The Fallen Boys

by Aaron Dries

  It seethed.

  The City of Glass—they hadn’t lied about that one. Marshall couldn’t go anywhere without seeing his reflection, a reminder of how it had all gone down. He and Claire had lived together just long enough in this new country to make splitting complicated. He got the car and she got the rest, including their apartment, plus the small group of friends they had made. Marshall often wondered why he’d remained in Vancouver. Sometimes he thought it was old-fashioned defiance that had kept him here—refusing defeat. Other times, he was not quite so sure.

  He popped a mint and thought of Starke, the detective who had been in charge of his son’s case. Marshall let the memory go, it had no place here. The strings tying him to his old life had long since been severed.

  Rain peppered his forehead. Marshall walked through a cloud of steam rising from an underfoot vent and entered a second-hand bookstore. The door frame was outlined in Christmas lights and fake spider webs. Cozy warmth wrapped around him; he felt at home.

  The cluttered room smelt of mice and leather. The owner was leaning against a pile of magazines a customer was trying to pawn, a cup of coffee in his hand. Marshall passed the haggling couple and stepped into the aisles, hoping to get lost.

  It had been too long since he’d given himself over to a good book. There had been a time where Marshall couldn’t be found without a paperback in his back pocket and another in his briefcase just in case he felt like flipping between two worlds. But that person was gone—and he’d taken all the good books with him. Marshall missed the guy. Walking through the store was like reaching into the dark; he hoped his old self would grab his hand.

  Marshall ran his fingers over a hundred creased spines. Dust under his nails. Paperback perfume in his skin now. He followed a makeshift sign labeled FICTION THIS WAY. And saw Claire.

  Her back was to him but he recognized her straightaway. The shape of her thighs. Her hair. The way she was leaning against the shelf… She had put on weight since he last saw her seven months ago, and finally looked healthy. Their farewell had been bitter, with both of them walking away knowing that their attempts at piecing themselves back together had failed. Noah had burned them, and the skin of their relationship grew back thick and stubborn. Claire blamed herself for what happened; Marshall hated Vancouver. Neither could relent and grief became the only thing they shared.

  Marshall’s chest tightened. He considered high-tailing it out of the bookshop, leaving Claire—

  (Claire-bear)

  —to browse and to continue living without him in her life.

  Marshall swallowed the mint and—knowing full well that he wouldn’t be doing this if he were sober—stepped forward. She caught his movement on the third step and lifted her eyes to meet his.

  Thailand. The Massaman curry they had shared, full of peanuts and meat.

  “Mars,” she said, slipping a finger into the book she’d been flipping through. She managed a crooked smile but it didn’t stick. Her face hardened. What seethed beneath was an affection she didn’t want to acknowledge. The realization of this tore him apart. “Marshall.” It was as though she was correcting herself.

  “Hey, Claire.” He couldn’t believe that she was there, on equal ground without the support of her family, who never liked him, and the friends who had sided with her. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

  “What are the chances, right? Jesus, this is weird. I was just thinking of you.”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah. I was.”

  “That’s nice—awesome. Shit Claire, you look great! Van’s treating you well.” She choked. Claire was going to say the same about him but didn’t have the heart to lie. “Marshall, you look thin. Are you eating?”

  “Me? Eating? Like a horse. You know me.” He gave her a thumbs-up. “Damn it, Claire, come here and give us a hug.”

  They laughed and wrapped arms around each other. Their eyes closed and they melted together. She smelt of shampoo, he of cologne and soap. But familiarity faded and their embrace grew awkward. Marshall felt like crying when they pulled apart. Four years. He had no idea where the time had gone.

  Marshall could no longer remember the sound of Noah’s voice.

  “You were thinking about me?” he asked.

  “I was. Maybe it was this whole Halloween thing. It reminded me of all those horror movies you used to watch. I thought of you and found myself in here by accident.”

  “Me too.” Marshall nodded. “It’s good to see you, Claire.”

  She searched for words to fill the silence, scared that the truths of their relationship would rear their heads—the fact that they had always loved each other, but that love had not proved enough to save them.

  “I found this.” Claire held up the book and showed him the cover. It was called A Serpent In Eden, by Robert Bloch. “I always remember you liking this guy and I—oh, I don’t know; it’s not my cup of tea, but I saw it and thought of you. I couldn’t help picking it up. Silly, really.”

  He looked down. Her finger was still between the pages. The intimacy of the sight made him shiver and in that moment, he missed her as much as he ever had.

  “It’s not silly,” he said. “Let me buy it for you.”

  “No, Marshall, it’s okay. I’ll get it.” Claire smiled, her face flushing pink. She peered at him, squinting a little. “I take back what I said before. You don’t look thin, or pale. You look so much healthier—happier, when you smile.” She gestured to the book in her hand. “Well, I’m going to go pay for this. You keep looking around.”

  “I’ll come up with you—”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “Oh, ’kay. That’s cool. It was great seeing you.”

  “Faw-shaw,” she said, punching his shoulder.

  “Listen to you! You sound like me. I guess I rubbed off on you a bit.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” She adjusted her shoulder bag. “You take care.”

  “You too.”

  I miss you, he wanted to add. But didn’t.

  Marshall watched her walk away. The gentle sway of her thighs beneath her tartan overcoat. The scarf circling her neck. He listened to her pay and then exit the store, leaving him alone near the bookshelf where he’d found her. Marshall looked at the gap in the row of Robert Bloch novels, at the dark, dusty space that remained.

  He went to the literary section, scanned the titles and found a hardcover copy of Tomorrow, Yesterday by Claire Redman. She had published it under her maiden name even though she hadn’t officially changed it—as far as he knew. But the more he thought about it the more he knew she would have by now. Claire wasn’t a Deakins anymore, in print or in life. He couldn’t fight off the niggling sting of betrayal.

  Marshall studied the book; the lilac jacket was in good condition for a second-hand item. It had been released five months before, whilst the ink on their divorce papers had still been drying. He wondered what it was about, knowing that he wasn’t ready to find out.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was almost two in the morning and the rain had stopped. The bus dropped him off on the corner of Oak and King Edward, opposite his apartment building. The intersection was empty and there was no sound except distant bass music. Dripping water.

  Marshall stood still. When he closed his eyes, he saw Claire and Noah in their old kitchen in Sydney.

  Noah on the slab. His brains on the floor.

  There was a tall hedge separating him from the primary school on the other side; he’d passed the grounds many times on his way to and from work. There was a large building surrounded by playground equipment—swings and a fire truck jungle gym. In the afternoons the grounds were alive with screaming children, Frisbees and games of tag. Now there was nothing.

  Marshall’s back was to the hedge. He turned when he heard the voice whisper his name from behind the branches. The word had icy cold fingers that brushed against the back of his neck. He spun around.

  It came again. “Marshall.” Soft and delicate.r />
  There were no cars but the traffic lights changed colors. It slipped from green to yellow. He blinked, swallowing. It switched to red, painting the wet street in blood.

  Don’t do it, he told himself. You don’t want to know what’s over there.

  That was a lie and he knew it.

  He wanted what was on the other side of that hedge more than he wanted anything in the world. More than his old job, more than Claire. What lurked in the dark of the playground was the answer to every wrong in his life. It was the piece of him that had been torn out.

  He rounded the corner, running his fingers over the leaves, his hand coming away wet. On the King Edward side there was an opening. He stepped through and became aware of how deep and loud his breathing was.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He could see the outlines of the swings, the seats dripping water. A cloud dissipated enough to let through a beam of moonlight. He saw the fire truck in the middle of the sandpit. If he tried hard enough, he could still hear the laughter of the children at play—a stillborn, hallowed sound.

  The cloud thickened, a breeze blew hard. The light faded.

  A candle flickered to life near him. The wick fizzled. Marshall’s heart began to race, pounding in his ears. You’re an idiot, he said to himself. This is going to be so hard and you’ve got nobody to blame except for yourself. Blood drained from his face, bowels churning.

  An upturned Starbucks cup caught the dripping wax; it glowed bright orange, illuminating the boy’s delicate fingers. His grip was firm, un-frightened, not like his father. A damp sheet was flung over him; Marshall could see the outline of the boy’s face—the nose and cheekbones. Two bare feet below the hem, toes wiggling in the grass.

  “Marshall,” the boy whispered. The sheet billowed and then drew back as he stole back his breath.

  The candle reminded Marshall of the vigil held at Noah’s school after his death. Hundreds of people had turned up to pay their respects, blue remembrance ribbons tied to their wrists.

  Marshall knew where the sheet had come from. It came from the morgue.

  One hand left the candle and reached up. Fine hairs on the boy’s forearm. The pale, dead skin. The fingers clutched at the fabric and pulled, revealing Noah’s buckled-in face and crushed skull. His mouth opened to reveal darkness—no teeth, no tongue. Just emptiness.

  The candle blew out and Marshall screamed, stumbling backwards into the hedge. His arms scrambled to find the opening. Twigs scratched at his face. A taxi drove by on the other side, sending a kaleidoscope of light across the playground. He followed the noise and fell through the gap.

  Dad, said the voice.

  Marshall didn’t turn around. He ran across the road, limping. The pain that had begun in his stomach had spread to his limbs, causing him to limp. He collapsed at the doorstep to his building, letting loose a moan. He pulled his legs tight against his chest, rocking back and forth until the shaking stopped. It started to rain again, coming quick and hard.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was a single bedroom apartment. Scratched hardwood floors and plain eggshell walls; everything echoed. Marshall’s computer buzzed in one corner, surrounded by papers and invoices. The screen saver was a photographic slide show, one image of his son paving way for the next.

  Noah outside the library he’d spent so much time at, his backpack hanging off one shoulder.

  Noah as a baby in his mother’s arms, wrapped in a blue blanket.

  Dishes were drip-drying in the adjoining kitchen. The sink gurgled.

  Marshall was in his bedroom with a quilt across his shoulders, bent over two scuffed cardboard boxes. The contents had belonged to his son, trinkets that Marshall hadn’t had the heart to toss out or give away. Claire had a box herself somewhere. He had been crying for twenty minutes straight and was surrounded by soggy Kleenex tissues.

  He never thought it was possible to miss one person so much. There was no comparison. His mind regurgitated memories of stupid, infantile fights and disagreements with his son, of the energy is took to be angry.

  Marshall remembered one occasion where he had come home from work to find a rear window busted open and a guilt-faced Noah sitting on the floor beneath, holding shards of glass in his hands. There was a soccer ball near the recliner. Marshall would give anything to take back the things he’d said.

  He felt a draught, and although he knew it was impossible, could have sworn that it was coming from the boxes in front of him, as though his son’s possessions were sucking air from the room. Dust bunnies rolled across the floor. The curtains shifted. Outside there was lightning.

  Marshall upended the boxes and tipped out the contents; this was the first time he’d laid eyes on the trinkets since leaving Sydney. At the time he’d thought things couldn’t get worse. He was wrong.

  There was an old teddy bear—some of the fur was worn thin, the padding threatening to burst through. One marbled eye hung from its socket on a thread. He couldn’t recall who gave the toy to his son, only that it wasn’t him. He put the bear aside and reached for a chipped yo-yo.

  Noah playing with the yo-yo on the library steps. The buzzing sound it made when he mastered the elusive “walk the dog” maneuver. There was laughter, falling leaves.

  Next was the folded up blanket from the photograph on the computer screen saver—only it wasn’t blue anymore, rather a faded white covered in saliva stains. There were patches to cover the holes but some of the stitching had come loose, exposing pockets of frayed material. It was Noah’s Sooky, and as a child, he’d been inseparable from it. The boy took it with him everywhere. Claire must have washed it a thousand times. Marshall was surprised it hadn’t disintegrated away to nothing.

  Five-year-old Noah with Sooky in his mouth, tying knots in the blanket with chubby fingers.

  Marshall brought the blanket to his face and buried his nose in it. He inhaled. There were no traces of his son left in the fibers, just dust.

  There were action figures and a notepad full of half-finished drawings, a few stray marbles and a set of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles trading cards bound with a rubber band. From the other box there was a stripy school tie, a broken claw toy he had used to pick up a thousand forgotten objects and a clay figurine Noah had made in art class. It was of a bird with wide open jaws. One wing had snapped off and lay on the floor.

  Marshall sat with these reminders for a full hour. The storm died out and soon there was just the wind. It howled.

  He wondered if Claire had been in this very same position. How many hours had she indulged in her misery, clinging to the past and refusing to let go? What was in her boxes? He couldn’t remember what he’d packed and divided up between the two of them. It saddened him to think that these four boxes amounted to a single life.

  How many boxes will I fill when I’m dead? Who will want them?

  The feeling that Marshall had felt before, that things were seething, returned now. It was in the walls, in the floorboards beneath him. He couldn’t shake it.

  It seethed because “it” was restless.

  Random memories of Marshall’s childhood pushed the feeling aside, a little—but not enough.

  Marshall and his friends walking over Flagman’s Bridge on the outskirts of James Bridge, the Hunter River nothing more than a barren riverbed below. Red dust in their hair, their bikes growing hot in the sun on the other side. Kids said that there was a homeless man who lived under the bridge. They said he was a millionaire.

  His father’s hands, full of calluses. The stench of motorcycle fumes and body sweat emulating from him when he sat down to dinner every night.

  Marshall cracked his neck, sniffed and climbed to his feet. Bones popped and he stretched out pains he didn’t even know he had. The room rotated around him and he felt claustrophobic. Closing his eyes helped a little. He counted to ten.

  And was scared to open them.

  What if he saw Noah again, bloodied and whispering, his head hanging on his shoulder at a n
inety-degree angle?

  These visions were becoming more frequent. Prior to the playground, the last time he’d seen his son was in a passing bus on Robson Street. Marshall tried to convince himself that it could have been anyone—a lost boy, a sleeping teenager on his way home from hockey practice—but he knew better. When he saw Noah, he tingled all over and he could taste metal in his mouth, as though he had licked an iron skillet. He felt these sensations now.

  Next to Marshall’s foot was the old teddy bear. It wore a kind, quizzical expression—the look beckoned to him. He bent down and picked it up. He felt its weight in his hand and watched the heavy head swing backwards, exposing Frankenstein stitching across its neck. And then he felt something slip between his fingers from the back of the bear—something small falling through the air.

  The police recording he didn’t want to see but had to. It was black-and-white security footage, flickering and time-coded. The screen was divided into four shots from four stationary angles. He saw Noah lifting himself up onto the balustrade handrail, people walking by, too busy with their lives to see the ending of another.

  The black object continued to tumble through the air. He trailed its decent.

  Noah lifted himself over the edge. His boy’s final act was a confident display—most unlike him. He dived over the edge.

  Marshall heard the object clatter on the floor, bouncing up and striking his shin.

  His boy falling through four screens. A clown reached out for him as he flew past the floor below—and missed. The boy struck the nose of the dinosaur, pin-wheeled to the floor, landing on his head. A splatter of blood, like a dropped balloon.

  Marshall turned the teddy bear over in his hands. Revealed was a thin, two-inch slit in its hide.

  Whatever had been seething had pushed through.

  He bent down and picked the USB stick up off the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was Halloween and Claire was having one of her bad days—although preparing dinner for friends helped occupy her mind. It was as though the expectation of the meal, the standard she had set for herself, was a towel wrapped tight around her head, blocking out screaming thoughts. Some still got through. They always did.