My phone started vibrating, rattling below.
I climbed down the ladder.
It wasn’t Melissa though. It was my home phone from Philadelphia.
I stared at it until it disconnected and a breeze cooled me.
Eamonn couldn’t come back to London, I decided. I couldn’t inflict that upon Rachel or my kids, and Noel and Daisy would hate him. But it was just as obvious that Eamonn couldn’t stay here. He had left his place in the queue of society and now he couldn’t return to where he’d been before; everyone had moved on and he had to go to the back of the line alone.
I tried composing a text to Rachel asking if he could use the spare room, but I knew it wouldn’t be sent. Rachel didn’t appreciate warnings. We got married the day after I proposed and we decided to have kids at the moment she discovered she was pregnant. Before that there had been no discussion. It was one of the things I loved most about her; her complete and utter aversion to reductive future planning. She’d deal with it better if Eamonn just appeared on our doorstep.
I lay with my back flat against the wood. With no lights surrounding me, the sky lit up, you could kid yourself you were seeing right into another galaxy.
*
Melissa sounded more relaxed when she called back. She startled me with vibrations against my chest, and I knocked the back of my head against wood as I jerked awake to answer the phone.
‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘You sound as though you’re outside.’
‘I am, I’m… somewhere in the central states, no idea. Eli’s driving.’
A dark laugh. ‘He’s a terrible driver.’
‘I’d say enthusiastic.’
‘Trent’s niece died of cancer,’ she said, moving from one subject to another with disorientating fluidity. ‘There was some family trouble over the church, their family church, funding this experimental treatment, but they refused. Then Trent tried to sue them for… something. There’s an article about it somewhere, about the man and his niece trying to sue God. But it didn’t come to anything, and then she died and Trent just left.’
‘He tried to sue God?’
‘Well, the Church as God’s representative, but it was a news story.’ She sighed. ‘It sounds funny, but he was heartbroken. His niece was like his own daughter.’
‘You know he became a Satanist?’
‘… No. But then I’m not surprised, if that’s what’s happened. Where has he been? The last time I got a postcard from him I think it was marked Los Angeles.’
‘He was staying in a hotel for months. The Cecil, by Skid Row.’
‘That makes me so sad, to think he never recovered.’
‘We think he might be in Staten Island now. That’s where we’re headed anyway, and then we’re coming back to London.’ I frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re not worried?’
‘I’m not worried.’
‘But why?’
‘I know Eli better.’
I wondered where she was. There was no background noise forming an outline around her voice.
‘Trent’s not a bad person,’ she said. ‘He’d never hurt anybody.’
‘A few people seem to think he might have done. Eli thinks so.’
‘What do you think? Do you have any opinion on this at all?’
‘I didn’t really have a choice. Eli’s done a lot for my family.’
‘But do you think Trent is a bad person?’
I shrugged. ‘No. Losing your mind doesn’t necessarily make you bad.’
‘Where’s Eli right now?’
‘In the car, asleep.’
And she hung up.
Down below in the parking lot, Eli must have woken up because he turned the headlights on. As he did so I looked up, and the stars had disappeared.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘There’s a city around here with a population of just over eight thousand,’ Eli said.
‘Isn’t that more of a town?’
‘A city technically. I don’t know.’
‘A town wearing a city’s suit,’ I said, smiling.
‘They have a tank in their police force.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, probably just to play with.’
I looked in the vague direction of my gun and shrugged. ‘I’m not sure we’re the best poster boys for gun control given—’
‘Yeah, but we actually need them. It makes more sense for us to carry guns than a shack full of cops to have a tank.’ He took his eyes off the road to smirk. ‘I’d also like to think we’re very responsible carriers.’
‘It’s not a toy,’ I said.
‘Blatantly is.’
The landscapes were all beginning to look the same, or maybe we were retracing our steps so accurately that we really were seeing the same things twice.
A speck appeared at the side of the road, looking as if it were waving at us.
For one mad, glorious second, I thought it was Goat Bag. I had no idea what he could have been doing on this stretch of road, waiting for us like he’d crawled through a wormhole.
But the black insect-like body on our windscreen grew into nothing, not even a person. It was a tree, or a misshapen naked weed, wrapped around a vandalized signpost. I wondered who had been out here to vandalize it.
‘I thought we might see that mad Australian again,’ Eli remarked, as if I’d said something out loud.
‘Yeah, me too. How close are we to St Louis now?’ I asked.
‘Dunno, ten miles or so.’
‘Drop me off there.’
‘What?’
‘Drop me at the airport.’
‘The fuck?’
‘I need to go to Chicago. You knew this. It’s what I’m here for.’
‘You can’t be serious? Not now?’
I didn’t reply.
Another figure by the side of the road, another hitcher. We both watched him grow in size and stature, until he definitely wasn’t Goat Bag, and he zoomed by.
Eli didn’t say anything. Maybe he would continue to not say anything until he hoped it was too late, and he could just drive by the airport like I hadn’t suggested leaving.
‘I can meet up with you again in Staten Island. But… I mean, wouldn’t it be good for you to chill out for a few days? We could both do our own thing and then we’ll finish this. I promise we will finish this.’
He touched his ear.
‘Two days,’ he said.
‘It’ll take as long as it takes.’
I didn’t quite understand why he seemed so pissed off. It was as if my leaving, even temporarily, was messing with his sense of order, going against his plan.
‘I can’t just sack off this Seven thing. I’m here for Noel as well. Everyone back home, they’re expecting this.’
I should have told him what I knew about Trent, but I didn’t. It was the knowledge I had any sort of upper hand that gave me the strength to leave.
Not for the first time, I began to get the creeping sense that Eli had some other agenda that existed just out of my reach. But I didn’t have long to dwell on it because before long I was on a flight and the idea slipped my mind again.
*
That one hour and fifteen minute flight was the shortest I could remember. No texts for a time, no calls, no social media. No conversation either. I even booked my ticket on my phone outside Lambert–St Louis International Airport in order to cut down on human interaction.
It was one of the ugliest places I’d ever fucking seen, like a nuclear bunker. Lumps of grey and tinted glass and a stunted little tower.
I spent all the spare time before my flight in the bathrooms.
It wasn’t just the fluorescent lights. I looked as if I’d climbed out of a grave.
I texted Eamonn and Mark saying I was coming to Chicago, mostly so that Mark could meet me at the airport, and spent the flight staring out of the window feeling sick.
I wondered what Eli was doing, as G-force hit my stomach during the jagged landing.
He had driven away in silence, without a goodbye or a glance back.
It could be the last I saw of him.
Eyes down as I walked out into O’Hare International, following the trippy tiling, until I looked up and saw part of London standing in front of me, wearing black skinny jeans and a leather jacket and eyeing me with a, ‘You look terrible.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No really. I don’t fancy you at all.’
I thought he was going to hug me – Mark was a hugger – but he frowned and settled for taking a couple of steps towards me with his hands in his pockets.
‘Did you find him?’ he asked, as we began walking.
‘What?’
‘The guy, Trent. Did you find him?’
‘Oh, no. After this I’m flying back to meet Eli and tie this shit up.’
‘Who’s Eli again?’
‘Family friend.’
‘Ronnie.’ He stopped at the entrance.
I was dying for a cigarette, itching on the inside. ‘What?’
‘Are you OK? You seem…’
‘I’m tired.’
‘OK.’ He indicated his head. ‘My car’s over there. Do you want something to eat or…?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.
‘OK,’ he said, again, and didn’t pursue it.
He didn’t pursue it in the car either, which I was grateful for. The last thing I wanted, ever again, was to sit in another fucking car. I sat to the very far side of my seat, desperate to sleep. I kept looking to the side expecting to see Eli, and Mark conscientiously avoided speaking.
I chuckled to myself, watching Chicago go by.
It had an optimism about it that you rarely found in cities further east. It was cleaner and saner. It was cold, had a real chill in the air, which I liked. But it wasn’t as caustic and ugly as New York, wasn’t as self-satisfied as Boston, wasn’t as quaint as Philadelphia, wasn’t as bat-shit fucking crazy as New Orleans, wasn’t as kale-juice-no-dressing-Bikram-fuckery as LA, wasn’t as stoked, bra as Santa Cruz, wasn’t as… well, Houston was all right.
‘Have you spoken to Noel recently?’ he asked at one point.
‘No.’
Our hotel was gorgeous. Mark had booked a twin room and I didn’t even care. After sharing a car with Eli, after spending way too much time forced into each other’s personal bubbles, I found I didn’t care much for personal bubbles any more.
I dropped my bags near the door, went into the bathroom and showered for an hour. I looked at myself for a long time. I’d lost weight. There were heavy black circles under my eyes.
I put on clean clothes and it didn’t make much difference.
Mark was by the window reading. I had to hand it to him, he was fine to be left in his own company.
Eventually, I sat on one of the beds and picked up the room service menu. I hadn’t noticed what the name of the hotel was; an independent place called the Palmeira.
Our room had rooms of its own. I approved.
‘Is she here?’ I asked.
Mark put his book away. ‘She’d better be. I had a tip-off from a friend.’
‘Which friend?’
‘A Russian.’
‘How good a friend is he?’
An assured smile. ‘Good.’
‘If she’s not here then you don’t know where the hell she is, do you?’
‘I’ve never failed a job like this, Ron.’
‘Every record has to come to an end sometime.’
The statement hung there between us, and Mark was the one who chose to move on from it.
‘Do you want to tell me what you’ve been up to?’ he asked.
‘Chasing a born-again Satanist from St Louis to LA and back. You know, standard.’
‘Sounds like my kinda territory.’
‘Well, I might tell you more about it after I’ve eaten.’
I’d sent a text to Eamonn before getting on the plane, but I couldn’t see a reply.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
‘I don’t know what’s going on out there, Ronnie. But I don’t feel like you’re being my husband any more. All we want to do is talk to you. Your kids… We don’t know whether you’re alive or dead every day and… You know what, forget it. Just don’t expect me to be waiting at the airport for you with a stupid smile on my face, OK?’
I played Rachel’s message a couple of times and was shocked by how little it affected me. Her role as my wife – whatever that word had meant to me – seemed diminished.
Synecdoche.
Was there ever a word so custom-made for dehumanization? It is the very definition of how serial killers – any killers, any abusers – think. To reduce a person to one defining feature is their art form.
Men are better at it than women. When I was younger I could fuck a woman for no other reason than I was fascinated by a squint in one of her eyes. She was the squint. That was the only thing about her worth identifying. I don’t even like you, I have no interest in your hopes or your dreams or your future or what dubious effect you’re going to have on anything in the world or even whether you’re enjoying this – because you’re just a squint and you’re indifferent to experience – but I’m going to fuck you, just focus on that squint, because I kinda like the way your right eye squints like that, like that, like that…
You can shoot a police officer if they’re just a uniform, nothing more than an empty outfit hanging in the wardrobe. You’re not shooting the man, you’re shooting the clothes – the uniform, the icon that represents everything that makes you hate and feel downtrodden – because that’s all they are. Uniforms were never alive before anyway. The person is incidental. The uniform is all you hate.
You’re not stealing a car. You’re looking for wheels. Stealing a car isn’t nearly as bad as stealing wheels. Anyone could steal wheels.
How easy it is for an employer to fuck over the people who work for him when they’re not people, not really; they’re hands. Hired hands. The help. You can fire the help – the hands – condemn their entire family to starve and live on the streets because hands don’t have families and help is just a concept.
You see guys shouting out of cars, addressing girls as legs. Legs don’t get harassed. Legs are just legs. Good luck trying to hurt a pair of legs’ feelings.
You could rape a skirt, a gash, no problem. You couldn’t hurt or kill a skirt any more than a uniform.
There’s a reason why, at war, you’re never ordered to fire at a human, a person. There’s always a name – gook, towel-head, whatever. You blew-up thirty towel-heads today and there’s no way you gave a shit. How could you?
Because hands don’t have families and help is just a concept and wearing a towel on your head is stupid.
My point is…
Well, what is the point?
Synecdoche.
What a wonderful quirk of language. How comforting to know that the very way we speak is designed to justify our basest desires.
People will always find ways to do damage to people.
As long as you never have to think of them as people.
Then it’s fine.
It’s fine.
Because hands don’t have families anyway and help is just a concept and voices mean nothing.
*
‘It’s been hard without a good photo of her,’ Mark said in the car.
‘Do we not have one?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Only one from Facebook but even that isn’t great. Impressive really. I would’ve thought it was impossible to be this absent from the Internet nowadays, especially at her age.’
‘No.’ I hadn’t known her well enough to know whether she was into social media or not. ‘You’d have to talk to Noel about stuff she was into. I could do a bit more online stalking for you if you like. I’m good at that.’
‘I think Noel knew her even less than we did.’
‘He was fucking her though.’
‘
Yeah, so he can’t be objective.’
I was still so fucking tired. Ten hours’ sleep and still so fucking tired. I pulled down the sun visor as we sat in unmoving traffic and shut my eyes. My dreams had been haunted by weird figures, things my subconscious must have made up because I’d never seen anything like it in waking life. Last night it was a man, wearing some ill-fitting blue shirt, walking on tiptoes, knees slightly bent, arms and hands twisted up behind him like wings, stretched to full extension. He stalked me between buildings, far enough away for me not to run, but close enough to fill me with dread.
Mark had shaken me awake. Apparently I’d been muttering.
I wondered if I’d ever talked in my sleep in front of Eli.
‘What went on in LA?’ Mark asked, taking his hands off the wheel and killing the engine for a spell.
I sighed. ‘We were looking for someone and it just got a bit weird, that’s all.’
‘Weird how?’
‘Weird as in… I don’t know how to tell you. It’s not even about Trent. It’s everyone who was around him who’s become weird. It’s like this guy was so mental that wherever he went he left this trail of fucking bat-shit insanity. We killed one of Eli’s old business partners, which made sense, but Eli skinned him alive. Then there were these hitmen sent to kill a guy we were staying with, and I sent their boss after someone else, so I think he’s dead too now. And we still don’t know where Trent is.’
‘Want to tell me about him?’
‘Trent? He seemed like a nice guy, but he lost the plot when his niece died and…’
Mark waited for me to finish, but I didn’t.
‘What is it about him that scares you?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t say he scared me.’
Some douche on her way to work stepped in front of the car as Mark was restarting the engine and I reached across Mark to slam the horn. She started and spilt her coffee over the bonnet.
‘Move it, you fucking ass-piece!’
Mark snorted. ‘Hasn’t taken you long to slip back into old habits.’
‘People aren’t so fucking sensitive here,’ I said, as the woman hurried away and we crawled forwards another couple of metres. ‘Did you not speak to Noel about Seven before coming out here? You didn’t think he’d have had anything useful to tell you?’
Road Kill Page 20