What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  You’ve found me out, Clive. You’re my best friend. And now that Derek’s out of the way, I’m yours.

  “Ha!” Clive’s laughter was genuine. He always got a kick out of irony. “That may be, but it’s only because you lack competition. My relationship with Morgan has been reclassified.”

  Whatever you say, big guy.

  “All right, enough. She’s coming.”

  “I’m ready.” Victoria raced in. Some color had returned to her face. “Who were you talking to?”

  “My imaginary friend, Mr. Wigglesworth.”

  The joke evoked no reaction. Victoria waited for a more serious answer. Clive never gave it.

  “You shouldn’t talk to yourself.”

  “Kyle,” Clive called, dismissing his niece’s criticism. “I’m taking Victoria out to eat. You want anything?”

  As expected, Kyle didn’t respond. Saves me money. Clive smirked. He sized up his niece—her turn to be scrutinized. Victoria’s jacket hung open over a mismatched shirt and bottoms, and with her hair in tangles, she looked like a homeless orphan. Clive worried someone might call child services on him. Still, a promise was a promise. He’d take Victoria for dinner then get her some milk. Someone had to take care of her. Who better than Clive and his invisible talking spider?

  CHAPTER 35

  A

  nd so it went over the course of the next week. Clive, either alone or with Morgan, would take out Victoria every free moment he had. Sometimes she slept at Morgan’s house without her father’s consent or knowledge, Kyle being too preoccupied with drinking himself into oblivion. The three went shopping together, went to the aquarium together, and even shared a makeshift Thanksgiving dinner together—Chinese food.

  Victoria seemed content. At times, she even seemed jovial, though the signs of youthful vigor were few and fleeting. Nevertheless, Clive filled in as her surrogate parent well enough. It had been a few weeks since anyone had shown her any attention. At the funeral, Clive watched her interact with strangers who only showed pity without real empathy or understanding. To them, she was like a pet, a plaything, good for ten or fifteen minutes and then discardable. Victoria didn’t seem grateful for their consideration.

  It was different with Clive. Victoria rushed to the door when her uncle came knocking. He and Morgan showed Victoria what Clive assumed she’d been missing: companionship. He’d helped her understand what her father could not. The living had to go on living.

  For his part, Clive was happier too. His feelings for Victoria weren’t overwhelmingly strong, but he liked her all the same. In some ways, he connected with his niece. He could feel her loneliness, relate to it. He’d been there before. But he’d somehow managed to shed his own solitude, gaining friends in Chester and Victoria and something more substantial with Morgan. They seemed constant and real, not like the shallow relationships he’d lost.

  His whole life seemed to be experiencing an upgrade. Taking a sort of bereavement leave from Harcourt, Clive was getting paid to do nothing for an indefinite period. Thanks to Chester, he was getting paid at a slightly higher rate to do nothing. He wondered how long he could drag it out. After all, he had experienced two deaths recently. Shouldn’t that warrant double the bereavement leave?

  Everything was falling into its rightful place. Though not yet apprehended, Kevin was gone and, as far as Clive was concerned, forgotten. He’d lost a little weight from all the calories he burned in Morgan’s bedroom. Heck, he’d even gotten to wear his stylish new suit to not one but two funerals.

  Somewhere in the back of it all, Clive’s conscience lingered. It warned him that something wasn’t quite right, that his happiness was somehow manufactured, a mirage. It told him that if he poked his head around a few corners, examined a few holes in his life, he’d see the truth hidden therein.

  But Clive already listened to one voice in his head. Two would just add confusion. So his conscience went largely unheeded, drowned out by a devilish influence urging hedonistic desires. The voice Clive adhered to was concrete and belonged to what purported to be a spider named Chester, his new best friend.

  So, Clive, what do you want to do today?

  “I don’t know, Chester. You got any suggestions?”

  As he sat in the nearly full waiting room of the Sears Automotive Center at the Swansea Mall, Clive spoke loudly enough to be heard by anyone who cared to listen. Indeed, a number of inquisitive ears leaned in to hear the eccentric individual having a one-sided conversation in public. They—all the negative, miserable people of the world—pried where they had no right to pry. Clive fazed them out of his reality. They weren’t important. They were inconsequential. They wouldn’t impair his happiness. And if they were wiped clean from the world, Clive would shed no tears for them.

  He sat patiently, his knee bouncing uncontrollably as he waited for his car to be serviced. He slouched in an uncomfortable chair, resting his head against the plaster wall, trying to recall what he’d been up to all morning. On the floor beside him sat the remains of his equally forgettable lunch in a paper grocery bag. In fact, he’d already forgotten what he’d eaten or how much, but it weighed heavy in Clive’s stomach.

  How about we take Victoria to see a movie?

  “I was thinking more like sex with the woman.”

  An overweight man beside Clive looked over at him. When Clive leered back, he buried his face in his newspaper, but Clive could tell he was listening.

  You’re always thinking about sex! It’s sick. You’ve got to get that thing of yours on a leash. Oh, fine, Chester said, apparently ready to compromise. We’ll do both. But Morgan better be off the rag this time. Last time, I couldn’t get that dried-blood copper taste out of my mouth for the rest of the night. It messed me up psychologically. See, I can even taste it now. And please, stick to the front.

  “Deal, if we ever get out of here. How long does it take to do an oil change on a piece-of-shit Ford Escort? I could have done it faster myself.”

  Sure you could have. You can barely change a tire. Anyway, the guy said it would take half an hour.

  “Well, I don’t want Victoria subjected to that drunk brother of mine any more than she has to be.”

  I have to hand it to you, Clive. You’re doing a great job with her.

  “Thank you. I told you I would.”

  “Huh?” asked a new arrival, an elderly lady who sat beside Clive. When Clive ignored her, she huffed, got up, grabbed a seat farther away, and began watching him like the other customers.

  Yes, Clive. You did. One question, though. What happens to her if something happens to you?

  “Damn, Chester! Why are you always so negative?”

  Clive’s animation made a little girl nearby shy away. “Mommy, what’s wrong with him?” she whispered. “Is he a bad man?”

  “Come on the other side of me, baby,” the mother warned. She cursed Clive with a look she hoped would kill. It went unacknowledged. Clive’s focus was on Chester.

  I prefer “cautious.” Besides, human life is so damageable.

  “Well, nothing is going to happen to me. I look good and feel better. I have my health. And I’ve got you to watch my back. It seems you are the only one in a position to change all that. You’re not planning on killing me, are you?”

  You still don’t trust me, do you? How about this, then? I promise I will not kill or even harm you in any way, shape, or form.

  “And you have no fortune-teller abilities, right? You don’t foresee any harm coming to me?”

  Your future is yours to make, Clive. I’ll help you in any way I can, but ultimately, you decide how your life turns out. I’ll just try to make it more interesting for you.

  “You’ve already succeeded in that. So, then, like I said, nothing is going to happen to me, not with you looking over my shoulder… or through my eyes… or from wherever it is that you see out of me. However, on the off chance that something did happen to me, I leave Victoria’s care in the charge of Auntie Chester!”

&n
bsp; Clive found his own mirth refreshing. His optimism was uncharacteristic, but he certainly enjoyed it. Slowly, his laughter settled. Still, Chester’s unprovoked line of questioning piqued his curiosity. Clive was far too young to worry about dying.

  “Okay. You’ve got my attention. What brings up this sudden concern for my well-being?”

  Nothing. Well, okay, something. Kevin did pull a knife on you, remember?

  “So?”

  What do you mean ‘so’? He threatened your life!

  “He’s a puss. He doesn’t have the balls to do anything.”

  Oh yeah, tough guy? Why, then, is he standing at the mall entrance, staring at you like you just ran over his cat with a lawnmower?

  “What? You think I’m dumb enough to fall for that one? And who runs over cats with lawnmowers? That’s just a sick analogy.”

  Just look.

  Clive let out a deep breath. He knew Chester wouldn’t shut up until he humored her. But there was no way Kevin would be there. He’d be seen by countless people. It didn’t get more public than a mall, and public wasn’t in Kevin’s best interests.

  Clive looked nonetheless. His eyes searched over the materialistic consumers, through the red-tag sales and unshaven salespersons of the hardware department, and out to the dimly lit, teenager-corroded mall entrance.

  “Where am I supposed to be looking? I don’t see him.”

  Look more closely.

  Standing by the entrance to the store, a man in a grey sweatshirt, the hood suspiciously up and hiding most of his face, flittered through a tie display. A few feet behind him, three teenagers with more piercings than a dartboard conversed in swears between bubblegum chomps. One of them wore a grey sweatshirt that matched the tie shopper nearby, hood up in true thug style.

  Come see the softer side of Sears, Clive thought, amused by his paradoxical usage of the old slogan. He squinted, examining all the details between him and the mall entrance. He took in everything from the outer edges of his peripheral vision inward. Still, he saw no sign of Kevin.

  “Perhaps you could be a bit more specific?”

  You’re hopeless. The man in the grey sweatshirt. Does he look familiar?

  “Which one?”

  Seriously, Clive?

  “Okay. First of all, Kevin doesn’t have any friends, so he’s not the one on the left. Second, there’s no way Kevin would come here to go shopping for suit accessories. Whether or not he looks familiar, how should I know? I can’t see his face.”

  Well, I can, and believe me, you’re going to want to know who that is.

  “Why? Is he someone famous? That would explain his secrecy.” Clive perked up a bit in his seat. He never met anyone famous. He hoped it was at least a B-lister, not someone like Screech from Saved By the Bell.

  Are you really that daft?

  “Come on! Tell me. Who is it?”

  Kevin! It’s Kevin! Is that explicit enough for you?

  The thought of Kevin—an unseasoned though wanted felon—tie shopping made Clive burst into uncontrollable laughter. He laughed harder when the man in the grey sweatshirt moved on to the belt section. The waiting room crowd seemed to grow steadily more uncomfortable by Clive’s presence. They huddled on the opposite side from him, their scornful glares suggesting they found him nuttier than squirrel shit.

  “Sorry,” he said, addressing the mother and daughter nearby. He lowered his self-conversation to a whisper.

  “Uh-huh. That’s Kevin. Good one, Chester.”

  It is him. Go say hello. You’ll see.

  “You think Kevin would risk his freedom by coming to a vastly populated mall so close to his home, despite the fact that cops in two states are after him, just so he could get himself a sportier necktie? Look! He’s trying on a reversible belt. Look out, Chester. A wannabe killer with poor fashion sense. How gauche!”

  Sarcasm aside, that sounds about right. Why don’t you see for yourself? He keeps looking this way.

  Clive blinked and returned his eyes to the man in the grey sweatshirt. The man’s face was slightly more discernable at that angle. Clive waited for him to turn his way for a more complete view.

  “Kevin may be a college dropout, but he ain’t that stu—”

  The man turned. His eyes met Clive’s and erased the smile from his face. Clive sprang out of his seat as if a bomb were about to go off beneath it.

  “Jesus Christ, Chester! It is him.”

  That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.

  “Well, you did a lousy job of it!”

  Clive’s light heart went instantly heavy. Across the expanse of the retail store, the two men stood, gazes locked, poised, silent, each awaiting the other’s move like two gunmen at high noon. Go ahead, Clive dared silently. Kevin didn’t so much as blink. Draw.

  “You’re dead,” Kevin mouthed slowly. He took his thumb and ran it from one side of his neck to the other, the threat almost cartoonish and laughable. But Clive didn’t take it as a joke.

  “That’s it!” Clive’s hands rolled into fists, ready to pummel. He glanced at his watch—3:58 p.m. He still had a couple of minutes before his car was officially beyond the mechanic’s estimated repair time. And since others at Sears had been waiting far longer than him, he had time enough to catch himself a criminal, maybe get in a few good whacks.

  You’d be well within your rights to kill him, you know, Chester said. He wants you dead. The way I see it, it’s him or you, and you don’t want it to be you, do you?

  “Yeah, but Chester, he’s not going to—”

  He’s mocking you, Clive. He’s threatened you now not once but twice. He’s basically calling you a pussy. Are you a pussy?

  “No, but my car—”

  It’ll be here when you get back. Go after him. He deserves an ass kicking.

  Clive started coming around to Chester’s way of thinking. Kevin wanted to play games with him? Maybe it was time he taught that motherfucker a lesson. His anger grew the more he thought about it.

  “All right, let’s go kick his ass.”

  Yes, Clive. Do it now, and do it quickly. It’s him or you, Clive. Him or you.

  Clive’s rage blinded him to logic. “Him or me,” he repeated as he stormed through arrangements of power tools and riding mowers. The automotive center’s customers sighed in united relief as he left.

  Kevin watched his oncoming opponent. He slinked from the store and around a corner, out of Clive’s immediate view.

  When Clive reached the mall entrance, he couldn’t find Kevin. He perused the mall in both directions, looking for a grey sweatshirt. He must have ducked into a store, Clive thought. Fucking coward. I’ll find him.

  Before Clive could take another step, he heard his digital watch emit a single beep as it did every hour, on the hour. Four o’clock. The next thing he heard was a deafening blast. Then, darkness.

  When he awoke, Clive’s head rang so hard that it blurred his vision. He propped himself up and crawled to a nearby wall, where he slumped down to rest.

  Clive could see mouths moving, screaming, around him, but they came through muffled. A wet trickle ran over his eyebrow, dripping off it like raindrops from a gutter and continuing in a stream down his left cheek. He slid his fingers across his face and could see dark-red smears painted across them. When he groped his head for wounds, he found a split. The incision followed the path of his scar tissue from Dr. Landenberg’s needless surgery. In his haze, he wondered if it would affect his chances in a lawsuit against the doctor.

  His disorientation wavering, Clive took in the scene around him. A powerful blast had incinerated and disintegrated everything and everyone in the automotive center. In his quest to apprehend and beat the shit out of Kevin, Clive had removed himself from the blast zone.

  The hardware department was not as lucky. The shockwaves from the blast had sent debris flying at high speeds. Tools and the shelves that once housed them had uplifted as if at the whim of a poltergeist. Clive had been hit in the back by someth
ing solid, a toolbox perhaps. A few were strewn about the storefront. As he tried to piece together what had happened, he surmised that whatever hit him had sent him tumbling forward. As he plummeted toward the hard tile floor, his head must have connected with something that split it open and knocked him unconscious. The nearby bench seemed the most likely culprit. His head injury dulled the soreness from the softball-sized bruise Clive sustained under his right shoulder.

  Others weren’t as fortunate. Aside from the dozen or so customers who were blown to bits in the waiting room, almost everyone within the vicinity of the hardware department was either injured or dead. Circular saw blades had spun like Frisbees into two of the three mallrats who’d stood only a few feet to Clive’s left. He found it ironic that the one with the matching sweatshirt to Kevin’s wasn’t injured. A woman screamed hysterically, her leg fractured beneath a Sony television that she probably no longer wished to purchase. Another woman lay in shock in the carpentry aisle. Her wounds were superficial but looked painful. Several nails punctured her face and head in a manner that brought to mind the dude from Hellraiser. Still others near the store’s entrance had minor injuries. Many were stumbling and crying but otherwise okay. They had plenty to be thankful for. The customers in the automotive center needed to be collected by others, piece by bloody piece.

  Clive slid sideways down the wall, resting semideaf against the floor. His vision blurred and struggled to refocus, but it would get no clearer. He saw the world as though it were reflected in the surface of rippled water then closed his eyes.

  He felt a tugging sensation. Someone reached under his right arm, beckoning him to stand. But the cold floor was somehow comforting, and he didn’t want to move. With every tug, he grew more nauseous. He knew the feeling. It wasn’t his first concussion.

  Clive shook off the assisting stranger and tucked his arm under his bloodied forehead. Thanks to Kevin, he’d avoided a horrible fate in the waiting room of the automotive center. Thanks to Kevin—the man who had pulled a knife on him only a week ago—Clive was alive.