“Yes.”
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
“Sleep deprivation does strange things to the brain.” Dr Tem-Pest’s voice is deep and grounding, the kind of voice he’s practised over the years in order to lull his patients into trusting him.
“It wasn’t a hallucination if that’s what you’re suggesting. I saw her. She walked out of the lake and up to the house. I watched her take each step until she was right under the balcony. Then she stopped and looked up. And it was horrible. Her face was white, her eyes black, her hair dripping and stuck to her skin. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead ofwords, a flood of black water rushed from her, and I screamed and ran. I fucking ran from my dead daughter. I hid like a baby. Because I was afraid, scared out of my mind. So, I remained in my bed, trembling and weeping. Then I must have drifted off, because when I woke, there was water on my bedroom floor. Pools of it surrounding my bed. How do you explain that?”
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
Dr Tem-Pest scratches his chin before answering. “You could have washed your hands in the night and not dried them properly.”
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
“No,” Fortunato jumps in. “The water was dirty, and I could see the footsteps.”
“Well, whatever is going on here, I’m sure there’s some explanation, but in the meantime, you need to let me help. If you don’t want to rely on my usual methods, I can give you regular drugs.”
“Goddammit, I said no drugs.”
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
“Okay.” Dr Tem-Pest holds his hands up, palms flat. “But we need to do something. We have a meeting at the casino this afternoon, and you can’t go looking like that.”
“You want to do something?” Fortunato glares at him, the whites of his eyes blazing. “You can find out where that fucking noise is coming from.”
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
The light changes, and now I see Fortunato sitting at a large rectangular table, heading up a meeting. A woman in a red dress is talking. Fortunato seems to be staring at his notepad. He looks better than he did previously, encased in a starched shirt and grey business jacket, but his face remains gaunt, his eyes absent, as if they’re looking but seeing nothing.
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
At the sound, his wild eyes search the people who are all paying attention to the woman, who’s talking about the potential for improvements for the casino to make an upwards trajectory and other business jargon that gets lost as soon as she utters it. And then Fortunato freezes, his eyes like that of a startled deer, his mouth open, a silent scream working its way out.
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
Because there, sitting at the end of the table, is Ed, the bullet wound dripping blood down his forehead, his eyes locked on Fortunato as the blood runs down his face and pools on the stack of papers in front of him, staining the stark white a brilliant crimson.
“What the fuck?” Fortunato gasps as the room stills.
The woman’s voice trails off as the entire table looks over at him.
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
“Sir, are you all right?” the woman asks, but Fortunato glares at Ed.
“Get out,” he mutters.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said get out. All of you. Get out. Get out. Get out!”
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
The scene cuts again, and we’re back in the basement as Fortunato swings a sledgehammer at the wall, bottles of wine smashing on impact, the wooden shelving splintering at the force of the blow.
“Stop. Just fucking stop!” he hollers.
Der-dun. Der-dun. Der-dun.
