After Hope Dies

by Lilly Haraden

  Guy’s doing pretty well, Hugo must admit. Song finishes and meaningless numbers flash on the screen with a volley of loli girls showing legs and eyes. Orange Triple S ranking, + special! Only half sure of what that means, Hugo claps along. Hoodie guy makes a few conciliatory gestures to the crowd and steps gracefully from the throne. He turns and locks eyes with Hugo, who expects some sort of reaction like a child spooked to suddenly find a huge black Labrador on the other side of a fence. Here it comes. But no. There’s familiarity – the figure whips back the hood and out pops—

  ‘Eric?’

  ‘Yeah, man, good to see you.’

  Hugo beams and finds himself exchanging some stereotypical man-on-man shoulder slapping with his team captain. They disengage and Hugo stammers out, ‘W-What the hell you doin’ here?’

  ‘Visiting the suburbs. Staying with a friend to get some time out of the house but, more importantly, to set up a few surprises for another friend o’ mine.’ Eric gives Hugo a look but for the life of the man he can’t possibly think what he means.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Dude. Your birthday.’

  Oh yeah. Right! ‘Right, completely forgot about it, you know? Lots going on.’

  ‘Yeah, must be. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘Sure.’

  As they set off, James takes the stage of Heavenly Crown and Carrie calls out, ‘Get a room, gayboys!’

  Hugo shouts back, ‘Oh thaz rich coming from you.’

  Crowd goes ‘oooooo’ and Carrie shouts out that they should all run backwards through a field of dicks, but said with a smile.

  At the bar:

  ‘Might not be playing Osu for a while, man.’

  Eric leans over his drink and shouts, ‘Why the hell not?’

  Hugo shows off his pretty dressing replete with ruby bow and sighs, ‘Not quite RSI, not quite carpel tunnel. Not sure what to make of it but whenever I start playing, my hand explodes. Gonna see a doctor tomorrow.’

  Eric nods, thinking, sipping his vodka. Replies evenly, ‘We can make the qualifiers without you, but we’d tank hard in the real heats. That gives you a month so maybe you take it easy ’til then.’

  ‘No income in the meantime either, gon’ be hard.’

  ‘You need support?’

  Hugo waves it away, ‘Nah, man, is good.’

  Over the smoke and song, Eric presses, ‘Don’t be all macho about this. We’re a team and we help each other out. Remember: Prizepool’s two hundred thousand RMD; if we win, we’ll be cheering for the rest of the year. We need everyone in good shape.’

  Hugo nods and nods, ‘You’re a good man, you know? If I need something, you’ll be the first to know.’

  Eric claps his friend on the shoulder once, then switches shoulders for a harder slap and chases down his vodka by wagging a finger at the bartender mid-burn. ‘Two more of these, please.’

  ‘Man, I gotta drive home.’

  ‘It’ll take hundreds of drinks to put you over the limit, boyo.’

  ‘Sayin’ I’m fat?’

  Eric slides the glass into Hugo’s bad hand and clinks his own on the rim. ‘Yes, you fat shit, now drink the damn vodka.’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’ It goes down real easy and everything feels just that bit better when you’ve had slightly more than two drinks. Hugo stubs out the butt of his green tea cig and asks his friend, ‘You think iz weird, what we do for a livin’?’

  ‘Oh please, competitive gaming’s nothing new. Starcraft, Binding of Isaac, DOTA, every shooter ever created, Overwatch, Fortnite – shit, that was all last decade, even. Think about how specific Render Force is, and even that manages to make waves. Audiences and sponsorships and technology have all aligned in our favour. It’s the best time to be a gamer.’

  ‘More about Osu though. Pretty niche.’

  ‘Niche means a cult following. Plus, I wouldn’t consider fifteen million fans niche.’

  ‘Just that…you ever imagine a person like me doin’ it?’

  Eric swills vodka around his mouth and gets his friend to repeat the question. ‘Right, right. Um…sure, why not.’

  ‘Black guy like me?’

  ‘I don’t see the problem. Why, are you not allowed to like Osu or something? Don’t be fucking stupid.’

  ‘I’m glad you don’t see a problem.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re uncomfortable with yourself more than anything.’

  Hugo shakes his head, unsure. ‘Thin’ is, I don’t know whether it’s something I should be uncomfortable about or not.’

  ‘Well, do you enjoy doing it?’

  ‘Hell yeah.’

  ‘Then fuck what people think.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, man. I feel like I’m a ghost sometimes. Maybe…maybe the problem is I’m not enough of a ghost.’

  Eric considers this cryptic exposition for a moment and gives this: ‘Well, if you’re feeling like a ghost for doing something that – I’m guessing – your parents and friends don’t understand, then just remember that you’ve got fifteen million people on your side.’

  ‘All of them white.’

  ‘No. Most of them are Chinese, Japanese, Taiwanese, then Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Australian...it’s like a slightly off-colour milk rainbow. Rainbow, man.’ Eric makes a rainbow arc over his drink and mouths the words once more; Hugo smiles and nods but says, ‘You don’t feel weighed down at all, do you?’

  ‘Not a dot.’

  ‘You’re lucky that you can be like that. In here iz like, you be what you are. Out there, I feel like there’s only one version of Hugo I gotta follow, you be what you gotta be…’

  Eric understands. He slings an arm around Hugo’s shoulder (gently) and says, ‘I don’t think I can give you any advice you ain’t heard before, but maybe this: you have to come to terms with who you are and how you fit into the world.’

  ‘I’ll always be a nigger tho’.’

  ‘Like, a nigga with the ‘a’ at the end, maybe. If that makes a difference.’

  Hugo shots the remainder of the drink and says through a burning throat, ‘I’m gon’ beat the living shit outa you for callin’ me a nigga. Thas our word, man. You don’t get to say it.’

  A pause. Hugo savours the look on Eric’s face. And he bawls out laughing. Man, he hasn’t laughed this hard in ages; it’s actually hurting his ribs and his fucked hand. He forces himself to stop in a hiccupy rhythm and orders more drinks for them. Eric looks like he’s just been hit by a bus.

  They continue talking for what feels like hours as the arcade becomes rowdy, but eventually the time comes for them to say goodbye. Nearish to nine. Hugo really needs sleep, despite Eric telling him he’s a child for heading home so early.

  ‘Catch you at the end of the week – team’ll have something good planned for you.’

  ‘Nice talking, Eric.’

  Slap slap.

  Outside. The door snaps shut and all the music becomes the thin sine noise of bending hair cells, dying, lost forever. It’s cold and bitter dark; Power Down’s in the peak period, surely. Club charges extra at this hour. Hugo’s about to make his sloppy way to where he thinks he parked his cycle before he hears a voice. ‘Yo! Shaun’s little bro’!’

  He stops dead. There’s a skinny black bean pole leaning against the club wall all clad in a poufy jacket. Nobody else around. He jogs over to Hugo and the two exchange slaps on the back. Hugo forces his alcohol down and says polite, ‘Hey D, you good?’

  ‘Been better, man, been better. Life’s taken a turn since your bro’ got done.’

  Hugo folds his arms and sighs, ‘Yeah, thaz an understatement.’

  D’s sporting a navy beanie snug tight over his dark dome. White eyes search around for the next words as the man hops from foot to foot in the cold. ‘Ey listen, I wan’ chu to know that we all gon’ straight. In honour of Shaun. We dragged him into this mess; least we can do is shut it down before it gets outta hand, know?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Hugo feels his bad hand curl into a fi
st. Easy there…

  ‘It dun’t make up for what we did or what happened to Shaun, but iz better than nothin’. I’m working at a dog rescue centre now, cleaning and trimmin’ all the strays. Good work.’

  ‘Why you tellin’ me all this?’

  D stands still, lowers his eyes, says, ‘We sorry. ’Kay? Don’t want your forgiveness or nothing, but I know Shaun would ’preciate it.’

  Hugo feels his voice rumble like thunder, ‘Don’t talk like you know my brother.’

  D backs up, hands in platitude, ‘Ok, ok. Jus’ wanna do the right thing.’

  Turns. Walks away into the night.

  Fuck you. You bitch-ass nigga, street-shit, ghetto-fucker…

  Hugo feels his bad arm shaking. Man looks down at his fingers and finds them moving automatically in anger. Pain rising. Bandages stretching. Shit. He stuffs the emotion away and strides to the cycle. Finds it, bends down to unlock the chain. Pain rising!

  And then it happens. His hand splits open.

  Take my mind, take my hand

  Apain unlike any other. Every instance before was a mere rehearsal and now – right now – is the main show.

  The opening note arrives. Hugo doubles down on his knees and clutches his hand tight only to see an awful sight. The flesh is crawling out from beneath the bandage as if slugs had buried under the surface. Burrowing, wriggling, pushing up against the plastic film of him. Without warning the stuff splits. Blood waterfalls to the pavement. A rift opens up, running from middle finger to elbow. The two halves crack apart like a KitKat and Hugo roars. He mouths the words, ‘help, help me,’ but is certain as soon as he thinks of help that nobody is around to see this. The supernatural tends to only show its face to those who are already caught up in the stage play. Hugo slumps against the pole by his cycle and tries to make sense of his arm all split and splintered.

  The pain is senseless now, simply total. And so, out comes the monster. Slowly at first like blood mist from the open bone, but then in spurts and trickles of black ooze. The stuff leaks from the wound but a shape congeals, rises cobra-quick, tethered and anchored to Hugo’s radius bone. This monster: undefined and blurry as if moving quickly between two points. No real features save for a mouth filled with ash. Wait. And two eyes pop into place. Eyes made of pieces of bone that circle in horrible, clunky fashion like a fucked-up, tick-tock clock.

  Hugo grits his teeth and spits to the creature, ‘Why are you breakin’ me apart?’

  The beast replies in a croaky blocked sink voice, ‘You can thank that little girl’s elixir. She helped me escape from your wretched body.’

  ‘You…you’re the one who’s been giving me my reflexes?’

  Monster nods and coughs out a cloud of ash that smells like sewerage and burning hair. ‘Human, I offer you a very simple choice. I desire to be free. Refuse, and I’ll break your arm completely so you’ll end up with three instead of two. But I think you’ll find my first offer much more agreeable.’

  Hugo coughs out blood and bile and alcohol; Monster continues, ‘You creatures are so pathetic when you’re tipsy.’

  ‘Whaz your offer?’

  ‘A very generous deal. You let me go – forfeiting your otherworldly reflexes – and I will take away the part of your soul that lusts after little Janelle.’

  Hugo’s heart squeezes clean and through the pain something warm touches his chest. Hope. But cautious. ‘N-no tricks? You’ll remove every part?’

  ‘Yes. It’s that simple.’

  Hugo leans back into the pole and laughs. Monster, monster, bringer of pain and joy. This is the answer, right here! He’d be a simpleton not to take this generous gift.

  But deep down a voice comes, some piece of implicit information that stops Hugo in his tracks and makes his head snowglobe. “Don’t trust a desperate spirit – they are always, always greedy.”

  Para’s words. Para’s wisdom. She knows best in situations like these. Hugo thinks harder. Wasn’t she the one who said that this monster was actually keeping his cancer at bay. Wasn’t she the one who said that removing such a fundamental part of him would be near impossible without—

  ‘Yes,’ Monster interjects, ‘erasing your mind entirely? Well, I can do either, if you like. Little Newspirit doesn’t have the ability to surgically remove a sexuality, but I do. Or, alternatively—’ The cloud draws nearer, pulling Hugo’s right arm along with it. Hugo yells and bites his lip to bear the pain, moaning through a closed mouth as Monster stops right before the boy, whispers, ‘I can kill you outright, if you’d prefer. This is a neat solution for us both. You run no risk of harming anybody, ever, and I get what I want, which is my freedom, to a degree. All I need is Permission.’

  ‘W-Will it be painful?’

  Slow. ‘No. It’ll be like closing your eyes and never, ever waking up.’ Monster moves again, back and sharp, sending a spike up the boy’s muscles. His arm will fall off; his arm will explode. No no no no no! Make it stop!

  ‘Just give the order and I’ll do it. Ok? Ready?’

  Hugo considers, closing his eyes and breathing out fast and loud.

  Thinks.

  ‘I’ve made up my mind.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Hugo opens his eyes and murmurs, ‘I grant you Permission to leave on this one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Fix my arm so it’s back to normal. Remove my cancer.’

  Monster blinks, closes its gas chamber mouth. ‘Oh. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all.’

  ‘Deal.’

  The tail of the creature breaks free like a scared lizard – pop! – and before Hugo knows what’s happening, he sees Monster spiralling around his arm in blink-eye motion, sewing up the skin and returning black flesh and bone to complete normalcy. Even the bandage and ribbon have been restored to neat health. All done, Monster recongeals before the man and says in a voice remarkably more gentile than before, ‘Please see a doctor as soon as possible – I’m afraid you have something seriously wrong with the bones in your right arm. I would fix it if I could, but I am not familiar with this particular malady for it is not in the realm of spiritual causation. Nevertheless, I bought you some time.’

  No more pain. Hugo rubs his repaired arm and tests the fingers, all working without a peep. He gets to his feet, still groggy; Monster backs away a little and asks, ‘I don’t understand. This is not what you wanted.’

  Hugo bows his head and replies, ‘What I want and what I need are two separate things. But sometimes, they overlap.’

  Monster rolls his bone eyes around in furious language. ‘You’ll fight with yourself all of your life, you know. With that broken mind and internal disquiet. Your anxiety will lead you to suicide.’

  The monster is certainly no threat now. Really, just listen to it. Hugo turns away and unleashes his cycle, hops on, starts the engine and says over the tiny hum, ‘My life is not my own. I’m here because of other people, so it’s my responsibility to live for them. No matter the struggles, I’m ready for them. Tell me one thing: where will you go now?’

  Monster just floats there, up and down like a lost Boo, and replies, ‘I don’t know any more…’

  ‘Hard to have an identity without something to ground you, isn’t it?’

  Hugo cycles away, turning from the parking lot and into the streets without looking back.

  He’s got a little plan in mind.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Perhaps the greatest pastries ever baked; these belong in a museum to the ages, so that future generations can see just how well the low socio-economic tribes of Stallwind ate. Through intermittent electricity and acid rain and general despair, they ate well. Look at these doughnuts! French coil, jam-filled and glazed and the size of a child’s face. Simply perfect. Thank God for the twenty-four-seven economy. Hugo orders two and forks over the one sixty without a second thought.

  ‘Can I get ’em in two separate boxes?’

  ‘Corse hun’.’

  Next stop: ho
me. Hugo parks the cycle safe in the garage mouth. Slips inside with utter silence to not disturb the sleeping lions lulled by TV from another continent. Finding what he needs from his room, he wraps this gift up in a little bit of tissue paper from underneath the kitchen sink. While there, he finds a card and pen. Spends a minute at the kitchen table composing and then heads for the Broadchurch residence.

  It takes a minute to get around the block walking normally. He’ll have to get used to doing things at normal speed now. Knock knock at the door. Hugo checks the time while he waits for an answer – just before ten, hopefully not too late. But he did see a little light on in Janelle’s room before he came over.

  Answer from the crack, blunt, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ms. Broadchurch, iz Hugo Weavin’.’

  Corrina opens the security door just enough so she takes up the whole vertical space. Janelle’s mother looks tired and black-eyed but the kind smile in her eyes tells him that everything will be all right one day. Hugo brings up a little bag with purple straps. He says, ‘Can you please give this to Janelle? Just a little something for her.’

  ‘Oh that’s so sweet a you; I’ll make sure she gets it right away. You took her to dinner th’other night – that meant a lot to her. You’re a good man.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Have a good night, Hugo.’

  ‘You too.’

  The man circles around the block, rushing this time. It’s hard work. Shoes off at the front door, sneakily slips inside past the still parents. Inside his room, the man closes the door softly and moves to the window. He sits on the bed and sets his eyes on the girl next door all framed in her boxy room. She’s sitting upright on her bed all snug in fresh PJs. Hugo watches. She opens up the purple strap bag, fishes. Inside, she pulls out a precious doughnut and her eyes moon in excitement. But there’s something else; Janelle pulls the tissue paper ball out and retrieves the creature inside. Her eyes soften, lips fall apart. She inspects the figurine, raising the white-dressed, blond haired Shinobu vampire figurine to her eyes and looking deep into the mirror of her.