Roughhouse

by Dan Cummings

  Dodd stood to one side in his screeching gibbon mask, bathed in devilish light from the barrel fire, and his body language stating that he wanted to be far away from here. Horse head had one haunch on the roof’s bitumen-coated parapet, his phone in his hand. The mouse pushed Matt towards the edge and for a terrifying second he thought they were just going to cast him right off to the ground below, but he stopped just short, pushing his hands out to stable himself beside Noakes.

  ‘What do you want? Why can’t you just leave us alone?’ Matt was expecting another smack but was given a brief stony silence.

  Noakes looked at him, the horse head making this feel like one big surreal nightmare. ‘Karp killed Lloyd. So we’re going to kill you. We’re going to ruin his life.’

  Matt was speechless, his chin wobbling from fright until he was forced to clench his jaws. ‘The fuck you talking about? He drowned in the fucking pool. Neil was nowhere near him.’

  A burst of explosive pain erupted in his kidney, stealing the wind from him. Staubach rubbed his knuckles. ‘His wallet was by the pool.’

  Matt wanted to continue his defence of his friend but fingers yanked his curly hair in hot searing pain. ‘Look down there. You see them?’ Staubach asked, sadistic merriment in his voice. Stumbling aimlessly across the detritus-laden streets of Hard Luck Haven were several nattering transients, grabbing their heads and barking at the moon. Two of them even charged at each other unprovoked, hitting, biting and scratching like rabid animals.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ Matt tried to free himself from the tangled control of Staubach’s twisting grip.

  ‘We’ll show you.’

  Matt was dragged over to Dodd who seemed to be shrinking by the second, almost closing in on himself in self-doubt. ‘Do it,’ a voice said, maybe Noakes but it was hard to tell. Dodd hesitated. ‘Now.’ Definitely Noakes that time.

  Dodd still twitched with indecision but finally bent down to pick up a plastic bag, tipping what looked like rotten vegetation into the flames of the heated can. The gibbon quickly retreated from the fumes like a tribesman fleeing from some spiritual ritual. Staubach pinned Matt’s arms behind his back as Noakes punched Matt in his exposed stomach, doubling him over in a breathless gasp. Staubach held him over the crackling heat, the sickly, dizzying pall forcing its way down the empty vacuum of Matt’s lungs. The smoke was so thick it was like a fuzzy carpet crawling down his throat into his very core. The zoo allowed him to fall into a coughing fit on the rough, grainy roof as the stars seemed to speed across the night like tracing sapphires, their sparks setting fire to the deep blue fluffy clouds. The horse and mouse jeered over him in vibrant distortion, their immobile rubber features slowly turning into living bestial flesh.

  ‘Hey, Matt, that shit kicked in yet?’ the mouse asked, whiskers twitching, the shiny black eyes gazing at him malevolently over his buck teeth.

  The world seemed to tilt sharply on Matt, preventing him from regaining his footing. He couldn’t talk, his brain was multi-coloured sludge, all light and shapes but lacking form or logic. The neighing horse and the tittering mouse continued to shift from cheery cartoon caricatures to something more sinister, slowly degrading into ugly, diseased and violent looking specimens. The horse neck seemed to loom over him with impossible height, stretching to giraffe-like proportions, the distant head leering down at him from besides the snarling, haranguing expression of the moon, two faces silently whispering bloody threats and invectives from the cosmos. The mouse fur turned damp and shabby like a sewer rat, the beady eyes shimmering with hunger for flesh. Matt’s perception of distance was completely undone. The tormentors seemed to at once be reaching out to grab him before diminishing to a far-off landscape, a vanishing point of urban decay and devilish dancing creatures. The screeching gibbon seemed to appear beside the flaming trash before exiting stage right, vanishing from Matt’s line of sight in a dreadful surge of paranoia.

  Where’s he gone? Oh God, where did he go? He’s going to cut me.

  Matt continued to scrabble away, his confused limbs practically fumbling over one another as his body temperature rose, his heart punching into his ribs like a vicious woodpecker determined to break free of its cage. With the menacing jeering following him, Matt stretched out another hand, clawing for an escape he couldn’t actually discern, when he noticed the skin on the back of his hand rise up in waves, bubbling, the boiling mass of spheres becoming a tiny legion of pallid-fleshed mushroom people. Another horrified gasp died in his throat quickly. Holding his hand away from his face, away from the tiny snarling features of the running fungi, he somehow managed to blunder from the scraped denim of his knees into a shaky legged stance. Distance was still a maddening prospect, his outstretched arm was pole-length, but still not long enough, he couldn’t put enough space between himself and the army of miniature mushroom men. Their rage-slanted eyes and screaming mouths moved in silent shouts upon the stems of their bodies, the yellow and red caps looking like scaly sunhats. He manically tried to brush them off with his other hand, but found his hand warping harmlessly right through them. They kept on marching.

  Oh God, oh God, I need to lose the arm, they’re going to kill me. Rational thought was impossible with the chemical fogging his brain. Matt needed to find a knife, needed to cut off this ill limb. The drawn-out wails of mourning continued to flutter on the cold air from the materialistic and mentally destitute scurrying about on the trash-strewn streets below, locked in their own permanent demented odysseys. Noakes was filming Matt’s entire breakdown with his phone, fascinated by the speed of the designer drug’s effect.

  ‘Crankenstein’s fucking ca-ray-zee.’ Staubach’s voice was ripe with humour and enjoyment, playing with his switchblade. ‘Whatcha think, Dodd? You fancy a hit?’

  Dodd silently shook his head, nervously running his right hand up and down his slack left arm. Matt was scratching his right arm red raw, still vainly attempting to grind and smear the yelling mushroom folk nearing the crease of his elbow. With unfocused legs, he staggered into the knee-high wall of the parapet, coming close to toppling over the side. Hearing a crystal clink of glass, Matt realised he had kicked a broken shard. Using the low wall like a drunkard to assist him in his crouch, his frantic eyes tore away from the stampede of cap-heads and found the glass. With a sharp breath of resignation and misery, he began to slice at his arm, the white hot lines yielding red free flowing tributaries from the deep crimson vaults in his limb. Screaming in pain, he watched as the bloodied glass sawed through swathes of the fungi armada, drowning them in blood but the nightmare was ceaseless as more caps began to sprout from his gushing blood like fertile soil. He had to cut deeper, he would have to lose the arm. Despite his crumbling sanity, he couldn’t bring himself to wreak more self-inflicted carnage. Dropping the wet and sticky shard, he threw one more horrified glance at the trippy animals who seemed to dance and celebrate across the elastic distance of the horizon and awkwardly used his good hand to fix himself in place on the spinning rooftop.

  Matt placed his left foot on the parapet to a wild enthusiastic cheer. Then his right. He turned to face the obsidian world of burned-out brick buildings and smashed cars, watching the shadowy scarecrow forms tremble about on the black streets beneath the laughing moon. The cap-people were already at his shoulder, they would be at his neck in a few seconds, then his face, his mouth, eyes, ravaging. A giant midnight serpent slithered along between the rows of buildings at a distant intersection, snacking on some of the staggering moaning forms locked in this hell with him.

  Not anymore.

  He stepped into the air and plummeted five storeys to his death.

  Walking over to the edge with an amped-up Staubach, Noakes used Matt’s phone to zoom in on his ragdoll body, a crescent of dark blood seeping from his head. Noakes turned it to face himself, allowing the horse to say a few words. ‘That’s for Lloyd.’

  Chapter 29

  Huddled in his dark room, Neil forced himself to re-watch it, tears in his e
yes and a hot tang of sick curdling in the back of his throat. It was hard to breathe. His entire existence felt artificial, a cheap fabrication which couldn’t possibly be real. He dropped the phone, powerless to erase what he had just watched. This couldn’t be happening. They killed him. Why were they accusing him of Frogmore’s deed? What connected him to Lloyd? The dead can’t spill their secrets. His thoughts weaved a skein of paranoia and far-fetched conclusions, connecting dots in any fevered way they could, but the most prominent conclusion offered little doubt.

  Frogmore set this in motion.

  The timing and circumstances were too strong to ignore. Would they murder anybody else in this vendetta? Sam? Lindsey? His parents? And if they did target them there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Except he knew that wasn’t quite true.

  Frogmore. He needed Frogmore. One enemy to slay another. But what about when the dust settled? Would the whimsical-looking terror leave him be or orchestrate further acts of retribution?

  ‘…Fuck,’ he tried to mutter but his tight throat made it sound like a wet click. A goddamn croak. Stifling a groan like a trapped animal, he eased off his mattress and tiptoed to the window, undid the latch and slowly raised it open, feeling the room’s temperature plummet.

  Quiet, he knew, was how he needed to play this with his parents sleeping down the hall. Murmured conversation would do him no good if they stirred awake, listening to their once troubled son engaging in idle conspiracies with himself. They might think he had slipped back into his old ways; that the Risperdal had left him vulnerable to random episodes. It felt like a prison break, sneaking out past the guards of his own wellbeing and the fortification of his sheltered life.

  Out on the frigid roof, the cold world seemed to be watching him with icy calculation, waiting for him to finally snap. The image of Matt, face down, dead on the pavement ran in circles in his head with endless stamina, fuelling his own resolve. He had caused this with his towering naiveté, allowing Frogmore to leap in and gain the upper hand in their bizarre, sordid little relationship. He scooted along the gentle incline of the slate, staying close to the wall, putting enough distance between himself and the open bedroom window so as to not arouse attention or suspicion. Choking on a fist-sized lump in his throat, he closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. Opening his lids, he stared into the dark garden, a shadowy world of bushes and plants.

  ‘Froggy.’ His voice was quiet, an affectation of calm control. After several seconds, he was still perched alone, spotlit by the ghostly torch of the moon. ‘Froggy…’ he tried again, a tremor of defeat and need sticking to his voice like moss.

  Nothing.

  A scream of madness was brewing in his throat, the urge to lash out, expending his rage and helplessness on futile destruction. Then, a shot of hope invigorated his senses, catching sight of the amphibian springing up and down on his neighbour’s trampoline. There was no squeaky cry from the springs, the frog was light as a feather when he wanted to be; his height and flips were the product of his own showboating abilities. With a final graceful bound, he vaulted over the fence, eclipsing the glowing rocky satellite and landed noiselessly on the dark frost-tipped grass. Standing upright imperiously, he slowly strutted towards Neil like the restroom row had frayed their comfy union. Neil became lost in those terrible, toy-like yellow eyes, watching this creature confidently moving towards him from below. It was if Frogmore deigned this summoning.

  With an effortless hop, Frogmore turned around in mid-air, landing in a silent squat beside Neil. After all his drive to get this done, Neil now found it hard to talk. Frogmore took the initiative but didn’t look at him, deciding to keep his attention on the nightly world of the neighbourhood prowlers. ‘So you came to your senses. Forswear on your threat to smother me from existence with another plethora of drugs?’ he asked petulantly.

  Neil shivered, unsure if it was just from the low temperature or from what disaster lay ahead. There was no turning back now. No alternative option. Tears of shock and grief leaked out. ‘They killed Matt. Tonight…they killed him. They think I had something to do with Lloyd’s drowning.’

  Frogmore hung his head and sighed, ‘That’s ridiculous. Why you?’

  Neil exhaled a frosty cloud and studied the anthropomorphic friend beside him. You conniving bastard, he thought. Could it be he’s playing me for an idiot? Neil knew any empathy Frogmore held for him was rooted purely in self-preservation. Only now, maybe the little monster was starting fires all over in a desperate attempt to be needed. But at this stage did it really make any difference? He was stuck with him. He had to make a blood pact. ‘I don’t know.’ Neil noticed his voice had gone as cold as the night air. ‘Noakes didn’t say. But he and Staubach made it clear that there’s no one I can turn to for help. Grainger, the one who they work for, he owns a bunch of the cops in town. Maybe others…I don’t know.’ A hint of anger started a low boil in his temperament, ‘They said that if I try anything they’re going to hurt more people I love. Family, Sam—’ Neil spotted a twitch in Frogmore’s eyes at the mention of Sam’s name, almost a bored dismissive roll ‘—Lindsey.’

  ‘So they want to play roughhouse, huh?’

  ‘You raised the stakes,’ Neil said with disgust. ‘Now I need your help to finish it. I need them all to go away.’

  Frogmore leaned in several inches, a warm sincerity exuding from his mottled olive green flesh. ‘Neil, you’re the only friend I have. I’ll do whatever it takes to help you.’ The toad’s manner was unctuous.

  Neil felt the reed-thin but surprisingly strong arms close around him, breathing in the scent of his tweed coat and a powerful mucky aroma of pond water; his cheek was pressed against the cold, slippery flesh of Frogmore’s head.

  ‘And I’ll make you proud, pal.’ Frogmore ended the embrace but allowed his hand to hang on Neil’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. ‘Let the past be the past and I’ll protect our future. So…who’s first?’

  Chapter 30

  The Firebird grumbled through the dark tunnel of trees and mist creeping along Wilmslow Road, kicking up gravel as it swung from the bending road to the floodlit lot of Garth’s Auto. It was two am but there was always an open door policy for a relative and confederate of Grainger, and such antisocial hours were often reserved for antisocial matters. Noakes easily avoided the worst of the pot holes in the lot; even without the bright beams of his headlights his experience could have allowed him to navigate the worst cavities with his eyes closed. Driving over the final natural hump of the ground, he eased his angry baby to a rumbling stop on the oily concrete.

  The defensive unwelcoming eyes of Mac peered through the blinds of the office, the steel softening when they recognised the vehicle. Noakes cast an involuntary glance at the horse mask on his passenger seat before removing the keys from the ignition and climbing out. The work bays were unoccupied, the orderly tools and cars in various states of repair left to brave the cold damp air. Noakes arched his back, stretching the muscles, and cracked his neck with a tired groan. Clutching the keys in one callused palm, he headed over to the office, admiring the assortment of beautiful women pinned to the door, some in bikinis, some a bit less modest.

  Mac opened the door before he reached the handle. ‘Noakes, can’t sleep?’

  ‘I just had to take care of something. I always feel restless afterwards.’

  Mac stepped aside, allowing the youth to enter the den of old cons and thieves. The inner circle of the mechanics were seated around a battered old wooden table loaded with coloured chips and cards. Mac’s short hair was coated with the salty grey of age, making it almost a tonal match for the thick cigarette fumes which hung over Garth and the other poker players like a thundercloud waiting for a stroke of bad luck before raining down on the loser. The old black mechanic closed the door after Noakes and returned to his seat, lit another cigarette and collected his cards.

  Garth squinted through tired eyes at Noakes, somehow able to stare right through the young man — a chi
ld really — and finding the exact thread which had him at a loose end. ‘Is it getting any easier?’ Garth looked back at his cards then threw another hundred dollars’ worth of chips into the pot. Noakes glanced at him, confused, and headed to the crate of opened beer on the desk in the corner of the small office.

  ‘Get me one too, kid,’ Cal, the beefiest of the grease monkeys called out.

  Noakes grabbed several beers from the half-empty crate. ‘Am I that transparent?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  Noakes looked mildly annoyed and started popping the caps on all of the gathered bottles, watching them plink off the black and white chessboard vinyl floor.

  ‘These walls don’t have ears but we do, if you need to ease your conscience.’

  Noakes sipped the beer but didn’t taste it, feeling more than ever that this identity which was thrust upon him was ill-fitting. ‘I’ll ride it out.’

  Garth snickered, not from amusement but from Noakes’s exhausting stoicism routine. ‘You’re shitting me, right? Son, I’ve been in this world a damn sight longer than you. You might be walking streets that I am soon to be retiring from but I’ve been around the block more times than you can count. You have that same look in your eye as last time. I know it’s not getting easier. What number was this, your fourth?’

  The silence was unbroken apart from the gentle rattle of the space heater. Noakes’s troubled silence confirmed the figure. ‘It’s not always fair for a man to be denied his own shadow.’ Garth watched Mac raise some chips. ‘This stays between us, Jason. But Ralph has plenty of muscle. I know it’s too late for you to become a saint, but you shouldn’t force yourself to become a devil either. Your dad had his talents. You have yours. My offer of working here is always open. You listen, you’re pretty good with your hands. You can be a mechanic, like these ugly sons o’ bitches. You can even get to keep your pinkie in the cesspool, perks of the job, but you don’t need to be a soldier.’