75
Cole rinsed out a mug in his kitchen and filled it with cold water. He knocked back two mugfuls with trembling hands. Most went into his mouth. The rest fell to the floor. Last night’s confidence had evaporated and now a terrible anxiety gripped him. He fumbled with his phone to view the live footage from the camera in his hallway, convinced he would see police outside waiting to break down his door. The relief when he saw the empty hall was fleeting.
He went into the bathroom and washed his eyes out again. They still stung, but not as bad as earlier, even though they were bloodshot and the bags beneath his eyes were red and inflamed. His head pounded and he drank more water. His stomach rumbled, and as he rummaged in the cupboards for food, he staggered on unsteady legs. A vision of bacon butties popped into his head and he couldn't shake it. He needed at least two. All washed down with sugary tea.
An hour later, Cole sat in a cafe on Bethnal Green Road where he ordered two bacon sandwiches and a pot of tea. While he waited to fill his empty stomach, his hungry head sought every worst outcome in relation to Alice Madsen. His mind gorged on every negative morsel, relished every adverse notion. By the time he took his first bite of a greasy bacon sandwich, he had convinced himself the police would bang him up in the Scrubs by the end of the day. Under the cover of the sandwich at his mouth, he surveyed the other customers, half expecting some of them to leap to their feet, pull out massive guns and drag him into a waiting van.
When nobody had arrested him by the time he finished eating, he felt a little better. Once more he checked the hallway view on his phone. The event log showed nothing since he’d left. The pounding in his head relented and his pulse was fast but regular. He rested his chin on his hands and let out a long sigh.
“You looked like you enjoyed that darling.”
Cole jumped in his chair. The old waitress laughed at him. “Lost in thought, was you? Some young lass on your mind, eh?”
“Er, yeah. I guess you could say that.”
“Don't I know it and all. That’s £6.50 darling.” She stuck out her hand.
Cole gave her £7. “Keep it, thanks.”
Outside, Cole blinked in the midday sun, and set off for the tube station. He sat in the last carriage and stared into space as he waited out the 16 stops to East Acton. When he turned onto Du Cane Road, he shivered at the thought of having to walk by the Scrubs, so he waited for the bus.
He summoned a smile for the nurse in the ICU, but it drained when he sat in the chair by Daz’s bed. The first thing Cole noticed was the additional equipment surrounding Daz compared to the last visit. But Daz still looked pale and lifeless. His existence now maintained by tubes, wires and bandages. A deathly quiet filled the room, punctured only by the metronomic sound of medical machinery and the fading footsteps of the nurse as she walked away.
Cole put his head in his hands. He had nothing to say to Daz. There was no point. Daz couldn't hear. Daz couldn't talk. The place reeked of death. And what had Daz done to deserve this? Nothing. Would it have happened if it wasn't for Alice Madsen? Cole no longer knew or cared for the truth. In his mind, she was culpable. And he'd failed to exact retribution. Maybe he should work with Scully?
Cole dismissed that thought straight away. Scully was far too unpredictable, too damn dangerous. No. Whatever the end game, Cole would do it alone. He reached over and squeezed Daz’s hand. In a moment of weakness, tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them away with a focused effort. He glanced around and when he saw no-one watched him, he wiped his eyes with the end of the sheet of Daz’s bed.
He stared at Daz for several minutes until he heard footsteps approach.
“Mr Cole?” It was the consultant, Ibrahim.
Cole got to his feet and shook the offered hand. “Uh, hello.”
“Perhaps we could step outside for a word?”
Cole followed, and with every reluctant step his paranoia increased. In the corridor outside the ICU, his pulse missed several beats as the raging Captagon hangover returned with a vengeance. Ibrahim brought him into a small office and waved to a chair.
Cole shook his head. “I’ll stand.”
Ibrahim nodded. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Cole. But your brother is not responding well to treatment. He should be out of the coma by now.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“We don't know. It’s a very complicated situation. He suffered severe head trauma and...” Ibrahim looked at Cole in the eye. “...some brain damage.”
“Some? What do you mean some?”
“His brain’s electrical activity is diminishing.”
“What does that mean?” Cole ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at it.
“He’s getting worse, not better.”
“Can't you do something?” Cole took several heavy breaths and leaned against the wall. “Can't you, like, cure him? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?”
“We’re doing everything we can. However, there is also an infection. We’re treating him with antibiotics, but with limited success to date, so we are going to try a different treatment. His kidney functions have failed, and we have him on a dialysis machine.”
Cole swallowed and tried to breath. The light dulled in his vision, and he sank to the ground as his legs gave way. “Water. I need water.”
Ibrahim helped Cole onto a chair and hurried from the room. A moment later he returned with two plastic cups of water which Cole glugged
