27/11/2018 His name is Kepha. He’s flicked through my journal, and has said that, considering what I write there, it shouldn’t matter that much whether or not I record his true name here. I’m still unsure whether he’s amused or peeved that I called him ‘Grandpa’.
We’re in a little B&B, some way out of London, now. He insisted on driving, so that I could get my thoughts together in the passenger seat.
When he’d perched at the door of my office, gun in hand, the first and only thing that I could spit out was:
“How old are you, really?”
His expression didn’t change. Eyes still on the door, licking his lips, shoulders stiff, he answered me.
“Over 5,000, although I’m not sure exactly.”
“Why? Why 5,000?”
“Oh, son, I’m sure you can work that one out.” He smiled, but I was still embarrassed by how silly I must have sounded.
“Are you scared, Kepha?” Was I still his psychiatrist, at this point?
“I don’t know. We’ll find out, at some point.” He replied, softly.
We waited, unmoving, in my office for quite a while. Only when we heard footsteps, did Kepha speak again.
“Oh, fuck. They’re here. Oh, fuck, fuck.”
“Who?”
“I had to flee the apartment because of them - okay, get down. Behind the desk. Now.”
I did as he asked. He was the one with the gun, and I had nothing else to do. I heard shuffling, and Kepha’s chair being kicked away from the door. For a few seconds, nothing but his rapid breathing. Then, a gunshot. Kepha gasping. The door slamming against the wall. Then, voices.
“We know you’re in here, old man. Your doctor, too,” The visitor took a few paces into the room. “I can see his hands, beneath his desk. Hello, doctor Rutherf-“
Before he could finish his sentence, there was another gunshot. The visitor yelled.
“Stay where you are!” A new voice. Two more gunshots. Two more yelps. One of them Kepha.
“Oh, oh… Yep, they’re both dead. Doctor, come out, please. We must go.” I tried my best to guide Kepha through the building, and to my car - he’d been shot in the gut, and I had the feeling that his old limp was slowing him to the point of frustration. He was the one pulling me along, however - he practically shoved me into the passenger seat, and handed me the gun.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” I started, as soon as he held out his hand, probably expecting my car keys. “You’re not driving. You can’t.” Kepha responded with a look that made me still.
“There’s something you must see, Elliot.” I almost laughed, as he began, still holding my gaze, to unbutton his shirt.
“What the hell are you…” I trailed off, as he revealed the gaping wound in his belly.
“Shh!” He waved a hand at me, nearly hitting me in the face. “Watch, or it’ll be gone! Watch!” So, at my wit’s end, I watched. I watched, as this battered, scar-faced pensioner sat beside me, his one eye unblinking, as the bullet hole in this abdomen scabbed, shrunk, and knitted itself back together. I can’t believe I’m not questioning myself more as I write this down, but it closed up within a minute. Once the wound was gone, leaving an island of perfect skin on his very, very scarred body, there was a pause.
“There,” Kepha, seemingly satisfied with my slack-jawed response, began to button his still-bloody shirt again. “Just in case you don’t believe all I have to tell you. You deserve as much.”
