Pillow

by Andrew Battershill

  Pillow yanked his arm away and backhanded Prevert across the face. ‘Please what?’

  Before he could go further, Marie came running back into the room with the kettle. Pillow only managed to make a sort of croak before she dumped the whole pot over Jack’s head. Pillow lurched forward and gave her a forearm shiver to the stomach, and she hit the ground a little more softly than the kettle did. Jack’s screams were a pitch Pillow hadn’t heard from a person. They started low and kept rising until they were hitting somewhere above whistle-tone. His legs were twisting around sideways, and an angry purple streak was working down the whole right side of his face and neck.

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  Thick, dehydrated spit dangled from her lip. ‘I told him if I ever heard about him gambling again I’d kill him. I didn’t say I’d leave you, asshole, I said I’d kill you. And I heard about it.’ The spit fell in a long, folding line.

  Pillow looked over to the door. Breton yawned.

  ‘A promise is a matter of honour, Pillow. Sorry to have bothered you, Marie. Any man who cannot remain in the graces of a strong woman of such rigid principles deserves worse.’

  As Marie tried to stand she put her weight against the table. One of the legs gave out and bobs of thread in every colour rolled onto the ground. A long neon-green thread stuck sickeningly to the side of Prevert’s face and waved around as he rolled.

  She looked down at Prevert and kicked him once.

  Pillow shoved past Breton and stumbled out onto the street. It was too bright for him to see for a second, and his head throbbed in three distinct places.

  Breton finally came out of the shop and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Promises, promises, promises. They’re important to keep and stupid to make. Your usefulness has once again settled into a deep and somnolent slumber, Pillow. I will call you again whensoever it happens to rouse itself.’

  Breton walked away. Pillow stood in the middle of the sidewalk, still trying to get used to the brightness of the day, his head tilted back toward the hot, cloudless sky.

  Pillow wondered how many hours, if you put it all together, he had spent watching kettles boil. He wasn’t like that woman in the sewing store. He couldn’t leave the room and wait for the thing to start whistling on its own, come back and really believe it had boiled, that it was ready to make coffee or scald someone’s face. When Pillow made coffee he would walk around, fix the rest of his breakfast, clean a dish or two maybe, but when it was crunch time, when the kettle was getting close, he couldn’t help but plant himself in front of it, watch the steam start slowly flowing out the spout. Pillow didn’t regret any of that time, the time he’d spent staring at steam.

  Steam was the main (certainly not the only) reason Pillow hated science. The thing about science, for Pillow, was that it was really fucking hard to believe that steam was just water. And that people are just water, and that trees are just water, and that mittens are just water. They’re not. If that kind of thinking was right, Pillow was happy to be wrong. Water was incredible on its own, in his shower, or as the ocean. Pillow didn’t need to be bowled over by all the other things it could be.

  Pillow could hear the street, and even though he wouldn’t see it until he opened his eyes he knew that all the cars were pumping out stuff that looked like steam but was actually just gas after it had been a little bit on fire. Pillow could get on board with exhaust. It made sense as what gas would look like if you burned it carefully.

  Emily was sitting cross-legged, finishing polishing a shoe as Pillow stood by the window staring at her, his leg stretched out and anchored to the side of the window frame. She looked up at him and snorted.

  ‘Take a picture, creepo, it’ll last longer.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  Emily cocked her head and looked at him out of the side of her eyes, which had small purple flecks around them from puking. She went back to the shoe, digging into scuff on the toe, her tongue sticking slightly with focus.

  Pillow was remembering a whole lot of things.

  Pillow had lived in the apartment complex for over six months before Emily moved in, but she still figured out the side gate before he did. The side gate was just under their apartments. It was the easiest way in and out, but Pillow had always assumed it was locked. He tried his best never to force things open, because most things he muscled just ended up breaking. People had stopped asking him to help assemble furniture, for instance. So Pillow had been making his standard orbit back to the front entrance when he saw Emily at the side gate. They’d talked a few times at the mailboxes. He called over to let her know he was there (the years had taught him that he was a very scary person to be surprised by in an alley) and she had smiled at him and transitioned from waving to putting the hand on her hip in one motion. He told her that the gate didn’t work, and she listened to his whole explanation and humoured whatever half-laugh comment he’d made, and then she’d asked him if he believed in magic – not stupid magic, no wizards and capes and potions, but life magic. Caveman magic, ‘behold fire!’–type stuff, like randomly looking up on the first step outside and seeing the exact second a shooting star went through the sky and being fairly sure you did it yourself in a way that isn’t obvious to you but is still a whole thing.

  And Pillow actually did believe, specifically, in that.

  He remembered her kicking the gate at the exact right spot and how it opened wide without another touch, and how it made the longest, loudest creak he could have imagined. She’d waved him through the gate and asked if he’d like to go to a trivia night with an authentic caveman magician.

  Pillow came back to the present as Emily finished with the shoe and placed it neatly to the side. She uncrossed her legs and wiggled her arms in front of her. Pillow walked over and hoisted her to her feet.

  ‘All right, big guy. How are you doing? We good? You’re okay with everything?’

  Pillow dipped his knees deeply and kissed along the length of her jaw. ‘Yes. I’m perfect. I called Julio. Later this week I’m looking at the kid, maybe training a little.’ That information didn’t get the reaction Pillow had been hoping for. He kept on, knowing he couldn’t take too many coin questions. ‘I even thought about names. You know, for the thing living rent-free in the apartment above your vagina.’

  ‘Names! Cool! Yeah, let’s get up in it.’

  ‘Okay, first off, for a boy I was thinking Grampa. Grampa Wilson. Think about Grampa Wilson in kindergarten. No middle name, obviously, that’s an easy out.’

  Emily covered her ears and shook her head. ‘Oh, and the teacher would have to say it. Oooh, you’re a horrible man.’

  She finished shaking her head and then she rested it in her hand.

  Pillow kept remembering things, and this time he decided to say them out loud. ‘I was thinking about when you invited me to that trivia night. And I got the only boxing question wrong because fuck John L. Sullivan that shit shouldn’t even count, but yeah anyway, and the quiz guy had those sideburns that looked like tentacles, and you knew all the area codes, and we won the quiz because of it.’

  Emily reached over and touched his hip. ‘I got hos in different area codes, baby, you know that about me.’

  He kept speaking through a hard, uncharacteristic catch in his throat. ‘And we were talking afterward and something about the light made the spot where your nose ring used to be really clear, and I asked when you’d stopped wearing it and you seemed weirdly surprised and touched that I’d asked.’

  She punched herself in the thigh. ‘I wore that nose ring for five years, and nobody – my best friends, nobody – noticed when I took it out! That’s crazy! I’m still mad about that. Was I just wearing a nose ring into the abyss?’

  ‘I told you that joke about what the leper said to the prostitute and you spit your beer in this giant, perfect arc, like a fountain or a kid in the pool spits, and it went right in that guy’s beer. The guy who’d asked you out and then he just wanted you to fix his boots. And nob
ody saw. Nobody noticed. And you told me about the crazy four-stage way you swallow. And I … what I’m trying to say is that I still think you’re a caveman magician.’

  Emily hugged him hard, and he felt some happy-tears on his chest. Eventually she broke off and started fanning her face. ‘The leper says keep the tip. So what’s on the table for a girl’s name? I need something to kill the sentiment in my system right now.’

  Pillow sat down on the couch, reached forward and wagged a finger at her. ‘Baby name, for a girl: Fabizness. I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Fabizness. Excuse me, I have to discipline her: hey you’re being bad, Fabizness. That’s better, Fabizness. Now you’re being good, Fabizness.’

  Emily pursed her lips and nodded. ‘Yep. You killed that sentiment. Killed it dead. That’s awful. You’re a very bad person.’

  Pillow curled the finger back and touched his chest. ‘Only at heart.’

  Pillow and Don were leafing through a book of photography about honey badgers when the call came through that Artaud was at Phillipe Soupault’s house, trying to buy heroin with some loosely bound play manuscripts.

  When they got there, Artaud was banging on the door, occasionally shedding sheets of paper from his hand, the pages blowing up and around in the wind. They stayed sitting in the car and watching for a second. Pillow sighed, and felt somehow reminded of a three-legged cat he’d seen once. You don’t see many three-legged cats, probably for a lot of reasons. He turned to Don.

  ‘Listen, this guy took a pretty heavy shot at the deal, and he’s not all there, mentally, you know what I’m saying?’

  ‘I don’t. What are you saying, Pillow?’

  ‘I’m saying you don’t need … I’m saying it’s better if we try not to hurt him. He’s some baby-rabbit-level weak, physically, so it won’t exactly be hard.’

  ‘Didn’t he try to stab you?’

  ‘Yeah, it was just with a fork, though. You’re only dangerous if you have a chance, y’know? He’s fragile, so let’s be careful, is all I’m saying. We don’t need to fuck him up. You’d feel bad later, for sure.’

  ‘Worried after my conscience, Pillow?’

  ‘Yes. I really am. But hey, I’m saying sometimes I wish I’d had a heads-up before I fucked up a dude didn’t need to be fucked up, and I’m giving that to you, to us, here. Anytime you can save a time you sit down in the shower after you did a thing and felt like a real piece of shit, you should. We should.’

  ‘One should.’

  ‘You ain’t fragile, son, and I will slap the shit out of you if you get on my fucking grammar again, for real. I’m not sure, but I think that wasn’t even a rule, that was a choice.’

  Don smiled and pulled up short on punching Pillow in the shoulder, which was probably a good decision. ‘How are you so right all the time, Pillow? How does one do it?’

  ‘How about you just go pick him up before you piss me off too much and I have to come over there teach you a few things about life after grade school, hey, sunshine?’

  Pillow was still the kind of boxing snob who would say that you’re not really watching a fight unless you watch it with the sound off. Because noise is fun, and seeing is work. You listen to jokes and music, you hear people talking and it’s a good time, but sound, ultimately, is lazy. It’ll let you know something happened that tiny bit after it already did, and that can be fun, to realize a second after, but in a world that’s full of bones getting thrown at other bones, it’s not even enough to see it as it happens, let alone hear about it later. You have to spot the half-step before, sense the load-up and move before there’s anything to see.

  So from the car, seeing it in silence, Pillow was able to anticipate the horrible thing about three seconds before it happened, and five seconds too late. He saw Don walk up calmly, hands waving in front of him and saying something, he saw Artaud pivot around and throw the rest of his papers in Don’s face. Pillow was out of the car and sprinting by the time Artaud dove for Don’s legs, catching him flat-footed and tackling him awkwardly to the ground, and even though he was in the same world and air as them and was pretty close to them, Pillow still didn’t hear anything as Don, his back still flat on the ground, raised his leg and brought the hard leather heel of his shoe smashing down on the hinge of Artaud’s jaw. Without breaking stride or saying anything at all, Pillow scooped up Artaud’s limp body, ran back to the car and gently placed him in the back seat. Don got in and sped them toward the Bureau, as Pillow stayed sitting on the floor of the back seat, holding Artaud’s head stable and knowing all the time that the low, gurgling groan emanating from that head was just a weak, sad, coincidental signal of a thing that had already happened, like hearing thunder or seeing any star in the sky.

  Artaud was semi-conscious by the time they got to the Bureau, but his groaning was still depressing and distracting enough that Pillow and Don laid him across some chairs in the closet and locked the door while they talked it over.

  Pillow knew that this next little bit would need some finesse, and, strangely, that relaxed him. He felt a few ways, each pretty strongly: Artaud’s face/jaw/brain situation was the kind of sad thing that Pillow would necessarily avoid thinking about at all costs, but the fact that Artaud couldn’t talk was a really lucky break for him. The trick would be getting Artaud away from the Bureau boys, and if Pillow played his cards right he might be able to swing it.

  Don was apologizing for hoofing Artaud, and talking about the things his therapist had told him to work on and how he wasn’t accomplishing them, while Pillow barely paid attention, keeping a listening look on his face. When it seemed like his turn to speak, Pillow raised his fists and exploded them open, like they were fireworks reaching the best part.

  ‘It’s a thing that happened, my man. You spazzed out in a fight, happens.’

  ‘You’re an accommodating man. So many get caught up in being right. They get stuck on it, and it turns them into mean, hectoring people without realizing. Now, let’s move on to how we’ll extract the details from Artaud. Those coins are some money.’

  ‘Dude, you shattered his jaw; he isn’t ready to talk about anything. We need to get him out of here, I mean, unless you’re comfortable leaving him with these Bureau motherfuckers, who will, I promise you, actually poke his jaw with a stick. That’s a real thing I think will happen, like prostate cancer or cold Januarys.’

  ‘Prostate cancer is only certain if you live long enough, if nothing else kills you before it.’

  ‘Well, that’s true, Don, but it wasn’t the part of what I was saying that was important right now.’

  ‘We need that information and we need Artaud buried and dead, tonight. That’s our assignment.’

  Breton, who nobody had seen enter the room, broke in on the conversation calmly and slowly, and like he was in the middle of a paragraph. ‘There are ways of making him tell us where those coins are.’

  Pillow was pretty good at keeping a neutral look about him when he was desperate. He turned to look Breton in the face (the eyes were a little much to ask), to look like he was giving it to the guy straight. ‘Buddy, due respect and all, but sometimes things just aren’t. I’m telling you. You can do whatever you want to this fucking guy, and it’ll be a goddamn horror show, and maybe one of these sick fucks will get off on it, and that’ll be great for him, but Artaud’s not going to be able to help you. Kid has no clue where he’s even at right now.’

  Breton wobbled his head slightly, like a planet blowing a kiss at another planet passing just close enough to make an impression. ‘Your adamancy on this issue is noted, and appreciated, Pillow. So, it seems as though the procedure must be undertaken, does it not, Don? Pillow’s procedure, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  Costes was staring at the ground like it was a drawing of a really pretty staircase that just kept going.

  Pillow laughed, keeping it casual-looking. ‘Oh, don’t mind me, fellas. I’m just a grown-ass man who loves it when people talk about him while he’s in the room.’


  Breton laughed back, ducked into his office again.

  Costes took a deep breath in and threw it back out. ‘The procedure is we take Artaud out somewhere that’s a secret, between the two of us, and we kill him, and then we chop the important parts of his body off, and then we bury them in a few places. But because it’s your procedure this time, we means you, with me helping. I’m sorry, Pillow.’

  Pillow tried not to look too pleased. You can’t tip it when you spot your opening, you have to wait on it. ‘Why’re you sorry? You’re not doing anything to me.’

  Don grabbed his wrist. ‘Let’s go get him. Are you okay?’

  That was not the sort of question Pillow answered.

  The closet was actually a fairly heavily trafficked area of the Bureau. It was about as big as a dentist’s waiting room, and it was always full of chairs (Breton valued his hosting skills). It was also a common area for séances and sexual activity, usually at the same time.

  They opened the door and flicked on the light. Artaud was sitting where they’d left him, digging his oddly long nails into the semi-padded arms of a chair, twisting his feet toward and away from each other. When the light came on, he sprung into action, like a cockroach ducking under the fridge. He was trying to scream.

  ‘O queseme to globa asustame.’

  Artaud jumped up, his shoes slipping against the floor, and then he climbed onto the chair and started scratching at the walls, the sleeves of his soutane sliding down his wrists.

  ‘O medo fai!’

  Don moved toward the lunatic, and then stepped back and waved Pillow in. It wasn’t until Artaud was falling pretty much jaw-first that it occurred to Pillow that pulling the chair out from under Artaud had been, perhaps, imprudent. He caught Artaud’s wrist just as he was about to hit the ground and managed to adjust him enough so that Artaud landed on his shoulder.

  ‘Me anseia no tooooo.’

  Artaud started sliding across the ground, kicking his legs out wildly and breaking his nails against the floorboards.