Minions

by Addison, Garrett

  Devlin scanned the list looking for Whitely and on finding it confirmed that his address was on his shortlist of those immediately visitable. He considered whether to take up Glen’s recommendation, cynically weighing up what Glen stood to gain by such a suggestion. It may well have been that Glen knew the most likely person to provide him with the information that he desperately sought. Alternatively, Devlin theorised that Whitely could well be the person that Glen knew would reinforce his own agenda and bias, thereby largely defeating the purpose of having Devlin speak with him. He decided that for whatever Glen’s intent, Whitely was as good a name as any to begin with.

  Chapter - 41.

  On arrival at what Glen had listed as Whitely’s house, Devlin made a reasonable assessment that the guy had let himself go. An alternative explanation was that Whitely was out of place in his current locale. In a leafy street in a moderately affluent suburb, Devlin marvelled at how obvious it was that Whitely did not belong. He was clearly not big into home maintenance or gardening. It also appeared that he wasn’t interested in collecting the mail, putting his rubbish out for collection, or doing anything about the layers of graffiti that covered the front of his house and surrounding picket fence which was partially burnt in several places. Devlin resisted the urge to read the graffiti under the pretence that it might prejudice his meeting. He parked his car outside a neighbour’s house and walked back to Whitely’s door, noting the movement of curtains in surrounding houses. It occurred to him that if he was being watched so closely, then why hadn’t such community policing better protected Whitely’s home too.

  The closer Devlin got to Whitely’s front porch, the more he noticed. Dead vermin were scattered around the brickwork of the house and in the garden, all attracting their share of insects, flies in particular. Occasional movement in the overgrown undergrowth suggested that there were perhaps more vermin living in the environs. Only the heavy moisture laden morning air prevented the associated smell. Devlin made a mental note that it would be in his best interests to keep his time with Whitely to a minimum, if only to avoid the smell that would hit as soon as the sun fell on the rotting carcasses. All of the front windows had been broken to at least some degree. While some had subsequently been haphazardly covered in wooden boards or tin sheets, others were just left with projectile sized holes and long cracks indicating the fragility of the remaining panes. As much as Devlin didn’t want to succumb to prejudice, he couldn’t help but figure that Whitely was not very popular.

  The front door was wide open, but on closer inspection Devlin discovered that there was, in fact, no door. The door frame remained intact and undamaged, as if the door had been intentionally removed. There was no door-bell, knocker or chime, and after a moment’s hesitation, Devlin called out as non-committally as possible. “Is anyone there?” There was no reply, but on hearing the sounds of a television, he called out again, this time a little louder and a little more confidently, “Whitely?”

  “Come in then, or fuck off!” came an obtuse reply. There was no face visible to accompany the voice.

  “Glen Scott sent me. I’m coming in.”

  “Thank fuck for that,” came the reply from inside. “Come and put me out of my misery.”

  Devlin started to walk down the hall, heading in the direction of Whitely’s voice. The hall was unlit, and the further he ventured away from the reach of the morning sunshine, the darker it got. He stepped cautiously, expectant of some obstacles on the floor. He felt several things underfoot and immediately he hoped that there were less vermin inside the house than out, but his hopes were not high. “Is there a light?”

  “Third door on the right,” Whitely called out. “And there’s no light.”

  Resigning himself to the fact that help, by way of illumination or guidance, was not forthcoming, Devlin continued to feel his way along the corridor carefully. He was now less concerned about what he might damage with each step, and more about how he might be injured by something unseen. Gradually, as his eyes adapted to the available light, he got braver and started making faster, but still undeniably slow progress.

  The third door on the right was the only room lit with the morning’s natural light. Devlin had passed two other rooms, each with their doors removed and their windows shrouded with blackout curtaining. Try as he might, he couldn’t make out the contents of either of these rooms, but on reaching Whitely’s doorway, he felt comfortable that he hadn’t missed much. The room was strewn with rubbish and decay, ankle deep generally, but in places Devlin saw that the waste would extend above his knee. Scattered amongst the refuse were piles of books and newspapers.

  Whitely sat in a high-backed, filthy looking, upholstered armchair that was positioned in the corner of the room such that he could see the window, the door and an old television all at once. He was unshaven, dishevelled and looked as if he hadn’t slept in some time, despite being barefoot and wearing a dressing gown of some description over what may, or may not have been pyjamas. He gave Devlin a cursory glance, and then returned his attention to the television, changing the channel using a remote more out of habit than any real need. “Get this the fuck over with, and fuck off!” he muttered.

  “My name is Devlin Bennett. I’m a reader,” Devlin started an explanation without physically entering the room. “Can we talk?” He wasn’t expecting to be turned down, but he felt the need to ask just the same. He edged his way inside the room looking for any indication of hospitality, or even civility. Once inside, he finally got a chance to look at Whitely properly. He was drawn to look at the man’s face, but immediately felt bad for doing so.

  Devlin figured that Whitely was about his age, but his face bore old scars and recent wounds suggesting injuries spanning a protracted period. Whitely returned Devlin’s stare, as if to guilt him into averting his eyes and it took Devlin some time to realise what he was doing. “What happened to your face?”

  “None of your mother fucking business.”

  “But who would do that to you?” He couldn’t stop looking and he reasoned that the more questions he asked, the more he could justify continuing his stare.

  “What’s to say I didn’t do it to myself?”

  Devlin decided to return to his original line of questioning. “Can we talk?”

  “Then will you fuck off and leave me alone?”

  “I thought you’d appreciate the company?” Devlin assumed tacit approval and started scanning the room for a place to sit. There was no obvious seat and Devlin looked to Whitely for a cue.

  “Company is over-rated.” He pointed to the corner adjacent to the door.

  Looking a little harder, Devlin noticed an old dining chair hidden under a mass of newspapers and clothing. He pushed everything off the chair, figuring that Whitely wouldn’t mind a little extra strewn over the floor, and lifted it so he could sit with the chair reversed.

  “What do you want?”

  “I came for a chat. That’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “I just want to know about LastGasp’, and some other readers.”

  “Why?” Whitely finally offered some promise as he turned off the television.

  “Where to begin. I’ve only just joined, as a reader, and I guess I’m a little paranoid. I started getting phone messages. Meanwhile, Conrad …” He stopped talking as soon as he saw the hint of recognition in Whitely. “This sound familiar?”

  Whitely smiled and nodded. “You got the messages and Conrad planted the seed of doubt in you. Right?”

  “I’m just a little spooked. That’s all.”

  “Rightly. So why are you here?” he asked. “And I’m not being philosophical.” He locked eyes on Devlin.

  “I just thought you might help explain my concerns, and whether they’re justified, if only a little.” Devlin looked for any sign of relaxation in Whitely’s gaze before continuing. “I needed a job and Glen’s helped me out with what looks like a great job. But it’s a shit job if I’m not going to survive it. I guess I’m lo
oking for something, or someone, to tell me to cut my losses and run, or that I’ve nothing to fear.”

  Whitely looked Devlin over again. “I can’t tell you have nothing to fear. Only you can do that. But I can help you out a little, I guess. Do you trust Glen?”

  Devlin appreciated that Whitely was starting with a simple mind game. However he answered, he knew he ran the risk of biasing anything that Whitely might say, or alienating Whitely altogether. Knowing that any delay in an answer might betray him just as much, he decided to answer with honesty. “I do trust him. He’s been good to me, and I’ve no case to not believe anything he says.”

  “Good answer,” Whitely smiled. “He’s a good man, and as I’m guessing he’s told you, he’ll always tell you the truth.” He drank from a can of Coke that appeared among the refuse on a small coffee table. “I’ll do you a deal. I’ll answer your questions just as Glen would, and as with Glen, the trick is to ask the right questions.”

  “Fair enough.” Devlin arranged his questions into a logical sequence, starting with the most pressing first, in case he got cut short. “I got a message that said it was too late for me.”

  “Is there a question for me then?”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “Everyone’s in danger. Crossing the road can be dangerous.”

  Devlin sighed. “OK then. Am I in danger from my work at LastGasp’?”

  “No,” Whitely answered with barely any interest.

  “Are the others dead as a result of LastGasp’?”

  “Yes,” Whitely was playful. “And no.”

  “Are you going to explain?”

  “You’ve got to ask the right questions. If it teaches you anything, LastGasp’ needs to teach you that.”

  “Why did David die?”

  “I’m assuming we’re talking about David Yeardley.” Whitely was visibly saddened. “He wouldn’t be the first. And chances are he won’t be the last. Next question.”

  “So was it actually suicide?”

  “With the caveat that I haven’t seen the Police report, it probably was. If you’re implying that he might not have died at his own hand, I’d suggest you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “So why would he do it?”

  “Do what? Specifics please, or I can’t help.”

  “Why would he kill himself?”

  Whitely sighed, “Don’t underestimate the power of guilt as a motivator.”

  “What was he guilty of?”

  “I don’t know. Who says the guilt is his.”

  “So what killed the other LastGasp’ employees?”

  “Who said they were killed? A lot of us, most of us, are still alive and kicking.”

  Devlin sighed while his stress heightened again after a temporary reprieve. “How many of them are dead then?”

  “That’s hardly relevant.”

  “Why not?” Devlin challenged.

  “It’s not relevant because you don’t give a fuck. Why would you care how many died?”

  “My next question was going to be …”

  “Your next question should be dependent on your evolving understanding. That said, I sincerely doubt you could have a relevant question prepared.” Whitely was strangely incensed. “If I said 10, that means nothing just as if I’d said 100. Neither would contribute to your understanding. If LastGasp’ employed one thousand people, over a period of time some will die of natural causes, in car accidents, whatever. So what does a simple count of the number that have died tell you?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “And don’t bother wasting my time asking how they died. That’s not relevant either. I won’t pander to any morbid fascination that anyone might have. I’ll help you out though, because I’m that kind of guy.”

  “Thank-you.” Devlin waited for Whitely to say something pertinent that wouldn’t make him feel like a ten year old in trouble.

  “Don’t thank me until I actually do something for you.”

  “Why did you leave?” As soon as he’d asked it, Devlin knew that the question had found its mark. He watched as Whitely, previously arrogantly comfortable in his chair began to squirm.

  “I had a life changing experience. The details of which are either personal or a matter of public record. After that, I didn’t feel like working, or being with people either for that matter. I bought this house, cash of course, thanks to the money Glen gave me, and that’s it. And clearly I’m still alive.”

  “How long have you known Glen for?”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Just curious is all.”

  “I’ve been waiting for years to be put out of my misery.” Whitely’s tone was angry. “Good enough answer for you?”

  Devlin looked around the room once more, as much a distraction from Whitely’s intermittent looks, as he marvelled how anyone would live amid such filth. While he hated himself for thinking it, he figured that much of the damage outside the house could reasonably have been a series of hints from neighbours interested in their own property values. Perhaps Whitely was the quintessential neighbour from hell.

  There were no clues in the room as to why Whitely would live as he did, or to explain his facial wounds. It was not a human way to live. He recalled seeing commercials and documentaries about unfortunates from the third world living in rubbish dumps, but to the best of his memory those people would still have a ‘home’ than was devoid of waste, as much as possible. Whitely on the other hand seemed willing to live surrounded by rubbish of all descriptions. His injuries obviously contributed to the waste. There were bloodied tissues around the room, but they were certainly more prevalent within what amounted to tissue throwing range from Whitely’s armchair. On some the blood was still an off red colour, on others the colour had dried to a dark magenta, on still others they were near black, but on all there was no mistaking the source. The volume on each was another matter entirely, easier to quantify, but more difficult to qualify. Devlin figured that the tissues had been used for more than a shaving cut, but less than a gunshot wound. He appreciated that there was a large grey area in between, and this made him look for fitting wounds all the more. Judging by the sheer volume of frozen meal containers scattered everywhere, rodent bites, or possibly dysentery, would be understandable. Once again Devlin had a closer look at the wounds on Whitely’s face.

  Devlin tried to think of more polite questions than the most obvious ones, but the longer he tried, the more reasonable they seemed. He convinced himself that asking anything would be acceptable, particularly as his visit was sanctioned by Glen. The worst that could happen would be that Whitely would put him in his place. He could at least try to ask the impolite questions politely.

  “Whitely, why do you live like this?”

  The question didn’t appear to fluster Whitely. “Now that is none of your business.”

  “Well, I tend to think that it is,” Devlin got brave. “I’m looking at you and wondering if I’m looking at myself in the future if, or when, I leave LastGasp’. You live in shit and someone, or a lot of people, hate you. So what’s your story?”

  “My story is exactly that. My Story. None of your business. Suffice to say that my story was decided long before I left LastGasp’”

  “But …”

  “How about you shut-up for a bit and let me tell you some things,” Whitely interrupted. “I can’t and won’t speak for the others, but Glen didn’t make me who, or what I am. Neither did LastGasp’. That much I did myself.” His tone softened, as if there was a certain catharsis in talking. “I understand your concern, but I can’t say you have nothing to fear. The worst thing is that the things that I can tell you will only heighten your anxiety.

  “Perhaps it would help if you knew that I don’t think you’ll end up like me. I have my regrets, but regret doesn’t change what’s happened. I live like I do because I don’t care.” Whitely looked weary. “It’s a funny thing. Do you think that suicide is brave?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”


  “Sure you have. But anyway. Whether out of bravery or cowardice, I couldn’t do anything about it myself. So I’m still here. I spend each day waiting, but nothing ever happens.”

  “That doesn’t explain your face.”

  “It’s the face I was born with. But sadly I still have to look at myself in the mirror. A lesser person might not look in the mirror, but that didn’t seem right. I guess it’s part of my absolution. My way, I get a reminder every time I see my reflection. It doesn’t help the time pass any faster, but it helps me focus as the hours and days roll on.”

  Devlin thought about what he’d just heard. If he understood correctly, Whitely’s injuries were self-inflicted. He couldn’t think of an appropriate comment on the matter.

  Whitely revealed a contented grin, but as the grin broadened further, several ill-healed wounds on his forehead ruptured, releasing a trickle of fresh blood. He relaxed his face to a more comfortable vacant expression and reached for another handful of tissues. “So what are you going to do now?” he asked, partially muffled through some tissues.

  “I guess I’ll have a chat to someone else on Glen’s list.”

  “They won’t tell you any more, or less, than me. Unless you find Malcolm Venn.”

  “Why?”

  Devlin scanned Glen’s list for the name. He was on his third pass before Whitely commented. “He won’t be on your list because Glen doesn’t know where he is. Glen wouldn’t want him found either.”

  “So how do I find him?”

  “I would have thought a more logical question would be ‘who is he?’”

  “OK. So who is he then?”

  “If you can find him, and that’s a reasonably big ‘if’, he might make a lot of things clearer. I might add that you won’t be the first to look for him, and you won’t be the only one.”

  “So what’s so special about Malcolm?”

  “How can I put this simply?” Whitely feigned a pensive expression, immediately regretting doing so and grabbing another handful of tissues. “Ok, how’s this. You’re a reader, and you read. You only read. Malcolm is a lot less passive.” Whitely smiled, quietly satisfied he’d made his point as clearly as he was going to make it. “On your way out, can I ask you a few questions.” Whitely made it clear that their meeting was effectively over.