Page 74 of The Last Postcard

Torchlight dazzled me, shining straight into my eyes; feet were rushing forwards. I yelled and struck out with the knife.

‘Del Potro, it’s me! It’s me, damn you!’

Wet fingers were gripping my wrist. I blinked hard.

‘Monsieur?’

With a rush of breath, Langham released me. ‘Who else? Put that knife away, for god’s sake.’

Stunned, I backed into the kitchen and placed it on the counter. Langham was drenched, not only with rain. As he walked across the kitchen, he left traces of wet sand on the tiles. I had never seen him so dishevelled. He leaned against the kitchen table, his jaw tight, his shining hair matted.

‘Monsieur,’ I asked, stepping closer, ‘are you all right?’

He didn’t answer. I saw then that one hand was clasped around his sleeve, blood oozing through his fingers. I made a noise and reached out, but he jerked away.

‘Is Hilde in?’ His voice was taut.

‘No. She is out with Mademoiselle Alisée.’

‘Good.’ He released a breath. ‘That’s good.’

‘Monsieur,’ I said, for he was pushing himself away from the table, walking towards the door, ‘shall I call someone? Bouzid, or a doctor?’

‘No. No doctors. And Bouzid will not be able to come, he is with the boat.’ He paused and looked to where I stood. ‘You can help me, del Potro.’

The danger had passed, so why wasn’t my heart slowing down?

‘Of course.’

‘There’s a medicine chest beneath the sink. Bring it up, with a bottle of brandy.’ His eyes flicked to the darkness outside. ‘And lock that door.’

It should have only taken me moments to grab the medicine chest, with its painted red cross, and a bottle of brandy from the pantry, but my hands seemed incapable of doing anything properly. I kept fumbling things. Finally, I made it to the top of the stairs.

Langham had switched off the electric lights. The dim glow of an oil lamp was coming from his room, along with a hissing sound that I had never heard before. I stepped inside, hoping that I had not left the shape of my cheek on his pillow.

The bedroom was empty. Langham had not stopped to sit down. Instead, his clothes were strewn in a trail across the floor, towards his private bathroom. His dark jacket, torn across the sleeve, a sodden tie, gritty shoes and the salt-stained trousers, and finally, a shirt, its cotton pink with blood.

I forgot how to do anything except walk. The bathroom door was open, the soft, flickering light reflecting back from the tiles. I stepped inside.

The hissing sound was that of the shower above the bath tub. Langham stood beneath it, his head tipped back, his eyes closed. The water cascaded over his naked body, across tanned shoulders and down his torso, across his hips, his buttocks, his slim legs, the hair bleached gold by the sun. As I stood there, he raised his arm and blood joined the flow of the water, spiralling from a long cut above his elbow.

A second later, he slicked the water from his face and looked at me.

‘Did you bring the brandy?’ His voice was low. I nodded, and held out the bottle.

He pulled the cork and drank, his throat funnelling the liquor into his belly. My eyes strayed downwards, until – face flaming – I had to turn away.

‘I’ll get some bandages.’ My voice sounded odd, echoing. I opened the chest and stared at the items. Finally, I made sense of them, and found a bottle labelled iodine. Behind me, the water was shut off with a squeak. I heard Langham sigh, and step from the tub. ‘Here,’ I said, holding up the bottle. ‘This should …’

A touch on my shoulder, and I looked up into the mirror. Langham was standing behind me, but in that misted surface, I wasn’t certain which was his face and which was my own.

‘Leave it,’ he said.

I could feel the heat of his naked body through my clothes. His hand moved from my shoulder to my chin.

‘Alejandro.’ His fingers brushed my lips. ‘Why can’t I trust you?’

‘You can.’ I hardly knew what I was saying. His other hand found the side of my leg, my thigh, moving upwards. ‘You can trust me.’