The Bewdley Mayhem

by Tony Burgess

  Faruzi lays his hands open in front of himself, against an invisible surface. He is, in fact, seeing it. The pause has a tremendous effect on his audience. Everyone leans back slightly, fearing the air over the table, and they squint, bracing for the worst. Faruzi brings a hand down to his moustache, pushing the edge into his upper lip. The other hand, still hovering over the scene, shivers once before being withdrawn.

  “Now this was a different time. Back then when folks did, you know, crazy things, we felt it was kind of personal. I think back then you felt like you yourself might go that way next. Going nuts was sort of personal. Not so much like that now. Now it’s weird. Crazy people don’t seem human, anymore. Ya know what I mean? Nothin’ new about them as far as I can tell. It’s just not us going crazy anymore. So, when I look at this scene, there’s four or five bodies on the floor. And, for some reason, I’m lookin’ for someone I know. That was the first thing I did. Eliminate the people I know among the dead. Then I see what they’ve done. Laying beside each one a lamp is laid out. And the bulb has been screwed out and they’ve slipped their fingers in there. They must of all laid down there together, the crazy bastards, and counted off. Two. Three. Everybody with a thumb on the switch. Ready. Bang. All the lights go on at once.”

  The Mayor watches as several people shudder and shake their heads. Faruzi sits back to encourage discussion. Gorley is making a face like he’s been holding his breath for too long. His eyes are bright red circles, rolling from one side of the room to the other. Soon Faruzi moves on to a story about a decapitated man, how his lungs had blown and sucked through his stovepipe of a neck for over an hour. He describes the harrowing attempts to stop the body’s ferocious breathing.

  Faruzi admits that he is still afraid, that he fears the body will wake him from a nap one day.

  Robert Forbes cannot listen too closely, the stories are too lurid for him, too real. He has been trying to keep his attention wandering around the room. He notices a robin skipping along the front of cars in the parking lot. A deep rusty belly seems to bounce off the ground as it steps. One feature of Faruzi’s stories has crept into the Mayor’s perception.

  The idea that things animate and inanimate can become each other.

  There’s an abrupt line between them, moving across an expanse. He decides that the robin is inanimate, hopping along like the cartoon bird on The Flintstones, pressing its toes around the rim of a pie: a machine bird, a perforator, a shredder. The gravel tossed across the asphalt is particularly inanimate, sun-baked and grey. The Mayor pictures it in winter, under ice; it hasn’t moved a millimetre, it has been there for twenty years. And before that there was dust, and before that maybe a kind of graveyard.

  The Mayor looks at one particular stone, a white triangle on the edge of a dark oil stain. The Mayor feels a compulsion to identify the stone. Name it? No, not quite. Identify it. How? One of several. The middle stone. The one that has been there a month and a half. The one shot out of a patch of gravel by the Mayor’s own tires. The Mayor feels the peak of the stone, from here merely a white spot. But its peak, the Mayor feels, is rising upward. No matter what its size, it is held against the sky. He looks to the stones surrounding it, then back. He can feel its difference against the surface of his eye. Its fame. He pushes his fingers out of his fist, walking the tips across the tabletop. He feels the stone against his ring finger. Then, like the crack of a whip, the surface of the parking lot shoots over him. Everything he sees sweeps up and over his lower eyelids and hangs for a second, bending his lashes aside like jungle fronds. Until now, here they come — right into the centre of his eye …

  A long javelin hurled down a corridor.

  And then, darkness.

  The Mayor blinks the blur from his face and looks around the room. His vision carries the sunlight in orange and pink balloons that settle over the faces of people around the table. Metal faces. Skeletons of rock. Shoulders and backs that strain against the weight of parked cars.

  As blobs of colour slip off black silhouettes, developing, like Polaroids, slowly, poorly, Robert is aware that a roar has blocked his ears. He has the distinct impression that something loud is shaking the room.

  The Mayor suddenly realizes that snapping out of his daydream won’t be easy. He tries to separate himself from the noise, to hear Faruzi talking, but any distance he creates comes as a vast silent space. A dark, empty beach, blue and bloody sand. Then he hears Faruzi’s voice, a seagull calling from the middle of the night. Day?

  Faruzi is crying out like a bird. The Mayor is aware of laughter. He joins in but is utterly incapable of understanding the noise he makes. The noise does, however, restore something. Robert can see the faces more clearly; too clearly, in fact. The vast space that Faruzi had been hanging in now seems to be circled around ruddy pores. Then he detects it. In this alien place, among these nauseating shifts, he hears a voice. The voice is soft but so close he can almost feel breath on his cheek. It says: “Robert?”

  The Mayor stares at the table. Asphalt. People’s hands: asphalt. The voice is coming from the left. From one of these people. The Mayor frantically examines each set of hands. All asphalt. Tar. Webbed. On one hand he sees a ring. A tiny diamond in orbit. A light. He follows the top of the hand as it thins and continues up the arm: naked, brown. A pattern of blue and yellow, beneath it, around it, out of focus.

  “I’m here, Robert.”

  She’s here. The Mayor looks up at Marion’s face. She smiles.

  “I’m here.”

  EIGHT

  The Mayor is barely able to make his way out of the room when the meeting is over. Gorley’s waiting at his car, but Robert’s somewhat relieved: he’s the one person, the Mayor thinks, who hasn’t been completely altered in this ghastly hallucination. He was always a ghost.

  “Hey, Mayor, I didn’t wanna say nothin’ in there, but I got a kid missing from Buddy Holly. Wonder if ya seen him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, the kids were havin’ a bit of a time. Most of them went home, but this one kid didn’t. I was wonderin’ if he showed up here.”

  “Ah, no.”

  “Well, it’s just that I don’t think he’s gonna get a great reception if he’s found wanderin’ around over here, y’know. Mebbe, if ya see him, you could go easy. Just ship him back. We’ll handle it.”

  “Sure.”

  “Yeah. The parents, y’know. They’re a bit worried about the little bastard.”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, while we’re here, have you put any thought to the babe raffle we were talkin’ about before?”

  “The what?”

  “The, uh, night on the town thing. With the girl …”

  “What?”

  The Mayor sees Barry and Marion getting into their car across the lot.

  “Why don’t you put together a proposal and send it to me.”

  “Well, I don’t think it needs one. You know, well, I don’t know how good a thing like this looks on paper.”

  “Gorley, I gotta go.’’

  Robert jumps in his car and reverses — abruptly — knocking Gorley’s arm off the roof and into the air. The mayor of Buddy Holly brings his fist down hard but misses the hood. Gorley swats his arm around painfully and screams after the Mayor of Caesarea as he massages his shoulder.

  Robert spots Marion’s gold Camry two cars ahead. They’re driving through the centre of town to get home. The Mayor recognizes passengers in the cars between them. They will turn off before the intersection.

  At the main crossroad the Mayor rolls his car up beside the Camry. A red light. Marion and Barry see him and wave. She rolls her window down. The Mayor leans across to the passenger side and spins the handle.

  Barry speaks first.

  “Hey. There’s going to be a sing-along tonight beside the baseball field.”

  The Mayor smiles at Mari
on.

  “Oh yeah. You going?”

  “Sure. I think so. We were there last weekend for a barbecue and everybody got into this sing-along thing. So they’ve organized song sheets for tonight.”

  “Hey, that’s great.”

  “Yeah. All the faves.”

  “Hey Marion.”

  “Yes?”

  The Mayor opens his glove compartment and fishes out a handgun. “I’m here, too.”

  From point blank range he fires the weapon into Marion’s forehead. She topples over across her husband. Robert fires again, this time hitting Barry in the side of the head. Another shot hits him in the shoulder. And then, as his car is about to advance on the green, Robert fires once more, wildly.

  He’s not looking through the windshield as he accelerates.

  NINE

  The Mayor closes the door behind him. Home. He walks down the hall and pulls his shirt out from the top of his pants. He flips the television on with a remote as he drags the sliding door open. Fresh air pulls at the drawn blinds and a distant Seadoo buzzing across the lake sounds like a fly.

  There is a fly, silent and fat, bouncing against the wall beside the open door. Robert swats at it and it curves in the air toward him before riding on a breeze into the backyard. On television a woman is sitting behind a judge’s table. Her shoulders are hunched and her expression is intense and attractive.

  Judge Judy.

  The camera cuts over to a short woman with grey hair. She’s holding a photograph of a cat. Then Judge Judy appears again; she’s disapproving. Even though her face is fixed with lines, when her mouth is twisted over in derision she is lovely to watch. Robert appreciates this and finds himself wondering if she wears black garters. He pictures Judge Judy lifting her heavy robes over her small ass — the garters tight on her thighs; the nylons, sheer and black, perfect. And then she bends over further, and the light catches something …

  “OK. Listen to me! Listen! This little cat didn’t know not to go over to the nasty neighbours. She didn’t know they were nasty.”

  “But.”

  “But nothing. I’ll throw you out on your butt. Now listen to me. This little cat didn’t know. But someone did. Someone knew that the neighbours were nasty. Who do you think that was? Who?”

  “Uh, me. But …”

  “Who knew?”

  “Uh, me.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  “You. That’s right, ma’am. You knew. The little cat didn’t know. You knew. You are the one responsible.”

  The camera pulls back and a voice-over announces that the judge will return after a commercial break with her judgement. The Mayor cannot sustain his erection through an advertisement for large trucks, so he flips through stations until he lands on the familiar face of Grant Mazzy, a news anchorman. Grant steps forward from the desk that he’s been leaning against.

  “This just in. The OPP have released a report of a shooting incident in the small town of Caesarea on Lake Scugog. Two people were apparently shot and killed while they sat in their car at an intersection. The OPP have no leads and are asking anyone who might have seen anything to step forward and assist with the investigation.”

  A female field reporter appears on screen.

  “What is distressing the police is that this is apparently a random act, and the suspect has fled away cleanly.”

  “That’s right, Barb. And the only hope they have is that someone might have witnessed something strange.”

  The phone rings and the Mayor flies off the couch, pouncing with both hands in an attempt to silence it. He knocks the phone out of its cradle and hears a tiny voice call “Hello” from the carpet. Robert picks up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “I heard something. Jesus, what the hell happened?”

  “Right. Do we, uh, do we know who was shot?”

  “Oh my God.”

  The Mayor swings the phone back down into the carpet and grabs his mouth. His eyes are crinkled shut and a long silver tear races down the edge of his thumb.

  “Are they sure?”

  “Well, does anybody have any idea who did this?”

  “No idea?”

  “That’s not good. This is awful. My God, what is happening to this town? For God’s sake, poor Marion.”

  “Why Gorley?”

  “He doesn’t. Hmmm. Well, Christ, I can’t say I much liked the fellow, but I would never have figured him for …”

  “They said on the TV that …”

  “Already? Jesus, this is awful. My God.”

  “OK, I will. Listen, call me if there’s anything I can do.”

  Gorley has been charged. Just like that. He was apparently seen throwing a rock at the town hall as he got into his car. And just minutes before the shooting he was seen heading toward the town centre.

  The Mayor lifts the phone to the table and sits back on the carpet. He feels excited, uncomfortable. He’s aware that he may be laughing — a hard giggle he doesn’t really recognize.

  No wonder they charged him right away. No one but him did this. No one. Just minutes before the shooting he sped off in his car to the scene. This puts him there at exactly the right moment.

  The Mayor hunkers down suddenly. He pushes his fists into the carpet.

  Gorley was there. If he didn’t do it, then he saw it.

  A loud rap causes the Mayor to jump. He climbs back up onto the couch and looks toward the door. An OPP cap is visible in the tiny window. When it’s raised an officer looks directly at him. The Mayor stands mechanically. Without breathing he opens the door.

  “Hiya, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Hello Brent.”

  “I suppose you’ve heard.”

  The cop removes his hat and his face is pale, unhappy.

  “Yes sir. I heard what they said on the news there.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid there’s more to it than that. Not much more, though. Mind if I come in?”

  The Mayor jumps out of the way, swatting the door closed hard, causing it to bounce against the outside wall. The officer has to skip to avoid being struck by its return.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “You know. I wouldn’t mind a shot of something if yer offering.”

  “Sure, Brent, sure. Make yourself comfortable.”

  When the officer has settled on the couch with a short glass of rye in his hand, he lays a small black leather notebook out onto the table.

  “Well, I got some shocking news about all this. Apparently it wasn’t so random as all that.”

  The Mayor stands in the middle of the room, a bit panicked: he has nowhere to sit down.

  “Well, it seems the shooter wasn’t no stranger, either.”

  The Mayor is unable to appear normal so he walks quickly to the bar.

  “Did you want some more?”

  “More? No. No, I’m fine. Look, I’m tryin’ to tell ya somethin’ here. Why don’t you sit down.”

  “Sure.”

  Robert takes two steps to the middle of the room and lowers himself suddenly on folding legs. The officer stares at him for a second, raises his eyebrows, then takes a drink.

  “Are you alright?”

  The Mayor pretends to draw something with his finger in the tough pile of the carpet.

  “Yeah, oh yeah. I’m great.”

  The officer places the glass on the table with a steady hand.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You’re great?”

  “Uh, no. Brent. No, I’m not. I mean, not with all this going on. No, it’s awful …”

  “OK, then. Christ, Mayor, it’s just that you’re acting a bit off here.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Maybe you’re in shock. But Jesus
, you sure act like a suspect.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, when I’m lookin’ for a guilty person, and I’ll tell ya, I’ve sussed out a few, I usually look for someone who acts like you.”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “Christ, no. Jesus, you’re not a suspect. That’s what I wanted to talk about here. We have a suspect. In fact, I’d say, we have our man.”

  “No, uh, no kidding.”

  “That’s right. I think you know Robin Gorley.”

  “Yeah, I know Gorley. Know him well. Is he your suspect?”

  “Yep.”

  “He did this awful thing?”

  “Yep. He sure did. Nobody told ya yet eh?”

  “Uh, no. Nobody told me. I mean I was talking to Kelsin about this just now, but …”

  “Kelsin? Well he knows. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Tell me? Tell me what?”

  “That it was Gorley who shot Marion and Barry.”

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, he did. He said somethin’ about it.”

  “Well, Christ, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re in a bad way, Jesus.”

  “Right, sorry. OK, now I understand. Yeah, Gorley shot them.”

  “That’s right: Gorley.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, as far as we can tell he was pissed at all you people for some reason. He was seen bustin’ a window earlier today. Apparently, he’s been on a bender for some time and I guess he just lost it. Anyway, the crazy asshole is denying the whole thing.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Oh yeah. Says that he spoke to you just as you were leaving the meeting, right when Marion and Barry pulled outta the lot. That right?”

  “Uh, yeah. That’s right. He was mad, for sure. He cooked up some idea that Buddy Holly and Caesarea should have some kind of joint sing-along booze fest. I told him to forget it. He was pissed alright.”