Husk

by J. Kent Messum

  ‘Looks like they just up and quit the business, walked off the reservation without as much as a goodbye.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  Phineas shrugs. ‘Fuck knows.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because they were all you at one point, Rhodes, Husking for Winslade and not bloody happy about it, taking session after session until something drove them to quit. And you know how hard it is to quit this business.’

  ‘I’ve heard.’

  ‘I’m aware of four people other than you that have been hired by Winslade. Three have gone AWOL and one … well, one is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘That would be Miller.’

  I can’t contain my shock. ‘Miller Husked for Winslade?’

  ‘On occasion.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Phineas grins. ‘Pillow talk, baby.’

  ‘Nikki?’

  ‘Our receptionist is privy to some of what’s going on internally. Baxter does her best to keep bookings and business airtight, but Nikki gets wind of a few things.’

  ‘Was Miller in session with Winslade the night he died?’ I ask.

  ‘That I don’t know,’ Phineas says, shaking his head. ‘But he couldn’t have been. The client would have died when Miller did.’

  ‘Right … well, what about the other three? What can you tell me about them?’

  ‘Can’t tell you much, other than that they weren’t Solace employees. They were hires from one of our rivals.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Eternity Executive.’

  ‘Those fucking jokers?’ I laugh. ‘They deal in bimbos and himbos, wash-ups and hacks.’

  Phineas shakes his head again. ‘Those fucking jokers supply most of Asia’s one-per-cent Post-Mortems with contracts now. EE has that lucrative market cornered. They ain’t no joke, son.’

  I can’t help but think of Mr Ichida and his many rentals. ‘Did you ever Husk for Ichida or Winslade?’

  ‘Ichida, yes. Winslade, no,’ replies Phineas, sucking his teeth. ‘The way I hear it, he doesn’t much like the niggers.’

  I raise my glass to my lips and find it almost empty. Don’t remember drinking the wine. I look to the bartender to signal for another when I see something from the corner of my eye. My heart jumps. Seated at the end of the bar, a pale face with green eyes set in a bush of ratty red hair. I know who it is before I flick my eyes over and focus on him. Delane stares me down. Immediately his face distorts, melting into the features of a ginger-haired woman who is appraising me from across the room. I close my eyes, rub them hard. I mutter a curse.

  ‘You okay?’ Phineas asks.

  ‘Seeing shit again,’ I grumble.

  ‘Come again?’

  I wave his question away, trying to quell my growing irritation with these one-second phantasmal visits from some fucker I’ve never even met.

  ‘Do you know a guy named Delane?’ I ask. ‘Dennis Delane?’

  ‘No,’ Phineas replies. ‘But why does that name sound familiar?’

  ‘His body was found in the meat-packing district a few days ago. Police think something foul.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember it. Dumped in some alley?’

  ‘That’s the guy.’

  ‘Why are you asking me about him?’

  I look Phineas straight in the eye. ‘I’m seeing him everywhere.’

  ‘What … like on the telly?’

  ‘No, like visions, hallucinations.’

  Phineas just stares at me, one finger stroking his pint glass, unsure of what to say. Finally he clears his throat and straightens.

  ‘Well, you said before you were having problems with your Ouija –’

  ‘It’s not the fucking Ouija,’ I snap. ‘This isn’t technological. It’s biological, or psychological, or … or …’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Metaphysical? Spiritual? Christ, I don’t know.’

  I start running a finger around the rim of my wine glass, an old habit of mine, creating a constant hum. Phineas watches me with suspicion as the hum grows louder.

  ‘I’m not sure of much right now,’ I say. ‘But I’m growing convinced that what’s happening to me has something to do with Winslade.’

  Phineas taps a fingernail against his pint glass, his thoughts racing with mine. He looks almost angry with me. I wish I’d shut my mouth. My friend is growing more worried by the minute. I’m still spinning my finger around the rim of my glass when Phineas holds up a stopping hand.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’

  ‘Doing what?’ I ask, continuing.

  ‘That,’ he says. ‘With your glass.’

  ‘Don’t I always?’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ he says sharply. ‘That’s what Miller always used to do.’

  The hum stops. I look down at my finger stalled on the rim, unable to shake the feeling of familiarity. I’ve done this a thousand times, I’m sure of it. When I look back up Phineas is shaking his head, looking even more worried than before.

  ‘Rhodes, you need to track down these other Husks that have gone underground, find out why they walked. You need to get some answers.’

  ‘Where do I start?’ I groan.

  ‘Talk to Nikki, see if she can shed some light. Pull her aside tomorrow when you have a chance, tell her you need some leads.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  Yeah, tomorrow.’ Phineas gives me a confused look. ‘Miller’s wake?’

  I hadn’t gotten the memo.

  18

  Black suits and ties darken the men attending Miller’s wake. The women are only slightly more colourful. The room is mundane, everything brown or cream-coloured, lit by fake candlelight and electric lanterns, reminding me of the days I buried my older sister and parents. A solemn procession of Miller’s immediate family makes its rounds, greeting those that have arrived. Nods and handshakes mostly, occasionally a hug. I watch people break into tears around me. I see stoic faces refusing to speak, lips quivering. Postures are either resolutely rigid or slumped in dismay. It feels like old film to me, everything looking dull and drab like the first colour movies, back before they got it right. I’m surprised by the numbers in attendance. Miller was a popular guy. Well loved.

  My dead friend had predominantly Irish heritage. There are beer and whiskey at the wake, helping to mould the overall mood. I’m thankful for it as I mingle with a Guinness in hand. I need to stay numb, keep some stability in my head. The drink scatters unwanted thoughts, cockroaches running from the light, back into the cracks forming in my psyche. More than a dozen other Husks pepper the wake. I give each one a nod or quick handshake as I cross the room to where Phineas stands. The casket in the corner is closed. Phineas tells me the lid was open earlier, that the mortician did a great job reconstructing Miller’s head, but the family took one look and wanted it shut. I wish I could lay eyes on my friend again, look upon him one last time and see if he appears at all like he does in my dreams.

  ‘What’s the official story?’ I ask.

  Phineas looks around the room, leans in and lowers his voice. ‘Accidental prescription drug overdose, a lethal combination of sleeping pills and painkillers.’

  I swallow, thinking about Craig chewing me out over my Percocet and Donormyl, thinking how this cover story could end up being the coroner’s report for my ass if I don’t exercise more caution.

  ‘Does his family know the truth?’ I whisper.

  ‘The truth? Of course not.’

  ‘Well, they must know he died from head trauma and not an overdose.’

  ‘No idea,’ Phineas shrugs, sips a whiskey. ‘They’re sticking to the story though.’

  Through the crowd I spy Tweek standing alone in a corner, wearing an ill-fitting suit and bow tie. He stares at the floor, arms hanging loose at his side. I collect a stout from the tray of a passing server and go to him.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, offering the pint.

  ‘Fine, I guess.�
�� Tweek’s eyes glance at me through thick-rimmed glasses that don’t hide their redness. ‘More importantly, how are you feeling?’

  My silence tells Tweek all he needs to know. He accepts the pint and takes a sip, wrinkling his nose up at the strong taste.

  ‘Gross,’ he says.

  ‘The Irish aren’t known for watering down their beer.’

  ‘Your head –’ Tweek points to his temple. ‘Is it getting any worse?’

  I swallow, give a single nod. ‘I really need your help, Tweek.’

  ‘Well, I can run a more in-depth diagnostic if you’d like, try some –’

  I grab him by the arm and pull him further into the corner, making sure our backs are to the crowd to block other eyes and ears from our conversation.

  ‘No,’ I whisper. ‘I need to find out what my clients are doing with me in session. That’s the root of the problem. That’s what’s driving me crazy.’

  Tweek looks at me, his expression somehow both surprised and expectant at the same time. There are conflict and pity in his eyes.

  ‘Just what do you think it is I can do for you?’

  ‘I’m thinking maybe you can supply me with one of your E-33s –’

  Tweek chokes a little, eyes bulging. ‘You’re asking me for an Ejector pill? Are you nuts, Rhodes?’

  ‘I will be if I don’t do something soon.’

  ‘Which client are you suspicious of anyway?’

  I don’t answer. These walls might have ears. Tweek stares at me, then at someone approaching behind me. Before I can turn to see who it is a hand falls on my shoulder and squeezes.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Baxter says. ‘How are we holding up?’

  Tweek says nothing, taking a reluctant gulp of Guinness. I hold mine up and force a grin for my boss.

  ‘Booze at a wake should be mandatory,’ I say. ‘Lightens the mood, makes for a proper send-off.’

  Baxter smiles, snagging a neat whiskey from another passing tray. She throws back a mouthful, turns and surveys the huddled groups of dark suits and boring dresses. When she turns back she is no longer smiling.

  ‘Did I interrupt something?’ she asks.

  I don’t miss a beat. ‘We were just shooting the shit, boss.’

  ‘Shooting the shit,’ Tweek concurs.

  ‘It’s a real tragedy, this Miller business,’ Baxter says and tips her head toward Tweek. ‘I expanded Tweek’s R&D budget last week, see if we can’t finally develop some kind of failsafe component for you guys in the field. Make sure this kind of thing never happens again.’

  ‘You think that’s possible?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure it’s possible. Don’t you think so, Tweek?’

  Baxter gives Tweek a most peculiar look, one that speaks to him in the silence between the question and answer. Tweek’s too meek with his response.

  ‘It’s a big project, lots of complicating factors, but I’m sure I’ll develop something that’s applicable in due time …’

  On the far side of the room I see Ryoko enter with Nikki in tow, their faces long. Even dressed in conservative funeral attire, they still look stunning. The sight of my love is bittersweet. The memory of her all painted up in Tatsumi’s strange tastes, exaggerated and clownish, makes me go cold. I have to hold back a grimace, remind myself that it wasn’t her that day, just her shell filled with a stranger. The girls scan the room, looking for friendly faces. Phineas spots them and gives me a glance, signalling to come join him.

  ‘Please excuse me.’

  As I walk away Baxter and Tweek start discussing something in a secretive tone that makes me suspicious. Ryoko sees me approaching and begins to lead Nikki by the hand through the crowd. After a few steps Nikki pulls on her arm as Miller’s coffin comes into view. She anchors herself, shaking her head at Ryoko, lips quivering. Phineas and I quicken our step, realizing how hard she is working to keep from falling to pieces.

  ‘Hello, ladies,’ Phineas says, positioning his body in front of Nikki so it blocks her view of the casket. ‘First things first, let’s get you a drink.’

  Phineas leads us to the little bar and orders for everyone. I need another drink in order to warm up to Ryoko. We’re into the whiskey and before I know it we’re all getting tipsy, chuckling at our shared memories of the man in the box. For some, our laughter eases the room. For others we’re an irritant. Eventually something in our chat strikes a chord with Nikki and we watch her tear up, smiling hard to stop from crying outright. Phineas pulls her aside and holds her tight, allowing me a moment alone with Ryoko.

  ‘I missed you,’ Ryoko says.

  I smile, though I can feel how weary it must look. ‘Missed you too.’

  ‘How was England?’

  ‘Easy gig.’

  Ryoko cocks her head and examines my face, putting a hand on my cheek, fingertips stroking my skin. My eyelids flutter, grow heavy. I lean into her touch.

  ‘You’re tired.’

  ‘I’m always tired these days.’

  She turns my head and glides her index finger behind my ear, over the small protrusion of the Ouija. I find myself looking into the sad blue eyes of Nikki as she rests her head on Phineas’s chest. Ryoko’s lips part and pause. I know what she’s going to ask.

  ‘No, I’m not all right,’ I say before she speaks.

  Nikki hears this and comes to me, arms outstretched, head nodding. I embrace her and hold her tight, our lips next to each other’s ears, the smell of whiskey on our breath. This is still the safest way to communicate with another person in the modern world.

  ‘I need some information,’ I whisper.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  I hold Nikki even tighter, as if it might somehow protect her from the shit-storm I could be bringing her way by discussing such confidential matters.

  ‘Winslade’s previous hires,’ I say. ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘Phineas told you what company they worked for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Three of their employees filed company complaints against Winslade. They all reported post-session problems similar to yours, and repeatedly requested other assignments, which were denied.’

  ‘Do you know who they were?’

  ‘All I’ve got is names. Brad Garrison, Cameron Tate, Kirk King.’

  She repeats them and I commit the names to memory. ‘What happened to them?’

  I feel a shiver run through her body. She glances around, checking to see who might be within earshot. Her voice becomes husky as she brings her lips even closer to my ear.

  ‘Rumour is they all eventually suffered mental breakdowns. Then they disappeared overnight. That’s all I know.’

  Nikki releases me, straightens my jacket and tie like that’s what she was doing all along. I lean forward to ask more of her, but she concludes our conversation by pressing a finger to my lips. I push past her touch and press for one last answer.

  ‘Was Winslade Miller’s last client?’ I whisper.

  ‘Only one person knows the answer to that.’

  Nikki stares. I think she’s looking at me at first, but then realize she’s looking past my head. I turn slowly, giving a nod to a couple other Husks as I do. From the corner of my eye I see Baxter looking in our direction. Nikki surreptitiously slips something into my jacket pocket.

  ‘There’s something on my Liaison you need to see. It’s too risky to send.’

  She turns back to Phineas as I excuse myself and make my way to the washroom. Baxter watches attentively as I go, does not smile back when I offer her one in passing. Inside the men’s washroom there isn’t a soul about. I promptly lock myself in the nearest stall. On Nikki’s Liaison screen a video recording is set up to be viewed. I hit ‘play’. The video is a message from Miller. He, too, is in a washroom somewhere. His eyes are confused, his movements erratic, speech slurred. At first I think he’s drunk.

  ‘Nikki? Nikki? It’s me … Som
ething’s wrong. Call Baxter. Call Tweek. I … I think I’m long overdue here. You need to bring me in for download immediately.’

  Miller puts his palms to his eyes, pressing hard, fingers raking his hairline. A thin line of drool escapes his mouth and hangs off his bottom lip. Suddenly, he stands straight and looks at the Liaison camera with curiosity. The intoxication is gone. So is the stress. What replaces it is an assured, if not irritated, persona. The video ends just as someone opens the door to the men’s room. Whoever it is takes a few steps inside and stops. I hold my breath, stay absolutely still. There is only silence. I wait for this person to walk over to a urinal or enter a stall, maybe go to the sink to wash up. They simply stand and listen, long enough for it to be uncomfortable. After a minute I tire of playing church mouse, mock flush the toilet and exit the stall to see who it is. There is no one waiting.

  I go back to the wake and scan the guests, wondering who it was that followed me in. It could have been anyone. Hell, with all the Husks about it could have been anyone masquerading as anyone. I try not to dwell on it as I reconvene with my friends. We’re engaged in conversation when Miller’s immediate family finishes talking to an older couple nearby, spots our little group and approaches. Mother, father and two brothers share an uncanny resemblance to the dead man. Mrs Miller leads her boys to us, the matriarch no doubt.

  ‘Bless you all for coming,’ she says, smiling weakly.

  ‘My condolences, Mrs Miller,’ I reply.

  ‘Thank you, young man.’

  ‘Your son was a wonderful person and dear friend,’ I say and feel my throat tighten. ‘He always looked out for me.’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ she replies. ‘How did you know my son?’

  ‘We worked together.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘Uh, business consultation … at Solace Strategies.’

  My answer darkens the mood. Mrs Miller’s face becomes pinched. Frowns descend on the faces of the men. I’m sure they suspect the company had something to do with Miller’s demise. Next to me Ryoko, Phineas and Nikki stand frozen, saying nothing. A few other Husks throw nervous glances in our direction. Baxter walks over cautiously and stops a little ways away. Tension grows in the ensuing silence. I open my mouth and begin floundering, knowing I’m digging myself a hole.