he said it, except for the fact it was the simple truth as far as he could tell, even though it sounded weird.  "I don't know what happened, but it was really cold.  Cold all over.  And there were others there, the voices.  My voices.  They wanted to hurt me.  They wanted to kill me, and eat me, and...  And then I got away, and Christine was there."

 

      "Christine, was he anywhere near a freezer when you found him?"

 

      “No, not really - he was in an alleyway.  No freezer anywhere.”  Christine said.   “Why?”

     

      “Because Eric has frostbite blisters forming on his hands - he must have been in a deep-freeze fairly recently, and for a while too.  We’ll need to bandage these.”

 

      Christine shook her head.  How in the hell did you get into a freezer, Eric?   “Sure - better get him patched up.  Thanks, Anne.”

     

      Anne smiled, and started working on his hands - soon they were treated with ointment and bandaged fairly securely.   She smiled, and turned as another, younger woman entered the examination room.  She had auburn hair and a pretty smile, and carried a box full of vials.  Anne turned and nodded at the young woman.  "Eric, Nadine here is going to take some bloodwork, okay - to see if your blood's alright."

 

      NO ERIC!  She'll steal your blood... precious blood!  Your Blood is OURS, Eric!  Eric flinched at the strength of the voices, and recoiled from Nadine.  "Poison...blood.  No!"

 

      Nadine and Anne looked at each other, and a knowing glance passed between them.  Eric wasn't the only person off the street who was a little mentally disturbed.  They turned to Christine.  “Will he be alright for us to do this, Miss Vallan?”

 

      “He should... I’ll try and calm him down.   Eric – it’s me, its Christine.  You have to let them have some blood to make you get better.”  She spoke calmly and smoothly, trying to relax her charge, and her friend. 

 

Eric fought against the voices, tried to batter them down, keep them quiet - but it was hard.  The

 Voices had been with him for years, and he knew their taste of evil better than he knew anyone, even better than himself.  If he didn't obey, he'd suffer later.  The spiders might even come back.  Outwardly, the battle didn't show - only a few facial and head twitches, and a glassy stare.  He didn't even feel as the first needle went in.

 

      He was still fighting the battle, when he realized he had lost - he came to, and Nadine was walking away, vials in hand, Anne taping gauze and cotton to his right inner elbow where they had drawn the blood.  He could hear the voices scream their anger, and their threats of revenge.  He shivered, despite the summer heat.  "I'm gonna die."  He said.  "They're gonna kill me."

 

      "Who Eric?  You're safe in a hospital now.  No one will hurt you here."  Anne smiled at him, and for a moment Eric almost believed it - but she couldn't tell what lived in his head, and he knew how he would suffer, now and later.

 

      "I'm going to leave now, Eric - Doctor Stevens will be with you soon, okay?" Without waiting for Eric’s answer, Anne left the examination room, and went out into the ward, leaving his chart for the doctor to find.   Christine was still with Eric, holding his bandaged hand, and looking worried.

 

      “How you doing, kiddo?”  She asked.  Christine's hands were no longer shaking like a leaf, but she thought she might be going into shock, at least mentally.  I've just witnessed a double-murder; how the hell should I feel?  Jesus Christ!  They just kept screaming!    

 

      “I suck.  How are Norm and Dave?  Are they gonna be okay?”  Eric was worried - he was coming out of his shell, and he was really worried.

 

      No bloody wonder, Christine thought.  Norm and Dave are more his family than Anders, his dad is.   “I don’t think they made it, Eric - they were really, really badly burned.   It would have been over quick.”

 

      Eric moaned, and tears sprang to his eyes, and he started crying.  It was small sobs at first - then huge bawls and moans.  That it was tearing him up was plain to see.  Norm!  Dave!  I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you!  Please forgive me!   His sobs were long and loud, and tears ran down his face like rain. 

 

      Christine didn’t know what to do, except give his shoulder a squeeze.  “You’ll be okay, kiddo.”

 

      A younger man wearing a white lab-coat entered the examination room, and was taken aback by Eric’s bawling.  “Is he going to be okay?”  He asked, turning to Christine.

 

      “Yeah - he just found out that two of his friends died in the beating they took.  He’s pretty upset.” 

 

      The doctor nodded.  “I’m doctor Stevens – I’ll be looking at Eric.”   He looked at the file, raising an eyebrow when he got to the nurses description of the frostbite injury.  “Looks like we need to get him down to X-ray.  Once that’s done, assuming he’s okay to leave, what do you want to do with him, Miss Vallan?”

 

      “I’ve got a private room booked for him at the Neilson Clinic – it’s a private mental hospital north of the city.  They’ll come and get him, if we call.  I’ll stay with him till they get here.”  Christine’s shaking was slowly getting more manageable, and she was starting to feel a bit better.  God I could kill for a cup of coffee right now, she thought. 

 

      Doctor Stevens continued his examination - and within a few minutes, sent Eric - and Christine with him - off to X-Ray.  

 

*          *          *

 

      By the time Eric was out of X-Ray, Christine had called the Neilson clinic and made all the arrangements.  A van would be sent for him soon, and he should be picked up about 8pm.   Eric had some bruised ribs, but thankfully nothing was broken.  He had suffered a nasty beating - and the odd frostbite - but other than that and sporting some really badass bruises, he was going to be okay.

 

      Christine looked Eric over, and realized just how badly he had been beaten.   His chest was taped up and wrapped - the bruised ribs, she assumed, and his face was beaten bloody and sported a nice shiner over one eye, a bloody scalp, and a puffy, swollen nose.  His torso had a number of cuts that had stopped bleeding - too small for a bandage; they had been swabbed and ignored, and blackened bruises almost everywhere else.  His hands were bandaged in loose gauze.

 

      "You okay, Eric."  The words sounded ridiculous, given the sorry shape her charge was in.  Still, she asked anyway.

 

      "Yeah and no...  I've feel like crap and it really hurts, and I’ve got a bunch of blisters on my hands.  Other than that it’s just what you'd expect from your usual Grade-A beating."  He smiled - which looked odd given the state of his face and his injuries.  "The pain's okay - It helps keep the voices away."

 

      "Well... I suppose that's good, Eric." Christine said.  "How did you get blisters on your hands?  The nurse said it was frostbite.  I mean, frostbite in the middle - no, the end of July - I mean, how can that happen?"

 

      Eric looked at her, and looked down at the floor.  A moment passed, but he did trust her - he just didn't know the truth yet.  "I don't know, Christine.  Something really weird happened to me, but I don't know if it’s real, or my voices, or a hallucination, or something else.  I don't know." 

 

      Christine bit her lower lip, and sat.  "Okay.  Well, if you find out, tell the doctors, okay?"

 

      "Okay."  Then he asked her the question she'd been trying to avoid all night herself.  "Do you think Norm or Dave could still be alive?"  He looked like the night was wearing heavily on him, and he wore his grief on his face openly.

 

      "I...  I don't know, Eric.  Burns are pretty bad news.  I don't think they could have lived more than a few seconds.  They would have been burned over their entire body."  She felt like she was in neutral, like she was someone else.  Only her friendship for Angela and Eric had brought her this far without breaking, and she didn't know how much longer she could keep from collapsing.

 

      Eric nodded, a few tears seeping out from his eyes, and crawling down his bearded cheeks.  "They were my best friends in the whole world, Christine."  he said, sadly.  "They saved my life last year - did you know?  I had... the voices...  I dunno, but anyway, I ended up on the subway train platform downtown, and I was gonna throw myself on the tracks, to try and make it stop - make the voices stop.  I almost did, but they dragged me back, and talked me through it."  Eric's voice choked and tears were pouring down his face.  "They watched me, and took care of me, like they were parents - like my dad might have been, if I hadn't got sick.  If mom hadn't..."

 

      Christine, who was crying now too, held Eric from one side, for a long time.  "Eric, I know they were good friends, and I don't really know what to say now, but if I can help, I will - okay?"  She wiped her cheeks, feeling oddly better now that she had let some of the pent up stress and emotions out.  "I've never had a friend die like... like Norm and Dave.  I think it'll haunt me for a long time, and I know it will with you too."

 

      "I don't think I'll ever forget what happened to them, Christine.  Not ever."

 

      Christine nodded.  "I know, Eric.  When your mom died, and your sister Angela told me, we both cried together for a long time.  I didn't know what to say then, but afterwards I wrote her a letter.  I don't remember the exact words, but I think it said something like 'We can't let the tragedy of what happened overwhelm us.  Instead, let the good memories, the love, and the way we felt about her fill us, so we never forget.  Never forget how we cared about her, and how she cared about us.'   I think it should be that way about Norm and Dave.  As long as you remember them, they'll live on - in you."

 

      Eric listened, and nodded.  "I think I understand."  He looked at Christine and a wry smile touched his face.  "You know, that's pretty deep for a girl who snorted chocolate milk through her nose at my sisters' 19th birthday party."

 

      Christine couldn't help it - she laughed, and Eric joined her.  They were memories of old times, and laughter made some of the emotional numbness both had been feeling, somehow less.

 

      Some time passed in quiet silence, as the two of them silently relived some of their better memories.  Christine's watch beeped once at 8:30pm, and they both commented on the speed and efficiency of Toronto's health professionals.

 

      "Probably stopped on the way for some donuts."  Eric muttered.  Christine thought he was probably right.  Just then, the curtain was drawn aside, and two men dressed in blue - private ambulance attendants - were there, with a padded stretcher.

 

      "Hi.  Neilson Clinic.  Is this Eric van Helstrome?"  one asked.

 

      "Yes - I'm his worker, Christine Vallan.  Has the nurse given you all the papers?"  She stood, wiping what remained of the tears away from her face.

 

      "Yep.  We're all ready to roll, if we can get Eric there on this gurney." Said the other.

 

      "Eric.  Are you ready to go?"  Christine asked.  Eric nodded, and the two men helped him into the gurney, even though he gasped in pain more than once as his broken rib pushed the wrong way.  "I'll call your sister and tell her you're okay, alright?"

 

      "Yeah - that would be good."  He nodded.  "Thanks Christine, for everything.  I'll see you later."

 

      Christine watched as they wheeled Eric to the clinic Ambulance, and waited until it drove off; the clinic was somewhere in Newmarket, so it would be morning before he was settled and cleaned up.  I might as well go home, and collapse, she thought.  But first I have to call Angela, and then have a shower.

      She gathered up her purse, and her files, and headed out, and hopped into one of the many taxi’s that waited around the busy ER’s in Toronto.   “Just take me home.  117 Nipigon, near Steeles and Yonge.”   I don’t even care how much the cab costs - money is irrelevant at this point.  I just want to get home, she thought.  "And God, but do I need the rest."

 

*          *          *

 

      Detective inspector Marcus Drake looked at the carnage in the alley outside the back of the King Edward Hotel, and gulped air, trying to keep his lunch down.  Twenty-five years on the force, and I’d thought I’d seen it all - but this... this is just sick.  What the hell happened here?    As he looked on, Marcus could see the fire department putting out the last of the flames on the corpses, making sure they wouldn’t ignite anything else.   Emergency services even had an ambulance here in case someone needed it - Marcus didn’t think their services would be being used today.   The entire area was taped off to preserve any evidence.  At least the Coroner is already on the way.  Fire marshal is going to be here soon too.   What a fucking mess.

 

      Marcus sighed, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.  His hair was still there - which was an accomplishment in his family - his dad Thomas had been as bald as an egg by the time he was 45 - and here Marcus was 50 and still had a decent set of hair.  Might be going silver, though, he thought.  But at least I still got it.   He approached the constables to see what they could tell him about the situation.

 

      Marcus walked over to the three officers on the scene - two were regular patrolmen - one was named Mike Connelly - and the other was the patrol-sergeant by the name of Brett Fuller.  One of the patrolmen Marcus didn’t know.   Marcus had known them both in greater or lesser degrees - he hadn’t met Constable Connelly yet, but had heard of him by reputation - but he’d been friends with Brett for the last five years.   They were bridge partners in a local club - but so far they never got to the finals.  Maybe this year is the year?  He wondered.

 

      Mike saw the big Detective inspector coming, and motioned to Brett, letting him know their boss was on the scene.  Marcus was a big man - well over six feet in height, and half that across - and even though police officers are usually big, he dwarfed the other two men.   “What do we got on them?”  Marcus asked.

 

      “Well, sir, we know the group of them.”  Mike Connelly said.  “There’s usually three of them hanging out - two are dead here, but the other one is missing.  We’re not sure which ones are dead, and which one is alive - the bodies are too badly burned.   The busboy at the King Eddy says they’re regulars - but he doesn’t know their names.”

 

      Marcus looked at the patrolman.  “We haven’t met – I’m Detective Inspector Drake.  You?”

 

      The patrolman nodded.  “I‘ve heard of you.  I’m Keith Bishop.”

 

      “Great.  You know anything about these guys Keith?  This is your beat.”   Marcus sighed.  This was looking to be a long night indeed.   He needed a cigarette - but his doctor and his daughter told him they’d both hog tie him if they heard he’d been smoking again.

     

     

      Keith nodded, and pulled out his logbook to read up on what he had on the trio.  “Trio is made up of Norm, Dave and Eric.  Norm and Dave are 40-ish winos and the third one is a young man named Eric - maybe 20 years old, hearing voices.  He kept to himself and wasn’t any trouble - the other two took care of him.”

 

      Marcus nodded, writing what he learned in his own log book.  “Anything else?”

     

      “I’ve talked to them several times before.  Norm’s from out west, and Dave’s home grown - but Eric, I think he comes from money - maybe big money - but I don’t know for sure.  I know he’s got a social worker friend that comes around fairly often, checking on him.  They hang around the area because the King Eddy feeds them.  If you want more than that, I’ll have to go back to the station and get some of my old notes.”

 

      “Better get it then.”  Marcus sighed.  “We’ll probably need all of it.”  

 

      Keith left, and Brett took over.  “According to what we heard from witnesses nearby, a gang decided to barbeque them for kicks.   The local gangs in the area can be pretty rough customers - but they’re not sickos.  They’re more into the drug trade than... this.   I called gang squad, and they’re checking the books to see who the sicko gangs are – they’ll get back to us.  That’s all we’ve got at the moment.”

 

      “Thanks Brett – I’d better go over and see if Julian has any insights.  Thanks.”   Marcus left the patrol sergeant and headed over to talk to Jospeh Driscoll, the Fire Captain.   “Hey Joe - what a fucking mess, huh?”

 

      Joseph Driscoll was a mid-sized man going a bit plump around his belly, but still in remarkably good shape for someone in his late fifties.  “Yeah – you’re not kidding.”

 

      Marcus looked around the crime scene.  It was hard to read - but the CSI team and the Coroner had arrived and were looking at the bodies.   “What did they use?”

 

      “Common gasoline - we found the melted gascan over in the corner of the alley.”  Joe said.   “They died pretty quick.  It would have been gruesome.”

 

      He nodded.  Marcus knew fire was a bad way to go - but then none of the ways to go he usually saw were particularly nice.  “Thanks Joe – I’d better go talk to Frieda - see what she has to say.”

 

      “No worries, Marcus.  I’ll send a copy of the report to your office ASAP.”  Joseph said, heading off to talk to the rest of his men.

 

      “Frieda.”  Marcus said in greeting.  “Long time no see.  It’s been what - maybe two days?”

 

      The brown haired woman laughed a bit ironically, and said with more than a bit of snark “Well, tell everyone to stop offing themselves, Marcus.  I’m finding the workload to be getting a bit ridiculous.”  Frieda was a Coroner - and one of those people who kept at their job doggedly, even after the requirements of work were satisfied, until they had answers.  She was one of those people who needed to know, and pushed until they found it.  Marcus could relate - so was he.

 

      “So how are they?”  Marcus pushed.

     

     

      “Well, they’re dead.  Burned badly - probably with gasoline.  Don’t know if they were awake or not, but they were probably alive when they were lit on fire.  They would have died quickly - but it would have been a horrific scene.   We’ll have to take them back to the office to find out which ones of the three these are - probably with dental records.”

 

      “Ah, hell.”  Marcus sighed.  “Thanks doc.”

 

      By this time, Brett Fuller was back, this time with Officer Bishops log book.  “We’ve got Norman Sandquist, age 48, arrested for robbery back in 1995 - did 4 years for it, got out and went clean.   David Williams, age 42, used to be a soldier before the end of the war in Iraq ended his career.  He might have been a bit affected by PTSD.   The last guy is Eric van Helstrome - the son of Anders van Helstrome, you know - on Bay street.  The kid comes from money.   He’s 20, and schizophrenic - non violent too, but not playing with a full deck for sure.   He and the others were pretty good guys, and didn’t give anyone any trouble.  They would even give information to the police if they saw something going on in their area.  Apparently Keith talked to them only three days ago.  They said a new gang was moving in to the area.  So far, we don’t have anything more on that - oh, other than the name of Eric’s social worker.  Christine Vallan, Metro Toronto Social Services.”

 

      “That’ll probably have to wait for Gang Squad to ID this new gang, then.”  Marcus said.  “Do we have any idea where any family is staying?”

 

      “We’ve got a number for his sister, Angela.  Here.”  Brett gave over the number.

 

      “Good work.  Thanks.”  Marcus said, dialling.  

 

      It rang twice and picked up - a woman’s voice responded on the other side of the line.   “Hello?”

 

      “Hello, ma’am.  My name is Detective Inspector Marcus Drake - and I’m investigating a street attack in the area your brother, Eric usually hangs out in.   Have you heard from him lately?”

 

      “Actually yes.”  Angela said.  “He’s been hurt - and he’s on his way to a clinic in Newmarket for treatment.  He was treated at St. Mike’s emergency room for a beating - I can give you the address of the clinic if you like?”

 

      “That would be great, ma’am.”  Marcus answered, taking down the address and phone number as she gave it to him.  “Thank you.”

 

      Marcus woofed air out of his lungs again, trying to relieve some tension.  I guess I’d better go to the clinic, to see if I can talk to him.   I might as well head home for now though - everything that can be done tonight has been done tonight.   Except maybe calling the clinic, he thought.   He pulled out his cell phone and called.

 

      His call went through fairly quickly - but was unhelpful in its nature.  Apparently Eric was there - but drugged to the gills and was completely out of it.   I guess tomorrow at noon will be the earliest I can see him... Since I can’t do anything more tonight, I’m heading home, he thought.  “I’ll follow up on it tomorrow.”

 

*          *          *

 

      Eric lay on the stretcher thinking, as the private ambulance whisked him north, towards the Neilson Clinic.  Probably some place where there's a big lawn, with beautiful trees.  There has to be a pond - and it'll be miles from anywhere.  The perfect place to dump someone, and forget about them.  Eric had no delusions - his experiences had shown him, that out of all his family, only his sister Angela seriously cared for him.  He had been given some pills at the hospital, and they were making him feel calmer and sedated.  Thank god, he thought.  After what happened today...  Even through the sedation, tears came unasked to his eyes.

 

      He turned to the ambulance attendant in the back with him.  "Hey - where is the Neilson Clinic after all?  I'd like to know where I'm staying."  Eric winced as the ambulance went over a particularly rough bump - his ribs hurt a great deal.

 

      "Heh...  I suppose it can't hurt.  It's on the outskirts of Newmarket, north of Toronto.  Maybe 10 miles out."  He looked over Eric.  "We'll try and take it easy on those country roads - right Bob?"  He called up to the front - where, presumably Bob was driving.

     

      "We'll what?"  Bob called back.

 

      "Take it easy on the country roads.  So his ribs don't hurt as much."

 

      "You got it." 

 

      "Thanks.  Uh..."  Eric said, sniffling.  "I don't know your name."

 

      "I'm Mike Connors.  We'll probably be seeing you at the clinic sometimes.  When we're not running our asses off taking patients to and fro.  You okay, kid?"

 

      "My best friends got killed today... Don’t wanna talk about it.”

 

      “Geez, I’m sorry.” Mike said.  “You rest easy - we won’t be much longer.  You’ll be okay.”

 

      “Okay Mike - thanks."  Eric drifted in his pill induced haze, wondering privately where "Fro" might be, if he was going "To", but after a moment, just gave up and lay there on the stretcher, feeling the road beneath the ambulance's tires roll by.  He figured about thirty minutes had passed; he was barely able to stay conscious.

 

      Bob drove up the 404 to Greenline road, and turned right onto Herald road between Kennedy and McGowan.   Herald road was a paved concession road with two lanes

 

      Eric turned to Mike, and smiled.  “Hey - this clinic.  What day is Visitors day?”

 

      Mike smiled back.  “I guess you’d say every other Sunday.  Why?”

 

      “No reason.”  Eric answered

 

      Eric knew from past experience that Visitor's day was perhaps the worst time of all.  When you're in a hospital, or a clinic, and you're immersed in all the doctors and therapy and treatment, you slowly lose touch with what everyone likes to call "The Real World."  And then, suddenly, Visitors' day comes, and everyone's family pops out of the woodwork to salve their guilt and visit their disabled or unwanted relatives - or worse, nobody shows.  All that did was remind the patients that they were apart from the world, and why.  No wonder it was the worst day of the month.  And they have it twice at Neilson.  Eric thought. 

 

      Mike gave Eric a sad smile, and they drove on.  Eric lay on the stretcher, and began to doze.  The voices were not long in returning.

 

      Mike watched his charge in the back as the ambulance drove on.  Eric had fallen asleep, but seemed to be having a nightmare of some kind.  And with a schizophrenic - even a non-violent one, that could mean...  "Hey Bob."  he said.  "Hurry it up.  I think Eric might freak out on us." 

 

      "Damn - I hate the crazies."  Bob said.  "The vegetables are so much better."  Still, he upped the speed.

 

      On the stretcher, Eric dreamed of spiders. 

 

      At first, it seemed like a normal dream - like the ones he had before he got sick.  He was sitting in an open field on a blanket with his sister Angela, and his Mother - Laura - was spooning potato salad onto paper plates.  His mother was a pretty woman, with long brown hair and a soft, kind face and arms always willing to hug and to help.  His father Anders, in comparison, was a hard man with chiselled features that were rugged if not classically handsome.  He was about thirty feet away, and as usual was talking business on a cell phone, ignoring the picnic.

 

      A single spider crawled out of the grass, over Eric's hand.  He jerked back, startled, and moved away.  "Aagh!  A spider!"

 

      "Doofus - it's only a bug."  Angela liked bugs - she kept a pet praying mantis in a tank in her room.

 

      "It's a spider!"  He said, in his own defence, as if that were enough.

 

      "Come, now Eric.  They eat insects like flies and mosquitoes - that can't be all bad, can it?"  His mother's soothing tones calmed him somewhat, until he looked over and saw her.  Spiders in all shapes crawled in and out of her mouth, ears and nostrils, like his mother's body was some sort of huge nest of the things.  "What's the matter Eric?  Don't you like spiders?" 

 

      His mothers' voice turned harsh, and her skin began to split open, like a too-ripe tomato, bursting from the fluids and juices inside.  

 

      "Mother!  No!"  Eric screamed "No!  Please stop!  Please!"

 

      No Eric.  We told you the spiders would return if you disobeyed.  It was then he knew the Voices had returned - and he was going to be punished.  Eric screamed, and as the spiders began to crawl all over him, biting as they went, he tried to run - to escape the insects before the terror he knew was to come could grab hold.  He didn't realize that he couldn't escape himself.

 

      Mike looked panicked as Eric jerked upright in his sleep and started screaming, trying to run, roll out of the gurney. "Jesus Christ!  Pull over Bob - he's going ballistic back here."  Mike grabbed Eric, and threw him back down on the stretcher with one strong arm, and with the other, grabbed a syringe he had prepared when he saw Eric doze off, when he suspected he might need it.  

 

      Whatever Eric saw, it was freaking him out - and Eric wasn't a physically frail or weak young man.  "Dammit Bob, I need help - stop the fucking Ambulance!"  He felt the vehicle stop as he struggled with Eric.  He jammed the syringe into Eric's shoulder and pressed all the way down.  "If that won't calm him down, we'll need a fucking bullet!" 

 

      Eric's response was even more violent.  "NO!  POISON!  It's poison!  Aaaaaaggh!"  His back arched and legs kicked as his scream reverberated through the rear of the ambulance, and shook Mike to his core - in fourteen years he had ever seen such a violent dream-state without the patient being on drugs.

 

      And then Bob was there, holding down Eric's legs.  Mike grappled Eric's arms and put them in restraints, one after the other, while Bob did the same to his feet.  Eric resisted, but he wasn't as strong as the two paramedics.  And few moments later, by the time he was in full restraints, the sedative he had been given began to take effect.  His motions calmed, although whatever nightmare he had been having still troubled him.

 

      Mike turned to Bob.  "How far now?"

 

      "About ten minutes."  He turned to get back into the driver's seat, muttering "... Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick!  I fucking HATE the crazies."

 

*          *          *

 

      Eric woke like a swimmer trying to reach the surface...  He could see the light getting closer and closer, and he could feel the strain of not breathing - and then he was there, awake, and gasping for breath.  His head felt funny - like it was stuffed with cotton.  The sound of his breathing was muted, and other sounds - sounds of what must be people on his ward - were muted as well, as if behind a partially closed door or a thick curtain of heavy cloth.  At least he couldn't hear the voices.

 

      It was day outside - the sunlight coming in the window told him that much.  He winced in pain from his aching chest as he tried to sit up, but he managed only a few inches before he was held down by the restraints on his bed.  He struggled against the bonds for a moment, and then slacked off, trying to get some give in the wrist-straps.  By the time the duty nurse entered, he'd almost gotten his left hand free, although it wouldn't seem so to a casual observer.  A little trick Dave taught me, he thought.

 

      The nurse was neither young, nor pretty, but you could tell by her manner she was a professional, and not about to take any crap from a patient.  That was okay.  Eric didn't like crap either.  She had short blonde hair, and wore a white and grey clinic uniform.

 

      "I see you're awake, Eric."  She said.  "I'm Linda Niven, and I hope you've calmed yourself since your little tantrum in the ambulance...  Will I be able to remove the restraints?"  Her voice was friendly, but all business.

 

      "Um, yeah.  I freaked out?  I don't remember much except talking to uh... Mike."  Eric looked ashamed, and his voice sounded hoarse, as if he had screamed for hours.  "If I did, I didn't mean to."

 

      "Well, you did - and we were all rather concerned.  But it seems you're all right now, so I'll get you sitting up.  Would you like some breakfast?"  She undid the left and right hand restraints quickly and efficiently, then the torso and feet.

 

      Eric thought a moment, and realized he was very hungry, and thirsty.  His throat was parched, and his mouth as dry as a cotton swab.  "Yes, please.  No Poison."  He shook his head a bit.  "Uh... ignore that last part, okay?  Should I call you Linda, or Mrs. Niven?" 

 

      "You can call me either, Eric, as long as you behave on my shift."  Another friendly smile.  Eric thought it lit up her face, and made it glow.  He liked Linda's smile.  "I'll be back with your tray in a moment."

 

      While Linda was getting his tray, he tried to take a look at his room.  It was difficult to see, since his shiner from last night had swollen to nearly obscure his left eye, but he could manage if he turned his head slowly, around the room.  It was a fairly big room, painted lime-green, with all the usual amenities - a sealed window overlooking a lawn, telephone, television, tile floor, a table, a few chairs; the standard institutional adjustable bed, dresser, closet and so on.   It looked like every up-scale clinic and half-way house he had ever been in.  Still, it was nice. 

 

      He realized his face felt rather raw, and rubbed his chin with his hand, expecting to meet beard.  Instead, he touched bare skin.  It felt razor-burned.  "Linda," he called.  "Did someone shave me while I was out?"

 

      Linda re-entered the room, carrying a plastic tray with some food on it.  It smelled delicious, and Eric's stomach growled at the thought of food.  "Yes.  You've been sedated for a day and a half, and we did it then.  You've been put back on your medications as well, and I brought them with your tray."

 

      "I don't like the meds."  Eric said.  He didn't - they made his head feel worse, not with voices, but like he was hollowed out and the essence that was Him was replaced with cotton batting.  "They make me feel weird.  Am I on Halidol?" 

 

      "Maybe they do, Eric.  But you're going to take them, if you want to see your father.  We can't take you to see him until you're clear-headed.  And you're being given Risperidone." 

 

      "Well, I suppose that's better than Halidol."  Halidol always made him feel like a zombie.  At least he wouldn't be totally numbed inside.  The Risperidone actually let a little of himself show through.  He held out his bandaged hands and took the medication, swallowing them with a glass of water.  "Is my Dad any better?"

 

      "I don't know Eric.  I do know he's still alive, but I haven't seen his chart.  I understand he's very weak, though, and wants to see you.  You can discuss medications with your Doctor, when you have the chance.  From what I understand, we're supposed to clean you up, and get you over to see your father as soon as possible.  So eat up, quickly, and we can get started."

 

      "Okay."  There didn't seem to be anything else to say, although Eric knew he should ask...  The risperidone - actually, all anti-psychotics to a degree - made him feel emotionally numb and distanced from everything.  Still, he felt ashamed, because he knew he should be reacting differently.

 

      Breakfast was fried bacon, scrambled eggs, toast with jam, pulp-free orange juice, and coffee.  He started in on the eggs, and began eating.  He finished with the coffee and bacon, about 5 minutes later.  It wasn't until he finished eating he realized that he was wearing nothing except a hospital gown covered by a terrycloth robe.

 

      "Uh... Linda?  Do I even have clothes here?"  Eric didn't think they would have, but Angela might have sent some over from the house. 

 

      "Yes.  We have some, but I think first we need you to have a haircut and a bath.  Can you clean yourself, or do you need help?  I mean really clean, Eric."  She looked as if she was ready to throw him in the bathtub on her own - she might even be strong enough to do it, thought Eric.

 

      "I might need help with my hair.  I don't know if I can move my left arm with my rib.  It still hurts a lot."  Eric tried moving his left arm, and found it was sore, but only hurt a lot when he tried to move it above his shoulder. 

 

      Linda helped Eric stand up, and sat him in a wheelchair.  "I know we don't really need this, Eric, but let's make sure you don't fall and bruise anything else, okay?"  She wheeled him out into the ward.

 

      The ward was well-staffed; Eric saw at least a half-dozen nurses assisting the other patients and residents, in just a few minutes.  The ward was laid out like a big cross, a squared X with the nurses station in the center, where the spokes of the X met.  Offices and support areas, like kitchens and bathrooms, filled the space between the spokes.   Eric's room was North 304.  He supposed that meant he was on the third floor. 

 

      "Where are we going?"  Eric asked.

 

      "The hair salon in on the second floor, west wing, Eric." 

     

      Trust dad's money.  He thought.  Only he would choose a place with its own hair salon.  I wonder if it has its own pool hall, too.  Then again, maybe dad didn't arrange this.  Maybe it was Angie?  Eric mused for the trip, wondering what had been arranged.

 

      Unfortunately, there was little the barber could do to save his matted hair; what wasn't filthy and matted like dreadlocks, had lice in it.  As Eric was wheeled out of the hair salon, he felt the short stubble of what was left of his hair, and thought the only haircut he could call that was a buzz-cut.  He didn't really care - more of the anti-psychotics at work - but at least his head felt lighter and cleaner. 

 

      The bath was much rougher; he had gone for over a year without a shower, and the grime was caked on in layers.  It took him over an hour and a half, and three tubs of water to get clean, even with the help of one of the male nurses.  Still, after he got out of the tub, he felt physically better in a way he had almost forgotten.  It felt good.

 

      By the time he got back to his room, it was past noon, and another tray of food was waiting on his table, and some clothes had been laid out on the bed, and a pair of boots - his characteristic lace-up Doc Martens - were waiting on the floor.   Angie sent them.  It must have been - dad hates my boots.

 

      Eager to be out of the bathrobe, he stood and slowly dressed, taking care not to aggravate his bruised ribs.  He dressed in his socks and underwear.  The black jeans were a tight fit, and needed a belt, but they still did okay - somehow, he had gained some weight while on the street.  Probably because I didn't drink any booze or do any drugs, he thought.  The blue tee fit fine, although it too was a little tighter around the belly.  The Doc's fit fine, as usual, and the jeans covered the laces, so they looked almost like shoes. 

     

     

      There was only one more thing I need.  He thought.  I wonder if Angela thought to send it?  He walked over and checked his closet, and smiled broadly.  Even the emotion numbing pills they had him on couldn't repress his comfortable feeling when he put on his leather jacket.  It was a thick, expensive leather coat that went down to a little below his waist, and had full length arms.  It was the last gift his mother had given him before the end.  He loved it like an amulet or talisman - wearing it, smelling it - brought back memories of his mom.  It gave him back a bit of confidence that he thought he had lost.

 

      I lost mom four years ago, and now I might lose dad too.   It was almost inconceivable.  If dad dies, I might never... he might never forgive me for mom.  Finally, the thought that he had been avoiding since Christine told him his father was near death surfaced.  If he dies now, he might never forgive me.   Eric knew it was stupid, and that he had no control over what his mother had done when she killed herself, but he still blamed himself.  Somehow, the voices should have taken me, not her.  It didn't help that his father seemed to be all-too eager to blame Eric for his wife's onset of mental illness and subsequent death.  At least he never re-married.  He wrestled with guilt and anger for some time, before a voice at the door snapped him out of his reverie.

 

      "Hey, there, Eric.  You ready to go?"

 

      Angela!   "Hi Angie.  Is dad okay - I mean, does he want to see me?"  He looked over at his older sister, and she came over and gave him what they used to call a power-hug.  Angela was tall and thin, with the Nordic features their father brought over from Northern Europe.  She wore an expensive charcoal grey dress and blazer, with a white chemise beneath, gold earrings and a gold necklace that had belonged to their mother.

 

      "I don't know Eric.  He's really sick - he's had a mild Heart Attack, followed by a more serious one on the way to the hospital.  He's very weak, and not always conscious.  He did ask about you, and I asked Christine to find you and bring you in if she could."

 

      "She found me, but I was a little beat-up."  He smiled, looking somewhat humorous with all his bruises and such.

 

      "A little beat-up?  She told me you were fighting with a pack of street thugs."  She looked worried as she slowly counted the bruises and sores, and looked at the bandages on Eric’s hands.  "Are you going to be able to manage?"

 

      "Yeah.  I think so, sis."  he said.  "Let's go see dad."