The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Twenty-four Sounds Lemon Yellow

My last was a guy maybe in his early seventies. Doug. Lung cancer. When they sent me in to check on him I wasn't expecting much. The usual. Dying. I walked up to his bedside, leaned over, asked how he was doing. Was there anything he needed? He smiled, said no but asked me to stay for a bit and then started talking absently in a raspy voice. I almost dirtied my drawers. Totally unprepared. It was a sudden invasion of words. They rushed through me in a torrent. Strands of violent, repulsive pink that kept intertwining and turning back on themselves. So vivid I could hardly make out what he was saying. Worse, they couldn't conceal something sinister bulging from inside their tortured warp and woof. A dark, brute satisfaction.

I was stunned. It took two tries to sit. First one I got a butt-crack full of arm rest and almost toppled over with the chair. Second was the charm. Then all I could do was stare at him. He just lay there and looked right back at me. Well, right in me really. Like he was searching me. Patting down my soul. Shoulda known what was coming right then. Finally he smiled. Knowing. Almost amused.

"So how did you find out about it?" he asked.

"Uh, find out? Find out what?" A stuttering stab at total innocence.

"Come on. I was a cop for 35 years. I can see it in your eyes."

A cop? A friggin' cop? An ancient allergy kicked in. All bets were off. Even if he was a terminal.

"O.k. then, I have this thing. This, I dunno, kinda sense. I can see it. I can see it in your words." I tapped my temple with a finger. "Right in here."

I'd never confessed that to anybody before. Ever. But I saw no hint of a reaction. Not even nonplussed. Nothing. Blank canvass. I decided to take a stab in the dark.

"So when did it happen? And do me a favour, speak slowly or I'll get confused."

Again that smile.

"No problem, slow is all I can do now anyway. So, last night is when. It was quiet. Nurse in charge was off in the coffee room. She likes to go in there late so she can talk to her friends on her cell. Thinks nobody knows. But I do. Spent my working life watching people, observing. Anyways, it damned near killed me to do it."

He stopped to rack up a sickly series of coughs. Then he laughed. It looked resigned. And genuine. No bitter shades at all. In fact, even some pale shadows of victory.

"Can't do anything in a rush anymore drugged up and dragging this I.V. stand around everywhere. It's got this squeaky wheel that pisses me off. Anyway, it was about two. I left my room, made it down the hall, round the corner to 17 and went in. He was asleep so I grabbed a pillow, pulled the oxygen plugs from his nose and shook his shoulder to wake him up. Took a second for him to recognise me but when he did he was surprised. Real surprised. So surprised he couldn't even speak. Just stared at me. Terrified. Very satisfying.

"He was even weaker than me so he probably couldn't have moved anyway but I kept a good tight grip on his shoulder. 'I told ya I'd get ya someday,' I said. 'Better late than never.' Then I put the pillow over his face pressed down real hard with my other hand and snuffed the bastard. He musta been pretty advanced 'cause he hardly even twitched. He didn't look any different at all after it was over. Like he'd just gone back to sleep. So I put the inhalator back in his nose, closed his eyes and left. It was a real crawl. I was completely drained after but nobody saw me. Nobody heard. I was some tired after but it may be the most satisfying thing I've ever done in my career. It woulda been the perfect crime. Except it was perfect justice."

A strange tale from a dying man on drugs? Hallucinations? I'd seen lots of that in the hospice. But it had more than the ring of truth to it. It had the colour. The Technicolor.