Brimstone

by Peter van der Walt

  It was gossiped that Old Man Keys disliked Brad because Keys was the Pastor’s brother, and they weren’t on good terms, even though everyone knew about the fingerfucking incident.

  All of that could have been left alone and forgotten, except Old Man Keys was the type to hold a grudge.

  He unhelpfully wrote a ‘character testimony’, which his father’s incompetent law firm did not manage to exclude from the record. It was the time of Brad’s trial that the young women have all been heard, and a host of forensic experts, students, lecturers and university staff and psychologists had testified and left.

  The point now was to sketch Brad’s character for the judge.

  Sketch Brad’s character. As if they could do that. How in the hell could they possibly even begin to understand him, let alone sketch him?

  That prosecuting bitch read out Old Man Keys’ letter in the courtroom. And it was that letter that got him sentenced without clemency.

  As far as Brad knew, the old bastard still lived up here.

  And here was his house.

  It faced away from the other houses and was perched on the side of a hill. Once, Old Man Keys kept a pretty neat and productive front garden, despite his bad leg. Now weeds and bushes grew wild, and the old place was in even worse shape than Brad’s mother’s place.

  Brad went behind the trees that surrounded the house, hoping to see what state the interior was, and whether the old bastard was still up and about.

  Sure enough, he spotted Old Man Keys sitting on the porch, listening to a battery-operated little radio. As Brad moved into a spot from which he could see the old man well, he heard the jingles of commercials playing. Then it went back to some sort of religious talk show.

  The old man was very much older.

  He’d lost a lot of weight and most of his teeth.

  He bounced his knee every now and again to chase away flies.

  Brad smiled, picturing how good he himself looked by comparison. His lips pulled back far, he cocked his head forward, and the smile that spread across his face turned into a grimace.

  The old man coughed. He wrestled himself upright, shaking, and he heaved so heavily when he coughed that he had to hold on to the old refrigerator on the porch to steady himself.

  Brad remembered when the old man got the fridge. Brought it in on the truck Virgil now drove from town. He put a huge confederate flag sticker right on it and the fridge almost looked as if it stood guard over his fields.

  Now it was a dark, stubborn, dirty brown. The flag had faded and that outside fridge hadn’t been washed in years.

  The old man turned the radio off and went inside.

  He was alone. He spoke to no one, and no one helped him. He moved very slowly.

  Brad circled back around to the little gate that led into the weeds, and he moved quietly and slowly so that the old man wasn’t alerted.

  This was pretty hard once he got to the porch. It creaked with age and neglect.

  He could tell that the old man had gone to bed – in the middle of the day.

  Back in the day, Old Man Keys was always either in his garden, or on that porch. Napping was a sign of weakness back then. It seemed he was a very frail man now.

  The front door was wide open, and Brad walked in directly. He waited once he was inside. The decking creaked a lot, and he wanted to make sure the old man didn’t know he was there.

  Brad looked around at the living room. There was an iron and an ironing board with a big heap of moldy-smelling clothes. The dishes hadn’t been washed in weeks. A heavy iron pan stuck out from underneath a mountain of plates, with flies buzzing around the caked dirt on them.

  Normally, your kin would at least check on you. Bad luck for the old fucker was that the closest living relative he had was that tight pussy niece of his, and the idiot Virgil.

  Brad moved slowly down the hallway, peering into the bathroom. The place smelled like piss.

  He moved all the way to the edge of the old man’s bedroom, and he could see his feet stick out past the door. He was groaning, and rubbing his bad leg. Getting on the bed must have taken it out of him too, because he was breathing quite rapidly.

  Brad moved back to the kitchen, and found a big breadknife that had a clean handle, if nothing else.

  It would have been wonderful to kill the old bastard slowly. Stab him a few times with the breadknife. Burn him with the iron. Maybe end it by crushing his skull with the pan.

  He could imagine himself taking his time with the old bastard. And making him scream.

  But he couldn’t risk detection. All he could do was make sure the old man never again wrote any letters, or spoke to another soul about what was – if you think about it – none of his business. Another time, another day, another place – Brad could have enjoyed hearing the old fucker scream until he croaked.

  But he’d save it for Draker.

  He was going to have to let the old man off easy.

  Brad then walked more boldly, announcing himself with his footsteps as he strode to the old man’s bedroom.

  “What? Who’s that?” the old man called.

  Brad peaked from behind the door.

  The old man’s face was gray and lined with wrinkles. His skin was dotted with little spots and dull, deep blue veins were netted across his cheeks.

  “Oh Jesus,” he said.

  “Hello, Old Man Keys. Man of letters. Savant correspondence character witness.”

  “Brad,” the old man said, swallowing deeply. He tried to push himself upright, or at least get himself to sit instead of lie down, and his hands flapped at his sides like the wings of a chicken. The image was so funny that Brad laughed.

  The old man couldn’t get up. He was too weak.

  “Brad, Brad, Brad,” he kept saying.

  “Hey, you old son of a bitch. Step-uncle of mine. How have you been?”

  And Brad hopped on the bed next to them. The springs of the bed, or his leg braces, probably both, creaked loudly, and the old man yelled in pain, clutching his bad leg.

  “Please, Brad, I…”

  He showed the old man the breadknife. Flakes of dried cake or brownies still clung to it.

  Old Man Keys began to weep, snot dropping from his nose and a single strand of spittle dangling from his mouth. He was shaking uncontrollably.

  The bed rattled and creaked in protest.

  This was great. This was exactly perfect.

  The old man could barely move, and yet he tried. It was comical. Having been denied some intensive direct remedies, Brad at least deserved a little entertainment.

  Watching Old Man Keys struggle back and forth like an infant that wet its diapers.

  From this vantage point, Brad could see that the old man’s gums were bleeding.

  His mouth was welling up and he started to choke.

  “Nah-ah-ah,” Brad said, and he grabbed the old man’s hair, tilting his head forward. A mix of drool and blood streamed on to his chest. Gripping his hair, Brad could feel there was very little strength in the old man’s bones and muscles.

  “Can’t have my only uncle drowning… not when I haven’t seen him in so very, very long. Gee. Last time you spoke to me, I was seven.”

  The old man held up a pathetic hand.

  “Speaking of old times, how is that tight pussy niece of yours?”

  “Please, I can’t harm you…”

  “What, you can’t write another lovely little letter?”

  Brad’s let go of the old man’s hair, and he yelped. Then Brad brought his hand up to his nose, smelled his hand – and pulled a face.

  “Bad-smelling hair day there, you cabbage. Do you know that I spent at least an extra year in prison because of your fucking letter?”

  “She was three,” the old man heaved.

  “Yeah. Not a bad age
difference, if you’re seven. Just playing. Experimenting, like all kids do. But you chose to act like I was a grown man. I was seven myself, you piece of shit. I was just a kid. But you sent me so that fucking brother of yours could lay straps on me like I was some sort of devil.”

  “She was bleeding…”

  “Cunts bleed. It’s what they do. Sooner or later. You fucking victimized me. You bullied me. And then – you cost me a year of my life. A year.”

  The old man was bawling his eyes out now, whimpering with a croaky high-pitched voice.

  Brad took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. The urge was so close… it was just there, just there. He could see himself slamming the knife up the old man’s ass, maybe a few times.

  Brad decided to declare that extra year in Devens the year he learned how to control himself– to exercise complete, deliberate control over the perfect instrument that was his body.

  His physical and intellectual genius stayed his hand.

  Old Man Keys was running out of steam. Now that the shoe was on the other foot, he was less of an upstanding citizen. This one couldn’t even sit up.

  Brad sat without moving, giving the guy some time to compose himself.

  The old man was breathing heavily and the one hand he flapped in front of him shook frantically.

  “C’mon. Get up. Join me in the living room. Give me something to drink. I’m a guest here.”

  The old man made no motion.

  “Or would you rather you and me stay in bed all day, you lazy old fucker. Maybe you still have that niece’s phone number – you can call her.”

  Brad laughed.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “let me get us some drinks, even though I’m your guest.” Brad picked up the clothes iron as he went to the fridge. He could hear the old guy struggling hard to pull himself upright as soon as he left. But by the time he opened the fridge the creaking had already started to slow.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” Brad yelled as he rummaged through the fridge, “that you don’t have a damned thing to drink?” There was nothing in the fridge except a half-full water bottle.

  Brad shrugged, and took the water bottle. He unscrewed it, smelled it, shrugged again, and drank a bit. He let some of the water spill over on his face.

  He returned to the bedroom, bringing the clothing iron with him. He smiled as he peeked at the old guy from behind the door, then produced the iron as if it were product he was selling to a housewife.

  The old man’s eyes fixed on that iron.

  Brad brought it into the room and plugged it in. He let it stand on the dresser, heating up, and then sat back down. He brought his weight down, softly and slowly but all of his weight, on the old bastard’s leg.

  Old Man Keys screamed.

  “Oops. I’m really, really sorry. Don’t wear out your pain tolerance yet, Mr. Keys, please. You are going to need every little bit of it in just a few minutes from now.”

  Brad stood up, this time placing himself closer to the old man’s face.

  “I will say I’m mighty impressed with your fighting spirit, though, you lazy and inhospitable old letter writer.”

  The old man couldn’t have said anything if he wanted to. He was heaving and breathing heavily.

  “What do you want, Keegan?”

  “I’m Jensen, not Keegan,” Brad spat. “You fucking backward lowlifes think everyone is just like you – related to everyone else. My surname is Jensen because my father wasn’t trash, like you fuckers here in the Creek. My genes are deeper than a kiddie pool. You know that too, because you remembered that detail when you wrote letters about me and sent it to the government.”

  The old man seemed to be getting a little of his energy back. He knew better than to try and get up again, but there was some self-control back in his voice.

  “What do you want, Brad?”

  “I’m curious. By nature. Ever since I was a child, I wondered about the world. I always took time to study whatever I wanted to know more about. Like when I was just seven years old – just before I had a beating from that lowlife hick brother of yours. Now there’s a proper Keegan. Me? Too smart for any of that. I’m feeling like I want to do a few experiments.”

  “I don’t give a goddamn what you do,” the old man said. But he kept looking at the clothing iron, which now radiated heat.

  Brad pounced like he was about to get on top of the old guy and strangle him. The old man winced.

  Brad laughed again.

  “Well, you know, you say that. You say you don’t give a goddamn, Keys. But I don’t think you thought that through.”

  “Kill me then.”

  Brad made a face like he was hushing a little baby. Then he straddled the old man. The bed creaked again, but this time the old man didn’t scream. Instead, his eyes were open comically wide, and his dirty gums hung open.

  “You play skins or shirts?”

  “What?”

  “Skins. Or shirts?”

  “I… uh… I dunno…”

  “Sure you do you rat fuck. Sure you do. Do you want to play with your shirt on, or your shirt off?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m curious about the difference between placing that iron on flesh and placing it on shirts. I’m curious myself about shirts. I kinda know what skin does. I might still put the iron on some raw skin… maybe on your chest. So I have a baseline. But I’m curious whether I could melt your shirt and your flesh together if I press down hard enough. What do you think?”

  Brad made the baby face again and then reached for the clothing iron.

  “Please Jesus…”

  “Nah. There is no Jesus here.”

  The old man’s face froze, and his hands started clutching at his own chest. His mouth opened and closed, though no sound came out. His eyes looked like they were popping out of his head. He looked like a catfish, struggling to breathe outside of a river.

  It was clear to Brad that the old man didn’t have much more fight left in him, and it was amusing to watch him twitch to injuries that were coming from inside him.

  Brad loved the way he was contorting.

  The old fucker was having a heart attack. This really was beautiful.

  Brad stared into the old man’s eyes, wanting to stay with him and watch him looking at Brad until the last life drained from him.

  He could see that the old man could still think – and in the intelligence of those eyes Brad saw fear, hatred. Also the old man was still judging him, the way he always had.

  But then the recognition and the intelligence faded from his eyes, and they became dull and milky.

  Brad saw the old man’s eyes become increasingly frantic, bulging, and he smiled at the old man.

  The old man’s body began to jerk violently. Then suddenly he heaved, and the jerking slowed. When the old man finally slumped, his face still frozen in a grimace of pain, Brad got up and unplugged the iron.

  Brad stood up. He found he enjoyed looking down at the pathetic corpse on the bed. The old man’s eyes were still open, and his hand was still clutching his chest. But there was no life in his eyes or in his body.

  Pity the old fucker didn’t have a little more fight in him, thought Brad.

  Might have been fun.

  Still, he’d save it for Draker.

  Chapter 11

  In Your Dreams

  Oh, hey there.

  You thought I forgot about you, didn’t you?

  You think I’d just let you go about your life… cleaning up chemical messes, facing up to the reality that this little saloon of yours won’t fly commercially? And the kicker: pathetically looking for some sleazy anonymous hook up?

  I’ll be here to remind you. It all came from a mud pit.

  You can go right ahead and bond over burgers and shakes
like some kid at the mall, with his dyke surrogate mommy all you like. You take all the self-help courses, chamomile tea and rose quartz you want. Talk to a shrink even, so you can build yourself some kind of cognitive framework to cope with things.

  The truth is that you’re still here in the pit.

  And if you forget because you’re under all that lovely weight of an inheritance you sure as fuck didn’t ask for, but got anyway?

  Well every now and then the two of us get to go on a little trip.

  Back to you, your lungs on fire, gasping for breath but not drawing any.

  Back to you, your veins and your synapses stinging as if hornets swarmed inside you.

  Back to you, pissing yourself.

  Back to you, losing a fight. A pretty important one at that.

  You’re lucky to be alive. How many times did doctors say that?

  Lucky. You and me, we get to go back.

  All the way back, to the truth.

  Because you yearn for the fucking truth don’t you. Even though you’re running around town and woods thinking you’re getting somewhere.

  Getting away.

  But this mud pit is true baby.

  And you know it.

  True in a way that most regular truths aren’t. Truer than a headline, or an object of worship, or an emotional little narrative you tell yourself about your past.

  Whatever the hell you do or achieve in this world, wherever you go, you and me still get to go back…

  Snake poison cooking every vein and every synapse in your system. The torrential downpour and the red clay ground drenching you, oozing at you, clawing into your mouth and sliming down your throat.

  You know you are about to die. This isn’t a fucking movie, there’s no last minute save.

  You are fucking dying.

  And suddenly you know what few people alive know. That death is never dignified.

  Just that, remember?

  Just that little moment in your life. In the timeline, just a blip. But you and I know, it’ll really be every little moment from then on forward.

  You can outwalk me when you are awake, but you have no defense when you sleep. And no matter how far you walk, I’ll be right there, right there. You can flex your muscle and your money out there all you like. The truth is in here.