by Неизвестный
II
Manny swore to himself for killing Father Casio, he was a fool to leave his body behind, but churchgoers were soon to come in. Packing the wrapped bundle of the man who saw too much into the trunk of the stolen Chevy Impala, he slammed the hood closed and let out the emergency brake. The hulk of metal crashed nose first into the polluted water of the river. Gurgling, explosive bubbles shot out through the open windows as the roof slowly submerged. When the shiny brown paint disappeared from all sight, Manny felt confident the car would never be found. Ripples of its' continuing movement broke the surface until the angry boil finally ceased. The water was deeper than he thought. Wads of banded money bulged through his clothes and weighed down his backpack. With a burst of adrenaline, he realized he had covered his tracks. No one could connect the robbery of the bank to him. The last minute customer almost botched the plan, but he had found him in time. He would have let him go, but the man walked in just as he was pulling off the ski mask.
It was time to leave the city before authorities went looking for suspects. The death of the Priest was sure to incite some fervour. If he could get far enough away without being seen, the people would turn against themselves and accuse the wrong man for the murder and robbery. It often happened so the minds of the people could be at ease and any anger or fear could be subdued. Manny did not care if an innocent man went to jail for him, that was part of the plan. That’s why he had tossed a stack of marked bills out of the car window on Bolivia Street, where the heroin deals go down, it was just a matter of time. He knew that it was standard procedure for the bank tellers to mix marked money in with the regular bills. The marked money had sequential serial numbers printed on them and usually started with a high number like nine. It was time to lay low. There was a cave in the woods where he would hide out and wait before traveling to Sangral.
III
That evening, Manny sat in the darkness of the cave as bat wings fluttered out through the opening and into the night. It was hot and the sounds of the forest just outside were over powering to his ears. There was an occasional crack of sticks and crunch of leaves that awoke his paranoia. What sounded like footsteps was nothing but the slow hunt of nocturnal creatures. Red sunlight blazed low in the sky. After a while, he turned on the radio and tuned into the news report. Police were still searching for a suspect in the robbery. They knew it was one man. Investigators had managed to track down some of the stolen money and they were confident to have the case solved within the week. The reporters went on to frame a timeline of crime that revolved around Bolivia Street. Things were going as planned, but he couldn't listen to anymore.
Thoughts of his last meeting with Sal swam in his thoughts. The deal between them went sour when Sal refused to give him the money for taking out the "trash" as he called it. Sal tried to convince him to come back for the money, but Manny knew what would happen if he came to collect, he had heard about his treachery. Acknowledgment turned into rage. Manny put the pieces together right there, he was never supposed to succeed, it was a fool's errand. By stupid luck however, he managed to sneak into the prosecutor’s home and kill the man in his bathroom without being noticed by the guards. When he emerged from the thought, Sal had a gun pulled on him and didn't hesitate to pull the trigger, but instead of firing, it did nothing. Seizing the opportunity, Manny hopped across the desk and grabbed him by the shirt. Before he could cry out, Manny landed blow after blow to the side of his face and did not stop until the stubby gold ringed fingers ceased clawing his face. Quickly he picked up the gun and pointed it at the unconscious body on the floor. The manual safety switch was engaged. He unlatched it with his thumb, keeping aim, wondering what he was going to do next. Sal was a powerful man who, everyone knew, dabbled in black magic. No one crossed him. Manny had to get away but he needed money. That was when he decided to rob the bank. First, something had to be done about Sal. Manny had crossed the line by shooting the prosecutor, it was his first kill, now he was looking at his second, but for some reason, he could not do it. Instead, he beat him with a brick while he lay there. It would at least buy him some time. A few days at best and by that time, he would be in Sangral. As he laid there in the darkness of the cave, he thought about the way everything seemed to have spiralled out of his control and how easily Sal played him. There must have been countless others like him looking for a way out, led astray by the promise of freedom for one big job. He planned on changing his life. He had enough of the meagre earnings as a thief. Never once did he think things would become so complicated, but Sal had fucked everything up and he was running scared, falling deeper into crime. He killed three men in one week. Using the backpack loaded with money as a pillow, he hunkered down and fell into a troubled sleep.
IV
Dawn came quickly and with it, the multitude of birds on their first flight of the day. Manny woke to the silhouette of someone at the mouth of the cave. They just stood there looking into the shadows, directly at the spot he laid.
“They can't see me, it's too dark in here,” he thought, yet he could tell by the direction of shadowy angles, that the eyes of the stranger were upon him. Manny gripped the pistol and twisted on the silencer until it clicked into place. Suddenly, the person shuffled inward and Manny squeezed the trigger. In the flash of light from the gun's barrel, he saw a shocking sight.
“No, it is impossible,” he thought. The person staggered and fell back. Seizing the backpack, Manny jumped up and ran toward the opening. Looking once more behind him, he cautiously ventured out. He had to hold his breath to hear the sounds of the forest over his panicked breathing. Every sound seemed amplified. Snaking a way through the trees brought back sickening memories of childhood.
Manny's father used to chase him whenever he was drunk. No matter where he ran, his father would find him then beat him with a belt fashioned into a makeshift whip. Sometimes he would cry and say he loved him, that he had to punish the evil spirits that were inside him. The truth was, alcohol made his father crazy. On his twelfth birthday he managed to pin his father down. He was sick of the abuse. With his hands around his father's throat, he squeezed until he felt something snap but stopped short of taking his life. His father's eyes burned with an unforgivable fire. It was as though he was the ultimate failure for not having gone all the way, almost like he wanted to be strangled. That was the last time they saw each other. He had run off through the trees.
There was movement in the woods behind him now, the sound of footsteps. Branches whipped against his face as he stumbled through marshy puddles, falling waist deep in some areas, still clutching the backpack with his money, food and water. Much like his childhood destination, Manny ran for the fading light of his two bright stars, his secret stars which shone side by side. They were the ones that led him to Sangral so long ago.
After running for what seemed like hours, he stopped to rest for water and catch his breath, Manny prayed to be free. Now he was terribly lost, deep in the woods somewhere. There was the sensation of things crawling on his skin, he knew they were leeches from the way they itched and wanted badly to pull them off, but the footsteps still pursued after. With the progression of the morning came the heat of the midsummer air. A vision of the face from the cave entrance flashed into his mind.
“It is impossible, it couldn't have been him,” he thought. "Maybe I'm imagining all of this, maybe I'm being chased by my own conscience". Manny was dogged by tiredness and a painful cramp in his side. It was time for a standoff. Inside the backpack were his pistol and a hunting knife. As he fumbled with the metal clasp, the sound of footfall shown whoever it was, was close by. In one last attempt to run, Manny picked up the pack, stumbled through a stream, ran through a dense cove of thin white birch trees and collapsed. "Instead of killing the evil that had stolen my innocence, I took the lives of innocent men, a holy man. Maybe my father saw these things in me long ago and tried to get me to do the right thing", he thought. “All that is going to change soon,” he said to himself, thinking of Sa
ngral. His vision was beginning to blacken from lack of food and severe strain. White dots popped in front of his eyes and he felt sick. Breaking branches and crunching leaves patiently progressed toward him, but he could not move. Stumbling through the trees came Father Casio. Manny gasped from fright and took aim, shooting him yet again, until the gun's hammer clashed against the empty cylinder. The metallic click continued as he fired imaginary bullets for good measure. Gun smoke slowly rose up, mixing into the moist wet forest air. The emptiness between the trees seemed to suck the air into its depths. Clouds drifted lazily across the sky and into the path of the sun. Uncertain if it was his imagination, he waited with the empty gun still drawn. A blue hand reached up from behind some of the forest's undergrowth. Followed by the horrid green, blistered head littered with seeping black bullet holes. Manny crawled back slowly, leaving the pack full of money behind.
“Take it.” he yelled pointing to the backpack, “you can have it back.” His cries echoed the boyhood submission of being trapped in the henhouse by his father. No matter where he went, he could not hide. He was too young to know his feet left prints in the soft ground.
Father Casio's slow feet walked through the creek. Manny held his breath trying to tame the ringing in his ears caused by the blood pounding through his heart. The high pitched whine sounded like violins, playing their highest note. Holding the stitch in his side and gasping for air, he tried to crawl over a rotten log. It crushed under his weight and he fell into its' oozing core. The smell of wet Earthy mould flushed into his nostrils as the gruesome face of Father Casio came into view around the woody hedge. He stopped just feet from him. The late afternoon Sun emerged from behind the clouds and lit the forest with a bright midday glow. Manny crawled to his knees at the Father's feet.
“Please Father, forgive me?”
With a series of creaks and pops, the Priest crouched down to the height of Manny's face and whispered to him as though in the sanctity of the church.
“You murdered me and left my body there in the confessional. Day and night for two days, my vacant body was filled with the words of the sinners. Tears and promises and sorrows and lies whispered in my ears like dark saints presiding over the fate of my soul and I was not freed.” The smell was horrid as Father Casio exhausted the words. “I am here to free myself by eating your soul. You shall exist no more in any incarnation.”
Manny felt the Father's hand upon the back of his head. The feeling was so vibrant and peaceful. Walls of light flooded his vision, descending down into a pit that existed outside the boundaries of creation. The light that was his soul began to sift apart into ribbons of colour. Years of memories evaporating like mist in the wind. Deeper still into a sea of blackness until there was no more movement beneath the Priest's soiled hand. The sound of the birds and the wind replaced the swirling whispers inside Father Casio's ears. With the eyes of an unpossessed man, he looked at the woods around him. The stream trickled peacefully behind as he fell over. He smiled at the Sun and the feel of the ground under his face and that moist earthy smell of life continuing on without him.
Dig
By John McNee
Dear Occupant,
You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t know your name. I don’t mean to be impersonal. This is a very personal letter. Most personal. Forgive me. You’re a very attractive woman. You should know that. I wonder if people tell you. I sometimes imagine they must. It seems impossible that a beauty such as you should be able to make it through the day without at least twenty compliments, fifty declarations of love, a hundred marriage proposals… But then I see the scum that pass on the street outside and I think the most they must offer is a grunt and a vile expletive. It pains me. They’re the reason I can’t go outside, you know. They’re the reason we’ve never met. I know I shouldn’t fear them. I know. If anything, they should be the ones who fear me. They should fear me because I have nothing. Nothing but this house, my fantasies and a few rusted tools. I spend my days dreaming of breaking their heads open with my spade, cutting their whoops and hollers short with a swing of the pick. I wish I were capable of inflicting such pain. I dream of reigning violence down upon them. And I dream of you. I dream of your long brown hair, the touch of your skin, the feel of your loving caress. In my dreams I’ve gifted you with a thousand different voices, different accents. I know none of them are right. None of them are perfect. I know your voice - though I’ve never heard it - must be perfect. Every dream I have is of you, crossing the distance between us, opening your arms in a loving embrace, speaking kindness to me in your imperfect voice. You tell me you love me. When I awaken to find it was merely an illusion, I weep for hours. I don’t sleep much anymore. I’m getting carried away. I didn’t mean to go so over-the-top at the start. I was going to build up to all that. I’m inexperienced when it comes to this stuff. You must forgive me. I suppose by now you’re wondering who it is that’s sent you this letter. You must want to know all about me. I’m sorry, but there’s really not much to tell. We’re neighbours. I presume you’ve realised by now. Just two houses between us and we’ve never met. Amazing, yes? What else? I have no job. No family. No friends. Everyone I ever knew died or moved away after they closed the pit. Left me behind. All I have is the house. It’s been good to me all these years, but even it’s beginning to fall apart. You should see the mess I’ve made in the living room. Needs a woman’s touch. So what do I do all day, eh? No work, no friends. I don’t have a television and I don’t have a radio. I sit at various windows and I watch the people outside. I watch the degenerates swearing and spitting on the street corner. I see them drinking cheap cider, smashing the bottles in the road and then puking their guts up because they can’t handle it. I see wretched yellow-bellied cowards like me shuffling along the street, ignoring them, letting them get away with Hell. I see ugly children and mean old freaks and all the devils and demons who pass on the road. And I see you. In the mornings, when you leave for work. In the evenings when you return. Saturday mornings, heading to and from the corner shop. Saturday evenings meeting a taxi at the end of the road, dressed in a new outfit, with your beautiful hair curled. I see you. For those brief few seconds I’m as happy as I can be. If you don’t appear, if I miss you, I sink into despair. I’ve come close to suicide. I have. But even at my lowest ebb, I have never totally lost faith. I know we’ll be together. And soon. I make myself sound lazy, but that’s not true. It sounds as though I spend all day at the window, but I don’t. Not nearly. I have my hobbies. My hobby. My purpose. It keeps me very busy. Please excuse the dirt. I find it impossible to keep it off the page. Five feet deep. Getting started was the most difficult part. It’s not easy to dig into the foundations of a house. Even as shoddy a build as mine or yours. It’s tough when you’re trying to do it quickly. Tougher still when you’re trying to be quiet. These walls are thin as card and I wouldn’t want our neighbours to hear. That first night, hammering at the cement with the sledge till my wrist ached and my hands bled with splinters, I thought of giving up. It’s true. I did. But I kept at it. It helps to have inspiration. It helps having a goal. It helps to have you. I wonder what your name is. I wonder what you do for a living. I wonder what’s in that handbag you always carry around with you. I wonder what you look like once you’ve been stripped of that grey business suit. I look forward to finding all that out. I don’t mean to be crude. Please don’t stop reading. Finish the letter. Do that much for me. I don’t want to scare you. But I’ve got this coming to me. Do you understand? After the Hell I’ve lived through. After all the years of my life spent down in the dark, to be suddenly cast into the light, to have to move among the freaks and beggars that wander the surface of the world… You understand, don’t you? I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t cope with that. I know you understand. I know you do. You’ve seen them. I see you running the gauntlet of greasy yobs and lanky, baseball-capped youths. If I weren’t so afraid I would charge out and fight them off. I would batter them senseless. I would make them bleed. If
I were brave. But I’m not. I’m clever. I’m focused and methodical. I’m ever so quiet. But not brave. I’m owed a portion of happiness. I deserve to be with you. I wish I could just walk out into the street, knock on your door and introduce myself, but that could never happen. I can’t go outside. You’ve no idea what that would do to me. All the eyes watching me. I know what they’re like because I watch them. There’s ugliness on every street. There’s violence and hatred and horror. I can’t bear that. Even to be with you, I couldn’t face that. I’d rather crawl on my belly through the dirt and the dark. Better this way. I’m no novice. I know what I’m doing. I set the props. I make sure the structure is sound. I have light and I excavate as much soil and rock as I can drag back with me. You should see it. Hills of it all around my living room. They used to send a man round with food parcels from Social Services once a fortnight, but I won’t even let him through the door anymore. I can’t take the risk of him seeing what I’ve been up to. I’m getting very hungry. But it’s all going to be worth it. I’m very close. Closer than you know. I don’t know the names of the families who live between us, though I should. I’ve heard them shouting at each other through the walls and later through the dirt. I’m showered with soil as they charge about the house, yelling, their televisions blaring, and I try not to listen. Five feet seems awfully shallow then, but I feel the benefit, as I near the end. A sharp change in direction, so that I’m digging at an incline. Not long now. Cutting through concrete takes time, but not as long as you might think. And there isn’t much. Not the shoddy way they’ve built these houses. The way they’ve built yours. I’m not a novice, you see. You must see that. I know what I’m doing. I can be quiet. I can be discreet. All it takes is patience. I have patience. You bring that out in me. You inspire me. You inspired me to write this letter. Just think of that. Put yourself in my place and imagine it. When I’m so close to breaking through, to getting what I’ve fantasized about for so many months, my hands shaking with anticipation, I actually choose to sit down with pen and paper… and write. I knew you deserved more than the sudden introduction you might otherwise have received. You deserve to understand something about me. You need to know why I’ve done what I’ve done. You need to understand why I’ve sought to bring us together, despite everything keeping us apart. It’s love, you see? Pure love. Love in every word. It drips from my pen. You must excuse the dirt, though. I’ve been digging a tunnel. It’s almost dawn. You’ll be getting up for work in a short while. So I’m going to finish this letter, seal the envelope, and take it with me into the tunnel. I can’t post it, you see? I could never post it. That would mean going outside and I could never do that. So I’ll take it with me. I’ll carry it in my breast pocket, wriggling through the dirt to reach the exit point, beneath your kitchen floor. The floorboards aren’t a problem. The linoleum even less so. I’m thin. I can make a slight incision, squeeze through and repair the damage enough that it would take a very keen eye to notice. I’ll try to clean up any mess I make, but I’m not too concerned. I’m hoping you open your mail before breakfast. I’ll place the letter at the foot of your door and I’ll find a place to watch you while you read it. I hope you appreciate what this means. From the moment you tore open the envelope I have been with you. I have been in the house watching you. As you read each phrase, I draw closer. We’re already together. As you read these words, I stand in the doorway behind you. I can see you. And when you finish this sentence, let the pages fall and turn around… you will see me.