by Aaron Dries
She missed his last sentence as the food court PA system switched from elevator music to the grating voice of authority. “Your attention shoppers,” said the man, whispers behind him in the room. “This is an emergency. We need you to evacuate the mall via the nearest available exit. Please follow the instructions of the security officers on all levels.” The voice stopped. Claire could hear him collecting his thoughts, swallowing. “Please forward to the nearest exit in an orderly, safe fashion.”
“What was that?” Marshall asked.
“What?”
“That announcement?”
“It was someone telling us to get out,” Claire said, her mind in other, darker places. She tingled all over. “I’m going to try his number again and I’ll find one of the security officers. They’ll help me find him.”
“That’s my girl. He probably can’t hear his phone over all the noise. I can barely hear you. Noah’s probably scared half to death. Just find him, keep your phone on you and don’t leave the car park till I get there, okay?”
“’Kay,” she said, staring at her feet. They seemed so far away, unlike the pain in her ankles. “I love you, Mars. Cujo.”
“Cujo. Love you too, Claire-bear. You hold tight and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
The line went dead.
And that was when she locked eyes on him.
He was leaning against the balustrade, his back to the atrium. Lightning cracked outside, brightening the air for a moment. Thunder followed, its rumble mingling with the dinosaur roar. Only the dinosaur sounded wrong. Its cry was the extended mewl of a toy whose batteries were winding down.
The man held his felt hat in his hands. He wore white gloves and an orange silk suit.
The clown was laughing.
Chapter Ten
Panic scrambled for him as though it had been hiding in his house all along, waiting for the right moment to spring; it had been stalking him all day. He’d felt it in the car on the way home—something lurking, an energy.
Marshall struggled to put the phone back on the hook. It clattered to the floor, bouncing on the end of its spiraled cord like a hung prisoner, bobbing up and down. The image sickened him. He stepped backwards and knocked into the refrigerator door, which he hadn’t realized he’d left open. Cold air on his feet. A chill rocketed through his body.
Two bumblebee magnets fell to the floor as he slammed the door shut. He saw a family photo staring back at him among the receipts and notes, the three of them smiling, white lines crisscrossing over their faces from where someone had folded it.
Yes. He felt it now. The fear. Marshall could tell that Claire resented him for not feeling it earlier. She was right, a parent should know.
He looked at his hands. They were blotchy and purple and tingled as though the circulation in his body had changed.
Rain drummed against the window. It was a gentle beat, fingers tapping on the glass. Beyond it, gum trees scratched at the churning sky.
Marshall grabbed his car keys and ran from the house.
Chapter Eleven
The clown wasn’t laughing. He was crying.
Claire felt herself drawn to this eerie figure, brightened by lightning—not the balcony itself. She stepped closer and saw that beneath the red, painted smile there was pain. Tears had carved lines through his makeup. It was impossible to tell his age, but she could tell that he wasn’t young. Fifty, perhaps. Did it matter? She sensed that it did. Looking at him, trying to figure out why he was there and why he was so upset distracted her from her fear.
Next to him there was a cart cradling a helium canister. A single blue balloon swung on the end of its string.
She closed her eyes and heard the sounds of laughing children and could almost feel warm sunshine on her brow… But the illusion dissipated when the dinosaur let loose another sickening growl. The screaming continued. Below.
“Stop there,” said the clown. His voice was reedy. He had smoked many cigarettes in his time. “Please don’t come any closer to the edge.”
He reached out towards her. Claire’s chest seized up, a wail forming in her throat but cut off as the gloved fingers landed on her shoulders. And squeezed. The wail turned out to be nothing more than a simple, discordant moan. “What happened?” she asked. “Tell me.”
The clown shook his head. She saw the cracks in his face paint, only they weren’t cracks—they were wrinkles. He was older than fifty. Sixty, easy. If not more.
Her eyes narrowed in on him and she bore her teeth. “Tell me what happened.”
The clown’s eyes twinkled. Another flash of lightning.
“Someone fell,” he started and then looked down. “A boy. A kid. It happened so fast.” The clown locked eyes with her again, desperate. “I reached out to grab him but—” A sob escaped him, a pained grimace revealed yellow teeth covered in lipstick smears. “I reached out to catch him. But— he fell so fast.”
Claire shook him off. She didn’t want to be touched by him, or anyone. But his grip tightened; bruises bloomed across her skin. “Don’t go there, lady,” he said. “Don’t do it. You’ll hate yourself forever if you do.”
“Let me go—”
The Muzak resumed. Delightful, wordless music scratched and hummed.
“I said let me go!” Claire snapped, yanking herself free. The clown staggered, dropping his hat. The bell at its pointed end rung as it hit the tiled floor. She swung herself wide, her handbag falling from her shoulder, catching on her elbow. Her fringe swept over her eyes.
Claire rushed towards the balcony.
A Latino security guard ran out of the food court towards her. He was yelling into his walkie-talkie, his enormous belly swaying in front of him from side to side. Sweat poured down his face. “Stop right there!” he called, the radio on his belt blasting a static flare.
The Muzak started to skip—a scratch on the CD.
The clown opened his arms and hugged the atrium before him. A breeze swept through the mall and the silk of his suit blew against his body revealing the skeletal frame beneath. “Don’t look, lady. Don’t do it. His head’s on backwards!”
His cry coincided with Claire’s hands slamming against the balustrade, her wedding ring rapping hard against it.
PING-GGGGG—
She looked over the edge, holding her breath.
Three floors down to the grown level. In the main arena area below was the dinosaur exhibit, the Tyrannosaur posed for attack, its mouth full of plastic teeth. Only its upper jaw was dislodged and bent inwards. A fist sized eyeball dangled from its socket. Claire could hear the sound of whirring and sparking electricity, even though she couldn’t see any.
The floor around the dinosaur was empty except for a circle of mall cops. They huddled close together, hiding the body, but as they gesticulated and screamed into their walkie-talkies and earpieces, Claire saw the shape at their feet.
And she saw the blood.
Whoever had fallen had exploded against the ground, a fan of gore. The cops were tracking bloodied boot prints over the tiles.
Bile threatened to erupt into Claire’s mouth. Heat. She still hadn’t taken a breath. Her fingers were clamped tight against the railing, her knuckles turning milky.
The security guard drew close behind her. The clown dropped to his knees, his hands limp at his side. He threw his head backwards, mouth wide, and cried.
The dinosaur roared again. Claire watched it sputter and shake. Another crackle of electricity. The robots nose was destroyed; the eye shook against the plastic scales and with a brilliant splash of sparks, broke free of the wiring and rolled free.
The security guard wrapped his hand around Claire’s wrist but she refused to let go of the balustrade. She could smell the Old Spice aftershave he wore, thick as a fog. It repulsed her.
A glass reptilian eye tumbled through the air.
It shattered into a thousand pieces on the floor.
The mall cops lifted their heads, some turning, their hands reachi
ng for their walkie-talkies as though they were guns. And in doing so, revealed what had been hidden.
Noah. She recognized the backpack, the shirt. Even though all were washed in red. The color drained from her face. She felt like someone had lit a fire deep in her lungs, which was burning bright, sucking away the remaining oxygen she had been clinging to. Dark blotches obscured her sight. Claire fell backwards into the security guard’s arms, immersed in his stench.
Chapter Twelve
The mall stood empty and still.
Security lights flooded the floors in soft blue arcs. Hallways ended in shadows, store-front windows framing placid mannequin faces within. Somewhere there was a dripping sound.
Plop.
Plop.
The sound echoed throughout the building.
The dinosaur stood immobile in the atrium, its nose still bent out of shape. The yellow POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape was tied to its leg and strung around two pillars. It ended at the raised podium in a messy knot.
The tape was the only evidence that a crime scene had ever existed; the clean-up crew had done their job well. The scent of bleach and disinfectant lingered.
Above it all was the glass ceiling. The rain had stopped. A shaft of glowing moonlight arrowed into the open space, casting the dinosaur’s empty eye socket into even deeper darkness.
The artificial plants on the upper floor continued collecting dust; a display car with a large novelty bow ribbon on its bonnet stood unmanned; the Boost Juice blenders had been cleaned and put away. The mall would not open to customers for another twenty-four hours.
Hundreds of cameras recorded from a hundred different angles. Their collective hum was one with the silence, a blanket sound that offered no warmth, or comfort.
Chapter Thirteen
It was three thirty in the morning.
The light in the hallway leading to the morgue was flickering. A bad circuit. Its strobe stabbed at Marshall’s eyes, each flash bringing pain. The police officer and hospital attendant were ahead of him, their feet clip-clopping along the linoleum. His sneakers made feeble squawks as he shuffled the length of the corridor.
Marshall’s face was inflamed and blotched from hours of crying. His fingers were bleeding where he had bitten his nails down to the tips. Coffee had turned his breath sour.
It was bitter cold in that part of the hospital.
He could hear a generator rumbling, the crackle of the light.
Marshall’s heartbeat pulsated in his head, through his neck. He longed for a piece of gum so he could funnel his nervous twitching into some methodical, controlled habit.
It had been hard to find a park at the mall. Many of the vacant spots were filled with chattering crowds. Some were laughing and taking photos, others cried in private, some with their families. He drove the van with care, fearful of runaway children dodging out in front of him.
It was then that he felt it. Dread, oozing from the guarded doors.
Once he found a park, he slammed the door shot, locked it and put his head against the driver’s side window. It was cool against his face. Small sweat beads clung to his eyebrows. He clenched his jaw and focused his mind.
There’s nothing to worry about, he told himself. Everything will be fine. Claire’s just gone and got herself all worked up over nothing.
Then why couldn’t he shake the feeling that something had gone wrong? Shake the feeling that Claire had every reason to panic? He could feel it in his bones, an ache he had never felt before.
He ran from his van and fought with the two guards at the nearest entry. People stopped their conversations and turned to stare; he felt their eyes on him. Self-consciousness jumbled his words. He felt like screaming but even that noise required too much concentration.
Take a deep breath. Think about what you want to say before you speak. Think about those words, one at a time. It’ll make it easier to say. Picture the words. Go on, do it.
HELP.
“Help,” he said to the guard.
ME.
“Me.”
MY. WIFE. IS. INSIDE.
The guard studied him, ready to push him aside, and stopped. Perhaps he saw something in Marshall’s eyes, something fearful and desperate. He would never know.
For a moment Marshall was positive he was going to throw up all over the guard but it was only the words erupting from him. He swallowed a tablespoon of acidic, beer-flavored bile and spoke, fluent and collected, “My wife’s inside. She called me and said that there was trouble with my son. She’s distraught and I—”
The guard put his hand on Marshall’s shoulder. Thick fingers dug into his shoulder as the man nodded, turned away and disappeared into the mall. When the automatic doors slid open the crowd fell silent, necks craned forward and ears were cupped, as all attempted to hear any noise from within. They heard nothing. The door closed and Marshall watched the guard talking into a cell phone, his hands gesturing in his direction.
MORGUE was printed across the door in deep red lettering. The word was like a scar. It never went away. Its brashness shocked him. He had assumed—in this day and age—that the hospital would have a more delicate expression for the room on the other side of that door.
It was a room for storing dead people, a place where fathers came to identify the bodies of their sons. It kept the dead cool so they wouldn’t rot and stink. It was the place where they took the mess, the bits and pieces of broken men, women and children. His mind drew blank. MORGUE; the shoe fit.
The guard wore a name badge. It read LEO. He said nothing the entire time.
The officer was Detective Nicholas Starke. He was tall and solid and smelt of musky cologne. He was lost in his fifties, with neat silver hair and kind eyes. His hand was on Marshall’s arm.
So many people had touched him in that particular spot over the past seven hours. Strangers, doctors, police officers, a social worker with a cleft palate whose name Marshall couldn’t remember. Their attempts at comforting him had done nothing. He felt cold and detached. It was almost like a dream, only in the dream he was in his living room watching television and on the television was a man who looked very much like him standing in front of a door. On the door was printed a word. The word was MORGUE.
“Are you ready to go in?” Starke asked. His booming voice pulled Marshall back into reality. Startled, he looked up at the detective, struggling for breath.
“No,” Marshall said in little more than a whisper.
He heard the detective exhale and shift a mint inside his mouth. It clicked against his gums. “I know that, Mr. Deakins, but you need to go in. We need you to do this for us.”
“I know.”
“The sooner it’s done the sooner you can rest.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry this has all taken so long,” Starke said, squeezing Marshall’s arm again. “Things were complicated. I’m sure you understand.”
“It’s fine. I get it.”
“We need you to go in there and identify your boy so we can go out there and find the bastard that did this to him.” Starke leaned in close, the bodily gesture saying: I’m your friend, you can trust me. “I need you to help me, Mr. Deakins.”
Slow comprehension settled in, making Marshall’s heart beat even faster. Another word was forming in his mind, only this was a word that he had not conjured up. This new word was rushing up at him from the most bitter corners of his mind—it ran through dark flickering corridors, calling out his name. The word was MURDER.
It drove into his stomach, a bolt of feeling sparked to life. Marshall was finding it hard to breathe but he was nodding anyway. His body was offering him up to the word—to the detective as if in sacrifice. Take of this flesh what you will and fuck off. Leave me to die.
He felt like he needed to shit. “Okay,” Marshall said. “I’m ready.”
Claire saw the guard and Marshall coming down the narrow hallway from her seat in Customer Services. She put the Styrofoam cup down on the chair next to her, for
ced the door open and ran to him. Her arms were around him in seconds.
Marshall felt like he was going to cry when Claire pulled back and looked at him. Her face had been made ugly by worry but the intensity in her eyes reminded him of the night he asked her to marry him, in front of the Gallery in downtown Vancouver. It was both fiery and crestfallen, a unique combination that both unnerved and enticed him.
“Oh, Mars,” she said, shaking her head. She was thumping her fists against his chest.
“Sh-hhh, it’s going to be okay, babe.”
“Oh, Mars, I’m so sorry.”
“What do you mean you’re sorry? You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
Her hands lashed out at his face and grabbed onto the hair about his ears. She pulled his head down close to hers so their brows connected. She was clammy to touch. “I’m a horrible person,” she said. “I’m a fucking horrible fucking person.”
“Claire, don’t say that.”
“It’s true, I’m a horrible fucking bitch. I’m a horrible mother.”
“Stop saying these things!”
“It’s my fault, Mars, it’s my—”
She looked up at him again, her mouth half open as though she wanted to tell him a secret. But there was nothing more to say. Silence was their only ally now. He gripped her tight and she melted against his chest.
The guard escorted them back into the secured area, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
Detective Starke opened the morgue door and stepped aside to let Marshall enter. The room was open and cadaverous with low-hanging light fixtures. It was a quiet place. Marshall swallowed.
Starke shut the door and Leo stood beside it, rubbing his eyes. He looked tired and annoyed.
They stepped farther into this immaculate pit. It was more than just cold—it was freezing. Marshall started to shiver, teeth chattering together. “Excuse me,” he said, hugging himself.