Blink {Featured}

Chapter Twenty Seven

JOHN FINNIE

'Hindsight, the most beautifully non-existent thing a person could wish for.' John rattled the tub and tipped four Vicodin into the palm of his hand. The ice had almost melted in his whiskey, which he reached for with a trembling hand. 'Hindsight,' he spat the word out in the empty room. The tablets were in his mouth, and he swallowed them down with the whiskey in one well practised movement.

'Hindsight,' he grumbled as he wheeled his chair over to the bed. A glimpse in the mirror stole his attention. The reflection of a tired older man stared back at him. 'Who are you? Who are you with your crippled body and old face, John? He sat staring. 'I hate you!' he growled, bursting into a blur of movement. The whiskey glass hit the mirror hard, spider-webbing its full length. Several warped reflections stared back at him, to which he spoke. 'Used to have hindsight, but it was taken from me.' He lifted a gnarled left hand up to the reflections. 'You took everything from me, you bastard.'

The sweet release of the painkillers doing their work saturated John's weary bones, and his head lolled forward. For the umpteenth time, he remembered 'that day', when all this had started and wished he could change it. Seventeen years of dreams, and each one had the murderer in it. Was he the only one who ever saw him?

The clarity of the dream never wavered. The murderer pulled over and opened the car door. He talked for a few seconds and beckoned her in. The little girl hesitated and then got in the car. The car sped away into a blurred horizon.

Seventeen years he dreamed the dream. Seventeen years he stood and watched. A tear streaked down his cheek, and his chest ached with sorrow. 'I'm sorry...'

SAMANTHA GRIMES

'It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...It doesn't matter...'

The words had been pouring from John's lips for over two hours now, and Sam--sat at the end of his bed--held her head as tears streamed down her face. The makeup she wore hadn't fooled John, the bruising underneath was too severe, and her right eye was almost swollen shut. Why hadn't he asked what had happened to her? And why did he keep say "it doesn't matter"? A sob escaped her.

Then there was silence. Samantha watched as John, with eyes shut, tilted his head to the ceiling. His jaw moved, but no words came out, then even that stopped. Studying his face, Samantha thought he looked stronger. Since Martin had taken John out, is seemed his lust for life had returned.

'Samantha,' he said with a strong voice. 'I'm sorry for any hurt I have caused you these last few months, but I need to ask some things of you. Firstly, two Vicodin, my leg is killing me. Secondly, I want photographs. Go to a local paper and buy every photo or digital image from just before Charlie died right up to present day. Money is no object. Thirdly, I want the cameras switched off in here. Can you do that for me?'

Samantha nodded, even though John had his closed.

'Good,' he said. 'You've been good to me all these years, and I have been a dick since I've woken up. Things are going to change Sam, things are going to change and you won't even know. I'm going to make this right; I'm going to save them all. My legs, are they stronger now?'

'Yeah,' she said, 'strongest they've been since you woke up.'

John smiled. 'Okay Sam, go get me the pictures. Tell Mam and Dad to turn off the cameras. I want four meals a day brought up, left next to the door. I may not eat them, but tell Mam and Dad to keep them coming. High protein meals if you can, oh yeah and water, lots of water. Something tells me I'm going to sweat a lot in the next few weeks.