Extremities

by C A Devine

  ‘But what? What else did you tell them? What did they tell you I was doing?’

  I began to lower my hands, ‘Do you really think I would sell you out?’ I stepped towards him, ‘Who told you this? Can you really trust them?’

  ‘Stop fucking with me. I trusted you.’

  ‘Stop kidding yourself, you knew who I was. Do you think I’m stupid? You were using me. I know I’m your insurance if things turn bad,’ I sighed. ‘But I wouldn’t turn you in. I would never work for them. I love you. We’re family.’

  ‘I loved you.’ His finger pulled back on the trigger. I was going to die.

  Smoke spiralled around the end of the barrel, noise exploded everywhere. I’d never been shot before. I expected to feel a punch, or pain, or something. But nothing.

  I wasn’t bleeding. How could he not have hit me? He was right in front of me. He fired again and this time I felt the bullet whiz past my ear. Was he letting me go? I stared at him and he held my gaze with his deep tortured eyes.

  Headlights streamed into view and broke the spell. I spun and ran into the trees. I had gone barely 20 yards when I heard him shout.

  I realise now one’s mind never works the way one thinks it should, because all that flashed through my head as I chicaned around the trees, was how eerily similar this all was to the final scene of The Sound of Music.

  7

  The Critic

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Max’s eyes drifted over the horizon. The big tented bimini was shading us from the harsh midday sun.

  ‘Lucky said “You know who I am.” Who is she? And them, who are they, that she’d never work for?’

  Max’s eyes returned to me. ‘If I tell you that, there would be no point in you reading on, would there?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I’m trying to start with an exciting scene, to grip the reader. And then I’ll fill in the back story.’

  ‘So is this the end I’m reading?’

  ‘No, the middle. The end isn’t written yet.’ She smiled, ‘Well?’

  ‘I liked it.’

  ‘But?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Go on. This is why I showed it to you.’ She pushed herself up, sitting cross-legged on the wooden deck.

  ‘Your main character’s name is Lucky?’ I said.

  ‘And you have a problem with that?’

  ‘It just sounds a bit, I don’t know … like a porn star.’

  ‘Porn star?’ she frowned.

  ‘And the whole,’ I looked up at her, ‘how can I put this, Sound of Music thing, gives it an unreal, kind of comic book feel.’

  ‘Huh, really?’ she looked puzzled. I think I would have liked annoyed better. She glanced down at the pages in her hands.

  ‘But I like the noise exploding and the bullet whizzing past.’ She looked back up, her face expressionless. ‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,’ I said.

  ‘No, it was,’ she smirked, then started laughing. ‘Porn star, really?’

  ‘You’re not annoyed?’ I turned on my side to face her.

  ‘No, it was good. Not what I expected you to say,’ she shrugged, ‘but it was interesting and specific. Specific is useful. I might keep you on board as my regular critic.’

  ‘Really?’ It was my turn to frown.

  ‘Yes really. Don’t look so serious, New York.’ Her eyes drifted down my body. She feathered light fingers over the angry webbed scar on my left shoulder, ‘What did it feel like to get shot?’

  ‘I’m not a source of vicarious entertainment for your readers,’ I spat it out on reflex, bypassing my brain’s centre for rational thought. Did I mention I have anger issues?

  I rolled onto my back and mentally counted to ten, as my psychiatrist and every grade-school teacher chants like a mantra. She actually used the phrase my angry child one time. My psychiatrist, that is, not my grade-school teacher. And they wonder why people are sceptical.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,’ her words were slow, her voice husky. Her fingertips circled the wound, ‘It was rude.’

  ‘No. It’s okay. I shouldn’t have snapped.’ I let out a heavy breath, closed my eyes, and tried not to relive the moment, ‘There’s an instant when you hear the bang, but the bullet hasn’t hit you yet, where you believe, truly believe, you’ll dive out of the way in time. But suddenly there’s pain firing through you, into every part of your DNA, paralysing you, choking you. Then the outrageous fear hits you. Fear that the pain isn’t enough. And that means you’re dying. So you wish for more pain. Even though it’s already unbearable.

  ‘And everything slows down. It’s an eternity before the paramedics come charging in, even though you know it’s only minutes. And they talk at you with their false glaring smiles, telling you everything will be fine. But they’re excruciatingly bad liars.

  ‘It’s even longer to the hospital. All the start stop through the city with the blaring sirens splitting your head in two. And all the time you think, I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying.’ I blew out a breath and closed my eyes, fighting the chill shivering through me. ‘It’s only then that you realise you still want to live.’

  Max flittered her fingers down to the similar wound on my right thigh, drawing a soft pinkie around the scar. She bent down, caressing it with her lips. ‘I’m glad you didn’t die,’ her whisper hovered in the air. She floated her hand from my thigh across between my legs. ‘It’s so calming out here,’ she murmured. I let my head fall back and felt her touch flow through me. She trailed kisses over my skin, massaged my shoulder, my thigh. I tried to sit up, but she pushed me down. ‘Shh,’ she soothed, slow and quiet. My mind swam in heady pleasure, drifting out on the glistening blue sea, the warmth of the sun, lulling me, drifting, falling.

  ‘I love when we do this, just you and me. Remember the night at the Jersey shore, on the back of your old Chevy pickup, the crash of the ocean?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The shore? I never … Who …? ‘Lily?’ Was it? Could it be? ‘Lily? How?’ My heart kick-started, battering against my rib cage. Was she here? I tried to focus, to look at her.

  ‘The camp fire, the margaritas, the heat of you under the blankets, watching the sunrise. The perfect night.’ It was Lily. She was here. I could hear her. I could smell her peach shampoo. How? ‘Lily, oh God, Lily.’ Tears sprung to my eyes, her voice was bliss.

  ‘Hey,’ a voice. ‘Hey, shh. It’s okay.’ Lily’s voice? No? I was sure. I thought …

  Where was I? Nausea powered through my veins. Someone was here, beside me. I tensed, ready to spring. Was it just a dream? I could taste the strawberry lip balm. ‘Lily?’

  ‘Hey, New York.’ Max.

  ‘How long was I out?’ I croaked, trying to choke back the tears. I pushed up, covering my face as the colour of shame flushed up through me.

  ‘Awhile.’

  ‘I don’t remember … what were … were you?’ I wasn’t sure what I was trying to say. Max was lying beside me. What had happened? She was here. I could feel her fingertips on my skin. I struggled to pull the world into focus. I was on the boat. What had happened before I fell asleep? We were lying on deck. She asked me about my wound. I had jumped down her throat. My chest tightened. I wheezed out a breath. Gasped in another. In out. In out. In out. I couldn’t get air past my throat.

  ‘Mac, are you okay?’ Her voice dripped with concern.

  ‘I just need…’ Why did I think it was Lily?

  ‘Mac, you’re shivering,’ Max grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me.

  The smell, why did I smell that shampoo? It still floated in the air. I gulped again. It barely got past my mouth. A cloud drew in around my eyes. I had to get air in soon. Calm down, Ryan, calm down.

  ‘Just breathe,’ Max said, trying to make her voice soothing, but there was panic beneath the surface. Panic, why was there always so much panic? ‘Breathe deep,’ she laid a hand on my back. It burned like ice. I jumped.

  Pull, it, together, Ryan, pull … it
… together.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated. I saw the air. It hovered out there, teasing my lips and nostrils. I dragged it in through my nose. I let it swim around my lungs and up into my brain. I opened my mouth and it poured out.

  My breaths began to even out, the panic subsiding. I looked at Max’s face, blanketed with concern and for a moment I hated her. I was sick of all the concern. I had come here to escape it. I didn’t want it with her.

  ‘Is it steamy?’ I asked and was glad my voice sounded level.

  She blinked at me, ‘What?’

  ‘The book, is it steamy?’

  ‘Steamy?’ She laughed deep and throaty, her face softened as the concern ebbed away. ‘How oddly polite after what we’ve been up to. That will depend, New York.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether I’m inspired.’

  ‘Ouch, I could take that as an insult.’

  ‘Really? I thought it was an incentive to raise your game,’ that smirk appeared at the corner of her mouth, ‘or have you already shown me all you’ve got?’

  ‘Maybe we should get a hotel room. The bunks are pretty cramped.’

  ‘On this luxurious vessel? Is the workman blaming his tools?’

  ‘Strike two,’ I slapped a fist to my heart, ‘now I’m in real emotional pain. So when do I get to read the next chapter?’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘Not now?’

  ‘I thought you were raising your game.’

  8

  The Azores (Day 3)

  The Azores: last stop before the wild frontier. We motored in under the morning fog and tied up at the fuel dock. I wanted to top the tank to the max. ‘It won’t be open for an hour,’ I said, reading the sign on the door of a tumbledown shed. ‘I’m going into town to buy some fresh stuff at the market. D’you want to come?’

  Max shuffled her feet and chewed her bottom lip, her hands shoved deep in her pockets.

  ‘Come on,’ I jumped ashore, ‘it’s the last exercise we’ll get in awhile. It’ll do us both good.’

  We climbed up through cobbled lanes, passed old whitewashed buildings and up to a main street lined with shops and cafes. The town was still sleepy, but we found a bakery selling warm bread and a fruit shop setting up for the day. We stopped in at an early morning cafe and settled on that Mediterranean tradition of coffee and cake for breakfast – two slices for Max, at my insistence.

  On the way back a boutique was opening its doors, ‘Why don’t we get you some clothes?’ I said. Max frowned at me and shook her head. ‘Come on, you can’t wear my t-shirt for the next two weeks.’

  When we stepped in, we were welcomed by a smiling spiky-haired young woman. She gesticulated wildly pointing to the shelves, jabbering in Portuguese. I bumped Max forward and showed them both my pearly whites. Spiky ushered me into a chair, smiling down at me as she pushed red-framed eyeglasses up her nose. Her initial job done, she returned behind the counter and continued with the task of opening up for the day. She hit a switch behind the desk. The cash register lit up and a television popped on overhead. Wilder waving of arms was used to show me it was there. I nodded, smiled and said, ‘Thank you.’ Her enthusiasm deserved some response.

  Max stepped one reluctant foot in front of the other. She circled the shop, steering clear of the shelves and rails. On her second tour she honed in on a red scarf. She unfolded it, held it up and finally tried it around her neck. From there she moved to tops then jeans, and eventually disappeared into a changing room with a bundle of clothes. With some cajoling, she stepped out from behind the curtain and modelled her choices. My nods and shakes of the head were rewarded with that small smirk. She settled conservatively on some jeans, t-shirts, a hooded sweatshirt. The only spark of Max was the scarf.

  The assistant buzzed around, delighted at the early sales. She lifted the bundle from Max’s arms and directed us to the cash register.

  She was ringing them up when I felt Max go rigid beside me. I turned my eyes to her. She was staring up, behind the girl. I followed her gaze to the television. A picture of Max with long dark curly hair filled the screen. I blinked. She was still there.

  ‘Anything else?’ the assistant chirped in heavily-accented English. I forced a smile, shook my head and handed over cash. ‘Thank you, very much,’ she said, taking the bills and punching keys. The drawer banged open, Max flinched.

  The girl counted change into my hand, seemingly oblivious to the rising tension.

  ‘Thank you,’ I kept the grin plastered to my face, snatching up the bags from the counter. ‘Okay?’ I turned to Max, she looked like a ghost. I was afraid she might faint. ‘Come on, we’re going to be late,’ I made a show of glancing at my watch. Max looked up at me, wide-eyed. Her head rose, then fell in an attempt at a nod.

  We stepped out onto the sidewalk. I scanned the old street, the blood charging hard through my veins. It was empty. I grabbed Max’s hand – she didn’t pull away – and started in the direction of the port.

  ‘Senhor,’ I heard a shout behind us, then footsteps shuffling on the cobbles. ‘Senhor,’ it was louder this time. I kept moving. ‘Senhor, you forget, you forget.’ It was almost a shriek. I spun my head around. The assistant, her glasses falling down her nose, stood on the sidewalk, holding up the bags of bread and fruit. I stood there, mouth open, not moving. ‘Senhor, you forget,’ she said again.

  I dropped Max’s hand and jogged back to the girl, ‘Thank you.’ I forced the grin again. I took the bags from her offered hand and snuck a glance over her shoulder into the shop. Max’s picture still filled the television screen. ‘Thanks,’ I said again, dragging my eyes back, ‘no breakfast without these.’

  ‘No breakfast,’ she giggled, pushing the eyeglasses up her nose.

  I trotted back to Max, gripped her hand and once more started for the port. We walked New York style. We didn’t run. People noticed runners. The streets were awake now and TVs seemed to have come alive everywhere. Every third one was showing Max’s picture – although it would be hard to tell she was the same person. She was thinner now and couldn’t be identified from her hair. We trotted down the winding streets, Max staring at the ground, hiding under the peak of my cap.

  When we finally reached the dock, a skinny wrinkled man, in a grubby woollen cap, was filling a small fishing boat pulled up behind us. He turned as we approached. He spent a moment eyeing us up and down before opening his mouth, ‘This you boat?’ he gestured with arthritic fingers towards the Two At A Time.

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. The shed stood open, a television on inside. I glanced over, relieved to see a news anchor. The pump clicked off. I flinched. Max squeezed my hand, hard. ‘We’ll just put these on the boat,’ I gestured with the bags, ‘and open the tank.’ I stepped over the lifelines, unlocked the hatch and climbed below. Max was hyperventilating as she slid down behind me. ‘Go lie down,’ I whispered, ‘I’ll settle up and we’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes.’ I grabbed the key for the fuel tank and climbed back up top.

  ‘How much?’ Skinny was dragging the thick high pressure pump towards me.

  ‘Fill her up,’ I forced a smile, opening the tank. He used two shaky hands to push in the nozzle and start the flow. The TV buzzed behind him in Portuguese. I snuck another glance in that direction. There she was again with her thick curls tumbling over her shoulders, her big bright eyes smiling.

  ‘You head out?’ he threw an arm westward. I nodded. ‘Good weather today, and after.’

  ‘That’s what I hear,’ I nodded, up then down, up then down.

  He left the pump churning and wandered over to the shed, continuing to watch me from the corner of his eye. Was he suspicious? Was I paranoid? I was standing in the cockpit, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, my hands stuck deep in my pockets. Blood tore around my body, it was taking every ounce of self-control not to start the engine and gun out of the harbour.

  But we couldn’t run in a sailboat, what the hell had I been thinking?
>
  Act normal, Ryan, act normal.

  He sauntered back out and checked the pump. ‘The television, the kidnap woman,’ he gestured backwards. My blood ran cold. ‘They say, she on sailboat. Maybe come here, maybe Madeira, maybe Las Canarias. They say health is bad, necessary to find her.’ He lifted his shirt. He had a handgun tucked into his waistband. He was a fucking gas station attendant and he had a gun stuck in his waistband. I thought that shit only went on in the US. The gas pump clicked off. I let out a shaky breath. ‘The man who steal her, he dangerous. Call policia.’ He fumbled in his pocket and without taking his eyes off me, hooked out a cell phone, with the three good fingers of his left hand. If I lunged for the cell, would he manage to get the shot off?

  ‘Please don’t.’ It was Max, I hadn’t heard her come up. She stepped over next to me. ‘Please don’t, I haven’t been kidnapped, I’m right where I want to be. Please, just let us pay for the diesel and leave.’ She glanced over at the pump. ‘We owe you 150,’ she leaned out over the lifeline with four fifties fanned in her hand. ‘They want me. I worked for them. They didn’t like me leaving. He didn’t kidnap me.’ She was looking straight at him, her voice soft and low, her face bright and smiling. ‘He’s just helping me,’ she waved the four fifties again. ‘He’s a good man.’

  He leaned forward, yanked out the pump, then swung his bad hand in an attempt to grab the cash. Max pulled them back, ‘I know you’re a good man.’ She offered them again. This time he dropped the pump, his good hand went out and he didn’t miss. ‘Thank you,’ Max nodded to him, ‘thank you.’ I knelt down and closed the tank. Max cranked the ignition. The engine let out a splutter then coughed to life. I untied the stern line and threw it ashore. I started down the side deck. Skinny Gun-guy followed me along the dock, watching me. I crouched at the bow. My fingers were trembling as they fumbled on old greasy rope. All the while he kept his eyes on me. Finally I slipped the line loose and threw it ashore. And still he stared, weighing me up, judging me? Max eased the throttle forward and we inched away from the dock. We turned to port and she put us on a heading for the mouth of the harbour. ‘I think that went well,’ she said and I spluttered out a laugh.