Disposable Souls

by Phonse Jessome

  Chapter 8

  March 2006, southwest of Peshawar, Pakistan

  I woke with rags wrapped around my head and eyes. They were stuck in a gash on the back of my head where an AK shell found flesh. It was dry and hard. I must have been out for days. Hurt like hell pulling the rags off. My eyes adjusted to the light as I looked around a small village. Five buildings surrounded a fire pit. A brook ran through from somewhere above. Couldn’t see anything beyond that.

  I was chained to a rock. The shackles on my wrists and ankles were old and rusty. Dried blood showed around the metal. I pulled. They held. A couple of bearded Osama-looking assholes watched me from across the courtyard. One started yelling. That’s when the first beating came.

  A pack of kids—the oldest maybe sixteen—came at me with knotted ropes. Thick ropes, thicker than the forearms on most of the kids. A rope doesn’t sound like much of a weapon. Soaked in liquid and swung with the enthusiasm of youth, a knotted rope can rip you to bits. A dozen can make you lose your mind. I struggled to my feet, pulling on the chains, but those ropes kept coming. I lunged at the little bastards and fell again.

  I fought pro as a cage fighter and won more than I lost. I wanted in this fight so bad tears of rage blinded me. Not being able to hit back hurt more than the ropes. My face pressed into the dirt; mud formed from the spit and tears as I struggled to get back up. I watched a small sandalled foot slide as its owner fought for leverage on the rope. Must have found it, because after that I was out again.

  The beatings were a daily thing. Some days they were really bad, like pray-for-death bad. Other days the kids just weren’t into the work. I still went down and sucked dirt, so they’d feel the win and leave me alone.

  Couple of months into it, a new boss arrived. He spoke a little English. Told me they were trading me to another tribe. That didn’t sound good to me. By then I knew the kids weren’t going to kill me. I still figured our side would find me and kill everyone in the village. I was looking forward to that. It was all I had. Then, he told me something I liked even less. I was in Pakistan, not Afghanistan. No way the troops were crossing that border to save some Canadian sniper. I was on the wrong side of a line. The old guy pulled Ronald’s crucifix from a satchel he carried and placed it around my neck.

  “Is important to believe. You are wrong, an infidel. But still, you must believe something, yes?” He pushed the cross down inside what was left of my ghillie and ordered the next beating.

  That night I found something to believe in: rage. I was anchored to a rock by two rusted eyebolts. One for my wrist chains. The other for the ankles. The jerking and tugging as I rolled around under the rain of ropes every day had left a little play in the two eyes. I watched two young guards sleeping near the fire. I ignored the pain as I twisted my chains around my wrists and pulled. Slowly, I felt the first eyebolt give. The guards didn’t stir. I freed the top bolt after maybe two hours of work. I could smell the rust, or maybe it was the blood pouring from beneath the shackles. The ankle bolt took longer because the blood made the links slip in my hands. A hint of pale blue showed on the distant horizon when it finally let go.

  I was free. I had to disappear, fast. First, I needed water and a gun. I moved toward the fire. The chains rattled, and my steps were awkward. Blood pounded my eardrums. The guards were kids, but they were also the enemy, my torturers. They were sleeping together for warmth, guns to the side. I knelt slowly beside them. I grabbed the eyebolt still attached to my chains. I drove it into the skull of the bigger kid. The second kid tried to get up. I wrapped the chains around his neck and pulled tight. His struggle pulled the rusty spike free from his partner’s head. He was stronger, but hate fed my weakened muscles. After his final kick, I sat beside the bodies, gulping air. I thought I heard Ronald tell me to keep moving. I touched the crucifix through the rags.

  I filled two water skins from the brook, picked up the guards’ AKs, and headed out of the village, dragging my chains.

  Friday, sunset

  Sweat dripped from my hair and plastered the T-shirt to my body as I tried to push away the memories. It was a long-sleeved T. I don’t like to look at the scars any more than I want anyone else looking at them. I was standing in my garage, trying to suck in as much air as my lungs would hold. I drained a water bottle as I watched the second hand on the Harley-Davidson wall clock. Fast recovery had won me more pro fights than fast fists or feet. Wind is critical in the cage. You gas out, you get knocked out. I train to bring my breathing and heart rate back into the normal range in one minute. I don’t get to fight enough anymore, but I try to stay in competition shape. The last time I traded fists with someone, I was still in uniform, and he was dead drunk. It didn’t take a minute to recover.

  The garage is my escape. I work my body and clear my mind. After Glenda’s death, I converted her side into a gym with a small sparring ring, heavy bag, universal weight machine, and an open space to run through martial arts patterns. I spend a lot of my time in the garage. There is still too much of her in the house. Glenda died while I was chained up in a shithole. She spent two days dead in our bed before her friends called police to say she was missing; a couple of uniforms came by and busted the door on a well-being check. I’d been on a few of those and knew what it was like to find a person after two days. I couldn’t shake that image of my wife. It was natural causes. Fast, the doctors said. Bad heart finally quit. None of that helped. I’d known her heart was bad. She was born with it. Still, the big hero shipped off to Trashcanistan to play hired gun. I should have stayed with her.

  The workout helped me to shake off the memories of Pakistan and Glenda. Unfortunately, they were replaced by the brand new tableau of Thelma Waters. She would not release her grip no matter how hard I pushed my body. The pictures clashed: Thelma in that spotless kitchen, and then on the ground with her throat hacked open. I felt angry and powerless. The anger was fuel, and I wanted to keep it. But anger without action is just stress, and Inspector MacIntosh was keeping me out of the action. Sending me on the Stallion run was just his way of benching me. Snake would let me see the surveillance tape, or he wouldn’t. He’d decide what was best for the club, and my riding around with him for the day wouldn’t change that. I wandered over to the heavy bag and fired a low left that lifted it on its chain. I stepped back and threw my left leg out, catching the bag high. Liver shot, head shot. Enough to end most fights. I pulled the gloves from my hands and placed them on top of the bag. The workout was over.

  I replayed the afternoon briefing in my mind as I towelled off. Inspector MacIntosh gave all the key assignments to RCMP members of the task force. The HRP members knew he wanted a Mountie bust. That kind of bullshit still happens. We just work around it. What he’d done with me was different. He’d singled me out, told the room he’d deal with me following the briefing. His tone said everything. I knew it had nothing to do with some lawyer I’d pissed off in the park. A lot of cops resent my badge, but I’d never worked directly under one who was so open about it. Ordering me to ride with the club was his way of making it clear where he felt I belonged, and not just on this assignment.

  I pushed a button on the wall beside the light switch. The overhead electric motor groaned as it pulled the door on my side of the garage up. It’s still my side and her side, always will be, I guess. The western sky was a soft blue, the sun beyond the horizon now. Cool air poured in as my breathing returned to normal. I could taste the ocean. There would be fog tonight.

  I grabbed my cellphone off the workbench and dialled Blair. The call went to his voice mail. My partner doing the smart thing, unwinding at home with his wife. Probably firing up the barbecue about now. I looked at the door leading from the garage to my kitchen, and decided to change the oil on my bike.

  I own two-and-a-half Harleys. Enough to keep me distracted and in the garage most nights. The half bike is a basket-case 1964 Panhead I keep threatening to rebuild. Grease gave it to me as a p
roject bike before I went to war. We were going to do it together. That plan died when I hung up my patch. Now I just tinker with it. The engine is in a cradle on top of my workbench, waiting for a set of cylinders. I found them at a swap meet and got them for a good price, but so far haven’t found the time to put them on. Maybe the desire.

  The money bike in the garage is the 1971 Super Glide that belonged to my father. It rests on its side stand beside the bench. It looks nothing like the original ’71. The old man had ripped off the ugly stock rear fender, cut and raised the backbone, and raked the front end before he ever rode it. The gas tank sits high; you can barely see over it. The front reaches out so far it takes an acre to turn the thing around. You fight with it more than ride it, the outlaw way.

  I take the Glide out once or twice a year, just to keep the parts lubed and to prove I can handle his ride. My father was a violent drunk who liked to give Gunner and me boot-leather lessons in what it took to be a real biker. The childhood Greg missed. He was a small man. All muscle, grit, and hate. He never took his boots off and he stomped around shirtless, making sure everyone could see his Satan’s Stallion tattoo and the blood red Demon tat below it. Only those who had killed for the club wear the Demon patch on their cuts or the ink on their chests. He called Greg a useless faggot and wouldn’t let him come around. The old man stopped the fist-and-boot routine when he shifted from Jim Beam to heroin, and Gunner dropped him on his ass with a single punch. Gunner at sixteen, proving he was more biker than the old man.

  Our father was a bastard, but he was capable of love. He loved that bike, spent hours pampering it when he was sober. Grease made sure a little of that rubbed off on me. I keep my main ride spotless. With the kinks now worked out of my body, I was ready to give my Softail the attention it needed.

  My bike is all about power. When I left the club, I removed the Satan’s Stallion markings and painted it a high-gloss black. No flames, no shiny chrome accessories. Just a black bike with a fat tire in the rear and a slim-spoked wheel out in front. Not much to look at if you didn’t know what to look for. I stepped over the saddle and leaned forward over the gas tank. My left hand reached under the tank. I pulled the chromed Satan’s head choke knob, and felt my way along the space beside each spark plug. I found the small button on top of each head. I pushed and felt the click as each one opened a small airway into the combustion chamber beneath it. The bike might be plain. The engine was a high-compression monster. Without the compression release valves, starting it would be impossible.

  I kicked the shifter down into first, grabbed the shoulder-high handlebars, pulled the bike up off the kickstand, and rolled it back slowly until I heard the hissing from the two passages. I kicked the shifter back into neutral, pulled in the clutch lever to be safe, and thumbed the start button. Even with the releases, the starter groaned in protest before slowly turning over the engine. The familiar smell of exhaust rose from the pipes as a heavy rumble bounced off the walls. Both cylinders hissed briefly until the compression releases were forced shut by air ahead of the fast-rising pistons.

  I eased the bike back into the driveway. I wasn’t going for a ride, I just wanted to bring the oil up to temperature. Drain cold oil and you leave all the contaminants sitting in sludge beneath the cam support plate. Grease still hadn’t killed me for becoming a cop. If I changed the oil cold, he probably would. I sat in the saddle and felt the vibration move through my body, blipped the throttle a few times, and listened to the big twin howl. I closed my eyes and let the bike slowly relax into a smooth idle. I reached under the tank and pushed Satan back into place, shutting the choke circuit. The idle stayed smooth. She was ready for a little fun.

  I pulled in the clutch lever again and dropped the shifter into first gear. I stood above the seat, planting my feet on each side of the bike, pulled hard on the front brake, and began to ease the clutch lever open as I twisted the throttle. The bike jumped up against its hidden shocks in protest. The front end bottomed on the fork sliders as the rear rose higher. The big cat wanted to pounce. I fought to hold it as the rear wheel shoved against the locked front brake. I twisted the throttle more and released the clutch lever the rest of the way. The tightness in the suspension dropped as the rear began to float between my legs. I twisted the throttle further and quickly shifted into second as the rear tire spun faster. A thick white cloud rose into the darkness and drifted out over the street. The roar drowned out whatever reality show was helping the neighbours avoid reality tonight.

  I shifted my hips from side to side, wagging the tail, as the rear tire melted into the pavement. The smoke rolled forward with a shift in the wind, enveloping me and drifting into the garage. I tasted the rubber and smiled, twisted the throttle more, and focused on keeping the bike in place. Zen and the art of the burnout.

  One slip and the Softail would launch into the garage, tossing me aside like a rag doll. I eased up on the brake lever a little, daring the machine to break free. A small gloved hand appeared out of the smoke and pushed the kill switch above the throttle. The engine coughed and shut down. The force of the spinning rear wheel against the suddenly dead drive train wrenched the handlebars, and I almost dumped it right there in the driveway.

  A wave of anger flared as I turned to see who the hell was that stupid. Carla Cage stood next to me in a heavily padded riding jacket and those tight black jeans. She was pulling gloves from her hands and smiling. The blue-and-white jacket hung loosely from her shoulders like a Kevlar vest. She had it unzipped to the waistline, and I could see the straps of a shoulder harness inside. A tangled mass of brown hair framed her face. Helmet head worked for her.

  “My little brother used to do that, until my father stopped paying for his tires.” She looked at the screen on her cellphone as she spoke. If she had taken a picture, I hadn’t noticed the flash.

  “Just heating it up so I can change the oil.” I rolled the bike back inside the smoke-filled garage.

  “Riding it around the block works. Save you a fortune on rubber.” She followed me and began to look around as the smoke cleared. I have a dozen David Mann prints hanging on the shop side of the garage and a couple of UFC posters near the heavy bag. There is also a copy of that magazine cover showing me after the knockout win. Blair put it up, said it made him feel good to look at it after he kicked my ass in a round of sparring. I wasn’t sure which was worse, getting caught doing burnouts in my backyard or having her see a vanity shot of me in Stallion colours. I also wasn’t sure why I cared what she thought.

  Carla didn’t notice the picture. Instead, she stared at a self-portrait of Mann. He was riding a black ribbon that fell from the sky to float above a grassy valley. Behind him a topless angel blowing a cloud-filled kiss across an open palm had his back. As a breeze cleared my cloud from the driveway, I saw a blue-and-white GSX-R1000 leaning on its kickstand. The gixxer is a real organ donor’s ride. It’s capable of a landscape-blurring 300-plus kph. She had a faster bike than I did. Maybe it was her brother’s.

  “Didn’t know you rode, Sergeant.” I walked to the small fridge I keep tucked under the shop bench.

  “Back with the rank, Cam?” she said without looking away from David Mann’s artwork.

  “Sorry, I mean Carla. Didn’t peg you for a crotch-rocket pilot.” I pulled a Coke for myself and offered her a beer. She opted for the Coke. Good choice when you plan to light the fuse under a missile like that before the evening is out.

  “Speed helps clear the head. Probably the same way that does.” She nodded toward the scorched rubber outside as she grabbed the can from my hand. “Looks like you’ve been trying pretty hard to clear yours any way you can.” She tipped the can toward the sweat-drenched T-shirt clinging to my chest. “Having any luck?”

  “No, not really. It’s the waiting. Bad for the mind.”

  She turned away from the Mann painting and stopped short as she caught the mural on the back wall. I hadn’t covered the pai
nting of the Satan’s Stallion patch. Her eyes moved to my father’s glide and the Stallion artwork covering the tank. I knew it was more than a third-generation cop like her could accept.

  “Professional standards know about this stuff?” She sipped the Coke and looked at me.

  “Probably,” I said, feeling a little defensive.

  “And you still have a badge? That war-hero thing must carry a lot of weight.”

  “Why are you here?” I was feeling a whole lot defensive.

  I leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to contain the rage. I don’t know why Carla’s reaction to the Stallion mural bothered me so much, but it did. I left her in the garage to come in for a fresh dry shirt, at least that’s what I told her. I picked up a china teacup that sits on the counter beside a matching teapot. The white china was turning a soft cream shade with age. I rubbed my thumb along the lip and looked at the tiny pink flowers decorating the fragile surface. Holding it calmed me. It was Glenda’s favourite. Her grandmother left her the china when she left us this house. Glenda used the china every day. She’d say drinking from the cup brought her grandmother back to her, that she would rather drop it and break it and still have those memories than stuff it on a shelf and ignore it. She was holding it the last time I saw her.

  August 2005

  Glenda sat at the table in her blue scrubs, drinking a final cup of tea before work. I felt awkward walking into the kitchen. We both knew this was our last moment together for a year. We agreed we weren’t going to talk about it. She’d leave for work and come home to an empty house. I was going to war. I poured a coffee and leaned against the counter, watching her.