Charlie sat for another two hours in the living room before retreating to bed. He then lay awake until his alarm went off thinking about Ethan, trying to remember everything from their childhood. But it was all blocked behind a wall of repression. Sitting in his chair at the office now, he regretted every minute of it. His body tired and mind dull. He could barely focus on the dot points Roger had left him. Not that the handwriting was legible anyway.
He needed a smoke. Just a break. He searched his jacket for the packet and felt the mobile phone. His hand flinching away as if it were a boiling pot. Began shaking, really needed a smoke now. It began to vibrate. No, he refused to answer it. He wasn’t going to play games with a ghost. Surely he was hallucinating again. That had to be it. It had to. He just wasn’t seeing Sarah yet. The phone stopped ringing.
It began again. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t answer it. He looked over the low cubicle wall, no one near. Scanned over the way to the opposite cubicle, the copyist on the phone to someone. His breath shaking. He remembered the threat then from Ethan. That there’d be consequences if he didn’t answer. Bit his lip. He should answer it. He took the phone out but it had stopped ringing. His heart started racing, he hadn’t thought this through. What if the threat was real? What if—but Charlie couldn’t finish the thought, he was about to vomit. He ran from his cubicle for the toilets. Burst through the door to find both the toilet doors locked. He went for the sink and retched.
A toilet flushed moments later, Carl emerged. Charlie, he said. Reviewed Sam’s Outback Bash I see, this the oysters? He was smiling at Charlie through the mirror.
Charlie nodded, splashed his face with water. Yeah. Yeah something like that. He felt the phone begin to vibrate for the third time.
I can’t recall the last time they had a health inspection? Carl said, washing his hands. Andre offers up his wife if memory serves correct. A voluntary cuckold. He laughed. Anyway, report from Roger’s notes by five. He was gone.
Charlie rushed to the free toilet, slammed the door and locked it. Took out the phone, Hello? he whispered.
I said not to ever let me ring out two times Charlie. Was I not clear?
No you were, Charlie said. You were. It’s just I’m at—
I know where you are Charlie. The breathing over the phone was heavy. Angry. But I am not to be taken lightly. You will not be penalised this time, but you will be warned. I want you to go outside for a smoke. Do not hang up this phone. Go now.
But I can’t just—
Go Charlie. Or I will penalise you.
Charlie unlocked the door and left the toilet, left the room and was back on the office floor. He felt his pocket for the cigarettes, but they were back at his desk. He moved quickly for his cubicle, entered and ducked down, took the packet from his drawer. Brought the phone to his ear.
I am still here Charlie, keep moving.
His heart racing, he left the cubicle. Made his way for the entrance. Ralph calling for him to slow, he waved him off. Called that he was desperate. Only afterwards realised he’d waved with his hand holding the phone. He jammed it in his pocket.
By the time he got out of the elevator and was passing through the lobby he was sweating. Charlie burst through the doors and really did need a cigarette. He took one out to smoke and remembered the phone, took it out too.
Do you see the alleyway? On the right. Charlie turned, said that he did. Head there. You will see two skip bins halfway down. The one on the right has a false panel behind it. See what’s inside. Charlie began making his way to the side of the building. Oh and Charlie, if you disobey me again, there will be consequences. Charlie paused, holding his breath. I’ll skin your fucking children infront of you. The phone hung up.
Charlie almost fell over, holding onto his buckling knees. He leaned against the wall, crushing the cigarette in his fingers. Still tried to smoke the thing. He took a step forward, then another. Just make it to the alleyway, he told himself. Then he could have a breakdown.
But when he made it to the alleyway, and further in, he was moving now. Driven to not have a breakdown. He used the wall for support. A few metres. Walked himself along. Saw the two skips. Big green things on wheels. He collapsed against the right one, starting pushing. It budged slowly, then all at once shot aside. The brick wall behind revealed. No panel. He started feeling it. Knocking against it. Listening. The brick hurting his knuckles, began thinking there was no fake panel.
Then he hit a hollow spot. And another.
A stack of eight bricks in total. He knocked harder. Trying to break through. He backed up and booted with his heel. Missed and hit the wall. His leg vibrating, swore loudly. Searched for a tool. A pole sticking out of the other bin. He took it and swung at the bricks.
A dent. Hands ringing.
He swung again.
Again.
It broke through. He used the pole to pry the other bricks out. He was looking at a small cache space. At the back was a small opening slightly bigger than a fist. He knew straight away that he had to put his hand in. Lent to the side, tried to get out of the light, but the inside was painted black. Nothing reflecting.
He sighed, took a second look. Couldn’t see anything harmful. He was hoping. Charlie stuck his hand in. Felt something on the bottom. Bits of paper? Cards? He tried to pick one up and bring it out, he screamed and dropped it. Kept his hand still.
It was a trap.
Only then he noticed the crude cartoon above, drawn on the bricks. A monkey head, a fist, and a jar. He knew exactly what it was.
He read a paper on it for his psych degree. It was a basic reward versus pain experiment scientists had developed in regards to hunters in Africa. The scientists placed rewards in glass jars with openings slightly bigger than the monkey’s hands. The monkey could not retrieve the reward while holding onto it in a fist. Even as the hunters descended upon them, they still refused to let go. All they had to do was let go of the food and they could run away with their lives. Or pick up the jar and run. But they never could figure it out. They couldn’t grasp letting go of something in the short term to attain it in the long term.
Charlie’s heart was racing. He tried to keep his hand relaxed, to pick up a single piece of card between his fingers. He got cut again. He dropped it. Tried again. Got all the way to the opening and felt a slice into his skin. He swore and drew his hand out, peeling the small piece of flesh off his finger. He held nothing. Multiple cuts all over his hand, blood starting to seep. By the look of the cuts all over his hand, razors lined the inside of the opening. He tried again, keeping his hand more shallow, searching with his fingers, body to the side for more light. Fuck, Charlie yelled, as he got cut again. He withdrew his hand. Held it bleeding in his shirt.
Has to be another way, he thought. He jammed the pole in and tried to pry the cache open, but this time the pole bent. He threw it aside. Looked down at his hands, realising the right one was still swollen from punching Gary.
Charlie swapped sides and reached in with his left. Had plenty of room. He gripped a card in his fingers, slightly slippery because of his blood. Was bleeding more than he realised. He withdrew the card.
The card was actually a photo. He wiped it clean, trying to figure out what he was looking at. A house? But not just any house, his house. In the early morning light. He reached in again, his breath shaky, withdrew another photo. Nicked his hand. This photo was closer. The front door.
He reached for another, trying to stop his hand from trembling so much. Withdrew another picture. The front door open. He was looking down the hallway of his own home.
Charlie’s heart racing. He reached in and took photo after photo out. Ignoring the pain in his hand and the slipperiness of each photo as he bled onto them. He knew this. He knew something exactly like this having happened. Long ago, when he was young. When…
After five more rounds he had all of them. His hand bleeding profusely, bits of flesh hanging from his fingers, his body shaking with adrenaline and fear, b
ut he had them. He began wiping the photos on his shirt and looking at them.
Any ounce of Charlie thinking this was all one giant hallucination was now gone. Now it was more real and terrifying than he could ever have imagined.
The next photo he looked at was of Eve, she lay passed out on the couch. The quilt that he’d tucked in around her when he returned late in the night was pulled back. A note lay on her stomach. Charlie?
The next was him. Passed out in the chair. Body sprawled as he’d lain. A note on him too, Do I have?
Then a photo of him and Eve both asleep in the lounge room. A hand holding up a note, Your…
The next was darker. Outside looking into a home. Through a window and into a bedroom. In the room an older lady was reading a story to two little girls. One in a wheelchair. The other on the lap of the lady. Eve’s mother and their daughters. Another note, Attention?
Charlie’s hands had minds of their own now, barely holding onto the final photo. Except he was looking at the back, where a note was written. What if Davidson saw this? He turned it over. It was dark, a grainy shot, but despite its darkness the meaning was clear. The light besides the bridge had silhouetted him perfectly. As well as the body at his knees, floating in the water. It was him finding the second body. Him looking like he was dumping the body. In the corner a date for the evening before the party. Regardless of his story and the workers testimony, he couldn’t afford for Davidson to see this. It implied too much.
Hands gone, pressed into his shirt, fear pissing down his spine, Charlie reached back into the trap. Stuck his hand in further and reached around. Hoped there was more. A camera? Something to show—the phone began ringing. He flinched and the razors cut deep into his wrist. He bit his lip and retracted his hand. Blood spurting out. He opened it to answer it, but said nothing.
See? Ethan said.
I see.
Good. Charlie could hear the smile in Ethan’s voice. Good. Do not miss a call again. If you think these photos are the worst I’ve done, then I hope you don’t push me to find out.
Yes, Charlie said. He felt he wanted to cry out. He was drained. He needed help. His shirt soaked in his blood. He could only imagine how much he’d lost.
Are you ready Charlie? You better get those hands fixed, tonight we have a soiree. A little party. You’re going to see the blindness society walks in. We want to be blind. We are too consumed in stroking our pleasures to care for our fellow beings or surroundings. Why should we, especially when we’re so expendable? There’s too many of us now on the planet. We are the pest in the pantry that is so despised. Eating out of home what is valuable. We are draining the mother of her milk. And what for? So that we can escape. So that we can fuck our minds into delusion. You will see tonight that people do not care, and you will drift closer towards me. You will see that poor little Ethan Burke dying all those years ago was barely a tragedy at all. A sacrifice that was necessary. Just as my parents were to create me. Just as Sarah was.
Don’t say her name, Charlie said. A whisper, but strong enough.
Why Charlie? What will you do? The smile back in the voice. I have proven what I am capable of. But it is only the beginning.
Charlie went to throw the phone at the wall, but restrained himself at the last minute. The force in his bloody hands however still made it slip from his hands. He dropped and kicked the phone in trying to save it. It hit the wall and landed face down. He scrambled for it and picked it up. Dialled a few numbers, it beeped away. Still working. He sat back against the wall, he just needed to sleep. But fear bubbled through him. The prospect of the night coming at him. He had a review with Roger, maybe if he said something with his family he’d be able to skip it? He’d think of something. He had to. He had to. He just needed to sleep. Just nod off for a bit. Just a—
Charlie?
Charlie’s eyes snapped open. Ralph coming down the alleyway. Charlie? That is you. Charlie, what’re you doin—But Ralph stopped when he saw Charlie’s shirt soaked in blood and hands bunched into fists in his stomach. Holy shit, he said. What the—?
Charlie and Ralph were bunched into the small toilet cubicle in the office. Ralph had snuck him up through the fire exit and had him wait while he fetched supplies. He returned ten minutes later with a new shirt, rolls of bandages, a tub of petroleum jelly, and a bottle of vodka. Told Charlie to hold his hands over the toilet and try not cry out.
Ralph opened the vodka and poured it liberally over Charlie’s cuts. Gave him a swig. Then poured again. Charlie bit his lip, scrunched up and bit his shirt to stop from crying out. Then Ralph began lathering Charlie’s hands in petroleum jelly. The jelly turned red as he spread it, but stopped the bleeding. Then he began wrapping each hand, tight and firm but not cutting circulation.
The jelly keeps it moist and stops the bleeding, the bandages keep it protected, Ralph said. His face set, grim determination and muscle memory working him. He wrapped Charlie’s hands and tied them off with the clasps. Once finished he took a drink of the vodka.
I know you had a hard couple years. I’m sure working in a place like this doesn’t help exactly, probably brings a lot of memories—
No you don’t understand, Charlie said. There was a, a guy—
I understand Charlie, he said. I do. But you gotta see—I hoped you having been a psych would help you but, but you got a family. His face solemn now, sympathetic and pained. You can’t do this. Not to them.
It was then Charlie realised what Ralph was thinking, that he’d tried to commit suicide. A great sense of shame washed over him.
My little brother, Ralph said. When we were younger, for some bloody reason my father decided he was the golden goose. And don’t get me wrong, he was. Jack was gifted in brains and athletics. Captain of the footy team, straight A’s whole way. I never had a chance. But with all that came pressure. Pressure from himself, the community, but most importantly, from our old man. Became obsessed with him saving our family. Him bringing us into the light, into riches. Maybe that would bring mum back too, ya know? Sure as shit wasn’t gonna be their boy obsessed with reading pulps and sci-fi. Plus, Jack loved him too. Lorded our father and everything he said. Took more heed of his words than anyone else, even his own thoughts.
So, Ralph paused, took a swig of vodka. When our old man got it in his head that Jack should be a doctor, he never even thought otherwise. Just enrolled and began, cause our father’d said. But university learning, and medecine at that, are completely different from high school. Not taking anything away from him, but high school sciences were pretty easy back then. And Jack had lived a life with everyone stoaking the fire under his arse. Had bigger boots than he needed. So when uni got hard, and the pressure started getting to him, he didn’t know how to deal with it. He’d never had to. It was always someone else, or could be someone else’s problem, you understand?
Charlie nodded. He knew how this story was going to end already. He could see the crash coming. Saw the slow deterioration of the person and the fixation of the idea. The solution that Sarah herself had come upon.
He started cutting himself, Ralph said, quietly, barely a whisper. By the end of his degree, I mean. By the time he was in the hospital working I’d caught him a couple times. Near passed out, faint and shit. Just sitting there. Telling me he was resting. Done it before. Ralph was shaking his head, anger on his face. I was so pissed off at our father. At all of ‘em. Because Jack hadn’t been himself, he was their chance to live. They all lived through him. Made him the answer, he had to become a doctor. Jack began to realise he didn’t want to become a doctor. That maybe working a normal job and heading to the pub on Friday night was more for him. Playing footy on the weekend. Not obsessively studying and working. It burns you out. Burned him out.
Ralph went quiet, avoiding Charlie’s face. Charlie sensed that he’d regretted telling him this, that he was already looking for a way out of the toilet. So when did it happen? Charlie asked.
He got worse, more brazen, Ralph said. Th
ey found him in a broom cupboard at the hospital, arms sliced up, packets of bandages next to him. At first they’d thought an accident had happened, then they saw the rest of the scars, realised he was stealing supplies. By that point there was nothing I could do even if I wanted to. He was let go from the program, moved back with our dad. I had to let him go too, told myself he was fine with him. He hung himself a week later. Was my dad that found him out in the shed.
I’m sorry, Charlie said.
Don’t be, Ralph said. Now looking at Charlie. I like to think he hung himself out in the shed so that our father’d find him. Our mother’d always been supportive of him doing what he wanted. But women in our household had never held sway. I think I was ten when she left? Anyway, Ralph smiled. I was the example of that, I’d listened to her and look at me? he laughed, a small embarrassed thing. More a grimace of pain than of joy. Old man didn’t even attend the funeral.
Charlie had the similar memory of his sister’s death. The reaction to her death. The disbelief. If his father hadn’t been able to understand Sarah’s actions after her kidnap and rape, he most certainly hadn’t understood her death. Both his parents hadn’t been able to understand it. His mother had loved her with all that she could. Patience and compassion, waiting, was all she provided. All she could. Charlie knew that she’d blamed herself in that, being the one that had spent the most time with her over the last two years. Had she done enough?
The worst part though, was that Charlie remembered his father also blaming his mother. She hadn’t done enough. Wasn’t this women’s business? Why hadn’t she talked to her properly? Sat her down and told her she was being silly. Given the girl the medicine she needed, not some understanding bullshit. Charlie, all these years later, knew it wasn’t his father’s voice saying these things, but his influences. The culture he’d slipped into when he could no longer understand his daughter that would explain things to him. When Sarah had been able to talk freely about her wishes and dreams, when she’d made it a regular thing to discuss feminism and politics at the table at the young age of twelve, it hadn’t seemed all that hard to understand for their father. But without her, Charlie guessed it was too painful. It was easier to resort to what was around him, what was said at the pub. At the footy. Not that any of them were bad men, but compared to their household, they were ignorant men. Men doing their best to understand their own worlds. Charlie saw all sides of it. Knew that fear more than anything directed thinking and philosophies. People doing all they could to survive, let alone live. And something new to chew on? New ideas were like gristle.
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