Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  I wonder how I must appear to this priest-like individual. I haven’t shaved in over twelve months and a thick, brown beard wraps around my face. My hair is matted and down past my shoulder.

  The man shuffles up the aisle, moving towards me. He stops a metre away, studying me with his clouded eyes. I wonder if he’s blind.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step closer. “My eyes are failing me.”

  “That’s… fine,” I say. “I think mine are too.”

  “Where are you from?” he asks.

  “Where am I from?” I ask back, flicking through my brain for an effective answer. “Not really… anywhere. I’m a traveler.”

  “A traveler?” queries the priest. He takes another step closer, squinting. “And you’ve lost your way?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Where are you trying to get to?”

  “Not sure. Nowhere. I’m not really… going anywhere.”

  The priest pauses, his eyes trying to focus on me. “Well I’m not sure that you could be lost then.” He looks at me blankly. “How did you get here?”

  “I just walked,” I say.

  “Walked?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  The priest looks at me. “Oh,” he says, finally. “Yes. Of course. Of course you walked.”

  “I’m not familiar with this part of the…world.”

  He nods slightly. “You don’t know where you are?”

  “Not exactly.”

  The priest steps into the pew next to where I stand and sits down. I take a seat in the pew directly across the aisle, sitting my pack beside me on the polished wood.

  “This is The Everlasting,” says the priest.

  “The… what?”

  “This is The Everlasting. We’re on an island.”

  “Oh,” I say. “An island…”

  “Your accent is unusual,” says the priest. He faces forward as he says it, looking up in the direction of the statue and the crucifix.

  At the mention of my accent, I acknowledge the priest’s. It’s familiar, but difficult to define. Perhaps somewhere between American and British. Or maybe there is a Scandinavian lilt to it. I can’t align it with anything specific from Earth. It’s deep and husky, but just a voice. Generic as it is wise.

  I don’t know why I ask my next question. Perhaps it’s to alleviate any lingering irrational paranoia I have about travelling through wormholes. “Am I on Earth?” I ask.

  This question prompts the priest to turn and look at me. He seems perplexed. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say.

  The corners of the priest’s mouth turn, threatening to smile beneath his thinning beard. “You seem delirious,” he says. “Would you like some water?”

  “Water?”

  “Yes, it’s all I have I’m afraid.”

  “Water would be perfect.”

  Chapter Eight

  My conscience told me to speak to the police when the first girl went missing. I spent a week weighing up my pros and cons. The risks involved. So far I’ve managed to evade prosecution on any personal misdemeanor and I feel I have to keep it that way. If you’re charged with something, then serious questions are asked. “So where are you really from? Where were you born? How old are you?” What makes me mysterious can in turn make me a prime suspect.

  Once the second girl went missing, and then the third, I was concerned. But I only truly recognised the first. There was absolutely no mistaking her, but the other two I couldn’t be certain of. The fourth looked familiar. The fifth looked familiar too. Then the next two I couldn’t honestly say I recognised. The eighth girl though, I knew her. She was this work experience lass. About twenty-six years old. An intern at Endurance Records. We attended a party at the top of town and then decided to go to another party. On the way there, things got a little heated between this girl and me. We wandered into a park and in the shadows a sexual liaison took place. There’s a reason why parks attract that kind of behaviour. They’re an oasis of nature in the middle of man-made construction. A beacon of honesty amid the faux walls of common decency. A window to the past. If you want to relax, then you swim in the ocean. If you want to fuck like a chimpanzee, then you go to a park.

  I’ve fed hungrily on naïve denial, but Norman must be the link. However, taking this to the police could prove monumental. A gigantic investigation of devastating proportions would take place, almost certainly knocking my brazen mask from its already tentative position. I’d blow my cover. There would be blood tests. Further DNA tests. The fantastical story that I’ve spent my life living in the wild isn’t going to cut the mustard in court. The blind eye suddenly regains its vision.

  Only four people get to read Norman’s contents. Big Bang Theory. Which means that one of them might know something. But none of them have mentioned that they recognise any of the girls. While the link between Norman and the girls is compelling, is it not circumstantial? It is perhaps suspicious that my fellow band members have never said anything, but these trysts are so often a rapid blur where faces are rarely in focus. But the phone is a clue. Despite my need to keep a low profile, I feel subtle investigation is warranted.

  The driver drops me off inside the safety of my building’s carpark. I thank him, grab my bags from the back seat and jump in the elevator. Once inside my apartment, I drop my luggage and head into my music room, looking through the drawers of the computer desk. I find a data stick and put it in my pocket.

  I knock on the door of Laurie’s apartment. There’s a faint noise emanating from inside. Heavy breathing. Many voices. Some kind of commentary. It sounds like a sports broadcast on television. I knock and no one answers. I knock a second time.

  The door opens and Laurie’s mother appears, surprise sweeping her face. She’s wearing black leggings, a pink over-sized t-shirt and her hair is pulled back with a sweatband. She’s an attractive woman. An older version of Laurie’s cute, elfin features. She’s not a lot older than I am.

  “My apologies,” I smile, “I hope I’m not interrupting your workout.”

  I can hear music and more heavy breathing wafting from somewhere over Laurie’s mother’s shoulder.

  “No, that’s fine,” she smiles. “I was just doing some aerobics. I prefer to do it when I have the place to myself.”

  “Privacy is a valuable commodity.”

  “Yes,” she says, “I’m not used to people knocking randomly on my door. No one can get up here.”

  I nod and smile. “I won’t bother you any further, I was just wondering if Laurie might be home?”

  “No, she’s away at the moment. She went north with some friends. There’s a place they go to on the beach called The Nautilus.”

  “The Nautilus, right,” I say.

  “What did you need to see her about?”

  “Oh, just a song she wanted to hear. We’ve just recorded a demo and I thought I’d play it for her.” I hold up the data stick.

  I can hear the television continue in the background, though I think I can distinguish the sound of a woman moaning. Must be a thorough workout.

  “Well you’re welcome to come inside and play it for me, if you like,” smiles Laurie’s mother.

  “Um, you know what. I just remembered I’ve got to do an interview. I’d better get home.”

  I turn to walk away.

  “With the police?” she asks.

  “Sorry?”

  “On the news earlier, it said that the police are questioning you. You know one of the girls that went missing? Terrible thing.”

  “I know lots of girls,” I say. “Yes, I spoke to the police but I couldn’t be much help.”

  As I go to close my apartment door, Laurie’s mother calls out, “I saw you on television last night.”

  “Yeah?” I reply.

  “It was the music video for ‘Sound Of Silence’.”

  “Excellent,” I smile.

  “Such an amazing song,
” she says.

  “It’s not bad.”

  “I can’t believe you wrote it.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Your voice was in my head as I went to sleep.”

  I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror, wearing only my jeans. My cheekbones are particularly prominent these days and my eyes appear sunken compared to what they once were. I just don’t eat food very much. No appetite. Constant anxiety.

  I plug the hair clippers into a power socket next to the mirror. They buzz to life with shrill vibration. With one hand I grasp a fistful of hair above my face and with the other I begin moving the clippers into the dense, matted thicket that has adorned my head for almost two years. When I pull the clippers away, hair cascades into the basin and on my scalp is a long white stripe, finally given a peek at the outside world. The image reminds me of my father mowing the lawn. How it looked as the rotors stripped it bare.

  In a surprisingly short amount of time my hair is gone, shaved close to my skull. My hair is rough when I run my hand across it. The naked sensation almost gives me palpitations.

  Wearing my wide, dark sunglasses, I sneak out a rear emergency exit of my building and head towards my regular café, Zunge Bohne. I keep my head down when I pass people and manage to make it there without anyone accosting me with hyperactive excitement.

  The suns are reaching their peak heat for the day and the footpath surrounding the café is crowded with bronzed beach goers, heading back and forth to the sand and waves across the road. The surf looks good and I can see a large number of surfers out on the water, which is bursting with the violent white reflection of sunslight. It’s almost too much to look at. I squeeze past a few people, who smell of sweat, salt and sunscreen, and sneak inside.

  I step up to the counter and Rose is facing away, making some sort of milkshake. Another girl spots me and when she serves me, confused recognition crosses her face.

  “Hi there, Jack,” says the girl.

  Rose immediately spins around and looks me up and down with an indiscernible expression. “Nice haircut.”

  “Thanks, I did it myself.”

  She huffs and turns back to the milkshake maker. The other girl smiles.

  “Would you like me to find you a seat?”

  “I actually need to speak with Rose very briefly,” I reply. “Then I’d love a table with a view of the ocean.”

  “I’m busy,” says Rose, turning back to her work.

  “I know,” I reply, trying to keep my voice low, “but this is really important. Seriously.”

  “Kate, could you please find a table for Jack. I’ll talk to him later,” says Rose to the other girl. She’s seizing this opportunity to stay annoyed.

  Kate looks at me awkwardly. “Would you like to follow me?”

  “Sure.”

  I leave my sunglasses on as Kate leads me through the café. A few people look at me but glance away just as quickly, fooled by my haircut.

  “Can I bring you anything?” asks Kate as I sit at a small two-seater table. I’m next to the short, thin hedge that surrounds the café’s courtyard, giving me a clear view of the beach.

  “I’ll have one of those new Eiskaffee drinks. It’s too hot today for a regular coffee.”

  “Certainly,” says Kate. “Can I bring you anything else?”

  “Today’s newspaper, thanks.”

  I probably shouldn’t be out here, but I have always hidden in public. It’s been my refuge. I pull out my mobile phone and try to call Laurie. It rings and rings, then the dial tone stops. I press redial. The tone continues, then just before I’m about to hang up I hear a voice.

  “Hello? Jack?”

  “Laurie?”

  “Hey, what’s up?” she says, seemingly excited to hear from me.

  “Nothing much,” I say, casually.

  “Why are you calling me? Do you miss me?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “I heard the police have been speaking to you about the missing girls. You’re on the news a lot.”

  “Yeah, sort of,” I reply, wondering where all these false news reports are stemming from. “How’s your holiday?”

  “Good. The weather is amazing.” I can hear noise behind Laurie’s voice.

  “I didn’t know you were going away.”

  “Well you didn’t tell me you were going away either.”

  “Well, do we have to tell each other these things?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” says Laurie.

  “How long are you gone for?”

  “About a week.”

  “Who are you with?”

  “A few friends. We’re at a funpark at the moment.”

  “You’re staying at the Nautilus, yeah?”

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “Your mum told me.”

  “You were talking to my mum? That’s weird.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s older than you.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I search for an answer. “Um, because… I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I just want you to be safe. You know, don’t take any risks.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  “I know, but it’s for the best.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because… I care?”

  “You like me.”

  “Yeah, of course I do.”

  I hear a female voice call out her name.

  “I’ve got to go,” she says. “We’re about to go on the Skytrain.”

  “Cool,” I say. “Well, good luck.”

  “I’ll see you when I get home, yeah?”

  “For sure.”

  She hangs up. I’m not sure my warning against kidnappers had the potency I was aiming for. The waitress brings me over my drink, a spoon and today’s newspaper.

  People walk up and down the beach. Some lie on their backs. A few young teenagers throw a Frisbee-like object. All of them seeking improvement. Staining the whiteness from their skin. If I pretend, I could be back on Earth looking across at the beach where I spent holidays with my family.

  Amidst the shifting sea of flesh that enjoys the sand’s warmth and the water’s cool embrace, I notice someone. A figure standing very still. A woman who is smiling at me. My stomach surges when I recognise her. A curvaceous brunette watches from the sand. She’s waiting for me to notice her, dressed in a tiny white two-piece bikini. A sheer, mango sarong is tied around her waist, brushed aside by the gentle breeze. There’s a pair of sunglasses on her face.

  Natalie keeps smiling at me, waiting for me to respond. To wave. Is she stalking me? I lower my sunglasses, fixing my eyes on her. She knows I’ve seen her and approaches.

  Natalie stands on the footpath across the road, waiting for a break in traffic. Then she sidles between the expensive convertibles that roll down Easton Boulevard and walks around to the front of the café. Natalie passes the counter as all eyes turn on her. Her mesmerising form winds through the tables of the courtyard, where she slides into the seat opposite me. Natalie is not ideal company for someone trying to keep a low profile. The small fabric triangles of her bikini provide limited modesty.

  “The Devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape,” I say, sipping my iced coffee.

  Natalie smiles, wryly. “I suppose I must seem like a devil,” she replies.

  “You’re dangerous,” I say. “No good can come of you.”

  “I deserve that,” she nods. “I also owe you an explanation. Nice haircut, by the way. I like it.”

  Kate walks over to our table. “Can I bring you something to drink?” she asks Natalie.

  “I’ll have a lime miasma,” replies Natalie, barely looking at our waitress.

  “Sure,” smiles Kate and bounds away.

  “So are you here for another sample?” I ask.

  “I hope so,�
�� says Natalie.

  I don’t respond.

  “I’m just kidding,” she says.

  I’m wary of her sheepish behaviour. One pout and I’m gone for. I stir my iced coffee and then take another sip.

  “I know I betrayed you,” she says.

  “That’s a start,” I say.

  “You must be angry at me.”

  “I feel a little…betrayed. Giving Brannagh a DNA sample was a little… perverse. Under-handed.”

  “Well you never said I couldn’t have a sample.”

  “So it’s an assumed agreement?”

  “You were very forthcoming.”

  I shake my head. “How did the conversation go exactly? Did Brannagh call you up and say, ‘Hey Natalie, you’re irresistible. You like fucking people. How about you get a sperm sample from Jack for me?’”

  “He didn’t specify.”

  “Didn’t specify what?”

  “That it had to be sperm. That was my choice.”

  “Jesus.”

  Natalie grins and reclines in her seat. Beads of perspiration roll down the flawless cliff face that starts at her neck and descends her chest and stomach. The rays of the suns seem to sneak under our umbrella to find her skin.

  “I like you, Jack,” she says.

  “Tell me why I should continue this conversation. Why shouldn’t I call someone and tell them you’re stalking me?”

  “Because you’re wanted for questioning by the police. You’re a flüchtling,” she smiles. Her drink arrives in a tall cocktail glass, a mix of cream and lime liqueur that swirls in clouds. “I see you as a flesh and blood person, Jack. I see you differently to everyone else.”

  “No, you see me as a challenge. A little game. How much did Brannagh pay you?”

  “Nothing. He said he was trying to help you, so I agreed.”

  “Trying to help me?”

  “He wanted to help find out more about your past. He didn’t think you’d want his help, but he had to try anyway.”

  “Because he has a stake in some book about me. He’s sourcing information for an unauthorised biography.”

  “Oh,” says Natalie, seeming genuinely surprised. “He didn’t mention that.” I don’t reply. “Brannagh offered me the opportunity to meet you,” she continues. “He gave me access to you. That was my motivation.”