Chapter 20
He could leave after a while, his arm still in a sling, and a bunch of PT sessions prescribed.
That lame hand working better, barely being able to grip anything, let alone use it at all.
His arm not lifting properly, the shoulder neither, muscles and tendons still swollen and tender, patched back up as best as they could, everything felt stiff and numb, the skin foreign, a huge scar too, an angry star of red welts on that skin.
Martin had organized a small party for him, with snacks and light drinks, even if he was officially off duty, Spencer’s parents didn’t want to kick him out until Spencer was away.
Martin told him he’d be on camera duty and he could walk the garden too, if his strength allowed it.
Moving his shifts around his PT appointments to which Sinclair had a driver drive him because Duncan had tried and had nearly pissed himself from pain.
A bunch of meds too, taken especially at night when he was more scared of that pain in that loneliness.
His eyes on that silver disc in the sky, that ghost light flooding the room, and shadows were stirring, whirling, taking shape as he breathed softly, clutching the sheets, even with that lame, weak hand, barely a breath of a grip, the muscles of his arm and shoulder like stone.
Wishing for Spencer to be curled up against him, his hair on his chest, just him, to feel safe from his dreams, his memories of shots fired, reaching flesh and bones, of men dying with gurgling breaths, drowning in their own blood.
Swallowing, that mad fright making his back soak.
Shit. He sat up, trying to breathe, eyes wide when that panic hit him out of nowhere like a truck.
Howling, he pressed his left hand on his eyes, rolling off the bed to hide, curl up, hide form that ghost light, the shadows, the pain ramming into his senses as his muscled clenched.
That pain, wiping his mind too as he bit his fist to the blood to quench his cries.
Heaving, plummeting into darkness when the pain knocked him out. His fright.
Waking in the middle of the night, soaked.
Raking his hair, his eyes on that silver light pouring through the grates.
Soft sobs from some other room. Breathing, hard, reaching a pale hand to that light, to the moon.
I miss you… his heart hammering in that lonely night, that heart which had woken him up, hearing that other heart’s scream, maybe…
Knowing he couldn’t run, out of that sheer fright, his mind clearing from the fog, dark thoughts pouring to the light, mocking, settling in the shadows.
I miss you… Righteous… a small smile as his hand fell back on his chest. I miss you…
Other words, teetering at the edge of his teeth, swallowed in that ocean of fear. I miss you…
“How are things progressing?”
Sinclair sat down, watching Duncan try and pull a rubber band with his arm. Failing as his arm trembled.
He sat down, drained. “Like shit.” Flexing that weak right hand, his stiff fingers, his forearm like lead.
“Great to hear that it’s better than ‘it’s fucked up’.” A small smile.
The therapist walked to Duncan, handing him a small rubber ball. “For your hand. Softly, ok? Until you feel pain and not more.”
Duncan nodded, dubious, but he flexed his hand on the ball, relaxing it then. Fuck. Unsure if he would ever use that hand properly.
He shot a look at Sinclair. “You’re babysitting now?”
“Just making sure you are fine. I need you, remember?”
“I’m not sure what use I’ll be to you…” He put the ball in his lap, and lifted his arm with great pain, the muscles stiff as that arm started trembling. Making a gun out of his right hand, a wry smile as he lowered it. “See? Fucking great…”
“Guns are not everything. Your wound is still healing, don’t give up yet.”
“I was wounded before and it was never this bad.”
Fed up, but he picked the ball up because he had promised to some shadows in that nightmare that he’d live. Shutting up about waking on the floor in his own piss.
“Keep sulking. It suits you.”
“Fuck you and your posh shit.” But he had almost laughed, his weary eyes on the sun pouring in through those tall windows. “I need a walk… want to join?”
Sinclair smiled. “Yes, thank you. An ice cream and a coffee?”
Duncan rose. “If you pay.” Smiling as he put the ball down.
Sinclair stood and a pen fell out of his breast pocket.
Duncan caught it without thinking, a small hiss as his right hand closed on that small object. He looked at it, mesmerized.
Sinclair snatched it out of his hand and pocketed it. “What were you saying about your hand?”
“Fuck…” Spreading his fingers a bit, in shock. That hope there that some of that hands strength could be brought back. That despair there, straight away. “It doesn’t mean it will work as before.”
Sinclair patted his arm. “It’s a hand. Whatever hand it may become.”
Duncan just nodded, grim. Fed up too, with his absence.
“Are you coming?” Raising his eyebrows.
“I have to change, but yes.”
“Hurry. It’s passed my coffee time.”
Duncan just rolled his eyes, but he felt better, knowing that Sinclair had carved some time out for him.
I have your back… and he did, in more ways than one.
Inwardly saying his blessings too that he was not jobless.
A tiny idea there, looking in the mirror as he was struggling pulling his T-shirt on, taking shape.
A small smile as he zipped his bag up and shouldered it on his left side. Coffee and ice cream… Fuck…
Some days darker than others, his body and mind screaming for something and anything, that familiar burn missing, the comfort of glass on skin, the joint in his fingers, the way he held his hand, talked, the way it soothed the mind and blurred the world around him.
Mad, that raw anger when he almost trashed his room, tore at his hair, howling.
Taking less meds than before, that dread lurking that he would not be enough on his own.
Soft breaths in that panicked dark where sanity seemed to seep away with every breath.
Eyes wide on that sliver of night in that grated window.
Dawn light, licking the wall, the will there to end it, stronger than anything, until that light flood those grey eyes on that painting…
Flooded that dark tattoo. Semper Fi. That light in his grey eyes, that light he had caught in paint, already there…
He’s waiting for me… A small smile as he wiped the sweat off his forehead, pushed his nausea down.
A soft bell to indicate breakfast in half an hour.
Knowing he had to eat when he had refused to on most days.
His eyes on that painting, in those painted eyes.
“Righteous…” A soft whisper on parched lips. I can do it…
Parking the car in the parking lot facing that creamy yellow building, a park around it.
Getting out, his shoulder and arm aching with the strain of driving, but it was better than before, that lame hand obeying too, with a barely there grip.
Birch Meadow rehab centre. A simple sign near the gate.
He swallowed and walked through that open gate, other visitors arriving too, and Duncan’s heart was racing because fuck knew if Spencer would see him, at all, and if he would, he had no idea what he could tell him.
Maybe seeing him a bigger trap than missing him because he had blended that ache in his days, and he had no idea how he would leave and rip his heart open again.
He walked to the receptionist. “I’m Duncan Lambert. Could you tell Spencer Galloway I’m here?”
She checked her screen. “Sure. I’ll send someone to tell him, just have a seat.” Gesturing at brown sofas lining the windows. Large green plants in pots.
“Thank you.” He went and sat down, wincing at the stab in his shoulder so he cradled his right arm in his lap. Waiting, his eyes scanning the visitors.
The reception area opened into a larger visitors’ lounge, people hugging, some crying, patting backs.
A vague ache there as time passed, and his eyes darted to the receptionist who walked to him and handed him a note.
“I’m sorry, Mr Galloway doesn’t want to come out and meet you. He asked me to give you this note.”
Duncan took it, trying to push some words out. Fuck. That note burning his hand as he stood. “Thank you…”
She gave him a sympathetic smile, and he had to leave, walk to his car in a daze.
Even if Spencer had warned him, it still came like a blow.
Sitting in, blowing a breath. Turning that folded note in his hand, debating to open it, or wait, not to melt in the car if Spencer was saying his goodbyes.
Dummy, why would he? Sighing, he opened it, his eyes a bit wide on those letters written in black pen.
I want nothing more than to be with you, Righteous, but I have to be me first and get to know him as a friend.
Exhaling, he had to close his eyes not to let his tears spill.
Fuck. Fuck. His hands trembling, he gripped the wheel, wondering when he had turned into a pulp, losing it at every emotion ramming into his chest. Get a grip…
Wiping some rogue tears off, he put the note in the glove compartment and started the car.
He had to go to the police station to answer some questions on the case later in the month, but even if they had found the corpses and that bunker, they still needed some answers.
Sinclair had sent a posh lawyer to have his ass, but Duncan was past his fears, dressed in his uniform to make sure they would have maybe a small respect.
They sat in an interrogation room, and Duncan had to breathe a bit, seeing his reflection in the mirror. Putting his hat on the table, he raked his hair. That posh lawyer sitting next to him, silent.
The detectives were sitting facing them, an older man with a greying moustache and a woman with dark hair in a bun.
“Mr Lambert… or should I say Lieutenant?” That cop smile.
Asshole… “Just Mr Lambert, thanks.”