Vicious Circle

“Fuck you,” I said. Or tried to say: maybe I didn’t manage it, because he didn’t react in any way or even seem to hear me. He went away and came back again, once or perhaps a couple of times. Then he put a bag down on the carpet next to me, leaned in close again.

“Do you have any recent injuries?” he asked me. “Wounds, I mean? Wounds that might still be open?”

Well, this was covered under doctor-patient privilege, so it was okay to talk. But my teeth were clenched together and they wouldn’t separate. Coming through, coming through, I thought, coherent sentence coming through. But they didn’t fall for the bluff, and nothing at all happened. I managed to roll my eyes in the direction of my shoulder: a minimalist clue, but he seemed to get it. He pulled my coat open, undid the top three buttons on my shirt and peeled it back. He nodded at what he saw there.

“You’ve got an infection,” he said, a whistling echo to his voice sounding like a cheap guitar effect. “I’m going to—”

His voice became a ribbon in the air, a flick of motion traveling from one end of it to the other like the crack of a whip seen in fascinating slow motion. When it got to the farther end, it fell off into absolute silence.

* * *

I half-woke with a mouth so dry it felt like it was full of panel pins. I tried to speak, and something cold and wet was pressed to my face. I was able to put my tongue to it and get some moisture. The pain faded a little, and I faded right along with it.

The next thing I was aware of was “Colonel Bogey March” playing on someone’s car horn. Who invented that story about Hitler’s ball? I wondered dreamily. Alternatively, who got in close enough to count?

Then memory poured in on me from all directions at once and I sat up as abruptly as if I was spring-loaded. I was in my own room, lying in my own bed, and the window was open. Alarmingly, dislocatingly, it was evening outside.

“Fuck!” I croaked. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

I threw off the covers, discovering in the process that I was naked and slick with cold sweat. My fever had broken while I slept, and now I felt weak but relatively clearheaded. Clearheaded enough to remember . . . something. Some revelation that had loomed out of the fog of my malfunctioning brain and caught me in its headlights just before I collapsed. But not cool enough to remember what it was.

Juliet. It was something to do with Juliet, and her plans for tonight. For some reason, I had a feeling—no, a dead, cold conviction—that it wouldn’t be a good idea for her to send her spirit into the stones of St. Michael’s Church. I wasn’t sure why, but I had to be there and I had to stop her.

I found my clothes neatly stacked on the chest of drawers just inside the door, my coat slung over the back of a chair. My mobile was in my pocket, but when I tried to turn it on I realized that it had run out of charge. Occupational hazard for me: I came to the technology late and unconvinced. I turned out every pocket, but there was no sign of Matt’s car keys.

I hauled the clothes back on in the order they came to hand. I needed a shower in the worst way, but there was no time. I stumbled down the stairs, my legs still trembling just a little.

The phone was in the kitchen, and so was a short, stocky man with a sizable beer gut. He was sitting at the kitchen table, leafing through a very old magazine, but he closed it and stood up as I came in. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket that looked slightly frayed, and National Health glasses that did nothing for his florid, pitted face apart from magnify one of the least impressive parts of it. The top of his head was bald, but tufts of hair clung on around his ears like thin scrub on treacherous scree. I gave him a nod, but I had too much on my mind right then for small talk. I picked up the phone on the kitchen wall. The short man watched me dial.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. He had a very faint Scottish accent.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Can you give me a moment?”

The communal phone at the refuge rang a couple of dozen times without anybody answering. I was about to give it up when someone finally picked up. “Hello? This is Emma, who are you?” A little girl’s voice, with that awkwardly formal telephone manner that some kids pick up from grown-ups without quite knowing how it works.

“My name’s Castor,” I said. “Can I speak to Juliet? Is she there?”

There was a murmured conversation on the other end of the line, then, “She’s gone out,” Emma said. “You can leave a message if you like.”

“Thanks. The message is that she should call me.” I thought that through. No good: I’d be on my way west. “Actually,” I said, “the message is that she shouldn’t go to church. I’ll explain why when I see her.”

“I’ll pass that message on,” Emma piped.

I hung up, and turned belatedly to acknowledge the little man who was still watching me in silence. “Whatever you did to me, it worked,” I said. “Thanks.”