The Quiet Man

Spider's Web

The glass is shattered in a pattern like a spider’s web; there’s a dark, dense centre where the bullet must have hit, wreathed in concentric circles of cracks that radiate outward. It blots out the street, the light, the sun. The world is darker now. Did he hit me? He must have. He wasn’t three feet from me.

Am I hurt? I don’t feel anything. It’s so quiet. Am I dead?

Sherlock?

Are you still there? Am I dying while you watch me on CCTV cameras? That’s what it was like for me, you know. Watching you die from a distance. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

It was a stupid plan. I came out here to get Moran’s attention, it was too easy for me to get killed. Far too easy. Mycroft tried to warn me: he can control a lot of things, your brother, but no one can keep a seventeen year old boy’s finger from touching a trigger when he wants to. When he’s told to.

It’s my own fault; it was my idea. I wanted to get this over with. I wanted you back, alive, whole, like you were. It seemed worth the risk. It was: it was worth it. If it worked; did it? Is it over yet?

I could have waited a few more days, at least. I could have spent a few more days locked up in the flat with you, watching you taunt Moran through texts, feeding you reasonable meals, staring out the window with you. I would have had a few more nights with you curled up against me, your lips against my neck and your hand resting on my stomach. Waiting a few more days wouldn’t have made much difference, would it?

I should have kissed you before I left.

You wanted me to get down. Right at the last second, before he fired. You were about to say it: you wanted me to duck down, get out of his line of fire, isn’t that right? It was too late by then: he’d already made the decision to squeeze the trigger, there was no stopping him. Moran must have told him to. He must have been negotiating with you. You pissed him off, didn’t you. Of course you did. You wanted him to reveal himself, give himself away. You didn’t say what he wanted you to say, what he was expecting. You didn’t give up. Of course you didn’t. You don’t. You never do.

Did you find him? Did it work?

I don’t feel anything. I can feel the blood in my ears, my own pulse. A faint ringing: it must be from the gunshot. But my heart is still beating. I’m still alive.

I remember what it’s like to be shot. You hear it first. They say that’s not possible; the bullet travels faster than the sound of it does. But it’s true: you hear it, and you don’t feel anything. Even if you see your own blood on your jacket, or on your hands, you don’t think it’s you who’s been shot. Not at first. It’s some kind of denial; your body isn’t ready to admit it’s been breached. It tells you otherwise. You thought that somehow you were going to live forever. You hear the shot and it’s too close: you think you were passed over once again, like you always are. You’re one of the lucky ones, as usual, still whole. It’s a few long seconds later that you notice it: the creeping pain, the feeling of being ripped open, torn apart. It grows and grows until it’s overwhelming and you’d give anything for it to stop. But for the first few seconds you don’t know. Your life still proceeds as normal. You still have all your plans intact: get back to the base, take a shower, have dinner. Call home, maybe. Write a letter. And then you know: it’s you this time. You may never do any of those mundane things again. Did you enjoy them enough while you had the chance? No. Never. You never do.

Mike is on the floor, he’s hiding under the table. He’s put his hand on my leg, he’s trying to pull me down. He thinks there’ll be more bullets. There’s a siren going off outside. Voices: shouting.

“John.”

People are screaming. They sound as if they’re a great distance away. They’re getting very rapidly closer. Screaming: it’s right beside me, all around me. Outside; inside. Tables are overturned, people are afraid. Mike: he’s on the floor. There are tears on his face. His eyes are huge. My neighbour is trying to say something to me, I can see his mouth moving. I can’t hear him. What’s going on?