The Dark Place (24 page)

L
ynne and Naomi sat in the apartment barely talking, while Karl busied himself producing coffee. A tangible iciness permeated the room.

“How is Katie holding up, Lynne?” asked Naomi awkwardly, concern on her face. “Karl said she was having difficulty sleeping.”

Long seconds passed before Lynne finally answered. “I was with her last night, and she was in a deep sleep, but that was due to her being heavily sedated. She will have to undergo months of extensive psychological tests for the effects of post-traumatic stress.”

“What a terrible nightmare she’s gone through.”

“Thank God it’s over.”

“God had nothing to do with it, Lynne,” stated Karl, coming from the kitchen area. “Brendan Burns brought it to an end.”

“Of course. I only meant –”

“Sorry for sounding so harsh, Lynne. I know what you meant. But God must have been sleeping when all this was going on, as well as all the other murders.”

“Let’s just be grateful for how it all ended,” soothed Naomi, diplomatically.

“I just got off the phone to the hospital. They’ve downgraded Willie’s condition from critical to serious. Doctors say he’ll make a full recovery,” said Karl, glancing from Naomi to Lynne.

“What a relief to hear,” responded Lynne.

Nodding in agreement, Naomi said, “Oh, before I forget, Tom called earlier enquiring about Katie. He said the police have released the name of that young girl murdered by Hannah in the tunnel. Judy McCambridge. Another runaway, apparently.”

“That bastard Hannah is in hell now,” said Lynne, her face suddenly changing. “A pity he died so quickly in the explosion.”

Karl said nothing, his thoughts centring on a man called Brendan Burns, the architect of the explosion. According to newspaper reports, little vestiges were found of either Burns’s or Hannah’s bodies, such was the force of the bomb blast in such a confined space, making it virtually impossible for the police to say for certain if one or two bodies had been discovered. The media itself was equally uncertain, debating if Brendan Burns was a hero or a villain. Despite their ambiguity, most of the media begrudgingly admitted Burns had played a major part in Katie’s rescue. In contrast, Mark Wilson soon let it be known to Karl – via Lynne – that he thought Burns was nothing more than a terrorist and murderer, and that Karl had deliberately picked Burns, hoping to rub salt into the wounds in Wilson’s face.

“I’ve got to go shortly,” said Karl, finally breaking his own thoughts.

“Where?” asked Naomi. “Can’t you take a break for a while?”

“I’ve … I’ve got to go see Dad. With all this madness, I never got the chance to see him last week.” Suddenly, the sound of a car horn screamed from outside.

“That’ll be my taxi. I must be going also,” stated Lynne, standing, nodding to Karl while totally ignoring Naomi. “Give Cornelius my regards, Karl. Tell him his favourite daughter-in-law sends all her love.”

A few seconds later, Karl and Naomi were left alone to the sound of the taxi driving away into the distance.

“
Brrrrrrrrr
,” said Naomi, forcing a smile. “Did you feel that chill, or was it purely my imagination?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, my dear. They don’t call Lynne Electrolux for nothing. Actually, she wasn’t as bad as I dreaded she’d be. You want to see her when she
really
dislikes a person,” said Karl, smiling, kissing Naomi before walking down the stairs and out into the unseasonably cool Belfast air.

Entering the nursing home, Karl’s senses immediately collided with stomach-churning smells of urine, excrement and boiled unimaginative food. But it was another encompassing smell making guilt rise to the surface of Karl’s mind: loneliness.

At the reception, he was asked to wait for a moment. Doctor Moore – his father’s physician – wished to speak to him.

It was just over a minute later when Moore appeared, ushering Karl into a tiny office. The normally cheerful Moore looked quite solemn.

“First things first. How’s Katie coping after that horrendous ordeal?”

“She’s doing well, considering. Thank you for asking, Doctor.”

Moore nodded, before continuing. “It’s concerning your father’s tests, Karl. They arrived this morning. I’m afraid it’s not good news,” said Moore, opening a top drawer before producing a folder.

Something began gnawing Karl’s stomach, like tiny mice in a  shoebox.

“What … what kind of tests?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, Karl, but Cornelius has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.”

“Alzheimer’s …” The word came out slower than he had meant. “How? I … mean, how long has he had it?”

“The brain scan revealed significant shrinkage of the brain, possibly over the last year.”

“A year? But I was told from the start that it was a mild form of dementia, resulting in the occasional lapse of memory. How the hell could Alzheimer’s not have been diagnosed?”

“When Alzheimer’s begins to destroy brain cells, Karl, no outward symptoms are evident immediately. After a while, small memory lapses appear and grow more serious. The afflicted individual may forget the names of familiar people or places, the words to express what they want to say or the location of everyday objects. As the disease becomes more serious, behaviour problems develop.”

“What sort of behaviour problems?”

“Memory loss and cognitive deficits, advancing to major personality changes and eventual loss of control over bodily functions. Your father wasn’t showing most of these symptoms until lately. That was when I ordered the brain scan and other tests.”

“I know he’s been having memory lapses, but I never realised he had no control over bodily functions.”

“He’s been urinating and soiling himself more frequently.”

“My dad’s been urinating and soiling himself? Why the hell wasn’t I informed?” asked Karl, trying desperately not to lose his temper.

“It only started the last few days. I made the final decision not to inform you because of what you were going through with Katie’s abduction. Was I wrong not to inform you?” asked Moore, holding Karl’s gaze.

“No … I … suppose not. I should have been here last week anyway.”

“Under the circumstances, Karl, you know that would have been impossible. So stop blaming yourself.”

“I just … I just wish I’d have known sooner, I suppose.”

“Cornelius is becoming more aggressive towards staff. That’s understandable, as it is all due to frustration. But there have been other incidents, ones that can’t go unchecked indefinitely.”

The gnawing in Karl’s stomach increased. More mice were piling into the shoebox.

“Incidents? What kind of incidents?”

“He’s … he’s been masturbating openly at the windows to visitors and staff.”

“For fuck sake.” The mice began turning into rats.

“One female member of staff had to be relocated because Cornelius kept referring to her as his wife, demanding to have intercourse with her, among other things.”

Karl released a long sigh. “If it wasn’t so serious, it would be comical. I don’t know whether to laugh or wet myself. I suppose if I wet myself, you could inform the staff that lack of control over bodily functions runs in the family.”

Moore smiled politely. “I wish I could give you better news, Karl. You’ve gone through hell the last few weeks. I hated the thought of burdening you with this.”

Something about Moore’s words brought an immediate balm to the situation.

“What is the outlook, Doctor?” asked Karl, finally resigned. “I need
to know so that I can prepare for whatever is coming down the line.”

“There are three stages in Alzheimer’s progression. Early, mid and late. People vary in the length of time spent in each stage, and in which stage the signs and symptoms appear. Because the stages overlap, it is difficult to definitely place a person in a particular stage. However, the progression is always toward a worsening of symptoms. Cornelius is showing classic late stage symptoms, I’m sorry to say.”

“Isn’t there any cure, something, some sort of wonder drug?”

“At the minute, Alzheimer’s is a progressive fatal illness. That’s not to say that medical science isn’t trying to develop a cure, as we speak.”

“Are … are you saying he’s going to die soon?”

“Well … just letting you know to be prepared in case something sudden happens. I wish I had a different, more upbeat report, Karl.”

Stunned, Karl stood, offering Moore his hand.

“Thank you, Doctor. I know Dad would be more than appreciative of what you and the staff have done for him. He always praised … I mean … he always
praises
you,” said Karl, almost immediately correcting the past tense of his sentence.

“If there is anything I can do, anything at all, do not hesitate to call me,” replied Moore, shaking Karl’s hand.

“Just one thing. Dad hasn’t had access to TV or news over the last few days, has he?”

“No. I gave strict orders to staff not to discuss Katie’s abduction. In all honesty, Karl, your father probably wouldn’t even know, had he been watching or listening to the news.”

Cornelius was sitting, staring out the window, when Karl entered the room without knocking. His father was a tall, desiccated husk of a man, whose only flesh was prominent on the neck in small fleshy accordions of skin.

“Is it medicine time, sir?” asked Cornelius, glancing from the window, looking directly at Karl.

To Karl, his father’s eyes appeared glazed over, as if in a trance. He seemed to have shrunk physically from the last time he had set eyes upon him, well over two weeks ago.

Oh God, Dad
… “It’s … it’s me, Dad. Karl. Your son,” said Karl,
bending, kissing the top of Cornelius’s full head of hair.

“Son …?”

“I brought you some bars of Bournville chocolate, along with some bottles of Lucozade.”

“Son …?”

“Yes, Dad. Karl. Remember?”

“Karl … I remember a Karl … it’s hard remembering …”

“I … know, Dad. It isn’t easy. Don’t … don’t be worrying about it.”

“He was … he was a good boy.”

Karl felt a lump in his throat. He needed a drink of water.

From a plastic beaker stationed atop a table, he poured some water into a plastic cup for himself, before twisting the cap off the Lucozade and pouring some of it into his father’s cup.

“Here you go, Dad. Wish it could be a Jameson for you,” smiled Karl, thinking of his father’s love of the stuff.

Cornelius took the drink from Karl’s hand and immediately began sipping the Lucozade’s dark orange liquid, smacking his lips at each mouthful.

“Karl …”

“Yes, Dad?”

“Karl …” repeated Cornelius. “He … he was a good boy …”

“And you’re a good father, Dad. The best in the world,” said Karl, feeling something uncontrollable welling up inside.

Suddenly, Cornelius gripped Karl’s hand, pulling him downwards, closer, whispering, “Don’t … don’t let me … live like this, Karl. Promise me.”

“What?” Karl tried pushing away, but his father’s grip was incredibly strong.

“I still have brains. I can still laugh and cry. I still have feelings! But soon, they’ll be gone … don’t let me live like a vegetable in the dark … please … tell me you’ll do the right thing … when the time is right …” Cornelius’s eyes were suddenly bright and clear, the fog lifting and dispelling.

Karl wrapped his arms around his father, gripping him tightly, remembering the time a million years ago, of a young boy crying, fearful
of the dark and the monster with a knife hiding in the ironing cupboard.

There is no monster, son
, assured his father, hugging him tenderly.
He’s gone for ever. I’ll never let him touch you again
.

Promise?

I promise …

“I … I won’t let any harm come to you, Dad.”

“Promise?”

The air outside was beginning to cool when Karl entered the almost deserted grounds of the care home. Residents and staff were filtering towards the canteen, and the smell of fried food hung heavily in the air.

A bird of some sort – possibly a raven – balanced itself precariously on a skinny branch from a nearby tree, a few feet from where Karl sat. It seemed to be studying him.

Karl waited until quietness settled all around him before removing a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, blowing his nose loudly. Dabbing the tears in his eyes, he whispered, “I promise.”

Winner of the Martin Healy Short Story Award, the Brian Moore Award for Short Stories, the
Cork Literary Review
Writer’s Competition and the Aisling Award for Art and Culture, Sam Millar is the author of five other novels,
Dark Souls, The Redemption Factory, The Darkness of Bones, Bloodstorm
and
Dead of Winter
. His writing has been praised for its “fluency and courage of language” by Jennifer Johnson, and he has been hailed by best-selling American author Anne-Marie Duquette as “a powerful writer”. He is also the author of a bestselling memoir,
On the Brinks
.

www.millarcrime.com