Emily hugged him again, and they stood together in the kitchen of a dead stranger's house.
They looked around for some food, but there was nothing here to eat. If Rosemary and some of her friends used this as a safe house, they certainly didn't keep it stocked. They did find some bottled water, however, and they all swigged down most of a bottle each. Sparky gently lifted Jenna's head, while Emily poured some into her mouth, but it dribbled out when she winced in pain, soaking her neck and the sofa beneath her.
“We can't let this happen,” Sparky said. “It's not fair.”
“Rosemary will do her best,” Jack said.
“We need to do our best, too. We've lost Lucy-Anne, Jack. We just let her go, get lost, and we left her back there.”
“We didn't have a choice.” He could see that Sparky understood, but Jack felt impotent and helpless. “You do know that, don't you? We could have—”
“She could be dead, Jack.”
“We could have all been killed in there, and no one would ever know.”
“Yeah,” Sparky sighed. “No one's ever going to know about Stephen. How he died, where. Why. Even Mum and Dad won't give a shit, if I ever get out and manage to tell them. They won't believe me, or they won't care. He died much longer ago for them than for me.”
“He knew you were a good brother, mate.”
“You think so?”
“Definitely.” Jack sat in an armchair across from the sofa, looking at their dying friend.
“She won't be long,” Emily said.
“She can't be.” Sparky was still holding Jenna's hand.
They waited for three hours, and every minute was a lifetime. Jack and Emily used some of the bottled water to wash as best they could, but Sparky refused to leave Jenna's side. She woke up a few times, but she would sweat and moan and cry out, and they were all glad when the pain took her into unconsciousness again. It was better for her, and easier for them.
Jack was desperate to change his jeans. They were soaked with blood—Gordon's, Lucy-Anne's, and his own—and though mostly dried, he could still smell it. He rooted around upstairs and found a pair of jeans, dusty but whole, that were only one size too large for him. And it was while he was changing that he suddenly remembered the photograph.
It was soaked. Stained. Beyond repair. He wiped it, licking his fingers and smearing the blood across its surface, dabbing it on old bedding, but his mother's image was marked forever. He hoped it was not an omen.
He slid the photo into the rump pocket of his new jeans and went back downstairs.
They talked about Lucy-Anne. Jack was struck with guilt for leaving her behind, but they all agreed that they'd had no real choice. Events had carried them along. They discussed what could have happened to her, and perhaps with Jenna as she was they found it necessary to be honest with each other, and themselves. Maybe she was caught, Sparky said. She might be dead, Emily whispered. Jack nodded at them both, remembering the sounds of chaos and conflict echoing from the hotel even as they fled. And what he had heard the Chopper, Miller, saying to his soldiers gave him little hope.
When they heard the front door opening and the sounds of people entering, carefully and cautiously, Jack leapt for the living room door, ready to slam it in the intruders’ faces.
“It's me,” Rosemary said, and Jack slumped with relief.
She entered the room with a short fat man, his face resembling a nervous rat's. His skin was slick with sweat, and he stared around at them as though they were exhibits, not people. His gazed rested on Jenna, and without a word he sat on the sofa beside her and gently lifted her hands from her wound.
“This is Ruben,” Rosemary said. He lifted one hand in acknowledgement, never taking his eyes from Jenna's stomach.
“Can you help her?” Sparky asked.
“Yes. You'll need to give me some room, though.”