The Church of Broken Pieces

by David Haynes

  “Just before I... you know, it got awful hot in that room. Awful hot.”

  “That’ll be the blood pressure, and possibly your heart . It’s...”

  “And John too? Sweat was pouring out of him.”

  “Fever, maybe? You weren’t exactly dressed for a run last night were you, either of you.”

  “Maybe,” he answered. “My temperature was spot on a moment ago though, wasn’t it?”

  She sighed. “Like I said, you need to see your own doctor, I can only perform so many rudimentary tests. Anyone needs anything more complicated than ECG and we send them over to Mercy.”

  She scribbled on a pad and handed it to him. “The pharmacy in town will make this up for you.”

  He took it, folded it in half and then slid it into his pocket.

  “I’m serious, Frank, don’t just stuff it in your pocket and forget about it.”

  “I won’t,” he replied. “I’ll get it later.” He walked to the door. “I get the feeling we’ll be hanging around for a few more days yet.”

  17

  After leaving the hospice, they went straight back to the motel and lay on their beds. Donovan put on the TV but the only show on the box was a five minute feature about the Church of Broken Pieces, and it played on a loop. Over and over and over.

  “This is bullshit,” Donovan said, jumping off his bed. “I’m going to have a word with Jerry.”

  Wilson switched it off with the remote and stared at the ceiling. It was marginally better than the desert landscape but far better than what was on the tube. Donovan had been unusually quiet on the way back. He couldn’t even raise a smile at some bad taste humor regarding his examination. He kept opening his mouth as if he wanted to speak, to say something, but closed it again with a shake of his head. Something was going on, but Wilson knew he would get nowhere by pushing the matter.

  The prescription Louise had given him was still in his pocket, where it would remain for the foreseeable future. At least until they were long gone from this town. A solitary car drove along Main Street, heading out of town toward the mill. Its tires hissed along the cracked blacktop like one long, clenched-teeth exhale.

  Something about what happened in that room wouldn’t come forward. Whatever it was had made a nest in some dark recess in his mind and refused to be teased out. He’d had blackouts before. Oh boy, had he had blackouts. Forget missing minutes, whole weeks had gone AWOL. Days where the only thing he could recall was the first fiery drink scorching a trail down his ravaged throat.

  Waking up not knowing how he’d got back to his house, let alone his bed, had been fun at first. A source of amusement for the brief interludes of clarity, just before his trembling fingers unscrewed the cap on another lost week. But, however much he wanted a glimpse into that world, the in-between place his mom had been in, he didn’t want to stay there and alcohol couldn’t do to him what the stroke had done to her.

  The blackout in Raymond Fearn’s room hadn’t been of the variety delivered by bottle and glass, or later, just bottle. It had come from nothing other than a few words from the Reverend and... and something else...

  “Fucktard!” Donovan came storming back into the room. “Says there’s nothing wrong with the TV, showed me the episode of Star Trek he was watching on his.” Donovan stood at the bottom of Wilson’s bed, hands on hips. He was agitated. “So I said, give me your TV and we’ll call it quits.”

  “What’d he say?” Wilson asked.

  “Nothing at first but when I tried to unplug it, he went bat-shit crazy.”

  Wilson sat up. “You did what?”

  “I tried to take it.” He walked around to his bed. “Fuck it,” he whispered and then threw himself onto down on the bed.

  “Jesus, John, why did you do that? Did you get into a fight with him?”

  “Of course not. He threatened to call the cops.” He sat up, grinning. “He won’t though, can’t afford to lose the business.”

  Wilson shook his head. He couldn’t remember a time when Donovan had ever been the slightest bit aggressive. He was tired, they both were, and there was clearly some kind of virus or bug going through them both.

  “Just lie down and relax. We don’t need the box.”

  Donovan lay back down. “I just wanted to watch crap, something to think about other than...” He shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “Other than people killing themselves. Or trying to kill themselves.”

  “I know,” Wilson replied. “I know.” He had no idea what he could say to make things better. He only knew he wanted to. Donovan had been there when the urge to experience just one more blackout had been strong. When the itch had been at its worst. He hadn’t been able to make things better, but he had stopped things getting worse.

  “What did the doc say, anyway?” Donovan asked, also now staring at the ceiling.

  He instinctively touched his pocket where the prescription was. “Not much, just that I need to get checked out properly. Nothing’s got any worse though. You?”

  “Bit of a temperature, that’s all. Not really surprising after last night.” He knuckled his temples. “I feel like I’ve come off the worst trip ever.” He rolled over, looked at Wilson. “Got any Advil?”

  Wilson shook his head. “I’ll go and get some.” He shuffled his legs off the bed.

  “No. We’ll get some later. I don’t want you keeling over in the middle of town without me being here.”

  “That’s not going to happen. You know that, right John?”

  Donovan rolled onto his back again. “You ever felt heat like that before?”

  “In that room? Something wrong with the pipes, I think.” Wilson knew it wasn’t that.

  “Must’ve been.” Donovan was nodding. “That and the temperature I’m running. Fainting, though? Swooning like someone from a Jane Austen story. That won’t do my image any favors.”

  Wilson smiled, despite the mood. He checked his watch. “Want to go and get a burger at Courtney’s? It’s nearly lunch time.” Nothing could better Donovan’s mood more than good food. He was pleased with his idea.

  Donovan rolled over onto his side, his back turned away. “Don’t think I could eat anything, Frankie. You go ahead, I’m just going to sleep for a while.”

  In less than a minute he heard Donovan’s breathing change, becoming steady, deep and relaxed. There was nothing in Donovan’s spirits that wouldn’t be remedied by a few solid hours of unbroken sleep.

  He stared at the cowboy, feeling his own eyes grow heavy. It wouldn’t hurt to have a couple of hours.

  *

  When he came to, it was with the slow and doughy sensation of rising through a lake of glue. He fought his way to the surface okay, but he was covered in the greasy slime of an afternoon nap gone on for too long.

  He could hear water running in the bathroom and the clunk of hot water streaming through the pipes. The room was dark. How long had he been asleep?

  He lifted his wrist and squinted at his watch. Just after five. They had been asleep for five hours? He blinked a few times and switched on the bedside lamp. The cowboy hadn’t moved, he was still surveying the desert.

  “John?” he called. No reply.

  “How come we slept so long? Have you seen the time?” He rolled off the bed. His head was pounding and his mouth dry. “How you feeling?” he called again.

  Nothing. Steam billowed out of the bathroom like a thundercloud; bulging gray sacks of steam that seemed to bubble, burst and then reform.

  “Put a towel on or pull the curtain, I need a leak.” He padded across the threadbare carpet to the saloon doors and waited.

  “Did you hear me, John? I said put a towel on, I need to use the toilet.”

  When there was no reply he pushed through the doors. The heat hit him immediately. He was relieved to see Donovan had pulled the curtain around the bath. He had heard him then.

  The floor was wet under his feet, his socks soaked through after two steps.

  “Trying to tur
n it into a sub-tropical paradise, I see.” He walked across to the toilet and unzipped.

  “You want to get that burger now? I’m pretty hungry.” He finished and then turned to wash his hands in the sink. The fogged-up mirror showed his blurred outline and not much else. He wiped a hand across it, a slick grease covering his hand. It had been a long time since the mirror had been cleaned. It fogged again almost immediately.

  “Seems he got the hot water fixed. How long you been in there anyway?”

  The curtain drifted in a little, sticking to Donovan’s thigh. Wilson looked away, back to his own smudged reflection.

  A bass and protracted cough echoed in the room. It came from Donovan’s direction.

  “That didn’t sound good, maybe we should get Dr Hami...”

  It came again, only worse, like he was clearing a barrel full of Kennebec River sediment from his throat.

  “John?” He turned around. The steam seemed thicker now, soupier. He took three strides across the room. “You better talk to me or I’m pulling the curtain back.”

  He could feel his heart rate quickening. It felt tight in there. It felt wrong in here, skewed.

  “Come on!” he shouted. The water rushed through the pipes, hissing, banging and... and humming. Like the sound in the room at the hospice. In Raymond Fearn’s room.

  He took a handful of the curtain, the material slimy and cold, and wrenched it back.

  Donovan was in there, his back toward Wilson with his hand resting on the tiled wall. He turned slowly.

  “Whatcha doin’, Frankie?” he said. His smile as oily as Reverend Cavendish’s.

  Wilson released the curtain and stepped back. “Sorry, I thought, I mean I thought you were...”

  “Hey, Frank!” Louise Hamilton poked her head out from behind Donovan’s thigh and placed both of her hands on his ass cheeks. “Just making John feel better.” She looked up at him. “Isn’t that right?”

  Donovan winked at Wilson and then looked down at her. “You’ve sure got the magic touch, Doc.”

  Wilson hadn’t seen her there, on her knees in front of Donovan. He opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t. The steam gushed down his throat and wound its syrupy fronds around his heart, squeezing just enough to make him gasp.

  “What’s the matter there, Frankie?” Dr Hamilton whispered. “Feeling under the weather? I’ll make you feel better. After I’ve finished with Johnny-boy of course.” She licked her lips and moved her head behind Donovan’s thigh.

  Donovan put one hand back on the tiles and groaned. In the other Wilson saw a knife. The blade was serrated, evil-looking.

  “What the fuck is this?” he gasped. The steam tightened on his heart again, sending him to his knees. Something scraped across his skin and he looked down. Fish, there were fish swimming around in the water, the filthy, polluted Kennebec. But they weren’t fish, not really. They were slimy, crawling creatures with seeping, pus-filled boils on their backs. Slugs. They looked just like fat slugs. Dark, viscid water slid over the edge of the bath and it was full of the creatures.

  “John? What’s happening?” His voice little more than a rasp. His heart bulged as it beat harder, trying to loosen the steam’s hold on it.

  Donovan threw his head back and opened his mouth. He turned to Wilson, his eyes full of laughter and yet what came from his mouth was a deep and throaty growl.

  Donovan slid the knife across first one wrist and then changed hands to cut the other, slicing deeper and deeper into his flesh. Blood sprayed across the tiles, up to the ceiling and turned the river water a deep and sickening red. And yet Dr Hamilton continued to perform fellatio on him, even as blood rained down on her.

  Wilson tried to scramble away, to get out of the room, but the water was gelatinous with congealing blood and held him in place. His heart was trying to thrash its way out of his chest, pushing a fist-sized lump against the taut skin.

  Wilson screamed. At least he opened his mouth to scream but what came out was blood, more and more blood falling from his mouth in a syrupy cascade.

  He pleaded with Donovan using the only organ he was still in control of – his eyes. But all that came back was that same malevolent smirk.

  Donovan turned his body toward him, exposing the horrific wounds on his wrists. He adopted the position of Christ on the cross as blood and filthy water oozed from the shower head and fell on Louise Hamilton’s head.

  “Baphomet,” Donovan hissed, his eyes boring into Wilson’s skull. “This one belongs to me now.”

  He screamed again.

  *

  “Wake up!”

  Wilson opened his eyes and screamed. Donovan was standing over him, one side of his face in shadow, the other illuminated in half-light from the window. He was grinning.

  “Wake up!” he repeated. “You’re Baphomet, you idiot!”

  Wilson pushed himself up against the headboard, his mind a maelstrom of retreating images, all of them vile.

  “What? What did you say?” He could hear the pound of his heart echoing in his ears.

  “I said, you’re dreaming, you idiot.”

  Wilson flinched as Donovan reached forward. Mercifully it was only to turn on the bedside lamp.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Wilson looked into his friend’s eyes and saw nothing that he hadn’t seen a thousand times before. A good man.

  “Nothing... Sorry, man. Bad dream.” He shook his head and picked a granule of spiky silt from the corner of his eye. “How long have I been out?”

  Donovan walked toward the bathroom. “Three hours, just over anyway. Man, I feel like shit.” He turned around. “You want to shower first? I don’t mind, then we can go get that burger if you’re still up for it?”

  Wilson shook his head. The image of Donovan posed like Christ in a shower of blood squirmed out of his brain and vaporized in the ether.

  “I’ll go first then.” Donovan pushed through the saloon doors and disappeared.

  He waited until he heard the water splashing into the tub and then stood on the other side of the wall. He just wanted to hear Donovan’s voice again. His own voice.

  “I’m going to get a cheeseburger I think, with extra bacon and a side of fries. What about you?” he asked.

  “Huh?” Donovan’s response came through the splash of water on skin.

  “I asked what kind of burger you wanted?”

  “I don’t know, regular I guess.”

  “You don’t want cheese on that? Or bacon?”

  “I could probably go for some onion rings,” Donovan replied.

  Wilson nodded. “I bet Courtney makes good burgers.” What could he talk about next? It didn’t matter what the subject was, as long as he could hear his friend’s voice. That was all that mattered, the sound of his voice. Just as long as it didn’t sound like he was filtering it through the river bed, or saying strange words, everything would be fine. What was the word he said in the dream? Some gobbledygook about a bath. That would fit nicely with a nightmare his mind had set in a bathroom. That wasn’t quite right. He squeezed his eyes shut. Nothing. The nightmare was drifting away, thank God.

  He fell against the wall.

  “What are you banging around at out there?” Donovan shouted.

  “Just swatting a bug,” Wilson replied. “So, the Patriots...”

  Just keep him talking. It was important to keep John talking.

  18

  Now there was seven hours of Reverend Cavendish’s life he would never get back. Never. His cheeks ached from smiling so hard and for so long. They ought to give him a medal for today. A goddamn gold medal.

  He watched the bus drive away. Its red tail-lights poked the darkness as it crested the hill and then fell away to nothing as if the world beyond the hill did not exist at all. He wished that were true. That his world, Hemlock Mill, the Church of Broken Pieces and Kennebec Health Consultancy were the only places in existence. Then he truly would be King of the World.

  “Fuckers
,” he whispered at nothing in particular. “All of them.” He turned and started walking toward town. He supposed if Hemlock Mill was the only place on earth then New York wouldn’t exist. And if that didn’t exist, he wouldn’t have the urge to get there and continue his calling.

  He laughed and then looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was about. The only calling he’d ever heard was Sergeant ‘Rosie’ Rose, calling for a medic. Both of his legs lying in the sand to the side of him and blood pumping out of him like that geyser in Yellowstone pumped water out of the earth.

  Thinking about urges. When those two fag lawyers fainted in the room earlier, he’d had the almost overwhelming urge to stamp on their heads. Fainting! Shit, if any of the men in the Thundering Third had fainted when they were in that fucking desert, they would have had the shit beaten out of them. Literally.

  Still, it had been pretty funny to watch them crumple like that, so it wasn’t a completely wasted day. That and the one hundred and seventy-five dollars in donations he’d received had at least gone some way to helping with his mood. Theo Lunn and his band of merry men could go whistle if they thought he was going to give up all that money, though. He’d keep the Franklin and let them have the change. He was the one doing all the work. He deserved it.

  The results of some of that hard work he intended to bestow upon Courtney. The whole steak thing from this morning had been on his mind most of the day. The phone call from Adolf Shitler had cut short his fun and also deprived him of a full and hearty breakfast. The only thing he’d eaten all day had been a lousy tuna sandwich up at the hospice. The company had been as bad as the fish. Fifteen of them and not one of them had anything interesting to say. He’d given up asking them about anything more taxing than the weather a long time ago, preferring instead to watch the inside of his eyelids and create his own movies. Some of them involved Courtney, some of them involved Louise Hamilton, and some of them involved the two of them with half a dozen girls from Flesh 69.

  Today’s offering had been different though. In his imagination, those two lawyers were being given the same treatment as the terrorist his unit once found hiding in a hovel the day after Thanksgiving.