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Road Kill

Page 22

by Hanna Jameson


  I took Cathal’s spoon from my pocket and placed it on the bar. ‘I met a guy in LA who can extract gold from base metals.’

  ‘No shit? You mean alchemy?’

  ‘No, it’s different somehow. I don’t know really.’

  ‘I think you met a good conman, Ron.’ Joe gave me a gentle smile as he filled the dishwasher.

  It was five in the afternoon and I was one of only a few people in.

  ‘Maybe,’ I admitted.

  Joe picked up the spoon, gave it a careful examination, and handed it back with a sceptical expression.

  Where could Cathal and Luiz from St Louis be now?

  Where was Goat Bag and the love of his life?

  They felt so fucking distant, like they hadn’t existed at all.

  ‘You look different.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a few years,’ I said, taking out my smoking paraphernalia and spreading it across the bar-top.

  ‘No, since I last saw you.’

  ‘It was a weird road trip. Eamonn been flouting his ban?’

  ‘He’s like a puppy, you can’t stay mad at him, can you?’ He shook his head. ‘He’s been behaving himself though, even asked me about some shifts last week.’

  ‘You’ll hire him?’

  ‘Fuck no.’ He laughed. ‘But bless him for asking.’

  A group of kids stood up across the bar, putting on coats. I glanced up, sipping my bourbon, and recognized a couple of them. Out of the corner of my eye, I tried to place their features. Two of them I’d seen here before; the ones who’d been scrapping with Eamonn. Not the one who’d had the baseball bat, but the others. One of them had taken a swing at me.

  I downed the rest of my bourbon, and reckoned I could leave my bags here for a spell.

  As the kids left I stood up, took my tobacco with me as if I was leaving for a cigarette, and followed them outside.

  I thought, from the King James Bible,

  And deceiveth them that dwell on the earth by the means of those miracles which he had power to do in the sight of the beast; saying to them that dwell on the earth, that they should make an image to the beast, which had the wound by a sword, and did live.

  One of them was wearing a khaki coat with a fur hood. Another was wearing some sleeveless beige cardigan like a full-time douche.

  There were more people around than I might have liked and it was starting to rain, but sometimes you had to roll with the opportunities presented to you.

  Khaki split away from the group and I halted a little way away while they said goodbye to each other in an awkward back-patting way. I chose between him and Cardigan, and followed Khaki. He was heading for a car.

  It amazed me how many people continued to enter their homes and their vehicles without looking around them first, without assuming they might be being followed.

  He’d parked down a narrow street, only one pavement, a maze of bins and no people.

  Khaki took out his keys, pulled his hood back to show straw-coloured hair, and I cast my gaze about us before grabbing the back of his neck and smashing his face forwards into the roof of the shoddy little car.

  He dropped his keys.

  His nose broke and he crumpled.

  It was so easy to hate the young.

  Hidden by his car, I braced myself against the roof and kicked him where he cowered on the ground. Then I pulled him up, punched him down and kicked him again, pulled him up, punched him down and kicked him again. He didn’t make a sound.

  I looked for his car keys and picked them up, while Khaki lay bleeding.

  Opening his car door, I dragged the kid to his feet and shoved him inside.

  I don’t think he got a good look at my face before both his eyes were swollen shut and clouded with blood.

  Reaching past him, where he was quivering and groaning on the seat, I put his keys on the dashboard and shut the door. I could have locked him in, thrown the keys away, but I wasn’t a monster about it.

  Vengeance, swiftly dealt.

  I retracted my hands into my sleeves to wipe the blood off.

  Upon turning, we were alone. I wasn’t sure if anyone had been watching us before, but they weren’t now. The rain had worsened but it was refreshing. I hadn’t felt rain for a while.

  I walked slowly towards the main road and realized I couldn’t remember which way I’d come.

  People ducked into shops around me. Everyone looked too far away and yet too close.

  Eli hadn’t got in touch yet, which was worrying.

  I turned left and spotted the establishments I recognized and those I didn’t.

  Not even breathless, not even sweating. I’d expended no energy on Khaki. The violence had taken nothing out of me; it was more like letting something move through me, like the inhaling and exhaling of oxygen.

  My hands emerged from my sleeves and most of the blood had gone.

  I re-entered JB’s and couldn’t read the expression on Joe’s face.

  If he knew I hadn’t gone out for a cigarette, he didn’t mention it.

  ‘I’ll be back in again before I go,’ I said, slinging my bags over my shoulder.

  ‘Be safe, Ron.’

  ‘I’m safe as houses.’

  I stood in the doorway – Have a significant day! – and let the rain hit me for a moment before hailing another cab. I was so glad of it. Too much heat brought out the crazy in people.

  *

  ‘Bro, you look sick!’

  I frowned at Eamonn across the dinner table, a vat of pasta and fresh tomato. He hadn’t got on the plane, it transpired. It was probably for the best. I couldn’t imagine Mark babysitting him for an unspecified length of time.

  ‘Do you mean that in a good way or do you mean ill?’

  Eamonn snorted and said, ‘You’re so old.’

  I directed my condescension into a plate of mozzarella and tried to remain zen. There was some brilliant repressed savagery at my fingertips. It was making me feel unstable and out of place at the family table.

  ‘Have you guys heard from Eli?’ I asked.

  Mum said, ‘No. Did everything go well? You look thin.’

  ‘It went OK, we’re not quite done. I need a few days in Staten Island.’

  ‘What do you want with that cesspit?’ Dad chipped in.

  ‘There’s someone there Eli wants to speak to, in a face-to-face way.’

  ‘Can we talk about what’s happening with you two?’

  Eamonn and I glanced at each other and for a moment found a glimmer of solidarity.

  ‘As you know, we think it would be a good idea for Eamonn to be taken under your wing.’

  Simultaneously:

  ‘I don’t want nothing to do with his fucking wings.’

  ‘My wings are fine, thank you.’

  ‘Goddamn it.’

  That was Mum.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to…’ She put a hand to her heart, then her hair. When it had grown back after chemo she developed a nervous tick of checking it was still there. ‘But this isn’t a joke, you know. Your lives aren’t a joke to us. Sometimes I feel like neither of you realize just how precious your lives are.’

  ‘Trust me, no one’s been laughing.’ I looked down at my lap.

  ‘Eamonn, you need to think about what you’re doing.’

  ‘I am thinking—’

  ‘No, I mean think. Not just asking your friends for jobs. Think about what you want to do with your life. You wanted to do things once, didn’t you? Well you have your chance now. If you waste it we might as well not even have you back.’

  I made an awkward creep across the table with my right hand, going for more pasta.

  Dad glared at me and I retracted it.

  Eamonn seemed deep in thought for once. I didn’t buy it.

  He realized Mum was still watching him for a reply. ‘Yeah… Yeah, Mom, don’t worry. I’m thinking about stuff, I’m just… getting used to being out, that’s all.’

  ‘He needs a routine,’ Dad said.
/>
  ‘I’m not a new fucking puppy,’ Eamonn snapped.

  I muttered, ‘You are a bit though.’

  He pushed his plate away – ‘I’m being excused’ – and left the room.

  Mum stood up as well but I beat her to it. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Ronnie, he needs to understand—’

  ‘Yeah, I get that, but he’s been dealing with prison guards for the last fifteen years. You really think he needs talking down to right now?’ I glanced down at the table, and pointed at the pasta. ‘Save that, I’m not done.’

  It struck me, as I was going upstairs, that I was expecting to see Eamonn’s teenage room. But we didn’t live in that house any more. I didn’t know what they’d done with his stuff. Surely they wouldn’t have been insensitive enough to get rid of it.

  I knocked on his door.

  ‘What?’

  Opening it, I realized his new room looked more like a guest room. It was green and beige. I half-expected to see a towel folded at the end of his bed. The only thing that seemed like his was the Xbox in the corner on top of a chest of drawers, wired up to a small TV.

  Maybe his stuff – his real stuff – was still in the attic.

  ‘You coming in or just wanna take in the view?’

  Eamonn was sitting on the floor, leaning against his bed. He made an expansive gesture with his arms.

  I sat beside him, staring ahead at a white wardrobe.

  ‘Some heavy shit went down with you and Eli, didn’t it.’

  I nodded. ‘We never found that guy.’

  ‘You know Eli’s fucking mental, right?’

  I smiled a little. ‘I think that trip would have sent anyone a bit mental.’

  ‘No really, he’s fucked up.’

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘OK, man. I’m just saying.’

  ‘Why do you have to keep making things so hard?’

  He shrugged. ‘It seems more interesting.’

  ‘Did you ever want to do anything other than get into trouble?’

  ‘Na, not really.’ He made a face. ‘Even at school I didn’t enjoy any lessons, I just wanted to piss everyone off more than anybody else.’

  ‘Everyone has a talent apparently.’

  ‘It was in third grade.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When it started properly. Like, I’ve always been into getting into trouble, but in third grade I had a fight with this kid. I can’t even remember his name now, it’s not important. But we had a fight and he put me through a glass door outside the cafeteria and it smashed.’ An odd little expression of glee came over him. ‘It was the most trouble I’d ever been in. I was sent to the principal’s office and she just didn’t know what to say to me. I was in so much trouble I didn’t even get punished in the end, they never called Mom and Dad. We were just kinda… left alone. That’s when I thought, “OK, this is how you get through life”.’

  ‘What, by being in trouble?’

  ‘No, not just that. That’s not enough. You always have to go bigger than everyone else.’

  ‘I had you worked out young. I always knew that if we were in a fight and you threw a plate at me I had to throw a fucking toaster back. Eventually you’d run out of ways to throw an even bigger tantrum and just shut the fuck up.’

  He laughed. ‘We were such dicks to each other.’

  ‘We are such dicks to each other.’ I sighed. ‘Look, I know you’re coming back to London with me and I’m sorry if I’m making you feel fucking unwelcome about it.’

  ‘I’m basically being kicked out.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But you can come stay with me for a bit if you want. Like, we’ve got a spare room, that’s what it’s there for.’

  ‘Won’t your missus mind?’

  I hesitated. ‘Well, I’ve put up her bloody relatives before, so… And I know people, I can probably get you a bar job or an office job as long as you don’t fuck up everything.’

  ‘Aw, man, that’s like the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’

  ‘Enjoy it. That’s my nice quota fulfilled for the year.’

  My phone vibrated with a text in my pocket and somehow I knew this time it would be Eli. We were connected now, by some psychic call to arms.

  ‘Well, you know, nice talk,’ Eamonn muttered.

  While calling Eli, listening to the line ringing, I passed Dad on his mobile talking to someone in the hallway. He ducked into his study and it wasn’t until later it would even strike me as weird.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Melissa called me again, at night. It might be that she didn’t remember the time difference, but more likely she wanted to catch me slightly off guard. I jerked awake, confused at the sound of my alarm before realizing it wasn’t my alarm and it was four in the morning.

  I’d been having the dream about the birdman again.

  I got my hand on the phone before it rang off.

  ‘I wasn’t entirely honest with you,’ she said, as if we’d never stopped talking.

  ‘I… What?’ I sat up, rubbing my eyes.

  ‘LA wasn’t the last time I heard from Trent.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘… Yes.’

  I tried to stand up, almost fell, found the light and then wished I hadn’t because then I couldn’t fucking see. My eyes scrunched up against glare. She was silent for a moment, giving me time to adjust by way of apology.

  ‘He called me, quite recently. But he wasn’t making much sense. It was quite upsetting actually. Maybe that’s why I didn’t mention it. It was one of those things you just try and forget because it seemed too horrible to be real.’

  ‘Why the change of heart?’

  ‘I don’t know, because you told me you were going to kill him?’

  ‘Yeah but… that hasn’t changed.’

  ‘I know, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed like maybe it was a good idea for someone, you two, to find Trent. Maybe it would be better for him that way.’

  ‘Better than letting him live?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘It didn’t make much sense, he was rambling. He was talking about Titian. He used to say that my hair was like a woman in a Titian painting. When you said he became a Satanist some of the things he was talking about made more sense. He was talking about plagues and something about how he wanted to rid the world of all unwanted things, including himself. He said he didn’t have control of himself, that he was being made to do things. God, it was creepy, you know.’

  I sat on the edge of the bed, then lay down again.

  It struck me that the light under the door might seem odd to anyone who was awake and I went back to flip the switch again, casting me and Melissa’s voice into darkness. It was a turn-on, talking to her like this. I hoped she wouldn’t notice. Or maybe that was her ploy.

  ‘He said the world was full of unwanted children and that God hadn’t helped them. I thought he might have been talking about his niece. He said God was a lie because he left unwanted children to fend for themselves.’

  ‘Did he say where he was?’

  ‘The phone he called from was a payphone in Staten Island. I looked it up because… well, it was worrying. I thought he sounded ill.’

  ‘Where was the payphone?’

  ‘It was in Willowbrook. He said he was there to find where the children were buried.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Where the children were buried.’

  I grimaced. ‘Where the…’

  ‘Children are buried.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I know.’

  We were in silence for a while. There wasn’t much that could have been said. The buried children were enough of an illustration.

  ‘Do you know what he might have meant by that?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe. You know about the missing children in Staten Island that were never found?’

  I couldn’t think of a
nything I wanted to know less about, but I sighed. ‘No.’

  ‘It started off as an urban legend, a serial killer or a bogeyman that abducted children. But then the urban legend became real. Children did go missing. I think only one was found.’

  ‘You think Trent…’

  ‘No, this was decades ago, in the eighties. I think he might have taken an interest in it. It might have been what he was referring to, I don’t know. But if he was talking about buried children and he was in the area…’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Where are you now, London?’

  And she hung up on me.

  I wasn’t tired any more. I felt out of breath. I sat up and opened my laptop, eyes adjusting to the glare.

  Eli had sent me some sort of documentary about the place called Willowbrook. For a second, a mad conspiracy took root in my mind, that he and Melissa had been talking to each other somehow, thinking up a story to send me.

  But obviously not.

  It was easy to become paranoid, in the dark, with strangers calling you.

  Obviously not.

  I searched for Cameron Hopper again and a shiver went up my spine and along my arms, raising the hairs. Cameron Hopper, a well-liked Scottish TV producer based in LA, had been found dead in his home, having committed suicide by slitting his wrists in the bath. Those who knew him were said to be ‘in shock’.

  In shock.

  I thought I’d feel accomplished somehow, but I didn’t. With him gone, with the trail for Cathal cold, they – whoever they were – could come after us now.

  It wasn’t as if the man at the other end of the line had known my name, but that seemed inconsequential. They seemed like the sort of people who would be hooked into satellites, who could lean down to read a newspaper over someone’s shoulder from orbit.

  I copied the article, from some gossip site, and emailed it to Eli.

  Then I got back under the duvet to watch the documentary he had sent to me.

  Between that and the image of Cameron Hopper, suicided in his home, I didn’t get any more sleep that night.

  *

  The Staten Island ferry remained one of the ugliest fucking things I’d ever seen. Fittingly, it resembled a large and unwieldy piece of litter. I suppose they’d picked the colour orange because they’d wanted it to look inviting and jolly. But it looked like toxic waste. A floating crisp packet.

 

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