As the Current Pulls the Fallen Under

by Daryl Sneath

  Max closed the magazine, rolled it, and held it with both hands the way a man would an ancient scroll. ‘So given the opportunity you would fuck her.’

  ‘What?’

  Max spoke slowly. ‘I said given the opportunity you would fuck her.’

  Lyle Govern put his hands up. ‘Listen, man, this is getting a little weird for me. If we’re about done here I’ll just get in my truck and mosey on home. Okay?’

  He took a step and pulled the handle on the driver’s side door. Max put an open hand on the window and drove the door shut again. ‘Step away from the vehicle, Mr. Govern.’

  Lyle Govern’s eyes widened. He nodded and did as Max said.

  He pocketed his hands.

  ‘Have you ever been in a fight, Mr. Govern?’

  ‘No. I mean, yeah. I guess. One or two maybe.’

  Max nodded.

  Lyle Govern scratched the top of his head. ‘Listen, I really do have to get home.’

  ‘No. You don’t.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Lyle Govern looked down and shook his head.

  ‘Look at me, Mr. Govern.’

  He continued to stare at the ground but eventually he looked up and Max’s eyes held him there. Like a magician.

  ‘I’m going to give you two opportunities to escape.’

  ‘Escape.’

  ‘Yes. That is what I said.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got five hundred dollars in the dash of my truck. What’s say you let me get it for you and we never met.’

  Max flicked the snap on his holster like an old-fashioned gunslinger. ‘I’m not interested in money.’

  Max unholstered the gun and pointed it at Lyle Govern who threw his hands up and stumbled backwards. He tripped and fell.

  Max stepped forward and trained the gun on the fallen man before him. ‘Stand up.’

  Lyle Govern scuttled like a crab, put a single hand up, and turned his face away. ‘Fuck, man. Don’t do this. Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Stand up.’

  Lyle Govern stood and batted the dirt from his pants.

  Max didn’t say anything. He held the gun steady. Like holding someone at point blank was as common for him as shaking hands.

  ‘Listen. What about putting that cannon away?’

  Max shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think so, Mr. Boon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You really didn’t think I’d recognize you?’

  ‘Jesus. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Every bit of news I read said you jumped. But I never believed them. I knew you were still alive.’

  ‘Listen, man. I’m just a fucking accountant. I’ve never done anything newsworthy in my life.’

  ‘They were just trying to protect you.’

  ‘Protect me. Protect me from what?’

  ‘They hid you well.’

  ‘They who? Who hid me?’

  ‘But here you are. Out on a day pass. Looks like I got lucky.’

  ‘Out? I was never in. I don’t know what you’re fucking talking about.’

  ‘I don’t like your language, Mr. Boon.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Mentally ill or not, you’re a cold-blooded murderer.’

  Lyle Govern put his hands on his head and looked to the sky. The stars had begun to reveal themselves and the moon was out, a sliver of light in the hot summer darkness.

  ‘Hah. This is funny. A murderer. Hah. You’re funny.’

  ‘I’m not laughing, Mr. Boon. You may have noticed.’

  Lyle Govern covered his mouth with a fist and sucked a mouthful of air deeply in. He held the breath a moment, puffed his cheeks, and pushed the air out. He looked over both shoulders and across the road where there was nothing. Ignoring the gun, he walked toward Max and past him, held a hand up to his brow like a visor, turned, and walked back to where he had been standing. He put his hands on his hips, nodded, spoke as though there were hidden cameras.

  ‘Okay. Okay. You got me. You can show yourself now. You win. Go ahead and laugh. Everybody laugh at old Lyle Govern.’

  ‘As I said, Mr. Boon, we are alone.’

  Occasionally a car drove by but Max knew enough about angles and shadows that he had kept himself and Lyle Govern hidden from passersby.

  ‘I said I was going to give you two chances to escape—which is two more than you gave her.’

  ‘Listen. I don’t want to escape. I don’t want anything.’ He took two deep breaths. ‘I just want to go home.’

  ‘And home you shall go, Mr. Boon, should you be able to escape.’

  Lyle Govern heard the last part of the sentence as a question. His breathing became shallow and quick. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I should be able to escape. I told you, I don’t want to escape. I don’t want anything.’

  ‘You said you want to go home.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I want to go home. Please.’

  Max flipped the gun upside down so that his hand cradled the barrel and the grip was skyward. ‘Take the gun, Mr. Boon.’

  ‘I don’t want to take the gun.’

  ‘Take it. If you want to go home, take it.’

  Lyle Govern crossed his arms and shook his head.

  Max struck him with the butt of the gun and he stumbled back. Lyle Govern touched his face and looked at his hand. There was blood.

  Again, Max held the gun on offer. ‘Take it.’

  Lyle Govern did what he was told. When he took the gun he squeezed the handle between his thumb and index finger and held it at his side the way he would a piece of garbage or a dead animal.

  Max positioned himself in front of the police car. ‘Good. Now let me explain opportunity number one. I want you to point the gun at me and pull the trigger three successive times. That will be enough to cause someone in the subdivision over there to call my colleagues.’

  He gestured north and Lyle Govern looked.

  ‘Here’s where your opportunity to escape comes in: when you point the gun, aim it at my head or at my heart.’ Max pointed between his own eyes and then to his own heart. ‘Hit your target and you’re free to go.’

  Lyle Govern shook his head. ‘This is fucked. You’re fucked.’ Lyle Govern threw the gun in the long grass and crossed his arms. ‘I’m not going to shoot you.’

  Max shook his head and tsked. He reached out and slapped Lyle Govern, seized him by the back of the neck and squeezed, moved him like a puppet and shone a flashlight into the long grass where the weight of the gun had pushed it down. ‘Pick it up.’

  Lyle Govern shook his head.

  Max struck him with the flashlight. ‘I said pick it up.’

  Which he did.

  Max retook his position in front of the police car where he produced another gun and trained it on Lyle Govern. ‘Now. Point the gun over here and pull the trigger three times.’

  ‘I don’t. Want. To shoot you.’

  ‘Aim at the car then.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Mr. Boon, if you do not point that gun over here and pull the trigger three times like I said, I will shoot you in the face. It’s that simple.’

  ‘I—’

  Max cocked the gun and stepped toward Lyle Govern.

  ‘I can’t. I can’t do it.’ He was crying.

  ‘I will count to three.’

  ‘No. Please.’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Listen. Stop. Stop.’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘I’m not him. Jesus. Fuck.’

  ‘Three. Goodnight, Mr. Boon.’

  When Lyle Govern saw Max’s index finger begin to squeeze the trigger his eyes widened. He raised the gun and fired three successive shots. He never bli
nked. All three shots hit the police car. The windows shattered. The shots boomed and echoed in the distance. There was no mistaking them. What wasn’t clear was whether the misses were intentional or not.

  Lyle Govern dropped the gun at his feet. His lips were pressed together and tense. His chest was heaving. His hands were fists.

  Max tossed his gun and Lyle Govern was forced to catch it.

  ‘Hard to tell these days when someone’s faking.’ The weight and look of the replica were perfect. ‘In my fifteen years I’ve never drawn and fired a weapon.’

  Lyle Govern looked at the gun and then hurled it like a rock at Max. He missed. The fake gun went through the broken window and landed in the back of the police car.

  ‘That’s it, Mr. Boon. That’s the sort of rage I’m looking for.’

  ‘I’m done. I’m leaving and you can’t stop me. You sick twisted fuck.’

  Lyle Govern marched over to his truck and climbed into the cab.

  Max let him and followed. ‘Earlier you asked what I was writing in my notebook. I’ll tell you. First I made note of the colour, make, and year of your truck. And the license plate of course. Very distinct by the way. GVRN CA.’

  Lyle Govern was about to turn the key. He stopped and looked at Max.

  ‘Then I noted the hostile deportment you displayed when I first approached your vehicle. Not to mention the distinct smell of alcohol on your breath.’

  Lyle Govern nodded and stared out the windshield.

  ‘When I was finally able to calm you down the results of the breathalyzer were astounding. Three times the legal limit. Automatic suspension. Seizure of your vehicle. Twenty thousand dollar fine. Potential jail time. Community service. Safe driving course at your expense.’

  Lyle Govern, hands on the wheel, turned and looked at Max. ‘I had one beer.’

  ‘Well, Mr. Boon, that’s your word against mine. The numbers I wrote down say otherwise. And to note, I am a highly respected officer of the law with an unblemished record.’

  Lyle Govern drove the door open. The edge caught Max on the nose. He stumbled back and put a hand to his face. When he checked his hand he saw blood.

  He smiled and looked at Lyle Govern. ‘Excellent. I think you’re going to like opportunity number two.’

  Lyle Govern stood there, raging.

  ‘I want you to hit me as hard as you can.’

  ‘Sicko. You’re a fucking sicko.’

  ‘If you fight and win, you are free to go.’ Max went to the police car and retrieved his notebook which held said evidence against Lyle Govern. ‘Here.’ He held up the book. ‘You win, it’s yours.’

  He tossed the book on the ground and without pause Lyle Govern swung at him. The swing was clumsy and wild but he managed to make contact.

  Max took the hit and rotated his jaw. ‘Good. Again.’

  Lyle Govern was shaking out his hand. He leaned into it this time and drove his fist clean into Max’s nose. There was a pop and Max’s head snapped back. Blood ran from his nostrils and his eyes watered. He’d taken up boxing in police college. He’d fought for St. Clair College during his tenure there and had done quite well: ten and two, four by TKO. His nose broke easily now and the pain was nothing. He shook his head, wiped the blood away, and clenched his fists. ‘Excellent, Mr. Boon. And again.’

  Max took one more hit. His one eye was beginning to swell, his nose was crooked, and his bottom lip was cut. Sufficient cause for him to defend himself.

  The next time Lyle Govern swung, Max drew his head back and to the side, a deft little move which caused Lyle Govern to pitch forward. Max used the momentum to throw Govern against the side of the police car. He went down with a thud and groaned.

  ‘Get up.’

  Lyle Govern sat against the cruiser, legs outstretched, and held his left arm. ‘My arm is broken. I think you broke my arm.’

  Max hauled Lyle Govern up by the shirt collar and punched him in the stomach. He buckled over and moaned. Max grabbed him by the hair and delivered a thunderous blow square on his nose. He felt and heard the pop. Max stood back and grinned. Lyle Govern teetered and with hands like weights at his side—unready for the fall, eyes gone shut—he toppled like a felled tree.

  Had there been a ring the ref would have stepped in with the count. Max would have bounced from foot to foot, gloves at his side. The imminent victor.

  But there was no bell to ring and there were no rules to follow. There was no one to step in and Max was not fighting to raise a champion’s hand in the air. He straddled the unconscious Lyle Govern and swung at his face with everything he had. Right, then left, then right. A hypnotic, pulverizing, vicious rhythm. There were no sounds of pain. No sounds at all but for the pornographic smack of skin against skin. The face beneath his fists turned to clay. As though he were a sculptor making pliable the substance of his craft. The eyes of the face he pounded, unrecognizable now, swelled shut. Contusions surfaced and turned the dark colours of blood pushing out against skin. The orbital and cheek and jaw bones cracked beneath the blows. The skin split and bled. The mouth dropped open and the tongue, no longer capable of words, lay—a lump of flesh, like the rest of him—dead inside.

  . . .

  Max didn’t hear the other police cars arrive. The sirens wailed as they approached, blipped as the cars came to a stop, and went silent. The officers left their doors open when they exited. One team investigated Max’s vehicle. Guns drawn and pointed, the others crept towards the two men by the road. His back to them, Max was still straddling the body of Lyle Govern but he had stopped the punching. At first they did not know which man, if either, was one of their own.

  As they came closer, one of the officers recognized Max. Relieved, he holstered his gun, stood tall, and sighed. A hand in the air, he called out to the others. ‘It’s okay. It’s Max Sorn. He’s one of us. Everything’s okay.’ The officer stepped forward and touched Max on the shoulder. ‘Max. Hey, Max. Everything okay?’

  Unalarmed, Max turned and looked up. His one eye was glossy, the other swollen shut. His face was splotched with blood. He was holding a pocket knife like a pen. Lyle Govern’s shirt was ripped open.

  The officer stepped back, drew his gun, and trained it on the man he thought he knew. He spoke in a purposefully calm voice. ‘Drop the knife. Step away from the body.’

  Max grinned. He stood and turned, a foot on either side of Lyle Govern’s body, let his arms hang at his sides, and looked at the officers. There were six of them. Each had a gun trained on him.

  THE BEST LIFE PERIOD

  CLIPPINGS (17)

  (taken from personal texts)

  —The bird has landed.

  —How covert of you.

  —In another life I’d have made a great intel officer.

  —How do I know the flight attendant thing isn’t a cover?

  —What, you don’t trust me?

  —For all I know you’re Jane Bourne.

  —Between Bourne or Bond I’d take Bond.

  —How come?

  —Cooler, more cultured, better lover I’m sure.

  —I’m getting in the Saab. I’m turning the key.

  —Careful. There might be a bomb.

  —On the plus side I wouldn’t feel a thing.

  —Sure, but then who would pick me up?

  —Hey, is it still illegal to text and drive?

  —Nothing’s illegal if you don’t get caught.

  —Hmn. Turns out I’m fairly dexterous with my left thumb.

  —Sounds like the porn parody of My Left Foot.

  —Opening scene: me in the kitchen thumb-painting Da Vinci style nudes on the floor. Flashforward: hospital room. Me sitting there in a wheelchair, Scotch in a mug with a handle I wrap my thumb around. You with your stilettos and a white coat unbuttoned to your sternum. I say, mouth all twisted, ‘Fuck the rules.’ You
saunter over, climb on, and say, ‘No. Fuck me.’ The music comes in and we do our thing.

  —A regular Oliver Stone.

  —Maybe I’ll go into film.

  —Uhp . . . battery’s dying.

  —Seriously, though. I can’t wait to see you.

  ~

  I didn’t know if my last text went through. It was the type of thing that after I’d sent it I wished I hadn’t. Too close to sounding like a message sent from a man falling in love. Despite what he now knew.

  . . .

  My one-scene texted screenplay was a subtle attempt at letting her know I’d broken into the laptop she’d left behind. I was trying to let her know I’d seen finished product of her own film endeavours.

  When I dropped her off I noticed the laptop and asked her, ‘Don’t you want to take that?’ If she’d said something like, ‘Nah, I barely use it,’ I wouldn’t have been enticed at all. I’d have left it there in the backseat, untouched. I’d never have known.

  But that’s not what she said. Instead she looked at me, raised a single brow, and went, ‘No. I trust you.’

  How could I not look? Who wouldn’t?

  This is what it all feels like now: it’s like my old self is the protagonist in a psycho-thriller and my current self is watching, futilely telling my old self to turn and run when he sees the light emanating from beneath the door at the end of the hall, but there’s no way my old self is not going to open that door. Any old self would. The same as any current self would say, ‘Don’t. Don’t do it,’ hands over his eyes, fingers cracked just enough to peak the moment the door’s given a nudge.

  Curiosity is far more powerful than fear.

  . . .

  There were signs all the time and I failed to see them, but here’s something I’ve learned: danger (or any of its close relatives) never fully discloses itself until it’s too late.

  VANCOUVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: VANCOUVER, BC

  I pulled off to the curb where the sign said Kiss ’n Ride and leaned against the Saab she said was mine while I was hers, jeans and hoodie on, the way she’d left me, like a moment hadn’t passed though another ten days had gone by, hands pocketed, birkenstocked feet crossed, hood up. A relaxed, unshaven Ryan Gosling doing a sort of reinvented new-millennial James Dean. I was letting her know without saying anything that I had range.