Benedictus

In the tender compassion of our God

the dawn from on high shall break upon us,

To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,

and to guide our feet into the way of peace.

From the Benedictus - Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke


Part Nine

There was a sound – god, he couldn't escape it. It wailed like an endless siren. He tried to twist in an effort to shut out the noise, but the sudden, jerking movement hurt his head.

Truth was, if he was being honest, it wasn't only his head that was hurting. From the roots of his hair, to the tips of his toes, a sickening pain burned and pulsed through his body. It took a while before he was lucid enough to recollect where he was, and what had happened.

It took him what seemed like forever, and even then, he couldn't be sure.

Maybe, he should just let go.

It felt like he could if he wanted.

Give into the creeping greyness, and drift away on the tide.

Easy – easy to yield - and give up the fight; to submit to the encroaching darkness. There was a part off him which wanted to do just that, and leave all his troubles behind.

There was a reason – a reason he had to stay. Why he mustn't slide down into the blackness. He couldn't recollect exactly, but it was something to do with the noise. Don struggled back up through the layers of fog, and eventually opened his eyes.

The tower block - Oasis Towers. The bomb blast and subsequent damage. Okay, it was all coming back to him now, although on balance, he'd much rather forget. Just when he'd thought it couldn't get any worse, the fates had decided to prove otherwise. The whole world had turned on its axis, and come crashing down around his ears.

They were still pinned down in the void space, but for some reason, he could see a little better. The concrete strut had shifted again, and widened the funnel of light. He didn't know whether to be grateful or not. It was a moot point to say it improved things. As a matter of fact, the extra light only served to emphasise the unholy mess they were in. Ceiling tiles and smashed, fluorescent fittings. Jagged chunks of plasterboard and masonry. They were squashed into a miniscule, triangular gap, and boxed in by tons of loose debris.

Not a collapse – but another subsidence then. The building was still intact. Unless you counted the large lump of cement which had come into contact with his head. Don moved more cautiously this time, and tried to take better stock of his surroundings. The vital pocket around them was diminishing; the air was thicker - less easy to breathe. They'd been lucky - really lucky this time. Once again, they'd been saved by the damned beam. It lay across them like a temporary barrier and stopped an excess of rubble from pouring into the void.

One more strike and you're out.

It was a simple fact. Grim and undeniable.

If the strut was to give way, or move again, there wouldn't be any free space left at all.

His heart thumped in his chest like a jackhammer, and not just from blood loss and shock. For a terrible, illuminating moment, he'd been so sure it was over. The reprieve was unexpected, and nothing short of a miracle. When he considered what might have happened, he could scarcely believe they were alive.

Alive, was a raucous understatement.

Sweetie Pie let him know, loud and clear.

Her screaming had reached a crescendo which rivalled operatic levels. It rang around the walls of their small prison space, but Don figured she was more than entitled. The baby's red-faced distress was worrying, and sent his adrenalin rocketing. So long as she was okay - he told himself. He just wished it didn't hurt his sore ears.

"Hey, Sweetie?"

It was a definite no-go, and her screech reached Wagnerian heights. He tried the wiggly eyebrow thing, but for some reason, the mojo had deserted him. The words were an effort, and he was filled with dismay. He was weaker, and the awareness was frightening. He tried again with a lot more exertion. It was as much as he could do to even speak.

"Aw, come on," he rasped, pulling her in close to his chest. "It could be a lot worse, you know."

He could have sworn then, she looked at him indignantly. She screwed up her face and screamed louder. Don had a sudden guilty inspiration, but what the hell, why not give it a go?

"Fuck," he tested, experimentally.

A part of him cringed as he said it. Don Eppes - the moral exemplar. Under any other circumstances, he would be appalled, but he was desperate and it had worked before. There was a beat of blessed silence as she paused, mid-wail, and unscrewed her pansy brown eyes. She delayed for a tenth of a second, as though waiting for him to say more. When he didn't, her tiny face crumpled, and her bottom lip wobbled, dangerously. She inhaled sharply, before opening her mouth, and shrieking like a furious banshee.

"Fuck, fuck, I shouldn't be saying this." Don let out a string of expletives. He had a brief, recriminatory vision of Alan, holding a very large bar of soap. "Fuck, Sweetie, you have to promise me, you won't breathe a word of this outside."

The baby hiccupped, and took in a big gulp of air. Her lips still trembled, but at least she stopped crying. She stared up at Don for a second or two and then reached out with a star like hand. He closed his eyes, and allowed her to pat his face, submitting to her gentle exploration. A startling wash of protectiveness, and total, gob-smacking trust, had a flip-flop effect on his insides.

Well, whadya know - the swearing thing?

It would have to stay their little secret. One thing, for certain, he would omit from his statement, if they ever made it out of here alive. For all the time they were trapped down here, Sweetie was his on a short-term basis. His charge and responsibility; his little, Sweetie-shaped, temporary loan. She gurgled and beamed, as if giving her approval, and thoughtfully tugged the end of his nose.

He lay still for a while, just holding her close, drained and relieved by the unexpected silence. It was tempting to close his eyes again, he felt insensate and too weary to move. For some reason, the pain was fading away, and he wasn't in such relentless discomfort. Instead, his limbs were almost log-like, numb and heavy with a worrying lassitude.

Don was neither naïve or stupid.

The lack of pain could only be a false dawn.

His medical knowledge was slightly better than reasonable. It had to be, because of his job. He'd re-upped his First Aid fairly recently, and he was way beyond feeling alarmed. His body was close to shutting down, and his circulation was failing. He was undoubtedly in severe clinical shock now - his heart struggling to keep up with the pace. It was simple and obvious really. Oh yeah, he knew the bio-mechanics. Not enough volume of fluids, equals a weakening circulatory system. A deteriorating heart-rate, and deadly lack of oxygen, to the vital organs and brain.

Don knew, by now, he'd lost far too much blood.

It was viscous, dark and sticky all around him. His shirt had stiffened with it, fused against his body. He could trace its powerful, metallic scent, and taste the sharp ferrous tang.

If they didn't come soon, he was going to die.

He had no clear idea of his injuries, but he really didn't have to be a genius. The solution wasn't hard or unforthcoming, the answer, grimly easy to obtain.

There was something . . . something he had to do.

Something significant he should be doing.

He hitched Sweetie in a little closer, and tucked the trailing ends of blanket around her. In the process, his fingers brushed against the cell phone, and it all fell back into place. Of course, the something he should have been doing, was calling Megan and keeping her up to date.

"Sorry, Shrimp."

He had to shift her again to grasp hold of his phone, and he did it as carefully as possible. The last thing he wanted or needed right now, was to make her start squawking again. He managed to lift the cell awkwardly, but his actions were slow and laborious. It felt like he was moving in outer space, and normal gravity had plummeted away.

Press the button – just press the button.

It was simple enough in theory. So why the hell couldn't he do it?

For the life of him, he couldn't get his fingers to work, or stop their incessant shaking.

"Megan?"

Like before, she picked up the call at once. Almost before the first ring was over. His sense of relief was overwhelming - something seemed to catch and hitch inside his chest.

"Damn, but it's good to hear your voice," her own sounded pretty shaky. "Hell, I know you're the strong and silent type, but don't you think this is taking it too far?"

He managed a small smile at her snarkiness, but the time for banter was over. It didn't matter was happening on the outside; there were some things he badly needed to get said. Slowly, but very surely, his injuries were draining the life from him. It was time to face up to reality. He had a few hours maximum left.

"Megan," he repeated her name.

To his frustration, it was all he could manage, right now. Dear God, he was being so pathetic. He felt light-headed, and kind of spacey, as though he was about to fly away. The irony of it wasn't lost on him. He was pinned down – entombed in the darkness. Wasn't likely he'd get another chance anytime soon, to look up and see the sky.

"Don, are you there - can you answer me? Don, please, can you just keep talking?"

He could hear she was starting to get frantic now. There was no attempt to keep things light-hearted. She was bright enough to pick up the inference of any words he couldn't manage to say. He took a breath, and was pleased and slightly surprised, to note that it didn't hurt him. Nonetheless, it remained a curious fact, he still didn't have enough air.

"Yeah, I'm here," he did as she ordered.

"Thank God," she still sounded shaky. "There was another minor subsidence - I'm guessing you probably noticed. Not too bad, all things considered, but it's been three hours since you last checked in."

He grimaced. "Tell me about it."

Three hours. No wonder she was freaked with him. Under the circumstances, he totally sympathised. She'd probably figured, quite logically, the subsidence had buried them both alive. He was relieved to disabuse her of that grim thought, but on the other hand, three hours wasn't good. It was going to delay things even more. Don knew the odds were stacking up against him. As a result of the second subsidence, the rescue teams would face a longer wait outside.

"No closer, huh?"

He knew precisely what her answer would be. There wasn't really any point in the question. It was just so damned good to hear her talking. So good to hear another grown-up, human voice.

"Maybe," her response surprised him. "Listen, you're not going to like this. I have someone here who really wants to talk to you. You need to stay calm about this - I'm just going to let him explain."

Okay, his brain might not be up to full speed, but he didn't have to be psychic. From the second Megan said he might not like it, he guessed it was Charlie and dad. Anger struggled with a sense of resignation. He should have known there would be no holding them. Charlie must have used his security clearance to brush the usual protocol aside. So much for obeying his instructions and keeping them safe and away from here. He was going to do some serious ass-kicking when they eventually dragged him out of this hole.

Just who the hell was he kidding?

His traitorous body was against him. A lack of time and a loss of blood.

He was not getting out of here alive.

"Donnie?"

Oh God, this was just what he needed. Don was surprised by a rush of emotion. Must be the shock or the loss of blood, but for a second, he could have cried. He felt defenceless – ridiculously vulnerable – as though his layers had been peeled back like an onion. Unaccustomed tears pricked the back of his eyes, at the familiar sound of dads voice.

"Yeah, dad," he tried his best to sound much more alert, but knew he was failing dismally. A great wave of weariness washed over him. He was tired – just so damned tired. "They shouldn't have let you anywhere near. You should have stayed at home."

"Hush, my son, just save your strength," Big surprise - Alan totally ignored him. He shushed him as though he was six years old, in his patented 'father knows best' voice. "Charlie's with the lead engineers right now, and they're working to secure the tower. We've got experienced rigging crews waiting to go – soon as the Tower Crane's in position. You have to hold on a little while longer - until we can get you outside."

What the hell was dad talking about?

The words washed right over Don's head.

"Dad, please - "

His frailty was so damned obvious. It must be plain, even over the cell phone. A part of him really despised the thought of putting his father through this. There were so many things he wanted to say, and so little time left to say them. And that was always assuming he could get his dumb, clumsy mouth to work. There was something wet running down the side of his face. Could be more blood, he supposed. Even now, lying here in the darkness, he was embarrassed by the thought it was tears.

"Oh, Donnie," the forced heartiness vanished from Alan's voice. For a second, his anguish betrayed him. "You have to hold on, do you hear me? You brother, Megan and everyone, they're all working so hard to get you out of there."

He knew they were, of course he did.

Megan would fight for him, tooth and claw.

And now, Charlie was out there, Charlie and dad. He had paternal love and genius on his side.

"Charlie," he breathed his brother's name, aware of a raw twist of sorrow. He felt as though they would never get the chance to rebuild those crumbling bridges.

Suddenly, it was vitally important to let Charlie know he loved him. All the recent crap, nothing else mattered; he had to tell Charlie he cared. Their lives had forked, and taken parallel courses, woven and turning like a tangle of roots. Sometimes knotted and intertwined, sometimes separate and barely touching. All the years of confliction, and even buried resentment, those twisted roots still grew from the same tree.

"Charlie," he managed to say it again. "Dad, need to talk to Charlie . . ."

He blinked away some of the moisture that persisted in running down his face. Not tears then – part of his brain detached – must be blood from his latest head-wound. It puddled around him and wetted his hair, copious and seeping freely. Damp between his cheek and the floor, it was strange that it felt so cold.

"It's all right, Don, just keep talking to me." Alan sounded odd, like he was playing for time. "They tell me you're quite the hero. That you saved a little girl's life?"

"Sweetie Pie," he murmured, vaguely, stroking the back of her little soft head.

Dear God, if only dad knew the truth. The irony of it hurt him. There was nothing remotely heroic about dissociative suicide. He'd been determined to evacuate the Crèche, but it had not been his foremost objective. He'd wanted to reach the Parking Lot, and forestall the explosives truck in time.

When he'd first been handed the baby, he'd thought of her as a mini annoyance. Not so much a small person, as a major hindrance to his plans. She wriggled, and patted his cheek again, and Don felt his insides contract. In the space of merely a few, short hours, his entire perception had changed. It was funny how life could sneak up on you – how it could rope you in, and take you unawares.

This tiny girl had captured his heart. No question of doubt about it. She'd side-swiped the ground from under his feet, with just one look from her grave, pansy eyes. This was why he needed to stay with her. Why he was determined to fight. To stave off the waiting darkness for as long as he possibly could.

He endeavoured to pull himself together, and remembered he was using up his batteries. He could hear dad's worried voice calling him, on the other end of the line.

He made a supreme effort and tried again. "Dad – is Charlie there?"

"He – he's busy, right now – with the engineers. Across the other side of the cordon. With any luck, you can speak to him in person soon; it looks like things are getting underway. You should see the size of this Tower Block Crane . . ."

The words lay loud and unspoken between them. For some reason, Charlie didn't want to talk to him. Don lay there, in silence, and felt his heart plummet. Please, God, no. Oh, fuck, not again. Dad was covering - covering and stalling. He had a flashback to the time of his mother's death, and Charlie's obsession with P v NP.

Surely it couldn't be happening now?

Charlie had changed so radically – he was no longer the same, damaged person. He'd come to terms with his grief, and moved on with his life, taking positive strides into the future.

No, this was not about P v NP.

The truth was a whole lot simpler. It was obvious, when you thought about it logically. The answer stared him right in the face. Charlie was still pissed off with him. Even worse than that – downright angry. The silent estrangement between them had festered and gone on too long. Don was almost surprised by the anguish he felt. He'd thought, by now, he was immune to all feeling. The endless onslaught of pain and terror and shock, had almost rendered him numb.

Cold, it was getting so cold in here.

The constant trickle of water wasn't helping.

Dear God, why weren't they coming for them?

Dad was still muttering about some damned crane . . .

What the hell, did he just say the water?

The realisation shook him with dread. Not tears, not blood, but water. As a result of the further subsidence damage, the fucking void space was filling with water. The leak came from somewhere above his head. Most likely a burst mains pipe. Not too fast, but at a frighteningly constant rate, as it ran down the sloping strut. He was so cold and shocked, he hadn't noticed before. His clothes were already damp with it. They were lying in a shallow puddle of wet - no wonder poor Sweetie had complained.

A little knowledge was a dangerous thing.

Who the hell wrote these clichéd homilies?

Well, right now, Don wished he was ignorant. He wished he knew nothing at all. Mexico City, oh yeah, he remembered. They were in a new and terrible danger. As though being blown up and crushed wasn't enough, now it seemed, they were going to drown. He twisted the top of his body around as far as was humanly possible. Not exactly the easiest thing in the world, when you were pinned down by a godamned, tower block.

To think that, in his arrogance, he'd thought himself beyond the pain.

All in all, it took him three feeble attempts. That was, if you discounted the breathing break. Right now, Don was a man on a mission; he couldn't afford to pass out again. He held onto the cell phone one-handed, and eased himself carefully over. He couldn't take a chance on it getting wet - the thought of losing its lifeline, was unconscionable.

Alan was shouting now – frantically – but Don knew he had to move Sweetie.

He managed to heave her up onto his body, and out of the seeping dampness. To his relief, only the fringes of her blanket were wet, the pink beanie and her clothes remained dry. He tucked the ends of the blanket through the straps of his vest, like some sort of makeshift chrysalis. However much Sweetie wriggled and struggled, she could not roll down off his chest.

Just a minute – he only needed a minute.

Don knew he was close to losing it. Agony ripped like fire through his abdomen, and spots shimmied and danced in front of his eyes. Sweetie was fretful and grizzling again, clearly indignant at being manhandled. Her protests and mewling cries of distress pierced through the dark curtain of pain.

"Dad - "

Somehow, he got the cell back up to his ear. The next words would not come easy. He wanted to tell Alan he loved him. He wanted to tell him goodbye. Such a simple word - so loaded with tenderness. So finite in its import and meaning. Don felt something wet run down his face, and this time, he knew it was tears.

"Donnie?" Alan responded at once. "Oh God, Donnie, please don't do that. You stopped talking, I couldn't hear you. I thought – what I thought doesn't matter - is everything okay?"

"No dad," this time he was honest. There was no longer any point in lying. Despite all their heroic efforts, they were not going to save him in time. "I've lost too much blood . . . I'm losing it. Not going to . . . not going to make it."

"Don't say that!" Alan's voice was fierce. "Don't you give up, do you hear me, you have to stay strong and fight this. Don, you have to make me a promise right now, what will Charlie and I do without you?"

You'll be okay, Don thought, sadly. You're both so much stronger than you think you are. I'm proud of you, dad, I'm proud of you both. You don't need me anymore.

This was ironic, and harder than anything. He hated putting Alan through it. As he lay in his blood, on the cusp of his life, he realised how much he wanted to stay.

"Hey, dad," he almost choked on the words. "Sorry, I'm pretty crap at this. Some things . . . some things I wanted to say . . . like you know I love you, right?"

"My son," Alan was crying. "Please, Donnie, don't say goodbye."

"It's okay," and it was. It really was, in a way, although he hated hearing Alan's distress. "Tell Charlie – tell Charlie no P vNP thing – or else I'll come back and haunt his geek ass."

"Tell him yourself – why don't you tell him yourself? He's out here, working so hard for you. You have to hold on a while longer. Think of the baby, of little Benedicta Margaret. Please Don, you have to try."

The baby, his tiny princess.

Did dad just call her Benedicta Margaret?

He could have cried then, at the poignancy of it. Of all the given names, it had to be that name.

One last thing – one vital promise. He had to do everything he could for her. The water – the leaking mains pipe - he had to let dad know. He was tired, oh god, he was so dog tired. All the images were mixed up and blurred. Concentrate – he had to concentrate. There was still something he needed to say.

"I've tried so hard," he whispered. "For the princess – for all of my life."

"I know you have, Don, you've always been so strong." Alan sounded as though his heart was breaking. "Your mother and I, we're so very proud of you. I love you, and I don't want to lose you. I can't – I don't want to let go."

"There's water," Don frowned with the effort. "A burst pipe . . . you have to promise to save her. Will do my best for as long as I can . . . after that, it's up to you."

"Don, can you hear me? Answer me! Did you say there's a leak, there's water? Don – please, Don – just keep talking!" Alan was beside himself now.

"Promise . . . promise . . ." he murmured the word, kept repeating it over and over.

For some strange reason, he couldn't stop saying it.

The cell phone slipped out of his hand.

TBC