Ink Portals

A shot at redemption

36

Pierre woke up to Genevieve hovering over him. He quickly realized that he was on the bed in the corner of his old room. He had no idea how long he had been out, but he could tell it was morning. There was a slanting bar of sunlight from the window, highlighting the color of Genevieve's hair as she tucked a lock behind her ear. She was sitting on the floor beside the mattress, her face smudged with dust from the tunnels. She tested Pierre's temperature with the back of her hand over his forehead.

It had taken all three of them to carry Pierre's limp body up through the tunnels. They carried him all the way back, through the hearth and into the room on the second floor of The Guild. On the bedside table was an empty bottle of Vodka from the bar downstairs, used to disinfect the gashes on his back.

Arthur was staring at the fireplace at the foot of the bed. The soot near the hearth was trampled with footprints. He said: "If it wasn't for your night vision we would have never gotten back out of there."

"You are welcome," Genevieve said winking at Arthur. "The reason I helped you was because, deep down, I wanted Pierre back. That and you were blackmailing me. But mostly, I wanted to see him again." She paused, studying Pierre's pale complexion, then said: "I never knew a cut to the tattoo could disable a bearer."

"Me neither," Arthur said. "That was until it happened to a friend of ours in Japan. Abby stitched up her skin afterwards and it came back to life."

"Well, let's make sure this one doesn't come back," Genevieve said, wiping Pierre's forehead with a wet towel.

Arno came into the room wearing his apron. He was carrying a steaming bowl of chicken soup on a silver tray. He was holding the dish a little awkwardly because of his one arm, still inside a sling.

"Good to have you back, boss," he said with a heavy French accent, and placed the tray on the mattress, then stood back.

"Much obliged, old friend," Pierre said adjusting his legs under the covers and trying to sit up in the bed. His torso was wrapped in bandages after Abby had carefully cleaned and dressed the wounds; they were deep and wide, and bound to leave a nasty amount of scar tissue.

"Keep still," Genevieve said, picking up the soup. "I will feed you."

Pierre's eyes shifted to Arthur standing by the fireplace, then over to Abby. He didn't remember much of anything after the fight with Kurtis in the garden, but he knew that Annabelle and Jack were dead.

He wanted to say something. He needed to, but the words that would set in motion that long, painful apology simply wouldn't fall into place in his mind. Genevieve stirred the soup and blew lightly over a half-spoonful, then gave him a taste. Arno's soup was rich and delicious, as always. The French just had a way with food - even with something as simple as soup.

Arthur sat down next to Abby on a dusty Victorian couch by the window. She was watching Genevieve feed Pierre. Arthur crossed his arms, then his legs and looked the other way. Genevieve and Pierre spoke affectionately in French, punctuated by more soup-feeding. Pierre stole a glance at Arthur. The pain he had caused this young man was clearly visible on his face. It seemed to make Arthur look years older than when Pierre had met him just days ago. He looked hardened, like a soldier that had seen death first-hand on the battlefield.

Another spoonful of soup went into Pierre's mouth.

Arthur rolled his eyes as he got up and said: "We should go."

"Arthur, wait," Pierre said. "A word in private, if I may?"

Genevieve and Abby exchanged glances, then got up and left the room with Arno following behind them.

Arthur reluctantly walked up to the bed with his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his pants. For a moment he reminded Pierre so much of Jack: the scruffy beard, just starting to grow out; the cocky walk, like he had a million other places to be. Arthur looked down at Pierre who appeared weak, but the color in his face was slowly returning.

"I am deeply sorry about your father."

"There's nothing left to say. Nothing is going to bring him back."

"I know. I just need you to understand that it was not my intention for it to happen this way. God only knows... that thing... it took a hold of me. You freed me from it. But still, there is no pardon that could make you feel any better. All I can do is to beg for your forgiveness."

"Well, I can't give it to you."

Pierre nodded but said nothing. He leaned over and ran his hand along the underside of the bedside-drawer. As he did so he had a look of concentration on his face, like someone searching for something they hid away a very long time ago, unsure of exactly where it was. Then he plucked at an object, apparently taped to the underside of the drawer, and pulled it free.

"Ah, there it is," Pierre said, holding up a small key with a crumpled, cardboard-tag on the key ring. The tag had something written on it. It was almost illegible and looked like it had gotten wet at some point. And the key was an ordinary key, with nothing fancy or interesting about it whatsoever. Pierre regarded the object with a sense of nostalgia, as one would look at an old birthday card, then he handed it over to Arthur.

"What's this?" Arthur said, frowning down at the palm of his hand.

"Jack was bankrupt before he died, that was also my fault. It all happened because I showed up on your doorstep. And now you and Abby, God bless her, are destitute because of me. I cannot let you leave here with nothing."

"Thanks, but I don't need a handout," Arthur said, tossing the key back onto the bed covers. "We'll be just fine. You go ahead and finish your soup. It looks like they really take good care of you around here."

"Arthur," Pierre said, leaning forward from the bed, despite the aching pain in his back. He seized Arthur by his wrist and pulled him in close. "Please, I need you to accept this last gesture of my apology. Grant me that, at least."

Pierre took the key and stuffed it into Arthur's pocket.

"You don't need to use it, just keep it with you, in case you change your mind. That is all I ask."

"Don't fucking touch me," Arthur said, slapping Pierre's hand away.

"Please," Pierre said, grabbing Arthur's other wrist and holding him by the bed.

"I can't forgive you! Alright?" Arthur screamed at Pierre, with tears now rolling down his face. "Now let go of me!"

Abby was outside in the hallway, watching them from the doorway. Pierre relaxed his grip and watched Arthur leave the room. He kicked the black door shut behind him without looking back. The door splintered apart where it had been repaired not too long ago, like a wound not yet ready to be healed.