“I believe you believe this.”
He pulled at his hair. He knew he’d never be able to explain the rules to her, the cave and how he needed to live so he didn’t hurt people any more, didn’t make it any worse.
“Tell me why you don’t live in the house, why you don’t like to go upstairs. It’s one of your rules. Tell me about your rules.”
She was humouring him, like they all did. He paced. It might help him think of a way to make her understand without showing her the ugliness.
“You’re punishing yourself, aren’t you?”
“No one would take responsibility.”
“So you do penance by living in a cave?”
He stopped and turned to her. “It’s better than I deserve.” Maybe she did understand.
Her face crumpled. “Oh my God.” Her voice wavered. “You’re not responsible. It’s not possible for one person to be responsible for this.”
No, no. She thought he was the one suffering. He went to her.
“Yes, it is. I could’ve stopped it, but it still goes on. I failed. Every day people take that drug, take the risk. Every day more money is made. I tried to stop it. But I wasn’t strong enough, smart enough.”
She reached for his hand and he ached to draw her into his arms to have the balm of her, but she didn’t know it all and she couldn’t pardon him till she did. “The third door down from the bedroom is my office. It’s all there. You need to read it before you can understand me.”
She wiggled her fingers. “All right. Come with me. Help me.”
He didn’t want to see her face, read her disappointment when she realised he was telling the truth. “I’ll wait for you here.” He took a seat on the stairs.
She stood in front of him. What he’d told her might be enough. If she left him now, she’d know he’d never meant to hurt her.
She stepped closer and brushed his hair back. “I don’t think you did anything wrong. I don’t think you’re responsible.” He wanted to lean into her touch, but forced himself to keep his face averted. “It’s not like driving through a red light, or shoplifting, or beating someone up. What you’re describing is much bigger than one person.”
She knelt on the step. She kissed his cheek and he fought not to hold onto her. She left him there. He knew she’d find the clippings books, his computer, his legal files. It was hours of reading, but she needed to know what he’d done and why he deserved to pay.
27: Bare Essentials
No amount of wine was going to help. No amount of sleep, of discussion, of preparation, of regret. Foley had been formally introduced to Drum’s madness, the episode that unhinged him and turned him into man so suffused by guilt he punished himself by stripping his life to the barest essentials. She wanted to weep for everything she didn’t understand, maybe never would.
She stumbled upstairs and along the hallway fearful she’d walk into the physical manifestation of his twisted thinking, like something out of a movie. She paused outside the office door. She imagined walls covered in scribble, nonsensical formulas and rambling explanations that made no sense. Everything he told her could be true. All of it could be a distortion. She didn’t trust she’d be able to tell the difference, but she had to try.
She swung the door open and light came on automatically, dim and then warming to a soft glow. If there were monsters lurking here she’d have to rout them out. Drum’s office was the most intact room in the house. Fastidiously tidy and well organised. He had a fancy desktop system, with three large screens. There were two different tablets and a single five drawer filing cabinet. A set of files was stacked on the desk, but there wasn’t a paper or a pencil out of place. It made her own desk look like the aftermath of a cyclone.
The pin board was where she went first. Six documents were pinned neatly to the cork surface. There was ty
ping and handwriting. She moved closer to read a document at random. It was addressed to Patrick Drummond, CEO of NCR, dated three years ago. The next line of text filled her mouth with bile. It was confused and the handwriting difficult to read but the intent was clear. The writer’s son had taken Circa and drowned in the family’s pool. She looked at the typed letter placed next to it, again addressed to Patrick Drummond. She scanned it, holding her hand over her mouth. And the one next to it and the three pinned below.
Six letters. Six deaths from Circa.
Six death threats for Drum.
She made it to the bathroom where she’d thrown up before in time to throw up again. This time she was sick with the growing awareness of what had broken her hermit squatter, stealing his peace of mind, robbing him of his place in the world.
She drank water and used the toothbrush from last time. She went back to the office. She could spend hours here reading, trying to understand the death threats alone. She started on the filing cabinet. There were clippings of cases of misadventure associated with Circa, letters of demand from lawyers, board minutes she struggled to understand. She needed the cliff notes version. The tablets were without a charge, but the desktop booted up without a password, but then she realised there were no files, no data on it. Drum must’ve cleared it to give it away and then, like the random items left behind around the house, not found a new home for it.
She searched Circa and came up with a long list of websites. She started on the company’s own site. Alan Drummond was listed as Chairman and CEO. Then she looked for news stories, reading up on the instances where the drug had been linked to the accidental injury or death of a user. There were several anti-user sites, warning of the adverse effect of the drug, but there were also news stories about increased warnings and the decision made to keep the drug registered and marketable because of its widespread efficacy.
Drum wasn’t inventing this. He wasn’t imagining the issue or its severity. But the way he’d assumed responsibility, the way the death threats personalised it, would challenge anyone’s sanity. She read for several hours, until her eyes were so gritty blinking was uncomfortable.
Then she searched Patrick Drummond and entered Drum’s world before it narrowed to fear and guilt, to a rock ledge and a cave.