Blood Sports

by Eden Robinson

  Tom could still see the TV screen from the open bathroom door. Paulie lifted Mel onto her hip and brought her over to the bed in the corner. Leo used the gun to turn Tom’s face.

  “Neil watches them in the day,” Leo said. “And I watch them at night. Do you want me pissed off, Gomer? Where’s your stash?”

  “In The Regina,” Tom said. “In the washroom on the third floor. Five feet above the bathtub. In the wall above the end of the tub away from – away from the faucets. In a stainless-steel briefcase hanging on a hook.”

  “Motherfucking son of a bitch,” he said, shaking his head and chuckling. “Hiding coke in a crack palace.” Leo stopped chuckling and forced the tip of the revolver into Tom’s mouth. “If it’s not there, I’m going to take it out on your bitch and your baby.”

  The sound of Tom urinating was loud in the bathroom.

  “Our little secret,” Leo said.

  Tom sat on the wingback armchair. Firebug struggled to hook the VCR to the ancient TV. Leo was in the hallway. Tom could hear him pacing. The flowery polyester furniture was shrink-wrapped in heavy plastic that squeaked against Tom’s bare skin whenever he moved. The grandfather clock ticked in the corner. The room was air-conditioned cold but Tom was sweating.

  Paulie and Mel were in a large room. Tom couldn’t be sure, but it looked too large to be the room at the end of the hall. The basement then. He’d have to find the staircase. Maybe it was in the closed room. Maybe it was outside.

  “Got it,” Firebug said. He went and sat kitty-corner to Tom on the couch.

  Tom recognized Grandview Park, himself and Mel sitting on a bench with Mike and his girlfriend nearby. They were all smiling.

  “Spot the cop,” Firebug said.

  “Mike’s not a cop,” Tom said. “He’s a friend from high school. We just bumped into each other.”

  “Constable Greer Johnson,” Firebug said. “I hear grumblings she’s on the promotional fast track. Daddy’s an old street cop calling in favours from every rookie he’s trained in the last twenty years.”

  “I don’t even know Greer,” Tom said.

  The video jumped to Tom and Mike framed by the living-room window. Celine Dion belted out “The Power of Love” as they laughed and talked.

  “Loose lips sink ships,” Firebug said.

  Tom rubbed his arms, wishing he had a blanket or some clothes. “I haven’t said anything.”

  “Why isn’t Rieger all over you? If you know where the bodies are, why doesn’t he just whack you? What have you got on him?”

  “Nothing. We’re family, that’s all.”

  “Rieger owes me a lot of money,” Firebug said.

  “I’ve got money,” Tom said. “You can have it.”

  Firebug tapped his knee. “Do you think I’m a pooch?”

  “No, no, man,” Tom said.

  “We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars, Tom. Rieger thinks I’m a pooch.”

  “He doesn’t. I don’t. No one does.”

  “You’ve got people hunting through your garbage, people asking for wiretaps. Ambitious young things trying to be your friend. You could make a deal for Rusty. Self-defence. What would you be able to give them if Jer comes after Paulie and Mel?”

  Tom closed his eyes. He wanted to lie down. He couldn’t sit any way that gave him relief. He heard the snap of locks and opened his eyes in time to see Firebug pulling a patch out of the small plastic bag.

  “I’m okay,” Tom said. “I don’t want –”

  “Leave this one on,” Firebug said. “Or we go back to the needles.”

  The back of the house had a greying, mouldy deck. Leo grumbled while he dragged chairs out from the kitchen. Firebug lit a citronella candle in a galvanized pail. Leo disappeared inside and came back with three sweating bottles of Kokanee.

  “You don’t get to party,” Firebug said. “I don’t want you drunk on the job. Take your shift.”

  Leo spat before he gave Firebug the beers. Firebug put them down. He picked Tom off the deck and sat him in a chair. He put a beer in Tom’s hand. They stared at the setting sun like they were old friends catching up.

  Tom couldn’t remember which way the sun set. Japan was the land of the rising sun. And that was in the east. Time zones went east to west. So they were looking west. Front of the house was east.

  Which told him nothing. He still had no idea where they were. Tall trees and the logging road. Where did they log? He had been outside Vancouver once or twice since he’d moved here as a kid. Put him anywhere in Vancouver and he could tell you where they were.

  “Hey, boss,” Glock Man said, knocking on the door frame. “Need anything?”

  “We’re good,” Firebug said. “Get some shut-eye, Neil.”

  “Night.”

  “Night.”

  The sun flared behind the trees. The sky faded milky blue. Tom dropped his beer as the drug hit. Heard the bottle roll across the deck. Heard the fizz of the beer. Firebug didn’t seem upset. Tom swallowed hard. He had to … he was supposed to … get Paulie and Mel. Go home.

  Firebug sipped his beer. Tom watched the citronella candle burn. The cold left him; the shakes and the sweats left him. The sky was Creamsicle orange, electric and sweet. A jagged black line of trees circled them like a fort.

  “I helped a friend build this place,” Firebug said. “He believed in the End of Days. But his wife got sick of milking cows and plucking chickens while they waited for the Apocalypse, so she took his three kids and moved back to Surrey. My friend turned the basement into his own little prison. Snatched his kids first. Caught his wife in the parking lot when she came to pick up the kids. Not one person noticed they were gone.

  “Then one day he went out to get some firewood just over there beside the stream. Tree fell on him. He died. By the time I dropped in to ask him a favour, his wife and the three kids were puddles of fat and piles of bone. Took forever to get the stink out.” Firebug turned his head to watch Tom. “Rieger’s going to take care of you, Tom. You’re never leaving the basement, so to speak.”

  The orange faded into pink, and the pink faded into dusty white and then grey and it seemed to take a second but it must have been longer. He had put his fear down and forgotten where he’d put it.

  “What would you give me to let Paulie and Mel go?”

  “You wouldn’t let them go,” Tom said.

  “Paulie’s a good woman. I was sorry to see her mixed up with a slacker like you. Rieger’s going to give me a lot of money for you. But if you have anything on Rieger, I’ll drop Mel and Paulie in the Metrotown parking lot. Paulie’s ex-con sobriety buddies’ll make Jer a priority. You’ll keep them occupied while I make a run for it.”

  It sounded good. But all the cold, thinking parts of his brain were occupied by the colour of the sky and the way the shadows fell and the memory looped in his head of Paulie in the yellow sundress and Mel’s frustrated expression as she tried to run and couldn’t.

  They ended up in the kitchen. Firebug killed his bottle of beer, laying it on the butcher’s block and rolling it under his palm like he was making a pie crust. Tom pretended to sip his, hefting the weight of the bottle in his hands. It wouldn’t do much damage. But it might make a temporary distraction. They swayed in sync on their stools like drunks at closing time. Tom leaned his elbows on the butcher’s block and rested his head in his hands.

  “Why are you protecting him?” Firebug said. “Tom? Why do you care what happens to the shitbag?”

  Tom raised his head and stared at Firebug. He was holding them hostage, but Tom doubted Jer would give Firebug the spare change in his pocket in exchange for them. Firebug wanted the goods on Jer. The second Tom gave him what he wanted, Tom didn’t see why Firebug would want them around. And once Jer knew for sure they had his videotapes, what would he do? Would he believe they hadn’t watched them, hadn’t told anyone about them?

  “He’s a cheating, lying, homicidal son of a bitch who wouldn’t let go of his toothbrush if his life
depended on it. You have something. Or you know something. The cops think so. Rieger thinks so.”

  “I don’t know anything and I don’t have anything.”

  Firebug sighed. “Do you want to take a break? Get some shut-eye?”

  Tom studied him, waiting for the punchline. “Sure.”

  “I didn’t want to do this,” Firebug said, “but you aren’t leaving me with much choice. We’re going to take this to Paulie.”

  Tom covered his face with his hands, pretending to cry to buy time. Firebug kept talking while Tom judged the distance to the stove. Four feet behind him. Take Firebug out. Get Betty. Take Leo out. Deal with Neil. One of those things that looked good on paper. Doing it was something else. But the thought of Firebug going at Paulie made him cold.

  Tom threw his beer in Firebug’s face. He pushed himself off the butcher’s block with both hands, tipping the stool over to give Firebug an obstacle. He spun as his foot hit the floor so he faced the stove. He spotted the cast-iron frying pan turned over on the back burner. He lunged for it, brushing the handle of the pan with his fingertips a moment before Firebug punched him on the side of the head and sent him sprawling across the kitchen floor.

  Firebug dragged him back to the living room, where he rummaged through the tackle box until he came up with a pair of handcuffs still in their plastic bag. He stepped on Tom’s neck to hold him still. He ripped the plastic open and caught the keys as they fell out of the bag. He struggled to open the cuffs as Tom grabbed a leg of the coffee table and yanked it close.

  “Fuck,” Firebug said as the coffee table hit his shin. He took his foot off and Tom rolled over and scrambled for the hallway. Firebug caught him by the arm, snapped a cuff on one wrist. Tom kicked and punched and twisted. Firebug sat on him, grabbed his arm and pulled it down, tightening the cuffs until Tom’s hands tingled. Firebug caught his breath, and then stood and hauled Tom up by his arm. He turned Tom around, bringing his face so close he went cross-eyed.

  “Not funny,” Firebug said.

  Firebug pushed him into the couch. He took a wad of rags and shoved them in Tom’s mouth and then wound a roll of duct tape around and around Tom’s head. He put the duct tape down and picked up the lighter. He sat beside Tom, a friendly arm over his shoulders. Firebug flicked the lighter open and closed, open and closed, watching Tom. He brought the lighter to Tom’s left nipple and flicked the lighter open. He held Tom still while he burned the skin around his bleeding nipple until the flesh was blackened and bubbling.

  Tom’s head bounced against Firebug’s back as he tried to hold himself up, tried not to let his seared skin touch Firebug’s shirt. Firebug carried him over his shoulder. They went down the hallway and into the master bedroom. Firebug pushed the bed aside. Beneath it was a trap door. The unpainted wooden stairs creaked as Firebug brought him down.

  Bars to the right, lit by a night light. Paulie and Mel curled together on the bed. Paulie lifted her head. Leo lay on the floor, tapping his fingers on his stomach as he listened to a Walkman.

  “Finally,” Leo said.

  Firebug dropped Tom. He turned him by the shoulder and then unsnapped one cuff. He shoved Tom face first into the bars and pressed on his shoulders until he knelt. Paulie sat up, pushing her hair out of her face.

  “Tom?”

  Firebug forced Tom’s hands through the bars, hooking the right one on top of a vertical bar and the left one below so Tom couldn’t stand. Firebug snapped the cuffs closed on the other side of the bars.

  “Paulina,” Firebug said. “Could you come to the bars, please?”

  Paulie checked Mel before she reached for a bathrobe over a chair and put it on as she walked toward them.

  “Tom?”

  He shook his head, trying to speak through the duct tape, trying to warn her away from Firebug, but she came, frowning, tightening her bathrobe belt.

  “God, look at you,” she said, touching his face and kneeling in front of him.

  Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, but he couldn’t see any bruises. She held his hands and kissed them. She was still whole and he’d fucked that up. He’d fucked up. She was in trouble and she didn’t know it and he couldn’t tell her.

  “Go get my gear and my rig,” Firebug said.

  Leo sighed heavily before he trudged up the stairs and out of sight.

  “How did a cokehead like you end up with a pothead like him?” Firebug said. “That has always mystified me, Paulina.”

  “Firebug, please,” Paulie said.

  “Tom is currently enjoying a pain patch they give end-stage cancer patients. A quarter patch to be exact. One tiny quarter patch and he’s flying. I bet it wouldn’t even tickle you, would it?”

  Paulie touched Tom’s face, testing the duct tape.

  “Leave it,” Firebug said.

  She glanced at Firebug before she touched Tom’s cheek.

  “You clawed your way back,” he said. Firebug kicked Tom’s foot. “Cupcake here, he’s a different story. I don’t know if he’ll come back. We’ll start him off on a quarter gram of smack and work our way up.”

  “You’re going to kill him,” Paulie said.

  “I know about Rusty,” Firebug said. “Rieger collects his debts. He would make you pay. You and Tom know something or you have something and I’d like you to share.”

  Paulie’s hands tightened on his as Leo came tromping down the steps. Leo handed Firebug a rolled towel. Firebug pulled a chair to the left of Tom. He carefully unwrapped the contents, some needles still in their original packaging, carefully folded paper packages, rubber tubing, a spoon.

  “Hold him,” Firebug said.

  Leo wrapped his arm around Tom’s neck and pulled him back until the cuffs clanged against the bar. Paulie covered his arms with her own. Firebug flicked the side of Tom’s neck, tapping like a carpenter searching for studs in the wall.

  “You chased the dragon,” he said. “But you never injected. Why is that, Paulie?”

  “Guy, let’s talk about this,” Paulie said. “Let’s stop for a minute. And talk about this.”

  “Did you have rules? No continuous use. No injecting. Only on weekends. Just a nice, lovely come-down from coke. Like a beer after a long, hard day.”

  Tom heard the click of the lighter and swivelled his head around, alarmed. Firebug held the lighter under a spoon, moving it back and forth until the liquid turned golden like caramel.

  “He can’t take that much,” Paulie said. “Guy. Listen to me. You can’t give him that much. You’ll put him in a coma.”

  “Talk to me, Paulina,” Firebug said. “Tell me a story.”

  1. Do ye indeed speak righteousness, O congregation? Do ye judge uprightly, O ye sons of men?

  At the granite footsteps of the Carnegie Centre, a crowd of rough-looking dealers usually milled around, offering drugs to passersby. Today the dealers and sex-trade workers were scattered west along Hastings, sheltering under the awnings of convenience stores and pizza shacks. Tom walked past a police car parked on the wide sidewalk on the north side of the Carnegie. The two officers in the car watched the hammering rain as morosely as anyone else.

  Inside, the Carnegie was warm and damp, had a tired smell, old sweat and pee. To the right of the entrance was a spiralling marble staircase, a reminder of better days when the Carnegie had been a posh library. To the left, the lobby’s tables were filled with people playing checkers or chess, reading or just staring out the window waiting for the rain to stop. Straight ahead was the information desk where Paulina stood, dressed in a loose black sweater and black jeans, speaking to a guy with a garbage-bag rain jacket. She leaned against the counter, pointed to a piece of paper that they both studied.

  Tom stepped into the alcove and pretended to be in line for the pay phone under the stairs. The last time he’d seen Paulina was almost a year ago, moments before she was dragged off the Neurology ward by security guards at Saint Paul’s. The new Paulina was pale and primly free of makeup, her hair in a severe bun like
a cartoon librarian. Tom had changed, too. But not in ways he wanted to share with the new Paulina.

  “I don’t understand you,” was his mother’s new mantra, repeated as she avoided his eyes. “I don’t know who you are.”

  Paulie spun herself tightly into the starchy hospital blanket and then fought her way free, shivering, cramming her hands under Tom’s back. She flailed, collapsing face first in the mattress, one arm over his waist. She was light and bony, cold and sticky; her breath was worried, quick; she smelled funky, low-tide beach-y. He’d given her his Valium so she could sleep. The nurse who gave him his pills watched him closely, and he knew she suspected but was too tired to call them on it.

  Early, in the dull grey light, Paulie went still. She woke suddenly. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, watching him watch her. She looked down at herself. She tasted her mouth, smacking. “What time is it?”

  “No clue,” he said.

  She pulled a blanket over her shoulders as she settled facing him, her breath warm on his face. “This is weird.”

  “What?”

  “Me being here. Don’t you think it’s weird?”

  “My weird-o-meter is broken,” Tom said. “I can’t tell what’s weird and what’s not weird any more. I am weirdlexic.”

  Paulie frowned. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make everything into a joke.” Tom laughed.

  She punched his arm. “I’m serious.”

  “Ow.” Obviously, Paulie was not a morning person.

  “I should leave. The nurses are giving me looks.”

  “I’m sick of pills.”

  “I think they know,” Paulie said.

  She raked her hair back, pulled the black elastic off her wrist, and put her hair back in a low ponytail. Paulie shrugged the blanket off her shoulder and spread it over him. She laced her fingers behind her neck. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes moving back and forth as if she were watching a movie only she could see.

  Tom shared a four-bed hospital room and a toilet with three other patients. The wing shared a shower and bath at the end of the hall. The tub had a thick ring of greenish-beige scum. Tom opted for a shower. He had a hard time taking the hospital gown off. He’d ended up sleeping in an awkward position, and his left shoulder didn’t want to move.