Moon Dancer Ryder gazed through the heavy red curtain at the howling blizzard as the clock struck eleven P.M. His little girl had promised to be home by now. She always kept her promises, but today was different. She was on her first date with Alex Ryan. The skinny punk couldn't overpower Hazel, even though he was seventeen and she was fourteen. Of course someone tougher than Hazel could have jumped them. He waited a few minutes before dialing her number.
“What's up, Dad?” Her small soft voice sounded like a baby's. Maybe it was because she was his baby. Then again, freshmen in high school were babies all around. None of them were as cute as Hazel, though. Ryder breathed in relief. “Where are you?” He knew they had gone to the ski resort for dinner. What he wanted to know was where exactly on the highway they were. “We're coming back now. Alex got a flat.” She sounded ready to laugh. “Okay.” Ryder wouldn't have to shoot Alex after all. “I'll see you soon.” Suddenly, a crash jarred the receiver, Hazel screamed, and then all went dead. “Hazel!” Ryder leaped to his feet, as if he could transport to her location in a blink. Snatching up his keys, the man yanked on his winter gear and sped out the door. The plow hadn't gone through yet. Nevertheless, Ryder forced his battered truck onto the caked highway. Trucks were lousy in the snow, but Ryder knew how to maneuver like a boss in bad weather. He hadn't expected such an enormous storm, although he should have. Not only had the weatherman announced clear skies for eternity, but Ryder had read all the weather signs. He dialed 9-1-1 and could hardly get his voice to work. Why had he let Hazel go on this date? Was it because she wasn’t popular with the boys at school? Growing up with just her dad made her tougher than most of the boys in her class. Ryder had taught her to be an outdoor kind of girl, a real flesh-and-blood woman with thoughts of her own. Blood actually flowed through her veins. She handled a gun as well as she could a computer. She invented games, read books made of real paper, and ran like the wild things in the woods. Now this phone-mongering idiot who didn't know what a tree was had wrecked with her in the snow. If his toothpick legs weren't already broken, Ryder would do it. A small made-for-the-city car appeared in a deep snowdrift on the roadside. The passenger side faced the forest. Thoughts of Hazel's blood and brains marring the pale dashboard and seat covers rushed through Ryder's head. He pulled up beside the car. The wheels slid several feet before stopping. “Hazel! Hazel!” Fighting through the drift, Ryder gained the passenger door. It had been ripped off its hinges. Only Alex was inside, shivering behind the wheel, knees pressing his chest. “Where's Hazel?” Ryder barked. “M-Mr. Ethelbah!” Alex scrambled out. “Th-there was this thing!” Alex stared at the ice-laden trees. “It pulled off the door!” He clutched his cracked phone as if it could save him. “W-we're going now, right?” Ryder shook him. “What thing in the snow?” “I don’t know, I don’t know! It was big and tall! It dragged Hazel out!” Ryder's grip tightened. “Where'd it take her?” Alex shook his head. “I couldn't see nothing!” Ryder cursed under his breath. He had no time to break Alex's legs now. He had to find Hazel. Dragging the fleshless teen to the truck, Ryder thrust him inside. There was no point in asking what Alex had tried to do for Hazel. He had probably screamed louder than she had. “Stay here and keep trying the phone.” Ryder grimaced. His gun was at home. At least he had left his hunting knife in the glove compartment. Hooking it to his belt, he snatched up the flashlight that lay next to it and searched the area around the small car. Snow had almost filled the deep depressions of what looked like footprints with freakishly long strides. They led into the woods. Ryder plunged into the forest after them. “Hazel! Hazel!” The forest thickened until he could only see what the pale beam of light revealed. Droves of snowflakes half blinded him as they gleamed in the light. Snow caked his hood and shoulders, and gathered around his knees. Moonlight pierced the clouds, and a pale blue world filled with sapphire snowflakes surrounded him. Ryder’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins. The tracks he had been following ended several feet in front of him. He swung the pale beam desperately across the virgin snow. “Hazel!” Not even his voice echoed back to him. *** Nobody knew where Hazel’s mother was, even though Ryder had searched for her. The woman would have taken Hazel from him, had she been able to see straight for five minutes. The courts were stupid enough to believe anything the lush said. Now there was no fear of anything. No feeling. No body to mourn over at the wake, no body to bury at the funeral. Ryder plunged into his construction work. Days and months melded into one endless gloom. Then, like a murderous phantom, Hazel's fifteenth birthday loomed. Ryder debated within himself if he should flee from the house until tomorrow, or go into special mourning. When he got off work, he had made up his mind. Some parents fled from the memories of dead children, but Ryder was not so. He clung to them. In a way, it kept Hazel near. His relatives had insisted on burning all of Hazel's belongings, as was the Apache custom, but he couldn't do it. Now where should he go to mourn? There was a place called the Moon Meadow. That wasn't the official name, of course, if it had a name at all. He had stumbled across it while hunting. When Hazel had turned six, Ryder had taken her there. She had dubbed it the Moon Meadow because the full moon transformed the lonely meadow into a mystical pocket of magic. It was their secret place. He gazed at the blue and white “Adopt a Highway” signs as he headed for the forbidden spot. He could have adopted a highway in Hazel’s honor, but it gave him the chills. He could have posted a cross on the place where she had vanished, but he could hardly stand one grave without looking at a second. Turning onto the dirt road off the highway, Ryder trudged into the cool shadows of aspen and silver spruces. He half hoped to encounter a bear, or a pack of wolves. They would reunite him with his lost baby. As he passed an ancient oak, dust glittered in the sun’s dying light. What was this? Ryder touched the rough bark, and the dust came off on his skin. He rubbed the soft substance between his work-worn fingers. He sniffed it. Rust. Like blood. “Weird.” Wiping his hand on his jeans, he pressed forward and reached the meadow just as an early moon rose in full glory. As soft wind bent the long grass and whispered through the trees, Ryder sank onto a fallen log. Tears blurred his vision. The lump in his throat expanded until a whimper escaped his lips. Here was where Hazel had sat on his knee all those years ago. She hadn't brushed her raven hair that day. He didn't know how to take care of a little girl in those ways. Later, her friends had taught her how to do her own hair. Back then, it was just him and his ragamuffin, wandering the hills like lost souls after Chastity had abandoned them. What a name for a wild woman! She probably couldn’t even remember her daughter’s name by now. The only good thing to come out of that drunk was Hazel. Something moved on the other side of the meadow. Ryder’s head snapped up. It was a figure in a pallid knee-length dress. The way it walked...Ryder's back stiffened. What was he looking at? No, the question was, who was he looking at? Was it a ghost? The figure spread out slender arms and twirled through the meadow. “Hazel?” The name escaped his mouth before he could stop it. The dancer whirled around and stared at him. It was Hazel. Forgetting that she could very likely be a phantom, Ryder cried out with joy and rushed towards her with outstretched arms. Terror crossed her moonlit face and she fled. “No, wait!” He raced after her. “It's dad, don't be afraid of me!” His heavy boots crunched dead twigs and pine needles as he plunged in among the trees. Branches scratched his arms as he held them before his face. Moonlit sky shone pale among the trees. They were heading towards a canyon. Hazel would have no choice but to stop. But she didn't. Spreading her arms out, she leaped off the precipice! “Hazel!” Ryder almost lunged after her. In helpless horror, he watched her plunge for the ground below. Her skirts fluttered into great wings and tail feathers as her body shortened. She had become a bird. Gliding across the canyon, she alighted beside the gleaming river and the great wings dropped to her sides. She grew back into a girl as she straightened up. Then, glancing up at Ryder, she vanished into the forest. *** Ryder kicked the bottom of the chipped door until Alex poked his greasy head out. Vomit caked the front of his white shirt. Red lipstick smeared his face and hickeys mottled his neck. None of the filth on him could blot out the heavy odor of alcohol. Ryder cringed. How could he have let his baby be alone with this smelly butthead? “What’re you doing?” said Alex, frowning. His voice slurred. “My lady's ‘sleep.” “What took Hazel?” said Ryder. “Who's Hazel?” “My daughter, punk! You were on the highway and something dragged her out of the car. What was it?” Alex's face paled. “Man, I don't know you, and I don’t what you're talking about.” He tried to shut the door, but Ryder stuck his boot in the jam. “What was it?” “Look man, I'm going to call the cops if you don't—ah!” Ryder had shoved the door open and seized the cretin by the ear. “What took her?” “You're hurting me, man!” Ryder twisted the soft greasy flesh. “Okay, okay, I'll tell you!” Ryder released his ear. “Spit it out.” He wiped his hand on his pants. “It was big...man, you hurt my ear.” Alex massaged it, but seeing that Ryder could care less, he continued. “It was big. You know that centaur people keep seeing over there by—” “No.” Alex opened a can of Pepsi. “Yeah, people see it all over the place. Man, it's scary. It was by that one cat's house, just staring through the window. He got a weird face. Don't look like no human face.” He swigged the can down in three gulps. “It chased this guy for several miles, you know, until his eyes was bleeding.” He belched and tossed the can at the trash, but missed. Ryder wrinkled his nose against the stench of fizzy liquor. “Eyes don't bleed because you're running.” “Yeah, they said it was like the centaur's spell. Guy ended up in somebody’s yard and just died. The people saw the centaur in the woods. He's tall, man. They say his head reaches the roof. He looks like he’s made of bark, or something. Man, he ripped the car door off the hinges. He got red eyes in that mug.” Alex shuddered. “He jumped in the middle of the road. I freaked out and crashed. He went through the snow like nothing, ripped off the door and dragged Hazel out.” Alex sat on his filthy couch. “Man, he can talk, too.” Ryder's eyes narrowed. “What’d he say?” “Said something about a Moon Dancer, and then he just took Hazel. I thought he was going take me, too, because he just stared at me, but he took off.” After seeing Hazel become a bird, Ryder couldn't doubt Alex's story, nor could he believe that she was a spirit. As he swept from the room like a storm, Alex hurried back to his inebriated “lady.” *** The loaded rifle on his back, a handgun on his belt, and the hunting knife strapped to his leg, Ryder returned to the Moon Meadow. Sitting down on a log, he waited. When evening stars crystallized the heavens, a figure glided through the trees and stopped at the edge of the meadow. This time Ryder was careful not to startle the girl. He watched her for several minutes. Why didn’t she immediately dance like the last time? Was she watching for him? The moon rose like a great spotlight, blotting out the stars. Summoned by the soft light, Hazel ventured into the meadow and began to dance. She lilted as gently as a spring breeze. Sparkles dusted off her fingertips into the long grass. Anyone else would have believed that she was a spirit. Ryder bit his lip. Why couldn’t she remember him? He would try a different approach from what he had done yesterday. Leaning the rifle against a tree, he crept towards her. Several feet from her dancing place, he darted forward. The girl spun around at the sound of crunching earth and grass. He seized her by the arms. The girl let loose a high-pitch scream that nigh cracked his eardrums. She thrashed in his grip as if he would murder her. “It's dad!” He loosened his grip lest he hurt her. She slipped out of his grasp and dashed towards the canyon. No, no, no, this wasn’t happening again! “I’m not going to hurt you!” Ryder sprinted after her. No sooner did he reach the edge of the meadow than heavy thuds reverberated up through his feet and into his ears, boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom! Ryder whirled about and his spine stiffened. The massive form of a centaur galloped towards him. Two bright eyes peered from a head as rough as the bark from an ancient tree. Gasping in horror, Ryder yanked out the handgun and shot. The sharp report pierced his ears and echoed on the mountains. The creature dodged to the side. Ryder shot three more times in quick succession, but he couldn't tell if he’d hit the creature or not. Maybe it was like a bear. It didn't get hurt, just angry. That enormous hand whacked him in the shoulder and face. Pain darted down his arm. His eyes felt as if they had almost popped from their sockets. He struck the rough ground with a groan. Metallic rust filled his mouth and dribbled down his chin. Unable to hear or move, he vaguely discerned the monster rear up on its hind legs. It’s going crush me, he thought with sudden calm. What’s Hazel going to do without me? The creature landed, but the hooves struck the ground on either side of him. Bits of dirt flicked into his face. Twisting the gun from his hand and tearing the knife from his leg, the creature crushed the weapons as if they were made of plastic. It bent over him and turned his head side to side, sniffing. Its breath smelled like well-fermented mulch. “Ah, you attempted to purloin my Moon Dancer.” The husky voice resonated from the pit of its barrel chest. “For that I should eliminate you, but you possess the scent of the forest.” “Give me back my daughter,” Ryder groaned. “Have no fear. You shall be reunited with her.” It rested a heavy, unyielding hand on his forehead, and drowsiness pressed on Ryder's senses. It was as if he had been up for three days and had finally come to rest on a soft bed. He struggled to stay awake, but darkness swallowed him up. *** The creature's voice echoed in the void between sleep and waking. “This wood must thrive.” Something soft cradled Ryder’s limbs. “Do you not know that without me, this forest would be ravaged beyond repair?” Ryder forced his eyes half open. In a bleary, greenish haze, the centaur’s hands passed over his body. Gleaming dust sprinkled from the bark-like fingers. “I arrived here in the days of war and bloodshed, when your people were nigh extinct. I arrived here when men raped the forests, murdered every living thing in it. You, with your gun, would seek to do the same. This forest demands the blood of its killers.” Ryder couldn’t open his mouth to speak. Something was inherently wrong with what the creature had said, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to combat it. The pungent air seemed as heavy as a woolen blanket. It weighed on his eyes and clogged his ears. “You tear apart the trees, you slaughter these innocent animals that have done nothing to you, and have burned the forest to ashes. Your trash litters the most sacred areas of these woods. Your roads cut like wounds through the mountains. They bleed of fuel and gas that choke the vegetation and cause landslides where there was no fear of them before.” “Give me back my daughter,” Ryder said between gritted teeth. “Know your master, human. I am Fassrin. You and your daughter belong to me. Now sleep, and let the transformation settle into your bones.” The creature departed. Ryder stared at the wiggling tree branches above him. They sparkled like the dust on the tree trunks when he had first seen Hazel. His head swam. Memories jumbled into one another until past and present became the same. Only one thought was clear: Hazel. Ryder struggled to regain command of his limbs. Somehow he rolled off the bed. Crawling to the roundish doorway, he looked outside. He realized that he was inside a tree. More trees, glinting different colors, surrounded the area. They had been planted in uniform clusters. Ryder couldn’t help but think of a garden. Not far away, the centaur gathered leaves and herbs from one of the clusters. His furrowed back faced the prisoner. Ryder inched for the other side of the tree. His limbs flopped as if he were a beanie. The centaur could turn around at any moment, but Ryder continued to crawl for the safety of the clump of grass behind the curving trunk. Suddenly the monster's hooves crunched the ground. Ryder’s heart skipped a beat and he looked back. Fassrin had gone to another tree. Biting his lip, Ryder dragged himself into the clump of grass. Sweat beaded his forehead. The drowsiness threatened to glue him to the ground. “Hazel,” said Fassrin, “bring the flowers to life.” A jolt ripped through Ryder’s frame and he peered through the springy grass. His little girl stood before the hulking centaur. She stared at the ground as if she feared to look Fassrin in the eye. He handed her four dead flowers. “These are for your father.” Hazel kissed the shriveled plants, and vibrant gold gilded the brittle petals as the leaves plumped and multiplied. Ryder’s mouth fell open, but then rage cut his awe short. Fassrin seized the girl’s hand and sliced her palm with a sharp finger. Screaming in pain, Hazel gripped her wounded hand. Blood pooled to the ground and stained her pale dress. It was all Ryder could do not to lunge at the abominable monster, but there was something better he could do. His mind flitted to the rifle leaning against the tree in the Moon Meadow. Maybe his handgun had too small a bullet to wound Fassrin. He’d blow this monster’s lungs out with the bigger weapon. “Now dance,” said Fassrin. “This wood must thrive.” He turned his corrugated face to the sky. “It is what nourishes my life spark. If it dies, I shall die. You cannot do that to me, I, who care for this forest.” He caged her head in his gnarled hands. “Let your blood flow into the earth. The forest will drink your life force. In turn, I shall drink the forest’s life force. We must fight for that which cannot fight for itself.” Gritting his teeth, Ryder crawled out of the garden. No sooner did he escape the oppressive air than strength flowed back into his limbs. He caught hold of a tree and dragged himself to his feet. Making a wide berth of the garden, he staggered after Hazel. Soon he no longer needed the trees to support his faltering steps, but the ache in his head and shoulder from the centaur’s blow intensified. Where would Hazel go now? Surely she didn’t dance in the meadow every night. But she did return to it. Glancing at the spot where she had first seen Ryder, she began to dance. She stretched out her wounded hand. The dark blood turned silver, dusting the trees and ground with every turn. Ryder’s muscles tensed. It had been her blood that had come off on his fingers when he had touched the tree! His fists clenched until the knuckles cracked. All of Fassrin’s eloquent speeches were nothing but rationalizations. The self-righteous monster wasn’t protecting anything but himself. Ryder couldn’t dwell on this, though. He had to get a grip on himself if he was to rescue Hazel. He couldn’t appear to her in a rage. He couldn’t sneak up on her, either. Last time she had seen him, she had fled. What was he supposed to do? Don’t rush her. The thought struck like a hammer on a giant bell. She couldn’t fear him. Calming himself with all the willpower he possessed, he stepped out behind her. “Hazel,” he said in his gentlest tone. The girl stiffened and turned around, but she didn’t recoil. Encouraged, Ryder held his hands out to her. “Hazel, baby, it's dad.” Please don't run. Hazel contemplated him for what seemed hours. Fassrin might come! He could already be on his way. With his long stride, he could be upon them in seconds. Then all would be over. Their blood would dust the trees until every last drop had been soaked into the forest. “I...” Hazel rubbed her thumbnail. “I know you...I think.” Ryder nodded. “Yeah, you know me. It's dad. Don't be scared of me.” Inching forward, Hazel reached out and touched his rough fingers. She rubbed them between hers, turned his hands over and sniffed them, like a curious rabbit. Just when Ryder began to wonder if she would ever recognize him, warm tears dribbled onto his skin. “D-daddy.” She threw herself against him. Sobbing, Ryder enfolded her quivering form in his arms. Would she become a bird and fly away, proving herself only a dream? He pressed her closer. She felt too real to be a dream. For a few blessed seconds, it was just him and his baby girl. If only it could have remained! The memory of Fassrin jumped to his mind like a signal flare. “We have to get out of here.” Taking her hand, he hurried across the meadow. The tree where he had left his rifle wasn’t ten feet away when--Boom-boom-boom, boom-boom-boom! Ryder glanced back as Hazel screamed. Fassrin struck him in the jaw. Stars sprinkled Ryder’s vision as he sprawled to the ground. Tumbling across jagged rocks, he slammed into the tree. His rifle tipped over and landed across his stomach. “I cannot comprehend you, human,” said Fassrin in a wounded tone. “You have a chance to repay this forest for the sins of your race. Is it not your wish to help the dust from whence you came?” He reached for Ryder’s prostrate form. He was going to drag Ryder back to the sleepy garden. He would bind the prisoner to the bed and slice a thousand wounds into his body. He would break the tender flesh with his own fists. Ryder’s hands slid over the cold metal of the rifle and tipped the barrel towards the monster. As the massive hand gripped him around the neck, he pulled the trigger. Ringing filled Ryder’s ears. The great shadow collapsed, still clutching his throat. “Daddy!” Hazel scurried to his side and helped him out from under the centaur. Ryder leaned against her, rubbing his aching jaw. Was it broken? Pain seared his head and neck. His ribs throbbed from where they had hit the tree. At least his legs still worked. “Let’s go,” said Hazel. “Th-that way.” Ryder cupped his jaw as fire ripped through the bones. He moved towards the truck. Hazel hooked her arm around him and his ribs smarted. Feeling the spasm that ran through her dad’s frame, Hazel’s hand changed position. They hadn’t taken five steps when the great bulk of the centaur moved. “No. You will not leave!” All pain vanished in the wake of stark terror. Father and daughter sprinted towards the dirt road where the truck was parked. Twigs, grass and broken branches snapped beneath Fassrin’s weight as he dragged himself after the pair. Though paralyzed in his back legs, he was swift. His claws scraped whole slabs of bark from the trees. They alone impeded his speed, and he screeched in fury. His great hand suddenly circled Ryder’s ankle. Sharp pains stabbed through the tendons and Ryder collapsed with a cry of pain. As the centaur loomed over him, images of the silver dust on the trees raced through Ryder’s brain. Whatever happened, he refused to let Fassrin suck the life out of his daughter and himself. Rolling on his back, Ryder shot the monster through the chest. Hot blood gushed all over his front and spattered across his mouth. It smelled like sap. Hazel’s hands gripped him under the arms and he struggled to his feet. His ankle sent electrical sparks up his leg. Was that broken, too? Nevertheless, Ryder staggered for the truck parked on the dirt road. Thankfully his right ankle was still intact. He could drive with it. At the moment, he could still run. “Come back, come back,” Fassrin’s husky voice pleaded. “Give me your blood! Do not let me die!” Ryder forced his ankle to work as a soft voice in the back of his mind whispered, It’s going to hurt tomorrow. The crashing brush from Fassrin’s lunging body sounded right behind them. He was going to catch one of them! Ryder spun around and pulled the trigger. The wall of shadows collapsed. Moonlight gleaming among the trees revealed the great heap of the centaur’s body that had fallen to the earth. Panic darted through Ryder’s heart. Why wouldn’t Fassrin go down? How many bullets did he have left? Stumbling on old logs and broken trees, Ryder and Hazel reached the truck. Somehow the keys had stayed in Ryder’s pocket this whole nightmarish night. He pushed Hazel inside and twisted the key in the ignition. Forcing the vehicle into a sharp U-turn, he tore for the highway. Dust blinded the windshield for several seconds, but when it cleared, the headlights lit the centaur crawling towards them head on. The entire form was made of jagged black bark. Snarling jowls exposed shimmery needle teeth. The eyes glinted like bloody orbs. Those sharp fingers tufted dirt and rocks from the ground. Massive bloody holes throbbed in the chest, neck and stomach. Ryder’s arms stiffened. All those months ago, Alex had swerved off the highway and landed in the snowdrift. Ryder could swerve to the side and end up with busted tires and a broken oil pan in the forest. He floored the gas pedal. Thunder roared through the truck and rattled Ryder’s cracked bones as he slammed the vehicle into the monster. Involuntary tears blurred his vision, and a white sheen shrouded his surroundings. His head spun, but he struggled to remain conscious. Fassrin doubled over the hood, hate and rage bleeding from his glimmering eyes. Snatching up the rifle, Ryder shot the monster through the windshield. A gaping bloody hole opened up in place of the face. Glass and gore scattered into the truck’s cabin as cold wind rushed inside. That smell of well-prepared mulch clogged Ryder’s lungs. Without a sound, Fassrin rolled off the truck. His body bumped beneath the still rolling wheels and dragged several yards before snapping loose. Ryder glanced in the rearview mirror. The body lay in a massive heap in the middle of the road. Scavengers and predators would devour it before morning. Hazel buried herself in Ryder's side as he squeezed her around the shoulders. All down that quiet highway, Ryder watched for Fassrin’s hulking form to suddenly appear. It never did. *** One week later... Hazel wandered through the long grass and wilting flowers. “I have a lot of work to do.” Some plants survived because they were from Wal-Mart. The place was like New York for a plant. If it could survive there, it could survive anywhere. Hazel knelt beside a wilting red flower and touched it. “I kind of wish I could bring them back to life. That part was nice.” “Yeah, well,” said Ryder, adjusting his grip on his crutches, “you have a green thumb. You don't need magic. Let’s go eat.” Hazel jumped to her feet. “Where’re we going?” “It's up to you.” He touched his jaw. “Just make sure I don’t have to chew anything too hard.” Hazel tapped her chin in thought. “Mmm, steak, and giant hamburgers, and lots of caramel…” She giggled. “You suck,” said Ryder, smiling. As they headed to the little green Ford that Ryder had bought to replace the truck, the red flower that Hazel had touched perked up. The petals filled out and leaves ballooned from the thickening stem. Pollen sprinkled from the stamen, glittering gold in the summer sun. End
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JONES STREET
Looking back now, thinking of Ruby makes me smile. But it took a long time to get to this place. What then felt like a series of haphazard random events now seem like perfect fitting puzzle pieces. Sheridan Square was like a magician’s sleight of hand, and there we lived happily and arrogantly within the illusion we created. Like rabbits pulled out of a hat we had the spotlight on us, we were the stars. We were the main actors in a film we were writing. But this is how I see it now, from the high ground and advantage of time. Then. Then I was an infatuated romantic caught somewhere between A Season in Hell and Flowers of Evil. Ruby was an adult to my insufferable bouts of passionate self-indulgence. But back then I just couldn’t see it. Our affair, our love affair, had to end as it could never sustain its own weight, the anchor of adult commitments dragging us down to earth. Ruby had no choice but to move on in search of a more secure life, a life alien to me, a life I had no interest in and was in no position to offer her. It never dawned on me just how unstable being in love with her had made me. All these years later, watching the California sun set through the bougainvillea vines, watching it dip below the hills of Laurel Canyon, my life seems a million miles away from those days on Jones Street. Now I just remember the good times, the arrogance of being young and in love. Eating warm pecan pie with Ruby at four in the afternoon. Watching her eat eggs with ketchup at the coffee shop at four in the morning. Throwing firecrackers into the fog of a rainy night off the roof in Sheridan Sq. Being mesmerized by Ruby, on a hot summer night, in her tee shirt and underwear dancing around her apartment to Pretty in Pink. Those were the good days, the best of days. I was a kid and she had already traveled the road I was driving on. But for a short time, a blink of the eye, we were both headed down that one-way street together. But all that was long ago. * At twenty-eight Ruby felt cheated, her fine balance of values slightly withered. She definitely had misjudged the fury of time and had wasted too many years on a poisonous potion of routine and transient affairs. It was certainly true that she had taken her share of lovers but it was also starkly true that she had taken no love and had given back more than an equal dose. As she thought quietly to herself how she had existed on little more than her own blind, crippled faith most of her life, she slipped her jacket on with indifference and a small hint of disgust creeping up into her mouth, walked down the six flights of stairs and into a cold January morning. Even before turning left onto Bleaker Street, the feint, rusty odor of urine mixed perilously with the freezing January wind and cut a path that found Ruby even before she was fully aware of it. At the far end of Jones Street, Sixth Ave came into view and slowly like an apparition slid out of focus and into a gray blur, the result of icy wind mixed with salty tears, and she realized that another morning had again gotten the better of her. * The Roadhouse, by day, was a casual playground for hanging out, and at night a place to get hung out. But it was their hangout, Ruby and her best friend Jolene. She sat sullenly over a tequila one of those nights and listened through the background noise to an overzealous law student’s dissertation on his many merits and attributes. This guy’s life story sounded like a bad autobiography that foreshadowed where the conversation was headed. Magically he disappeared at the same time Ruby’s tequila disappeared. But here he was now, holding two drinks. “I bought you a drink”, he offered up. His reappearance, glasses in hand, stopped her cold and her previous ambivalence dissipated. Who was this guy, a guy she clearly was not interested in, to inject himself into her life, her space. The ice cubes rang inside her near empty glass, and she held it to her lips as if caught there and held in suspension where neither reason nor logic resided. She looked up at him, and through him with her penetrating stare mustering as much venom as she could summon, and her eyes, like a cat, became even greener in the dim yellow light. He stood there with his two glasses of amber liquid, and realizing he was on thin ice became motionless in this hollow void, unable to move forward, unable to retreat back into the smoke-filled room. “Seriously, what’s your deal?”, he blurted out. “I only fuck strangers I know” Ruby said flatly. Oh, god, did she just say that out loud, or was that just in her head? Even before the sentence was finished taking shape, she felt the adrenalin running through her veins, knowing this was getting ugly. His smile now disintegrated, emboldened by alcohol, his ego hurt by her words. For a moment, he was immobilized, crushed. He wanted to just disappear but, in his mind, the thin line of acceptable bar-diplomacy had been crossed. He took a quick short step toward Ruby and grabbed her arm too tightly through her cotton sweater. “Let’s get out of here” he stuttered under his breath. The loud din of the crowded room and the blaring music made it near impossible to comprehend what was taking place. “Let’s go”, this time louder. Ruby tried to remain calm. She hissed, “Get. Your. Hands. Off me”. But the demand was met with a tightening around her arm. She wondered how she had allowed this ridiculous situation to develop. Was this her doing, did she act suggestively? No, this guy was just one step away from his next date-rape. Then he let go. Took a step back, looked her up and down. “Yeah, well fuck you too old lady”. “Old lady?” she thought to herself. He turned and left in a hurry, pushing his way through the crowded room, bumping into bodies and out the front doors into the cold night. New York City in the 70’s was a dangerous place. * There’s nothing the night can’t heal. Sheridan Square emerges out of the grey pavement like a monument to all lost souls. It’s not a square at all, but rather, a loose triangle of haphazard and seemingly random structures. Its intersecting streets pointing like arrows, teasing you to walk east and west and north and south. On a warm July night, walking west, the early evening’s pink hues slip over the Hudson River precluding the stillness of sunset. A warm dust of orange light falls off the concrete walls as the asphalt streets ooze and give back the day’s heat. But in late January the contrast couldn’t be more pronounced; the low light and grey skies, the absence of tourists looking for directions. * Ruby’s father, Henry Clay was a quiet man with powerful eyes like Valentino, and a kind disposition, his golden hair bleached from the southern suns of the deep south. At twenty-seven he met his wife to be in Gainesville, Florida. She was taking tickets at the local movie theater where he would go to dream of what might have been, what could have been. Three weeks later they were married and rented a bungalow that looked not unlike every other house on the street. Pink and faded stucco, sun bleached roof tiles, peeling paint and a crooked mailbox. Frustrated by the bleak prospects of what lay before them, they invested their combined life savings of $1,200 into a real estate venture they found advertised in Readers Digest. They bought a tract of land offering great promise that turned out to be a swamp near the Everglades, and their savings were quickly swallowed up like the quicksand they invested in. With the imminent prospect of not being able to pay next months’ rent, they decided to head west, California in their sights, land of dreams. They loaded up the old Buick and in the middle of the night, left their bungalow behind in the rear-view mirror. Somewhere between Florida and California, they found themselves hopelessly lost one night in a one-traffic-light town called Ruby, Arkansas. With their meager funds dwindling, they slept in the car that night and unknowingly conceived their first and only child. Short on imagination but not passion, they decided right then and there that if they were to ever have a child, they would name it Ruby, their shining gem, in honor of the blessed event. The gods smiled down on them and luckily 9 months later they gave birth to a girl. * Offering to dog-sit was beginning to look like a mistake to Charlie. Christmas had brought a light, cold rain upon the city and looking out into the dark alleys from the apartment in Sheridan Square, the wet pavement appeared glossy and slick, glass-like beneath the few rusted street lamps that still worked. Charlie cursed his friend, undoubtedly walking on some warm beach in Acapulco, while he, Charlie, chased the Afghan puppy around the living room in an effort to get a leash around his neck. What the hell was anyone doing with a 120 lb. Afghan in an apartment in New York? As soon as Charlie opened the door, the dog, in a mad burst of bladder-full energy, made a bee line for the elevator. He hit the button. Hit it again. But as he and the pooch sat there waiting impatiently for the painfully slow elevator to get to them, it all proved too much for the poor pup, and a puddle formed around Charlie’s boots. Thus, the evening that would change Charlie Fair’s life had officially begun. * It was moist and warm for December and the air felt good against Charlie’s face. The dog bounced from the curb to the sidewalk to the street. Complete strangers would stare at him and invariably their gazes would finally land on Charlie as a curious afterthought. But Charlie began to see that walking a cute, furry dog was the key to the door of possibilities. Who could resist a big overgrown puppy? He was a spider. They were the flies. The creature was a women-magnet. They turned as usual off of Seventh Avenue and onto Jones Street and then turned and headed back to Sheridan Square. Charlie was a writer and this budding career wasn’t going too well at the moment. After some minor initial success, he couldn’t get anything published. So maybe it really was beginners’ luck. But he turned his thoughts away from that endless black hole of doubt, and gently tugged on the leash. The dog, now an unmovable object, was wrapped in the arms of a woman wearing a military field-jacket, her long hair falling over her collar and in her face. “He’s adorable. How old is he?” she asked. “Not sure really. I’m just baby-sitting, um dog-sitting. Well technically puppy-sitting”. “What’s his name? is he a she or a he?” “He. I’m pretty sure”. Charlie bent down and looked, catching a glimpse of the woman’s face. “Oh yeah, he’s a he”. “Nice move”, she said to him laughing. She bent down stroking the puppy’s sleek golden head. Her face had sharp features, distinct and pale and delicate, her lips slightly open camouflaging a sly smile. Then she stood up and left. She walked off toward Seventh Avenue. Charlie walked off in the opposite direction but after twenty feet, he stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around and decided to find her before she disappeared. What the hell. He turned around, the dog in tow, and walked in the direction she went. He saw her, hands deep into her coat pockets. But before he could catch up with her, she walked into the Roadhouse, the heavy wooden doors slamming behind her, making a statement. Charlie laughed at himself. Pathetic. Chasing some stranger down the streets of New York. What exactly did he expect was going to happen anyway? Charlie headed back, walking past the fogged windows of the Roadhouse. But before he had even gotten back to Sheridan Square she came up behind him, her hands still in her coat, but now she was with a girlfriend. “This is the dog I told you about” Ruby said to Jolene. “Cute” Jolene offered up, and then to Ruby, pointing at Charlie, “He’s pretty cute too”. “Thanks for that”, Ruby said sarcastically but her friend was already speaking to Charlie “We’re going out later if you want stop by and meet us for a drink”. Ruby shot Jolene a look. Jolene motioned to Charlie. “A bit young for you, but not bad” she said under her breath. Ruby sank deeper into her jacket and scarf. Jolene pulled her away, laughing and said over her shoulder to Charlie, “Eleven at the Roadhouse”, she pointed in the direction behind them, but they walked off not waiting for an answer. * Charlie pushed through the heavy wooden doors, walked through the crowd and saw Ruby. “Hello” he said, “I’m Charlie. but before he could even get it all out, she put a finger to his lips and said in her best Marlon Brando, “No names.” Charlie wasn’t sure what to think. “I’m kidding” she said, “Last Tango in Paris? Remember when they’re done screwing and Brando tells Maria Schneider ‘no names!’ “Didn’t you see Last Tango”? “Ah, a joke. Good one. Pass the butter”, I get it, said Charlie. “I’m Ruby” she extended her hand to shake. “Ruby”, said Charlie. “A gem of a name”. “Well, on the way to California, my parents got lost in a small town, Ruby, Arkansas. And screwed in the back of the car. And conceived me”. “So, you’re like a monument to the deep south” said Charlie. “No, more their complete lack of imagination. I don’t think they were paying homage to confederate rural America” offered Ruby. “Good they didn’t stop in Moonstone, Montana”, said Charlie. Jolene, closing the deal with her just-met new bar-friend, got up and put her coat on. “Hello and goodbye”, she said to Ruby, “What the hell”, she added, and they shuffled out into the crowded room. Then Ruby slowly leaned in to Charlie, close enough for him to smell her hair, and whispered “what the hell”. * They slept on his mattress, on the floor. As the rumbling of the garbage trucks and the light of dawn filtered through the blinds, he ran one finger lightly over her skin, following her spine from her neck to her waist. She managed to pry an eye open. She looked at her watch and it had the effect of a glass of cold water poured over her, bringing her instantly into the reality of the situation. He had dreamed deeply and his head hurt. What the hell did they drink last night anyway? “I’ve got to go” she whispered. She turned over and kissed him. “Wait, said Charlie, “can we meet, again? I mean I’m not sure last night was not my finest hour”. Ruby laughed, “OK Churchill, but if I agree to see you again, then you’ll think I like you”. “Wait”, Charlie still trying to recall last night’s events, and non-events. Did he drink absinthe? “And I have to go to the laundromat -- and you have a dog to walk”. Ruby said getting dressed. “I’m really good in laundromats. I know my way around those places. Spent a lot of time in laundromats”, he offered. “Wait I have quarters in a drawer somewhere”. But she already had her jacket on now, and turned to go. She came back, grabbed a pen on the table, and wrote her number on the back of his hand and said, “Thanks for, for, I don’t know. For what happened. For what didn’t happen. For being sweet” and she turned and walked out the door. He yelled out, “Wait! What about the quarters?” but she was gone. * It’s always uncomfortable being in a woman’s apartment for the first time and Ruby’s was no different. No matter how intimate you may have been, you feel like a stranger trespassing where you don’t really belong. Nothing is familiar. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is casual that first time. Photographs of family, friends, past lovers litter the apartment. All unfamiliar faces and places. Books you may have read, never read, would never read, stuffed onto bookshelves. Her cat. Furniture you never considered necessary for your own existence. This was the home of an adult, a woman with a job, a tax-payer. He felt like a foreigner, a tourist just visiting, an imposter on vacation from his own life. Which until now was just a series of shared beds, mattresses, and couches. There was Camille. Pretty, tall, blonde. Railroad apartment, bathtub in the kitchen. Liv, Ukrainian under age beauty, who let him stay at her parent’s apartment over a movie theater, while they worked the night shifts at the hospital. Her older brother (sorry never did get his name) paid him a visit one day. Did he know she was fifteen? and threatened to hang Charlie out the window. Kathleen, Kate, Kat, a Julliard student with a foul temper, allowed him to sleep on her couch after throwing an Ibsen play at him and hitting Charlie in the eye. Sympathy for the devil. And then, sweet Julie, med student, let him live in her dorm room until her boy-friend showed up with a bag of heroin, a jock from Boston College. And on it went. But somehow, this immediately all felt different. Something had changed. This woman, this Ruby, named after a one traffic–light town off route 167 in Arkansas, captured his senses and it humbled him. That’s when he knew he was in trouble. * And now he was in Ruby’s apartment, 6th floor walkup on Jones St. The late afternoon hours slipped into evening and evening slipped into night. They watched the news on TV in her bedroom. They listened to the rain slash against the window. They watched water boil on the stove. She held his hand. She was wearing his t-shirt. Most of all they watched each other. At some point the phone rang and she went and answered it, took it into the bedroom. Again, Charlie was the trespasser, a voyeur staring into the private life of someone he knew very little about. The call clearly upset her. Charlie looked at Ruby not expecting an explanation. He was a trespasser. “Some guy I know. Knew”, she faltered. How could Charlie be jealous; he hardly knew her. Had no rights, no claims. Yet the fact that it upset him was another bad omen for him. A sign pointing in the direction of another tangled and transient relationship that had a finite beginning and end. She sensed this his bruised ego. “Well his father’s a famous criminal lawyer. I mean, big deal right, who cares. I never heard of him until Shane told me who he was”. “Shane”? Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. “The guy who just called”, she looked across the room at him, “it’s over. Charlie, it’s over. Been over for a long time”. ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks’, thought Charlie. * They watched Casablanca in Ruby’s bed. Bogart listens to Ingrid Bergman’s explanation why she left him at the train station in Paris. They make plans to leave together. But in the end Bogy won’t do it. The balance of the free world winning out over true love. Ruby, tears in her eyes, turned the TV off. “Rick had to give the letters of transit to Laszlo so he could carry on with the Resistance”, Charlie explained, “Rick hated the Nazi’s even more than he loved Ilse”. Ruby, pulled Charlie toward her, and kissed him with more passion than he’d ever been kissed before. But then pushed him away from her. “Got to get up early. Work”. With just the light from the street throwing irregular shadows over the room, Charlie slipped out of his clothes and back into bed. He could feel her warmth, her body, though she was a foot away on the other side of the bed. She turned to him and said softly, “Charlie?” “Yeah?” “Christ what if you’re some kind of crazy person?” “I am a crazy person”. “No really”, she yawned while dreamily looking into him. “What did you have in mind exactly?” Charlie asked “You know, like a serial killer”. “Or a cat burglar like Cary Grant”, Charlie offered her a more pleasant criminal profile “No really, just think about it. I don’t even know you. You might be an escaped psychiatric patient”. Ruby turned and stared into his eyes. “Well then you could call your friend’s famous father-lawyer”. “Not if I was dead I couldn’t”. Ruby leaned into him, swept his hair back out of his eyes and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Good night Charlie Fair”. “Ruby?”, but she was already asleep. * By the following Christmas, what had exited them about each other and brought them together morphed into routine, routine into familiarity, familiarity into complacency, complacency into boredom. He knew trouble was lurking in the wings ready to take its bows when the curtain went up. And the curtain was definitely going up quickly. There were more phone calls, calls at all hours, from Shane, and others. Ghosts appeared and emerged, danced their dance of jealousy and uncertainty through the shadows. And in a way it was a convenient cover for Charlie’s insecurities while fueling his need to place blame. Ambition can strangle, and the choke hold on Charlie was slowly eating at him and pushing him away. He felt creatively impotent. A prisoner of his own making. He was broke, living from hand to mouth, and his days and nights with Ruby began to feel like a noose slowly tightening around his neck. He considered the fact that he was a burden to her, a rock around her neck. He wondered if it was obvious to Ruby, but clearly, he felt the air thinning, the waters deepening, his ability to tread water diminishing. Their affair had blinded him, given him false hope that he could morph into someone else, someone who could be satisfied with a different life, her life. When she went off to work, he began looking through her things, things that she collected, a life-time of things. He felt himself resenting her for having a past life without him. Shelves and bookcases full of things. Cupboards full of things. Closets full of things. None of them his, none of them holding any meaning for him beyond the simple knowledge that Ruby had touched them all and they had touched her. He was surrounded by her past. And he knew then, as he had always known, that this life, this legitimate, sanitized life, could never be enough for him. And more importantly, he would never be enough for her. Charlie was just a few frayed pages torn from a chapter in her life, and he knew it. * The grey and bleak days crept through the winter months, and eventually gave way to a more gentle and milder air saturated with colorful hues. On a picture-perfect May morning, after Ruby had left for work, Charlie sat with his blank notebook in front of him, trying to compose a letter to Ruby, his duffle bag filled with his belongings next to him on the floor. He’d explain why he left her, why he had to leave her, and she’d understand. Her one-eyed cat Sally was sprawled as usual on the table, listening to the birds singing through the street noise rising to the six-story walk-up. Then the cat got up and jumped off the table, and he saw the note. Charlie read and then re-read it, first at the table, and then moved to the bed. The bed where they had shared so much happiness and laughter and love. The cat followed him onto the bed. He read it again. Ruby let him know in no uncertain terms that she needed to move on. He needed to move on. They both did. He needed to leave. She loved him. And she knew he loved her. Shane had come back into her life. And could Charlie please feed the cat before he left. She had once again out-smarted him, beat him to the punch. Or did she just think with his creative impotence and inability to make a decision, he’d never act on what they both knew was inevitable. But there it was, in black and white. At least he didn’t have to write the letter. He grabbed his jacket, took one last look around the apartment, the photographs, the books, the bamboo shade. He wasn’t upset. Maybe he was relieved. He had left it to Ruby to do the dirty work. Charlie fed the cat, gave him a pat on his head, and then walked out the door and for the last time, meandered down the six flights of stairs back on to Jones Street. Paul Mills has worked variously as an English teacher and a newspaper subeditor in Spain, Lebanon and China, but is currently based in London. His fiction has appeared in The Magnolia Review and in Metamorphosis, an anthology published in June 2019 by Propertius Press. Kick the dogi
A still May afternoon, alternately sunny and cloudy. A typical suburban semi-detached house, window ledges in need of paint, garden well-kept, if a little overgrown down at the end. Helen Janson, 48 years old, and the only female in her family of five, watering the plants on the patio, talking to the rabbits. 'Look! Nice juicy carrot,' she trilled. 'Wanted cabbage!' she replied to herself in her surly rabbit voice. And then, in her normal voice: 'Well never mind, you've got carrot. Come on, eat it quick, or Blueberry will have eaten it all up before you've had any. Maybe you can have some cabbage later if you stop sulking. Nice juicy carrot.' She could keep up imaginary dialogues like this for ten minutes at a time, or however long it took to water all the plants on the patio. Meanwhile, the sound of children's songs drifted over the garden from next door, where Jamie and Nat's toddler was dozing in her cot. We have still five miles of travelling, and the shades of night are falling... Inside, her husband Ken, sitting on the sofa, reading about different kinds of share ISAs in the money section of the Financial Times. Ken Janson did not have a share ISA, and never would have, but the weekends were long and he ended up reading every inch of the Weekend Financial Times, including all the supplements. Trot along gently, trot along gently, trot along gently, brother horse... Upstairs, Ollie, the eldest of the three sons, back from university for the summer, typing the names of films he liked into his computer. He read the Wikipedia page for the newest Tom Hanks film, which he had seen the previous weekend. Then he read the reviews on IMDB. Scrolled back through the reviews to see if anyone had commented on any of them. Scrolled back through them again to see what country the reviewers were from. We have still four miles of travelling... And in the bedroom next door, the youngest son Nathan, thirteen years old, lying in bed, under the duvet, where he spent much of his time. Face towards the ceiling, eyes unfocussed, planning his first murder. He wasn't an attractive boy; his face was too narrow, his upper teeth too prominent, which combined to make 'rat' the first animal that came into the minds of the bullies at school, whenever they had reason to abuse him, (not that he cared.) He also looked young for his age, so he was used to being addressed as 'you little rat', if he did anything to annoy the bigger boys. Now get faster, now get faster, now get faster brother horse... He had daydreamed about killing for as long as he could remember, and at first it had been the bullies, or maybe the kids from the year below who shouted insults at him on his way home. He had imagined coming up behind one of them – maybe Lawrence – with a brick, and bringing it down on to the back of his head, then hitting him round the head over and over as he lay stunned on the pavement. Perhaps cutting him with a knife. But it was only today, lying under the duvet, that the idea had occurred to him to actually kill someone. That he could do it for real. Not necessarily a bully – kill someone for no reason. He had no idea why the thought had occurred to him now, and never before – if he had chosen to watch the old comedy film on TV instead of getting into bed to daydream, it might never have occurred to him at all – but now that it had, he liked it. He really liked it. He liked the image of himself being led away by the police, past a row of schoolmates, neighbours, teachers, all looking at him with bewildered fear. His face blank, surveying them dispassionately. All of them thinking: 'It could have been me!' Except when you introduced reality into the equation, it wasn't quite as simple as in his daydreams. He rarely saw any of the kids from his school walking down the road alone; they were always in groups, and brick or no brick, he was hardly going to attack a group of kids. Even if he could find one walking alone down a deserted road, he didn't trust himself to necessarily be able to do it. What if they sensed him behind them and turned round, to see him sneaking up on them, guilty and rat-like, with a brick in his hand? What if he misjudged the first blow as they were walking away from him and he just scraped the skin on the back of their head, and they turned on him, eyes blazing? No, there had to be a better way. We have still two miles of travelling... But how did you go about killing someone? He liked the idea of smothering one of his brothers in their sleep. Peter for preference, because Peter was well-liked, and might make something of his life, which made killing him seem that bit crueller. Ollie, despite the fact that he was at university, was a bit of a waster, he thought. If he killed Peter, he would have killed someone who was worthwhile, who was popular with the girls, and so many people would be so much more upset. He would have struck much more of a blow against the world. But of course it wasn't realistic. If you put a pillow over someone's face while they were sleeping, the first thing they would do was wake up. And both his brothers were bigger than him. What then? His gran, maybe. He thought he was stronger than his gran. He could smother her. She wouldn't even have to be asleep. Just go round her house, put a pillow over her face while she was sitting in her chair. Could he do that? He wondered. She would thrash around, but she would be too weak to push him away. Killing her wouldn't mean very much, not like killing Peter, but the advantage was that it might be put down to natural causes. The police might not even investigate it, so he could get away with it, and then, emboldened by one successful murder, he could go on to commit more. How many people could he kill before they caught up with him? We have still one mile of travelling... He tried to think of the detective shows his parents watched. What did people do on those? There were lots of beatings and stabbings... there was poison... but how did you get hold of arsenic or cyanide or whatever? There was a Graham Greene book where, unless he was remembering wrong, they killed someone with peanut mould. How long did peanuts take to go mouldy? Or he could set fire to someone's house. He knew where Lawrence's house was, and he imagined sneaking out in the middle of the night, putting a lighted match through the letter box, the house burning down with Lawrence and his parents inside. Did Lawrence have any brothers or sisters? In his daydream, he had a younger sister, and she screamed in vain for Lawrence to save her as her room filled with smoke and flames. There was something unsatisfying about the idea though. Setting fire to someone's house in the night was the act of a petty vandal, a contemptible figure who scurried off into the darkness, and whose crimes evoked not fear but disgust when they appeared in the papers the next day. He wanted the newspapers to report him as a psychopath, to print his name with horror and respect. He went back to the idea of poison. There must be something you could get hold of. What about rat poison? That couldn't be too difficult to obtain. If he was an adult, he could get it easily, but of course no-one would sell it to a thirteen-year-old boy who looked more like eleven, or ten. But then he decided this was a bad attitude. He shouldn't expect it to be easy. He couldn't expect to be a notorious criminal without having to think things through. There would be logistical problems to solve. He would have to be cunning. The song next door changed. Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect... He knew this could so easily slip away from him. There were plenty of things he'd planned in the past that he'd just never got round to doing. He couldn't let that happen here, he wouldn't let himself just forget about this. He had to do it. Show them all. Fuck you. Wide eyes, looking out at him, pleading at him as he choked the life away. He was going to be the most significant thing in the lives of... how many people? How many could he get away with? While shivering in my shoes, I strike a careless pose... Sobbing parents. People looking down at headstones, saying: 'So young. So sad.' Stone angels over the headstones. Angels wearing shoes, striking a careless pose. Sniggering together. Were they angels, or were they the girls from his class? They were sniggering, but the teacher was angry. The teacher hadn't seen the headstone yet. How would she react? Stone wings. Sniggering. He was asleep. ii Thursday afternoon, nearly two weeks later. Ollie Janson was back at university, but was falling behind with the work, and wouldn't necessarily last another term. Peter Janson was spending too much time out with his friends when he should have been studying. Ken Janson was acting increasingly withdrawn, and his wife had taken to browsing through a book in the local bookshop called 'Depression: The Way Out of Your Prison', but was putting off buying it in the hope that maybe she was misreading the signs, and actually her husband was fine after all. The only member of the family who wasn't causing her stress was Nathan, who was never in trouble at school, always did his work on time. He wasn't the best academically, but he was very creative, and often got good marks in art and drama. She was a little concerned about how quiet he was, and the about fact that she never saw much evidence of his having many friends, but she was probably just worrying over nothing. After all, if she was saying that one of her children was spending too much time with his friends, and another too little, didn’t that suggest that the problem was with her, not with them? That maybe she was the kind of mother who would find things to get anxious about whether or not there was actually anything wrong? So she left Nathan alone and worried about the rest of her family instead. On this particular Thursday, Nathan was walking home via the high street. He normally walked home via the park, but he had promised himself that today was going to be the day he went through with the first phase of his plan. (Unless there were too many people. He had allowed himself that get-out.) Instead of turning left in the direction of the bookshop when he hit the high street, he went straight on, past the hardware store. He walked to the end of the high street and kept on, and then took the first right. He turned right and then right again, until he had gone round in a circle. He was feeling anxious about the people that he passed, kept imagining them glancing at him suspiciously, perhaps thinking ‘What’s that freaky-looking kid up to?’ but he knew that this was ridiculous. He was just walking in the street. He hadn’t done anything wrong yet – how could they possibly know he was planning to? All the same, he had to keep telling himself that he wasn’t attracting anyone’s attention. It was all in his mind. The guilt was with him already, before he had even committed the first little act that would lead to his first crime. The guilt and the fear of being caught. If it was this bad already, how much worse would it be later? He didn't have to go through with it of course. He could turn left and walk home. Read in bed, do his homework. There wouldn’t be any guilt at all, the sense of relief would be enormous, and when he went down to supper that evening he wouldn’t have done anything wrong, and he would have nothing to feel bad about! He would be the same innocent boy everyone took him for. The same innocent, contemptible, laughable fucking freak... He turned right again, but when he walked past the hardware store, he didn't chicken out a second time, he went in. He only glanced at the cashier by the door as he went in, moving just his eyes and not raising his head. The cashier was not looking at him. She was not frowning, was not wondering what a thirteen-year-old kid could possibly want in a hardware store. The hardware store had two entrances, and was quite big. There were three other people in this part of the store. He didn’t stick out. As inconspicuously as he could, he looked around for security cameras. He walked past the power tools, past the gardening part. Maybe they wouldn’t have it, and he would have to go home empty-handed. Maybe he was in completely the wrong kind of shop. That was entirely possible. He liked the idea. He would have none of the guilt, but at the same time he wouldn’t have to berate himself for having been a coward. He saw something that looked promising in the aisle to his left, at the side of the store, and went to have a closer look - and there it was; a small cardboard box with a picture of a rat on the front. There was no one around. He looked up. No cameras either. He wanted to linger, to psyche himself up before he even touched it, but he knew he mustn’t do that. The longer he stood there, the more chance there was of someone's seeing him, and either challenging him or remembering later what they had seen. Still no people. Still no cameras. He took the box. He wanted to read the side, but he didn’t let himself; he had to be as fast as possible. He opened the box. There was a plastic bag inside with a mauve powder. It didn’t look bad. It looked something you might mix with water to get paint. He took a pair of scissors out of his pocket, along with the small plastic food bag he had taken from the kitchen that morning, and cut a slit in the top of the bag with the mauve powder, (now he really was doing something he could be challenged for. What would he do, what would he say if someone caught him?) He poured some of it into his food bag and, the panic rising inside him, put the rest of the rat poison back in its box and the box back on the shelf, hidden behind several other boxes. The food bag back in his pocket, the whole operation had taken just a few seconds. He walked back out of the shop, adrenaline coursing for some reason through his legs, making him wonder if he was walking normally. He didn’t glance at the cashier this time, just marched straight past her – he wanted to know whether the cashier was looking at him, and he wanted to know badly, but he knew that if she was and he looked up, he would not be able to avoid looking guilty. And if she was, it didn’t matter, just so long as he kept walking at a steady pace, not looking as if he was doing anything wrong. Besides, thinking about it rationally, there was no reason why she should be looking at him! He kept his pace steady when he got outside the store, resisting the temptation to break into a jog. He couldn’t help imagining all the people on both sides of the road staring at him, as if his guilt were blazoned all over him, shining out of him like a light, making it impossible for people to look away. The feeling stuck with him all the way home, but not ’til he was inside his house did he quicken his pace. Then he ran up the stairs and took refuge in the safety of his bed. After about fifteen minutes he felt a bit better – well enough to think about where he could hide the rat poison. Under normal circumstances, there was no reason for his mother – the only other person who ever went into his room – to look anywhere. He could put it under the bed, inside his trainer, in one of his drawers, anywhere… but what if his mother unexpectedly decided to tidy under his bed while he was at school? What if she decided to clean his trainers? And she might have any number of reasons for opening his drawer. In the end, he hid it up the chimney, on a ledge covered in soot, and even then he couldn’t shake the terrifying vision of her finding it by chance and confronting him with it. iii Sunday, early afternoon. Helen Janson doing the ironing, Ken Janson trying to read the Weekend FT, but not able to concentrate because of the racket from upstairs. Not music. Couldn’t possibly call it music. Racket was a far better description. Helen knew that something had been bothering her husband in recent days. He had been irritable, and when he spoke it was likely to be a sharp monosyllable, accompanied by an annoyed glare. Helen Janson had no idea what it was, and didn’t know if she should ask him or just wait ’til whatever problem it was went away. He was muttering as he folded and refolded the pages of his newspaper, and it was obvious what was coming. Helen watched him nervously as she put another of his shirts on the ironing board. Eventually he snapped, said ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ under his breath, put the newspaper down on the sofa next to him, and stormed upstairs. A few seconds later the racket ended abruptly, and he came back down, just as noisily, to resume reading his paper. After a couple of minutes, the racket was replaced with different sounds, as Peter Janson relieved his anger and his sense of injustice by banging about, slamming doors as he stalked from bedroom to bathroom. Now there were two men in her house who would be angry and sullen all day. She took out her mobile, and texted her youngest son Nathan. ‘WHERE ARE YOU’ The reply came after a few seconds. ‘In town. Looking round the shops.’ ‘GOING TO MAKE HOT CROSS BUNS IF YOURE BACK BY FOUR’ she sent. She felt an odd sort of pride in the fact that she was one of the last people she knew who had an old-style phone, with no internet access, and still communicated by SMS message. Although she never had worked out how to make her phone text in lower case. ‘Might be, might not. I’ve only just left the house and there’s a book I want to find.’ came the reply. ‘DONT BE TOO LONG MIGHT RAIN LATER’ she sent. ***** Nathan Janson continued his brisk walk along the footpath. He didn’t respond to his mother's third text. He had learnt that his mother always replied to texts and if he replied to everything she sent, it went on interminably. He was pleased with the second lie he had sent, the one where he said he had only just left the house. She hadn’t questioned it, and now she would think he had been at home, probably in his bedroom until just after two, when in fact he had already been walking for one and a half hours. He had underestimated the amount of time it would take to walk to his gran’s, even walking quite fast. It was the first time he had gone by foot; normally he went with his mother, and she drove. He was nearly there now though, was already walking through her village. He wasn’t worried about being recognised and remembered. He didn’t think anyone here knew him, and why would anyone remember seeing one more teenaged boy, however freaky-looking, mooching along the street, minding his own business? He turned the corner and his gran’s bungalow was in front of him. He felt dirty, all of a sudden. He felt like – but never mind that now. He was going to go through with it. He rang his gran’s doorbell. You couldn’t hear it from outside, and he wondered, as he always did when he rang it, whether it had rung at all. He waited though. He knew how slowly his gran moved through the house. After about a minute, he saw her emerge from the end of the corridor. Through the frosted glass she was nothing more than a shape, and the shape got bigger quite slowly; all in all it took her a good thirty seconds to reach the door. ‘Hello dear,’ she said, and looked around for anyone else. ‘Where’s Helen?’ ‘She’s at home, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘Who have you come with?’ she asked. ‘I’ve come one my own.’ She seemed to want something more, so he said: ‘I just decided to visit you, see how you are.’ ‘You’ve come on your own?' she said. 'Well this is a nice surprise.’ He followed her slow, shuffling form as it returned to the living room. The carpet in the hall needed cleaning. Sometimes when he went wound with his mum, he cleaned it for her, but it hadn't been done for a while. She sat in her usual chair. ‘You should have let me know you were coming,’ she said. ‘I would have got something to eat. There are biscuits in the tin. You know where they are.’ ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Shall I make you a cup of tea?’ This, like his visit, was unprecedented. He had never offered to make her, or anyone else, tea in his life. ‘Ooh, that would be lovely,’ she said. And he went into the kitchen. He declined her offer of biscuits – he knew they were all soft. He put the kettle on and took out two coffee mugs. She normally drank out of a teacup, but they were too small for his purposes today. He wanted there too be enough tea so that she couldn’t taste anything wrong. ‘Do you take milk, sugar?’ he called. He had no idea. She replied that she took milk and one sugar. When the kettle had boiled, he put the teabags in the mugs, poured the water over it. A generous amount of milk, and two sugars – no two and a half. Mask the taste. Then he took the little bag out of his pocket, and glanced at the door, (because even though the chances of her having made the effort of getting out of her chair again and following him were slim to none, it would take some explaining if she unexpectedly put her head around the door and saw what he was doing,) he poured some of the contents into the mug as well. How much should he put in? It was delicate. He wanted to be sure he was giving her a lethal dose, but at the same time she had to be able to drink it. Presumably it didn’t taste bitter or anything, otherwise rats wouldn’t eat it, would they? He poured a bit more. Pour and stir, pour and stir, making sure it was all dissolved. His heart was beating so fast now he felt faint. He was going to do it, he was actually going to be a killer! He carefully resealed the sandwich bag – he had used only about a quarter of what he had stolen from the shop – and picked up the coffee mugs. He noticed that his left hand – the one holding the poisoned mug – was shaking, threatening to spill coffee over his wrist. He tried to stop it. He couldn’t. He put the mugs down and changed hand. Now he was holding the poisoned mug in his right hand. For whatever reason, that seemed to work; now neither of his hands were shaking. Back in the living room, she was still sitting in her chair waiting for him. Smiling, pleased at the unexpected pleasure of his visit. He put her mug down in front of her, and she consciously widened her smile, as if to say thank you. ‘Lovely,’ she said. He was momentarily disconcerted that he didn’t pick it up and start drinking straight away – did she know something was wrong? – but then he put his own mug to his mouth and burnt his lips. He didn’t normally drink coffee or tea, and he had forgotten that you waited for a few moments for it to cool down. He had never been any good at making small talk, and his gran was not someone he had much in common with. When he and his mum visited together, he always dreaded his mother going to the toilet because it left him alone with her, and the struggle to fill the silence made them both uncomfortable. Had to make an effort though. ‘How are you?’ he said. ‘Oh, ticking over.’ Her usual response. A pause. ‘How’s school?’ she said. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Same as ever.’ He tried to think of something interesting to say on this subject. ‘I’ve had lots of homework recently. But it’s all been okay.’ She smiled and nodded. Drink your tea. Drink it up! Really, he supposed, it didn’t matter in the slightest if he made any effort to talk to her or not. She was going to drink it either way, even if they both sat there in silence looking at each other. And then she’d be dead, so what was the point in even trying to make conversation? ‘And how’s Helen?’ she said. ‘She’s okay.’ Nothing to say on that score either. ‘She’s…’ She’s what? She’s still singing in the choir? She’s started cooking curry? ‘She’s okay.’ Finally the old woman picked up her mug and took a sip. She smiled again. ‘Lovely,’ she said. There was a silence. He was aware that he was watching her intently, his eyes boring into her. He looked away, tried to look natural. He sipped his own mug. ‘Have you been up to anything lately?’ he asked nonchalantly. ‘Oh, nothing exciting. Sometimes I just sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits.’ She often said this, but he had never known whether it was quote or just something she had made up. She took another sip of her tea, making a slurping sound this time. Then slowly, horribly slowly, she held her mug out in front of her and looked at it, curiously. Fuck! She could taste something wrong! What could she taste? Too much sugar? Something else? She put the cup back down on the coffee table. She did it with purpose, and he had the impression she wasn’t intending to pick it up again. What should he do? He could still back out, just. If he grabbed the mug and ran to the kitchen, poured it down the sink, there could still be no consequences! He wouldn’t be able to explain his actions, but nor would anyone be able to do or say anything against him, other than he acted a bit strangely sometimes. He was staring at the mug, felt close to crying. He knew he must look suspicious, she couldn’t not know something was wrong, but he couldn’t help it now. ‘And what about your brothers?’ she said. ‘They’re okay. Ollie’s back in Southampton. Pete's got a ukulele and he’s trying to play some tunes on it, but he’s not very good.’ ‘Oh dear, isn’t he?’ She gave a little chuckle. He was still torn between carrying on with the non-conversation and reaching out to take her mug away from her. She was looking at him, and the look she was giving him was… wise! She knew what he wanted to do, and she knew that she was in no danger, because she had seen through him. So long as she didn’t drink her tea, she was safe. She didn’t seem angry, she didn’t seem scared, not even especially surprised that her youngest grandson had tried… He stopped his own train of thought. She couldn’t possibly know what he intended. What was she, a mind reader? The most she could know was that her tea tasted a bit odd. He was suddenly annoyed with her, looking at him so superior. ‘How’s the tea?’ he asked. ‘Lovely,’ she replied, but now she looked less certain, less sure of herself. ‘Drink some.’ ‘Yes, lovely,’ she said again. ‘Drink some.’ He had more or less ordered her, which she couldn’t think was normal, but even if she knew what was going on, she couldn’t refuse without seeming rude herself. She drank. Maybe she was scared of him after all. He took a sip of his own tea. The atmosphere in the room had changed now. Now he was the one in control. She seemed to have shrunk down into her chair. ‘Dad’s very quiet these days,’ he said. ‘He hardly says anything. We’re worried he might be suffering from depression.’ ‘Oh. No, he’s not a great talker, is he.’ There was a sound from outside the French windows. It had started raining. They looked at the rain for some moments. ‘I saw an interesting film last night,' he said. 'Old one. About a woman who was a Nazi. The Reader. Have you seen it?’ ‘No, I don’t think so.’ ‘Kate Winslet’s in it.’ ‘Is she?’ More silence. ‘It’s really interesting,' he continued, 'because it presents her as a person, humanizes her. A lot of the time films present Nazis as monsters, but she’s just a woman.’ ‘It’s terrible what they did.’ ‘Have some more tea. There’s one scene where she’s in the dock, and the prosecutor’s asking her why she sent people – take some more – why she sent people to the camp when she knew they were going to be executed, and she says “What would you have done?” And it really makes you think: what would I have done in that situation?’ Her mug was half empty. She looked frightened. ‘Excuse me a moment dear, I just need to visit the toilet.’ ‘No. Sit back down.’ He seemed to have grown, and be looking down on her. She was powerless to disobey him. More silence. It lasted for longer this time, or it seemed to. He picked up his mug and took a big drink, then looked at her significantly. She slurped down some of her own. ‘I read that something like 87% of people believe in life after death,’ he said. She didn’t respond. ‘That might have been in America though. It’s probably less over here.’ She gave him a frightened little nod. ‘What do you think?' he said. 'What do you think happens?’ ‘I don’t know,’ she answered quietly. ‘I leave it up to God. He knows everything I’ve done. He knows the best place for me.’ Was there a tear in her eye? ‘Why don’t you drink some more tea? Finish it up.’ She did as she was told, and looked with a hollow gaze down into her empty mug. He took it. There was some residue in the bottom. It was blue. ‘How do you feel?’ She didn’t say anything, just gave a false smile and a small nod. ‘We’re going to sit here for a while longer. Let your tea go down.’ ‘Okay dear.’ ‘We can talk if you want. If there’s anything you want to say.’ She didn't say anything, just attempted a smile. He watched her for another moment. He had never felt so in control of another person. It was a good feeling, almost erotic. Then he turned to look at the rain, letting his thoughts wander. He imagined himself as a crime boss in a film, sitting quietly in a dark warehouse with henchmen ready to carry out his orders. Hated by the local people, who were terrified of him because they all knew he could have them killed and there was nothing they could do. Nothing to him, everything to them. The rain was getting harder. The clock on the wall said four o’clock. The latest he could be home without arousing his mother’s suspicion was probably about six, although he could always think up an excuse. I took shelter from the rain in Tesco’s. What time did Tesco’s shut on Sunday? Maybe he had planned this badly. Maybe it would have been better to do it on Saturday, when the shops were open for longer. He looked at his gran, looking back at him. He let his gaze wander around the room, at the china animals on the mantlepiece, the watercolours on the wall. What would happen to all this junk when she was gone? There was a melancholy feeling when he tried to imagine the house empty, or with new people living in it. It was the closest he ever came to feeling sorry for poisoning his grandmother. He waited, neither of them said anything, and after a while, her head dropped forward and her eyes closed. Nothing dramatic. ***** He took both the mugs and went to the kitchen to wash them up. He dried them, and replaced them in the cupboard, exactly as they would have been if he had never been there. His heart was beating very fast, but he was impressed by how focused he was. Some people would probably not be able to think straight in a situation like this, but he knew exactly what he was doing. One last look at his gran, and he would be off. He would leave by the French windows and the back gate, so as not to be seen by the neighbours. He glanced in at his gran. Now she was slumped in her chair, didn't really even look like a person any more, just a bundle of tatty old clothes. For a few seconds he had the idea that she was still alive, she hadn't died after all, and as he stood there looking at her he felt light-headed and he seemed to hear her breathing. He stood there, rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do. What would he do if she suddenly looked up? What could he do if he hadn't killed her? Then he gave his head a little shake, looked at her intently, listened. There was nothing. She wasn't breathing. He left by the front door. He couldn’t leave by the French windows, he had realized, because there was no way to lock them from the outside, and the police would be suspicious if they were left open. Incongruously, his last thought before leaving the house was that her carpet really was disgusting. How could a person live in such a filthy house? ***** On his way out of her village, the fear came again, the same fear he had experienced after he had bought the poison. It wasn't any stronger this time, but somehow it was... deeper. As he hurried past the shops, he could feel panic trying to take over, and he had pictures of the police knocking on the door while the family was sitting down to dinner. Even though he knew there was no reason for anyone to think it was murder, and even if they did, there was no reason for the neighbours to have noticed him, he could still picture the look of non-comprehension on his mother’s face as the police told her what he had done, and that look scared him. He would do anything not to have to face that look. But the rational part of his mind knew that this feeling, this paranoia, had been inevitable, and it would subside at some point, even if it took days. And when it did, he would be Nathan Janson, killer. A different person, a bigger, more significant person than the person who had woken up in his bed that morning, a person who would be ready to start to take control of his little part of the world. As he passed under the railway bridge, Graham MacRae from school saw him from down the street and shouted with a grin: ‘Nathan Janson’s a complete wanker!’ However different he was from the person he had woken up as this morning, it seemed that the world around him was still stubbornly the same. iv Helen Janson did not notice that her youngest son did not say anything over dinner that night; he hardly ever did. Nor did it strike her as remarkable that he went straight up to his room after finishing. If there was any conversation over dinner in the Janson household, it only ever came from herself, and she wasn’t talkative that evening. She was thinking of holiday destinations, and whether Peter was too old to go on family holidays. It would be a shame if he was; another member of her family starting to grow up, nearing the point when he would move on. She tried to remember how old Olllie had been when he had stopped coming on holidays. She continued to ponder as she took the dishes to the kitchen and started washing up. Peter hadn't said anything about his music being turned off that afternoon, but he was still in a bad mood. She wondered how long it would last. She almost wished he would complain about it, so that she could point out, reasonably, that it had been too loud, and if you played your music at that volume, then other people had a right to object to it. She convinced herself that if she said those things, he would see reason, and would recognise he had been in the wrong. Upstairs in his bedroom, Nathan was lying in his bed, too terrified to move. Panic had taken over him. It was stronger than he had anticipated and by this time it had well and truly got the better of him. Had his family noticed over dinner? Had they been casting odd looks at him, or had he just been imagining it all? He was finding it a strain to breathe. He was dreading having to go downstairs again to clean his teeth. He would have to run past his parents sitting in the living room; he couldn’t bear being in the same room as them, not in the state he was in now. And what if they tried to talk to him? For some reason the thought of even having to say a couple of words seemed terrifying. The first word out of his mouth would surely give him away, and they would know everything as soon as he replied. He stayed like that, his thoughts paralysed, all of him except his head covered by the duvet, for a good two hours, before he felt able to move, to go downstairs to the bathroom. He barely slept that night and at school the next day no one but himself noticed that he was only going through the motions, paying attention to, but taking no interest in, what was going on around him. After school he went home and was slightly disappointed that it was just a normal evening. Apparently his grandmother's body had not been found yet. He didn't do any homework – couldn't have done any. For the second evening in a row he just lay in bed, less afraid now, and calmer, but numb. On Tuesday morning he felt a little more with it, but he was starting to wonder how long it would take before anyone realised that his gran was dead. How long would she wait there, slumped in her chair, stiffening, before anyone missed her? How often did anyone visit her? Surely she wasn't that isolated? Surely she had daily contact with someone? Because he knew by now that he wouldn't be able to think properly while he was waiting for his victim's body to be found. But Tuesday afternoon and then Tuesday evening came and went and no one mentioned her. His mum waffled on about holidays and about a council workers' strike, but it never occurred to her to wonder if her own mother was okay. Then it was Wednesday, and he knew that this would be the last day, because Mum always phoned Gran on Wednesday evening. He tried to plan his reaction to it. She was in her eighties (at least! He found he didn't even know how old she was!) so would it be inappropriate to be shocked when his mother came into his bedroom and told him the news that she was dead? Should he even be surprised? Then it occurred to him that it wouldn't happen like that anyway. If no one else had found her by now, then what would happen would be that she would phone and there would be no answer and she would be worried and she would put her head round the door and say she was just going to drive over to Gran's because she couldn't get any answer. And then he could be anxious. Not surprised, but anxious. And when she came back and told them all what she had found it would be that much easier to look natural because they would all have been half expecting it anyway. That would be okay. That would be manageable. It didn't happen like that. In fact, nothing happened at all. He lay in his bed after dinner waiting for the knock on his bedroom door and it didn't come. Nine o'clock came and went, and she never phoned after nine o'clock. He went downstairs and his Dad was watching some eighties film on TV, while his Mum chortled at how bad it was. He thought about mentioning Gran, to remind his mother that she had a mother of her own, who was all alone and needed to be checked on, but he couldn't think of a way to do it that sounded natural and would not seem suspicious in retrospect, so he said nothing. Wednesday evening turned into Wednesday night. Nothing. Thursday. Nothing. Friday. Nothing. How was this possible? The weekend came round again and Nathan Janson had missed three homework assignments, which he was something he never did, and was having ugly, guilt-plagued dreams, when he slept at all. And on Sunday, when his mother finally, finally mentioned his grandmother, he felt such a wave of relief he thought he was going to pass out. 'Do you want to go and see Gran?' she chirped. 'Sure,' he said, keeping his voice neutral. So he and his parents (Peter was out with friends) got in the car and set off for his Gran's village, and Nathan prepared himself to receive the news of the first death in his family. It was curious, watching his Mum pull into his Gran's driveway like everything was normal, not realising that these were the last couple of minutes before her life changed forever. Because however she reacted, however well she coped, this would change her life. She had no siblings, and her father and aunt had died long before – before Nathan had even been born – so Gran was the only member of her old family left to her. He wondered how she would take it. Ah well, it happened to everyone, sooner or later. His mum rang the bell, (which none of them could hear) and they stood on the step and waited. They waited a good thirty seconds, because she had been unsteady on her feet for a long time, and then Nathan's eyes widened and his legs froze. A blue figure had appeared through the frosted glass at the far end of the hall and was making its slow way towards them. Nathan stared in horror. The look on his face would have been alarming, if anyone had been looking at him, but neither of his parents were. Was she still alive after all? Had some doppleganger taken her place? Was she a zombie? His mind struggled to find an explanation, but there was no explanation. The figure grew larger. It was her, there was no question! The way the figure moved, the shape, the slowness – it was his gran! She was alive! The figure reached the other side of the door and fumbled with the lock, and then the door swung open and she stood smiling at them, identical to how she had looked a week ago opening the same door. Not dead. Talking to them. Not dead. 'Hello. Lovely to see you all. Oh, couldn't he? Well I'm sure he's got better things to do than spend his time with me. Oh, ticking over.' They went through to the living room, and Nathan half expected to see the hunched, bundle of clothes still on her chair. They sat down and ate stale biscuits and his mum and his gran talked while he and his dad listened politely, and at some point his gran mentioned that she had had a little tummy trouble about a week ago, but she was all recovered now. And at some point she mentioned that Nathan had paid her an unexpected visit last weekend and it had been a lovely surprise, and his mum looked at him and asked him why he hadn't told her he had been to visit. And there was a hint of pride in her voice, but he hardly noticed it, because he was glaring at his gran, thinking 'A little tummy trouble? That's it? I gave you half a cup of rat poison! A little tummy trouble?' And they ate their stale biscuits and they drank their tea, and then they went back home and it was all so very, very normal. v On Wednesday evening, Ken Janson broke the news of his impending redundancy to his wife. She tried to be supportive, but he didn't want to be supported. She tried to be positive about it, but her positivity didn't get through. She pointed out that there were lots more jobs out there, good ones for someone of his experience, but he didn't want to listen. She wasn't canny enough to realise that he had anticipated her reaction exactly, and that this was the principal reason he had put off telling her for a whole month. And so they fell into an uneasy silence, her trying to think of something she could say to make her husband feel better, him wondering how soon he could reasonably break the scene off and turn the television on without seeming insensitive to his wife's efforts to comfort him. The silence was only broken by the children's songs Jamie and Nat were again playing for their toddler next door. When the dog barks, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad... Helen Janson was an hour late making the dinner that night, an hour which Peter Janson spent on having three simultaneous Facebook conversations, an uncomfortable one to a girl he had recently rejected, the other two more light-hearted. His youngest brother Nathan spent the time, as he spent so much of his time, in bed. There was a paperback detective novel on the bed beside him, but he had lost interest in it, and was gazing blankly at the wall. Anyone looking at him would have guessed that there was nothing at all going through his mind, but of course in reality he was thinking hard. It was all a question of proportion. A rat was very small, and so of course it only took a very minimal amount of poison to kill a rat. But a person was much bigger, and so the same amount of poison was a much smaller proportion of a person's bodyweight, and so would not be lethal. You would have to scale up the amount of poison to take account of this, but that would mean that a lethal dose for a person would have to be huge – more than you could reasonably administer without their noticing. This simple reasoning would seem to kill the whole project stone dead. My father he left me an acre of land, sing o-vey sing i-vy... There were presumably other poisons available. After all, people did poison each other, so there had to be a way of getting hold of something that could kill someone, but he had been considering the matter for some some time and he was no closer to thinking of how. The truth was, he wasn't as enthusiastic about it as he had been. Maybe there wasn't a realistic, foolproof way of killing people, and it wouldn't be the end of the world if he just gave up on the idea. After all, he had tried, he had gone through with it where so many other people might have chickened out, so he had more than proved himself to himself, (though of course that wasn't what it had been about.) I harrowed it next with a bramble bush, sing o-vey sing i-vy Maybe this was why murder was so infrequent. Maybe there were plenty of people who wanted badly to kill other people, but there were so few easy, plausible ways of doing it, and so they just gave up. He let his mind wander, and he found himself listening instead to the tuneful nonsense coming through the window. The little mice carried it into the barn, sing o-vey sing i-vy I threshed it there with a fine goose quill, sing o-vey sing i-vy... He had been stupid to think that such a small amount of poison would kill a grown person. (Though maybe not that stupid – he had read books and stories in which people killed each other with small quantities of rat poison, administered in Coke cans and the like. So clearly the question of proportion hadn't occurred to the authors of these stories either.) He tried to imagine how much poison it would take to kill his gran, to give her more serious problems than a little tummy trouble! No way of knowing really. But either way, the little sandwich bag of the stuff he still had hidden in his chimney was useless. You needed a much larger quantity of it. The miller he said that he'd work with a will... Or, it occurred to him now for the first time, a much smaller person. Sing o-vey sing i-vy... It was another twenty minutes before he was called down to dinner, and for all that time, he lay in his bed, motionless, a very slight smile on his face, listening to the songs coming through the window. vi Two and a half weeks later. In the intervening time, Helen Janson had spent many hours on the Internet and looking through the recruitment section of various newspapers. She had found the details of over a dozen jobs, had downloaded and printed off application forms, and when that hadn't prompted her husband to action, she had even filled in his basic information in a few of them herself, to save him the effort. Ken had read the job descriptions, read some of the more promising ones several times, occasionally nodding his head as he imagined himself doing those jobs, but that was as far as he ever got, and it drove Helen Janson to distraction. As she told her friends, as she told her mother, as she told the shopkeeper – everyone except her immediate family: 'He just sits there! He doesn't put any effort in to do anything. It's like that bloody garden fence! He'll be out of a job in a couple of months, and I hope he doesn't think he's going to sit around the house all day getting under my feet!' Her three sons showed less concern. Peter was having what his mother would have referred to as 'girl trouble', (although of course he would never have talked about it to anyone in his family, so she didn't know) and Nathan had been occupying himself once more with sweet daydreams of being a feared serial killer. On this Sunday morning, he was sitting in outside with a book, ostensibly to watch over the rabbits as they hopped round the garden. There was a small fence – small enough to step over – separating the Jansons' back garden from Jamie and Nat's, and you could see right into their small kitchen. Jamie and Nat were in the habit of leaving their back door open – not just unlocked, but open – and Nathan hadn't seen them for over an hour. They were, presumably, either in the front room or upstairs with their daughter. It was the easiest thing in the world. Nathan scanned the upstairs windows of all the houses he could see, just to be sure there was no one in any of them who was watching or who might happen to glance down and see him. Even so, just to cover his back, he acted out a little one-man play which would give him an excuse to stray into next door's garden and even, at a pinch, into their kitchen, without seeming suspicious. 'Blueberry, where are you?' he said, looking round the garden. (Blueberry, he knew, was in the hutch, but no one watching him from an upstairs window could know that.) He made a show of looking round the garden, even though he was sure no one was looking. 'Blueberry, what are you doing there? You know you're not allowed in Jamie and Nat's garden. How did you get in there?' Carolina, Blueberry's companion, stretched and watched Nathan Janson step over the fence into next door's garden, and then pause to cautiously scan the surrounding houses once more, before continuing. 'Come here. No, come here!' He said this while crouching low, but not actually moving much, as he would have felt a little bit ridiculous chasing an imaginary rabbit round his neighbours' garden. He took a few steps towards the house, which was all that he needed to be right next to the kitchen door. 'Where have you gone? Blueberry, where have you gone? You haven't gone in there, have you?' And, heart beating violently, looking a lot more nervous than a search for an errant rabbit would seem to justify, he stepped through the open door into the kitchen. He stopped, listened. The next bit, he knew, was the dangerous bit. If he someone came in in the next thirty-seconds-to-a-minute, he would have more explaining to do than he was capable of. Unless he went back of course. He could just back out of the kitchen, step back into his garden and land back in normality again. Heart beating violently, he opened the fridge. It was a very full fridge – really Jamie and Nat could have done with a bigger one – but there on a shelf in the door was a baby's bottle, and the baby's bottle was half full of milk. He took the top off the bottle and put it on the work surface, took the sandwich bag of mauve powder out of his pocket (what if someone comes in? oh shit oh shit what if someone comes in?), poured a small amount into the bottle and shook it. It didn't alter the colour of the milk noticeably (oh shit oh shit hurry up, won't you hurry up), so he put a bit more in. Some of it stuck to the side of the bottle, so he swirled the milk round until it had gone. The milk was still white, but there were blue lumps of undissolved powder floating in it. It really needed a stir. For a few seconds he was paralysed. He didn't want to take the extra time to take something from the cutlery draw and stir the milk, but he had to; it was too obvious as it was. He opened a few draws, looking for knives, and when he found one, a butter knife, he stuck it in the bottle and swirled it round. That was all it needed. The milk still hadn't changed colour much, so for a third time (careful! don't spill it on the fucking floor! fucking fucking) he poured what was surely a lethal dose for a one-and-a-half-year-old into the bottle containing her mother's milk, and then the fear, the panic, came on strong, sending a shudder through his body (what if they come? oh what do I do if they come in now?) and he knew he had been too long, he had to leave. For a few terrifying seconds, he couldn't find the top for the bottle, he couldn't remember where he had put it. Then he saw it on the work surface next to the microwave, and he screwed it back on the bottle as fast as he could, and put it back in the fridge. The panic was so strong, he practically flew back out the door and into his own garden, before stopping, looking around. Still no one. Still nothing to distinguish it from any other ordinary June day. He waited a bit for his heartbeat to slow, and the adrenaline and the terror flowing through him to lessen. Then he opened the hutch, and Blueberry looked up at him. 'Oh there you are!' he said. Just in case. It was only once he had sat down in the garden seat that he realised he was still holding the butter knife, but there was no way he was going to go back into Jamie and Nat's kitchen. He left it under the rabbit hutch, where it wouldn't be found for a long time, if at all. For a horrifying instant, he thought he had left the bag of rat poison in the kitchen, but then he felt it in his pocket. (Funny, he didn't remember putting it back there!) He sat back on the seat and picked his book up, but he knew there was no chance of being able to read it any more. Maybe they'd come now. Maybe Nat would stroll into the kitchen, humming, carrying Rowan or Rhona or whatever her name was. She'd open the fridge, and Nathan would have a ring-side seat as she lovingly squeezed poison into her baby's mouth. He would be able to watch the effects, see how long it took for the child - He noticed he was shaking. Maybe it was better to be inside when it happened. Then they would never even think to associate him with any of it. He wandered through his house in a daze. His mum was dozing on the sofa, dad was reading the paper. Peter was probably in his room wasting time on the internet. He could try to read, he could try to do homework, but there was no point – the chances of his being able to concentrate on anything at all were nil. There was nothing to do but wait and at some point the fear pressing down on him, making it impossible to do anything, might fade. Either that or he would hear screams from next door, and know that he had completed his first step – successfully this time – towards being... Being what? Not just a rat-faced freak, but a rat-faced freak who killed small children? No, he had to remind himself of the sense of power, of control, that he had assured himself he would feel if he actually started ending other people's lives. Maybe that sense would come later, but for now all he felt was dizzy, unspeakably dizzy, and slightly sick. If only there was some way he could distract himself. Take his mind off what he had done. Calm him down. He turned on the TV. There was a programme called 'How it's made', which was today explaining how pepper mills were made. He stared at it, not taking anything in, not even aware of what the programme was. He felt like screaming. It had felt bad enough in the few days after he thought he had killed his gran. Why had he decided to put himself through this again? And this was how he spent the next hour, sitting in the armchair, occasionally shivering in spite of the warm weather, not noticing anything that was going on around him, not even when his mother woke up and asked him why on earth he was watching this, not even when his dad demanded he answer his mother when she spoke to him, and said his name three times, louder each time. He didn't respond when his mum touched him on the arm and asked him if he was all right. Only when she actually shook his arm did he come to, and look at her slightly startled. She was looking worried. Both his parents were looking worried. He told them he was fine, and went upstairs without further explanation. He lay on his bed and took out a book, not caring which one, he just wanted to look like he was occupied when his mother came to check on him, as he knew she would now. From his bedroom window he could see down into next-door's garden. He wished he couldn't. Maybe, given all this, what he did next was inevitable. He remembered how bad it had been the first time, after his visit to his gran, and he remembered how long it had lasted. In those few days, if he had been able to take back what he had done, reverse it somehow, he surely would have done. This time was as bad, but the difference was that this time he could take it back. So long as Rowan/Rhona hadn't been fed yet, he could just go back, pour the milk down the sink... Except he didn't want to go back. He didn't want to even leave his bed. It was the only place he really felt safe. It was unbearable, the indecision, and the knowing that every second he delayed made it less likely that he would be able to undo what he had done. And what if he went back and it was too late? If he opened the fridge and the milk bottle wasn't there? Once again, there was a huge risk that someone - He jumped out of bed. He hurried downstairs and into the garden. He stepped over the fence. No caution this time; he didn't stop to see if anyone was watching, he didn't make any kind of pretence to cover his back, to give him a reason for being there. Straight through Jamie and Nat's back door and opened the fridge. It was still there! It wasn't too late! He poured the milk down the sink and replaced the empty bottle in the fridge. Maybe someone saw him. Who cared? What was the worst that could happen? Jamie or Nat could ask 'Why did you pour that milk away?' and he wouldn't answer. And if no one had seen him, they would wonder what on earth had happened to their baby milk, and they would try and try and try to come up with some kind of explanation, but they wouldn't be able to. It wouldn't occur to them to think of their next-door neighbours' youngest son. Back in the garden, he sat on the lawn, and then he lay on the lawn, and he smiled. There was a feeling of exhilaration, of relief, as if there was suddenly enough oxygen in the world, when there hadn't been before. He looked up at the sky, mesmerised by its blueness. Even the feel of the grass underneath his hand felt more... more vivid somehow. He sat, and he grinned at the sky, and he wondered how long this feeling would last. And the moral of the story is... Ken Janson did eventually get another job, but it was through an agency – he never bothered to look seriously for something better – and so it was a fairly menial job, and rather poorly paid, which meant that his wife had to take on more hours in order to support the family. If she resented him for it, she never mentioned it. Peter Janson didn't do as well in his exams as he should have done, and left school to take an admin job in a bank. He had little or no responsibility, which suited him very well, and he eventually got a promotion purely by virtue of having worked there longer than anyone else on his team. Ollie Janson, dropped out of university and instead took an admin job in a minor government agency. He lived with his parents until they really couldn't tolerate each other any more and then he rented a house with three friends. Nathan Janson was more successful. He went through the rest of school without really making any friends and showing no outward sign that he was in any way upset by the treatment he continued to receive from a lot of the other boys, some of them younger than him. But he did reasonably well in his exams and a few years after his abortive murder attempts he went to university to study English literature. He spent three years in Cardiff, and then he graduated – the only one of his family to complete a university course – and got an admin job with Cardiff City Council. His mother phoned him regularly every Wednesday evening, but apart from that he didn't have much contact with his family. He did however keep in contact with a few of the people from uni, and they met up at weekends and trailed round a few of the local pubs and clubs. In particular, he kept in contact with a timid maths graduate called Alison. More or less on a whim, they took up mountain biking, and after that they spent every other weekend cycling in the valleys. After a year or so they moved in together, and spent the evenings in companionable silence, often in front of the TV. After another two years, they got married. They found a beautiful wedding venue near Pontypridd, and both their families spent the night in a local bed and breakfast. There was a modest number of guests, as both of them had only a handful of friends, but some of Alison's friends were rather more boisterous than she was, and the reception was as rowdy as wedding receptions traditionally are. They all ate and they drank and they danced – they even persuaded his parents to dance – and when they were tired of dancing, they walked in the moonlit grounds and Alison's friends told obscene jokes, and they laughed and were happy. And if you had told anyone at that wedding that this was a man who had once tried to kill his grandmother, and his next-door-neighbour's daughter – and had come close to succeeding – they wouldn't have known what to say. They would never have believed you.
Ant TrapsThe first day in their new house, the young couple unpacked and kept marveling--such a big place at a reasonable price on a quiet street.
The second day, they noticed the ants. Some were large, meaty things that seemed angered by the invasion of their home. Others were tiny, barely visible, and seemed unconcerned with the humans' arrival, probably because they outnumbered them several billion to two. The third day, they sought help at the hardware store. "We need some ant traps," the wife said to the middle-aged man behind the counter. His smile faded, and he looked at her as if she had just threatened his dog. "You can't get that here," the man said. "You don't carry ant traps?" the husband asked. The man seemed offended. "Of course not. I don't even think that's legal." The husband began a response, sucked air into his lungs the way he did before swear words were about to surface, but his wife touched his arm. "Well," she said, "We have ants in our new house. Do you know where we can get ant traps?" The man stared at her for a long moment, and then he spat laughter. "What the hell is so funny?" the husband asked. "You want ant traps," the man said between chuckles. "I thought you were asking for anthrax." By the tenth day, when the ants had actually carried away all of the ant traps, the young couple began to wonder if maybe anthrax would have worked better after all.
THE MYSTERIOUS BOX A soft sigh escaped Myrtle’s lips as she noticed that the flag on her mailbox was down, causing the steam from her tea to billow outwards as she drew it away from them. Myrtle was hoping that the post wouldn’t have made it through today, it usually didn’t during such weather conditions. Looks like she was in for an expedition through the icy wasteland that was her downward slope driveway. Joy she thought to herself slipping into her boots and putting on her coat. She begrudgingly opened the side door that led from her kitchen to the end of her driveway. Myrtle started her trek, inhaling through her clenched teeth each time she felt herself slide. One wrong move could send her flying on her ass down her driveway and into the snowbank that separated the field from the road across the street. Finally, with much struggle, Myrtle reached her mailbox. Prying the lid open with a grunt as the snow and cold had all but sealed it shut, she peered inside only to find nothing. Myrtle exhaled through her nostrils, flaring them like an angry mare as she snapped the lid shut and started the journey from hell that was traversing back up her empty driveway. She had risked breaking her neck for nothing. Damn wind probably blew it down Myrtle thought to herself in regards to her mailbox flag. She never sent anything out, it just made it easier to know when the mail had arrived if she didn’t take the time to listen for the sputtering truck. Only a minute had passed since she had kicked her boots off and locked her backdoor when the sound of her doorbell chimed throughout her house. Myrtle froze, eyes locked on her front door as the chime rang out once again. There was no way someone would’ve been able to reach her door without being detected while she was outside. The third time the bell rang seemed to break Myrtle out of her stupor. She approached the door, legs stiff with hesitation, as she fixed her fingers around the knob handle. It might be someone looking for some help she thought to herself. Don’t be that asshole who doesn’t step in. With those words fresh in her head, Mrytle twisted the knob and pulled expecting to see some bloodied individual looking for aid, only to see nothing at all. She poked her head out and looked left and right. It wasn’t until she dipped her gaze down did she see something. On her welcome mat sat a plain looking box. Myrtle lifted an eyebrow as she stared at the box. It reminded her of those old fashioned shipping crates they used to store produce, only on a much smaller scale. Myrtle was still suspicious of it and she knew that it probably wouldn’t be the wisest decision to pick it up. After all, it could’ve been laced with something. However, curiosity had gotten the best of her and before she knew it, the thing was sitting on her coffee table. Myrtle sat back on her cheap couch and observed the box. The wood on the outside was soaked with a light dusting of snow still resting atop its closed lid. The thing had certainly done some traveling. There’s no way that it would be this wet from the short amount of time it was sitting on her doorstep, but Myrtle hadn’t seen anyone around all day. Not even a single car passed her house. “Where did you come from?” she mused aloud, fixing her fingers on both sides of the box’s lid. Myrtle hesitated for a moment, the slightest possibility that this box wasn’t meant for her lingered in her mind, until Myrtle remembered that her nearest neighbor was well over an hour away. Prying the top of the box off with some difficulty, Myrtle dropped the lid next to the box and looked inside, furrowing her brow in confusion at the contents. THE TRUCK RIDEArlo wasn’t sure why he felt so tense. He had been walking along this road for miles, lost and tired as hell, before the headlights of the rusty old truck appeared on the dirt road. Maybe it was those horror stories getting to him, crazed drivers and serial killers putting a facade of a kind stranger. Arlo felt a lump grow in his throat as he recalled listening to those stories while working the night shift with nothing but the dead flies in the buzzing fluorescent lights to keep him company. Suddenly, the fear of death was gone as he shot his thumb out extending upwards until he heard the truck come to a screeching halt. The sound of the old brakes made his teeth grit as did the sound of the window crank rolling the grimy glass of the passenger side window down. “Hey there!” the driver, a gangly old man wearing a tattered brown farm hat, barked in a thick country accent hoarse with age. Well, at least if things go south I’ll be able to put up a fight. he thought to himself. “Uh, hi,” he said. “Well, whatcha doin still standin there boy?” The man, who clearly was not buckled in, shot his leg towards the passenger door and kicked it open. The door managed to just miss clipping Arlo’s nose. “Y’had that thumb pokin out for a reason didn’t ya?”. Arlo uttered an anxious response, “Uh, yeah, my car broke and I’m lost. Do you know where the nearest town is?”. The old man nodded. “I’m headin there right now, hop in stranger!”. Arlo hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to touch the stained cloth seat let alone sit on it. With the beckoning of the old man’s gesturing hand, he finally managed to lift himself into the truck. Closing the door, the rusted hinges emitted a protesting shriek as it clicked shut. “Soooooo!” the old man began as he slammed on the gas pedal. “What’s a boy like you doin way out here?” He eyed Arlo’s attire and Arlo didn’t blame him. Sweaty business casual would be eyebrow-raising where he was from too. “I was just passing through actually,” Arlo replied. “Don’t get many strangers just passing through,” the old man mused. “What for?” Arlo shifted nervously on his seat, “I got a little lost. I was on my way to another city for a job interview,” The old man exclaimed, “Ah! That’s why you’re dressed like that! You’re a city boy!”, he smiled a yellow-toothed smile at Arlo. “Don’t normally get city people in these parts, much less strangers. Don’t your type usually fly?” At that moment, Arlo wished he had splurged on a plane ticket. “Well, yes but I couldn’t afford it.” The curiosity about the man’s accent was getting to him. “Are you from around here? You don’t really….”, his words drew off until the old man finished his sentence. “Sound like a local? Nah, never did pick up your Northern tongue.” “Why’d you move all the way out here then?” The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno, same reason why yer takin a look at another job. Lookin for a change or more in life. I found all of that in Hearthglade.” ”Hearthglade?” Arlo repeated. “That’s where we’re headin boy!” This left Arlo confused. “My GPS didn’t say anything about Hearthglade being nearb-” He was cut off by the old man. “Yeaaah, she don’t show up on many maps. Damn shame, too! She’ll be the prettiest patch of civilization that you’ve ever seen.” He then took one hand off the steering wheel and offered it to Arlo. “Name’s Miles, by the way!” Arlo accepted the gesture. “Arlo, so how long until we reach this Hea-” He was cut off again when the truck suddenly swerved to the right, causing him to slam against the door with a grunt. “Here!” Miles announced proudly. “Sorry bout that Lo-Lo. He chuckled as the younger man swung open the door and tumbled onto the grass. “Lo-Lo?”, Arlo asked through a groan of pain. “I give everyone I meet a nickname,” Miles said as he hopped out of his truck, taking him by the arm. “I’ll show ye the Inn and we can talk bout your car troubles in the morning.” Arlo opened his mouth to argue but found that he was simply too tired. The thought of being able to freshen up and lay down was enough to silence any idea of protest.
It Goes On It wasn’t easy for Kaylee to keep staring at her screen, waiting for it to light with a notification. And part of her was torn. Torn between wanting to see his name flash at her, and wanting to bury it deep. It had only been three days, but it felt like eternity. And no message, no matter what she forced herself to believe, would ever mend the wounds.
All of it had happened so fast. She still couldn’t wrap her head around why or how… These were all questions he had left her to decipher on her own. Everything had been going so well, or so she told herself, and she had never been happier. But his message—the last message she had received from him—took all the happiness she had built up over the last four years and shattered it. It was as if she were starting over. But this time, more broken than before. Alex was everything she ever wanted in a partner. He had a sense of humor, had interest in all the same things, and he loved her. Loved her for who she was without judgement. Something that Kaylee never believed she would ever find. He expressed it deeply every day: messages from the moment he woke up until he fell asleep, take out and movie nights, and utmost praise to everyone he met. They were all the other spoke about, thought of, and all they ever wanted. Or so, that’s what Kaylee had convinced herself all those years. It felt real. It had to have been real… at least once. Maybe it was the day he proposed to her. In a crowded room, he got down on his knee and asked for her hand. Without hesitation, she said yes, and the deal was sealed. Though the count down to the wedding planning was still over a year away due to their financial state, Kaylee never complained. To her, the ring on her finger was as good enough as marriage. They were in love—and that was all that mattered. But maybe that’s why it was so hard for her to grasp the truth. Maybe that’s why she was so deep in denial. Maybe that’s why, when his text came through—“I can’t be with you anymore… I’m sorry” – she couldn’t bring herself to cry. She felt nothing. Numbed from head to toe, the words circling in her mind as she asked herself, and then him, why? Alex, why? Please… But no answer ever came. Had someone told her it was because he had fallen in love with another, she never would have believed them. Had someone told her that other was one of her closest friends, she’d probably have laughed. But the truth was a pill even too big for her to swallow. And even though deep inside she could see the signs, no matter how faint, she didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t believe it. She loved him. And he loved her. Once… Perhaps a long time ago. She asked herself repeatedly, what happened to those days? What happened to the man she used to know? In the beginning, when they first met and slowly began to fall in love, Alex was lighthearted and full of smiles and laughter. He never raised his voice and Kaylee was always on his mind and by his side. But, with each passing year, though she fell more and more in love with him, he was drifting away. His laughter was seldom and his smiles only came in the quiet hours. His words weren’t as soft, and thorns would grow between them with any trace of disagreement. And he would text her—the one he left with—over dinner, with Kaylee watching in curiosity. Too naïve to see the truth. To see the words that were going on behind his screen. Words she seldom heard since his heart began to change. And she couldn’t understand why he didn’t feel the same. Only four months prior, he had asked her to marry him. Four months felt like only yesterday, though she knew the next four going forward would be an eternity. It had only been three days… She kept trying to remind herself that. She wanted to know so badly, what it was that made him stop loving her. Or, she tried to convince herself, maybe he did still love her. Maybe deep inside he still felt the same way he had before, but he was afraid of the feelings he was developing for their mutual friend. Someone close to both of them. But why run away? Why cut contact? Kaylee didn’t want to think him a coward, but in doing so, led herself to believe she had done something wrong. Done something so terrible that he wanted nothing to do with her from that point forward. But we were fine… We were just at the fair the night before. He told me he loved me. Held my hand. Kissed me. It was real… I know it was real. Kaylee’s phone lit up and she quickly turned, her heart pounding against her chest. Only a game notification… She slid the phone closer to herself and kept her eyes on it. All she needed was one message. One call. An explanation. But she knew in her heart it would never come. Maybe he really was a coward. Or maybe he really didn’t know himself. As much as she wanted to remove the ring from her finger, she couldn’t bear it. Instead, she sat on her couch, waiting, and twirling it against her knuckle. She had never planned on taking it off, not even for a moment. But now she knew there was no point in wearing it. It was so heavy—heavy with guilt and questions—but something kept her from tugging it free. Letting go of the burden. It weighed her down. Held her back. She couldn’t let it go. Not just yet. Perhaps not forever… At night, when she was alone, she would find herself lost to tears. In her private silence, she mourned Alex’s absence. There hadn’t been a night in all those years that he wasn’t beside her. To simulate his presence, she built a wall of pillows to lay against, feeling their warmth and pretending it was him. It had always been him. But, it would never be him again. When the stillness only brought on the confirmation of her being alone, Kaylee cried herself to sleep. Her gentle sobs were enough to break the silence of the air, and give voice to the walls that trapped her. Haunted her. These walls were once his, too. On the fourth day, Kaylee couldn’t leave bed. Her stomach churned and her body trembled. Nothing around her felt real. It was almost as though she were transported to a different realm—void of reality and stuck in an endless loop of uneasiness. Something that could only be broken with a trace of the familiar. The light from a phone screen. But, there had still been no message or call from Alex. She reached out to him once again: Alex, please. Can we talk? Yet, there was no response from the other side. Not even a “read” message at the bottom of the screen. It was as though she were messaging a dead number, one with no one on the other end to receive her pleas. But, there was someone on the other end. She just knew he couldn’t bring himself to face the truth. Face the damage he had done. The damage, quite frankly, they both had done. Kaylee had been no better. There were days she had become demanding and irate. Days when she was a little too snippy towards Alex. At first, he had taken her behavior and treated it as a here and there thing. A bad day. But when it became frequent, he began to stand up for himself. Get snippy right back. And that’s when the arguments began. When both parties spewed venom from their tongues and lashed out. When the love they had convinced themselves for so long that they had was beginning to crumble. Decay. And the worst of it all, according to Kaylee, was she had told herself to stop. Told herself to take a step back and be mindful of her behavior. To not take everything out on Alex. To not be so mean. But her words to herself were pushed aside. And her temper would get the best of her. But, all couples argue, right? She had to ask herself that again and again as she laid in her bed, holding her phone tightly in her hands. Surely they did. She remembered her mother and father practically arguing over every mundane thing when she was growing up. Things they would get so aggravated with one another about, only to laugh about it an hour later. Wasn’t that what she and Alex were like? There were times their arguments dragged on and were over things with no meaning at all… but they always made it up to one another. They always apologized. And they always found love to triumph. But this time… Alex gave up the fight. And gave up on me. She knew that nothing would be the same again. At least, not for a while. She knew that her loneliness would eventually become the norm once again, and that she would find comfort in her solitude. It was just that, right now, after four years of seldom being alone, a day without him was torture. And now, she would have to wait out the rest of her lifetime. She knew that no matter where she went, she would feel that burden. That deep and unforgiving emptiness. There were too many memories around her town. Too many places they would frequent. The streets were filled with nothing but ghosts. Shadows of who they once were, laughing and playing on infinite loops. Trapped forever in happier times. When love was real. And so were the smiles. The strength to face the world again was something she had to rebuild. Brick by brick. And it was something that wasn’t going to come easy. And it wasn’t going to be overnight. It would take days. Weeks. Months… Kaylee set her phone down with a sigh. If only the questions stirring in her head would disappear. If only her heart could forget the way it used to beat—for him—and learn to function only for itself again. If only she could accept the truth and find a way to move on. Find a way to return to the happiness that once was there. Once. Long before Alex. And that’s what she tried to say. Life goes on. There was life before Alex. And there would be life after him. There would be happiness. There would be laughter. There would be a time when his face is no longer recognizable. When his voice fades and his name is nothing but a memory. A time when the most precious of moments, the ones ripping her apart, are forgotten. When only small fractions of them remain, and she’s left questioning who it was she was with that day. And she knew that was true. She knew that one day, the pain would stop. The days would be easier and the nights not so long. She knew there would be a day she would smile again. When what was left of them withers away and “us” becomes “me” again. But that takes time. And time was the cruelest of all. Though the message never came, after failed attempts of reaching out until finally, she stopped trying, Kaylee still held on to the hope that one day, Alex would reply. Would give an explanation. Would tell her he missed her. Would simply say “hi”. But even if he didn’t, Kaylee knew there was no point lingering in the skeletons of the past. The bones laid out of what had been. It was time to move on. Time to leave Alex in the past with all her memories. Her hopes for the future. Her heart. And so every day, she felt the progress. Slowly. One day at a time. It began with a day she only cried once. And then, not at all. Then in time, somewhere along the way, she stopped thinking about him constantly. He still would find a way to creep in and haunt her, but her walls were stronger now. Better built. And her tears were only momentary. Yet, even with the passing of time and the strengthening of her heart, the calendar still brought her pain. She could never forget the day he sent her that message—that one, final message. The date would forever stay in her mind. And so, with every day that passed, she found herself counting. Perhaps as a gauge for healing, or a gauge for how long she still found herself hanging on by that one little thread. Still terrified of letting go. Waiting for that call. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five.
THE SHAPE-SHIFTING SERPENTS’ CHOICE It starts with a wanton boy searching for his great evil-destiny.
It starts with the hunch of loyalty. It starts with serpents where they shouldn’t be at all, due to evil humans. *** Once, long ago, a boy named Aarav, who grew up reading stories related to demons, angles, and shape-shifting snakes, traveled from Mumbai. He was an arrogant boy, full of cruelty and ambition, and what he wanted more than anything was the Naag Mani (a much more valuable than diamond). The priests say Lord Shiva, a god within the Trimurti that includes gods Brahma and Vishnu, known as the destroyer, created the Naag from the best parts of serpent and man, and they had the ability to change from one to the other. The Naag Mani was the Naag’s jewel, their heart, but it was stolen by wanton and greedy demonic Asuras (demons) named Kaal and Andhkaar. While rushing to their palace to protect themselves from the serpent, Asuras lost the Naag Mani in the surrounded jungles of Lord Shiva’s home, Mount Kailash. Kaal and Andhkaar returned with their demon force of thousands of Asuras to snatch the Naag Mani from Lord Shiva … the war was waged between the Gods and the demons upon the appearance of Lord Shiva’s son and the Senapati (Warlord) of all gods, Kartikeya, in the battlefield with other gods. The Gods won the day, and Lord Shiva hid the Naag Mani in a place where neither man nor Asura could reach, and set two serpents to guard it. This was the prize Aarav sought. This was what drove him from Mumbai to the slopes of the Himalayas: cut, bruised, dressed in tatters, warmed only by the fire of his greed. In a beautiful Full Moon night, Ichchhadhari Naag (Male shape-shifting serpent) Kushal and Ichchhadhari Naagin (Female shape-shifting serpent) Nandini were swamped in love as their first day of being shape-shifting serpent dawned after completing Lord Shiva’s Tapasya (a spiritual discipline that includes deep meditation, austerity & moderation, self-discipline, and efforts to reach self-realization) for 100 years. Kushal and Nandini were the new guards of the Naag Mani Lord Shiva hid in the Himalayas a million of years ago. In these millions of years, many evils and humans had tried to pilfer the Naag Mani, but they were killed by the guards of the Naag Mani. The book, A Tale of Ichchhadhari Naag, helped Aarav to reach the Naag Mani hidden in a temple of Lord Shiva located somewhere in the Himalayas where Kushal and Nandini were dancing being dawned in their love. Aarav stood quietly behind an Apple tree, took out a pistol from his trench coat, and pointed at the serpents. As the serpents transformed to snakes while dancing and rolled over one another, Aarav pressed the trigger. Bullet went across Kushal making a hole in his body. Half-transformed: human body from the top, and snake from below the chest, Kushal was completely lain on the ground. Next to him, Nandini transformed as the human from top to bottom, sobbing in pain as Kushal’s breathes were tapering, laid Kushal’s head on her lap. Nandini could have used Naag Mani to heal Kushal’s wounds, but it was against the law as the guards of the Naag Mani. And by using the Naag Mani, they would have become the hunt of Lord Shiva’s wrath. “Promise me. You’ll always protect the Naag Mani,” spluttered Kushal, “You’ll never let any evildoer have the Naag Mani. Promise me.” Nandini promised Kushal to protect the Naag Mani ’til her last breath. Slowly, Kushal’s strength faded, and he closed his eyes forever. Nandini, turned red in a fury, stood high with wet eyes to find the murderer. Aarav peered in open land, expecting himself as a strong and brave man who could trounce any woman. He strode toward Nandini to threaten her to bestow the Naag Mani to him. Nandini turned her bottom half to snake’s body, picked up Aarav in the tail, and bashed him to the ground again and again. Aarav’s gun slithered from his tight grip and disappeared in the bushes. Nandini rose Aarav parallel to her face, very near to her, tightly gripped in the tail, to end his life through her fatal poison. Bright yellow light streamed a few feet away from Nandini that blurred her vision and turned her back to the lady from top to bottom. Aarav, untied from Nandini’s tail, toppled next to the dead body of Kushal. After a few seconds, when the light disappeared, Nandini saw Lord Shiva standing in front of her, widening his chest, bracing his Trident on the ground, with an adorable smile on his face. And Aarav wasn’t there anymore. Nandini bowed to Lord Shiva. “You bedazzled me with your loyalty. Ask me for anything you want to have.” Nandini could have asked for the immortality or the great power, but Kushal was her heart, jewel, heaven; without him, her life was like hell. Lord Shiva prized her with Kushal’s life for her honesty and loyalty. Kushal was filled with joy seeing Lord Shiva naturally in front of him. Kushal bowed to Lord Shiva and thanked him for granting him new life. “I had to grant you a new life for your and Nandini’s devotion upon me. Ask me for something else. For your loyalty and devotion, I would boon you with one more wish of your choice.” “It’ll be our felicity to serve you as one of your ganas,” enunciated Kushal and Nandini in unison. “Tathastu.” * * * It ends with a wanton boy meeting his destiny. It ends with an act of loyalty. It ends with love and devotion. Glossary: Asuras: demons. Ganas: attendants of Lord Shiva. Ichchhadhari Naag: Male shape-shifting serpent. Ichchhadhari Naagin: Female shape-shifting serpent. Naag Mani: a much more valuable than diamond. Senapati: Warlord. Trimurti: a three-face figure known as the divine Trimurti that includes from right Lord Brahma, Lord Vishnu, and Lord Shiva. Tapasya: a spiritual discipline that includes deep meditation, austerity & moderation, self-discipline, and efforts to reach self-realization. Tathastu: a divine spell used by gods in Hindu mythologies to complete the wish of their devotees. Originally from Walla Walla, Washington, Bailey is a 68-year-old semi-retired English teacher who’s spent half his life in Europe, Polynesia, Japan, and Latin America (the longest stint was Venezuela, 24 years). He’s worked on a tramper in Bristol Bay, Alaska, as a Christmas tree packer near Missoula, Montana, a U.S. Peace Corps teacher in the Kingdom of Tonga, a chess magazine editor in Seattle, and on the languages faculty of a Venezuelan university. A memoir of his appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine and five pieces in the Walla Walla Union-Bulletin newspaper treating Venezuela and inter-Americas dating and marriage considerations. The Pig The email propelled John Porter around the kitchen counter. Coffee, he needed coffee. Once steaming in his chess-themed mug, the slender and balding 60-year-old English professor added a touch of white sugar. Brown was better but there was only white today. Had been for weeks, in fact—since his wife had left, for it was she who remembered and provided him his little pleasures.
The thirty-five-year age difference with the email´s author, a recent student of his, was only part of her attraction, Porter reiterated to himself as he sat down at the massive hardwood table in his son-in-law´s living room. The warm mug steadied his quivering hands. Through large windows behind him, a tropical gorge plunged out of sight, its distant bottom screened by a canopy of treetops. Porter, perched on the chasm´s southern rim, often felt as if he were floating in a green heaven. But once he´d heard a wild pig die in the muck below screeching hoarsely at the end, killed by frenzied dogs that had been barking for an hour. “Age!” he scoffed aloft. Class prejudice, homophobia, racism, sexism—when would agism as it related to his circumstances be held in contempt? All who make a sentimental attachment across a decade or more know the soul is ageless, and the rest ought to respect their discovery. He returned to the email. It said what it said. Also, he considered, turning away, hadn’t Graciela earned a Ph.D. in biology? Made herself into a fine photographer? Didn´t she know good poetry? She’d sent him some in Spanish, her first language—Ana Terán, Neruda. Clearly she was interesting enough in her own right to quell anyone´s objections to their, how should he to put it--association. Anyone, that is, with the gall to consider it their business in the first place. And she cared about him! This was not in doubt since their last lunch, three years ago, marinated in a long string of beers at a nearly empty open-air country restaurant near the university. She´d sat almost sideways to him, her breasts squeezed all but up and out of their lacy green bra in the twice-unbuttoned white cotton blouse. Her idea had been, he realized later, that he could enjoy them to his heart´s content without the obligation of losing even a moment making eye contact (she´d learned during previous lunches where his eyes had liked to roam). But the effect was bizarre. Her breasts were squashed skyward into almost unrecognizable shapes as she softly addressed her side of the conversation to the vacant air off to her right, as if speaking to the distant cook grilling beef. The effect less erotic than erratic. But later he understood: Genesis, the blessings of the breasts.... With love! For him! Did he love her? Had he ever loved anyone? No to the first question. At least, not yet. The second resumed its decades-old gnawing. Again at his computer, Porter minimized the email and opened The New York Times. Being on one´s feet was good for the health, he´d read, and the kitchen counter served as a standing desk. Donald Rumsfeld had worked standing up. That Secretary of Defense had been an outstanding college wrestler, and Porter liked the idea that he, like Rumsfeld (who with Shock and Awe turned the Baghdad night to day) was a man who stood his ground. But he couldn´t concentrate on the Times. So he stepped towards the abyss. Crisp gorge air entered an open glider left of the windows. It was as cool as it ever got in Caracas this rainy afternoon, if such tiny droplets could be called rain. A savanna hawk screeched nearby. A continuo of chirping crickets, sometimes punctuated by three different bird calls, wafted in. This place really was paradise, he thought, forgetting the pig. And he had it all to himself with Maggie, the arthritic 12-year-old golden retriever asleep under the counter on the coverlets sewn by his wife. Belén was with his stepdaughter Carmencita in Panama. It was Panama where his son-in-law had found his latest job, so it was Panama his wife had gone a month prior to the birth of Carmencita´s baby. Before she left she announced that she´d be staying three more after. “Those two,” Porter thought. “Joined at the hip. Cross-generational Siamese twins. United by a never-severed umbilical cord. Mom-e-o and Juliet, the show paid for by the unfortunate Romeo, who has to work late at the office.” Romeo was his son-in-law Alfredo. Porter was soon emailing this formulation to a friend. Though the fellow and he had not planned it, they´d shared three lovers in sequence in their roving days. “Sometimes I ask myself,” Porter wrote, “that if I´m to have half a wife—where´s the other half?” No further thought surfaced to follow that, so he stepped back to the open glider. He looked at the tree rising clear of its gray-sheathed companions, the one a three-toed sloth had climbed and stayed atop a whole day and night. “Forget women. Forget sex,” he thought with sudden bitterness. Despite doctors, their creams and pills, the aftermath of menopause had made coitus painful for his wife. He thought of his former student´s long hair at its glossy midpoint between black and brown. Farewell To All That, as the book title went. Didn´t the passing of the years mean accepting the stages of life? “But I´m a young 60!” his thought. That´s how his orthopedist had put it while telling him that if he ran too much, why yes, something would hurt, in this case the ball of his right foot. “Repeated microtrauma,” the man wrote for the insurance company. Staring idly out the window, Porter recalled that moment. Idly, he imagined his sister´s features coalescing in the gray curtain of wet draping the gorge. The face came whole. It spoke. Assume Your Role (kindly grandfather dandling grandchild-to-be on his knee). Be Responsible (manage his money carefully so everybody could have enough of it while he was alive and all of it when he was dead). Act Your Age (she might as well have appended “little brother Peter Pan”). Don´t Disgrace Our Family (their late parents being unable to defend its honor, she sure as hell would). He raised the last of the now-cold coffee to his lips. Outside the mists had thickened; they pressed against the gliders. A few fell in, shrouding his ankles. Is this dying? No screeching, no barking, no red blood on black gorge floor. Just a silent succumbing to the gray proprieties. He darted to the laptop to read the email again. Graciela was back in Caracas and wanted to see him. *** Not long after the mazophilic lunch gone surreal three years before, Graciela went halfway round the world for a doctorate. Well, that was all right; even a relief. Porter knew she threatened his marriage, and his marriage, everyone agreed, was good for him. Starting on a great wave of sex, over time his wife had proved well-organized, industrious, intelligent—and fiercely caring. Though the sex had winnowed to nearly nothing, gradually thickening Belén with the dyed blond hair she wore short remained hard-wired monogamous with no truck for the notion that loyalty did not require fidelity. Suppose, he´d once invited her to imagine, she was in another city for work. Drinks and dancing in a hotel bar with an attractive and amusing fellow chemist presented the opportunity for a harmless one-off fling upstairs. Should he, as her husband, deny her such augmented joy in life? Hardly; as someone who loved her, he wanted her to have all the joy possible. “I know what you´re doing,” she´d responded. “You want me to give you this permission. The answer is no.” He´d accepted this, at least in the sense of not pursuing other women. To his mind, their marriage of 23 years had in one way ended his sexual career: he´d never cheated on her. Thought about it, yes. Amid lunches with and fantasies about his former student, plenty. *** “How could I be anywhere else?” Belén Cassani thought, attaching her seatbelt beside the chiseled youth in the window seat (he could be a model, she thought). What her husband thought about her going to Panama for four months—well, what did she care what he thought? What do gringos know about family life anyway? Besides, he´d be fine on his own. Anger tightened her striking features—strong chin, green eyes—as she waved off the hand-towel in the flight attendant´s tongs. As for going away, John did that every day, even while she was talking to him. She could see his blank eyes rising from his computer screen after she´d once again nearly had to shout to get his attention. No, he´d be just fine alone. In his vaunted solitude. His individualistic, egotistical solitude. His selfish solitude. So why shouldn´t she? If most of her thoughts were on her daughter anyway, if the two met on Skype every day, of course she was right to fly to Carmencita’s side like any mother of any daughter about to have a baby. “You´re going for four months?” He´d looked astonished. But there was so much to get ready, and then there would be the hard stretch after the birth of the little boy. Alfredo would be rising early for work and Carmencita had never been strong. All her life she´d needed her sleep, and a lot of it. Mothers help their daughters, period. John would be all right. More than all right. The little boy. Belén Cassani sat very still. Then she wanted to lean forward and close her eyes, so she did. She wanted to take a deep breath and smile, so she did. Carmencita—was going—to have a little boy! A woman of 59 sat in an airplane seat, a graceful arch to her bent back, a little curve at the corners of her mouth in an equipoise blessed by God. The black-haired youth beside her who was indeed a model stared at her transfixed. *** Before Belén he´d lived by the sword for 17 years, Porter reflected, taking the stairs by twos. The sun was burning through outside and he wanted to run. Those 17 had begun after the much-delayed (in his opinion) end of his virginity at 22. At 21 he´d fallen in love, the real thing. Or so it had felt. Still, one afternoon walking a street near his beloved, feeling sainted in the light of the new life about to dawn with her, a singular thought came: “This isn´t the only woman I´m ever going to fuck.” In the end she wasn´t the first either. That fact, and then the loss of her altogether, contributed to a suicide attempt. But there´d been forewarning of trouble, symbolized by a flourishing pimple defacing him one soulful night in a bar where she told him she thought they had something really intense together. The comment had been a milestone on the road towards the exalted future they seemed destined to share. But the raging blemish might as well have been the physical expression of his later strolling conclusion he wasn´t going to be confined to but one woman for life—not even to her, whom he knew beyond all doubt was the one for him. Still now at 60, he wondered if the long-ago blemish might yet stand for something he´d come to suspect over the years: that he was coarse to the bone. The boy in love at 22 was even then, in kernel, the ingot-eyed visitor to strip bars and brothels, the seducer at home and abroad. Even then he was a self-indulgent monster. “Yet,” he argued with himself, “yet!” With Graciela surely there was more! The topic of suicide, for example, had been a powerful commonality. One afternoon after class while they´d discussed Willy Loman among the battered chair desks of their fine but underfunded university, it devolved that she too had once nearly taken her life over crossed first love. The moment had marked a consonance. Strong too was the effect of her shoulder bag whose diagonal strap traveled deep between her breasts, drawing her cotton shirt taut over each. Her hair in its lustrous dark falling long down her back glinted in the slanting sunlight. From that hour, their age difference mattered not a whit to him nor (he sensed) to her; no more an impediment than skin hue and height to becoming lovers. Which he knew would end his life as he had known it for the last 23 years. *** Graciela Paredes in a thin red v-neck sweater studied Porter´s reply at her desk in the Venezuelan Ministry of Health. No cell number though she´d asked for one. No meet-up plan. This, after all the electronic banter of the old days? How swiftly they´d arranged meetings then! All the while she´d been gone she´d been sure of resuming their--thing--on her coming home. But she´d been back a month, written him after a week, and so far he´d barely said hello. Confusion and an old melancholy back of that stole over her. She noticed the infectious diseases chief watching her again from the water cooler. The overweight man´s wrinkled white shirt and brown tie looked the same as yesterday´s. She thought of her professor´s call three years ago. He´d said it was better they not communicate anymore. He was sorry. To her feeler for more information he´d repeated himself verbatim. She´d said okay. It was nowhere close. From the water cooler: “Say, that sweater looks warm. Need more a-c? I know I do.” She hadn´t put it on for him. For who then? Someone—there must be someone out there. Her baleful stare pinned the 35-year-old to the wall like a moth on a collection box floor. He studied the tiny paper cup in his hand. As her professor had stipulated, there´d indeed followed a long time with no contact. But finally she´d included him in a group of university friends in her postings from Down Under, where she studied, and Vietnam and Cambodia, where she traveled. He´d returned a few words of praise for the pictures she attached and for her descriptions of her experiences. A few words only and far between. *** “No way my marriage can take a second round of this,” thought Porter at his dish drainer. Graciela´s new email—a response to the reply he´d finally sent—gleamed at him. He lifted his chess mug to its accustomed shelf but stopped halfway, arrested by memories. The coffees on campus. The light meals there. Later the heavier fare elsewhere, the beery hours flowing by in easy confidential chat. The time they´d met in a mall when Graciela arrived in a sheer purple dress, her face a subtle rainbow of lovely cosmetic hues. All that had led to The Night. The Night Porter told his wife he was going to a bar where his running group met. Surely he knew he and his attractive young companion would be seen by people at this bar who knew him and Belén. The choice of this place represented a wish to keep the various parts of his life aboveboard. If not to his wife, then at least to people who knew her. As a man in a rough sea grabs at a lifeline, Porter was grabbing at the last strand of his integrity. What he had not told his wife about the bar was that he was going to meet a recent student of his on the other side of the facing avenue, accompany her across, and escort her in. As he waited for Graciela, the words This is over the line mortified him. She soon appeared saying that she and a girlfriend had spent the afternoon depressing themselves in conversation about the philandering men they knew. They wondered if they´d ever have sufficient faith in men to marry one. Porter knew (because she´d told him) that she´d slept with more than one husband. As they looked for a break in the traffic he wondered how she couldn´t see her own role in her depression. Nor he his. Two of his running friends were standing in the doorway. Porter introduced Graciela: “From my university. Almost done with her Master´s. In biology!” They looked at him, and they looked at the short young woman with her blouse rather open, a necklace of polished wood blocks obscuring half her cleavage. Again they looked at Porter whom they´d known for years. They said quiet hellos but did not smile. Inside, a young Swedish woman and her Venezuelan boyfriend invited the 60- and 25-year-old to share their table in the noisy darkness. They´d just returned from two years in Goteborg. Porter spent the next two hours absorbed in talk about immigration and the Swedish welfare state. Beer was drunk though not much. Graciela said little. She drove him to his apartment building around eleven. Her brown Toyota stopped in front and they said good-night. He laid his hand an instant on the hair along her neck. She neither said nor did anything. He opened the door and was gone. She´d been too surprised to react in time. *** “We´re going to a nice place in the mountains,” Belén told Porter two weeks after The Night. “I´ve got a surprise for you.” They drove the twisting road talking of this and that amid deep silences. Their room was chalet-like, done in blond oak, and there she presented her husband with a private detective´s report. At home, she said, she´d noticed him slipping around corners to check his cell. The report detailed not only his meeting with a young woman in a bar (though clearly the sleuth hadn´t waited out the two-hour conversation about Sweden to see them leave in a car together). It also included all Porter’s email correspondence with Graciela over a long period. The detective´s grasp of English, Porter decided as he read (under his wife´s steady gaze), though strong, was not perfect. The conclusion the correspondence proved a love affair struck Porter as unfounded. He looked up to tell his wife this, but stopped. She was smiling. It was a rigid smile. It was a horrible smile. He laid the folder down. “Now you are going to call her,” she said. Her green eyes glittered. “You are going to tell her you will never see her again. I am going to watch you do it.” No one can tell me not to see another person, thought Porter. But he saw that his wife was stretched to the breaking point. The tearing of her was too ghastly to imagine. He thought: I will come back to this. He nodded. His wife leaned over the low table extending his own phone to him. He held up a hand. “I need to write it down.” His wife nodded very slightly. He wrote, crossed out lines, wrote again. At last he picked up his phone. “Hello, this is John Porter.” Belén sat five feet away. “Hi!” said Graciela. “I´m calling to say it’s better that we not communicate anymore. I´m sorry. I wish you well.” “Oh. Uh … okay.” Porter had never heard a more dubious voice. “Is something–” “It´s better that we not communicate anymore. I´m sorry. I wish you well.” He hung up. *** Spouse regarded spouse in careful silence. But soon they were talking outside on a small patio in what Porter thought, to his immense relief and happiness, was a surprisingly normal way. Petunias exploded from hanging clay pots. The late afternoon sun, clarion yellow against a lapis mountain sky, set the red and white flowers aflame. “Don´t think just because I´m talking to you this way I´m all right,” Belén said once with incongruous bounciness. “You have hurt me a lot.” Within a week they´d agreed to marriage counseling. By three months they´d completed three venues of it. They had their says individually and together, resolving nothing but discussing everything. Strangely, that seemed enough. Porter did not contact his former student nor she him until she was in Australia. Then, until they once again shared Caracas. *** Three years since The Night, Porter and his wife were packing in their bedroom on the rim of the gorge where the pig had died. They were going to visit his “Family North,” as he called it, in the States. It took him 20 minutes to work himself up to it. “Graciela is back. I´m going to have lunch with her.” Belén´s hands froze; resumed placing a green shawl in a blue suitcase. “I see,” she said, patting the shawl into place. “Bring me my shower cap please.” “We´ll meet on campus. That´s where we met, that´s where it should be. A cachapa by the baseball field.” “The shower cap.” He got it. She pushed it in, zipped the bag shut hard, went out into the hall and down the stairs. “Maggie! The park!” As the heavy front door closed, Porter heard, “Make it fast.” *** John Porter, 60, Professor of English at the country´s leading public university, pulled into the huge lot next to the campus baseball field on a sun-drenched midday. According to his watch he was one minute late. This disturbed him; it seemed to reduce the strength of his position. He knew he needed the last scintilla of his strength to preserve—no, restore—the correct level of formality between him and his former student. A formality he was worried even if restored might crumble again in a quarter-hour due to his core weakness. But Article 20 clause one of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights protects freedom of association, and this was the day he had chosen to reassert it in his life. Porter shut the door of his blue Fiesta and walked in a very straight line towards the cachapa stand. This was a griddle where cheese and dough were fried, then mixed and served by two languid women of color whose youth had vanished on the very spot. Awaiting him around a corner on a raised concrete platform were three white plastic tables with matching chairs. Sitting in one of them, doubtless, was Graciela. Stern-faced, crunching gravel, Porter went over it again. Ask about her studies, work and plans. Australia, her travels and photography. Period! He was relieved there´d be no alcohol to wash him headlong out of the sanctum of his married life. But how, even sober, could he resist returning to those intimate conversational places with this just-returned queen of his fantasies? Where they´d so enjoyed going so often before? For surely she was thinking of resuming their—dynamic—what else could she be thinking? How restore a distance he´d so delighted in destroying? Booze or no booze, as he ascended the last step to the platform, the task of reestablishing boundaries suddenly felt gargantuan with this woman, the object of so many raw imaginings. One: a roadside dive in the first light of morning, the two on a bed of black velvet, red lamp beside, straining towards the very heart of Eros. Such a scenario despite three years of separation now seemed but a few words from arranging. For hadn´t she once told him, calmly, quietly, that however he might want to structure a liaison, she would, in complete discretion, agree to its terms? Why had he thought he could manage this? He mounted the platform knowing his marriage was hanging by the thread of his self-control. When had he ever mustered that in the anterooms of pleasure? He turned the corner. She was not there. He stood stock still. One table was occupied, two were empty. He sat as close as possible to the two bored women at their griddle hoping their proximity, though they didn´t speak English, might still constrain him after Graciela arrived. Five minutes passed. “Twenty. Not a second more,” he decided. He ordered a cachapa. Wiping his fingers on a little napkin, he watched the second hand of his watch climb to the twentieth 12. In one motion he was off the platform striding towards his car. No doubt he´d meet her on the way. That did not occur. No doubt she´d call to him from her own car parked nearby. No. She´d tap his window as he started his engine. No. As he backed, turned, and began to drive away, he would see her running up. No. He saw her a hundred yards off just after he´d turned right onto the campus loop. She no doubt was parking there to walk the green glen past the tennis courts to their rendezvous. She was leaning over, putting something in the back seat of the brown Toyota. Then she straightened and found her key. She looked the same. Her hair, burnished under the day-star, fell its thick self to where his face had longed to press. She wore a red faded sundress, slightly wrinkled, an empire waistline gathering up her breasts. The dress looked soft on her skin below, soft for his hands upon. She pressed her key; the locks snapped shut. The soul of summer and youth, she turned towards his approaching car. Did she see a rigid form in a gray shirt stare fixedly ahead? Porter would never know. The End Panic Room The clock on the antique desk ticked like a time bomb as the walls slowly closed in on her. With each quarter chime, the perimeter of the room decreased by several inches. The room itself wasn't that small, perhaps 20' x 15', but it was the absence of windows and doors that was alarming. The air was thin as though the oxygen had been sucked out of the room leaving an uninhabitable vacuum. Apart from the clock, the room was silent. The noise, though, was absolutely deafening.
The ringing in Emily's ears, coupled with the rapid throbbing of her pulse, made it hard for her to focus on steadying her breathing. Greedily and noisily she gulped for air, unable to slow down her rapid respiration. Heart racing, head pounding, her mind kept repeating her mantra, “It’s okay, you’re okay.” Emily felt sick to her stomach, certain she was dying. She recognized her symptoms as those of a full-blown panic attack, but that didn't help to calm her down. The only thing she held onto was the fact that the lights were on, that she wasn’t in total darkness. It wasn't bright by any means, but there was a floor lamp on one side of the room and a table lamp on the desk next to the clock. Emily had woken disoriented about 40 minutes ago. At first, she thought she was still immersed in some nightmare, having trouble clearing the fog from her brain. Once she understood she was awake, she scanned her surroundings, trying to remember where she was and why she was there. Feeling groggy, Emily initially felt only confusion and a sense that there was something she was missing. “I don’t know this place,” she thought to herself. “What am I doing here? Where’s Brad?” Her eyes took in the oak panelled walls and thickly carpeted floor, and the furnishings in the room. It was all foreign to her, but her mind suddenly snapped to attention and she awoke fully. Then she remembered. “It’s fine, I’m okay. I can do this,” she said aloud. Emily was in a Mystery Escape Room. She recalled what led her to be here. *** About a week ago, she received an invitation in her email inbox. Addressed to her, Emily Johnson, it read: Congratulations! You are one of twelve people who have been specially selected to participate in the Grand Opening preview of our new Victoria Mystery Escape Room Experience. We are offering this complimentary escape adventure in exchange for a review of your experience with us. Your appointed time is 3 pm to 5 pm on Saturday, October 13 at 353 Victoria Road. Refreshments and all game materials will be included free of charge. Please RSVP by October 10 by responding to this email. We ask you come alone. Looking forward to sharing a great escape, The Escape Room Experience Management Emily’s first response was to send the invitation into the recycle bin. Why on earth would someone pay to be locked up? It was the newest craze these days - puzzle rooms, adventure rooms, mystery rooms. Whatever they called it, she couldn’t understand why anyone would find it fun to be locked in a room, free or not. Emily’s finger hovered above the delete button. Then she reconsidered, and walked away from the computer. When her husband, Brad, came home from his office at the law firm, Emily showed him the invitation. “You’re not thinking of going, are you?” he asked. Brad had experienced the effects of Emily’s claustrophobia on numerous occasions during their 24 years of married life. “No, but I don’t know, maybe I should. You know, try to face up to my fears,” answered Emily. “Maybe this invitation is a sign that this is something I need to do. I’m so tired of not being able to go in an elevator without freaking out.” Emily was reasonably fit and healthy for her 47 years, so she could handle a few flights of stairs. That wasn’t the issue, though. Their daughter, Lisa, lived in a highrise condo in the city. Emily wanted to be able to visit without having to medicate herself beforehand. There was also the problem of change rooms, public bathrooms, planes, crowds in public places, the car in a snowstorm...the list went on and on. Life was difficult when you lived in fear of being trapped. “Do you think you can handle it?” Brad asked again. “Well, I think I handled the gondola up the mountain pretty well. So, yeah, I can handle it,” Emily told him. “Maybe this will get rid of my fear once and for all.” *** Last year, Emily and Brad had gone on vacation to a resort in the Rocky Mountains with their friends, Joyce and Tom Burke. Joyce suggested going up the mountain on the gondola to see the views. Brad said, “You two go ahead. We’ll wait down here.” “What? And miss out on this? Come on, you don’t get a chance like this every day,” coaxed Joyce. “You go along, Brad,” suggested Emily. She reminded Joyce and Tom about her fear of heights and closed spaces. But Joyce wasn’t one to take no for an answer. She persisted, “Well, you know what they say about facing your fears head on. It’s the best way to overcome them. You’ll be fine. We’re all here for you. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity!” Joyce took Emily’s hand in hers and led her towards the ticket booth. “Are you sure?” asked Brad. Emily responded with a weak smile. “Yes, I’ll probably regret it if I don’t do it and miss out.” This was her first trip to the mountains, something she had always wanted to do. She didn’t want to spoil it. Although she closed her eyes for much of the ride, Emily was ecstatic when she got to the top of the mountain. The view was incredible. The miniature town below was cradled by the surrounding mountains with their snow-covered caps. There were goats on the overhang just under where they stood. Emily never once regretted her choice to take the gondola ride. “I did it! It wasn’t bad at all. You’re right - I do need to face my fears head on. I’m so glad I did this!” *** “If you really want to do to this Escape Room thing, I’ll come with you,” Brad said. “No, it says to come alone. That must have something to do with whole experience, I guess, being alone with 11 other people you don’t know yet,” replied Emily. “Okay, if you’re sure this is something you really want to do…?” Brad was always supportive of whatever she did, but also somewhat overprotective at times. *** Now, with her head in her hands, rocking back and forth on the leather sofa, Emily wished Brad were here with her. It hadn’t taken long for Emily to lose control. As soon as Emily realized there were no windows or doors in the room, she felt that wave rising through her body, that sense of dread, that paralyzing fear no amount of reason could squelch. She had no choice but to wait and hope it would pass. Emily closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on slowing her breathing. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy,” she thought to herself. “Remember it’s a game.” Emily now recalled something about an emergency button. She needed to locate it, she thought, even just to know where it was in case she couldn’t go through with this. “A red button. On the door,” she remembered being told. Emily stood up and looked around the perimeter of the room looking for the door with the red button. There was no door. "There has to be a door,” Emily thought frantically, "I got in here somehow." Emily sat back down on the couch and tried to remember how she had gotten in there. *** She had a clear memory of driving up to the old Victorian mansion just before 3 pm. The sign on the front lawn clearly read ‘Victoria Mystery Escape Room Experience’. Leaving her parked car on the street in front of the building, she headed up the walkway towards the front door. "Hi there, you must be Emily," called a voice from the front porch as Emily approached. The attractive young man who greeted her introduced himself as Tim. "Welcome to our Escape Experience. Before we go in, there are just a few things that we should go over together so you understand what's going on." "Shouldn't we wait for everyone else to come?" asked Emily. "It's just the two of us,” said Tim. "Each of our preview experiences are individual adventures. I'm sorry if that wasn't clear in the email." "But I expected that we'd be in a group," explained Emily. "I don't think I can do this on my own.” "There's nothing to worry about. It's perfectly safe. The whole experience only takes an hour. If you're unable to get out within the hour, I'll release you," Tim assured her. "You don't understand," continued Emily. "I have claustrophobia." "No problem. There's an emergency button just in case. It's a large red knob on the doorframe. If you feel panicked just give it a push. The door will open right away," Tim explained. "There's also a camera in the room. So I'll be monitoring you the whole time." "I don't know. I think I'll just leave it, thanks." said Emily hesitantly. But Tim opened the front door and said, “It’ll be great, I promise you. The hour will go by quickly and if you do solve the mystery and escape, you’ll have first bragging rights. You’re our fourth client so far, and no one else has figured it out yet.” Emily walked into the entrance way and the door closed behind her. There was a reception area to the right. Tim told Emily to help herself to refreshments. “Just have a seat on the couch for a moment and I’ll be right back with some forms for you to fill out,” said Tim. “Then we”ll get started.” While Emily waited, she poured poured herself a cup of coffee and treated herself to a cookie. She vaguely recalled being helped to her feet and guided out of the reception area a while later. That was all Emily remembered. The next thing she knew, she woke up in the escape room, alone and disoriented. *** "I must've blacked out and lost some of my memory in my panic," thought Emily. "I just need to stay calm until they come to let me out." As the clock chimed the quarter hour again, Emily noted that it was 6 o'clock. Surely she had been in here for at least an hour. Tim would come to let her out any time now. She waited. No one came. With each passing minute, Emily became more agitated. "Calm down," she told herself. "Think think think. There must be a way out of here." Emily was accustomed to solving mysteries. She was the author of several suspense novels as well as an avid reader of thrillers. But this was no novel, and she was not a character fabricated out of someone's imagination. This was real. As the clock chimed again, Emily realized she needed to take action to get herself out of this situation. She picked up her purse and searched for her phone. Not finding it, she dumped the contents of her purse on the table and rummaged through everything several times. She checked the pockets of her jacket. It wasn’t there. “I didn’t leave it in the car, did I?” Emily panicked. “Now what am I going to do?” She eased herself off the couch, steadied herself, took a deep breath, and started feeling along the wall behind the couch. She felt her way carefully along the panels, searching for a crack that might be the edge of a door. There didn’t seem to be any opening as far as she could tell. When she got to the end of the wall, she noticed there was a hidden recess between it and the adjoining wall that she hadn’t seen in her panicked state. “The door!” Emily exclaimed with relief. But when she turned the corner into the recess all she found in the small space was a toilet and sink, equipped with toilet paper and towels. “Why would they have this in an Escape Room?” she wondered. Along the next wall she continued searching for a gap, finding none. Nor was there any sign of a break in the panelling on the third wall, where the desk and chair were situated next to a bookcase. There was, however, a small air vent near the bottom of the floor, not large enough for her to crawl through, by any means. Emily continued along the final wall, where two chairs and the floor lamp stood. Apart from a coffee table in front of the couch, there was no other furniture. A throw and 2 pillows adorned the couch. Otherwise, nothing. No TV, no computer. No decorative touches, no knick knacks, nothing on the walls. Nor was there a door. Emily checked out the bookcase and saw that it held some books, one of them being her first novel, a battery operated radio, a box of kleenex, several bottles of water, a box of crackers, and a couple of boxes of granola bars. Then she went over to the desk and opened a drawer, hoping to find some clues. She found some blank sheets of paper and a pen in the top right drawer. In the second drawer, she found a flashlight and a first aid kit along with some pain pills. The last drawer held a folded piece of paper, and a vial of pills. Emily took out the piece of paper, unfolded it, and read the typed message she found: I’m sorry it came to this. I’m not a killer, really I’m not. But my life is ruined and I felt I had no other choice, so I took a chance. But I’m giving you a choice. I want you to have a chance to end this as quickly and painlessly as possible. So you can take the pills and it will be over in minutes, or you can wait…It’s up to you. The heat’s not on, the water’s not connected, the food and water will run out. No one will come for months. Emily felt the rising wave go through her body once again and she nearly passed out as she felt the blood drain from her brain. “No, no, no...this isn’t happening,” she shouted. She rose slowly and screamed as loud as she could and banged on the wall beside the desk with all her might. The chiming of the clock brought her to her senses, and she sat back down. “Calm down, think,” she told herself. Then she remembered. Brad knew where she was. Lisa, her daughter, and Greg, her son, knew where she was. When she didn’t come home soon, they would come look for her at the Escape house. Looking around the room again, Emily was confused. This didn’t look like an escape game room, but rather like a safe room, one of those panic rooms that rich people build into their homes in case of a break-in or some other emergency situation. What if she wasn’t where she thought she was? What if she wasn’t where her family thought she was? It dawned on Emily that no one knew where to look for her. “Who would want to do this to me?” she wailed out loud. “What did I do to you?” She put her head in her hands and cried. After a few minutes, she got up and walked around again, looking for something she might have missed. “I need to focus, calm myself down if I’m going to get out of here,” she thought. “The good news is the room is not getting smaller, there is oxygen in the room, I’m not in immediate danger. That was just my hysteria getting the best of me before.” Then she took the note, some paper and a pen from the drawer and sat down at the desk. “Pull yourself together,” she said to herself. “Okay, so there are two things I need to focus on. One, I need to find a way out of here. The sooner the better. Two, I need to solve my own murder. No, make that attempted murder.” In the event that she didn’t make it out, she hoped to be able to leave some sort message leading her family and the police to her killer. Emily took a bottle of water and took a small sip and then settled down to work. Since she had received the email about the escape room about a week ago, she thought she would try to retrace her steps over the last few weeks to look for clues. Being a writer by nature and by trade, she took one piece of paper and began to map out recent events in her life as best as she could remember them, and on another piece of paper she recorded suspects, motives, means, and opportunities. Then she cross-referenced her lists. “I’ve never done anything to hurt anyone. Who would want me dead? And in this cruel way? Is it for revenge? Or money? Or just some psycho toying with me?” she wondered. Emily thought she should be able to figure this out. Afterall, her hobby was reading and writing mysteries. She considered the usual suspects in a story. It was always the husband. Except not in this case, it wasn’t. Brad would never do anything to hurt her. Even though there was the half million dollar life insurance policy, she was sure of this. Brad loved her. Besides, she also held a half million dollar life insurance policy in his name. Would they even pay if her death was a suicide? “Stop!” she told herself, “I can’t seriously be suspecting my husband! What is wrong with me?” Money couldn’t be the motive. Emily was well-off, but not rich. Brad did very well himself as a criminal attorney. But if money was the motive, the only people who stood to gain from her death were her husband and her son and daughter. Could it be revenge? For what? Emily had never intentionally hurt anyone. She led a simple life. With Brad at work and the kids moved away, she was home alone much of the time. She spent most of her days at home reading and writing. She did the laundry, cooked, cleaned, watched some TV. She bought groceries. Groceries? Could that be it? A couple of weeks ago there had been an incident when she went out for groceries. She had abruptly switched lanes to get on the exit ramp in time, and in doing so she cut in front of someone causing them to brake suddenly and swerve. She was lucky she hadn’t caused an accident. The driver of the other car pressed the horn hard several times in disgust at her inconsiderate driving. Maybe he or she memorized Emily’s license plate number or maybe even recognized her from a photo on a book jacket. Or maybe it was the owner of the dog she had run over last year. Distracted driving may well be one of her faults, thought Emily. She didn't like to drive, especially in the winter, and she seldom went anywhere without Brad. There was that time she caused another driver to swerve into the ditch because she was moving too slowly and the driver decided to pass, not seeing the oncoming car in the opposite lane. But both those accidents had taken place quite some time ago. So revenge was a possible, but surely not a likely, motive, thought Emily. Could it have something to do with Brad’s job? As a criminal attorney, he was responsible for some innocent people being sent to jail, and some guilty people being let off scot-free. It was the nature of the job, not his fault. Could someone be getting back at him by killing his wife? But how did people know about her claustrophobia? Emily wondered. “Facebook, my bio, it’s probably public knowledge,” Emily thought. “So really, anyone could know.” Revenge was often a motive in books, but Emily couldn’t believe someone would go to this much trouble over some little car accident or even a court judgement that she had nothing to do with. Emily got up and did another round of the room, more thoroughly this time. She felt up and down and all around the wood panels trying to find a break. She looked up at the ceiling. There was another air vent there, but again, it was way too small for anyone to fit into. She checked around the sink and the toilet area. Then she started to move the furniture away from the wall. The chairs and floor lamp moved easily enough. The couch was a little more difficult, as was the desk, but she managed to push them aside so that she could get in behind them. The bookcase wouldn’t budge. After several attempts to move the bookcase, Emily sat back down at the desk. She gave some more thought to motive and suspects. Could it be that someone was jealous of her? What about her divorced next door neighbour? She seemed friendly enough, but who knew? Pam was always needing Brad to help her out with odd jobs around the house and yard. Was she hoping to have Brad to herself once Emily was out of the picture? Maybe she envied Emily with her husband and family, her successful career, and happy life. Maybe she was so lonely she was desperate. Or maybe they were already having an affair right under her nose. “How could I be so naive, not noticing them carry on like that? That must be it! Brad doesn’t seem to mind spending time over there,” she convinced herself. “And I’ve been so busy with my writing, I haven’t been paying much attention to Brad lately.” “My writing, I wonder... Does that have something to do with this?” Emily switched gears. She had just submitted her last novel to her editor. “What if I wrote something to offend someone, one of the proofreaders, maybe, or even my editor herself,” pondered Emily. “Or maybe I somehow inadvertently exposed someone or something during my research. Could I have been a witness to something without knowing it?” Emily considered if perhaps she even had a crazed fan who was putting her in a situation similar to one in one of her books to see how she would handle it. Maybe she was the victim of an absolute psycho. This made her think of Tim, her host at the Escape house. She knew nothing about him. Sure, he didn’t look like a crazy person, but then you never knew, did you? Some of the most famous serial killers were very normal and attractive looking people. “I should have known something was wrong when he was the only one there,” Emily told herself. As she tried to envision him, there was something nagging at the back of her mind. It was as though she had seen him somewhere before, but she couldn’t quite place him. Having completed an inspection of the room twice now, Emily decided to check through her pockets and purse again for anything that might be of use. The pockets were empty, as was the purse now. She checked the contents she had dumped on the table earlier: keys for the car and house, her wallet with ID and credit cards along with a few bills and some change, a few pills, some kleenex, a pack of mints, a hairbrush, a couple of old lottery tickets along with this week’s ticket, some hand lotion, lip balm, a notepad and a pen. But no phone. Emily got up and checked the contents of the desk again: a clock, a lamp, writing materials, a flashlight, first aid supplies, and the note with the pills. On the bookcase, she noted the radio, the books, the food and water, and kleenex. She shook out the pillows and the throw that were on the couch, as well as the towel and toilet paper rolls in the bathroom area. All these items might keep her comfortable for a while, but wouldn’t help to get her out of here. She would need to leave some clues to help her family solve her murder, that is, if she was ever found at all. Emily went back to the desk and continued recording her thoughts and ideas about her situation. Someone had to have the means to carry out this plan in order to get rid of her in this way. “Someone who has a panic room in their house, or someone who has access to a house with a panic room. Maybe a house that’s currently vacant?” Emily considered. It would have to be someone who was able to physically remove her from the waiting room of the Escape house into this room, or perhaps into a completely different building. “It wouldn’t make sense that I’m still at the Escape house. Brad and the kids would look for me there. My car’s parked outside. Other people would see it. Other people would come into the Escape house at some point. So I must be somewhere else, maybe somewhere no one is expected to show up,” she reasoned. “And whoever did this to me doesn’t know me as well as they think they do. I would never take the easy way out and take my own life. I need to think about the kids and Brad. What would happen to them if I just gave up?” Of course, it could be that someone was so twisted and cruel that they wanted to prolong her suffering and wait it out until she simply died, whether as the result of fright or panic, or the lack of basic necessities. Emily took another sip of water and lay down on the couch with her eyes closed for a few moments. She thought about her parents and her brother. She hadn’t seen them for the last month as she had been concentrating on getting her book finished. Would they think she had walked out on her family? Surely Brad knew her well enough to know that she would never do that. What would everyone think? She opened her eyes and glanced at the contents of her purse, picked up her wallet and looked inside just in case she still had some family photos inside. No such luck. She thought she might never see her kids again. As she set down her wallet, the lottery tickets caught her eye, and she thought of Joyce. Emily and Joyce had been out for lunch Wednesday at their usual spot. The two of them had a sort of “lottery pact”. Each week, they would take turns choosing numbers and buying a lottery ticket with the understanding that if one of them won, they would split the prize. This week had been Emily’s turn to purchase the ticket. “No amount of money would help me now,” Emily thought. “It really is true what they say - money isn’t everything.” Although she and Joyce knew they would never win the lottery, and more often than not forgot to check their tickets, they joked about what they would do when they won. Emily thought about Joyce now and was again ashamed of where her mind was taking her. “First my husband, now my best friend? How could I even think it?” she reprimanded herself. But what if Joyce held a winning ticket and didn’t want to share? Could she do this to her? Was she capable of this? Emily had known Joyce since they were three, when they met in the park. They had attended school together, grown up together, and gone to university together. Emily didn’t remember a time when they were not best friends and confidantes. When Emily married and started a family with Brad, Joyce was there through it all. When Joyce met and married Tom 12 years ago, Emily was her maid of honour. Joyce was a successful real estate agent and Tom owned a small chain of retail stores. They had a 10 year old daughter and Tom had a grown son from a previous marriage. They seemed to be well-off and happy with their life together. During their Wednesday lunch, Joyce and Emily had talked about their husbands, their jobs, the kids, and their favourite TV programs. Nothing Joyce said or did was out of the ordinary. What would Joyce think when she found out she was missing? Would she think she had run away? What if Joyce and Brad were having an affair? Could they be in on this together? Emily was starting to worry whether anyone would actually look for her, or whether they would assume she had left of her own accord. Each time the clock chimed, Emily knew she was one step closer to never escaping, never being found. She looked around the room again, wondering what she was missing. She focused on the bookcase. If she removed everything from the shelves, would she be able to push it even the slightest bit? She doubted it. Knowing she had no other options at this point, Emily went to the bookcase and started to remove all the items on the shelves. Then she pushed with all her might. It didn’t budge. She tried to move the shelves and found they weren’t fastened. They came out fairly easily. After she placed the shelves on the floor away from the bookcase, Emily tried once again to move the bookcase, but to no avail. “What is making this so heavy?” she screamed in frustration. She stared at the bookcase willing it to open up and set her free. Then she remembered the flashlight in the desk. Grasping it in one hand and feeling her way along the back and sides of the bookcase, Emily peered inside and saw nothing. She grabbed her keys off the table and started gouging the back wall of the bookcase, but it was solid. Defeated, she held the sides of the bookcase and slid down to the floor. “Ouch,” she cried out as her thumb scraped against something. Emily felt along the recessed edge of the bookcase and felt a small built-in release button. “Yes!” she screamed. Emily pushed the button, the bookcase swung open, and she almost fell headlong into the next room. It was dark. She saw very little. The bookcase swung closed behind her. She felt along the closed door and realized there were shelves, that it was a double-sided bookcase. Emily turned around and stared into the dark space ahead, almost expecting someone to grab her and send her back into her prison. Once she realized she was alone, she carefully walked forward with her hands outstretched and felt a wall about 6 feet away from the bookcase. She turned and walked to the right, finding another wall. Then she turned around and walked in the opposite direction until she once again came to a wall. To her horror, Emily realized that she had been trapped in a box within a box. She screamed and pounded, not caring who might hear. After some time, she sat down and tried to calm herself. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” she kept repeating. “I got this far. There has to be a way out. No, it’s not a box. It can’t be. Maybe an entryway to the safe room,” she reasoned. She judged the space to be about 6’x10’. “Maybe a closet,” she thought. “If it’s a closet, there must be a door.” Emily got up and felt along the wall in front of her. Her fingers came upon a small round raised spot. “A door pull? No, maybe a camera?” she guessed. “No, not a camera. A peep hole!” Emily knelt down and peeked through the hole and saw darkness. She kept working her way across the wall and then she felt it. There was a crack in the wall. It ran from the top to the bottom of the wall. Emily pressed hard on the crack in the wall. Nothing happened. She continued to feel along the wall until she felt another crack. When she pushed on it, this time it gave way and Emily tumbled into yet another room. It was dark as well. Emily stood still for a moment, wondering if this was another box she was trapped in. Then her eyes began to adjust and she saw there was some moonlight coming in from a window. Emily gingerly walked towards the window, which she soon realized was a door, opened the curtains, and looked out into the darkness. Then she opened the patio door and stepped outside. She was greeted by the sound of waves crashing against the shore. As Emily gazed at the black lake, she said to herself, “I know who did this. And I know why.” Emily worked her way towards the front of the house. The moon and stars provided just enough light for her to see where she was going. The gravel driveway led to a gravel road. She didn’t know which way to turn, so she took a right. Emily didn’t know how long it was, maybe an hour or two that she spent walking down the road. Finally, a car came along and stopped. It was an older couple just heading back home from closing up their cottage for the winter. They asked her if she needed a ride, if she needed help. Emily said, “Call 911”, and then she told them her story. It was after midnight by the time Emily was reunited with her family. The ordeal she had been through had lasted about 8 hours, but it felt more like days to Emily. “I started to get worried when you didn’t come home for supper. Then when you didn’t answer the phone after I kept calling, I called the kids,” Brad told her. “We were just about to contact the police when they called us into the station and told tell us what had happened to you.” Emily was safe in her husband’s arms with her children by her side. Emily’s version of what happened was confirmed thanks to financial records, a nosy neighbour who saw Emily and Tim enter the Escape house, and fingerprints on the vial of pills. She explained to the police how her friends Joyce and Tom had a cottage about an hour north of the city. Joyce was selling a nearby cottage for a friend, but it had been closed up for the winter, awaiting spring for further showings. When Emily saw that she was at the lake, she thought she had solved the mystery of her attempted murder. She had at first assumed Joyce was having an affair with Brad and wanted her out of the way. But then as she walked along the road, and thought it through logically, she knew Brad and Joyce wouldn’t betray her. That got her thinking about Tom. And then she remembered why Tim looked so familiar. She had seen his childhood photo on Joyce and Tom’s mantel. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, she thought. So she told the police she suspected Tom might be responsible for her abduction, but she didn’t know why he would do such a thing. When they found the evidence to incriminate him, Tom broke down and confessed. He wanted Emily gone, but he didn’t have it in him to kill her by his own hand, so he hoped that she would be driven to kill herself, or if not, then die of thirst. After some time had passed, he would dispose of her body in the deepest part of the lake. Unknown to Joyce, Tom’s retail stores were heading towards bankruptcy and Tom couldn’t deal with the prospect of financial ruin. He enlisted the help of his son, James, known to Emily as Tim. James, who had been raised by his mother, had just recently been released from prison for serving time for a botched armed robbery. Together, they created a plan to get rid of Emily by luring her to the Escape house. Tom had made a set of duplicate keys for the cottage Joyce had been showing. They sent Emily the email, then broke into the Escape house on the meeting day, drugged Emily, and Tom drove her to the cottage in her car. James followed in his car and they disposed of Emily’s car in the lake. It seems that one of the lottery tickets from a few weeks ago had won 6 million dollars. Tom was in the habit of checking Joyce’s tickets without her knowledge, and when he realized she held the winning ticket, he took it. Joyce simply thought she had lost the ticket and had no idea she had the winning numbers. Greed got the better of Tom. He thought that if he could get Emily out of the picture, he would pretend to find the missing ticket behind the dresser, and then he and Joyce could keep all the money for themselves. Even with the “gift” of a half million dollars to his son James, there would be enough to save the business and live a life of luxury. Tom broke down crying, saying he never wanted to hurt Emily, but he felt trapped and didn't see any way out of his situation. Emily was all too familiar with the sensation of being trapped. It could lead you to do crazy things. Like suspect your husband and your best friend of murder. You never knew what someone might be capable of doing. “Tom sure underestimated what I’m capable of,” she thought. “I’m a lot stronger than people think. Turns out I’m a lot stronger than I knew myself.” Joyce was devastated when she learned what her husband had done. Emily didn’t know how Joyce would ever get her life back on track, but whatever happened, Emily would be there for her. Brad told Emily how brave she had been to think her way out of the prison she was in despite her fear of being trapped. “I think I won the battle against my claustrophobia, for sure,” Emily agreed. “But I don’t think I want to be alone in an enclosed space again any time in the foreseeable future. But at least now I know what my next novel will be about.” It’s not that easy to get away with murder, Emily thought. It’s always the husband. Even if it’s not your husband. Erik Deissler is a full-time student at Full Sail University and is presently working toward his BFA in Creative Writing for Entertainment. His debut story, The Stranger from Beyond, is his first attempt at flash fiction writing. Between assignments, he writes short stories and is an avid reader of Robert E. Howard and Raymond Chandler, among other favorite authors. He is currently working on a short story in the fantasy genre. He can be reached at deisslere@gmail.com. The Stranger from Beyond Alone, I was, in the dead of night, driving upon a road surrounded by the thickest forest anyone could ever pave a road through. For miles on end, all you could see were trees, brush, and the occasional road sign. Even still, I was never concerned. I had driven this road hundreds, if not thousands, of times before, and I was sure that the only thing I’d ever run into was some kind of wildlife. And if I did, I was sure to win that battle because I drove the head of an unstoppable 18-wheeler. Not to mention, even if I did have a run-in with a crazed person, I always carried a .357 magnum that was strapped to my left hip where no passenger of mine could ever see it.
Of course, I had never planned on actually using it. That night, while I drove on that lonesome, forested road for the last time, I was about half way through my journey when I had spotted, at a great distance, something reflecting at me from the light of my headlights. Having driven on this road countless times, I knew it inside and out, and I knew for sure that there was nothing there - no reflective sign or anything that could be causing the light to be shining back at me. As I drove on, it seemed the light continued to follow my eyes with incredible precision, but there were times when the light would shake and flutter away from me, only for it to come zooming back to my eyes again with computer-like precision. As I finally approached this reflecting light, I noticed a figure in the mold of an upright man standing on the shoulder of the asphalt. His arm was extended out toward the road, and in his hand was a cellphone, which I presume he used to reflect the light back at me. He looked young, maybe in his early twenties, his skin as fresh as a baby. He had dirty brown hair that looked almost like a wig and wore a dark green hoodie that nearly camouflaged him amongst the forest beyond. I pulled up alongside him, my truck descending to a slow crawl, and set down my passenger side window. Looking out the window, I called to him, “Everything alright, pal?” He was silent for a moment, and my already suspicious mind grew ever more paranoid until he finally answered back. “I’m not sure,” he replied with a rather calm tone for a man who seemed to be far out of sorts. His bright blue eyes stared back at me, and it seemed as if they had something otherworldly to them. Or, maybe I was just looking for something to be afraid of. Out of courtesy, and feeling a bit sorry for the lonesome kid, I asked if he needed a lift, to which he accepted with that same unnerving calm. Hesitantly, I opened the passenger door and slid back to my driver’s seat. At first, as I watched him, he seemed to be very confused as to how to get into the high-standing truck. But just as I was about to offer him some help, he suddenly managed to pull himself in without any trouble at all. Sending a cautious glance his way, I told him to close the door and we’d be on our way. Then he turned, stared blankly at me for a long while as if registering a command, then proceeded to shut the door without a word. By then I was very concerned, as I had thought that he might’ve had a serious case of amnesia, or worse, that he was utterly deranged. As he went to shut the door, however, I noticed something that made my skin crawl and my hair stand on end. In a spot where the follicles of hair began on the back of his neck, I noticed a slit just along the edge that protruded from the skin under his hair, and from that slit emanated a blue glow. With curiosity getting the best of me, and adrenaline-fueled fear driving me, I pulled at the seam with great force only to find that the man’s scalp came off in my hands, revealing a glowing galaxy-like globe within the chamber of his skull. Suddenly, and with great speed, the man turned to face me, his expression one of shock and vicious anger. I now saw that behind his eyes was the same unearthly blue light that illuminated his skull. Filled with an unholy terror, I reached for my magnum and fired a few rounds aimlessly into the inhuman being. None of the bullet-holes produced any sort of blood or liquid that would indicate he had been injured; but, much to my horrified satisfaction, he startled backward and finally slumped against the door, the light flickering out behind his eyes. Without a moment’s hesitation I threw open the passenger door and shoved him out. Closing the door, I pressed my foot to the floor and quickly took off, never to return. |
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