Lot of times the families weren't exactly too sad to see the old folks go, because they wanted the old people's money. Which is why Ricky didn't bother to steal any more. Now Ricky took contracts instead, made it look natural. Much safer, more secret, more lucrative – for the time being. Sooner or later the suits would catch on and increase security somehow, and Ricky would move out, and start blackmailing the families instead. Even the kind of people who'd pay to have Gramps whacked had to be living in a Wonder World of their own, if they didn't realize it would come back to haunt them some day.
Ricky finally found Gecko Super Terrace III, drove a little way along it. Pulled over to the kerb, looked up at a house and checked the address. Grunted with satisfaction. He was in the right place.
Margaret Harris, eighty-four years old, was worth maybe three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all told, including the Homeland house. Not such a hell of a lot, but her son and daughter-in-law could get the bigger boat a couple years earlier, and without working all those unsociable hours and missing cocktail hour. Upgrade the satellite, get a widescreen TV for the den. Maybe they'd throw their children a bone too. A games station. A bike. A last visit to Wonder World.
As John Harris, the son, had put it while slurping a large scotch to blur his conscience: they were just realizing an unwanted asset.
Margaret Harris had herself a kind of tiny Tudor mansion, dark beams and whitewash, exaggerated leans in the walls and gingerbread thatch. There was a light on in a downstairs room, behind a curtain. The grass in the front yard was all the same perfect fucking length. Maybe it was animatronic grass. Maybe it sang a happy wake-up call in the morning, a million blades in unison.
Nicola looked at the house too. ‘Is this where she lives?’
‘That's right. You remember what I want you to do?’
She looked away, didn't answer for a moment.
‘I had a grandma,’ she said, ‘I saw her twice. She gave me a ring, but Mommy took it. She died when I was six. Mommy got so drunk she wet herself.’
Ricky nearly hit her then, but stopped himself just in time. It was like that with the ones like her. Part of wanting to fuck them was finding them just too fucking irritating to bear. He forced himself to speak calmly. ‘This isn't your grandma, okay? Do you remember, Nicola? What I want you to do?’
‘Of course,’ the girl said. She opened the door and got out.
Swearing quietly, Ricky got out his side, slipped the gun into his pocket, then followed her up the path to the Harris house.
Nicola rang the doorbell a second time, and Ricky heard someone moving inside the house. He stepped back into shadow. Nicola stood in front of the door, waiting.
‘Who is it?’ The voice was old, cracked but not quavery. The kind of voice that says I'm pretty old but not ready to drop just yet.
‘Hi Grandma!’ Nicola piped, leaning forward to peer through the diamond of swirled glass in the door. She waved her hand. ‘I've come to see you!’
‘Theresa?’ The oldster's voice was uncertain, but Ricky caught the sound of locks being tentatively drawn. This was the second key moment. This was the moment where the kid had to be good enough so that the old woman didn't press the Worry Button put beside the door of every Homeland house. The button that would alert Wonder World's version of security that something was sharp and spiky in the dream tonight.
The final slide bolt, and the door opened a crack. ‘Theresa?’
Margaret Harris was small, maybe five feet tall. She was grandma-shaped and had white hair done up in a curly style. Her face was plump and lined and she was wearing one of those dresses that old people wear, flowers on a dark background. You opened a dictionary and looked up ‘Grandma’ and she was pretty much what you'd see.
‘You're not Theresa,’ she said.
‘Oh no,’ Nicola laughed. ‘I'm Theresa's friend. Theresa said if we were passing by we should call in and say hello.’
Ricky stepped into the light, an apologetic smile on his face. ‘Hi there, Mrs Harris. Hope this is okay – Theresa's telling Nicola here about you all the time. John said you probably wouldn't mind. Meant to call ahead, but you know how it is.’
‘You're a friend of JohN's?’
‘Work right across the hall from him at First Virtual.’
Mrs Harris hesitated a final moment, then smiled back, her face crinkling in a pattern which started from the eyes. ‘Well I guess it's okay then. Come on in.’
The hallway looked like a painted background from an old Wonder World cartoon: higgledy stairs, everything neat, colours washed and clean. When the door was shut behind them, Ricky knew the job was done.
‘You can't be too careful these days,’ the old woman said, predictably, leading Nicola through to the kitchen to make some coffee. Right, thought Ricky, following at a distance, and you haven't been careful enough.
He hung outside for a moment, scoping the place, listening with half an ear to the sound of Nicola chatting with the old bag in the kitchen. Jeez, the kid could lie: what's happening at school, party she went to with Theresa last week, Theresa borrowing her shoes. Listening to her, you'd think she really did know the woman's granddaughter. Make-believe again, some life she wished she had.
Ricky debated disabling the Worry Button, finally decided it wasn't necessary. Difficult to do, anyhow – and just smashing it would leave a clue. This one was too easy to make it worth taking the risk.
The kitchen was small, cosy, tricked up to look like the kind of place where there would always be something in the oven, instead of ready-made shit in the microwave. Pots, pastry cutters, a rolling pin. Probably Wonder World sent someone into everyone's house every day, made sure the props looked just right. Grandma Harris turned as Ricky entered and handed a cup of coffee up to him. She smiled, twinkle-eyed, relaxed – the kid had put her at ease.
Ricky made a mental note that the cup and saucer would need wiping when he was done. Nicola had a glass of Dr Pepper – that would need washing too. He sipped the coffee – might as well – and deflected a couple of questions about working with the great John Harris. Pathetic, really, the way the old woman was eager for any news of her son, wanted telling how people liked him. Suddenly, he just wanted to lash out and shove his cup right down the old fart's throat. It would be a whole lot quicker, and put her out of misery she didn't even know she was in. But he knew how it had to look, and death by ingestion of china tea set wouldn't play.
Meantime, Nicola and Grandma sat at the table, yakking nineteen to the dozen. Nicola had a lot of Grandma-talking to do, even if she had to make do with someone else's. Ricky let his eyes glaze over, mulling what he was going to do to the kid later. He enjoyed doing that, getting the comparison, just like he liked looking at girls in the street and imagining them on the job, their hands or mouth busy, face wet with sweat. They'd never know, but they'd been his. Ricky rode that line, that fine line, between the life they lived and the life that could come and find them in the night.
‘Isn't that right, Daddy?’
‘Huh?’ Ricky looked at the girl dully, having missed the question. ‘What's that?’
‘Nicola was just saying how you and John were planning a joint vacation for the families later in the year,’ Mrs Harris said. ‘That's wonderful news. Do you think you might be able to make it up here again? We'd have such fun.’
‘Sure,’ Ricky said, abruptly deciding this had gone on long enough and was getting out of hand. ‘No question. Hey, Mrs Harris – meant to ask you something.’
‘Of course.’ Grandma was beside herself at the prospect of another visit later in the year. She'd have agreed to anything. ‘What is it?’
‘John told me about some pictures, old photos, you've got at the top of the stairs? Kind of an interest of mine. He said you might not mind me taking a peek at them.’
‘I'd be delighted.’ The old woman beamed. ‘Come, let's go up.’ Nicola jumped to her feet, but Ricky flashed a glare at her.
Grandma raised an eyebrow. �
��Wouldn't you like to come too, dear?’
Nicola avoided Ricky's eye. ‘Could I have another Dr Pepper first?’
‘Help yourself, then follow us up. Now come on – Rick, isn't it? – let's go take a look.’
Ricky sent another ‘Stay here’ look at the kid, followed Grandma out. Made interested grunts every now and then as the old woman talked and led him across the hall to the stairs. A couple of objects caught Ricky's eye on the way, and he planned on picking them up later, before he left. Little bonus.
Up the stairs behind her. Feeling very little. No fear, no excitement. Just watching for the best moment. Mrs Harris walked up the stairs slowly, hitching one leg up after the other. Her voice might be strong but her body was saying goodbye. She wouldn't be losing much.
They got to the first landing, and Ricky saw that there were indeed a whole bunch of really fucking dull-looking black and whites in frames there on the wall. John Harris had the whole thing planned out, gave Ricky this way of getting her up to the scaffold. Ricky debated telling the old woman about that, letting her see what lay beyond her wonder world, that the son she'd raised had sat in his study one night drinking cheap scotch and working it all out. But by then Margaret Harris was standing right by him, and he knew the time was right and he wanted to get it over with. The real bonus was waiting for him in the kitchen. He didn't need any cheap thrills first.
This picture was her mother, that one her grandpapa. Gone-away people, stiff in fading monotone.
Ricky leaned towards her, apparently to get a closer look at a bunch of people grouped in front of a raggedy farm building – but actually to get the right angle.
For a moment then he was distracted, by a scent. It seemed to come from the old woman's clothes, and was a combination of things: of milk and cinnamon, rich coffee and apples cooking on the stove. Leaves barely on the trees in fall, and the smell of sun on grass in summer. These things weren't a part of his life, but for a moment he had them in his mind – like they were part of some story he'd read long ago, as a child, and just dismissed.
Then he pushed her down the stairs.
Palm flat against her shoulder, feeling the bones inside the old, thin flesh. He straightened his arm firmly, which was enough – and wouldn't leave a bruise which some forensic smartass might be able to talk up into evidence.
The old woman teetered, without making a sound, and then her centre of gravity was all wrong and she just tumbled over sideways, over the edge and down the stairs.
Thump, crash, thud, splat. Like a loose bag of sticks.
Ricky walked briskly down the stairs after her, reached the bottom bare seconds after she did. Held back from kicking her head, which would have been risky and was clearly unnecessary. Huge dent in the skull already, eyes turned upwards and out of sight. Arm twisted a strange way, one leg bent back on itself. The usual anti-climax.
Job done.
He stepped quickly over the body and to the kitchen, stopping Nicola already on her way out. She ran into him, crashed against his body. He grabbed her shoulders, warm through the thin T-shirt.
‘What happened? I heard a crash.’
Usually he killed the kid at this point, before they got hysterical and made too much noise or ran out of the house. Ricky pushed Nicola gently back into the kitchen, felt his temperature rising. Needed her alive to do things with, but he couldn't do them here. ‘Nothing. Just an accident. Mrs Harris fell down the stairs.’
‘Grandma?’
‘She's not your grandma, sweetie. You know that.’
‘We've got to get help …’
Ricky smiled down at her. ‘We will. That's exactly what we'll do. We'll get in the car, go find one of the security wagons. They'll help her out. She'll get fixed up and we'll catch the end of the parade.’
The girl was near tears. ‘I want to stay here with her.’
He pretended to think about it, then shook his head. ‘Can't do that. Security gets here while I'm away, find you with an old lady at the bottom of the stairs, what they going to think? They're going to think you pushed her.’
‘They won't. She was my grandma. Why would I hurt her?’
Ricky glared at her, good humour fast disappearing. ‘She wasn't your fucking grandma. Just some old woman.’
Nicola pushed hard against him, momentarily rocking him on his heels. ‘She was too. She knew about me. She knew things. She said not to worry about my mom any more. She said she loved me.’
Ricky lashed out with his hand, shoved the kid hard. She flew back, ricocheted off the table and knocked the coffee pot flying. It struck the wall, spraying brown gunk everywhere, just as Nicola crashed to the floor. Ricky cursed himself. Not clever. Just going to make it more difficult to get her out of the house, plus it was going to look like signs of a struggle. He took a deep breath, stepped towards her. Maybe he was going to have to just kill her after all.
‘Nicola? Are you okay, dear?’
Ricky froze, foot just hitting the floor. Turned slowly round.
Grandma stood in the doorway. One eye fluttered slowly, the one below the huge dent which pulled most of the side of her face out of kilter. The arm was still bent way out of place. Her body was completely fucked up, but somehow she'd managed to drag herself to the door, to her feet.
Nicola struggled into a sitting position against the wall behind Ricky. ‘Grandma – are you all right?’
Of course she's not fucking all right, Ricky thought. No way.
Grandma leaned against the door frame, as if tired. ‘I'm fine, dear. Just had a little fall, isn't that right Rick?’ Her working eye fixed on him.
Ricky felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise like a thousand tiny erections. Then her other eye stopped flickering. Closed for a moment, reopened – and then he had two strong eyes looking at him. Tough old bitch.
Ricky reached for the table, grabbed the rolling pin lying there. This job was getting very fucked up, but he was going to finish it now.
‘Close your eyes, dear,’ Grandma said. She wasn't talking to him, but the kid. ‘Would you do that, for Grandma? Just close your eyes for a while.’
‘Close them tight?’ Nicola asked, voice small.
‘Yes, close them extra tight,’ Grandma nodded, trying to smile. ‘And I'll tell you when you can open them again.’
Ricky saw the girl shut her eyes and cover her ears. He shook his head, turned back to the old woman, rolling pin held with loose ease. He took a measured stride towards her, not hurrying. Ricky had been in bad situations all his life, had been beaten up and half-killed on a hundred occasions, starting with the times that happened in his own bedroom, a room that had no posters on the walls or books on shelves or little figures of cartoon animals. Ricky's old man hadn't believed in make-believe either; was proud of being cynical – ‘That's what I am, boy, I'm nobody's fool’ – and working the angles and telling God's honest truth however fucking dull it was. His lessons had been painful, but Ricky knew he'd been right.
Ricky wasn't afraid of an old woman, no matter how tough she might be, and he just grinned at her, looking forward to seeing what the pin was going to do to her face. She looked back at him, head tilted up, grey hair awry and skin papery, and then her head popped back out.
One minute her skull was caved in, the next it was back where it should be, like someone pumped exactly the right amount of air back into a punctured balloon. It made a sound like cellophane.
Ricky gawped, arm aloft.
Grandma swallowed, blinked, then did something with her fucked-up arm. Swung it around from behind her – and as it came it seemed to become more solid, find the right planes to rotate on again. She bent it experimentally, found it worked, and used it to pat her dry hair more or less back into place.
‘You're a very bad boy, Ricky,’ she said, softly, too quietly for Nicola to hear. ‘And bad boys never see Santa Claus. Hear what I'm saying, motherfuck?’
Before Ricky could even process this sentence, Margaret Harris had hurled her
self at him. He tried to turn, bring the pin down, but only managed to twist halfway round at the waist. She smacked into him sideways, and the two of them spun off the corner of the table to crash into the wall. Ricky felt his nose bend and melt, and realized there was going to be blood to clean up as well as everything else.
He tried to push the old woman away, but she looped a fist straight into his face. It cracked hard against his cheekbone, far too hard. The rolling pin went spinning across the floor.
Ricky kicked and scrambled, lashing out feet, hands and elbows in a flurry of compact violence. Each time he thought he was finally going to be able to dislodge her, she seemed to gain a notch in strength. They rolled back and forth under the table, smashing a chair to firewood, and out the other side. Ricky heard Nicola squeal, and a small part of his mind was able to hope their neighbours hadn't heard. Then he found himself with two gnarled hands tight around his throat, and almost wished they had, and were sending help. For him.
He finally managed to pull his knee up under the old bitch, and gradually forced his hands in between hers. When they were in position he steadied himself for a second, got his breath – and then threw everything he had, chopping his hands in opposite directions, and kicking out hard.
The old woman flew a yard and hit the stove like an egg.
Ricky was on his feet almost immediately, hands on his knees and coughing like a bastard. When he swallowed, something clicked alarmingly in his throat. Nicola was still squeaking, eyes shut, but he heard it as from a great distance. He could taste his blood, and see it spattered on the wall and floor – in amongst the coffee and a few lumps of grey hair that he managed to yank out of the robot.
A fucking animatronic. Had to be. He'd been set up. John Harris had changed his mind, or more likely been a plant from minute one and there'd never been a real Grandma Harris. Fuckers. Wonder World weren't working with the cops. They were settling things their own way.
And so would Ricky. The job was over, and it didn't matter how much mess he left. He was getting out, and then going to find Mr Harris. The fee had just gone up to include everything the bastard owned, including his wife. And his daughter.
What You Make It: A Book of Short Stories Page 36