A Perfect Machine(12)

“You helped him yesterday, didn’t you?” The man sniffed sharply. “Don’t lie to me. I saw you with him, right out front here –” he swept one of his stubby arms around and pointed to the front of the hospital where Faye had helped Henry into the cab the previous day “– so just nod yes like a good little girl, and we can continue.”

Faye raised her eyebrows at the man’s rudeness, but nodded. “Yes. Yes, I helped Henry Kyllo.” Memories of Henry swam up from the back of her brain, edited, distorted, changed slightly to minimize things that may have struck her as odd about him. This always happened, but due to her repeated exposure to him on a near-daily basis, enough of what made Henry Henry stayed with her. “He was in no shape to help himself, which, if you were watching us yesterday, as you say you were – which is creepy, obviously – you should know. Who are you, anyway, to stop me in the street and–”

The man held up a pudgy hand. “Ah-ah,” he said. “No need to get your knickers in a twist, my dear.” He smiled. Most of his teeth were black, as though stained by soot. “I just want to know what happened to our Mr Kyllo, that’s all.” He spread his arms wide, palms open, facing her. Crudely drawn tattoos covered his hands, snaked up into his coat sleeves. Faye tried to make out some of the shapes before he brought his arms back down, but could only see that they were symbols of some kind.

“Why do you–”

“I want to know because I am an interested party, young miss. That is all. I am a friend of Mr Kyllo’s and his wellbeing is of great importance to me.”

Faye’s friend, Gerald, butted out his half-finished smoke and headed back inside the hospital. Faye felt suddenly desperate. The man continued to block her way, and there were no other people around now. There might have been someone farther down the street, but the heavily falling snow obscured her view, and she couldn’t be sure if the thin black lumps she saw were people or short lampposts, bicycle stands, post office boxes.

“Well, he’s dead,” Faye said, a wave of sadness falling over her. “At least I think he is.” She didn’t know why she added that last. Surely he was dead. She must have simply imagined the heat coming from his body. Wishful thinking. The clear light of day had convinced her of this. There was no breath. No breath equals no life.

“He’s not dead, miss. The dead do not walk around. The dead do not vanish from their tiny apartments in the night. At least not the dead I know.” He winked, and it sent a small shiver creeping down Faye’s back.

She ignored the content of the man’s words, and just reacted to his haughty tone. “If you’re his friend–”

“Oh, I am probably his best friend right now, I assure you,” the man interrupted.

“–then you’ll know far more about where he might be than I do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

She made to move around him, but he stepped quickly in her way again.

“You will let me know if you hear from him, won’t you? It really is in his best interest.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll let you know.” She made to move around him again, and again he stepped in front of her, head tilted to one side.

“Now how will you let me know, if you don’t have my contact information?”

“Look, I don’t know who you are or what exactly you want, but–”

“Here’s my card,” the man said, his voice dropping several octaves. Deep, dark wood. He slipped a business card into Faye’s hand, wrapped his stubby fingers around her long, elegant ones. “I’ll never be too far away.”

The man turned around quickly and walked into the storm, hands in his coat pockets.

When he disappeared into the swirling snow, Faye looked down at the card. There was a telephone number and a name: Edward Palermo.



* * *



All throughout that day, Faye felt odd. Somehow just off. As if she’d done something out of habit, and it had put her out of sync. It wasn’t just the visit from Edward Palermo on her way to work. It was the combination of the ceaseless storm, the visit from Palermo, Milo’s death, and now Henry’s death – and surely he must be dead, despite Palermo’s insistence to the contrary. All of these things, plus something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something that made her feel cold inside. Empty. Something that replaced her general feeling of loneliness with a hollow ache.

Then a thought struck her: If I truly believe Henry’s dead, why haven’t I called anyone? Why haven’t I at least reported the body to the police? She had no answer, and the niggling feeling that perhaps this Palermo was telling the truth would not go away. And why aren’t I more upset? If I knew in my heart he was gone, I’d be a wreck. Or at least I imagine I’d be a wreck.

As the sun went down – the storm picking up even more, wind battering against metal doors, shaking them on their hinges, snow pelting windows in furious sheets – Faye neared the end of her shift. She was on the first floor, changing an old man’s bedpan in the bathroom, talking with her friend Marjorie, who was changing the patient’s sheets. Marjorie had a strong lisp, but loved the sound of her own voice nonetheless. Short, broad-shouldered, and a tiny bit cross-eyed. You couldn’t really tell unless she got mad at someone.

Marjorie stripped the sheets from the old man’s bed, snapped them tight as she folded. One room away, another nurse bathed him; Marjorie and Faye did not envy this other nurse whatsoever.