Chiral Mad 3

by Stephen King

  “Vernon Henshall, yes.” Although she’s wearing a subdued grey suit, he wonders nervously if she could be with the police. “What’s the matter?” he demands.

  “Please don’t be alarmed, Mr Henshall. I’m from social services. I was asked to look in on you in case you might like our help.”

  Once he finds words it won’t be impolite to utter he says “Who asked you?”

  “We don’t give out names, Mr Henshall. Just a client of one of our agencies.”

  Vernon finds he hardly needs to ask “Would that be Billy Meredith?”

  “As I said, we aren’t at liberty to say.” Her face does, however. “I believe you met recently,” she says. “He was concerned about your behaviour. I understand you were talking—”

  “That’s what we do. No reason it should bother anybody else.” As the woman makes to speak Vernon says “It’s people such as Meredith who need your help, not us.”

  “Mr Henshall, if I could just—”

  “Thank you, but you can’t,” Vernon says and shuts the door.

  “We don’t need anyone else, do we?” he murmurs, but Audrey isn’t answering just yet. He listens at the door until he’s sure the woman has left them alone, and then he wanders into the kitchen. He’ll put away the ingredients once he has found Audrey, and it’s still his turn to make dinner. He should remember to put the car away as well, though he doesn’t need to recall which insurance let him buy it. He knows where Audrey has to be, soon if not now. He finds the remote control in the front room and locates his chair by the light of another programme about mathematics. Even if the numbers are beyond his understanding, they always bring her back. “I add,” he repeats in case this helps, and strives not to think it’s fending off the word he mustn’t let into his mind. “I add.”

  ARBITRATION

  ROSE BLACKTHORN

  in the darkness

  so beguiling

  nearly hidden from my sight

  something’s waiting

  holding breathless

  out of reach

  I can feel it

  like a heartbeat

  from a million miles away

  I want it

  but I fear

  its eyes to meet

  so I wait here,

  undecided

  on the cusp of agony

  counting seconds

  each an eon

  in a dream

  will it move now?

  or just fade

  into the dark where it resides

  like a nightmare

  never wakened

  to a scream

  at an impasse

  a dilemma

  at that point of no return

  shall I fight?

  or just take flight

  lost, by design

  this is it

  that crucial moment

  from which all future paths diverge

  take a breath

  decision made

  and it’s mine

  not the other

  my reflection

  doppelganger in the glass

  a ghost, a shadow

  in a past

  now left behind

  3-DOT PEOPLE

  GENE O’NEILL

  EVERYTHING was a complete blank before last night.

  Ms. Jilly, my social worker, had picked me up late Friday night at the police station on Eddy Street in the Tenderloin. The police had found me standing befuddled in the thick fog in a parking lot across the street from The Mitchell Brothers on O’Farrell near Van Ness, the most notorious erotic dancing club in San Francisco. I had no identification and didn’t know my name or how I got there. But, fortunately for me, after taking me back to the police station they called Adult Social Services.

  Ms. Jilly signed me out, took me over to the nearby All-Star Donuts, bought me a cup of coffee and a pair of huge glazed apple fritters. As I was eating, she explained the situation from her point of view.

  “Okay, I have given you a name in my reports, not the usual John Doe, but something solid and not too flashy. Phil … Phil Shepherd. That’s what I’m going to call you until we know your real name,” she said. “You are most likely suffering from amnesia, which is usually caused by physical or psychological trauma. Since the police found no evidence of any physical trauma, we’ll assume you’ve suffered some kind of disturbing psychological event. Also you hadn’t committed any crime. So we are lucky that they called me instead of just turning you back out onto the street.”

  I nodded my understanding but kept on eating, starving.

  “Strange as it may seem, there have been a number of similar amnesia cases surfacing over the last few years here in San Francisco—four in the previous six months. These most recent cases all occurred right here in the Tenderloin. The City Public Health Service folks think these four cases were probably the result of some kind of new exotic narcotic available on the street. But there’s been no determination of the drug’s chemical profile as yet. And anyhow you don’t look like a typical illegal drug user, Phil …”

  She paused and I looked up from my partially devoured second fritter into her unwavering almond-shaped eyes—the unusual dark-brown shade of mahogany wood. Together with her exceptional height and no-nonsense expression, the piercing dark gaze made her a formidable female presence. Despite not asking me a question, she seemed to be expecting some kind of response from me, but my mouth was full. Finally, I took a sip of coffee, swallowed, and said: “I honestly don’t really recall anything, including recently taking any drugs. But my intuitive sense is that I’m not now nor have ever been an illegal drug user.”

  She smiled wryly and nodded, as if I’d confirmed what she already suspected, and continued: “I’ve been the case worker assigned to the last four others like you, who were all suffering from a complete memory blank when I first met them. The good news is that they began to recover their memories after getting some rest and special help. So, I’m convinced we can recover your memory loss and soon.”

  The last big bite of apple fritter stuck in my throat. I tried to wash it down with a large swallow of the bitter coffee. But I ended up just coughing it partially up into my napkin, unable to ask what she meant by special help and exactly how soon.

  Ms. Jilly watched me blotting the tears in my eyes, and then asked: “You want another one?”

  “No thanks,” I finally said, actually still famished, which was probably a good thing—kept me from focusing too squarely on my unnerving situation. But, right now I was most curious about what was going to happen to me next.

  “Okay, if you are finished eating, let’s get you a room for the weekend,” she said, standing up, stretching her, at least, six-foot frame. She was dressed casually in a dark green sweat suit with USF block letters in white across the front of the shirt, explaining that she’d responded to the cops’ late night call from Fit & Toned, a 24-hour workout gym in her Marina neighborhood. She said that we were now headed for the nearby Hotel Reo.

  Ms. Jilly explained on the way over, almost apologetically: “This hotel always has rooms available and is very accessible to public transportation and medical services. So we have prior-approved vouchers for it from my department. I know this surrounding area looks … well, a bit run down, ragged, and tired, but that’s just typical Tenderloin.” She shrugged and we continued the next two blocks, passing by a number of street people. Ms. Jilly characterized most of them, not really unkindly, by the state of their eyes, as being dead-eyed bums, rheumy-eyed drunks, pin-eyed junkies, shifty-eyed beggars, or mascara-eyed hookers. But in an obviously more judgmental tone, she described a number of the young men hanging out in front of Jimbo’s, a corner liquor store, as sharp-eyed thugs. Although I was tall and fairly husky, I knew that it was Ms. Jilly’s no-nonsense appearance and confident attitude that gained us safe passage through the crowded sidewalks.

  We made it almost to the steps in front of the Hotel Reo relatively unscathed; but at that point we ex
perienced a brief verbal skirmish with an inebriated man hoping to make a drug sale. He blocked our way, hands up in the wait-a-minute gesture, and declared hoarsely: “Ya lookin? I’m holdin, I’m holdin.”

  The unkempt guy turned and obediently shuffled off after Ms. Jilly answered crossly: “No, man, we are not looking for what you are selling, you hear me.”

  The outside of the two-story Hotel Reo fit in with the surrounding seedy look of the Tenderloin, because it was in bad need of some maintenance repair and fresh paint.

  A few moments later, we were standing on a worn-thin carpet in the shabby lobby, staring at the equally worn-thin desk clerk behind a heavily barred security cage. I then realized that earlier, what Ms. Jilly really meant to say was inexpensive vouchers from her department. This place was not a very classy establishment.

  She signed a voucher for the desk clerk and said: “Ferdy, this is Phil Shepherd, he’ll be staying here over the weekend. Take care of him. But do me a favor and keep the girls from hustling him, he’s not a john.” She chuckled dryly, peering at the desk clerk inside the steel screen.

  Ferdy, with an unfiltered cigarette dangling from his lower lip, nodded and pushed a room key to me under the narrow opening at the bottom of the security cage. He didn’t crack a smile at Ms. Jilly’s apparent attempt at a joke or appear the least bit curious about me. But I couldn’t help wondering exactly what Ms. Jilly meant by her facetious girl warning that seemed to be a bit out of character. I soon found out when she paused a moment later at the lobby stairwell, before walking me up to my room.

  “The hookers bring their customers that they call johns here from the street to this first floor. The Hotel Reo rents these street level rooms by the hour to lots of fake names, including John Does. This is known locally as a hot sheet operation, and it will be very busy and noisy down here tonight and again Saturday night, too. Don’t get involved in any of these extracurricular shenanigans, understand? You need to be focused fully on staying relaxed and recovering your past without any emotional involvement with … ah, street people. Okay?”

  Of course I understood, realizing these kinds of street people required money for their special services. I had none. But I said nothing, quietly following her up the stairs to my room—210, second door on the right. I opened the door with my key. It was a plain undecorated square room, no amenities other than an unscreened sink, small mirror, and toilet bowl in one corner and an un-curtained, open window overlooking the street below. Surprisingly, the entire room and facilities were actually neat and clean.

  But Ms. Jilly paused a moment, and frowned as she gazed out the opened window. Even this late, loud street sounds were flooding into the room—sirens whining, cars braking, people laughing, country music blaring from a nearby bar, and a woman’s voice shrieking hysterically from somewhere close.

  She pulled down the window, partially screening out some of the noise.

  “You might want to venture out in the Tenderloin by yourself only during daylight hours. Avoid unnecessary contact with local denizens. They can be a predatory bunch, and there are more than a few, who will take advantage after sensing a person’s weakness … like your temporary loss of memory. Here, these are vouchers for six meals at The Casual Corner up on Post Street across Geary, three blocks in that general direction. It’s not fancy, but the food is good.” She looked around once more, then added: “Except for meals, you’ll really be better off just staying right here in your room for the weekend. Get some rest because it is important in the recovery process. I’ll be back about seven-thirty Monday morning to see how you’re doing. We’ll decide our next move then.”

  I smiled with an expression Ms. Jilly apparently found dismissive of her advice. She must’ve realized that, even being disabled with no past, my intention was not to stay cooped up in this tiny room for two days and three nights.

  Ms. Jilly reinforced my sense of her perceptiveness and chuckled dryly. “Okay, Phil, just be careful out there. You’re going to meet some odd people in the ’Loin even during the daytime. Maybe even some of your neighbors here on this floor of the hotel will seem weird. But that is a pretty common impression and to be expected in this part of the City …”

  She peered into my eyes and said: “You okay, not too overwhelmed having your past blanked out? You appear calm.”

  “I’ll be okay, Ms. Jilly. Of course I’m a bit nervous and unsettled, but I’m confident that you will help me recover my memory. Thank you for everything. I’ll see you Monday morning. Sorry to have interrupted your weekend.”

  She hesitated another moment, glanced again at the closed window, and then, still looking a touch reluctant, finally left.

  Saturday morning I awakened early, got up, and stretched. I washed up in the tiny stained sink basin. Then, I stepped out into the hall and bumped into my neighbor from directly across the narrow hallway, coming out of room 209.

  She was an attractive, dark-eyed woman with her hair dyed kind of an electric pink, resembling some of the other extreme hair colors I’d noticed worn by some young women on the street the previous night. And she was dressed in a contrasting black and white neat uniform.

  “Well, hello, Big Fella,” she said, which she probably meant to be funny and not flirtatious, because she was almost as tall as me—over six-foot. “I’m Flo-jo. You are probably … John?”

  I told her my name was Phil.

  “That’s funny, there was a steady stream of johns on the first floor last night when I came home from work … I suspect they are all gone by now.”

  I smiled, not mentioning that was the second time I had been recently involved in a kind of john joke.

  “I’m going out for breakfast before work. You want to eat somewhere together, Phil?”

  I said: “Sure, but I have no money, only a voucher to eat up at The Casual Corner—”

  “Great place, we’ll go Dutch.”

  I couldn’t help being intrigued by this joyful and friendly young woman with the bizarre neon-pink hair.

  We walked in the early morning fog still blowing in from the Bay over to The Casual Corner on Post Street, which was really busy, even this early on a Saturday morning. There were a number of folks eating before going to work, many dressed in conservative uniforms similar to Flo-jo’s. She said that she worked up at a hotel on Van Ness in housekeeping. She was a very recent arrival in the City, looking for something a bit better on her days off, but happy for her housekeeping opportunity right now. She was staying at the Hotel Reo and saving her money.

  After I finished a huge stack of hotcakes with scrambled eggs and bacon, I offered to walk her up to her place of work.

  Just before we turned the corner on Van Ness, an unkempt, surly guy challenged me aggressively, his sour smell strong and very offensive. With clabbered spit flying from the corners of his mouth, he also invaded my space, shouting: “Hey, man, I need a couple of bucks to take the edge off. Ya holdin any extra bread?”

  I stepped back, shrugged, and held out my empty hands. “Sorry, I don’t have any money at all.”

  His unshaved face quickly reddened into an angry, fierce scowl, and he sputtered incoherently something about fucking rich guys, while slipping a small item from his greasy overcoat pocket.

  It was a straight razor that he flipped open … and in a smooth follow-up movement he began a horizontal slashing motion like a sword in the direction of my face—

  Flo-jo deftly snatched the razor from the man’s grubby hand in mid-flight, as if she were plucking a flying bee from the air over a blossom in a nearby flower box.

  “Hey—”

  She followed up with what appeared to be a light slap to the man’s right temple.

  Down he went, still sputtering, to a knee, clutching at his head as if felled by an axe handle instead of a woman’s open hand. Then, still sporting a generous smile, my tall companion reached out and ever so gently touched his forehead with two fingers—

  The man collapsed into an unconscious heap.


  “He’ll be fine when he wakes up,” Flo-jo said, in her relaxed, easy tone. “But maybe you should get rid of this for him. So he doesn’t harm anyone else or perhaps himself.”

  She was holding out her right hand, palm up, with the straight razor folded back up safely.

  I was too stunned by the rapid sequence of events to say anything. I reached out for the razor, but before I took it from her hand, I glimpsed the odd tattoo centered in her right palm. It was three indigo dots in the shape of a tiny triangle. So small it would have been easy to miss if I hadn’t been staring at the offered straight razor.

  Before I’d recovered my speech, she advised: “We have to hurry now, Phil, I can’t be late for work. I only started a month ago.”

  A few moments later we were at the employees’ entrance of the Holiday Inn on Van Ness, her place of work. I had just a few moments to thank her for saving me from having my face slashed … and noted my awe and admiration for her almost magical handling of the big aggressive man.

  She shrugged nonchalantly, smiled sweetly and said: “You’re welcome, Phil. Maybe I’ll see you later tonight?”

  After that I wandered about the Tenderloin, with nothing special in mind. As Ms. Jilly had recommended, I was indeed more careful now, avoiding all possible confrontations, not even making eye contact with anyone. Just roaming about for a couple of hours and observing at a distance, waiting for lunchtime. I seemed to be perpetually hungry, my stomach a constantly growling reminder. Kept me from being able to dwell too long on the fact that I still hadn’t recovered even a hint of my past.

  I pulled up my collar against the lingering, cold summer fog as I passed a number of grim-faced and bundled-up folks loitering at another corner mart. And I remembered Ms. Jilly last night generally describing these resident people here in the ’Loin as: The lost, the forgotten, and the never known. An expression that seemed really damning now in broad daylight. I kept wandering in kind of a squared circle, eventually making my way on Jones Street over back toward Geary, but stopping and glancing curiously in the storefront window of a place of business with an oddly spelled name: U-do-it Laundromat.