Near To The Knuckle presents Rogue: The second anthology

by Keith Nixon

  One of the guards walked around the back and Tony waved him off. “Get the fuck outta here you fucking perv.” Tony took off his boxer shorts and jumped into the heated pool. Steam rose up into the cold night air like smoke from a fire. I slipped over to the edge of the pool when Tony went under and waited. When he came up for air I hit him in the head with the bolt cutters.

  ***

  Tony opened his eyes and looked around. I savored the moment that he realized he was taped to the deck chair. The duct tape over his mouth forced him to breathe through his nose and his chest heaved with rage and fear.

  “We all have choices Tony. You made the choice for me to kill that boy, and I chose to set it right. So here we are.”

  “What kind of choice did you give Danny Pulaski Tony? Was it worth it? Well here’s a choice for you. I’m going to pour this gasoline over your head and I’m going to light it. But, I put the chair close enough to the edge of the pool that you can scoot yourself into the water if you want. You can either burn to death Tony, just like that little boy, or you can fall in and drown. What’s it going to be?”

  I poured the gas over Tony’s head and he screamed and strained under the tape. The hum of the pool filter masked his cries and I could see Sasha in the kitchen mixing some drinks to take out to the deck. I struck a single match and held it in front of Tony’s eyes. It was beautiful, the glow illuminated his face and I could see twin reflections of the flickering light in each of his dilated pupils. I dropped the match into his lap and watched as the flames sprouted and crawled up his torso.

  Sasha found Tony a little while later, floating upside down in the pool, the legs of the deck chair bobbing up and down in the cold night air. Big Tony had made his choice.

  ***

  The next day I packed my things and loaded them into the trunk of my car. My time in this god forsaken city was done. I pulled out and headed for the interstate. As soon as I reached the access road I saw the Crown Vic pull in behind me. This was it. I could see it very clearly. It would be a routine traffic stop; they would put two rounds in my head and plant a loaded pistol in my hand. It would look like I tried to resist arrest.

  I kept my speed steady and gripped the steering wheel. The Vic surged forward and pulled up beside me. I looked over and inside was Chatty and Mr. Silent, my fan club. For a moment I felt the urge to floor it and try to run, but I knew how that would end. Besides I killed Danny Pulaski, whether I knew it or not. I deserved whatever I got. They pulled up right next to me. Mr. Silent gave me a cold stare and a single nod before they suddenly dropped back. I watched in the rearview as they slowed and disappeared down a side road. It looked like they had made their choice as well. I turned onto the interstate ramp and thought about where I was headed. The choices were endless.

  SOMETHING ROTTEN

  Cal Marcius

  I look out of the window. My boy’s across the road, playing in a sandpit with Nick. They’re building marble runs, tunnels and bridges, the sand stacked high. Next to the other boy Teddy looks fragile. Tiny body with tiny hands, just like his mother.

  He doesn’t know I’m watching him. I enjoy seeing him like this, unaware of my presence. He doesn’t fight for my attention. He’s just playing and having a good time with his friend.

  Teddy circles around the mountain of sand, pointing at something I can’t see. Nick walks up to the spot, stretches out his hand, holding it still. After a few seconds he lifts his arm and smiles. Teddy steps forward, hesitant but curious, and leans in to inspect Nick’s arm.

  I can’t stop watching my son. Been like that from the day he was born, from taking his first breath to the day my wife, his mother, tried to kill him. I know I have to let go one day, but I don’t think I can.

  I turn away from the window and grab the bucket and sponges. I’m sure the boys will come running when they see me washing the truck. They know they’ll get money if they help, and an ice cream, if Teddy hasn’t eaten them all. I never checked.

  Teddy sees me come out of the house, taps Nick on the arm and they look over. I hold up the bucket and Nick gives whatever was sitting on his arm a flick and steps on it, and they come charging across the road, the game of marbles long forgotten.

  “Hi, Mr Barnes,” Nick says, scratching absently at a scab on his elbow.

  “Hey, Nick. Your parents home?”

  Nick shrugs. “They’re sleeping.”

  I didn’t expect any different. I’d kicked his old man out of my truck first thing this morning. Third time this week. He’d climbed into the back and laid down to sleep off his hangover. I’d told him before, I’d drag his ass across the road if I found him near my truck again.

  “Nick had a really big spider on his arm,” Teddy says. “You should’ve seen it, daddy. It was massive.”

  “It’s dead now,” Nick replies. “My dad hates them.”

  I hand the boys a sponge each and let them soap up the truck. Teddy and Nick are laughing, splashing each other, getting soaked. I stand back and watch, laugh with them. Then Nick’s sponge hits me square in the face and he looks at me, frozen to the spot, stammering, “I … I’m sorry, Mr Barnes. I didn’t mean to.”

  He’s almost in tears. Scared of what I might do to him, and my heart breaks. I spit out foam and laugh. “It’s war,” I say. “Just remember who started it.”

  I pick up the hosepipe and the boys start running, darting around the truck, searching for cover. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Nick’s old man coming out of the house. Walker stops, looks over.

  “The fuck you doing?” he shouts at Nick.

  Walker’s standing with his hands in his jeans pockets. Shirtless. Every inch of his upper body covered in tattoos. Nick looks at me and puts the sponge in the bucket. His smile’s gone. His head drops. Shoulders sag.

  “I’ll hold onto your money,” I say.

  He nods and walks towards his old man. The second Nick comes within his reach, his old man slaps him across the back of his head.

  “You wanna clean? Get the fuck inside.”

  “What the hell, Dan,” I shout. “Leave the boy alone.”

  Teddy grabs hold of my hand, presses his body against mine. “Don’t say anything, daddy.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Clean your own fucking shit, Barnes, and leave my kid out of it,” Walker shouts back, and they disappear into the house.

  “Please don’t say anything to him,” Teddy says again.

  “Don’t worry. He’s just talk. He wouldn’t dare come over here.”

  “Just don’t.”

  I look at my son, but he avoids my gaze.

  “He say anything to you?”

  Teddy shakes his head.

  “You gotta tell me if he did. It’s okay.”

  “He just scares me, is all.”

  “He does?”

  Teddy doesn’t say anything else and we finish the truck, then go inside and make dinner. It’s just the two of us, and that’s fine with me.

  We’ve just sat down when the screaming starts, and the crying. I can hear Nick all the way across the road. I jump up, but Teddy puts a hand on my arm.

  “Daddy, don’t.”

  I look at my boy, and I think, I’m the only one he’s got. I put my hand on top of his, sit back down and keep on eating, but the food tastes off now, my appetite gone.

  ***

  “Next time I see Nick, he’s drawing with Teddy in the living room. His old man’s gone out. His mother’s sleeping. Nick’s left to look after himself. Days like this he usually turns up on our doorstep. I don’t mind. He’s been dealt a shit card in the parent department and I’d rather Teddy played with him here than across the road.

  They draw battle scenes, explosions. Nick’s standing, doesn’t want to sit down. Then Teddy climbs on his back. I can see Nick wince, but he doesn’t complain. He carries my son out back, into the garden, climbs the three steps up to the pool and jumps in. Teddy’s squealing with delight, and they start pulling each other under
the water. Hitting each other with their blow–up swords.

  I leave them to it and make lunch, beef sandwiches and fizzy pop. I take everything outside on trays, then hand the boys some towels. Teddy gets straight to it, taking off his wet clothes, wrapping himself in the towel. Nick just stands there, dripping, but I can see the bruises underneath the wet shirt, some as big as my hand.

  “You can change inside,” I say. “Teddy’s got some things that might fit you. Cast offs from his cousin, I’m afraid, but they should be okay for now.”

  I go, get a change of clothes and hand them to him, and he disappears into the house, leaving a trail of puddles in his wake. He comes back a few minutes later, the wet clothes in his hands. I take them off him, wish I could burn the whole lot. The shirt, once white, is dirty grey. His underpants have holes where there shouldn’t be any. His combats don’t look any better. I don’t say anything, just hang everything on the line to dry, tell him to keep what he’s wearing.

  We eat and I listen to the boys talk about comics they’ve been reading: Wolverine, Iron Man. Teddy’s got a stack of them in his room. You can see it in Nick’s eyes, the longing for something better. The hope for one of these superheroes to come and rescue him, take him away. I wonder how much longer I can stand by and watch, and do nothing.

  Nick leaves early evening. His old man still hasn’t come back. His mother’s a no–show these days. There are no lights in the house and I ask Nick if he wants to stay over. Teddy jumps at the offer and pulls on Nick’s arm.

  “We can have a midnight feast and build a den,” he says to Nick, then turns to me. “Can we, daddy?”

  I shrug. “Sure. Why not? Sound good to you, Nick?”

  Nick looks away. “I can’t,” he says. “My dad’ll go ape if I’m not home.”

  “Maybe another time,” I say and look at Teddy. He nods, knows not to force it, but I can see the disappointment on his face.

  He takes Nick to the bottom of the drive, watches him cross the road and disappear into the house.

  When he comes back inside, he says, “Nick said I have the best dad. He wishes he could be my brother.”

  “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” I say and lift him up, throwing him over my shoulder. He laughs, and I carry him up the stairs to his room.

  ***

  “Teddy falls asleep in seconds, worn out. I go downstairs and switch on the TV, watch an old movie with Laurence Olivier. It’s past midnight when I wake up with a start. The TV’s still on and it takes me a while to focus. There’s a noise outside by the truck. I get up, peer through the curtains and see Walker climbing into the back of the truck.

  “Last fucking time,” I mutter.

  I walk into the hall and grab Teddy’s baseball bat, but then put it back. He’s only had the bat three months. I scan the hall, look for something else I could use, but find nothing.

  I turn and go upstairs into Teddy’s room. He’s facing the wall, his breathing steady, at peace. I lift him carefully and wrap him in a blanket, grab the tiger next to him. Teddy doesn’t even wake up. I carry him downstairs and out to the truck, strap him into his seat and place his tiger under his arm. He never sleeps without him.

  I turn around, check on Walker. He hasn’t moved. He’s stinking of drink and piss and sweat. And I think of Nick and the bruises. The fear in his eyes every time he sees this piece of shit.

  I get into the truck, put it in gear and drive out to Spartan River. The road’s deserted, save for a few rabbits running along beside the ditch. I haven’t been to the river in years, not since Teddy’s mother died, after I failed to save her. Then, like now, I had a decision to make, to choose between my son and his mother. I chose my son.

  I park at St. Aidan’s Point, get as close to the edge as I can. I open the back of the truck and climb up. Walker’s coiled up in a foetal position and for a moment I hesitate, thinking there must be another way, but I think of Nick again.

  I grab Walker under his arms, and haul him over the top, watch as his body slams into the ground. He grunts, but doesn’t wake up. I jump off, get hold of his ankles and drag his stinking ass to the edge, his head bouncing over rocks. The noise of the river below is deafening. I look over the edge, can’t see anything but blackness.

  In the truck, Teddy’s still fast asleep. He doesn’t remember his mother. Doesn’t know she’d walked into the river with him because he wasn’t what she’d wanted.

  I feel Walker stirring, see him open his eyes, but before he has a chance to struggle, I push him over the edge and watch him disappear into the blackness.

  ***

  “Nick’s pounding on the door, shouting my name. When I open up he falls into my arms, shaking and crying, his eyes wild.

  “It’s my mum,” he screams. “It’s my mum.”

  I tell him to go inside with Teddy and I run across the road. Walker’s house smells of damp and decay, and something rotten. It’s littered with empty bottles, cigarette buts and filthy dishes. Dead flies everywhere. I gag, wonder how anyone could live like this.

  “Sarah?”

  There’s no reply. I call out again. Get no answer.

  I hurry up the squeaking stairs. The smell is getting stronger, overpowering. Sweet and pungent. I have to cover my nose to keep it at bay, but it makes no difference.

  I open doors, and find his mother in the bedroom. The claw hammer’s still in the back of her head. Her body’s doubled over in a corner. She’s been dead a while.

  I make it outside, stop and throw up. I know I’ll never be able to rid myself of the image.

  ***

  “We set off early to catch the sun rise, stopping at a clearing near the top of the mountain to look out across the forest below and watch night turn into day. The adoption papers came in the post three months ago, almost two years to the day. I put the house up for sale, took the boys and moved to the other side of the country. A new beginning for all of us.

  Nick turns towards me, smiles, and puts an arm around Teddy.

  “How you doing little brother?” he says.

  Teddy starts laughing, shakes his head, then runs off, Nick chasing after him.

  BABYSITTING

  Mark Cooper

  “This has to be the worst assignment in the Secret Service,” Ginny muttered as she picked up the mug–sized beaker with its straw attachment on the top of it. She walked through the sterile apartment and felt the comforting breeze of the air conditioning hitting her face. “I hate Arizona.”

  As she entered the living room she saw him sitting in the wheelchair, the mechanical breathing apparatus attached to the rear of it that seemed to be a mass of plastic cables, pumps and gauges that was the single thing that enabled him to continue breathing.

  “Here you are sir,” Ginny said as she handed him the container. “Breakfast.”

  “More pureed crap?” He spat back. He took a drink from the straw, the slurping sound turning Ginny’s stomach. His weathered face contorted with disgust as the mush filled his mouth, shortly followed by him throwing the beaker across the room. It collided with the wall and spilled its contents. “That terrible!” he cried, beady eyes scrutinising her expression. “What did you do this time? Piss in it?”

  “No sir,” Ginny replied as she dutifully scooped up the contents of the container and made her way back to the kitchen. “But maybe I will next time.”

  “God damn it, get it right next time!” He shouted at her as she walked away. “I was the President of the United States you know!”

  ***

  It was late when he finally dozed off in a drug–induced sleep. Ginny took a moment to pull her ash blonde hair out of her ponytail and try to shake away some of the stress of the day. It didn’t work. After listening to the local talk radio shock jock for an hour, she picked up her mobile phone, walked into the dusky evening and made a call.

  “…I know, but you wouldn’t believe how frustrating it can be,” she said to the person on the other end of the line. “I mean, it’s wor
se that the babysitting I did in high school — at least they don’t cuss you out every time you do something wrong or remind you that this is truly the asshole assignment in the Agency…and then there are those constant reminders he drops in all the time about how he used to be the President…” she listened to the response. “Yeah, I know it’s my own fault for that whole thing in Seattle, but I think I’ve served my time here now, y’know…look, sorry to dump all this on you – I’ll speak to you soon.” The call ended and Ginny took a long lingering look into the clear early evening Nevada night sky.

  He was always a little spaced out when he’d taken his tablets. It hadn’t escaped Ginny’s notice that one extra tablet within that combination every four hours would be enough to push him into a coma from which he might not wake up. However, she knew exactly who the blame would be levelled at. She sat next to him as he took the tablets; her sweatpants stained from her early morning run in the desert environment.

  “…then I told him, if he didn’t bomb those bastards he’d never be more than a General while I was President…” he mumbled his words. She’d heard this story far too many times to even fake a smile these days. Ginny leaned back in her chair and waited for him to nod off to sleep once more. “Then there was that thing…the thing that crashed…” This was new, Ginny thought. She sat forward in her chair. “…like that one out in Roswell…those funny little grey bastards…so high and mighty! Not so mighty now you’re stuck here!” he chuckled to himself.

  “What? What are you talking about?” Ginny asked. He looked at her — she saw something in his eyes that she’d never seen before — life.

  “The aliens…I saw them, talked to them, hell, I even took one of the dead ones with me!” He said. Ginny shook her head.