No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  The boy looks bored to tears and he’s hardly listening to me.

  “He can’t track the car, can he?” I continue. “I mean, do you guys have GPS thingies on your cars?”

  He bursts out laughing as if this is the funniest thing he’s heard in ages. “Uh, no, Ma’am,” he says. “We can’t afford no fancy shit like that. But hey, if you’re thinking of stealing the car, I got a copy of your driver’s license.”

  “I’m not going to steal the car,” I smile at him. “I just need to get away and I want to make sure he can’t follow me.”

  “He can’t. And listen, your secret’s safe with me. Anyone comes looking for you and I won’t say I seen you, okay? He sounds like a nut. Find yourself a new guy, if you want my two cents.”

  “I think you’re right,” I say and I leave the store.

  I buy a disposable cell phone, grab a muffin and coffee to go, and I head out to check my new ride. I sit there for a moment, wondering what I might have missed. I can’t think of anything, so I start the car and set off to find Beatrice’s house, on the edge of Ecum Secum Lake. I turn on the radio just in time to hear “Survivor” by Destiny’s Child and I sing along with my girl Beyoncé. I’m loud and I’m off key, yes, but the window’s down and the warm summer wind is blowing through my hair.

  41. ECUM SECUM LAKE

  THE HOUSE IS NOT EASY TO FIND. Chuckery Hill Road is a tiny, unmarked side lane that I first mistake as being someone’s driveway but then I see a street sign.

  Beatrice hadn’t given me a number and I only find the place by accident. I am trying to do a U-turn at the end of the lane, thinking I must have gone past the house when I pull into a tangled and overgrown driveway, and I spot an old house at the far end of the property.

  I lean forward, clutching the steering wheel in a way that reminds me of Shirley the Driver, and I bite the inside of cheek as I edge the car forward slowly. I am glad for the weeping willow trees that swing closed behind me like a curtain, and I pull up next to the house and get out of the car.

  I take out my gun and I walk around the house. The back garden is close to the edge of the lake and it’s hard to imagine that this is the same lake that Emma mentioned, and that she’s on the other side. Granted, it is a huge lake.

  Beatrice’s place is utterly deserted and it’s sealed tight as a beaver’s bottom, another one of my Aunt Gwen’s sayings when I was a kid.

  I have no idea how I am going to get in. Someone has boarded up the place, and it looks impenetrable. I bet it was Beatrice who had taken care of locking up her house before taking her own life, because with Beatrice, the job got done properly. But coming up against this fortress is something I hadn’t considered and I give myself a mental slap on the wrist. I poke around for a while but there’s simply no way to get in. I need a hammer.

  I get back into my car and I put on the wig and pull my hat down tightly. I apply two coats of the startling lipstick and I add the earrings. I manage a three-point turn in the overgrown driveway and head back towards a Walmart that I had passed along the way.

  I buy a heavy-duty hammer as well as a chisel type of tool, and some gardening gloves. I load up on canned goods and crackers, a tin opener, bottled water, and a flashlight. I find myself in an aisle with blackout curtains, guaranteed to block out every light and I grab them on a whim. I throw a roll of duct tape into my cart and add a sleeping bag. I figure I’d better stop shopping before I bankrupt myself. I am taken aback by the bill. Who says Walmart is cheap?

  When I get back to Beatrice’s house, I scout around and pick a window that faces away from the road, towards the lake. I pull off my wig, wipe my forehead and spend the better part of two hours dismantling the boards that might as well have been welded into place. I curse Beatrice more than once for her diligence and I can just see her, feet up on the desk, crunching on an apple, telling me to stop being such a girl.

  Finally, covered in sweat, with my hands aching, I get the boards off. I peer inside the window but it is dark and I can’t see the interior. The glass windowpane is still intact, and I’m going to have to smash it even although I’m wary of the noise it will create. I pick up a stone and wrap my scarf around it. I hold the bundle against the glass and tap it with the hammer. A small crack appears and I repeat the action, and I am rewarded when a fist-sized piece of glass shoots inwards.

  I pull on my gardening gloves and I manage to soundlessly clear enough glass to undo the latch and open the window. I have finally found a way to get into the house. I’m relieved about this because the afternoon is quickly moving towards evening and I want to be settled inside before nightfall.

  I grab the flashlight and my gun and I climb inside the window. I am standing in Beatrice’s bedroom and the place is perfectly tidy, marred only by a thin film of grey dust on the bedside table. A brightly-coloured quilt covers the bed and there is a red and blue striped lampshade on the bedside table. Everything is neatly organized, just like Beatrice’s office in Purgatory. The evening sun floods the bedroom with light but the rest of the house is as unwelcoming as a dark cave and I am grateful that I bought a good flashlight.

  The kitchen is pristine, save for the layer of dust on the counter and in the sink. I open the cupboards and find stacks of plates and bowls and an eclectic variety of drinking glasses. Another cupboard holds mugs and in another, I find a collection of margarine tubs that mirror the ones in Beatrice’s office in Purgatory. There are dozens of them in a stack, with their lids tucked to one side and there are empty jars of Sanka. An ornamental shelf displays a tiny stuffed toy cat inside a glass bell jar, exactly like the one Beatrice has in Purgatory.

  The fridge is empty. I try a light switch but there is no electricity. I turn on a tap and after some hesitation, the water sputters out, a little rusty but soon clearing. I know I need to explore the rest of the house but the darkness and the stillness are oppressive.

  My heartbeat is speeded up and loud in my ears and while it’s cool inside the house, sweat gathers along my hairline and runs down my face. I hold the gun and flashlight in front of me, thinking that I look like some stupid cop in a TV show but I don’t care. Safety before ego.

  A spacious living room houses an ancient TV set and clearly, Beatrice liked her sofas. There are four of them, two-seaters, placed around the perimeter of the living room. There is a huge pile of board games next to the TV set, and I smile when I see the Scrabble. Yes, it’s the same set.

  Beatrice loved seashell ashtrays; there are half a dozen of them and they are spotlessly clean.

  The walls are lined with artwork, the kind you’d see at a cheap yard sale: a watercolour of a bicycle leaning against a brick wall with a bowl of fruit on the windowsill behind it. In another painting, a stormy sunset looms over a ploughed field with random hay bales rendered with an oddly skewed perspective. Then, a group of white horses runs wild against a black background and, within the confines of a thick, gilded frame, a red cardinal looks demented with a sideways glance and one beady eye.

  I am reminded of the first time I met Beatrice and I was caught out studying her office. “Enjoying yourself?” she’d asked. “Very nosy, aren’t you? Nosy parker.”

  I apologize to Beatrice for criticizing her taste in artwork and I carry on, finding a small washroom at the bottom of the stairs. Raised blue seashells decorate the ceramic tiles and the blue shower curtain has peach-coloured seahorses and starfish. Small, framed Norman Rockwell prints hang on the wall, with children up to their cheeky antics.

  There is a full roll of toilet paper in the holder, and this makes me smile. Beatrice couldn’t leave without having every single thing in place.

  I go upstairs and stop short. This, I did not expect.

  I am in the main bedroom, which is decorated in shades of hot pink, bright orange, and sunshine yellow, although the colours have faded somewhat. A king-sized bed is positioned close to a baby’s crib that has
a mobile hanging above it. A white dresser is set to the side, and it is stacked with diapers, baby powder, bottles, and pacifiers, all covered in a thick layer of dust. In the crib, lying flat, is a tiny pink onesie, with booties at the feet and a bonnet at the head.

  Another dresser with a large ornamental mirror is backed against the opposite wall of the room and I shine my flashlight on it and nearly have a heart attack.

  There’s a ghost in the room and she’s staring at me like a deranged escaped mental patient. I nearly fire my gun at her until I realize it is me and I lower the gun. My hands are shaking and I wipe my palms on my jeans. The mirror is blown-out, with black spiderweb cracks and the wooden surface is covered with blackened silver-backed hairbrushes and long dead make-up jars and pots.

  Time to blow this creepy pop stand. The floor is thickly carpeted and I don’t make a sound as I rush down the narrow stairs, happy to be back in the normalcy of the living room with its floral sofas. I walk through to the kitchen and back to the bedroom with the quilted bedspread. I am tempted to sit on the bed and rest but I need to get my suitcase and the rest of my supplies out of the car. The day has flown and it’s nearly eight o’clock at night.

  I get everything inside and I tape the blackout curtain to the inside of the window just in case any neighbours across the lake will be alerted by a light in the abandoned old house.

  I sit in the eerie silence and torchlit shadows, thinking that the pounding of my heart must surely be echoing throughout the entire house. I can’t do this. I can’t stay in this house. A cat gives a feral cry outside my window and I jump in terror and my eyes fill with tears. My great idea isn’t turning out to be all that great and I might have to find a hotel instead. But I don’t have enough cash for a hotel and Joe and Junior will be able to find me. I have no choice but to stay here. I fold my arms tightly across my chest and let the sad tears run down my face.

  And then I hear Beatrice talking to me as loudly and clearly as if she is in the room with me. “Oh, for fuck’s sake Julia, where are your big girl panties? I wouldn’t have taken you for such a ninny. It’s just a house. It’s a refuge and you’ll be safe. Relax, sunshine. Get some food into you and get some sleep.”

  I laugh and the vice of tension that gripped my body like an iron maiden melts away. I start unpacking and making myself at home.

  I take the dry goods to the kitchen and I open a can of peaches and clean off one of Beatrice’s forks. I stand in the flashlit kitchen, feasting on the sweetened fruit and the insane sugar rush restores my mood. I can do this thing. I will do this thing.

  I finish my meal and rinse out the can so as not to attract ants. I spread my new sleeping bag onto the quilted bed and I lie down.

  “Beatrice,” I whisper quietly. “If you’re Viewing me, which I hope you are, then thank you for letting me stay here. I’m wearing my big girl panties and there’ll be no more panic wobbles.”

  I swear I hear her laugh. “It’s all good. Don’t worry, Julia, you’re safe now.”

  Taking her at her word, I turn off my flashlight and fall fast asleep, a sleep plagued by nightmares of men with bloodhounds chasing me and Jan and Emma through tangled, hostile woods. My bare feet are shredded to bloody ribbons and we can hear the awful baying of the hounds as they close in on us. We aren’t running fast enough and gap is closing.

  When I wake, I am not sure which is worse, the terrifying dream or the reality I face.

  42. TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS

  IT IS STILL DARK OUTSIDE when I wake to the sound of my alarm. The blackout curtain works like a charm. I dress by the light of my flashlight, then I switch it off and pull the curtain aside. There is no sign of the coming dawn.

  Hoping that I am ready for what lies ahead, and praying that all will go according to plan, I get into my car and drive west.

  The previous day, I had texted Healey from the Walmart parking lot. Do you want the drugs Agnes & Josh stole from you?

  The reply was quick to come. Yes. Who r u?

  First give me Cockney’s name & deets.

  This time the reply took longer. No.

  Okay. No deal.

  I waited. Then: He will meet u with me. Where?

  Where you killed Agnes & Josh. 4:30 am. Just you & Cockney or no deal. No wingmen and $350,000.00 cash. If you’re late, I’ll leave.

  See u there.

  I am the first to arrive. The parking lot is deserted and the world has yet to wake up. I am hoping that the early hour will work to my advantage, and that these guys will be less prepared than if they’d had more time to plan things.

  I am wearing my black wig, my sunhat, black jeans, and running shoes.

  A black SUV pulls into the parking lot. I lean against my car, a bag slung over my shoulder, my arms crossed.

  The SUV parks close to me and the window rolls down. Healey’s in the driver’s seat. I walk a couple of steps closer to him.

  “You’re the…”

  He never gets to finish his sentence. I shoot him twice in the head.

  He falls face first onto the steering wheel and I have a clear view of Cockney who is sitting shotgun. He throws his hands up in instant surrender. His hair is a Mohawk, and snakes and ladders are tattooed on his neck and skull, and his fingers are shiny with thick gold rings.

  “You killed Tracey’s mother,” I say. “Didn’t you? You killed her on her birthday.”

  “The bitch stole from me,” he shrugs. “She knew what would happen. It’s on her, not me.”

  “And you supplied the bad drugs at the rave that killed all those kids?”

  “I never forced them to take the drugs,” he says. “If it wasn’t me, someone else would have supplied. Listen, I’ve got a big bag of money here for you, let’s not be stupid about this.”

  “This is for my friends,” I tell him and I shoot him twice in head.

  I hear a noise coming from the back of the SUV and I swing around. Two men are sitting in the back seat, frozen. I recognize them from Agnes’ Viewing. They are the dickheads who helped trash Auntie Miriam’s room.

  “You want some of this?” I ask, waving the gun at them and they shake their heads, their hands held high.

  “Get out and move Healey,” I tell them and I keep the gun on them. This is taking longer than I had thought it would, although I hadn’t believed for a moment that Healey and Cockney would come alone.

  The parking lot is hidden from the lakeshore by a hedge and I pray that no one will drive down the small side street but the clock is ticking and the dog walkers and early morning cyclists will soon be out.

  The two men scramble out of the SUV. The one man opens the back while the other grabs Healey. “Help me,” he calls out to his partner. “He’s fucking heavy.” They lug him around and toss him unceremoniously in the back.

  “We have to get Stan too,” the one man says to me. “We can’t drive off with a fucking dead man sitting in the front seat.”

  “Be quick.”

  I didn’t have to tell him that. Seconds later Cockney is lying in the back next to Healey. The same guy jumps into the driver’s seat and turns on the ignition.

  “My money?” I ask, keeping my gun on them with my right hand and holding up the bag with my left.

  “Here,” the other guy leans into the back of the SUV, grabs a bag, and walks towards me.

  “You got our stuff?” he asks, and I gesture to the bag at my feet. Maybe I get distracted for a moment because quick as a flash, while I am thinking about the exchange, he ducks around and grabs me from behind, putting his hand over my mouth and holding me around the waist.

  I have been breathing heavily through my mouth the entire time, so when he clamps his hand across my face, my lips are wide open and in a split second all I can taste are his stubby, revolting, nicotined fingers in my mouth. I bite down as hard as I can, breaking the skin and drawing b
lood, and he howls, lets go of me, and then he bends over, clutching his injured hand.

  “You stupid fuck,” I say, spitting out blood and saliva. “Get away from me!” He backs up, holding his hand and I snatch the tote of money he dropped and unzip it quickly. It’s filled with stacks of used $100 dollar bills. “Get into the car and get the fuck out of here,” I say, and the man sitting at the wheel, with the engine revving, nods vigorously.

  “What about our H?” the other man whines, clutching his hand to his chest.

  “Just be happy you’re alive,” I tell him. “Now fuck off before I shoot you too. And you know I will.” There was no way I was going to let them have this heroin and ruin the lives of other people.

  “Ian, leave her alone, man, come on, we’ve gotta get outta here.”

  Still clutching his hand and scowling at me, Ian walks slowly backwards until he reaches the car, then rushes over to the passenger side and climbs in. The driver throws the car into gear and guns it out of the parking lot.

  I get into my car and I look at my watch. The whole thing has taken less than fifteen minutes. I throw both bags onto the back seat. Hands shaking, I put the car into drive and curse when I stall the engine. Focus, concentrate. Restart the car, get moving.

  I had been relatively calm while the whole thing was happening but now that it’s over, I am flooded with nausea. I want to throw up the early morning coffee I bought from a gas station on the way but I don’t want to stop, and I force the bile down and make myself carry on. I can’t get the taste of blood out of my mouth and I use the dregs of cold coffee as mouthwash, and I spit out the window.

  I head back towards Beatrice’s house, and my nerves start to settle a little.

  I have settled the score for Tracey, Samia, Agnes, Auntie Miriam, and even Josh. My chest fills with a sense of righteous satisfaction and I grin, once again reminding myself of Shirley the Driver. That thought makes me laugh out loud and next thing, I am cackling like a crazy woman. Hysteria or relief, it’s hard to tell. I should feel some guilt for killing two men but I don’t feel anything apart from satisfaction. They had it coming, both of them.