Chapter 189: Patty XXI

Chapter 189: Patty XXI—Before the Sun Rises

 

            He could feel her legs squeezing tightly against his body, hands burning on his chest and his lungs were constricted. He knew he was suffocating and dying. It became worse and worse and when Patrick opened his eyes he could see a blurred form above him but he couldn’t touch her.

            And then in the instant she had disappeared from his body. He could hear her feet across the carpet and the click of the hotel door closing. Patrick sat up and looked around the room, not seeing anyone and only hearing Foote as he snored in the bed next to him. It must have been a dream.

            Patrick blinked. It had felt real, he could still feel the tickle on his chest where she had been sitting. He still felt a cold, hard pressure against his ribs. There was also a taste on his lips. Patrick closed his eyes tightly; saw only a field of white, orbs dripping pink. No it wasn’t like that, it was almost as sickly sweet.

            It fell upon Patrick’s brain that perhaps he was lost, that he didn’t know where he was. He looked around the dark room, at the shadowy outlines, furniture, sounds of Foote snoring. He closed his eyes and then saw the white again, he opened them quickly, saw the bluish black again. He inhaled and smelled the memory of that rancid animal, the slime on his fingers when he had tossed his helmet off, throwing it across the locker room floor. It had cracked open and he would need a new one.

            He inhaled and his breath shuddered as he did, and he felt an overwhelming pain in his chest. He had broken into tears in the shower earlier, and he felt them spilling out again. What was he crying for? He hadn’t been responsible for a very important loss, no one was dead, he didn’t feel this humiliation at home. He sobbed, and his body trembled and he felt a sharp pain in his ribs where that discomfort was in his dreams.

            The girl had been drowned so long ago. Michele had insisted that it had happened. Patrick had not seen her, had not seen any evidence of it, but why would she lie about it? And why did they do nothing about it? That could be explanation enough for a dream, being suffocated by a faceless, nameless girl. A girl so unimportant that she had never appeared in any poster or flyer, no one had ever missed her.

            There was a roaring in his head, between his eyes, between his ears. The sound of the crowd howling and taunting, arrogant and knowing. For some reason he couldn’t handle this anymore, not tonight. When the sun rose perhaps, he would feel better, much better. It just wasn’t working tonight.

            It didn’t last much longer, the spell. It wasn’t easy to cry when one didn’t have the concrete reason for doing so. Patrick calmed, inhaled again, and smelled something different this time. It was a phantom smell, a sour smell, alcohol. The taste was also on his lips and tongue, burning in his throat. He wanted a drink. He would feel better and much more relaxed; he would sleep better if he had something to drink.

            Patrick sighed, and he squinted, looked at the glowing digital clock. It was after midnight, the hotel bar wasn’t open he didn’t think, not here. It didn’t matter, he didn’t feel right being in bed, he knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep anytime soon and even if he did, he didn’t want the chance of another dream like the one that he had just had.

            A cold hand on the cheek, on the chest. A cold kiss. There was no passion there, it was only mechanics, it was only scientific… Patrick coughed as he pulled his clothes on, fumbling in the dark, pulled on his shoes.

            He was not quite sure where he was going or what he was wanting as he left the hotel room, stood blinking in the dimly lit hallway. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and as he was walking down the hallway he heard some voice, a deep, different language. Patrick stopped and listened to it. It was Russian, at least it sounded Russian. He stopped and leaned against the wall, watched them approach, pale faces, slicked hair, black leather jackets and a heavy aroma of unfiltered cigarettes. One of them nodded as they walked past, Patrick nodded back, smiled to himself.

            He remembered a story Robinson had told him a year ago about being a guest in Russia for a charity hockey game. Larry had told him that for some reason, as he was leaving a hotel with a friend, he had been surrounded by a group of Russian gangsters, they had motioned for him to follow them into their long, black car. It was the sort of car that people rode in when they would never come back. Larry had told him he had panicked and said the only thing he could think of to say to them, knowing no Russian was, “Slava Fetisov” the name of the man who was his host. The Russians had backed off, “Da” one of them had said, and they left, never bothering him again.

            Larry had wondered to him, why had they picked on him, what he had done wrong. Patrick didn’t say it but he figured that Larry had probably hooked up with a boy who was someone’s son or brother, someone he shouldn’t have toyed with. He really had escaped something there with the uttering of a name.

            Names had power amongst Russians; there was still a code of recognition and respect. It was a funny thing. Patrick liked the aura of it. It amused him. He wondered who they had been paying a visit too, and how long they had left to live, if they were still alive at all.

            Patrick watched them as they disappeared down the hallway, their voices fading, their scent disappearing. He wrinkled his nose and yawned. Where did he want to go?

            “I bet you’re thirsty.”

            Patrick narrowed his eyes and looked up to see David Aebischer standing there, a grin on his girlish face, a six pack of beer in his slim, pale hand. “I know I’m thirsty, Darling. I had them put this in the fridge for after the game, and I just thought to myself. I bet you’re thirsty.”

            Patrick ran his tongue over his teeth, under his lips. That’s what he wanted, cold and soothing… “Thank you,” he said.

            “In French if you like?” David said in French, “I’m not uncomfortable with the language and I only wish to accommodate.” He popped one of the cans out of its plastic collar and stepped forward, Patrick could sense the warmth from his body, felt the electric thrill when their fingers met. Patrick didn’t look at David’s face as he opened the can, didn’t look into his eyes as he brought the can to his lips and drank. Very cold, cutting down his esophagus, warming in his stomach.

            He was lingering, very close, almost touching him. Patrick smiled and finally looked at him; saw the playfulness there in those blue eyes. “What are you up to?” Patrick said in French.

            David shrugged and reached forward, brushing his fingers through Patrick’s hair, warm fingers, sending a thrill through him. “Nothing,” David said, “Why would you think that?”

            Patrick grunted, took another drink, felt much better and David still was toying through his hair.

            “You need a hair cut,” David said in a whisper and Patrick was slightly surprised, slightly pleased to feel his lips on the side of his neck. “You’re looking like a lumberjack. It’s just the beard you’re missing.”

            “What do you care?” Patrick replied, and David’s body pressed against him, his lips finding his. “Maybe I should try the beard.”

            Patrick didn’t move into him, didn’t respond, he just leaned against that wall, enjoying the feel, the warmth, the breath. David’s teeth flashed against his lip, and then the young man pulled away. Patrick closed his eyes, grinned, and opened them slowly.

            “Lonely?” David asked. “I could get a room.”

            Patrick raised his eyebrows. “For certain?”

            David grinned. “Don’t get me wrong darling, this is only before the sunrise. I wouldn’t even acknowledge something like this during the day. It’s nicer during the night, different.”

            Patrick kept his eye on David and he finished off the rest of the beer. “Why not here.”

            David’s eyes widened, he paled, his lips parted and Patrick smiled. “What?” David said in a wary, uncomprehending voice.

            “Like you said,” Patrick replied. “It’s different during the night.”

            A slow smile spread over David’s face. “What if we were caught?”

            “Then we would be ruined, yes?” Patrick replied. “How brave are you feeling?”

            David sighed, a serious, face, a manly face suddenly and he looked away, swallowed loudly. Patrick saw his eyebrows fall down, his mouth frown. “Do you see that?” he asked.

            Patrick squinted and looked in the direction David was. He saw it briefly, instantly. It was the pale outlines of a girl, not a girl, a young woman, slim, transparent, large eyes like dinner plate orbs, and in that instant, she disappeared. Patrick felt his mouth cotton dry and his veins tremble with a cold fear, he was suddenly grateful that he wasn’t alone. He felt again his lungs pressing down. He saw the large, soaked circle on the carpet where they had seen her.

            “What was that?” David finally asked.

            Patrick shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Things like that are best ignored, yes?”

            “No!” David said. “That’s insane.”

            “Perhaps,” Patrick said. “Perhaps it’s time for bed.”

            David laughed. “Darling, this time I’m inclined to agree. Let’s wake up and forget this as a dream.”