Spawn of Hell

by William Schoell

  “No, no.” He was so startled that he spilled some of the coffee into his lap. “You mustn’t get in touch with them.”

  “I can see why. You were afraid they’d give you away, weren’t you? Come on—tell me who the hell you really are.”

  “I am George. I swear. They have their reasons for lying. They don’t want anyone to know about me.”

  “You’re not making any sense. Why would they lie about something like that?”

  “I can’t explain. You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Look. George, or whatever your name is, you came here last night for help of some sort. What did you want? A free meal? A place to sleep? Is that all? I gave you that, but I can’t give you anymore. I think you should either go home—if you are George—or go back to wherever you came from. I have enough troubles right now without—”

  “I AM GEORGE!” The violence of the man’s outburst was alarming, to say the least. “God, I won’t let them take away my identity!” He grabbed David by his shirt front with such force that David nearly toppled over onto the sleeping bag. “Listen to me! You must believe me!”

  “Let me go!”

  “Do you remember the swimming hole, near Patter’s apple orchard? We used to go there instead of the quarry sometimes. Remember Crazyman Patter, we used to call him Crazyman Patter. Do you remember? He had big ears that stuck out, and he was always blowing his nose. You’ve gotta remember. One night we took Sue—Sue Elliot and her friend, her friend Betty—we took them up there, and the deputy drove by and shined his light on the four of us, and you said, you said we were inspectors from the Johnny Appleseed Society. Do you remember? Tell me, you remember!

  “You’ve got to remember!”

  That was the way it had been, all right. The deputy had not found David’s wisecrack very amusing. He’d come after them with his flashlight, and they quickly took off. Sue Elliot screamed as she stepped into a load of dog shit, and David had tripped over a devilish piece of root. But they’d all gotten away. They laughed about it all the way home, running through fields and across rutted country lanes, glad to be out of Deputy Forster’s clutches.

  “I remember.” He stared into the man’s face, wondering how someone could share George Bartley’s memories, wondering if it were a trick. But he saw the desperation in the eyes, the anguish in the voice. This was George Bartley. He didn’t know why anyone would want to lie to him about his identity, why the maid had done what she’d done. Why his parents had told her what they’d told her, assuming she had spoken to them at all.

  “All right, George. I believe you. But I don’t understand any of this. Are you on the outs with your folks? Is that it?”

  “Yeah. That’s it. You didn’t tell them where I was, did you?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t talking. You were just staring out the window, muttering. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “I’m better now. My—my head is clearer.”

  “Clear enough to tell me what this is about, I hope.”

  George turned away, heaving with a sigh. “I’m not sure I should. I came here because I had no place else to go. Looked you up in the phone book. Thought I might be able to talk things over with you. But there’s nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do.” His eyes were fogging up again. David was losing him.

  “Trust me,” he said. “If you had anyone else to turn to you would have done it by now. Tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.” David wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. He did not feel like harboring a fugitive from justice. And he was much too poor to convince anyone that he hadn’t been aware of the situation.

  “No. You’ll never believe me. You’ll just call them and they’ll come and get me. They’re probably on their way now.”

  “Who? Your folks? I thought they weren’t even talking to you?”

  “They’ll send somebody to get me. And they’ll take me back up there and put me away for good.” George was starting to cry now. God! He must have escaped from some kind of institution. This was getting worse and worse every minute.

  “Maybe that would be for the best,” David said softly. “I can’t do anything for you here, George. You need help.”

  George stared at David, a hopeless look on his face. “Nobody can help me now.”

  “Let me try calling your parents again later, okay? Maybe they’ll reconsider.”

  “No. No. I’ve got to get out of here. Before they get here.”

  “They’re not coming, George. They would have said so.”

  “You might be in danger. Don’t stay in the house tonight. Go out. Stay out. Until morning. Don’t come back until morning.” He said it with such conviction that it chilled David down to his bone marrow.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to leave.” He got up on his feet.

  “Wait,” David protested. “You can’t walk off like this. Let me give you a little money. I don’t have much but—”

  “Don’t want your money.”

  “Please. Let me give you some clothes. At least wash up before you go.” David tried to keep him away from the door.

  Suddenly George reached out and hit him across the head, knocking him across the room and onto the bed. David sat up stunned, his head still ringing. He resisted an urge to go after George, to hurt him in kind. “Goodbye to bad rubbish,” he muttered, as the sound of the man’s footsteps receded down the stairs.

  He’d had more than enough of Crazy George Bartley.

  David had a lump on his head just above the right eyebrow. Aside from that, there were no ill effects. Muttering under his breath the entire time, he made himself dessert, ate it quickly, and gulped down another cup of coffee. He kept watching the clock. How long would it take someone to drive down from Vermont? Five hours? What if they came by plane? In either case, they would already have arrived by now. It was seven o’clock. They could get his address out of the phonebook like George had done.

  He tried to forget about what George had said, about how he should vacate the premises until morning. Surely he was in no danger. Bartley was only suffering from paranoid delusions, thinking the whole world was out to get him. David still couldn’t figure out why his parents could be so callous in regards to the welfare of their only son, but there was nothing he could do about that. He didn’t want to call George’s folks up again, only to have that old hag hang up on him. But what if it were all a misunderstanding? What if there had been some perfectly reasonable explanation for the maid’s reaction? Maybe there was a good reason for her not to believe David’s story; maybe they’d received other crank calls about George. It was all so confusing.

  He dialed the Bartleys’ number again, but there was no answer. Along with the pain, his anger towards George’s last action before leaving the apartment had subsided. He had concluded long ago that George had only wanted to prevent him from following, that in his sick, troubled mind he was doing what he had to do. Surely had had not meant to injure David, or kill him— he could have done a lot worse than simply deliver a back-handed slap; there was still strength in those limbs. Whether it was true strength or just manic energy remained to be seen. David was in no hurry to find out.

  David decided to forget all about it until morning. He would have to try to reach the Bartleys again. They should be made to accept the fact that their son needed help badly, and that they had to do something about him wandering the streets of Manhattan alone with no one to turn to. David thought of going out and looking for him, but George could have gone anywhere, and David was afraid to confront him again, the bump on his head testifying to the man’s deadly capabilities if pushed to the edge. Still, he was haunted by the image of the man out there alone, indistinguishable from all the rest of the pathetic tramps and bums and derelicts. It horrified David to think that a friend of his—even one from long ago—should be in such a position. As long as there was anything he could do about it, he wouldn’t rest. If the Bartleys refused to speak to him in the mo
rning, he would call his own father, ask him what could be done.

  It was creeping toward eight o’clock now. He’d sat and mulled the whole mess over for an hour. Didn’t realize how long it had been. He had an urge to get out of the apartment, to get out fast, and he felt frightened suddenly, wondering why the place seemed small and shadowy. Not a safe haven anymore, but a place of dread. He didn’t know why his apartment had taken on this new coloration, so dark and gray. Had it to do with George’s warning? David thought of himself as a rational man and dismissed the idea from his head. Yet he virtually ran from the apartment only a few minutes later, denying that his friend’s words had had anything whatsoever to do with it. All he knew was, he did not want to be in that apartment alone.

  While he walked up the block, he told himself over and over again that he was simply lonely, as he had been the night before. Maybe he hadn’t been aware of how comforting George’s—another human being’s—presence had actually been. Wasn’t it natural for him to go out and seek company? But, he wondered, if anyone asked to come home with him, would he agree? Or would not even someone else’s being there with him erase the ominous feeling, that strange sense of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? He didn’t know.

  He had been walking for about twenty minutes when he suddenly realized where he was. Subconsciously (or was it all that subconscious?) he had been heading towards Peg O’ Hearts. Come on, Davey, he thought. You’re overdoing it. How obvious can you get. The chances of her being there two nights in a row are not very good. Then again, for all he knew she might have decided to make the place her regular watering hole. Everybody had a favorite spot, one they went to a few nights a week. Why would she be different? He had not seen her in there before, true, but he hadn’t been in there for quite a while, since before the accident. She might have only recently relocated to the neighborhood.

  But she wasn’t there.

  The place was not as empty as it had been the night before because it was the middle of the late supper hour, and most of the tables were taken. The bar was full of people waiting for a table, or neighborhood residents having an early drink. David found an empty chair, luckily enough, and looked about to see if she were present. From what he could tell from his vantage point, she was not.

  He ordered a martini and sipped it slowly. Very slowly. He did not want to get so drank that he would have to go home to pass out. He did not want to go home. Even the thought of being there chilled him. He felt safe and secure now, surrounded by all these people.

  It was going to be a long night.

  He knew it was foolish of him to go out drinking when he had so little money and didn’t know when there’d be more coming in, but he couldn’t help it. He could always go home to Vermont for a week or two instead of starving, but even there his food and funds would be limited. His father would insist on giving him some money, but he didn’t have much to give, as he had admitted on the phone. Besides, Vermont was not the place to be when one was trying to find work in New York.

  He sat back in his seat, sipped his drink—it was deliciously dry, cool and perfect, with a twist—and listened to the sounds all around him: the clink of glasses, idle conversation, spirited, boozy debates on life and love, the clatter of forks on plates, the rustle of menus, the rattle of ice cubes, the soft whine of the blender in the corner. The TV was off at this hour. It would have been gauche to leave it on. If the diners wanted to watch television they could have stayed at home hunched over a TV dinner, which, incidentally, had comprised hundred of David’s meals for the past few years. He hated to cook.

  David had always been a private child, a quiet man. He had never been lonely—particularly in his youth, although he had not been very popular—because he had always been able to amuse himself, to create an elaborate fantasy land full of playthings which were preferable to whining children and breakable toys. He managed to find adventure in the most mundane places, the most undistinguished objects. He retained this gift as he grew older, this ability to create a whole world of entertainment inside his head, so that whereas most people in his situation would have been lonely, he simply shrugged it off—if he were aware of it at all—by concentrating on the solitary things that brought him pleasure.

  Unfortunately, all that was changing. As he grew older, he realized how much he craved companionship, new friends, new surroundings. He would find them, and lose them, then find still more, then lose them again.

  And then he had met Janice.

  It would be simplistic to say that his life had been revitalized by love. For he did not love her. And maybe that’s what hurt the most about her death. He could not sit for hours staring at her picture, would not be haunted by what might have been, for there would have been nothing. He felt guilty that he did not care more. Although he had been shattered by her death, he had not been emotionally paralyzed, as he would have been had she been a lover.

  He had, however, loved Janice Foster platonically—more than platonically—and when she died he had lost his only friend and he still grieved over that loss bitterly. But he hadn’t been in love with her, and for some strange reason it left him feeling empty and sorrowful that she would not be mourned the way someone as wonderful as she had been should have been mourned. Janice had deserved someone who would have felt passion and all-consuming grief and rage at her untimely passing for the rest of his life, for always.

  They found her head ten feet away . . . He blinked his eyes rapidly, chasing away the bad thought.

  He was working himself into a deep depression now, a whopper. He tried to snap himself out of it, hoping no one had been watching him do the sad-sack routine. He was surprised to realize that he had been thinking all this over for quite some time. The restaurant was practically empty, and even the bar had cleared out except for four or five hardcore cases.

  He was feeling giddy enough to be daring. He waited until someone played the jukebox—the noise would cover up what he was about to say from those at the end of the bar—and signaled the bartender. It was the same fellow who’d been on the night before.

  As the man placed the third drink on a napkin in front of him, David said, “You probably don’t remember, but I was in here last night around this time.”

  The man shrugged. “I think I remember you. Just hanging out tonight?”

  “Yeah. The reason I mentioned it is that there was this woman here last night, too. Maybe you know her. She does those Exclusiva makeup ads on television.” From the look on the barman’s face, David knew he wouldn’t have to nudge the man’s memory any further.

  “You mean Anna Braddon?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Anna Braddon, the model. Sure, she does those commercials. She comes in here all the time.”

  “You know her? I mean, personally?”

  “Well, I’ve never talked to her at length—”

  “I mean you knew her name and all.”

  “I read an article about her in People magazine. She’s making big bucks. Used to do fashion photography, then moved up in the world, went on to better things.”

  “And she comes in here a lot?”

  “Yep. She and her husband.”

  David tried not to look too surprised. “You mean that guy who looks like a model himself?”

  “Yeah. Derek Bishop. He is a model. Big bucks, too. There was a big spread on them a few weeks ago. I read in some gossip column a few days ago that they’re separating. They still seem to get along fine when I see them.”

  “People must bother them all the time when they come in here.”

  “Not really. They always come in pretty late, and most people here are pretty together. They smile, say hello, but otherwise leave ‘em alone. That’s the way it should be.” Was that a hint?

  “Well,” David said, “I was just curious. I thought she looked familiar. I figured you would know if she was who I thought she was.”

  “Well, she is.”

  “Thanks.” The bartender went off
to see to some other customers.

  David felt pretty stupid now. Surely the bartender would figure out why he was going to sit here for the rest of the night. His motives were strictly see-through. What did he hope to gain anyway? She’d come in again with her husband, and maybe she’d give David another smile, and that was that.

  Still, he had no intention of going back to his apartment until it was as close to dawn as possible. He decided he would finish this drink—very slowly—then go to another bar that stayed open later. What he would do from four a.m. until approximately six was another story altogether. He would have to sit in an all-night coffee shop, reading the paper and nursing a cup of coffee. He felt, once more, like an idiot. What he really wanted to do was go home and sleep.

  At least he didn’t feel depressed any longer. The liquor had taken care of that. He sat back in his chair with a feeling of deceptive tranquility and contentment. Brain cells being destroyed, he supposed. In the blood-steam. Through the circulatory system. Instant nirvana.

  And then she walked in. Sans husband.

  Hmmm. Liza or Suzanne or whoever the gossip-monger was had been right. Splitsville. Of course, in the back of his mind David knew that just because Ms. Braddon came into the bar by herself one evening did not necessarily mean that there was any truth to the rumor of her impending divorce from her husband. But he took solace in the fact of her solitude anyway. What did he care if she was married or separated or whatnot? He wasn’t in love. He just wanted an affair. A one-night affair, if need be. Hell, one hour would do. Or would it? His feelings towards her seemed to go beyond lust.

  She was wearing a jumpsuit, a blue jumpsuit, and her hair was in a ponytail. She didn’t look younger; perhaps because she still wore makeup, perhaps because she’d look too sophisticated in any outfit, any hairstyle, to ever be girlish. And hadn’t that been the main problem?

  Her head was found ten feet away. . . .

  He shook himself, making the bad thought go away again.

  Anna Braddon sat down two seats away from him, and he could smell her, a lovely scent, and he didn’t care if it was too powerful or if she wore too much of it. He looked over at her—discreetly, he hoped, although after three martinis there was no telling what he might consider discreet—and studied her, the cool way she sat awaiting her drink, her composure. That was it! A cool composure coupled with sex appeal. Devastating sex appeal. What on earth made him think she could ever see anything in him? Next to her husband, he was a schmoe. God, she knew how to carry herself. It was hopeless, hopeless.