Death's Captive: Will she escape eternal confinement?

CHAPTER 31

I swivel around and head back to the nurses' station, but instead of going towards one of the wards the ting draws me towards the stairs. I drift down a couple of flights and come out near the big sliding doors at the entrance to the hospital. I glance outside, but there are no ambulances waiting with new patients. The ting persists and I follow the sound down the driveway, across the trimmed front lawn to the edge of the hospital grounds. I walk towards the large iron gates that I've never seen closed and see a black sports car askew across the driveway. One tyre has mounted the gutter and the front bumper looks like it only just missed the ornate gates.

I hear a clear, loud ting. This must be it. As I approach the vehicle, the driver's door swings open and a dark suited leg flops out onto the ground, the shiny steel tip of black leather shoe clinking on the bitumen. The driver is well dressed and his shaven head is leaning back on the headrest as one hand clutches his abdomen. His breaths are quick and laboured. He seems to be struggling to remain conscious. His head rolls towards me and his squinting brown eyes lock on to mine.

"Are you going to help me or just vatch me bleed out?" His voice is guttural and there's an accent I can't quite place, but I'm reminded of a Chekov play I must have seen once.

The little bell in my head seems to indicate that even if I could help get him into the hospital, his chances of surviving his injuries would be slim.

"I'm sorry, I think it's too late."

The man breathes harder; I think it's in frustration but it's hard to tell.

"I can make it vorth your vile. I'm a vealthy and vell connected man."

"There's nothing you can offer me that will make any difference."

The man's looks down at his hand covering the wound. He shifts his hand to see the extent of the damage, and once with the pressure removed the wound begins to pulse dark red blood. The man's brow scrunches as he throws his head back onto the seat rest. Without looking at me he speaks again.

"Vhat's your name?"

"Ava."

"Well then Ava, if you don't help me inside and I do survive, I'll have you hunted down and left for dead, so you can understand how I feel right now."

I laugh out loud at the thought of being left for dead. I don't think the man has realised he's on the verge of death and is speaking to its personification. He's driving a luxury car and his suit looks tailor-made, so he could be a legitimate businessman. But his heavy gold jewellery, the oozing bullet wound and a large chest tattoo peeking out of the top of his white collared shirt hint at underworld connections.

"Drug deal gone wrong?" My curiosity is roused.

"No. It vas set up– to take me out."

The bell is getting louder, but I delay reaping his soul. This is more interesting than my monotonous existence. And is a distraction from my internal conflict.

"Who would want to do that?"

"I von't talk. Not to you. Get me inside!"

"Perhaps you'd prefer to talk to the police. Because that's what will happen if you go in there. They always call the police in for gunshot wounds." I throw my thumb in the direction of the hospital.

"Good."

Good? That seems to crush my gangster theory. His eyelids grow heavy and his head rolls back away from me. I sense he'll be ready to cross over soon.

"What's your name?"

"Viktor." His words are a drowsy slur.

I reach towards him and put my hand on his shoulder, not to reap but to try to get a glimpse of what happened.