Debridement

[EdTerryn]

DECEMBER 31, 2003

Her fingers gracefully cupped his chin and brought his eyes up to meet hers. Greg Shears was nervous looking up at her from down on one knee. The question that hung between them felt kinetic and couched with potential. Her impending answer made Greg nervous.

Madeline Westlake, the woman standing in front of Greg wore a form-fitting black semi-diaphanous dress, her blonde hair crested and amplified with a "Happy New Year" Crown and glitter sparkled and glowed on her skin as she shifted Greg's face to the side to get a better look at the nasty shiner tagging his left eye.

"Same guy?" She snarked finding it difficult to contain her laughter and pity. Embarrassed, Greg nodded, lowering his face but still holding that little ring box up. The offer hadn't been refused, not yet.

"He's got a big left hook." It wasn't as funny the moment he received the blow, but now, here, in Dempsey's Pub amidst a sea of well-wishers and celebrators and this couple in that lone solitary spot where the sound seemed to drain to a dull roar allowing this moment to belong solely to them. She grinned wide, almost giddy at keeping him in suspense.

"And the tooth?"

He'd forgotten until she reminded him with a smirk. Greg ran his tongue along the bottom row of his teeth till his tongue felt the gap and he winced.

"Big right hand, too." He gulped. Ed Terryn left the bruises, but the knockout blow was hers to deliver. She eyed him on a slant as he redirected the attention away from his "battle wounds" back to the ring waiting in the box elevated up to her.

"W-will you?" Greg Shears hadn't stuttered since he was 8. Not since the parentally enforced tongue twisters and corrective instruction meant to wean him from "bad habits". Madeline had that look on her face. The one Greg couldn't read, not yet. She stood tight-lipped and full of consideration, like the answer was there waiting to tumble out but she wasn't sure in which direction it might fall.

On the television screen mounted to the wall above the bar came the beginning of the countdown.

10

9

The crowd in the pub chanted along in unison.

Greg's lip trembled, eyeing sidelong the countdown toward 2004. Please make up your mind before 12:00, he thought. 

8

7

6

She burst into laughter.

"I can't believe I'm marrying a cop." Her eyes went skyward, the knockout was his. Her tears sparkled in the tungsten light of the mood-lit pub.

"You w-will?" He stuttered as her eyes fell back to him with a straight smile surmising him as the man she'd just agreed to marry. .

"You better learn to box." She blurted through the happy tears. Greg stood confidently. They kissed as the countdown made it to 1, and the raucous pub shouted "Happy New Year!" in unison.

He was Bob Dylan, and she Suze Rotolo as they walked home, freewheelin' that night in a fresh snowfall.

Once home they made love, real love, like she'd figured it would be when the right man came along and put the right ring on her finger. They fell asleep entwined as one.

In the morning he made her breakfast while he dressed for work. He received the call halfway through buttoning up his uniform over a sizzling cast-iron frying pan containing eggs.

"Is this going to be our life then?" She asked uncertainly, her knees pooled up beneath her chin under the covers. The breakfast was getting cold on the nightstand beside her. They'd been dating for a year, she knew, or had to know the relative fleeting free time of a low-level constable. He kissed her on the cheek and promised, "no. It'll be better." 

On his way out she reminded him to bring a heavy jacket.

Dalby Forest is beautiful in the summer, similar in the winter. Snow cascades off trees of every ilk.

The body had been discovered by a forest ranger. Constable Greg Shears stood and blinked over the body that lay propped against a tree with its eyes closed, frozen shut in fact, formerly sleeping soundly in a mangled and mottled tank top and a pair of loose-fitting pants and no shoes that seemed to tell a pretty decent tale of what fate befell Ed Terryn on New Years Eve.

Greg sniveled to himself and ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, dwelling on the lone missing incisor as he waited for the ambulance.

Funny how it works, he thought. Couldn't help him. I tried. Ed spent more time fighting me then understanding I wasn't locking him up like I could've. I would've. I should've. Maybe that was all he needed.

Agonizing moments. One new life began for he and Madeline, and one ended and the circle seemed dreadfully incomplete.

Greg received the coroner's report, thankful for the warm cup of coffee at the coroner's office. The coroner noticed Greg's eye. Greg shrugged and looked apologetic.

"He had a big left hand." He smiled.

"Mmmm." Was the disinterested response.

They had to wait to bury him till the ground thawed. Nobody missed the funeral, there weren't many who wished to attend.

In the spring as Ed was buried Greg would be married, and everything would be better.

That's what Greg promised.

APRIL  28, 2017

Madeline was on the phone in the kitchen when Greg stomped in and wondered whether to let her know he was home formally, or if she'd notice.

"I'm on the phone!" She shouted callously down the hallway at him, just an inhuman stretched shadow silhouette cast on the wall from the evening sun shining through the kitchen window.

He could hear her furiously mixing something in a metal bowl. He hated her cooking experiments. What would this be, home-made pigs in a blanket? He ran his tongue distastefully along the tips of his teeth, impelled to be silent, hopeful for a moment's peace before he encountered her, trying to overhear who she was talking to as he hung his jacket up in the front closet. Probably someone from work, he snorted to himself. A guy.

Greg walked silently across the hardwood floor and stopped at a closed door, craned his ear a moment longer but was unable to make out her words over the furious whipping. He inhaled sharply and slipped inside of his office and closed the door silently behind him.

A glass of bourbon, brandy, something to remove the permanent edge. For a ritual it always felt new and fresh and mostly welcome. A loud sigh accompanied the pouring, and an even louder sigh as he sat at his desk and took a nice sip. He leaned back and felt it burn down his throat. The headache thumped harder in his head and he thumbed the bridge of his nose before instinctively leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk and lift his cell phone.

The video was cued to play already.

He'd been watching it since he'd taken it. He could recite its contents without playing it, but still he lingered over it, and he knew he would continue to.

The shaky-camera of a person running quickly over cement; blurred images before the camera focuses on the man walking towards the bus.

"EDWARD!"

Shouts Greg standing with the camera. Edward turns his hips to regard the camera person but keeps walking to board the bus. The doors close, and the camera lowers to shut off.

Greg's frown only made the headache feel a little worse. His office was otherwise neatly organized save his desk where a laptop computer sat in sleep, around it on a bulletin board were some newspaper clippings noteworthy only to him, one even with his picture in the frame smiling proudly in front of some burned out wreck on the side of the road. The entire left side of the board belonged to his new search for Ed Terryn. It didn't amount to much, and anything he'd left behind Greg now owned and took up a tiny corner of his desk.

How little a man could become when he wanted for nothing especially when he needed the most. Ed Terryn was at best a drunk, at worst a bum. Never graduated, or held any title or place of distinction other than at the pub, or underground where his fists were well regarded.

Greg slid his hand along his chin, his tongue slid along the inside of his teeth, to the missing incisor, the last will and testament of Ed Terryn.

"How many teeth you got left," Ed had snickered.

"I think I swallowed it," Greg choked.

"Want to swallow 'em one by one? Make a quaint l'il meal of it?" He downed the bottle of bourbon lazily spilling some down his shirt.

Greg found himself snickering too, sliding open the autopsy report once more.

"Gregory." Came her cross voice from the doorway. He blinked, stunned at first, then in annoyance. He hated being called Gregory, especially in that tone of voice. It shook him out of his momentary stupor of remembrance and looked at his wife standing in the doorway with a dish towel slung over her shoulder.

She used to wear makeup.

Thirteen years since she'd worn more than some concealer.

"Did you get it?" He looked confused. Her hands lifted to rest on her hips with a loud sigh as Greg's head shook confusedly. Her shoulders slumped.

"It's your son's birthday." She didn't need to say more. The tone was enough. A lament. Familiar let-downs and failure, shirked responsibilities and forgetfulness rolled into one statement. Greg winced.

"How do you forget?" It was defeat now, not just lament. The knockout punch she'd never swung thirteen years ago was what came drilling from her lips every time they spoke now.

Her eyes scanned his office, spotted the half glass of whiskey, or bourbon, or whatever, then saw the autopsy report opened on the desk and she could fit the familiar, recurring pieces together. Greg could see her mind working too, thirteen years worth of practice learning to read one another and suddenly the ongoing argument they'd been having for the past several years flared up out of nowhere.

"You spend more time in this room with dead people than you do with your own kids."

"I'm not the one who wanted--" And there it was, as always. The bone of contention amid a myriad disagreements. His voice started out in force, he half rose up off the desk in righteous indignation at her but trailed off and he slumped further into his chair thankfully before he could finish his thought.

She stood silently scolding him, knowing where he was going even before he did. It wasn't anywhere good. Thirteen years of practice. It was the sentence that had seemingly been in line to be finished for a while now. He thought better of finishing it today, like he had in days past.

"I'll get it." He sighed, full of guilt. She stared in reply before turning and heading back for the kitchen.

Staved off for another day.

He finished the glass and stood up from the desk and headed back for his shoes and jacket.

Back in the kitchen Madeline had resumed stirring the metal whisk in the bowl. Birthday cake.

Fuck, Greg thought to himself. How did he forget?

He was outside inadvertently slamming the door and climbing back in the car before he got a second to process.

"What the hell am I getting him?"

His cell phone rang.

"What?"

"Gregory?" Her voice soothed out from the receiver.

"Doctor White?" He knew the voice.

"Hi." He could hear her smiling, and he smiled back over the phone before his eyes moved to the front door of his house. He could see her preparing the birthday cake in the kitchen and scolding him silently all the while.

"Hi." came his deflationary response. He could remember Doctor White's bare, shapely calves. He could imagine what they must feel like... "How did you get this number?" He put up imaginary walls, the damn ring on his finger emblazoned across them.

"You gave me your card. Said if I remembered anything else about Ed Terryn to give you a call."

"Oh. Right."

She giggled girlishly, her initial standoffishness had been softened by Greg's sincerity and concern for a man, she surmised, was important to him.

"I remember where he said he was going." Greg's ears perked and he sat up in the car seat and waited anxiously. "I can't believe I'd forget but he said Saint Petersburg."

"Russia?" Greg frowned at the uncharacteristic adventurism of a man who'd never left the borough in all the years he'd known him "Why would he go to Russia?" Greg thought aloud. Not like Ed Terryn had any reason to, he could think of. Does he even know Russian?

"I don't know, do you want to meet?" His eyes looked at his front door. All my time with dead people, he thought sardonically at her. What if he's not dead?

"Gregory?" She asked over the silent airwaves, beckoning him towards an unpredictability he was longing for, a mystery he could solve as opposed to the open-and-shout case waiting for him at home.

SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA – NIGHT

They ate their dinner in relative silence. Piotr Orlov looked towards the ceiling suspiciously then eyed his girlfriend, Klara as she blew on the steaming spoonful of soup before noticing him. She questioned him silently.

"You rented the apartment." She rolled her eyes and nodded.

"He paid in cash. Upfront." Piotr could be swayed by few things, cash was key.

"And he's been here how long?"

"I don't know. A week?" She said in between aggrieved blows onto her steaming noodle soup. Piotr eyed her, then the ceiling where their new tenant lived in the apartment above them.

"He's very quiet."

"Yes," she rolled her eyes, "the ideal tenant."

"What does he do?"

"He said he's in the fights, or something. Televised. Legit. Maybe he can get you tickets."

Piotr's eyes narrowed on the ceiling like a focused point of his insecurity.

"He might be a spy. Something bad."

"Then that's his problem. I thought cash was a good thing so I took it." She slurped the soup off the spoon and ignored him.

"Stinks up there. He's doing something I don't like." He said, already rising out of his seat. She didn't bother watching him as he left the apartment, listened instead as he stomped up the stairwell and banged loudly on his door.

It opened a crack and Piotr peeked in like a nosy landlord. From within two eyes peered out at him before coming to stand straight in the crack of the doorframe held fast by the chain lock.

"What are you doing in there?"

Disheveled hair with a no-nonsense expression is how Piotr would describe the man on the other side of the door. Ed, Klara had said his name was. That it was a man's name sparked Piotr's suspicion, and a second glance at his tenuous girlfriend.

"Renting," came the soft-spoken reply. Piotr shifted where he stood finding it difficult to conceal his agitation.

"I mean right now." Barely a blink, the eyes through the doorframe locked on him with dispassionate interest.

"Reading." Piotr's eyes narrowed further. Games. He didn't like games. This guy was a game player. He didn't like him.

"My wife, she's my wife, we're married—"

"Congratulations."

"Yes, she says you're in the fights."

"She's right."

Piotr shifted again. A heavyset man, he didn't like standing still, even less in the stare he was getting from this man he was now calling a tenant who didn't seem to blink, and didn't offer much in the way of answers to his nagging suspicions.

"Let me see your hands," he said like a toddler losing an argument. The eyes stared blankly through the door a moment before holding up the back of his right hand for Piotr to see.

Piotr wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he was looking at weathered knuckles, and the words "The Spirit is Willing, but the Flesh is Weak" scrawled in immaculate English script running upside down along the back of Ed's hand, like it were more for him to read than anyone else. Piotr couldn't read English.

"What's it say?"

He managed a blink from the man standing on the other side of the door.   

"The bible."

Slowly the hand was lowered back out of view. Piotr and Ed stared at one another through the crack in the door, Piotr's internal gears and mechanisms struggling to understand what he could do to solve the mystery of his new tenant, if there was one. He spoke fluent Russian, what words he actually spoke. Piotr frowned, you could see him thinking before he narrowed his eyes once more on his tenant.

"I'm watching you." Like it was a threat. The eyes didn't blink, instead remained dispassionately fixed on him and it made Piotr more agitated as the door closed softly in his face, and the sound of the deadbolt put a period on the conversation.

Piotr'd likely have to have sex with Klara tonight. Loud sex. Wall-thumping sex. Territory-marking sex. This tenant wasn't to be trusted.

Inside the apartment, Ed softly padded the soles of his feet along the floor and sat back down on his bed. Beside it a stack of books, otherwise the room was sparse and bare save for something with flies buzzing around it. Near that, by the window were several small tubs reeking of bleach and formaldehyde.

He rested his forearm across his knee, and upturned his hand where the widening blackened hole of necrotic tissue on his palm made him blink.

"The flesh is weak," he sighed and reached for a small bowl next to his bed and lifted out two maggots and set them onto the wound. He coiled the gauze thickly around his hand before noticing a similar, much smaller, patch on the top of his left hand.

A sigh escaped his lips.

"One step at a time," he whispered to himself and finished sealing the maggots to their work on his right hand.

Then he lifted the paper beside him listing the Unleashed Fighter payments. His eyes fixing on the assured payday, and the added performance incentives that awaited him should he perform well in the cage.

"One step at a time."