The Dramatist by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page B

cascaded down my white shirt, he flung the hurley aside, bent down, said,
    “I’m a hands-on kind of guy.”
    And began to beat the shit out of me. I could smell his breath. He’d been wolfing curry recently and chasing it with Guinness and Jameson. Vomit mixed with my blood and I passed out. What I remember is that his nails were filthy, deep dirt entrenched, and I thought,
    “Disgusting bastard.”

 
    I opened my eyes and flinched, expecting pain. There was none . But I felt confined as if I was in a tight shroud. When I got my bearings I realised I was in hospital, sun streaming through the windows. My hearing hadn’t kicked in and I stared, in a soundless state. The ward was on full go, maybe fifteen other beds, with nurses, visitors and patients mouthing words I couldn’t hear. I began to sit up and, like a switch being turned, I could hear.
    Too much.
    Coming in stereo, like a wave of terror. I tried to cover my ears.
    A nurse appeared, said,
    “You’re back.”
    She fluffed my pillows because nurses have a moral obligation to do this twenty times daily, said,
    “Now, you don’t worry, I’ll get the doctor.”
    Worry about what for Chrissakes? She returned with a babe from Baywatch . No kidding, this doctor had the regulation white coat, but everything else was supermodel territory. Plus, she looked all of sixteen.
    I couldn’t help it, went,
    “You’re a doctor?”
    Gorgeous smile. She’d had this reaction before, especially from beat-up old men. She answered,
    “I’m Dr Lawlor. How are you feeling?”
    “Confused…and thirsty.”
    She picked up my chart, said,
    “You sustained a very severe beating. The guards will want to interview you. Your nose was broken…”
    She paused, gave me an intense look, continued,
    “But this is not the first time. Your nose has been broken before. Were you a rugby player?”
    “Hardly.”
    She wasn’t happy with my tone, but her happiness was way down on my list of priorities. When I said nothing further, she said,
    “You have some broken ribs and you may experience difficulty breathing. Your right knee was severely damaged. We have inserted a pin. It’s very possible you may have a slight limp. However, physio will ease this.”
    I wanted a cigarette…and a drink. But mostly I wanted out, asked,
    “When can I leave?”
    She smiled, asked,
    “Pressing business?”
    “Yeah.”
    She scanned the chart again, said,
    “I don’t see why you shouldn’t be ready in a week.”
    It was five days. The first time I got out of bed, I nearly fell over. A shard of pain from my knee rocked through my system. I gobbled painkillers, told the nurses that sleep was difficult and got sleepers.
    They worked.
    Jeff came to visit, bearing grapes. I said,
    “I hate grapes.”
    He looked the same as ever, like a half-assed hippy. Long grey hair pulled in a ponytail, black 501s, waistcoat and well-worn boots. He should have seemed ridiculous but he carried it off. His movements had a stoned languor and he never touched dope. He settled in the chair and I asked,
    “How’s the baby?”
    “The baby is nearly three and still not walking. You have to go that extra mile with Down’s syndrome, you know what I’m saying?”
    I didn’t.
    Initially, he had been near destroyed with his daughter’s handicap. Now though, he had a handle on it. He asked, indicating my condition,
    “This related to a case?”
    I considered laying it out for him, he was my friend, but went,
    “No, it was personal.”
    He digested that and I began to ease out of bed. He rose to help and I said,
    “No, I’ve got to do this myself.”
    A brief smile and he replied,
    “Like everything else…you’re the last of the independents, like Walter Mathau in Charly Varrick .”
    Walking was a bastard. They’d given me a frame but I refused to use it. Started to hobble out of the ward, Jeff walking point. I saw the nurses stare at him; he wasn’t unlike a Hell’s Angel, cleaned up for court. He did own a