Part two
John Paul didn't know how long he had knelt there, by Kieron's body. It could have been minutes, or hours, or even days: time didn't mean anything to him anymore. Nothing mattered to him anymore.
He didn't know when he had stopped crying, but the tears had now run dry. Instead, he was sat in silence, staring at the man he loved.
Logic and reason were slowly making there way into John Paul's mind, creeping into his thoughts, slowing ebbing away the despair. He looked at the frying pan, and Kieron's dented skull, and the blood surrounding his head. Who would do such a thing to Kieron? The TV was still there – it was still on – as was the PlayStation, so it couldn't have been one of those 'burglaries-gone-bad' that you hear about from time to time.
But what did that mean?
That this was pre-meditated?
That there was someone out there who wanted to kill Kieron?
Kieron, the nicest, most helpful, well-mannered, conscientious man John Paul had ever met? He used to be a priest, not some crime lord.
Who would want to hurt Kieron?
It was at that moment that John Paul heard a key turning in the lock. He didn't know it yet, but he was about to be confronted by the answer to his question.
He didn't look to see who it was, not at once. In the kitchen, where it was just himself and Kieron, John Paul might have been able to believe that this was just a fantasy. Or even believe that the world was over. It was. His world iwas/i over, at least for now. But there were other people in this world; another person lived in this flat. Another person who had just shattered his despair. Sooner or later he would have to face reality; apparently that moment was now.
As he lifted his head, as he watched Niall walk towards him, into the kitchen, he knew none of Niall's plots and plans. He did not know that it wasn't Kieron that Niall had been trying to hurt; Kieron had merely been collateral damage. It had been John Paul that Niall had been trying to hurt the most. John Paul; Niall's younger brother, although only the older man knew that fact. As he turned his face back towards Kieron's, John Paul didn't notice that the expression on Niall's face change from a practiced façade of concern, into one of glee.
The older man stood in silence, looking at the scene in front of him for a few moments, before finally speaking.
"John Paul…"
Silence. John Paul didn't even move.
"John Paul?" Niall was more insistent this time, but again he was et by a silent, unmoving John Paul.
"John Paul, I think we need to call someone."
When Niall's third attempt still receive no response, he pulled out his mobile phone, quickly dialling 999.
He asked the operator for an ambulance, and the police. His voice was very controlled and calm, and even though John Paul was crying again, his attention fixed on Kieron, his subconscious mind had noted it. It was something he would come to remember later, another piece of the puzzle he was yet to solve.
The police arrived first. John Paul didn't even notice them. He didn't notice them talking to Niall, or staring at him. He didn't notice the paramedics when they arrived, either. He only became aware of all the people now standing in the flat, when they tried to move Kieron.
"No."
It had been the first word he had spoken aloud in almost two hours. Two hours of despair, torment, and unceasing sadness. Two hours of grief, anguish, and infinite heartache. Two hours of pain, misery and never ending hopelessness.
Two hours of silence.
And now, they were trying to take his Kieron away.
John Paul wouldn't let them. He grabbed onto Kieron's hand and refused to move. He didn't even take his eyes away from Kieron's face.
"I'm sorry, we have to move him. We have to take him to the hospital." The clear, calming voice of a female paramedic told him.
"No," reiterated John Paul, his voice breaking. He swallowed, trying to make sense of his thoughts.
"But he's dead. Why do you have to take him to the hospital?" It was the only question he wanted an answer too; why were they taking his Kieron away from him?
"We have to perform a post-mortem." John Paul finally looked up at the paramedic, meeting her eyes. She read the question look expertly. "The police want to know how he was killed. We need a doctor to examine him, and sign some forms." Her voice was meant to be reassuring, but there was only one part of her reply that John Paul paid any attention too.
"You want to know how he died!" John Paul screamed. From somewhere inside him, anger was boiling. "He was hit in the head by a fcking frying pan. That's how he fcking died!!"
The paramedic looked at him with an understanding smile. He hated that. He hated that Kieron was dead. He hated that he didn't even know when it had happened. He hated that he wasn't there, that he couldn't have stopped it somehow, and he hated that. He hated all the people around him, trying to take Kieron away from him. And he hated that sodding paramedic, and the way she was acting like she understood his pain.
He was so angry, that he had been completely blinded to the fact that looking at him, studying him so intently, from across the room, was a man he hadn't seen in nearly a year.