Chapter 12
Friday 11:28pm
Steve had no warning of the approaching aftershock, but, as the concrete on all sides started an ominous groaning, he realised the perilous nature of his position, squeezed as he was between the wall and a giant stone slab. The world once more shifted around him, and he dropped down, blindly seeking the shelter of the sink.
Somewhere in his precipitous descent, he knocked his injured arm against the wall, and, as he slid into safety, the fireburst of agony faded to gray and he fought to remain conscious. The savage sound and movements of the tormented building soon ceased, and weakly, he rested his face against the cool pipes. The tremors that shook him at decreasing intervals were now those of fever, and he could feel the heat radiating from his arm as once again he tried to stem the flow of blood.
Steve's faith in his father remained unshakable, but he had to face the possibility that his time was running out. 'If I die not knowing that you're safe, Dad, I swear I won't rest in peace. I'll come back and haunt you for the rest of your life. Just imagine that, a big klutzy ghost, tripping over things in the middle of the night and messing with the coffee machine.'
Despite the attempt to maintain his spirits, Steve felt a mounting desperation at his inability to warn his father. As a final resort, he decided that a possibly posthumous message was better than nothing, and gave thanks for deep and well-stocked pockets as he fished out a pen and a small notebook. It seemed a simple idea, yet writing on a slightly damp piece of paper in the dark with only one hand proved to be a tricky proposition, and Steve could only trust that the result was what he intended, and not totally unintelligible. A few succinct words explained the danger he believed was threatening his father, but after this warning he hesitated, leaning his head back against the wall and shutting his eyes. This might be his final communication with his father and, if it was, for both their sakes, there needed to be some closure. Yet, how could he say goodbye to the man who meant more to him than anyone in the world, and what words could he possibly find that would make this any easier for Mark?
It should have made things easier that this wasn't the first time he'd thought about the contents of a final letter. A couple of years ago, Mark had been trapped inside an air-tight room controlled by a computer programmed by a vengeful father. As the oxygen ran out, Mark had started to write a letter to his son, but anoxia had prevented him from getting beyond the first few words. Steve had found the improvised note scribbled on the flap of a box and, although he'd never told his father, he still had the scrap of cardboard enclosed in a box of his personal possessions. The incident had left him with an ingrained distaste for real estate, an immense gratitude that Mark had escaped alive and a profound curiosity as to what his father had intended to write. He had attempted to introduce the topic while Mark was still in hospital, but when his father had seemed embarrassed by the topic, he had made light of the situation, yet he still wondered what advice or sentiment the note would have contained.
Two years ago, he had thought that nothing that Mark could have written would have assuaged his grief, or the guilt of his father dying in his place, in his house, but now he felt that after time, he would have derived some comfort from the attempt. However, now it was his turn, he could think of nothing to say that didn't seem trite and useless. The truth was, he was no good with words, he'd never had to be. He and his father always understood each other perfectly without words.
His reminiscing proved too relaxing for his exhausted body, and he fell into a restless sleep. He dreamed in vivid detail that he was by the ocean, a little boy again, holding his dad's hand, although in the anachronistic way of dreams, Mark was the white-haired, moustached father of the present day. He could smell the brine and the decaying odor of kelp washed up on the beach, and hear the raucous call of seagulls. They had come to jump in the waves, but his child-self was apprehensive, intimidated by the size of the breakers. His father smiled down reassuringly at him from a great height and squeezed his hand. "I won't let go, I promise."
At first, there was an exhilaration in the buoyancy of the salty ocean and the anticipation and timing of the leaps through the rolling water, but it wasn't too long before a larger than usual wave and an ill-timed jump sent him tumbling helplessly under the sea, disoriented and winded. He seemed to be submerged for an inordinate length of time, the clouds and birds in the sky at first clearly visible through the now motionless water but slowly the pellucid liquid became viscous and opaque as it turned first pink, then a deeper and deeper shade of red, and he knew with the certain knowledge of a dream that he was drowning in his own blood. Strangely, he felt no fear, a mystery that was solved when, with a jerk, he was pulled upwards and his lungs took a deep, refreshing breath of sweet air as he looked at his father's concerned but smiling face. Mark shook their joined hands. "I told you I wouldn't let go."
He woke up with a start, clutching frantically at the notepad as it started to slide off his knee. He wasn't sure if his dream was mostly memory or a thinly disguised metaphor that his mind had dragged up after the earthquake, but it seemed to supply the inspiration he needed and, for several minutes, he wrote as steadily as the circumstances allowed. After he finished, he folded the paper over, wrote 'Dad' on the outside and, with exaggerated care, tucked it into his shirt pocket, hoping it would arrive at its intended destination sooner rather than later.
The effort to finish his missive exhausted him in every way. He told himself that it was merely a precaution, but saying goodbye, even in theory, to his father left a heaviness in his heart that overshadowed mere physical pain. He knew without being told, though Jesse commented on it frequently, that he and his father shared an unusually close relationship. Personally, he credited Mark with the strength of its forging. Few fathers so successfully made the transition from patriarch to best friend, accepting and affording respect in equal measure. Although not given to emotional introspection, it had occurred to Steve on several occasions, seeing other cops self-destruct and crumble under the pressure of the job, that his father was his ballast, Mark's unfailing love and acceptance steadying him when life got rocky. Steve didn't overanalyse it, he just enjoyed his father's companionship, the intellectual challenge of working together, the unpredictability and laughter of their downtime and the mutual support of living together.
Realising that he was wallowing in maudlin sentiment, Steve tried to channel his emotions into anger, an emotion with which he was much more comfortable, but it was hard to maintain even that in his present condition. His heart was pounding too fast in his chest, straining for the oxygen his depleted blood supply couldn't provide, and he felt light-headed and nauseous. However, with more stubbornness than good sense, he shuffled back to the hole, which had narrowed slightly as the building had shuddered in the latest aftershock, and doggedly resumed chipping away at the concrete until unconsciousness claimed him again.