Damage
Damage
by
Stephen Shea
Copyright 2012 Stephen Shea
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or (un)dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Other Books by Stephen Shea: The (NOT SO) Simple Life. A laugh out loud comedy. The exact opposite of the novel you're about to read.
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Damage
Overture
In his mind there is silence.
The '91 Mustang is screaming down the highway, its lights stabbing into the pavement, its engine whining. It splits the stillness of the prairie night like a ship splitting a wave.
Randall Craig hears nothing of his car's complaints. Two speakers machine-gun Metallica through the car's interior, drowning the outside noise. Randall does not hear the music, either. Perhaps on some level of his mind, every note, every word, is being recorded for a future moment—to set off an episode of deja vu or for some obscure purpose that only the subconscious knows—but Randall himself is not aware of the music. A switch has been flicked in the switchboard of his mind and the sound of the stereo is nullified.
Randall reaches down, turns off his car's headlights. There is a moment of complete darkness then his eyes adjust and the highway's dim outline becomes visible, silver in the moonlight. He presses down on the gas, the speedometer jumps and wobbles with the burst of speed. The car roars over a hill, in the wrong lane. He returns to his own lane only to repeat the maneuver on the next hill.
He drives this way for twenty minutes. The highway grows thinner. More rugged. The hills higher. Trees crowd against the road.
The faster the car goes, the slower time becomes. He has entered a stop-motion world. Suddenly a figure appears at the side of the road, a shadow of a man. Tall and thin, with long wild hair.
He registers in Rand's retina only for a moment, then the man dashes in front of the car.
Rand doesn't have time to press the brakes. The stranger is there in front of him, right there. Rand has an impression of a wide-jawed face, a mouth closing and opening as if the man is yelling.
There is no sound as they collide.
Rand hits the brake and time slams forward, the car begins to skid. He hears the squealing noise, grunts as he turns the wheel struggling against the vehicle's velocity. He momentarily loses control, heads for the ditch, then, with a twist, he is pointed straight. The car finally stops on the wrong side of the road.
Rand turns down the music. It takes a moment to clear his head. Then he backs up, looking in the rear view mirror. He turns and illuminates the scene.
Nothing. No blood. No body.
Nothing.
He gets out of the car, examines the grill. No dents.
He wanders around, the headlights projecting his shadow across the pavement and up onto the trees. He feels like he's walking on the moon, in a dream. He doesn't find any proof that the man was even there.
Randall puts his hand to his forehead. Just another figment of his imagination. He has been seeing so many things lately.
He gets back in the Mustang and begins heading for home. He passes a hitchhiker on the road but doesn't stop.
Because what if he also isn't real?
When Rand reaches the green Kinniwaw 1 sign he slows and turns left. Kinniwaw is like any other northern resort town once the holidays are over: dead, seemingly empty. A place the opposite of newness. Buildings still carrying the dust of the 1930's on their sides rise out of the ground like cob-webbed memories in an old man's mind. A hotel, a restaurant, a store. Each with faded signs on their sides: Coke is it! and Drink Canada Dry. This is a place of small dreams and tired phrases. Randall passes through without a glance to either side.
Randall's house is at the top of the hill, a big house for a town the size of Kinniwaw. The front door is white, the picture window large. All the lights are off.
He rolls slowly into his driveway, shuts off the car.
When he gets out and looks at the night sky he sees only stars as fake and empty as neon signs. And when he sleeps his dreams are filled with shadows and whispering voices.
BOOK ONE: Lightning Boy
1.
It had been a long, strange summer for Kinniwaw. Every day had its sameness: the morning and afternoon swirled with heat and dust, the evening brought a thick mugginess that drew the moisture out of the skin of old farmers. The woods grew dry, fires caught and burned steadily, staining the sky with smoke. Even the giant lakes, shadowed by trees, seemed to shrink.
The weather man, a dimple-chinned amateur on Channel 5, called this a high-pressure hot air weather system. The Cree, who had hunted this land for countless generations, named it the Coyote's Laughter: mocking, hot, and unpredictable. A hundred years before they had warned the white men not to build Kinniwaw so close to the hills. They had spoken about the bones of the buffalo's grandfather buried in the earth. About the warriors who had gone into the trees and never returned.
Death always followed the Coyote's Laughter, the Cree whispered. Always.
And still it grew hotter. When the rain finally did fall, late in September, it was too late to do anything but spatter the dust and soften the earth for spades.
2.
Nothing in life was retrievable.
It was 10 A.M., August 19th. Randall Craig was sitting in his bed, sweating. The windows to his room were closed tight. The heat had its own weight, it was a thick block pressing down on his body. Rand's dark hair was wet against his neck, drops of sweat dribbled through the patches of stubble on his thin face and were slowly seeping down his chest. He was uncomfortable, but he was too tired to get up and turn on the air conditioner or find a fan. Because the air conditioner was in the kitchen wasn't it? And the fan, which closet would that be in?
Nothing in life was retrievable.
Nineteen years on this earth and this was the only truth he could trust. The truths they preached in schools and churches had deserted him. There was only the present, because no matter how much you grabbed, scraped, and pulled, the past slipped out of your grip and the future, the future, ha! the future was shit. The future only brought something worse, some new torment to scratch its way into your psyche and leave scars upon the scars.
Rand wiped his forehead and wondered if he shouldn't sell the house. But that thought led to other thoughts, to places he didn't want to look into.
The worst thing about being human is remembering.
At 11 A.M. the phone buzzed. Though the phone was right beside him, Rand answered it on the fourth ring.
"Hello," the word rolled slowly out of his mouth.
"Hi." It was Kari, of course. "Where were you last night? I stopped by about nine."
"Driving."
"Driving? Where?"
"Around."
"Oh." Silence, then a tinkling in the background of bells ringing as the door to Whitby's Convenience Store was opened. "Good morning," a disembodied male voice announced.
"I've got a customer," Kari said. "I'd better go." Another pause, then, "Can I come over tonight?"
"If you want." Rand's gaze shifted to the carpet, to the socks and jeans scattered there.
"O.K. See you then."
"Yeah," Rand said, knowing Kari would listen until she heard the click on the line. He slowly set the phone on the receiver, his hand leaving a sweaty palm print. Rand closed his eyes.
He could see Kari's worried face. A slow
fog-like guilt drifted into his mind, weighing him down so that he felt as if he were sinking through the bed. I'm such a bastard, he thought.
And suddenly he wanted to phone her back, to make everything better, to say "thanks for calling"or something simple that would ease her mind. She always did so much for him. Was always there for him. He would phone her. He would. He reached for the phone.
His hand fell short and he didn't try to move any closer. The moment had passed and Rand could only watch it fade away.
But he was used to that feeling. So used to it. After all, nothing in life was retrievable.
At about 2 p.m. Rand slowly got up, crossed his room and went into the bathroom. He didn't flick on the light. He twisted the cold tap, shoved both hands underneath, leaned over, and splashed his face with icy water. He looked up into the mirror. His face was thin, his eyes a little sunken. Even in the darkness he could tell his hair was a mess.
Rand felt a little better now, but not much. At least I'm movin', he thought, at least I'm movin'. He left the bathroom, dressed, and went to the kitchen and opened and closed cupboard doors, searching for something good to eat. It was so dingy and dark that he just gave up and pulled out a box of Honeycombs. After grabbing a bowl and milk he sat down at the table to eat distractedly, sometimes stopping the spoon halfway between his mouth and the bowl and staring off into space for long, lost moments.
Finally finished, he stood up and felt a moment of disorientation. An image took shape in his mind: of a man staring at him, his mouth opening and closing automatically. The man rushed forwards then vanished. It reminded Rand dimly of last night, but he couldn't place why. He stopped, closed his eyes, swayed for a moment and began to shiver.
Ever since he was a child he'd had these episodes. These waking dreams. Most often they were harmless, but every once in a while they came true.
Three sharp raps on the door startled Rand. He blinked, regained his balance, then walked towards the front of the house.
Before he got there the door swung open and a shadow stepped in. "Hey, Ugly, long time no see!"
"Conn!"
Conn's dark eyes shone with humor. His smile was long and thin, his white teeth contrasting with his tan skin and long black hair. "Oh, so you remember my name, now." His smile faded slightly then he blinked and it stretched even further. "What you been up to?"
"Not...not much." The feeling of disorientation clung to Rand. He hadn't seen Conn for months—hadn't really seen any of his friends. Words were eluding him. "Just lazin' around." Why was Conn staring so intensely? "Come in and sit down. You thirsty?"
"Is piss yellow?"
Rand laughed. "You don't change, do you?"
Conn spread out his arms, palms up, looking like a laughing Jesus. "Why change perfection?"
Rand went to the kitchen and grabbed two Coke cans from the top shelf of the fridge. When he returned Conn was slouching in the big easy chair, his legs splayed out across the floor. He was still grinning.
"Here's your poison." Rand tossed the can. Conn caught it in his left hand and opened it with his right, all in one motion. The pop began to fizz so Conn quickly brought it to his mouth. When he was finished sucking up the foam he rested the can on his knee.
"Pop? That's all?" He stared across at Rand, who was just settling on the couch.
"Hey, it's still morning—"
"In China maybe," Conn said. "Your power get cut off?"
"No. Just haven't got around to turning the lights on."
"What—is that on your evening list of chores?"
Rand smiled faintly. Anger buzzed at the back of his head. He sipped from his drink. Conn had always been an odd character, as if not quite part of this world. He'd admitted that he had no idea what his background was. Native? Asian? Even after knowing him for years it was hard for Rand to guess. And Conn would likely never know since his biological parents seemed to have fallen off the edge of the earth.
"See Tyler lately?" Conn asked.
"He dropped by a week or so ago. He's been pretty busy at the shop. And doing his karate stuff."
"Is he still in that same apartment?"
"As far as I know. He said he isn't ever going back to the farm."
Conn smiled. "Us three haven't had much luck with parents have we?"
Rand shrugged. "I guess not." They were silent for a moment.
"So what you been up to?" Conn asked again.
"Just puttering around the house lately. What about you?"
"I was in Winnipeg for a month, visiting some friends."
"Oh. How'd that go?"
Conn shrugged. "Good, I guess. No lasting scars." Conn paused and his face became serious. "So how you been, Rand? I mean cut the crap and tell me how you've really been."
Rand breathed in. He knew what Conn was really asking about. He wanted to sink into the couch and disappear. "Been good," he said. "Pretty good."
"Get depressed?"
Rand nodded. "Yeah, I get depressed."
"You hear much from your relatives?"
"Auntie Bess or Julie usually check up on me once a week. They figure I should move out to the coast for awhile. Live with them."
"Do you want to?"
"I like it here. For now."
Conn nodded. "How's your Grandpa?"
"Bumpa?" And speaking that name, thinking of his grandfather, made Rand feel better. "He's fine. I'm going to see him Sunday."
"He's a cool old turd, you know that? You're lucky to have a grandpa."
Conn took another swig of Pepsi and set the empty can on the table.
"Look," he said as he suddenly stood up, "I've got to go, but call me. I've got a lot I want to talk about." He chuckled and the sound set Rand on edge. "Some new things have happened to me. I found new things out."
"What things?"
"I just..." Conn started to say then he smiled and waved his words away. "I'll tell you sometime soon. It's good to see you, Rand. We're linked, you know that? Linked. I feel like I haven't seen you in years."
Rand stood up and Conn suddenly hugged him and turned away. He smiled over his shoulder as he left, a wide leering grin. "See ya later, Chico."
Rand shook his head and picked up the cans on the coffee table. He began to walk towards the kitchen.
What's wrong with him? he wondered. Somehow Rand felt that whatever was going on inside Conn was partly his fault. What had Conn said when he first came in?
Oh, so you remember my name, now?
What did that mean? But Rand knew that he really hadn't tried very hard to keep in touch with Conn during the summer. But it's not like I've had a triple A time these last few months.
Rand opened the cupboard door below the sink and tossed the empty cans into the garbage.
3.
On the previous night, under the staring eye of a full moon, Conn had seen a ghost. Not just any ghost, but the worst kind—his own. Just wandering around on the highway leading to Kinniwaw. Looking grey and thin.
The evening started out badly. Conn had caught a ride to Kinniwaw with some fat old guy who hadn't changed his shirt in several days. The stink of old sweat was as thick as a fog inside the cab of the truck and after twenty minutes of breathing through his mouth, Conn'd had enough. He told the man he smelled like a dead pig. The man hit the brakes, skidded the truck to a stop, and Conn found himself landing suddenly on the pavement, his backpack hitting the ground beside him. Conn started to laugh. The truck sped away, one red taillight glowing dimly.
Conn had never been happier to see anything go. He started walking a moment later. It was good to be out in the open air, just him and his backpack and his feet pounding the pavement with each step. Alone on the highway.
No cars passed. No wind. Just silence.
He knew he was at least an hour walk from Kinniwaw. Maybe longer. It would give him time to think over a few things. Like whether he would return to school this fall. He'd left his foster parents farm and swore he wouldn't go back. So he'd have to live
right in Kinniwaw. Probably have to work too. Is that what he wanted?
And then there was everything that had happened in Winnipeg. He'd watched his friend die. Had watched himself die, in a way.
Conn decided that he didn't want to think about that either. No, perhaps it was better to just walk. To look straight ahead down the glimmering road. And walk. One foot after another.
It wasn't long before he realized he was being paced. Someone was walking on the opposite side of the road. Conn's heart sped up slightly. He decided to pretend he hadn't noticed anything. Finally, after a few minutes, he turned his head slowly to his left. His companion disappeared.
Conn stopped. Looked all around. There was nothing but pavement and trees.
His companion returned the moment he started walking again. Conn looked left three times, and the man disappeared three times. Finally, Conn realized that if he just viewed him out of the corner of his eye the man would stay. Walking along at the edge of Conn's vision.
Conn really wasn't that surprised or frightened. When he was a kid, he'd seen things like this all the time: invisible playmates. Why wouldn't they return when he was full grown? Out here in the wilderness, under the pale light of the moon.
The man was tall and wild looking, but slowly his shape changed and he became Conn. Conn could see himself out of the corner of his eye. Which didn't make sense, cause no one was supposed to see their own ghost.
Unless you were going to die. Maybe then.
Which meant something was wrong with his head, making up mirror images. But that didn't surprise Conn either. After everything that happened, he wasn't surprised that he was imagining things like this. Not even in the slightest.
It did surprise him when the companion, his doppleganger, began to sing:
Hush little baby don't you cry...hush little baby don't you cry...hush.
Damage Page 1