Death of the Extremophile

by Stuart Parker

  *

  Concussion was one of those times when Hope quite liked cooking. When he got back to the house he found that Hawkshaw was still not home and so he raided the pantry and ice-box, coming up with the ingredients for a better than half-decent Irish stew.

  He cut with abandon the vegetables on the cutting board and he knew the cuts and bruises he had taken were just ripples on a pond. He did not even cry with the onions.

  By the time the cooking was done it was dark outside and his stomach was growling at him. He scooped stew into his bowl until it was full and left the rest in the pot accompanied by a note on the lid for Hawkshaw to help herself; he hoped the smells alone would guide her as far as the pot.

  He retired to bed with bowl in hand and slurped at it, letting it nurse him towards sleep like he might a paperback novel.

  27. ‘Don’t tell me how good a man is. Tell me how much he can take before he goes bad.’

  Hope believed the secret to a good night’s sleep was not in the getting to sleep but rather in the innate ability to know why one was waking up again afterwards; to instinctively realise it was the start of a new day, or that there was something troubling the person sharing the bed, or that an important detail had been overlooked during the waking hours and was only coming to light in the stillness of rest; this intangible ability of the subconscious aided sleep much more than a hard lump in the pillow from a gun or knife – at least, that was how it had been for Hope. And all of these triggers came along with frequency enough that Hope was more than familiar with them; the one that shook his eyes open on this occasion, however, was less common, though it was easy to recognise as it was only danger that came with a heavy pulse and a distinct chill.

  The room was virtually pitch black and carried the kind of silence that could not be found in New York without earplugs. But it was the kind of danger Hope disliked most, shrouded as it was in emptiness and compelling him within. He found that he was lying on his side in a good position for his senses to scour the room; he started in the direction of the door and moved across – it seemed peculiar to him how deep the darkness could be in a room so small.

  His eyes had not moved far when he came upon the silhouette of what he realised was a chair and someone sitting in it, and he could even see light reflecting in the white of the person’s eyes. The way he stiffened caused the joints in the bed to crack. At least, he was able to maintain the consistency of his breath.

  ‘What do you want?’ he called out.

  ‘I won’t lie,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve been sitting here watching you.’

  He recognised the voice as Hawkshaw’s, though it was tighter, harder than he had known it to be.

  ‘There’s something I should tell you,’ Hawkshaw said. ‘I murdered my husband. Knifed him to death as he slept.’ She paused. ‘I got off on it by pleading self-defense.’

  Hope rolled over onto his other side. ‘Can’t it wait till morning?’

  From the silence came a dry cackle. ‘Are you crazy? Doesn’t anything bother you?’

  Hope sighed and turned back to face her, climbing up on his pillow. ‘Alright, if you want to talk, tell me about the Young brothers. What do you know about them?’

  ‘After what I just said, you want to talk about the Young brothers?’

  ‘Only if you’d like to. They don’t seem very nice.’

  ‘No, they don’t. And I’ve tried to stay away from them.’

  ‘But it’s a small town.’

  Hawkshaw’s eyes had become clearer, larger. She didn’t seem to be blinking. ‘Gambling with Haggerty Smith and now wanting to make small talk about the Young brothers. You’re not your average grieving widower.’

  ‘And you’re obviously not your average grieving widow.’

  ‘No, the murdering kind. And that’s all I get? Do you think I’m joking about my husband?’

  ‘If that was your idea of a joke I would be more scared.’

  Hawkshaw slid back in her chair and put her feet up on the bedside table. ‘If you’ve seen one Young brother, you’ve pretty much seen them all. Same jaw line and chill inducing blue eyes. And they’re all blessed with the same subtlety as a hammer. I don’t think any animal has strayed on their property and lived past the moment. Cruel kids would do that, but the eldest of this lot is in his thirties.’

  ‘Hurting kittens is the worst of it?’

  ‘The kittens would think so, and they would be able to make a pretty convincing case. But there are a lot of innocent people who have got on the wrong side of the Youngs to their detriment as well.’

  ‘Have the brothers received any jail time to show for it?’

  ‘They’ve been chastised by judges on occasion but that’s as far as it has gone. The charges have not been substantial enough to allow for anything more. Apparently witnesses tend to be thin on the ground. The brothers never act as a whole group, so if any of them are thrown in the slammer, there will be someone remaining on the outside to ensure witnesses have a change of heart. The effectiveness of the strategy has been made clear once or twice. In other words, if you wonder whether memory loss can originate from significant blows to the head, the Young brothers have done their absolute best to prove it.’

  ‘You tell a good bedtime story. You can turn the light on if it comes with pictures.’

  ‘Do you want to know why I was sitting here?’

  ‘I hope not because I remind you of your husband.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to find out. In marriage you can’t help but know your partner’s breaking point. My husband’s was low. And on the other side of it there wasn’t much that was pleasant.’ She sniffled. ‘Then he found mine.’

  ‘I’ve heard that about marriage.’

  ‘This might seem a little over the top but this was my best attempt at searching for yours. Being a woman alone, I have an interest in the breaking point of my house guest. Especially with the experiences I’ve had.’

  ‘Did you get what you wanted?’

  ‘Your breaking point is obviously high. I don’t know how high because you weren’t married to my dear hubby.’ She took out a cigarette and lit it.

  Hope looked in the flame for the steadiness of hand; he was almost offended that with her proximity to his bed it could be so marked.

  ‘What marriage taught me, Mr Cole,’ she said, blowing smoke high into the room, ‘is don’t tell me how good a man is. Tell me how much he can take before he goes bad. As to the Young brothers, I think some women find them attractive because at least with them what they see is what they get.’ She chuckled wryly. ‘You could almost call that honesty.’

  ‘Almost.’

  Hawkshaw was exhaling more smoke. ‘I’m feeling quite tired all of a sudden. I think I will go back to bed.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Do you have plans for the morning?’

  ‘Nothing special, just pottering around so to speak.’

  Hawkshaw stood up and her voice returned to normal. ‘Early to bed, early to rise, that’s the lifestyle that will have you living a very long time.’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’

  ‘Sorry for disturbing you.’ Her silhouette evaporated into the dark. Her voice, however, returned just through the doorway. ‘If you’ve got time, you should meet Mrs Delaware at the elementary school. That’s a woman with a breaking point.’

  ‘Sounds interesting,’ muttered Hope, ‘but there are others.’ He slid back down on the pillow and was again on the cusp of sleep.