BLACK RED BLOOD WHITE

Chapter Eight, II

...

He opened his eyes wide. He had heard a whisper close to his ears, in his mind or among the trees in the garden.

All around was shrouded in willow fronds that swayed in the gentle breeze of the setting sun. Soon it would be dark. She stood up, limping slightly on her left foot, her ankle had been twisted with a nasty kick.

The door had closed again. He limped towards the garden, should have skirted the house, passed through the garage and retraced the path that connected the country house with the town.

By now it was dusk.

"Follow us" that whisper again, louder in his right ear. He turned that way, but there was nothing there.

"Go straight, Henry is still inside."

Henry ran his hand over his sweaty forehead, he hated sweating, the wound on his neck was throbbing incessantly, the slash caused by the broken bottle had amalgamated with glass and congealed blood. The skin of his neck was strangely elasticised to contain the champagne neck. The blood had stopped gushing, only capillaries and a few secondary arteries had been compromised. The venous apparatus of the neck was unharmed. He would have gone down to the infirmary, pulled out the bulkiest glass and left the splinters. Punished the bitch. And calmly performed the operation to remove the rest, stitch and heal. A clear mark would remain. Damn her. Hancock watched him meekly, he had learned to keep quiet when the furious light flashed in Henry's eyes. He observed the shirt soaked in vermilion blood, the position of his head in its caracolling gait, slightly bent to the right, with a stranger embedded like an evil gem that had insinuated itself overbearingly into the hollow between his neck and shoulders. It appeared like a strange work of art deco, hastily executed by some smoky artist. He was limping, his small, glassy tumour must have been in a lot of pain.

He supported himself by leaning against the wall either with his hands or his good shoulder. He followed silently, ready to pick him up in case he fell from his upright position.

"I need a painkiller"

He mumbled.

They were on their way to the infirmary.

They slowly descended the stairs, reopened the operating room, Ursula's head was upturned badly in the corner of the room, her long blond hair wrapped around her single head like a battered shroud, her face was slumped against the white linoleum floor, lightly stained by the splattered drops of her blood. The cot was dishevelled, shifted and angled badly as if it had been pushed, sharp footprints of various feet marked the path on the floor in the partly clotted blood. Feet of various sizes.

The cold room was wide open.

They both stopped, several people had passed by, had invaded, known and understood the secrets. It was like feeling violated intimately, like a rape of intent, which took place in silence in the quiet of the room left unattended by Alfred.

They had made their way to the corridor leading to the ring. How they had made it out of the cells, made it to the operating theatre and then made their way back to the ring, remained elusive to the two men's thoughts.

Or at least it was not an emergency to find out.

Emergent was soothing Henry's pain, partially extracting the glass neck to be more agile in his movements, an interesting confrontation was certainly brewing.

"We call for reinforcements, the children have escaped, you are injured, there are too few of us."

It was an obvious observation.

Henry made his way to the medicine cabinet, his shuffling walk causing a clattering and sliding noise on the dirty linoleum, which was embarrassing and annoying to say the least.