Rock Solid

by Paul Slatter

  Taking a deep breath from the tube, Chendrill dug his fingers in, wrapped his free hand around the chain, and pulled it as hard as he could, jerking it and jerking it as he slowly floated downward. Then with a snap he felt the tension give and the chain loosen as he kicked and pulled and spun his body around in the water until he felt it drop away. He continued to kick and his body began to rise back up towards the surface. The pressure loosened from his ears, the temperature changed as he rose through the water, the remaining air in the tube clasped firmly in his teeth pulling him up and up until he burst through the surface back into the swell.

  Chendrill lay there on his back in the swell looking up to the sky, his heart racing as he felt the water splash on his face again, but he did not care. Trying to relax with as little effort as possible he stayed still, swirling one hand at his sides enough to keep him afloat as he moved along with the current, drifting up and down on the swell. He was tired and cold and hurt all over. The water was cold on his feet, his boots now gone—squeezed and shaken off despite their laced double knots—but he was still alive, just.

  He lifted his arm from the water and looked at his watch, which was still there and working just fine. Just like me, he thought, just like me. From what he could tell, he was still only about two miles from shore, the lights faint in the distance as the riptide eased. It was almost one a.m. Twenty years prior, he’d spend a good four hours out on the ocean, in the bay. This experience wasn’t new to him, and as long as he cruised with the current instead of against it, taking it as slow as he needed to, edging bit by bit towards the shore, letting the current do the work, he’d make it—unless his heart gave out.

  So, he lay there on his back, resting, relaxing, drifting with the current, and once he began to get his wind and felt whatever strength he had left begin to return, he let go of the inner tube that had saved his life; and flipping onto his stomach, as he had as a young man so many years ago, he began to swim calmly and surely away from the current and back towards land.

  It was almost three in the morning when he first felt the seabed beneath his feet and stood for a moment in a shallow with the water at his chest, staring at the land now only some three hundred feet away with its rocky shale beach covered with logs pushed high by the tide and further still by storms.

  He leaned forward and pushed himself into the now calm water and, exhausted, gently cruised quietly towards the shore, finally reaching land and pulling himself from the water. He stepped up twelve feet onto the beach, lay between two huge cedars and, smiling to himself, slept in the warm night air.

  An hour later he woke, feeling his body ache all over. He crouched between the logs, finding the strength to carry on, then eventually stood. There were houses there beyond the beach safe from the rising tide, long gardens with cut grass and swing sets and chairs ready for the sun, which would be along soon. Chendrill looked to one with its big cedar shakes, painted dark green and flying the stars and stripes proudly from its rooftop. He was in the United States, he thought, and wondered why he hadn’t seen the flag as he’d come ashore.

  Anyone in their right mind would go and knock on the door and ask for help, have the police and ambulance come take him away to a warm bed with about five hundred questions and news crews. He’d sit there like a chump in a private room and watch his story unfold on KOMO News—with pictures of Archall Diamond being arrested, showing off his fucking front tooth to the cameras. But that wasn’t his style. He needed to cross the border, get back into Canada—besides it was almost 4:15 a.m. and he needed to pick up Dan in a couple of hours.

  He took a deep breath and felt his clothing, his Hawaiian still damp but not too bad, his jeans damper. Crouching down, he took off his socks, then doing the same with his jeans he saw the heavy bruising around his ankles and shins from the chain.

  He rung out his socks and felt the swelling along his shins and ankles. It was bad, but it could have been worse, he thought. He looked to the house, whoever was in there asleep now. Then he remembered his phone and pulled it out and looked at it as he sat back down behind the log in his underpants and looked out to the sea that had nearly taken him. Hitting the button, he gave it a try, nothing—not surprising though. Digging back into his pocket, he pulled out the keys to the Aston and his wallet. Diamond hadn’t taken anything, he thought, just trussed him up and thrown him in the drink.

  He placed the wallet and phone to one side and wrung out his jeans and shirt, feeling his hands shake as he did. Then, putting everything back on, he grabbed his keys and wallet and felt his shoulder ache as he threw the phone back into the ocean and said, “That’s all you get of me, Archall Diamond.”

  He walked north feeling the rocks beneath his feet along the beach for fifteen minutes until he could see the first border camera and a black SUV patrol car passing in the distance. He knew the border well, hanging out there on the other side often as a kid and then as a young man. ‘The Border’—at Zero Avenue in Canada, was little less than a two-foot ditch separating two countries and their different attitudes. Patrolled by land and air and watched by camera diligently on the south side from the Pacific to the Atlantic, the north was patrolled by air sometimes and by land occasionally—it’s the way it was.

  Staying away from the cameras, Chendrill cut inland, feeling the ground beneath his feet slide in his still damp socks. He reached the road and stood in the darkness at the side of a tree and stared at the open border a good thousand feet away in the distance. Then he saw the black SUV coming back his way from the south and sinking back into the trees, he let it pass, following it with his eyes as it cruised along and settled in a siding some five hundred feet ahead.

  The driver sat there with his engine running and all his lights off so as no one could see him hidden in his huge black vehicle, looking north—Chendrill wanting to go north. Waiting and watching, Chendrill looked to his watch. It was coming up to a quarter to five. He could do it, he thought, jump the border as he had as a kid, running across and running back again for a dare. Watching the border patrol come screaming along from the south and then hiding from the RCMP on his side in the north.

  The guy was still sitting there five minutes later, his silhouette unmoved in the vehicle’s cab. If he was lucky, the guy would be asleep, taking an unscheduled work nap in a spot where the cameras couldn’t see him and Chendrill could sneak past in the trees, then make the quick dash and jump the huge two-foot ditch. But he was no longer a kid, and the world had been a different place back then.

  Slowly he moved forward from the rear, the silence of the night broken by the SUV’s idling engine, the border patrol officer’s balding head unmoving, visible through the rear window. He stopped by a tree and waited, the guy had to be asleep. Then suddenly he moved, his duck pond head turning around and looking out to the side, then the door opened and he got out.

  Chendrill stayed still and watched as the man wandered around the vehicle. There was still time to approach the man, he thought, tell him his tall story that it would take him a day to prove after he’d come clean.

  Then with the engine still running, the man walked away from the vehicle into the woods, stopping some hundred feet away out of sight of any cameras to unzip his fly, and, with his back to his vehicle, he started to pee. Chendrill moved closer, listening to the engine running. The big man in his Hawaiian and socks made his way through the darkness along the side of the SUV and opened the door and quietly sat, feeling the warmth inside. Quickly, he slammed the thing into drive and sped off as fast as the vehicle could travel—the sound of gunshots ringing in the air. He hit the border barrier, and slammed the patrol officer’s vehicle across the ditch with a crash and a thump and bounced his way back into Canada.

  He had less than five minutes before the whole international incident fully hit the grid, Chendrill thought, as he pulled the SUV to its left and made his way away from the officer, who he could only assume was still shooting at him. Seeing a right turn heading north, he took it and carried
on up as far as he could, then took another right and a left, hit a main road, and screamed it along for almost half a mile until he was in the heart of Tsawwassen and saw a bus terminal. He slowed and snuck into a side road, parked the SUV in the driveway of an abandoned house that was due to be demolished, wiping everything down with the border patrol’s napkin. He grabbed the guy’s water bottle and sandwiches wrapped up in silver foil, and headed barefoot for the bus station.

  It was 5:00 a.m.

  It was two minutes past 5:00 a.m. when he heard and saw the RCMP cars go screaming past, heading south to the border and a minute after that, he heard the helicopter fly overhead as he sat on the bus, waiting for it to move and taking the first bite out of the patrol officer’s cheese and ham sandwich.

  It was bad, he knew it. This guy who’s snack he was now eating was in a lot of trouble, he thought as he felt the engine of the first bus into Vancouver that morning start up and pull away, but there you go, as the old saying goes—you snooze you lose, or better still, always take your keys with you when you leave the vehicle for a piss. The poor guy, Chendrill thought as the bus took a turn onto the highway. He looked at the people all around him on a journey they probably took every day, just as the guy whose career he’d just put a dent in had probably taken a piss at the same tree every time he was on duty.

  By 5:45 a.m., the bus was in Vancouver and Chendrill got out, feeling his whole body stiffen as he tried to move. Hurting badly, he raised his right arm and hailed a cab and with bleary eyes saw the turbaned driver and wondered if it was Dan’s friend as he sat in the back. He gave the driver the address to Dan’s mother’s place and thirty minutes later when he opened his eyes, he was there. It was ten minutes after 6:00 a.m. and Dan was still asleep.

  He opened the door with the key he kept on the same ring as the Aston’s and shouted down the stairs to Dan to wake up as he passed through. He opened the door to Trish’s room as she turned the bedside light on and sat up saying, “Chuck, I’ve been worried sick, I’ve been trying to call.”

  Chendrill said as he came in and sat on the bed, “Sorry, my phone got wet; it’s not working.”

  Then she looked at him closely, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “Oh my God! You look awful!”

  “Thanks.”

  “No Chuck, what on earth happened? Something’s terrible has been going on, I had a really bad feeling that something had happened to you. I thought you were dead and now you’re here, thank God, but you’re covered in salt; it’s all over your face and in your hair.”

  Chendrill thought, you thought I was dead, so did I love. His woman wasn’t wrong, she’d felt it whatever it was, out there in the ether. Then Chendrill looked at his watch, took a deep breath and said, “I’m fine, don’t worry. Dan needs to get ready. He has to be there in forty-five minutes.”

  He walked to the top of the stairs and called down, “Dan get up, we’re leaving.”

  He heard Dan reply, saying, “Tell them I’m not coming in. I’m tired and I feel sick.”

  He’s sick, Chendrill thought as he stood at the top of the stairs, feeling the bump on the back of his head for the first time. Not feeling well—fuck me after what he’d just gone through and he’s still on time, then he felt a temper rush through him borne of tiredness and frustration as he shouted down, “Be ready outside with the keys to your car in fifteen minutes or I’ll be down there and I’ll drag you out by your fucking hair.”

  Then he turned and walked back to the bedroom and as soon as he saw Trish, he apologized.

  She said, “It’s okay.” Then, she said, “Do you want to take a shower? I’ve got some of your clothes you left here clean in the cupboard.” Chendrill looked to her and noticed her hands were shaking. But the truth was, so were his. He got up and walked into the bathroom and stripped down, and saw the salt lines in his dark denim trousers lying on the floor, his lower legs bruised to the bone, a mix of red and blue. Then Trish came in seeing them immediately and burst into tears.

  Chendrill said, “It’s okay, I just had an accident, it’s okay.”

  “I knew it,” Trish said as she bent down to look at his legs, “I knew it.”

  Then as he turned on the shower, Chendrill said, “Could you make sure he’s ready. I’m feeling a little tired and I don’t want to embarrass myself again shouting at him.”

  He looked to his watch—it was now twenty after. He’d forget shaving and be out in five minutes. He stepped in and put his head under the warm water, immediately tasting the sea salt as it ran down his face from his hair and skin as it all came rushing back to him as the words, ‘I’m still alive, I’m still alive,’ whirled through his mind.

  By 6:30 a.m. he stepped outside in clean clothes. Dan stood there looking pissed off. Trish was holding the Ferrari’s keys and asking if he’d like her to drive him and continued with, “You haven’t got long.”

  Chendrill grabbed them, saying, “Don’t worry, I’m driving a Ferrari. I’ll be there in no time.”

  They pulled out onto the main road and headed towards Iron Works Studio, Chendrill feeling every muscle in his body hurt as he turned the wheel, especially his left leg and ankle as he used the clutch. Moving out into the inside lane, he put his foot down and listened to the Ferrari roar and go nowhere fast. Dan looked at him smirking. Then said, “Yeah, frustrating init.” Then Dan said, “The way this sex machine drives, we’ll be lucky if we get there tomorrow.”

  They arrived at three minutes past 7:00 a.m. and pulled up next to Sebastian, who was waiting in the carpark with the face of a man who’s been forced to work a long weekend. He said, “You’re late, Chuck.”

  Chendrill looked to his watch as he struggled to get out of the car. Sebastian wasn’t wrong; he couldn’t deny it. He said, “Yeah sorry, I had some problems.”

  And totally out of character, Sebastian said, “I’ve got problems too, Chuck. You’re not the only one—I’ve got a sore back, but I made it in on time.”

  Then Dan piped up, passing them as he walked towards the caterers, “That’s what happens when you stick governors on Ferraris.”

  ******

  Rann Singh pulled the key from his pocket and opened the door. He left the bedroom without looking back and locked it again from the hallway. Carrying the shotgun along, he walked out onto the deck and sat down on his grandfather’s chair and stared at the mountains, now backlit by the sun as it began to light the morning sky to the east.

  His back hurt in and around his kidneys. Those fucking pricks coming into his home with their pangar swords like they owned it. But they were dead and gone now, four of them at least, the big one that hit the dresser, maybe not. But there you go, he did warn them. He took a deep breath, the mountain air cooling his lungs, the sweat from the fight drying now on his back and brow, the taste of another man’s blood still in his mouth.

  That had been a fight, he thought, a good one. Those guys were strong, really strong and tough as old boots. Except the young one, poor guy going with them trying to be dangerous when he wasn’t. Dead now, when he should have stayed down with a busted knee and arm like he’d told him. There you go, sometimes you don’t know who you’re fucking with. He felt calm now, incredibly calm. The shit with the zebra all forgotten, the South African off the hook—for now at least, unless Rann had a trip to the coast and saw him and the guy wasn’t in any hurry to offer up an apology on account of having called him a choot, or for having given him the gift of a shotgun he knew no longer fired.

  He closed his eyes and thought about what had just happened when less than ten minutes ago he’d been asleep in his bed. And for once, he remembered everything. No blacking out this time as he had so many times before when he’d lost his temper in the street or at the final of a martial arts tournament, when he’d come around on the mat, pinned down by coaches and officials with bloody noses, seeing carnage and his opponent knocked out on the floor as he looked around.

  Then they’d banned him, barred him for life for winning a fight
and awarded the trophy to the guy he’d left unconscious on the mat. A week after, the call had come asking him if he wanted to earn some money by getting into a cage with an animal—except the animal was a human who’d told his managers to go find someone who knows how to fight, telling them straight, “I don’t want to fight no chump.”

  And in Rann went, entering the packed arena with a hanky covering his hair tied up on the center of his head, listening to the crowd roar with laughter, seeing the tough guy who didn’t want to fight no chump standing around shaking his arms with his tattooed muscles and sweat and plastic girlfriends with their big fake titties stretching their T-shirts tight. Rann listened to the guy once the cage door closed as he called Rann a black, Paki, Indian cunt, and, as he posed for the cameras, told him how he was going to rip that hanky from his head and kill him. Then he came at him, swinging and charging and missing as Rann bobbed and weaved—the guy using up his strength trying to catch him, trying to put him down on the mat so as he could choke Rann out, then stand there triumphant with his hands in the air like a gladiator who’d killed another lion. But this time it was different. Rann moved fast, punishing the man’s knees every time he came close with a lunge or a kick or a swipe—the bull of a man almost getting there but getting nowhere, full of sweat, getting frustrated and too full of steroids to move fast, using his mouth as a weapon, calling Rann a Paki cunt over and over until Rann had had enough of the animal’s mouth and put his foot in it and then put another in his throat as he went down on his back and swallowed his tongue. Then Rann stood there watching as the officials and ambulance men tried to bring him round as the crowd screamed and yelled at him, telling him how they were now going to kill him if he’d killed their tattooed hero. And he had.