Real Novel Chapter Eight

From PenguinWiki

Carlo had not thought about the house in years. "Inu, fetch me my prints!"

A trolley wheeled past bearing breakfast, ignored by Carlo.

Carlo could smell the stiff ink in its tin. He could feel the roughly ripped cotton rags that took him back to that time he and Liz lay together on sheets down in Mexico rolling around after he sketched her for the very first time. She had the hair of a supermodel, the demeanor of an angel and she was his, long legs and all.

The nurse behind the trolley shook Carlo, presenting him with a bowl of cereal, with sliced bananas, and a large glass of water, saying “You’ll have to eat this. Whatever you’ve just been pumping into yourself..It has dehydrated you.”

Cafelnakov was standing over his hospital bed, her face picturing the grin he fell for back when he was in the forces. He moved to go to her. The nurse pushed him back, somewhat disgusted by the look on his face. “You’re in no position to be getting up, Sir.”

Katie's face was less pleasant now. It was the face that asked how long he was going to put up with what Tony was doing to him. It was the face that he lied to, saying nothing was wrong.

Kate put the tray on his bedside table, and then seemed away to fade away into the glare from the nearby windows. It was so damned bright. Carlo turned from the dazzling light in time to see a nurse wheeling a trolley up to the next bed, where Tony was lying. Tony with the buzz cut and the ancient army uniform and the I'm-pulling-rank look.He had a battered look about him, as if he had not meant to survive all those battles he had endured. “It’s a cute nickname, Tony” Carlo croaked.

Runihura simply stared back, waiting to see what would happen. He'd seen a lot of things in his frequent visits to Fairbank Memorial over the years, and knew that the addicts brought in on a daily basis were capable of producing some splendid entertainment. The man next to him continued to babble. "The Tango Poison" he blurted. "Did you even know what the effects were before you prescribed it to me? You told me it would help, but I don’t think this” - and here the man pulled up his hospital gown, exposing his chest to Runi - “would be considered help by any stretch of the imagination. Not even one as sick as yours.”

Something twigged within Runi as he stared at this madman’s chest. Reaching into his bedside drawer, he retrieved and fumbled through the stash of clippings he always carried with him. He'd collected them from newspapers and magazines over the past ten years; most of them were faded and discolored by the ravages of time. Feverishly flipping through the disorganized bundle, he finally found the one he was looking for: April 4th, 1999. A photo of one of the last murder victims of the "Tango Poisoner". There was no doubt. He knew what he was seeing, his hand brushing across his chest; touching a similar mark he himself possessed. A mark that he'd received but could not recall how, or where. Or when. Something that had sparked his obsession with the "Tango" murders. No. That was a lie. He had been obsessed with the Tango murders long before this fact came to light.

They haunted his dreams every single night.

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