'Go light the fire, you little ass.' Bancroft came out of the cabin behind Alesio and shoved him back inside the hut. He remained where he was, just standing on the verandah, watching. There was no smile on his face, just the slow, thoughtful stare of the predator.
Sam turned away from him, stripped off the panties, reached for the bucket and splashed water at his leg.
'That sleaze-bag's still staring at you, Sam.'
'Here.' Trimble reached over his shoulder and passed him a handkerchief. It was unironed but surprisingly clean. 'Wash the leg as much as you can, you want to stop it getting infected.' He turned away again. 'My mom was a nurse.'
Sam found it difficult to focus on the job of cleaning himself. He was unbearably cold, despite the sun beating down on him and pain was making him sick and dizzy. He thought of Trimble, though. He'd hoped originally that he might gain some sympathy from Susan's school friend, Alesio, but there was an ugliness there that went soul-deep. He assumed that Bancroft was the cousin and Trimble the friend: the follower who had somehow got himself involved in all this. Trimble, the loser who would finish up dead and Sam wondered how much of his life had got screwed up on account of Susan Dempsey's death. Leaps were hard, sometimes, to judge, but he thought he was getting better at it. Maybe he was here for Susan Dempsey's family and the people involved with the business, but maybe he was here for Ray Trimble as well.
'Why don't you give her one?' Bancroft's voice was thick, his tone dark.
'I'll give you one…' Al's hands had bunched into fists around his cigar and Ziggy's handlink.
Sam risked a glance, Trimble was still turned away from him, offering Susan a very small amount of dignity. He was ignoring Bancroft, staring into the trees.
'Just get her back inside. We don't want anyone to see,' Bancroft said.
'Are you done?' Trimble said. His voice was flat, harsh.
'Uh, no. I…' Sam had hardly even started. It hurt, he was cold, his hands wouldn't work properly and he could hardly bear to touch his own leg. Aside from that he was filthy from lying in that box, from climbing out through dirt, from sweating in the sun, and without soap and hot water he didn't know where to begin.
'You still stink.'
Trimble upended the bucket of water over him. Sam let out a howl, the shock of the cold water hitting him was almost painful. A moment later Trimble was wrapping him in the blanket, his arms around Sam's shoulders.
'Sorry,' he whispered.
He led Sam back towards the cabin, Bancroft's scornful gaze followed them up the steps. Al walked alongside, floating in the air, passing like a ghost through the verandah rail. 'Trimble's mother is a nurse. Well, was a nurse,' Al said. 'His father died in Korea and things sort of fell apart for the family when that happened. Could explain why he took up with that…' Al's fierce expression caught Bancroft, ran him through, would have killed him if only he'd known.
Trimble led Sam to the bed furthest from the door and Sam gave himself up to the musty smelling mattress, pulled the blanket tight around himself and hunched onto his left side. His whole body shook with the cold and his teeth chattered and although he tried to hold onto the gravity of his situation, he couldn't. Couldn't hold onto anything. Memories slipped in and out of focus and he wasn't sure where he was.
'Can you put another log on the fire, Al? I'd do it myself only I'm just so tired, I can't get out of bed and you're up. Is it snowing? It has to be, doesn't it? If it's this cold.' He pulled the blanket down over his head, trying to keep the warmth in. Al was peering up at him, looking so worried. Why did he look so darn worried? And there he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt with purple palm trees and the cutest little hula girls. 'How can you? How can you dress like that when it's so cold?'
'Sam…' Al was kind of waving his cigar around like he was doing semaphore. Maybe his cigar was keeping him warm.
'How come you're not freezing?'
'Ssssh.' Al reached towards him, like he was going to put a hand over Sam's mouth.
'Why are you?' Some other guy came and stood next to Al. It was weird because he looked as if his leg was going right through Al. Right through his whole body. No blood or anything, just bits of Al shining through where the other guy's leg wasn't. 'Why are you telling me to shush?' Sam looked at Al, waving his hands about, shaking his head as if no! and then at the other guy. 'Why's he telling me to shush?'
The man shook his head as well, squatted down beside the bed. He looked familiar though Sam wasn't sure why. He was tall and smelled of BO and had red hair and he'd seen Sam naked and for some reason that was a whole lot worse than the regular locker room embarrassment of being naked.
'Here.' The man reached under him, sat him up, keeping him supported with one arm. 'Drink this.'
He held a greasy enamel cup up to Sam's mouth. Sam reached for it, eager, his hands shaking again with cold. Chicken soup. He could smell it. 'Hey, chicken soup, Al. It's warm. It's warm. We should have thought of this. Is it snowing?' he asked the man.
'It's not cold. You're sick. You have a fever.' The man held the cup steady, one hand around Sam's, stilling the shaking, the other firm around his shoulders, keeping him upright. It was so hard to just sit, Sam appreciated the help.
'A fever?'
'I think it's from that infection in your leg.'
Oh, that's why his leg hurt so much, there was an infection. 'I should see a doctor,' Sam said. It was all so simple, he didn't know why nobody had thought of it. He took another sip of the soup, it was that kind of instant chicken soup from a packet that he used to make for himself as an after-school snack. He sipped down the hot broth, chewed on one of the little chunks of meat. 'I am a doctor,' he said and smiled at the man.'
'No, Sam, no!' Al was going through the full set of histrionics, looked like he was doing a bit of a war dance and tearing his hair out, all at once.
Sam hadn't quite finished the soup but the man took it away from him, then pressed the back of his hand against Sam's forehead. 'You need a doctor. See what I can do. You're burning up.'
He wasn't burning up, though, he was freezing cold. Cold and tired. He was glad, really, when the man let him lie down again, tucked the blanket around him. Al was still there, still looking at him, so worried. 'Hurt my leg, Al.'
'I know, kid.'
