By the time I found the guest bedroom off the small living room, Howard had already propped Meli up with a mountain of pillows on a pristine white bed. He was coming out of the room when I reached the door, causing us to engage in the awkward me-left-you-right-no-me-right-you-left tradition, before I stepped aside and he shuffled past.

“Where are you going?” I asked, glancing at Meli’s face, so starkly in contrast with the sharp whiteness of the bedsheets.

“To get an ice-pack.”

“Oh. Okay,” I said. “When will your father be here?”

“As soon as he can,” he assured, heading for the kitchen on the other side of the hall.

I let him go. The sooner something was done for Meli, the better. And the only people who knew how to do that were these strangers.

I collected a towel from the bathroom and, after wetting it, brought it to the bed, lowering myself gently on the edge, reluctant to rattle her porcelain frame. I scooted closer and touched the tip of the cool cloth on her skin. The blood under her nose was a mat of dark brownish-red.

“Oh, Meli,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying. “How did this happen?”

Meli’s eyes flickered open. “Zara…?” Her voice was so weak a little breeze could have blown it away.

I withdrew my hand. “Yes, Meli, I am here. Don’t worry, I got help. The doctor will be here in a moment.”

“Zara…? It hurts…” Her face screwed up and the dark swollen ridges under her eyes stood out.

“I know, baby, I know,” I said. “The doctor is coming. He will make everything better. Howard!” I called as loudly as I dared.

“My face hurts, Zara…!” she gasped, starting to thrash.

I grabbed her hands. She tried to pull out of my grasp but I held tight. Tears of pain drowned the green in her eyes into the bottom of a shifting pool. “My face hurts!”

“I know, I know… Doctor! Howard! They will be here right now. Look at the door,” I said, collecting her hands in one of mine and pointing to the door with the other. “They will be here in a second. Just look…”

“Zara…!” Sobs racked her body.

A small, thin man suddenly materialised at the door, his shirt unbuttoned over a white vest, one arm in the process of being shoved into a sleeve. His hair was a halo of white, crumbled from sleep. There were sleep crusts in the corners of his eyes. The little woman from before was behind him, clutching a silver-coloured bag, her expression worried.

When the man saw Meli, he cursed. Very colourfully. Immediately, he was by her side, his hand reaching for her face as if on its own volition. There was a strange expression on his face, as if he was searching for something he recognised but knew it did not exist.

Then, determinedly, he gave himself a shake and snapped to attention.

“Look at me, my girl.” His voice was as soft as a warm spring, ebbing and flowing, soothing. “I got you. I am going to help you. We will make everything alright.”

Meli’s feverish eyes focused on his face. “My face hurts…” she said, her words broken.

He swallowed. “I know. And I am going to take the pain away.” He turned to his wife. “Jenny, quick, the morphine.”

The woman—Jenny—snapped open the bag. Inside was a nightmare. There was a jumble of neatly labelled little bottles, syringes in their crackly covers, gauze and cotton, alcohol wipes, a stethoscope, a sphygmomanometer, and so many other things that I didn’t recognise. Oh, and there was a hammer too.

All the orderly jumble must have made sense to Jenny, for she was pulling out a bottle and syringe without hesitation. The doctor rubbed some gel onto his hands and snapped rubber gloves on. Jenny put the bottle and syringe on the bedside table and proceeded to rip open an alcohol wipe packet. She handed it to the doctor.

“Alright, you two. Howard and the girl I don’t know the name of. Get out.”

What?

“I am not leaving Meli alone,” I informed him, firm.

The doctor fixed me with a hard stare. “As of now, this room is an emergency theatre, I, the doctor, and this,” he motioned toward Meli, “my patient. And when I tell you to get out you will do it before even thinking the word no.”

“But—”

“Come on…” Howard grabbed my arm and started pulling me away. It was all I could do to keep my crutches in place and not end up being dragged like a dead body. Okay, the boy is way too strong to be the son of such little people.

“Stop—”

“My father does not use that hammer to check for reflexes only, you know,” he hissed. “Different types of people pass through our doors. He is as capable of inflicting wounds as he is of healing them. Don’t test his patience.” He succeeded in pulling me out the door and shut it before I could slither back in.

“Let go!” I said, ripping my arm out from his grasp. We were standing in the living room. I hobbled toward the couch and flopped down on it. If I am not allowed in, I am definitely making myself at home. I looked at Howard settling much more gracefully in the armchair on my left. And I am getting some answers while we are at it.

“How do I know you father is a real doctor?”

“Excuse me?”

I shrugged. “You and your family could be almost anyone. How could I be any the wiser?”

“I am sure my father will oblige you with his ID.”

“Hmm…” I let silence fall. Then, “You said your father had experience with cases like these. What did you mean? Who is he, exactly?”

He frowned. “Are you new here?”

“Do you know me from Adam?”

“Er… no?”

“Then I am new here. Barely two months.”

He huffed. “Right. Explains why you’re so ignorant.”

“Look man, I don’t even know your last name. Please don’t be so informal.” I was stressed and worried. That combination had never worked very well for me, hence the rudeness. I hoped he would not take it personally.

He scowled. Definitely taking it personally. “Right. Whatever. The name’s Williams.”

“Howard Williams?” I looked at him expectantly.

“Yes.”

"So...?" I prompted.

"So what?" He asked right back, scratching the back of his neck.

I inclined my head. “So, how is it your father has seen cases like these before?”

He sighed. “This kind of beating up? This happens here all the time. No one dares go to the hospital. The police would come in and cause trouble. So they come to my father.”

“Why won’t anyone go to the police? You said Meli won’t want to go either. Why do you think that?” My neck was tensing up from looking over at him. I slipped off my flats and shifted so that my feet were on the sofa and my back against the armrest.

“Wow,” Howard settled back in his chair too, regarding me with quizzical black eyes. “You really have no idea what kind of place you are in.” He sounded like he couldn’t believe such a thing was possible.

“I live under a rock. Do enlighten me.” I waved a hand in encouragement.

“Your friend works for Fred, right? Do you know what Fred does?”

I considered. “Feed people something that is most positively not goat, cow or pig meat?” I added 'pig' because people ate that here. Back home, 'pig' was practically akin to the f-word.

“No. He— I am not sure if I should be telling you this. Believe me, the only safest and luckiest people in this place are the ignorant ones.”

I narrowed my eyes. “My friend just got beaten half to death. I think I deserve to know.”

“Yes, you sure do. The only question is if you will thank me or curse me to the ninth circle of hell after gaining this knowledge.”

“Why don’t you let me decide that?”

“I don’t think your friend wanted you to know. If she did, she would have told you.”

“My friend is in that room right now," a vicious thumb jabbed in the direction of the firmly closed door, "injected with morphine. I am sure she won’t mind.”

Howard sighed. “You won’t be warned off, will you?”

“No. I have many suicidal tendencies. Depending on what you tell me, this might be one of them.” I leaned forward.

“Okay, girl—”

“Zara.”

“Okay, Zara. Do you know what Bosley does in his basement?”

“Er… no? I have been working with him for only about a month. But I am guessing it isn’t making cakes, like Meli told me.”

He looked so low I could imagine seeing his eyes, nose and mouth droop. He snorted. “No, not cakes. He’s making drugs in there.”

“Er… excuse me?" I frowned. "What do you mean? Like cocaine?”

“Cocaine, meth, heroine… you name it. And some much newer formulae…”

“B-but, if you know about this, why haven’t you told the police?” I don't sputter often, so do consider me surprised.

“Because!” he exploded, shooting off the armchair like a bazooka. “Because they don’t care. Almost all of them have a finger in this pie!" He turned around and stared at a vase on the mantlepiece like it had committed murder. I straightened, suddenly ill at ease.

"Who cares," he continued vehemently, making me think he was just warming up, "how many of our children die before they reach an age to know right from wrong? Who cares that most of our young can more likely be found in a ditch flying aeroplanes than in a school? Who the bloody hell cares!” He punched the wall hard enough to made a painting rattle. I jumped. He whirled around to glare at me. “Do you know why your friend just got her face rearranged? This is why! I bet she told someone something. Something she shouldn’t have.

"And did you notice?” he asked suddenly, eyes shining with a maniacal gleam. My heart was pounding in my chest. “Did you notice he didn’t kill her? He could so easily have done it—" a loud snap of fingers "—but he didn’t. Because he, and those above him, don't care! He didn’t need to get his hands dirty. It won’t have made a difference anyways, if she told or if she didn’t. It won’t have affected them one bit! He did this for the fun of it! To send a freaking message, if you will. Nothing else… a message…” Somehow he was back before the armchair. He flopped down on it and buried his face in his hands. “A message. A life ruined for a message…”

I couldn’t find one word to say. I just sat there, as still as a statue, my mind a complete blank. There was a very bad taste in my mouth.

After sufficient time had passed, I asked tentatively, afraid to set him off again: “Do you know Meli?” My voice was barely above a whisper. A chair in the other room moved.

He looked up at me, a question in his eyes. Suddenly he looked old, like these worries had made the years descend on his brow. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

I motioned with my head toward the closed door. “Meli? Do you know her? From before?”

“A bit.” His voice was hoarse from shouting. “I saw her around town these past years but we never moved in the same circles.”

“I see.”

Silence. Then, “Do you know anyone who—you know, takes…” I couldn’t quite finish.

He was silent for a moment, watching me. When I was almost sure he wasn’t going to answer, he said, “A few.”

Then I just had to ask. How could I not? I knew the answer, of course. But I just had to ask.

“Can anything be done?”

“Nothing. We are doomed.”           
***