by Julie Frayn
She switched the knife to her left and stabbed him until her body ached. Without the energy for another thrust, her arms went limp. The knife hit the pavement and sent a spark into the air. Her head rolled back. She let out a long wail, wrapped her arms around herself and crumpled to the asphalt. Her body undulated with relief and rage, guilt and grief.
Sirens keened in the distance. Billie’s heartbeat accelerated as they neared. She backed into the shadows and scurried behind a stack of oil drums. He was right. Cops would be all over the place.
She held her breath until the screaming cars sped away, probably blocks from the dock, and dissipated in the darkness. She let the air out of her lungs and snorted a small laugh from her nose. Like the cops gave a damn about this place. About Art Douglas.
Billie wiped the tears from her cheeks, leaving smears of greasy blood in their wake. She lifted her hands into the moonlight and stared at the evidence all over them. All over her.
“Come on, Billie. Time to move.”
She got to her feet and approached the dead woman on the crates. Billie studied her face, the dark brows in contrast to the hair dyed platinum, cropped short, and spiked with gel. The woman smelled of sex and smoke and hopelessness. And this would be her final resting place.
Billie pocketed the knife and retrieved the gun. By the light of the moon, she scrounged for bullet casings, counting each as she snatched them up. How many times had she pulled the trigger? She closed her eyes and rewound the night.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Her shoulders tensed with the memory of each shot. Three shots. She opened her palm. Three casings.
She grabbed Arthur Richard Douglas by his evil clown feet and dragged him to the edge of the dock.
Billie sat on an upturned wooden crate and slid the knife in and out of Douglas’s body. His flesh put up little resistance.
Dead men don’t fight.
She ran her fingers over the bars of her gold crucifix and stared across the wide expanse of river at the lights of downtown Grantham. The strains of an old Adam Ant song rang in her ears.
Goody two-shoes, my ass.
Bullets. She had to get back those bullets or the cops might be able to tie his murder back to Bruce. She stripped off Douglas’s bloody shirt and found one bullet hole among the stab wounds. The blade of Douglas’s own knife slid inside his dead flesh. She shoved her gloved fingers in the hole and dug around until she felt the bullet. She held it up to the moonlight. It looked like a brass banana, peeled and exposed, with a Claymation mushroom for bloody flesh. She dug out the other two and dropped them into her pocket, along with the gun.
She rummaged around the area for rocks and anything heavy that would sink Douglas in the brown ooze.
Half an hour later, she’d filled his clothing with rocks and bound him in rope to secure the weights. She raised his knife into the air and stabbed the blade into his chest.
She slid Douglas off the edge of the dock. His life, abundant with evil and notoriety, ended without fanfare. With zero splash. He slipped into the water without so much as a slosh.
“It’s over.” She looked up into the face of the moon and raised both arms. “I did it, God,” she yelled at the sky. “Justice delivered. An eye for an eye. My father’s life for his. If I could kill him again, for my mother, I would.”
Her mouth filled with saliva and her guts revolted. She dropped to her knees and leaned over the roiling water. Vomit hurled from her mouth. She gagged and puked, tears running down her cheeks and mixing with her dinner and the dirty grave water of the man whose murderous actions had ruled her life.
She kneeled at the altar of Arthur Richard Douglas’s death and prayed to God for forgiveness. For understanding. And she prayed that Douglas would burn in hell where he belonged, for all eternity.
The following Monday
BILLIE WAS SO HIGH on life, she nearly skipped toward Tony’s regular spot. News of the demise of Art Douglas was tingling on her lips. It was all she could do not to brag about it to every sidewalk robot who passed by. But there was only one person who needed to know. Then Tony could relax and live out the rest of his short life without worrying that his former partner in crime would seek him out and shove a knife in his gut.
She neared the stoop of the Dilly Deli, her step light, her mood lighter. It was an elation she hadn’t felt since … well, since never. It was better than meeting Bruce, better than saving Jeffrey, even better than getting Bat Head behind bars. Hell, it was better than sex. And that was pretty damn amazing.
But the closer she got to Tony, the darker her vision became. His spot was empty. No rumpled heap of homeless man. No cup jingling with coins. No fuck you, fuck you very much.
She stood where he sat and scoured the sidewalk, eyed across the street past the boobs-and-booze ad and along the edges of the buildings. He was nowhere, the only sign of him a dried up chunk of apple fritter being picked apart by pigeons.
An ache hollowed her gut. She shook it off. Perhaps he’d had enough of the same crowd and moved on. Found some more fertile sidewalks to troll. But damn, he hadn’t even said goodbye. No, something was wrong.
She picked up her pace and hurried to the office. Three phone calls and six transfers later, Tony’s parole officer’s phone rang and rang.
“Jamison.”
“Good morning, Mr. Jamison.”
“Ms. Jamison.”
Billie held the receiver from her ear and stared at it for the blink of an eye. The deep bass on the other end did not sound female. “Sorry. Ms. Jamison. My name is Billie Fullalove.”
“No shit? As in Wilhelmina, the little girl in the alley way back in ninety-three?”
“So Tony talked to you about me?”
“Lady, what happened back then ate that man alive. I’m guessing that’s where his cancer came from. Stress and remorse. If that’s possible.”
Billie nodded to herself. Maybe it was possible. “He wasn’t in his usual place today. I just wondered if you knew where he might be.”
“Last we talked, he told me about your visits. He seemed happy for the first time in years.” Paper shuffled on the other end of the line. “Let me make a few calls. What’s your number?”
Billie reeled off the digits of her work and cell phone numbers and ended the call. She leaned back and ran a hand through her hair. She fluffed her tresses and clicked open her latest manuscript.
Every few minutes, she glanced at the clock, clicked the lock on her phone to be sure she hadn’t missed any calls. An hour later, she paced in front of the window, her arms crossed, her mind anywhere but on the work. “Damn it, how long do a few phone calls take?”
Her chair creaked and bounced when she flopped into it. She slouched in the seat and dragged her mouse around, clicking between the manuscript and an empty Google page. She jumped at the ring of her phone and snatched the received up without checking caller I.D. “Ms. Jamison?”
“Uh, helloooo. It’s twelve-ten. You were supposed to meet me in the lobby. Lunch, remember?”
“Oh, Jeffrey. I’m so sorry.” She became aware of the rumble in her stomach. “I’ll be right there. Can we walk up to Dilly? I don’t want a pre-wrapped soggy sandwich from the coffee chick.” And she could spy on Tony’s spot and see if he’d shown up.
“Sounds good to me. I could use a big fat pickle.”
“Jeffrey, no penis jokes about food, please? Now I can’t have a pickle.”
“You get pickled at least four times a week. Lucky bitch.”
He was crude, but she couldn’t help but giggle. “I’m coming.”
“Oooh.”
“You know what I mean. Give me five.”
Billie yanked the bottom drawer of her desk open and pulled out a cosmetics bag. She tugged a brush through her hair and checked her face, tossed the bag back, and slammed the drawer shut. She ran to the hall and jabbed the down button for the elevator four times in quick succession, like that would make it arrive any faster.
In the lobby, she burst free
from the elevator and ran-walked across the marble floor, polished to a mirror sheen, to meet Jeffrey at the door. She entwined her arm with his and they exited into a bright and sunny Indian summer day. It was Billie’s favourite time of year. Past the heat of August, the leaves just beginning to turn, but not yet threatening to plunge from the trees to their death on the ground below. And before the God-awful snow hit. Running was easy. Navigating icy walks with one leg that had a delayed reaction to slipping was treacherous at best.
They walked with their heads together, catching up on office gossip.
“And he dumped the bitch, just because her Fendi was a knock-off and her Holt Renfrew suit was a Value Village hand-me-down. Serves the bitch right.”
“Come on, Jeffrey, that’s not fair. Katherine is definitely the bitch of the century, but that guy sounds like a horrible snob. She deserves better.”
“Whatever you say, Saint Billie.”
They wended their way through the gauntlet of lunchtime pedestrians. Near Tony’s regular spot, Billie slowed and eyed the empty sidewalk.
Jeffrey tugged her along, in a rush for a fat slab of meat and salty pickles.
They placed their sandwich orders and slid along the cafeteria-style line with their retro brown plastic trays that had seen better days. Billie opted for a bottle of sweet iced tea, a brownie for dessert, and, damn it all to hell, a big fat dill pickle to cut the cholesterol-and carbohydrate-laden Reuben on rye.
She slid into one side of a booth for two, Jeffrey facing her. She picked up her pickle and hesitated. “Look away, Jeffrey.”
“Why?”
“If you watch me shove this pickle in my mouth, I’ll probably spew pickle juice in your face.”
Jeffrey fanned himself with one hand. “Don’t tease me.”
Billie giggled. She’d let the hatred of that titter go and had come to enjoy it. A spontaneous expression of joy and hilarity, embarrassment and anxiousness, all rolled into one bubble of girly laughter. A sound she used to make with regularity before nineteen ninety-three ruined her life.
Her phone vibrated against the cool stainless of the tabletop. She poked the screen and the number of Tony’s parole officer stared back at her. She pressed the icon and fumbled to get the phone to her ear, her fingers quaking with anticipation. “Hello? Ms. Jamison?”
“Hi, Billie. I’ve got some news.”
Billie closed her eyes. Ms. Jamison told her of Tony’s fate. How he’d spent weekends in a nearby shelter because there wasn’t enough foot traffic downtown to bother begging.
“He spiked a fever Saturday afternoon. They called an ambulance and got him to the hospital, but it was too late. He died late Saturday night.”
Billie rubbed her eyelids with her fingertips. Saturday night. “What time?”
“I’m not sure. Is that important?”
“No, just curious.” Perhaps Tony was finally able to rest once Art Douglas’s evil presence was erased from this earth. “What about his funeral?”
There was a long pause on the other end. “Billie, there won’t be a funeral. He has no family, no one to mourn him. And, frankly, no one to pay the bill. He’ll be cremated and buried in an anonymous grave outside the city. They do write his name in the cemetery ledger, though.”
“No.” Billie shook her head. “How do I claim the body? I want to give him a proper burial.”
“I’ll find that out and let you know.” Ms. Jamison breathed into the phone a few breaths. “Billie, I just have to say, you’re the oddest victim I’ve ever run into.”
“The woman’s body has been sent home to Calgary. Funeral services will be announced.” Bruce slid the newspaper to Billie and handed her a red pen. “When are they going to catch this bastard? Shit, this one wasn’t even a hooker. Just a screwed up kid with less-than-perfect parents and a yen for adventure.”
Billie swiped a tear from her cheek. If she’d acted quicker, not spent so much time planning, maybe that girl would still be alive. She just couldn’t leave her out there to rot like the fish. One mumbled emergency call from a lone payphone on a dark street corner brought the cops to the hellhole on the dock. Billie was long gone before their flashing lights bathed the dock in red and blue.
“Hey, you’re taking this pretty hard.” Bruce slid off his stool and stood behind Billie, massaged the tension from her shoulders. Or at least, he tried to. “I know it was the same guy that killed your parents, but this isn’t your fault. You know that, right?”
She rewound the article in her head. Art Douglas’s fingerprints and DNA all over the dead girl’s body. His blood all over the dock. Evidence of other murders the cops were matching up with missing persons. All-points bulletin, warrant for his arrest, and BOLOs across the country.
What a waste of effort. But he’d surface one day. Billie didn’t tie good knots.
“Hey, Sunshine.” Bruce kissed her cheek. “Not your fault.” He spun her stool and held her shoulders. His eyes implored hers. “Right?”
She didn’t say a word. Just stared at him and let tears pool in her eyes.
He sighed. “You know, I’m feeling a lot less like Robin, and more like Lucius Fox.”
She reached up and touched his cheek, ran her thumb along the wisp of a scar under his eye, and smiled.
He closed his eyes and kissed her palm.
She wiped her cheeks dry and dragged the newspaper closer. Her eyes wandered to the pencil cup filled with red pens. “Maybe we can’t fix everything. But we sure can fix some things.”
Or at least, she could.
She flipped the pages and scanned the crime section, snatched a red pen from the cup and jabbed it into the newspaper. “This one. Let’s edit this one.”
Tuesday, September 29th
BILLIE SAT IN THE hole on the sidewalk left in Tony’s wake. She rested a paper cup filled with daffodils on the pavement in front of her crossed legs and pulled a bag from her purse. She tore pieces of fried dough from an apple fritter and tossed them at a crowd of pigeons a few feet away.
The birds raced each other for the offering, pecked at the chunks of sweet pastry, and bobbed their cooing heads. Pedestrians shuffled by, disturbing the birds’ feast and sending the feathered rodents scattering across the sidewalk just long enough to turn right around and continue pecking at crumbs once the coast was clear.
Billie lifted the small bouquet from the cup and brought the canary blooms to her nose. She’d wanted the flowers to mean something. To be more than just an empty gesture. Google to the rescue again. She spent more time worshipping the Google gods than her own God of late. Daffodils meant beginning anew and leaving the past behind. They were the perfect choice, not only for Tony, but for her, too.
Passersby absent-mindedly dropped coins into the empty cup. They didn’t look at Billie, didn’t notice her clean, pressed clothes, her tidy hair, her fresh-washed scent. Sitting on the periphery of their lives, she became part of the landscape in an instant. Their anonymous donations were their penance, their Hail Marys, forgiveness for their perceived sins.
She tossed the last bits of fritter to the birds, spread the flowers over Tony’s empty spot, and pocketed three dollars and eighty-two cents in coins — pennies? Seriously? They don’t even mint those anymore — to be given to the first homeless person she met.
First Saturday in October
A BREEZE RIPPLED THROUGH the limbs of the giant elm, sending a few bright yellow leaves to their final resting place atop Tony Dickinson’s shining oak casket. Billie stood under the tree’s shade, her head bowed in prayer and respect.
“Amen.” The street minister, a regular at the shelter where Tony spent his weekends, raised his head and looked to the skies. “Tony went through his rough times. He did some bad things in his day. But he paid the price that the courts demanded. He did his time, not one day less. And we ask God to consider that to be good enough. To welcome him with open arms.”
Each of the mourners, a small crowd of Tony’s homeless brethren, two shel
ter volunteers, and Ms. Jamison, his parole officer, took turns tossing a handful of dirt onto the lid of his coffin. Tears glistened on Ms. Jamison’s cheeks when she passed by. She placed one hand on Billie’s shoulder and nodded. “Tony would have loved this. Thank you.”
Billie waited for the others to shuffle away before she kneeled in front of the grave. She dug her fingers into the dirt pile and squished the soil into her palm. She closed her eyes and opened her fist one finger at time. Clods of dirt knocked on the lid of Tony’s casket.
Billie prayed for his soul to be saved. For God to accept him into heaven. She had forgiven him his sins against her. Against her family. Would God forgive the rest?
She stood and stared at Tony’s final resting place for a few minutes, then sprinkled the coffin with five daffodils. One for her mother. One for her father. One for her grandmother, who never recovered from the loss of her son. One for Billie. And one for Tony.
None for Art Douglas. He could burn in hell.
She leaned into Bruce’s body. He’d been within inches of her the entire service, his hand on the small of her back or at her waist, a gentle reminder of his presence. His support. His love. She looked up at him. “I’m ready.”
He nodded. “Are you hungry? Maybe a submarine in Tony’s honour.”
Her stomach grumbled in protest.
“Can we have pie?”
Thank you for taking the time to read Goody One Shoe. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.
Acknowledgements
I ACKNOWLEDGE MY CHILDREN. I have to, the courts said so. Kidding! My kids are everything. Without Baby Girl and Baby Boy, I would be one miserable dude.