New York, April 2006
His hands didn’t shake even a fraction as he hid the body, cleaned the floor, wiped every accusing spot of red from where it marred his tidy workspace. He was controlled, he was collected.
Somehow, that makes it worse.
Now he’s back in his apartment and he’s (killed a man) taking off his shoes, a habit drilled into him so as not to muddy the carpet. The shoes are brushed off outside the door and placed neatly on a shelf. He is (a murderer) nothing if not exact.
There’s no tea in the kitchen so he goes to the back and to the pantry, a bare little room like a prison cell (for a killer like him) that’s lit by a single light-bulb. Gabriel feels light-headed suddenly, and - he’s holding his breath. How long for? Since he left his shop? Since he slammed the sharp crystal deep into Brian Davis’ back? He’s killed a man. He’s a murderer. And he’s leaning against the cold plaster wall, his breathing heavy and the fact is rushing up to drown him and God he’s a murderer.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it’s muffled against the plaster so he says it again, louder: “I’m sorry! I’m - God, I’m - forgive me…” The words vanish as soon as they’re out of his mouth - they’re not solid enough, he has to make them permanent. There’s a thick black labelling pen on the floor and he grabs it, scrawling across the wall, into the corners, on the back of the door, a thick path of excuses, a road of good intentions. Forgive me Father. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Father forgive me. I have sinned. I have sinned. He gulps in choking air and digs into the flaking plaster with his fingernails, one hand, two, I have sinned, I have sinned, in angular letters stained rusty red from his torn skin, the same colour as Brian Davis’ face as the blood smudged out over his head, and he thumps the wall, the words aren’t enough, and there’s a clatter as the pen he wasn’t holding drops to the floor.
He was begging forgiveness using the power of the man he just killed.
Hot acid rises in Gabriel’s throat and he dry-retches against the words he carved, a dribble of bile stinging his hand. He looks down - his hands. His hands are red. His hands are red with Brian Davis’ blood. Then he’s in the kitchen, scrubbing, and it’s not coming off, and he scrubs till he bleeds but it’s not coming off.
So he stops.
And he takes hold of himself.
(He feels himself taken hold of, and subsides gratefully.)
And he calls Suresh.
“I did something. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, I-I have to tell you, Chandra. You’re the only person I can tell.”
“What? What is it?”
He realises he’s holding his breath again, and lets it all out, very slow and controlled, before replying.
Controlled. Collected.
“I moved a glass. I didn’t touch it, but it moved.”
Somehow, that makes it worse.
Now he’s back in his apartment and he’s (killed a man) taking off his shoes, a habit drilled into him so as not to muddy the carpet. The shoes are brushed off outside the door and placed neatly on a shelf. He is (a murderer) nothing if not exact.
There’s no tea in the kitchen so he goes to the back and to the pantry, a bare little room like a prison cell (for a killer like him) that’s lit by a single light-bulb. Gabriel feels light-headed suddenly, and - he’s holding his breath. How long for? Since he left his shop? Since he slammed the sharp crystal deep into Brian Davis’ back? He’s killed a man. He’s a murderer. And he’s leaning against the cold plaster wall, his breathing heavy and the fact is rushing up to drown him and God he’s a murderer.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it’s muffled against the plaster so he says it again, louder: “I’m sorry! I’m - God, I’m - forgive me…” The words vanish as soon as they’re out of his mouth - they’re not solid enough, he has to make them permanent. There’s a thick black labelling pen on the floor and he grabs it, scrawling across the wall, into the corners, on the back of the door, a thick path of excuses, a road of good intentions. Forgive me Father. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Father forgive me. I have sinned. I have sinned. He gulps in choking air and digs into the flaking plaster with his fingernails, one hand, two, I have sinned, I have sinned, in angular letters stained rusty red from his torn skin, the same colour as Brian Davis’ face as the blood smudged out over his head, and he thumps the wall, the words aren’t enough, and there’s a clatter as the pen he wasn’t holding drops to the floor.
He was begging forgiveness using the power of the man he just killed.
Hot acid rises in Gabriel’s throat and he dry-retches against the words he carved, a dribble of bile stinging his hand. He looks down - his hands. His hands are red. His hands are red with Brian Davis’ blood. Then he’s in the kitchen, scrubbing, and it’s not coming off, and he scrubs till he bleeds but it’s not coming off.
So he stops.
And he takes hold of himself.
(He feels himself taken hold of, and subsides gratefully.)
And he calls Suresh.
“I did something. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, I-I have to tell you, Chandra. You’re the only person I can tell.”
“What? What is it?”
He realises he’s holding his breath again, and lets it all out, very slow and controlled, before replying.
Controlled. Collected.
“I moved a glass. I didn’t touch it, but it moved.”