Ratcatcher

by Chambers, V. J.

  There was a running theme in Shane’s house. Everything was red and black, from the red shag carpet that ran through the entire house, to the satin colored wallpaper, to the black metal fixtures of the chandeliers in the dining room and front hallway. The result was a feeling of opulence, but also of darkness. Each and every one of the bedrooms was a variation on this theme. They all contained huge beds, most of them draped in red comforters of various textures and fabrics.

  But there was one room that was almost entirely black. The walls in the room were white. The carpet, however, was black. The bedspread was black, a lush silky black thing that put her in mind of the fabric of Hugh Hefener’s pajamas. There was a black leather easy chair in the room, and the vanity was black. Lark liked the room. Even though it was a dark, black room, it seemed classy. Simple. It was mostly, she guessed, the absence of red from the room that made it seem so different. She started to get in the habit of coming into the room, even when she was exploring different parts of the house, just because she liked it in there. Sometimes, she brought books in there and curled up on the black leather chair to read.

  Today, however, she had no books. She was just exploring. She ducked her head into the room on her way through, and as always, felt an immediate desire to stay there for a few minutes. She eased through the door, surveyed the black and white room. One thing she’d never done, she realized, was sit on the bed. It looked like a comfortable bed. So instead of just sitting on it, Lark bounded across the room and threw herself into the bed. She flounced onto it, bounced several times, and then settled on it spread-eagle, giggling.

  From the bed, she could see a painting on the wall she’d never noticed before. Lying on the bed, however, it was right in her view. If she were sleeping on this bed, she’d have to stare at the painting before going to sleep. She gazed at it. And her heart leapt to her throat.

  Suddenly, it came to her. The reason why the ash man story bothered her.

  It was years ago. She was dating Jimmy, and she was still going to school, because he hadn’t made her quit yet. Jimmy was still going to school too, actually. He hadn’t quit yet, either. They lived together in a tiny one-bedroom apartment above one of the bars in town. They didn’t have a lot of room, but they were happy. They lived like typical college students, so the kitchen was overflowing with dirty dishes and piles of empty beer bottles and cans. They slept on a twin bed together. It was a tight fit, but they were both skinny, and they liked to sleep close. Lark had her desk in her bedroom so that she could study there, and Jimmy had taken over a corner of the living room to turn into a makeshift studio.

  When she came home from class or work, the apartment often smelled like linseed oil or turpentine. The smell wasn’t exactly a pleasant one, but to Lark it smelled liked Jimmy. And Jimmy was home. Jimmy was everything. She wasn’t sure if that was the day it started. When everything started unraveling. She often thought that if she hadn’t loved Jimmy as much as she had, he never would have been able to do what he’d done to her. If, at the beginning, he hadn’t been the most perfect, most wonderful man who ever existed, she would have walked out the door the minute he started to hit her.

  Except...it hadn’t really started with hitting, had it? It had started somewhere else. With the visions. That was when Jimmy started to change. As though he was possessed. As though he wasn’t himself anymore. As though he wasn’t even human anymore.

  Jimmy’s paintings were always whimsical in nature. They didn’t necessarily represent things that actually existed in the world. And while his style was a little disturbing at times, it also had an air about it...a lightness. As though Jimmy was opening the door into the worlds of his imagination, in another world, where strange and odd creatures lived, and where they cavorted around tall purple bonfires or surfed through an orange sky, replete with bright red clouds. So it wasn’t odd for Jimmy to paint things that didn’t exist. But he began to tell her that he was receiving visions of what to paint.

  At first, Lark just brushed it off as a ridiculously artistic thing to say. Jimmy was an artist and so, of course, he wanted to think he was getting visions. Artists were a little weird like that. She humored him. But one day, she came home from work, and Jimmy was working on a painting in the corner. She said hello to him, and he didn’t answer. Figuring he was too zoned into whatever he was working on, Lark dropped off her stuff in the bedroom, changed into some more comfortable clothes, and went back to the living room.

  As she walked by Jimmy, she glanced over his shoulder to see what he was working on. She didn’t like the painting. It was a departure from his other stuff. So dark. She wrinkled up her nose, but didn’t say anything. She was sure someone out there was going to adore this painting, and whenever Jimmy’s paintings sold, they sold for a few hundred dollars, which was always a nice treat for the two of them.

  Lark sprawled out on the couch and switched on the television.

  Jimmy made a growling noise in the back of his throat. He sounded like an animal.

  Lark turned to him. “Jimmy?” she asked.

  Jimmy was looking at her, but his eyes were full of hate. His face was twisted in a way she’d never seen it twist. He looked like a madman. He looked like somebody else. Then he uttered a string of harsh-sounding words in a language Lark had never heard.

  “Jimmy?” Lark asked.

  Then, just as if it had never been, Jimmy shook himself, and it was over. “What?” he asked.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think you caught me having one of my visions,” he said.

  Lark didn’t like the sound of that. Jimmy’s visions meant he wasn’t actually there? That he turned into a growling man who spoke a completely different language? She shrank from him.

  “You okay, babe?” Jimmy asked.

  Lark didn’t say anything.

  “Come here,” he said, and she did. He wound an arm around her waist. Kissed her on the cheek. “I love you,” he whispered. “What do you think of the painting?”

  In the painting, a tall dark man, composed of scribbles and harsh black lines, sat on a throne. Smoke was coming out of his nose. His eyes were red and Lark didn’t like the way it almost looked as though they peered out of the canvas at her.

  “Um...” she said. “I like your other stuff better. This guy looks cruel. He makes me feel icky.”

  Jimmy chuckled. “I don’t have control of what I paint during the visions.”

  And Lark didn’t like the sound of that. Not at all.

  Back in the black and white room, in Shane’s mansion, Lark scrambled up from the bed and tore the painting she was looking at off the wall. She ran through the mansion to Shane’s room. She didn’t knock. She just burst in and threw the painting on Shane’s bed. “Where did you get this?”

  * * *

  Shane rubbed his hands over his face. “How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t know where that painting came from?”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Lark. “It looks like your fucking ash man, doesn’t it?”

  That part was creepy. It did look like the ash man. Exactly like him. But Shane didn’t know why that was. And he was too tired to think about it right now. All he wanted to do was to be locked in this dark room with his rats and sleep.

  “I paid a decorator to find all these paintings,” Shane said. “She kept trying to run them by me, but I got bored of it, so I just told her to pick out whatever she wanted.”

  Lark was pacing in front of his bed. She stopped. Looked at him. “Really?” she said.

  “Really,” he said. God, why didn’t she believe him? And why did she care? She thought he hallucinated the whole ash man thing, anyway.

  “What was the name of the decorator?” Lark asked.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I want to call her. I want to find out where she got this.”

  “Why?”

  “I just do.”

  And she began pacing again.

  “Lark, please stop that and talk
to me,” Shane said. He hated seeing her this upset. Come to think of it, she was probably disgusted with him. Ever since they’d gotten back here, she’d been taking care of him, and he hadn’t done anything at all. She’d probably leave. He couldn’t ask her to deal with this kind of stuff. He knew that. He was too fucked up for anyone to deal with for too long.

  Lark kept pacing.

  “Please,” he said. “You have to talk to me about this. Why does this painting upset you so much?”

  She kept pacing.

  “Lark, I can’t stand seeing you like this. I love you.”

  She stopped. Sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’ve seen this painting before,” she said.

  “Really? Where?”

  “It shouldn’t exist anymore,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I saw this painting get destroyed. I saw it happen. And then it appears on your fucking wall.”

  “Maybe it’s a print,” said Shane, confused.

  “It’s not a fucking print. He didn’t make any prints. I know he didn’t. This is an original. He never even sold it. He wasn’t capable of selling paintings anymore, not at that point.”

  “You know who painted it?” Shane asked. “Is it someone famous?” He picked the painting back up and looked at it. It was a near-perfect representation of the ash man, looking exactly the way he’d seen him in his...hallucination? Vision? Whatever it had been.

  “Jimmy painted it,” Lark growled.

  Oh. Fuck. “Your ex,” said Shane.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll get rid of it,” said Shane. “Give it to me. I’ll burn it. I’ll rip it up.”

  “I told you it already was destroyed once,” Lark said. “I don’t think that will work.”

  Shane raised his eyebrows. “You’re starting to sound like me,” he said, attempting to crack a joke.

  “I know that,” said Lark. “I’m sounding crazy. You’re crazy, and you’re making me crazy. If I stay in this house for much longer, I might go absolutely apeshit.”

  He knew it. She was leaving. “What are you saying?” he asked, trying not to sound as hurt as he felt.

  “I’m saying that I’m just... It looks like I’m using you, Shane. It looks like I’ve just taken you for all of your money, and that I’m some kind of money-hungry bitch.”

  “Who cares how it looks? I know it’s not like that.”

  “Isn’t it? Didn’t I come to you because I needed a place to stay in the first place? I’m needy, Shane. I’m needy, and I never take care of myself, and I can’t respect myself until I do.”

  “What does this have to do with the painting?”

  “Nothing!”

  Right. Nothing. Women. They were hard to keep up with. Shane had forgotten about that shit. “Okay,” he said. “So, you’re going to leave?”

  “No,” said Lark. “Why? Do you want me to leave?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So why did you say that?”

  Fuck. He was getting trapped by her words. “Do you want to leave?” he asked.

  “I—I want to feel as though I’m taking care of myself,” said Lark.

  “You’re doing more than taking care of yourself, you’re taking care of me,” said Shane. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t see how important she was to him. He wasn’t doing much of anything for her, but she had saved him. He’d be a mess without her. A fucking mess. “I need you. Don’t go.”

  “But I need to prove to myself that I can make it on my own. I’ve never done that.”

  “If this is about money, then why don’t we just...I don’t know, get married or something? Then you’ll be legally entitled to all my money.”

  “I don’t want to get married!”

  Shit. That hurt. “Oh,” said Shane.

  “I didn’t mean...you’re not serious, anyway.”

  “Maybe I am,” said Shane. “You’re the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. I’d do anything to keep you with me. Anything. I don’t want to live if I can’t have you around me. Pretty much all the time.” And it was true. God. It was so true, it sounded pathetic.

  Lark snatched the painting from Shane and threw it on the bed. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I can’t handle this. Maybe I am leaving. I don’t know. I just don’t know if I can stand being in this house any longer. And I can’t keep relying on you for everything, Shane. Hell, I can’t keep relying on men for everything. I relied on Jimmy. Look where that got me.”

  “I’m not Jimmy. I would never hurt you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m hurting myself.”

  And with that, she swept out of the room, slamming the door. Shane stared after her, feeling as if he’d just been worked over by a tornado.

  * * *

  Lark paid the taxi driver, her hands still shaking. She hadn’t spoken much on the way to the bus station, even though the cabbie had been pretty talkative and nosy. He didn’t know who she was, thankfully. Still, he was pretty curious about Shane Adams, since she’d called to be picked up at his mansion. Shane was the local celebrity, and, even though the locals pretty much left him alone, they were very curious about him. The cabbie had wanted to know all kinds of things. Why she was leaving. What her relationship was with Shane. Lark had answered in monosyllables. Eventually, the cab driver had gotten the drift and stopped asking questions. That didn’t mean, however, that he shut up. Instead, he babbled on and on about himself and his wife. If Lark had been paying attention, she would know his entire life story by now.

  She watched the cab drive off in relief, counting what was left of her cash. It wasn’t much. She knew she had enough for a bus ticket, but she wasn’t sure of much else. She had a brief thought that what she was doing was rash and stupid, but she buried it. This felt right. It felt as though she was doing what she was supposed to be doing. Being on her own. She owed it to herself. So she squared her shoulders and entered the bus station.

  The bus station in Shane’s hometown was not large. It was a small square building with a neon light-up sign that read, “Bus Terminal.” Inside, the walls were lined with metal benches. The fluorescent lights washed out everything, including the face of the woman behind the ticket counter, who had a thick southern accent. She didn’t recognize Lark either. Lark began to hope that her fears of being known as Shane’s girlfriend were unfounded. Maybe she wasn’t nearly as exposed as she’d thought.

  She bought a ticket for Baltimore. She’d lived there before. Maybe she’d be able to look up some old friends once she got there. Of course, Lark didn’t remember her old friends as being very, well, friendly. Druggies, dealers, and struggling artists mostly, they’d scraped by and stepped on each other to get ahead. Still, it was something. She wouldn’t have to stay with them long. Just long enough to get herself on her feet.

  The bus wasn’t scheduled to leave for another two hours. Lark settled in on one of the benches inside the station and wished she’d brought a magazine or a book to read. As it was, she barely had anything. Her belongings were contained in one large ratty duffel bag she slung over her shoulder. Lark looked around the station. She had a little more than two hours to kill. Someone had abandoned a newspaper across the room. She crossed the room and retrieved it.

  It was the business section of USAToday. Lark struggled to concentrate on the numbers and stock reports. She couldn’t. Eventually, she gave up. Tossed the paper aside. She looked around again. There were only a few other people sitting in the bus station. One man looked as if he might live there, judging from the ragged nature of his clothing and his dirty, grizzled beard. One woman had her five-year-old son, who was running around in the station, hooting loudly. The woman called after him tiredly, but Lark could tell she didn’t have the energy to really make the boy behave.

  Other people were quietly reading or listening to their iPods. No one made eye contact with her. Lark briefly considered trying to strike up a conversation with one of them. She was bored. But no one looked particul
arly inviting. Instead, she spied a snack machine tucked into one of the corners. Lark dug in her purse for some change and bought herself some crackers. Back on her bench, she munched on them slowly, happy for something to do, but knowing that it couldn’t last long.

  Lark looked at the ceiling of the bus station, wishing she could pray to it for guidance. She took out her bus ticket to Baltimore and stared at it. Was this really a good idea?

  * * *

  At first, Shane simply couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that Lark had actually left. He knew that it had happened. He remembered Lark screaming at him and sweeping out of his bedroom in a fury. He heard the taxi drive up. Watched it pull away through the window. But, somehow, it didn’t make sense. He just couldn’t exactly comprehend what had happened.

  He felt that way for about a half an hour. He went back to bed, lay back down, stared at the blank TV screen, and tried to go back to sleep. The thought that Lark was gone kept surfacing in his head. Giving up, he got up and took a shower.

  He hadn’t showered in over a week, and he had to admit, it felt good. Water cascaded over his body, washing away sweat and dirt. Once out of the shower, he got dressed. He went down to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. There was some leftover pizza that Lark had ordered the previous night. He put it in the microwave and ate it. While he was eating it, he remembered that Lark was gone.

  He wandered around the house for the better part of an hour, realizing every so often that Lark had left him.

  Finally, it seemed to sink in. Then he felt depressed. But he’d been feeling depressed for quite some time now, and he was surprised at how much worse he could actually feel. It felt as though someone had ripped his entrails out. There was a dull ache in his chest. He almost started crying.

  Instead, he rustled up some coke and did several lines. He hadn’t snorted coke in quite some time either. It made him feel wide awake. It made his heart pound.

  He decided that he didn’t want to be alone. How much of that was the coke talking and how much of it was feeling the loss of Lark, he couldn’t say. He drove to town. He hadn’t been in town in years, not to the bars anyway. He was pleasantly surprised that not much had changed since he’d been a kid. The same three small bars still stood on the outskirts of town in a little row. One of them had a new name, but they still looked the same—one-story buildings, probably built in the fifties or sixties, made of brick. He parked his car nearby, and went into the first of them. This was the bar where, as kids, he and Chris used to start the night. There was a progression to their bar hopping, which followed the bars down the street, but they’d also often skipped back and forth between the three of them in random order. It was difficult to tell who’d be where, and he and Chris used to futilely just miss whatever girls they were chasing.