Blood Work (47 page)

Erin had
refused to go back into hospital. She’d medicated herself for the
blood loss the second time. Steak and orange juice. She’d felt like
shit for weeks, but preferred that to another transfusion.
Suddenly, the thought of someone else’s blood in her veins wasn’t
comforting. It was vampirism on a whole new level.

She had kept
her job. Sol had rung her up and fired her. A minute later, he’d
called back and rehired her. It had been hard to not toss it back
in his face, but there was William’s care and treatment to think
of, so she’d accepted.

And it had
taken her two months to set up the meeting. His gun had been
sitting in her office safe all that time. For the sake of
expediency, she’d paid the fine when she realised she couldn’t see
him before it was due. He hadn’t called.

Ivan had set
up the meeting. Erin had tried several times to dial his number,
but couldn’t go through with a conversation. So Ivan had, and he’d
spoken to him for a while. When he’d hung up, he seemed calmer
somehow. Erin almost resented that.

Now here she
was, waiting, and he was late.

About to call
Ivan and get him to find out where Hawkins was, the black Monaro
eased up beside her and pulled over to the side of the road. The
damage had been repaired and the car was slick and gleaming once
more. Erin read the number plate, NYT CLL, and wondered that she’d
ever thought Night Cell.

Matt got out,
tall and lanky. He had a walking stick with him but otherwise
looked fit and well. He didn’t look back at her, instead walking
around the car and into the cemetery. Erin waited a minute, then
got out and followed him, case in hand.

He led her
through the rows of graves on a direct path to where he eventually
stopped. It was obviously a grave he visited often. Erin held back
while he crouched by the headstone, left leg stretched out. From
his jacket, he pulled a single peace lily and laid it on the
gravestone. His hand lingered on the engraved words, and then he
stood and came back toward Erin.

She met him
halfway.

“Hi,” he
said.

“Your gun.”
Erin held out the case.

Matt took it
with a little smile on his lips. “Thank you.”

“The key,” she
added, digging it from her pocket and handing it over. His fingers
brushed hers as he took it.

“The fine?” he
asked.

“Paid.
Consider it a fee for keeping the gun so long.”

He nodded.
“How are you?”

“Fine. Ivan’s
fine as well.”

“Yeah, we had
a chat. He’s a good kid.”

“The best.”
She tried to hold it back, but it burst out without control. “And
if he gets hurt again, I’ll kill whoever’s responsible.”

“I believe you
would.”

Erin pulled in
several deep breaths, calming herself. “How’s Mercy?”

“Good. Back to
her old self again. She’ll be pleased you asked after her.”

“No she
won’t.”

He chuckled.
“You’re right.”

“I saw Robert
Robertson was released without being charged.”

Matt’s chuckle
turned into a full bore laugh. His wide grin was that same wholly
unabashed one that had caught her at their first meeting.

“All this time
he just called himself Roberts. Robert Robertson. I love it. He’ll
never live it down.”

Rather than
make her smile in return, his grin just made her sad.

“Why do you do
it?” she asked.

Hooking his
walking stick over one arm, he shoved his hands into his pockets,
hunched his shoulders. “Someone’s got to.”

“Not good
enough. There’s always going to be dangerous jobs that someone has
to do, but they do it because they choose to. Why did you choose
this?”

Matt moved so
he could look at the grave he’d visited. “I suppose I could give
you an easy answer, that I didn’t choose this. It chose me when
Mercy came into my hospital on my shift. I could tell you that
watching her transform made me vow to protect others from going
through that horror, stop families losing their loved ones to these
monsters. And it would be true.”

“But?”

The corner of
his mouth lifted in an ironic smile. “But nothing’s ever that
simple outside of Disney movies. I had a choice.” He indicated the
grave. “Her name is Eloisa Juliana Morrow, and she was nine when
she died. She had congenital heart failure. Her friends at school
used to call her Weeza, because sometimes she couldn’t breathe
properly. She was the first person I ever saved.”

Erin stared at
the gravestone so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. “The child
in the ambulance.”

“Sometimes I
dream about her, about that night. I wake up still feeling her in
my hands, feeling her little heart start beating again. I can feel
the way she coughed and opened her eyes and looked at me. The dream
never goes further than that. I always wake up just as she lives
again. Then I remember the rest of it.”

He was quiet
for a while, then sighed. “She’s the reason I do this. I made the
choice to help Mercy because of her. And I made the choice to turn
Mercy against her own kind because of me. I need to make Mercy’s
curse mean something other than death for more people like Eloisa.
I guess I need to know that I can still help people. Not just hurt
them.”

“That’s a good
reason,” Erin whispered. “So Night Call will continue?”

“There’s still
need for it.” After a moment, he added, “A big need, if what we
witnessed was anything to go by. I’ll have my work cut out for
me.”

Erin knew what
he was gearing up to ask, just as his question about seafood had
been a precursor to dinner and a movie talk. She shook her head in
pre-emptive refusal. Matt considered her intensely and she looked
away.

“I can’t,” she
whispered. “I can’t do what you do.”

“But you—”

“I can’t. It
scares me.”

“It scares me
too.”

“It’s not just
that.” She tried hard to suppress a shiver, but it reached her
hands and made them tremble. Crossing her arms, she said, “You
scare me.”

“I don’t mean
to,” he said quickly, as if he’d known what she was going to say
all along. “I know I lose control sometimes. I’m working on it.
Therapy.”

“Yeah, I know.
But that doesn’t bother me. I can understand that.”

Eyebrows
arched, he asked, “Then what? The temper thing is usually enough
for most people.”

“But most
people didn’t see what I did that night. What I saw you do. You
decapitated Veilchen.”

Matt grimaced.
“You can’t say she didn’t deserve it.”

Erin let out a
slightly maniacal laugh. “She certainly did. I don’t blame you for
it. But how you did it. That wasn’t normal. You moved so fast I
couldn’t see what you did until it was over and her head was
rolling on the ground. You moved as fast as Mercy does.”

“No, I didn’t.
I can’t move that fast. You must have been confused. Concussed,
even.”

“I know what I
saw. What you did, no human could have done.” And she clamped her
mouth shut. She hadn’t come with the intention of telling him he
was inhuman. In fact, she couldn’t remember making the decision to
tell him what she’d seen at all.

They were both
quiet for a while. Erin couldn’t look at him, afraid she would see
how her careless comment had made him feel.

“How’s your
husband?” he eventually asked, voice quiet, concerned.

The question
didn’t gut her as much as it could have, perhaps because she was so
relieved he wasn’t angry. “Doing okay.” She dug in a pocket and
retrieved her note book. Flipping it open, she said, “Some people
left messages with me for you.”

A curious
smile curling his lips, he said, “Interesting.”

“Jessica
Harrington said to tell you she was sorry.”

He was quiet
for a long time. Finally, he sighed. “Thank you.”

“And Dr Nolan
said to thank you for the shopping list.”

That one drew
a soft grunt from him.

“And James
Douglass said to tell you that getting injured enough to get
someone out on a night call, a job you hated, was the very
definition of irony.”

Matt snorted
good humouredly. “He would. Any other messages to pass on?”

Erin meet his
eyes. “Douglass also said that you shouldn’t be alone. I agree with
him.”

He looked away
first. “Is it advice you’re going to take yourself?” he asked
quietly.

“Yes.”

Matt smiled.
“Good.”

Then he walked
away.

#

So, I’ve been
doing some thinking about the nature of monsters and stuff. What
makes something a monster? Fangs? Claws? A physiology that directs
you to eat rotting flesh and suck the marrow from old bones? I used
to think these were pretty solid quantifying points, but now, not
so much.

It wasn’t
Kermit’s little speech about the hard line I’d drawn. It wasn’t
Erin telling me I had moved like a vampire. It wasn’t Aurum’s
little test.

It was Dr
Nolan and Tony Rollins.

You see, being
a monster isn’t a matter of physicality. It’s a state of mind. It’s
the result of the choices we make. Mercy didn’t choose to become a
vampire. Neither did Martínez. Tony Rollins’ dog didn’t ask to
become a werewolf.

Yet, I’d made
the decision to laugh off Tony’s claims about his dog. I’d chosen
to abandon Nolan without giving him the tools and skills he needed
to deal with the reality of his suspicions. They both died because
of the choices I made.

Tell me I’m
not the monster in this equation.

But, I think I
can live with it.

What’s that
quote by Nietzche? He who fights monsters should watch his own arse
lest it become monstrous? Good advice, but a touch too late for me.
So, I’m going to do the best I can and try to make better
decisions.

And if the
better choice is to be the monster, then so be it.

In the end of this story, Erin
decides against a blood transfusion. She had her reasons, but for a
lot of people, it’s not an option.

Transfusions
are an integral part of medicine and these days, a very safe
procedure. They’re not only used in traumatic circumstances. Most
blood transfusions are given to patients who can’t produce their
own red blood cells. This can be caused by a variety of means, most
notably, chemotherapy and various blood cell disorders. For these
people, receiving a blood transfusion is absolutely vital to their
life.

A single
donation of blood can be used in three different ways. It’s divided
into red cells, platelets and plasma, all of which are used in a
variety of circumstances and all are very important. One donation
can save three different lives.

Sadly, blood
and blood product stocks are more often than not very low.
Something that can be easily remedied.

I encourage
everyone who is capable to donate blood. It doesn’t hurt, it
doesn’t take long and, generally, you get a biscuit and cuppa at
the end. Not to mention the feeling of having helped someone else
in desperate need. Trust me, everyone involved in the process from
collection, through processing, to administering and finally,
receiving, will be eternally grateful.

Cheers, L.J.
Hayward

L.J. Hayward lives and works on the Gold
Coast, Australia. As a pathology scientist, she’s spent a good deal
of time around blood and supposes it’s only natural she chose it as
a cornerstone of her writing. Don’t worry, she’ll get over the
obsession soon. Maybe. You can check up on her progress on her
blog,
Plot Happens
.

The great
white shark attacked, massive jaws wide. The tuna jerked out of its
reach and the jagged teeth snapped shut on water only. Momentum
carried the large shark into the floating cage, rocking it
violently. Its rough skin grated against steel as the fish rolled
away, tail thrashing clear of the water as it strived to dive back
into the depths. As the caudal fin slapped down, a great fountain
of water splashed over the rack hanging from the back of the
ship.

A raucous
cheer went up from the people gathered on the rack. They laughed
and pointed to the still rocking cage, and called up to their
fellows on the deck above, teasing them for being so far away from
such a spectacular sight. One of the divers in the cage rose to the
top and stuck a hand up through the gap. The signal he gave was a
delighted thumbs up, eliciting another round of cheers.

Tom Ellis, on
the deck, waved back and hoisted in the rope he dangled over the
side of the ship. The tuna head secured to the end came out of the
water, tattered from the attempts of the sharks to snatch it. The
guests encouraged him to hurl it back out, eager for another close
encounter.

Amaya leaned
on the railing beside Tom, a tray of toasted snacks balanced on one
hand. “You’d think they’d get tired of it after a while,” she
mused, watching the excited people on the rack. “Especially after
having their feet dunked in fifteen degree water over and
over.”

To illustrate
her point, the ship rocked up and down. The rack, positioned so its
base sat on the water surface, dipped knee deep into the chilly
southern Indian Ocean. Like a horde of drunken revellers at a bucks
party, the rack population cheered even this.

Tom laughed.
“If they ever got tired of it, we’d be out of jobs, Amaya. Did you
ever think of it that way?”

“Well, there
is that,” she conceded.

Tossing the
tuna head back out into the water, Tom scanned the ocean for the
telltale shadow of an approaching shark. The people not lucky
enough to be on the rack or in the dive cages gathered at the
railing around Amaya and Tom, staring intently. Tom’s job wasn’t to
feed the sharks, but to lure them in to thrill the people on the
ship. If a shark approached, he had to ensure it didn’t actually
get the tuna.