by John Hunt
“Those idiots still here?”
Harry said, “They showed up thirty minutes ago.”
“No wonder so many people hate the media. I almost feel bad for those celebrities, always with their picture in those tabloids. Must get exhausting. I’m exhausted just thinking about them.”
Harry patted her shoulder. Since she got home, he always found some way to make physical contact. Almost like he were testing if she were real and not a fantasy. She knew how he felt. None of this seemed real. The basement, the pink walls and the bolted down furniture felt more tangible to her. She could envision a spot of blood on the floor under the bed when the Gorilla had snipped off her index finger with those fucking shears. He loved those shears. He commented on them all the time about how great they were. How easily they clipped through bone. The finger rolled under the bed after it sailed through the air. They couldn’t reach it, not with the bed bolted to the floor. She remembered the Gorilla complaining as he lay flat on his stomach, using a broom to snag her index finger and draw it in towards him. Pissed about having to get the finger and not being able to clean up the blood. The ever silent Jackal later bandaged her hand with care. How she hated those fuckers. And one of them was still free. Why couldn’t it all be over? She escaped and she just wanted it to be done. Isn’t that how its supposed to work?
Harry said, “You okay?”
She flinched, drawn out of her memories, gave him a tremulous smile and said, “Yeah. I think so.”
His eyes slid to her ear and he pulled her into a quick hug. He said, “Why don’t you sit down. I’ll make the coffee.”
She pulled away, “No. I got it, dad. Really.”
“Alright.”
She put the filter in the coffee maker, scooped in the coffee, filled it with water and turned it on.
“See? Not so hard.”
“You forgot to plug it in.”
She frowned until she saw the plug in the outlet and said, “Har-d-har, dad,” and playfully bumped him with her hip.
Out the window, the sliding door of one of the news vans rolled open. A man in a red toque and a dark blue jacket waved at her. She scowled. He raised a camera with a huge lens and snapped pictures of her.
She moved away from the window and sat at the table.
Harry closed the curtains and said, “Those people,” he shook his head, “have no souls.”
Harry clicked on the iPod and with music riding the air around them, he finished making breakfast and poured them both coffee. Sitting at the table they were initially silent while eating and content to be in each other’s company.
Harry said, “So, we gotta discuss what we wanna do here.”
“About what?”
“Well, about living here for one. Also, I’m going to have to go back to work next week and you’re going to be here alone and that other guy is still out there.”
“The cops are pretty confident he won’t come after me. And they gave me that alarm thingy. That push button thing.”
“The one you’re supposed to always have on you?”
She pulled the alarm activator out from under her collar. She had attached it to a leather string. “It’s right here, dad.”
“Good. I’m glad they gave that to you. Still, it’s not like he couldn’t find out where you are,” he jerked a thumb at the window, “not with those jerks out there.”
Olivia suffered the same thoughts. Last night while trying to sleep, she kept glancing at the window expecting a Jackal head to appear. He would turn to her, hands pressed against the glass and his excited breath would fog the pane. Needless to say she had trouble sleeping. Silly considering her room was on the second floor. He would have to be able to levitate or use a ladder to see into her window. And he would have to drag the ladder through the crusted snow past the well-lit yard of their neighbours. Still, once the thought took root in her brain, it became impossible to yank out. At night, when the moon shone bright in the window and the wind pushed against the house creating noises you never noticed before, silly ideas become plausible. Dark thoughts grew teeth and bared them from the recesses of imagination. Even though the police and her dad took steps to protect her, she didn’t feel safe. Before she even got home from the hospital, Harry had someone install an alarm. And the police gave her the plunger alarm too at the time. Usually reserved for victims of domestic violence, the alarm wasn’t bigger than a lipstick container and easy to use. Depress the button at the top and the signal would be sent to the police to respond to her home as a priority one. Lights and sirens all the way. Even if pressed by accident, the police were obligated to see her in person to make sure she wasn’t being held hostage and being forced to lie to them over the phone telling them everything was alright. Police regularly patrolled her street. She would see them pass, twenty, thirty times in a day. The Jackal would have to be crazy to come after her. And he was crazy, a loon, but not the uncontrolled impulses type of mental illness. To come after her, he would almost have to want to get caught. She couldn’t see that in him. He had been the controlled and quiet one. She had too much attention on her now. It would be too dangerous for him to come after her. Especially with the news vans parked out front.
They wouldn’t be there forever, though, would they? Something worse would happen and she would be old news. Then, at some point, with no action, the cops would stop driving by and maybe, if enough time passed, they would ask for their alarm back. Then he would be there, waiting for her under the bed, ready to snatch at her passing feet.
She would rather be dead than spend another second in a prison constructed by the Jackal. Moving and disappearing from sight might be the best idea. She would be hiding, which wasn’t an ideal way to live but she at least would be alive. She wouldn’t be a prisoner in a pink cell dreading the screech of a metal door opening and admitting two animals meaning to devour her. After some time, she might be able to breathe again. Being home while knowing the bastard still stalked the streets and might show up at anytime made her feel like she had been holding her breath, waiting for the worst because the worst is what she had gotten used to wasn’t it? Five years of it. Hard to shrug off the chains those years had created. Would she ever feel safe again or would she always be looking over her shoulder? If the Jackal were dead maybe it would be a little easier to breathe. Maybe she could finally exhale.
Olivia said, “Moving could be a good idea. We’d have to wait for those ass-clowns to leave. I’m sure they’ll find some other misery to circle over.”
Harry smiled, “Ass-clowns? I like it. You have a way with words my dear.”
His expression darkened and he said, “Would you want to have a gun around? We could both get a licence. Practice at the shooting range, you know, so we can both be comfortable with one.”
“I don’t want to think too much right now, dad. I’ll consider it.”
“Okay. No problem.”
She had thought of it though and then researched it. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Unless she carried it with her everywhere it wouldn’t be much use. In the house the firearms would have to be secured in a locker. The ammunition would have to be stored in a separate place and the firearm couldn’t be loaded. She could imagine it. The Jackal shows up and she kindly asks him to wait while she unlocks the gun locker, takes it to where the ammunition is stored, loads the gun and then shoots him. All in all, not a realistic expectation and not worth the effort to get one. It wasn’t like she could take the gun out of the house either, not in a way she could access it quick if she needed to. There were transportation requirements. You’re not allowed to carry them around outside just under your coat or something. She wasn’t living in Texas.
She would think about it though. Might be some extra insurance i
n it. Hell, she might just have one loaded by her bed and fuck the law. It wasn’t like the law rescued her from that basement. She did that all by herself. Something to consider anyways. She did have another idea about protection though, but it wasn’t the first on her list. The cops were still vigilant about patrols and with the alarm around her neck, they were a quick press away. That part of her plan could wait for now. There were other things to get done first. Like getting her dad to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. She had seen him in the evenings, drinking until he slurred words and walked with unsure steps like the room had tilted on him. She didn’t like it. He wasn’t the dad she had left behind. Her absence had left scars on him too. Her return hadn’t magically healed them either, but why would it? He developed the addiction in her absence and after all, it was an addiction.
It concerned her at first. She didn’t think it was as bad as it was but she hadn’t been home all that long. Only then she noticed he drank every night and not just a beer with dinner either. By the time he went to bed he was usually six to ten beers in. She saw the stack of empties growing in the garage each day. Even this morning, she saw him toss a couple of Tylenol in his mouth and dry chew them. A stale smell of alcohol hovered around him all the time. Even after a shower. His eyes were puffy and red for most of the day. He hadn’t drank like this before she had been taken. She knew that. This was something new. Well, new to her. To him, it seemed a well practiced routine. He sipped on his coffee and touched her hand. A reassuring touch. A good dad. It hurt her to see him suffer. He wouldn’t have started drinking if she hadn’t been taken. Not that it was her fault or that he blamed her but his addiction was something she had inadvertently helped to start. For five years he had no idea that she was alive and what was his coping tool for that? Alcohol. He wanted a drink right now. Two broken people. Maybe they could help each other. Maybe they could heal each other. The thought pulled her lips into a smile. She reached out and held her dad’s hand. His lips trembled and formed a smile. They could get better.
After clearing up the dishes, Olivia retired to the living room and turned on the TV. She curled up on the couch, her knees up to hold the iPad on her lap. The TV droned in the background. Her dad sat in a chair across from her, a book open in his hands, stealing glances of Olivia every once in awhile.
Harry said, “Frank should be back next week. He called a few times, you know.”
“Where’s he been?”
“Some conference. Big important contractors conference where the only serious work getting done is drinking.”
“Why didn’t he want to talk to me?”
“He sounded in shock. Kept asking if you were really home. I told him yes, you know, asked him if he wanted to speak to you and he was like, ‘No,no,no. Just tell me how she is.’ Like if he spoke to you it wouldn’t be real anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I guess like when you get someone to pinch you to make sure you’re awake when something incredible happens. With Frank, hearing your voice might wake him from the dream of you return. Something like that anyways.”
“Huh. I never saw Uncle Frank as that way.”
“What way?”
“It’s gonna sound mean.”
“I’m sure I can take it.”
“Caring.”
Harry laughed, “Yeah. I guess I can see that. That’s just his way. But he does care. He never forgets a birthday does he?”
“I always thought that was because of you and his administrative assistant.”
“That’s all Frank. Anyways, he’ll be by some time next week, for dinner.”
“Alright.”
She returned her attention to the iPad. Touch screen. She kept wanting to use her index finger but just a nub remained. She stared at the pink scar tissue over the remaining bone. Shiny pink, twisted skin. Deformed. How she hated those bastards! It burned inside her and at times, palsied her hands. The most dangerous one got away too, and from the sounds of it, would probably get away with it. The cops had fuck all. She asked them about it, after the interviews were finished. The lead detective, a bald guy with dark rimmed glasses avoided her eyes when answering, giving her the same platitudes he had given hundreds of other victims as their world dissolved around them. Using lines from TV shows about cops. He said to her, after a nervous clearing of his throat, “We’re following up a number of potential leads and still have to process all the evidence collected. We’ll let you know.” Blah-blah-blah.
He did say something though, something she couldn’t stop thinking about. He repeatedly questioned her about the two men. And when she told him about the roles of the two men and how the Jackal never touched her sexually and had never spoken to her his brow creased and his lips pursed, like he didn’t believe her, like she was making this shit up. She bristled and said, “How many times you going to ask me the same thing? I’m telling you, not once did he touch me that way! Not once did the fucker even talk to me! God! Why do we keep going over this?”
He reddened, the scant moustache dancing as he withered under her anger and confusion. Didn’t he believe her? She didn’t mean to get so mad but how many times could she say the same thing though? And when it seemed like the cop was fucking sceptical about her version of events, like she would make this shit up for amusement, she wanted to explode, rip the ugly little moustache off his face. Didn’t he know no one wore those anymore? Even ironically? They were old news before she had been taken. She could feel the veins in her eyeballs pulse, that’s how mad she had been.
His hands fluttered about his tie, a nervous tic and he stuttered out, “Look, I’m sorry if it looks like we’re going around in circles here. I can’t even comprehend how bad it must’ve been for you. Your story is like the other girls’, Lucy and Jen, except for a huge detail.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“This Jackal character? He uh, raped the other two girls, with Shawn, the Gorilla. He also spoke to them all the time. Giving them orders on what he wanted done to him and what he wanted done to his pal, Shawn. They both punished him. Never so gentle with them as you describe he was with you. Never painting their nails. And, yeah, he did the bandaging on the other girls, just with no kindness? If you can call anything they did as kind. So you see, it’s odd. I, mean, why didn’t he ever touch you? I’m glad he didn’t. One asshole would be enough for anyone. I’m asking all these questions, and yes, they seem repetitive, but I just wanna know why? Why not you? Why didn’t he even talk to you? Curious, don’t you think?”
Stunned, she said, “Downright fucking weird, is what I think.”
And it was weird, totally insane. She continually questioned the motivations of the Jackal. What did he get from it all? Never touching, never abusing her the way the Gorilla did, or even speaking to her. He was no friend to her. He wouldn’t have helped her to escape. She figured he liked to watch. With the detective’s revelation, it now appeared to be something else. A sickness only the Jackal could understand. Why not her?
The thought squirmed like snakes in her stomach. She leaned back appraising the detective. Not as stupid as he looked. Well, maybe he was. One good question does not a genius make. His sceptical tone had rankled her.
Sitting in her living room, eyes vacant on the iPad screen, she couldn’t get the thought out of her head. It popped up, unbidden, pushing out any good feeling she might have had, fleeting as those moments were. She knew the Jackal felt something special for her. Whatever it was, it prevented him from raping her and from speaking to her. She didn’t know what it was or why it existed but it was there. As tangible as his touch. Did she remind him of someone? A mother he loved and hated? A sister? If so, why weren’t Lucy and Jen spared his touch? They were all very similar. Height, weight, hair colour, hell, line them up
and you might think they were related. Why not her then? It scared her and in a guilty corner of her soul, she felt relief. She hadn’t been subjected to the tag-team horrors. The Gorilla was bad enough. But what did it mean? She could talk to the other girls, ask them about it. Should she though? They had just been through it with the detectives and from what it sounded like, they had it even worse than her, if that could be possible. Olivia didn’t know if she wanted to revisit it either. Talk about it all again as though they were some women in a book club, saying shit like, So what did it mean to you? No, she was so not ready for that nonsense. Not yet. It was all too fresh, like pulling off a scab before it healed.
She fingered the little bit of cartilage of what remained of her ear. Why had they taken it again? So many slights, so many punishments. It could have been for the time she played nice, acting provocative until the Gorilla got close enough for her to kick him in his hanging bits. How he howled! He even puked on the floor! She was positive that behind the mask, he was crying. Hearing him sob and watching the puke leak out of his mask, she thought whatever the punishment was going to be, still, it was worth it. Until they took her ear. No wait, that wasn’t it. They took the ear for not eating and messing in her bed. Time blurred the events. Cruelty merging with other acts of vileness. For the kick in the bits, they took her big toe. A secret part of her maybe wanted to get them mad enough to kill her, like when she wouldn’t eat or get up to go to the washroom. They would release her from prison in the most permanent way. Otherwise why provoke them like that?
Two days later they returned. The Gorilla still hobbling a bit as he approached her. Those Craftsman clippers appeared in his hand and she knew beneath the stupid mask of his he was grinning from ear to ear. The Jackal held her down, pinning her head to the cold floor with his knee. The room itself had been warm, comfortably so, but the floor had always been cold. He placed his other knee in the small of her back and held her arms on the other side of his body so they were pulled straight out and she thought her shoulder would pop out of the socket and flop loose under the skin. The Gorilla straddled her legs, his weight grinding her bony hips against the floor. He said, “Punishment time!” He clacked the clippers together, so she could hear it and he grabbed her foot. She kicked out and the Gorilla lost his grip. He slid further down her legs, onto the backs of her calves. She couldn’t lift him. He grabbed her foot and she tried to move it. Too strong, all she could do was wiggle her foot. She stopped wiggling when she felt the cold blades on either side of her big toe. The clippers crunched through her skin and stopped at the bone. She screamed. The Gorillas said, “Hold still would ya? Just one more clip.” The Gorilla grunted and she heard the click as the blade bit through bone. Her toe popped off and the Gorilla said, “Got it!”