Real Novel Chapter Two

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Chapter Two

Royal Melbourne Hospital was much like other modern hospital in the Western world; in itself it was only so much concrete and glass; a box of beige lino, electronic marvels, drugs, and treatments. While the environment was entirely typical however, the people and situations unfolding within its confines were not.

In Ward 4, a young man named Julian Keepsake lay motionless, the innocent victim of an apparent hit and run just hours earlier. His twisted and broken body was strapped tightly in a brace, preventing any movement.

Downstairs in the administrator's office, Detective Sergeant Robert John Anderson of the Victorian Police Karana Task Force was interviewing the rotund, balding sturgeon who had just saved Keepsake's life.

"What are his chances?" Sergeant Anderson asked.

"I'd give him a 70/30 chance of living - about the same as I'd give Collingwood of winning in 2007," the surgeon replied, stroking his chin. "but only a 10 or 15 percent chance that he'll ever talk again. The brain damage was extensive."

Anderson stared at him intently, in no mood for the man's flippancy. "Christ, you're kidding!" he exclaimed. "He's our best chance. As far as we know he's the only one left who knows."

"Knows what?" the sturgeon asked, stroking his gills.

"He's the only one who knows where Tony Scolletti is hiding."

"Who's Tony Scolletti?"

Anderson paused; it had been seven years since the last of the Tango Poisoner murders. Now he finally had evidence linking it all to Tony Scolletti... a malicious piece of slime from his own past. Anderson had been a lot younger then. He thought he'd been serving his country. Tony's little off-mission interludes hadn't hurt anyone, at least not at first. But then, things had changed, and his conscience had kicked in - too late.

Anderson tried not to think too much about now. If only he'd spoken up at the right time, or gone to their superiors, everything might have been different - would have been different. Guilt like that could reduce a man to little more rubble. But lately, he was having to face facts: he hadn't done anything, and Tony was long gone. The bastard would be living under an assumed name somewhere, probably enjoying the good life. Anderson was certain of one thing - wherever he was, Tony wasn't suffering the sleepless nights that he himself was having more and more frequently lately.

Anderson caught the good doctor's eye. Realizing the awkward silence had gone on too long he barked, "It's a long-standing case we're working on, I can't say much. But we believe it's only this poor S.O.B. who knows Big Tony's whereabouts."

The doctor looked incredulous. "'Big Tony'? You can't be serious. He's important?"

"That's really what they call him, and yes, he is," Anderson paused, mulling a thought over in his head. "I'll have the department send over a couple of men to keep watch," he said. "Just in case this accident wasn't entirely an accident. Keepsake mustn't die."

"I'll do what I can," replied the doctor.

With a worried look, Anderson stepped quietly into the corridor and lit a cigarette, ignoring the 'no smoking' sign on the wall behind him. Scolletti was not going to slip through his fingers once again. Keepsake was his only hope. There was nothing to do now except wait and pray for his recovery.

The sound of a crying baby distracted him from the matter at hand. His young wife, Deborah, was pregnant with their first child. He remembered putting his ear to his wife's belly to hear the tiny heartbeat inside. All he heard were the sounds of her stomach digesting a previous meal. Anderson and Deborah often joked that the baby had plenty of "personality" and wasn't going to take any crap. The baby was a scrapper and kicked or punched whenever Anderson tried to listen, seemingly offended by this thing pressing into its space. The doctors reassured them that activity in the womb wasn't to be taken as an indication of the child's later behavior. "We'll see," they'd said.

Desperately sucking down on the cigarette, Anderson paused to think about his wife. No doubt she'd complain bitterly if he had tried to light up around their unborn child. Grimacing, he stubbed out the cigarette and slapped yet another of the accursed nicotine patches onto his arm.

Keepsake had to pull through. He had to.

Medical technology and procedures had advanced somewhat in recent times, but laypeople would probably have failed to notice significant differences between the interiors of the modern Royal Melbourne and the Fairbanks Memorial Hospital, half a world away and ten years ago.

Mr. Bell sat waiting beside his wife‘s empty hospital bed. His wife had been taken away to surgery over six hours ago. "I'll be back soon John," she'd said. The doctors reassured him that the procedure was routine, but that didn't stop him worrying. He disliked hospitals and loved his wife.

Three beds along, Ms. George lay in her bed, waiting to bring another Ms. George, or Mr George - she didn't mind, and hadn't asked - into the world. While John Bell worried for his wife, Ms. George worried for herself. She caressed her swollen stomach and stared blankly through the glass at the deserted streets. While longing to have her body back, she knew she would miss being this close to the baby growing inside her. This was, she thought, as close as two people could be. She thought of her own mother and how they were once bound together so intimately. That didn't seem possible anymore.

Maybe the baby would change that? Maybe nothing could change what had happened.

Beside her, the bed creaked as its occupant shifted his weight. She looked at the man who had been there since she was admitted yesterday, and grimaced. He was studying her intently; his stare seemed to go right through her. Instinctively she put her hands over her belly.

"What is wrong with you?" she growled, breaking the tense silence. "Shouldn't you be in a different ward?"

The man grinned. "Overcrowdin', my dear. Y'know how it is. They parked me in the first space they could find... and that was months ago." He flashed his set of sparkling white teeth but her disapproving glare caused Runihura Morouse to swiftly lose the smile, "Just tryin' t'be friendly; one inmate to 'nother," he said. He paused for laughter at his unfunny joke. None was forthcoming.

He slumped back in bed and resumed reading his newspaper. The Post, like all papers these past weeks, was filled with stories of the "Tango Poisoner" murders. The victims, students or teachers at various well-to-do dance academies, had been poisoned. Runi didn't think much of the culprit's nickname? Tango was not a poisonous dance; quite the opposite, it was a dance of seduction, embrace and transparency: born in the brothels of Montevideo and Buenos Aires, where poor, newly-arrived European immigrants and old whores danced, waiting for customers or for time to pass by.

Runi was once a skillful dancer. He'd become infamous in many clubs and high-class establishments. Carefully choosing his partners, he'd thrill them with his masterful technique and seduce them with his passion: whisking them away in a whirl of brilliant dance moves. It was a shame that it all came to such a violent end.

But, Runi reflected bitterly, perhaps the universe had an innate sense of irony. He'd been in the ward for two months now. He'd seen many patients come and go. Now he had Ms George and Mrs. Bell for company. There were other patients, six in total, but he called them "the sleepers" - too highly sedated to engage in conversation.

Although his dancing days were done, Runi still knew a trick or two. Hitching himself up on his elbows, he fixed his still-seductive smile on the exhausted Ms. George and tried again to engage her in conversation, or something more interesting.

"Tell me, m'dear, where's your baby's father? Y'seem to be all alone in here. 'Tis a shame that a lovely young woman like you should be by yourself at such a time."

Ms. George glared sullenly at her interrogator. "That's none of your business," she snapped.

Runi would not be dissuaded. "C'mon," he said. "It takes two to tango." He leered at her with a lecherous smile.

This time words failed her and all she could do was hiss at him in disgust. Another creep, she thought, this world's full of creeps.

"What's going on here?" bellowed the nurse, gliding across the gleaming tiles. The beleaguered Ms. George welcomed the interruption and Runi sighed. He'd hoped she would distract him from his worries but it was clear that she had her own concerns.

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