Duncan looked confused, then instantly smug then immediately satisfied. His grin curled up like the cartoon version of the Grinch.
“I was talking about Leendsey,” he said low and with a newfound confidence backing up the wheezing. “But while we’re on Lily, just like half the hockey team by the way, why don’t we talk about her.”
“That’s a bad idea, Dunk. For your own sake leave that one alone.”
He straightened up, wincing and clutching his kidney but never losing the coiled sneer.
“Why should I do that? She was such a preety thing. Such a shame she had to go out like that.”
“I’m serious, asshole, leave it alone.”
Having found the right button, he continued to push, like a rat at the end of the maze, one final obstacle before the cheese.
“One year since that happened, huh? What’d they say, alcohol poisoning? Weird. She was Irish. I figured she could handle whatever I, er, anybody gave her.”
He was almost cackling with malicious delight. The swaying bare bulb above his head highlighted a changed face. It was no longer the warped, sneaky sneer but rather a toothy, knowing hyena grin.
There was no more moonlight, as it had since been covered over by darkening, purple clouds. But darker clouds formed inside me.
“My only reegret is that I never got up to her that night to take advantage of my handiwork,” Duncan whispered, almost to himself but to me as well. He was all the while still grinning.
“What?” I said. “What did you say?”
He cocked his head and arched his eyebrows as if to say, I might be joking and I might not, but you’ll never know.
The storm clouds inside me began to thunder.
“You put something in Lily’s drink last year, didn’t you?” I said. “Didn’t you?”
The past twelve months, the trips to her grave where I stood alone thinking about everything but saying or doing nothing, all cycled through my brain. I was suddenly convinced of something I had suspected for so long. I was all at once furious and calm. I was steady, poised like a taut bow fitted with a deadly arrow.
Duncan said nothing but he must have realized that I was regaining control of our little mental chess match. My voice was steady, my eyes focused and my mind clear and no longer on the verge of vertigo. I was in the eye of my inner storm and chaos swirled around outside.
“I saw you at the party last year,” I said. “I saw you near the booze.”
Duncan’s grin faded into a grimace, his plucked eyebrows pointed in at the ridge of his weasel-like nose. His fists got whiter under the mounting clench. But a slight quiver in his lip gave away the wave of fear brushing down his spine.
“You’ve always been a selfish prick,” Duncan said. He tried to add weight to his voice to mask the nervousness. “You never liked me, really. You never stuck up for me. You never supported a bro before a ho.”
What was Duncan trying to pull here?
“You know how much I hate you,” Duncan continued. “And you know why.”
“Really though, I don’t,” I said. “I really never understood that part. Tell me.”
Duncan ignored my request. Instead, his eyes went a little glassy and he said, “You’re smart, have friends, always get the girl. You should be pretty proud of yourself.”
“So this is all based on jealousy?” I asked.
Duncan actually laughed. “If you think that, you’re not as smart as I thought.”
“Then I’m not getting where you’re coming from,” I said.
“Of course not,” said Duncan. “And that’s part of your problem. You don’t get who you are or, well, who you should have been. Instead of enjoying all you have, taking full advantage, you mope around feeling sorry for yourself and blaming others for situations you created and did nothing to solve. You don’t appreciate any of this.” He swung his arm into the night air, vaguely in the direction of the college campus.
“You lied to me, Shaw,” Duncan continued. “When we got to college, I thought you’d grow out of it, jump feet first into the fire with me. You said you would. You lied.”
Duncan shifted his weight. I was dumbfounded that he was opening up to me.
This was the longest conversation we had ever had.
“You didn’t want to change. You didn’t want to drink, meet girls, rule the school like we envisioned. Shaw just wanted to be the same old Shaw. Well I didn’t need the same old Shaw. I learned quickly that same old Shaw would be an anchor around my neck.”
I knew for fact that Duncan learned at a young age—mostly from his father’s and mother’s neglect & sister’s meteoric rise to family importance—that he was nobody’s top priority. As such, he learned to self-motivate, devalue others and disregard the sort of empathy or understanding most of us get from a strong family core. Even though his father worked two jobs to pay his tuition, car insurance and cell phone bill, Duncan never felt like he needed anyone else, no matter how much those other people were supporting him—financially, emotionally or otherwise. To Duncan, others were just garnishes on his plate, serving a minor purpose only to be discarded when the real meal began. People were just, as he liked to say, “means to an end, Shaw, means to an end.”
Duncan crafted and practiced his powers of persuasion. He wasn’t athletic, book smart, good looking or compassionate. So if he couldn’t climb the ladder of success the conventional way, he’d talk his way onto the elevator. He blamed me for hitting the emergency stop button. Duncan truly believed I accused him during the plagiarism incident, even though I never pointed the finger directly his way. But he didn’t know that and in his mind, I was and always would be a rat. Maybe in a roundabout way, I was. Duncan would never forgive or forget that whole debacle, but our frayed roots ran much deeper. I was suddenly realizing that Duncan never could forgive the fact that I wasn’t like him and that I did not want to be like him. Maybe I misled him or betrayed our friendship. Or maybe Duncan was just seriously screwed in the head.
“I’m nobody’s means to an end,” I said.
“Correct. You’re just nobody,” Duncan replied. His eyes were burning now. “You’re friends are nobody. That dead bitch is nobody, just dissolving into dust six feet under some rock up in Connecticut.”
I should have broken his neck for that comment but before I could act, Duncan swung something out from behind his back and crashed it into the side of my head.
“She was a slut anyway,” he yelled, and slapped the piece of wood off my skull again. “You didn’t deserve her.”
I bellowed in pain while Duncan continued, his voice ranting and raving now, spittle flying from the corners of his thin lips.
“You asked if I was jealous?” he screamed as he smacked me in the neck again with the wood. “Naw, I can’t get girls like Lily or Lindsey. I don’t have the patience for their bullshit. But why should you be happy if I’m not? Fuck you, Shaw. You deserve everything you got. She’s dead now move on. I wish I had a stable of girls waiting for me like you do. You just fell in love with the one that couldn’t handle her booze. Then you got upset when you gave her too much to drink. Maybe you should’ve been watching her cup a little closer. You never know the type of shady people lurking around those house parties.”
“It was you,” I blurted, and spat blood on the alley ground.
Duncan let his face contort into a malicious smile.
He said, “Just added a little too much poison to the apple.”
I was disoriented and dazed and doubled over, but what he had said was as good as an admission of guilt. I straightened up in time to see Duncan lunge at me, arm raised and in a full sprint. He lanced the long shard of wood towards my face. I sidestepped and parried. We rotated to face each other, my back to the dumpster.
“Tell me the truth,” I yelled. “You killed her, didn’t you?”
“You killed her,” he wheezed, running out of breath. “My special drink wasn’t her last of the night, Shaw. Don’t you remember? The booze you pour
ed down her throat trying to get her loose enough to drop her panties? I might’ve brought her to the cliff but you pushed her over.”
Rage crashed over me. He lunged again and I sidestepped once more, but this time I gripped his collar and shoved him with full force back behind me. His feet slipped, he hurtled, airborne.
A metallic boom echoed around the alley when Duncan crashed head first into the dumpster. His body immediately went limp, his grip around the wood piece loosened and it clattered on the pavement. He collapsed awkwardly sideways, landing with a dull wooden creak on the already broken wooden palette. The metal dumpster rippled, a low thrum fading into the silent night air.
I reeled back against the brick wall of Primal bar, clutching at my skull, ripping at my hair trying to tear out the pounding pain. My vision blurred and I stumbled trying to keep myself upright.
Duncan wasn’t moving.
I hunched over again, put my hands on my knees and vomited only liquid. In between heaves I opened my eyes to try to focus on something to stop the spinning. What I saw was Duncan’s motionless body and instantaneously the sour bile came out again.
He was face down in a crumpled heap. His wallet was on the ground next to him. It must have flown from his pocket as he flew through the air. Broken wood stuck out from underneath him. There was dark liquid spreading out from under his body, possibly from a puddle or possibly something more fatal.
From my perspective, the gory tableau was spinning. I grabbed my head in my hands and stared at the ground.
My eyes settled on Duncan’s wallet and after a minute or two my bearings returned. I was able to stand up, swaying only slightly.
Without thinking, I took a few steps towards Duncan’s still body. I reached down, grabbed his wallet and strolled to the edge of the alley. Before I could stop myself, I hurled the wallet like a Roman spear out of the alley, clear across the dark street, over the iron fence, and into the cemetery. It slapped against the face of the stone angel and dropped into the shadows at its feet.
I didn’t turn back to look at Duncan, to check on him or even to spit on him. He was knocked out cold, or worse, in the mud and yellow light of the Primal alley, demoralized and broken for one last time. And I had consciously been the cause of it. That meant, for me, it was over. In that moment, I planned to never speak to him again, never think of him again and never plot vengeance upon him again.
The stone angel stared in my direction and a tinge of common decency slipped back into my conscience. Maybe I should get Duncan’s wallet for him, I thought.
The angel’s gaze watched me cross the street from the alley to the cemetery, its eyes like those of a great portrait, following me with every step through the darkness. I knew it was still watching when I yanked myself up and over the iron fence and picked my way around tombstones.
The shadows were thick around the low-lying stones and at the base of the angel’s plinth. I barely noticed when I stepped on Duncan’s wallet, pressing it into the soggy ground. I could have picked it up but my body wouldn’t bend over. Instead, the most primitive corners of my brain took over the controls and I ground my heel into the leather wallet, submerging it in moist dirt.
I looked up into the angel’s eyes and the churning feeling in my stomach bubbled stronger than ever. A sour taste squatted in my throat. Pain rolled and roared in my brain, then emanated down my neck, across my shoulders and throughout the rest of me.
Then a shrill noise pierced the moment. It was a cackling laugh, maniacal even. And it was close by, but not too close. It evoked imminent danger, the reason desperate animals choose to fight or fly.
I forgot the angel. I forgot the wallet. I turned around to look back into the alley behind Primal.
Duncan was still alone and motionless, face down on the filthy ground.
A lanky figure slid from the shadows around the mouth of the alley. He was tall and made up of all sharp angles. Two smaller, but just as jagged figures emerged at his side. They moved effortlessly into the alley towards Duncan.
The tall one laughed again and I winced in darkness across the street. I took a few steps away from the stone angel, silently moving closer to the iron fence.
“Look who we have here,” said the tall one, his voice as shrill and maniacal as his laugh.
I want to say I crouched involuntarily at the sound of his voice, further hiding myself behind gravestones, iron bars and thick veils of shadow.
The tall one took another step into the alley and said, “This must be my lucky day.”
Chapter 29
The smell of stale urine and old pizza wafted from the dumpster and carried on a breeze across the street. The stench must have been exponentially more putrid to Duncan and he jolted awake with a start.
Duncan Barker came to and immediately grabbed his head with both hands, as if it were pulsing from pain. His eyes remained shut while he slowly, agonizingly slid his body from prone to sitting. He looked as if he was trying to regain motor control or clear fog from his mind. He was on his ass propped up with his back against the dumpster.
Across the street I was cloaked in shadow, unmoved from my vantage point behind the iron fence, not far from the stone angel, waiting to see how the depressing scene would play out. I was close enough to hear everything said and see all the minute details, facial expressions and gestures. But I was far enough away that none of the people involved knew I was there. It was now my turn to be motionless. I watched.
Liquid oozed down Duncan’s face to his lips. He reached up to wipe it away and flinched as he dragged his flayed knuckles across his cheek. He seemed dazed and confused. He tugged at his shirt, which was covered in grime and blood. It was when he noticed the grime and blood stains that he yelled.
“Shaw. Son of a bitch!” he bellowed. He was stewing in his hatred. He knew I had beaten him, badly. Physically and mentally he was on the losing end of this battle. I not only probably broke his nose in the initial brawl inside Primal, but one on one in the alley Duncan fared even worse. He’d probably catch a heaping helping of shit from guys back on campus for his poor pugilism.
Then he did something that caught me off guard. Duncan went quiet. He cocked his head up towards the black sky. His body seemed to relax and the tension in his muscles evaporated.
“I am sorry,” he said out loud. He emphasized the second word.
“I am sorry,” Duncan said again to the darkness. Or to what he thought was just the darkness.
“Is that an apology?” the shadows hissed back at him.
Duncan jolted upright. Three figures materialized from the blackness at the end of the alley. They walked abreast, the two shorter ones making bookends of the tall, lean centerpiece. As the light above Primal’s back door illuminated the men, I began to get a sense of the danger Duncan was in.
Each of the three wore loose jeans and walked with his hands in the pockets. They all wore dark sweatshirts with the hoods pulled low down over their heads. Their faces, though, were covered in shadow. The only visible skin snuck from their hoods to form three thin, viperous mouths encircled in unkempt goatees. Other than the height differential the only difference in the three thugs was an invisible and palpable excess of cruelty crawling over the tall one.
It was his voice that had split the shadows. He repeated himself.
“Is that an apology?” the tall one said. His voice was laced with cynicism and sadism. The three thugs stopped a few feet from Duncan, who remained frozen, propped against the metal dumpster. He was beaten and fog probably still clouded his brain, but there was no doubt that Duncan sensed danger too.
He gathered himself and sat up straight, making himself as big as possible, like a peacock preparing to battle for a mate. As he did he coughed and hacked, spitting out a glob of blood.
“Apology?” Duncan’s voice cracked and wavered slightly when he said the word. The three monsters noticed. Duncan took a deep breath before continuing in his tough voice. “I have nothing to apologize for. So go fuck
yourself.”
“Big words from a little man, eh Jester?” the one on the left said.
“Big words, Jester, big words,” parroted the one on the right.
When he heard the name Jester, Duncan seemed to relax a little.
“Jester,” he said, “I didn’t recognize you, man. Haven’t seen you since you sold me that stuff last year.”
Jester didn’t say anything and the momentary ease vanished from Duncan’s body, replaced by fear. He began speaking quickly.
“It’s me, Dunk. I bought that good shit, for the girls. You said pop it in the drinks and well man, it worked. Fuckin’ shit was all the rage. Did the trick.”
Flattery got him nowhere.
The tall one they called Jester finally said, “As I previously asked, do you have an apology waiting for us. Right now you’re just a little rat hanging out in our alley. Trespassing.”
He let that last word linger in the air like smoke from a fine cigar.
He took a step toward the beaten and broken college kid slouched on the ground. Duncan slid backwards until he couldn’t anymore, resulting in a resounding clang against the metal dumpster. Jester barked a loud hyena laugh, baring his teeth.
Duncan’s formerly green eyes suddenly blazed yellow with terror. His muscles tensed further. Even from the shadows across the street, I saw sweat dripping down his cheekbones and thought I heard his teeth grinding.
Jester approached until he was directly above Duncan’s legs. He took his hands, two meaty paws, from his pockets and held them out to his sides. It would have been a benevolent gesture, had he not been so cruel.
“How about that apology, rat?”
Duncan shivered uncontrollably. He knew the stories of the neighborhood. He knew leaving that alley in one piece would take a miracle.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered weakly, more because fear sapped his body of energy rather than out of disrespect.
“Sorry little man, you’ll have to speak up,” Jester said. He leaned over and brought his head down to Duncan’s level.
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