Part 26 (1/2)

I go out to the hall, switch on the light and go back in with the door left open behind me.

I look at his big body asleep on its back and listen to the wet gurgling in his fat throat. His right arm hangs down over the side of the mattress and his fingers are near to touching the mouth of the empty whisky bottle.

I stand close by his bed.

'Ian? Wake up. It's Patrick.'

He doesn't stir. He's deep inside a drunk's thick sleep and goes on snoring.

'Ian? It's Patrick. Wake up.'

He sleeps the untroubled sleep he doesn't deserve.

I go back to my room and sit on my bed, but now I've got a bad thirst, the parched hot thirst of a fever. I go to the sink and drink two gla.s.ses of water then kneel down beside the emptied toolkit and restack it. When everything's back where it belongs, everything but the ball peen hammer, I take the adjustable wrench and go to his room.

I stand beside his bed and wait.

I don't know why I wait.

I take hold of his shoulder and shake him.

He grunts, turns on his side, seems about to wake. I move back, take a step into the middle of the room. But he doesn't stir again and his heavy breath goes on dragging snot through his nose.

I step forward, lift the wrench in my right hand and bring it down. Only once, a good, certain blow to his temple, not heavy, and the wrench bounces.

I stand back and move the wrench from my right hand to my left, feel the heft of the handle, switch again, move it again.

His body shudders, his legs kick, right leg followed by left, then both legs at once, as though he's struggling to get out from under the weight of the blankets. His eyes are open, staring out, but there's no sign of pain. Two brief convulsions, then nothing.

He's stopped snoring.

I go back to my room, put the wrench in the sink, and close the window so as not to be woken by noise from the street.

I sleep.

I wake with my neck and chest covered in sweat, turn over on my side, look across the room to the window. Night will soon be morning and there's already a murky blue sky.

The pipes in the wall are groaning and I'll bet Welkin's left his taps running.

And then I remember.

I get up, dress, and go next door.

I knock on his door, soft, a few times, and when he doesn't answer I go in, stand next to his bed.

His eyes are open and the room smells of s.h.i.+t and something's changed. He's not moving, but there's something else, something that makes him seem small in the bed.

I hold my finger under his nose. There's no breath. I put my ear to his open mouth. No breath and no sound. I step back. I keep stepping back all the way to the second bed, then I sit.

I'm not sure of anything, of anything at all. I get up, go over to him, check for breath again, go back, sit down, stand again.

I go out to the hall and stand on the landing. My skin's gone cold.

I want more light, want the day to hurry up.

I go downstairs and turn on the lights in the hallway and in the dining room.

Bridget's bedroom door's locked. I call her name.

My voice is shallow, there's not enough breath.

She doesn't answer.

'Bridget, it's me. It's Patrick. Wake up.'

My hands are numb, a tingling in my fingers, much stronger than pins and needles.

'Bridget, wake up. I need to talk to you.'

She's getting out of her bed now. She comes to the door, opens it.

'Patrick? What's wrong?'

She's in her dressing-gown.

I say nothing, look at her face.

'You're crying,' she says.

'I might have done something,' I say.

'What's the matter?'

'I think something's happened to Ian,' I say.

She reaches for my hand.

'What's wrong, love? What's happened?'

'He's not breathing. I think you should go and see.'

'Is he sick?'

'I don't know,' I say. 'But you've got to go up. He's not breathing. I might've hit him a bit too hard.'

It's sunk in.

'Oh, G.o.d,' she says.

'You've got to go to him.'