The Kissing Fence

by B. A. Thomas-Peter

  Outside Tim Hortons a man stood with his hand out. He was tall, gaunt, with tangled hair and clothes gone grey with life on the streets.

  “Any change?” said the man.

  As the man smiled, William winced at the first glimpse of yellow teeth. An image of the wild-eyed man was drawn from memory, his teeth smashed and face bleeding.

  “Sorry,” said William. “You startled me.” He reached into his pocket and delivered a small handful of coins into the man’s palm.

  The man offered meagre appreciation with a nod and a glance. William usually avoided the panhandlers that proliferated on the streets of Vancouver, his resentment too easily overcoming the truth of their disadvantage. They were aggressive or lazy or unsuccessful people, all designations worthy of contempt. Most of them, he had thought, arrived in Vancouver because the weather was better than elsewhere in Canada. There was a choice made to come here and beg on Vancouver’s streets—and why should he have to pay for it? The truth and their circumstances were seldom this convenient. He had known and denied this most of his life. Then he recalled his father, who might have been standing outside on the pavement, collecting the change offered from people’s pockets.

  William said, “What do you need for today?” It felt awkward and unnatural to say it.

  The man looked him up and down, expecting patronizing concern or a tirade of righteous indignation of the kind he often heard before being asked to move on.

  “Something to eat, and a place at the shelter tonight.”

  “How much will that cost you?”

  “Twenty bucks, maybe thirty.”

  William pulled his wallet from his coat pocket, opened it and began counting. It caused him to recall having more money hidden away than he could possibly spend without drawing attention to himself. He lifted all the bills from the wallet and held them out. “Take it.”

  The man shuffled and reached out with trepidation. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Just take it, get something to eat, some clothes and a couple of nights’ rest.”

  “How much is it?”

  “I don’t know. Two or three hundred. Enough to get you going.”

  The man let go of the money, sank to his haunches and began crying. William looked around, conscious of the people on the street walking by, and bent down in front of the man, who tried to speak but could not.

  “You okay?” William asked.

  The man struggled and then spoke. “You don’t have to.”

  “You can use it more than me.”

  “Can I buy something for my children with it?” asked the man.

  William had never thought of people on the streets having anything other than a hard and lonely life, brought on by their own failure. This man had people more important to him than his own welfare. The idea of being able to buy them something had caused more gratitude than he could tolerate.

  “How many kids do you have?”

  “Two. Two boys.”

  “Do what you like with the money.” William forced the money into the man’s hand. “Buying them something is a good idea. I’ve got to go. Good luck.” He stood up.

  “Thank you,” said the man. “Thank you.”

  Walking away, William recalled that he had money at home, and lots of it. Each month an envelope with cash was handed to him. He had used it wisely, first to pay down the company debt in small amounts and then to nibble away at the mortgage until it was meaningless. It seemed important not to pay off anything completely or do it too quickly. There was no need to draw attention to his new cash flow. When those tasks were done the money accumulated without a plan to spend it. Had he thought about it, the calculation of how many counterfeit bicycles passed through the warehouse would not have added up to all he had been given. It was within his power to have known more was going on, but he had pretended otherwise. Now having the money was a burden. He had thought about what might happen if the police found it. It was not illegal to keep cash on the premises, but Revenue Canada would want its share, and an explanation. The solution grew slowly at first and then became so clear that no other made sense. It would have to go.

  The prospect of dispensing with the money brought another relief. The money was what he worked so hard for but it was not what he needed, and the effort of struggling to get and keep it was no longer required. But what had it been for? William had always felt it had been a struggle against something: not to be like his father, not to be constrained by a community for whom tradition and ritual were tormented by disagreement, not to allow himself to be trampled into oblivion as, it would seem, was the fate of the Doukhobors at the feet of government. His struggle had never been for something, except wealth, and that was only a symbol of his defiance. All that he had become was not what his family or his history had invited him to be. In the eyes of all those who had brought him into the world and tried to anchor him to values, it was worth nothing. He had not needed the help of brutal governments, squabbling factions or troubled parents to sink the hopes of all he might have been. He had untethered himself and run unaided into the push and shove of uncaring tides, where he had been a “success.” At least, he thought, nearly everything was exposed to him as it had not previously been and the fresh air was cool on his face. He continued toward the car, head buzzing.

  Julie, he thought, could never have understood the part she had played in this. She would have been disappointed to know the truth. He swayed with the realization that he had allowed her to spend most of her adult life with him, have his child, and all that time he had been dedicated to something else of no real value. He owed her in ways he could not repay. Suddenly sorrow caught up with him. An ache began squeezing, too low for a heart attack but too strong to dismiss. He stopped against a pole, grimacing, and waited.

  Finally the discomfort passed. Minutes before, he had felt the liberation of her leaving, but now he caved to the physical pain of grieving her loss. Maybe he would feel the same about burning the cash he held. Knowing he must be cleansed of it would not prevent him from thinking of reasons to keep the money. It seemed he was capable of believing anything that was suitable, and he resolved to guard against that temptation. He would start at home, as soon as he could.

  7:30 p.m.

  In William’s garden flames danced within the rusted oil drum, warming his front while the cold air chilled everything not exposed to the fire. He stood solemnly, dropping cash into the fire in small enough bundles to ensure it burned to ash. Occasionally he added sticks from the garden and pieces of timber from the garage, and stirred the cinders to keep it hot. Glowing sparks rose into the sky and drifted away. The last of the dollars fluttered from his hand into the flame. It was gone, all of it. There was no evidence left of any connection with Uri and their activity together.

  He recalled the trouble and energy expended in covering his tracks. He had not anticipated how modern bills might resist the fire and thought it was fitting that it took some effort to remove the stain of dollars he had hidden. The smell and slime he had encountered at the bottom of the dumpster when scrabbling inside to find the sprocket had stuck to his hands for two days. No amount of washing could clear it. Kelly had thought it was funny. What was it she had called the smell, as if it were a bottle of wine? It came to him: Poodle and Trout. It made him smile. Blood in the snow and the sound of the wild-eyed man landing in the laneway were difficult memories to scrub away. He thought of sitting with Dennis on the afternoon before he died. The bright light of his flooded kitchen, cold wet trousers sticking to his legs and head throbbing, not realizing that Cathy was upstairs. What a stupid thing to do, thought William of Dennis making a copy of the manifest. What was he thinking? It had caused trouble for everyone. And then he recalled that Dennis might still be alive but for the connection with Uri. He recalled the shredding he had done, mixing it with other papers before putting it in the dumpster. Should have burned it, he thought, staring into the embers of thousands of dollars. It didn’t matter now. It was well buried in la
ndfill or incinerated somewhere.

  The thought stopped him and his stomach fluttered. He had discovered what Dennis had done when he noticed the photocopier was on in the office. He searched his memory for the sequence of events after printing the copy of the manifest. He had done the shredding and the disposal, but he had no recollection of deleting the electronic copy from the hard disk in the copier. It must still be there. The best possible evidence of fraud, or money laundering, or tax evasion, or whatever it might become in police hands, sat waiting to be discovered. He had to deal with it tonight, right now.

  10:30 p.m.

  Pemberton Avenue in North Vancouver was quiet. The small business district off the busy drag of Marine Drive had closed for the night and the usual swarm of white vans and pickup trucks had found their way home. William began his turn toward the darker street of the warehouse and office, cutting the corner of the intersection. It was a mistake. The oncoming cyclist arrived, all in black, without warning. He yanked the wheel of the Mercedes, braked hard and stopped as the figure came down on the hood and rolled off to the side. The black figure rose quickly, picked up the bike and began running with it up the road.

  Still rattled, he continued the turn into the street, parked across from his warehouse and took stock of what had happened. It had been a close call. Had he rolled two more feet, the figure would have been under his wheels and another life gone because of all of this, but that was not what troubled him. In the split second of seeing the cyclist flash across the headlights and fall over the hood, he knew who it was and had suspected there would be more work to do.

  William locked the car and began jogging to the office and warehouse. The glint from the glass-panelled door told him a door was open, but the alarm was silent. From his upstairs office window a light flickered. Now he ran. Through the doors the smell of gasoline filled his nostrils. A red plastic jerry can lay on the floor. He bounded up the stairs, the cackle of burning and the smell of smoke growing. The fire was in his office, now burning intensely. A deafening alarm began.

  He tried to process all of the information and order what had to be done. It was likely the security system had recorded the dark figure entering the building with the jerry can and also rushing out. There was evidence to be dealt with. He must make it appear as though it were a break-in and get to those tapes. There was so much to do before the fire department arrived along with the police.

  William ran downstairs, closed the door and turned on the security alarm. He swung his foot at the bottom glass panel of the door. Nothing. He kicked again and rebounded off the double glazing. A metal doorstop caught his eye and William thumped the window with it. Still nothing. Then he remembered to strike at the corner of the pane. The glass shattered and the alarm burst into life. Security and fire alarms screamed in tandem; lights began flashing. The next task was to collect the jerry can and get up the stairs.

  Flames were inside the inner office where Cathy had spent her time. He pushed the red plastic container toward the fire and began searching her desk for the keys to the video cabinet. Where has she put them! Right-hand drawers, nothing. Inside the left-hand drawers the temperature was hot, but no keys. On the desktop there were pots, a notebook and small plastic containers, which he dumped and picked through until he found the little plastic tab that told him he had the one he needed. A remnant of gasoline in the jerry can ignited suddenly and the left side of the desk erupted. It was now fully in the room with him. William bent down at the cabinet and felt the heat through his jacket and shirt. The cabinet opened easily. He began pressing the eject buttons and stacking the tapes in the crook of his arm. Turning toward the fire, William flinched at the temperature of the air on his face. His eyes closed involuntarily until he gathered himself enough to toss the tapes toward his office into the fire.

  William turned to the photocopier. It was off. It seemed madness to turn it on but there was no choice. He threw the switch and was grateful the electricity had not cut off. There was nothing to do but wait for it to be ready. The flames were advancing. Why isn’t the sprinkler system coming on? Someone had turned it off, and he tried to remember where the stopcock was. In the pause it gave him, William realized the solution to his problem. Without the warehouse, there could be no deliveries. His value to Uri would be gone, but he had to keep the fire at bay until the evidence was destroyed. He remembered a fire extinguisher at the top of the stairs and went for it.

  William returned and opened the compressed cylinder at the desk. Cathy’s desk was overcome, fed constantly with heat from the inferno of his office. His effort was despairing. With his foot he pushed the desk a few feet away toward the hottest spot in the room. Only the partition wall prevented the whole second storey from being alight. He moved around the machine to put distance between himself and the fire. The alarms still wailed. He pulled his jacket over his head and peered out, protecting his hands from the heat and burrowing his nose into the cloth of his jacket. Finally the light from the photocopier travelled back and forth, signalling it was ready.

  Turning his shoulder against the heat, he moved between the copier and the desk. The plastic of the machine was smoking on one side. The acrid smell and taste of burning plastic had reached him, but now he stood at the display with the fire close. Paint from the ceiling began falling in crispy flaming curls like autumn leaves. One landed on his hand, burning into the skin. He flicked it away. The fierce heat pushed through his trousers and to the backs of his legs.

  The copier menu was plain enough. He pressed Menu, then Options, selected History, then pushed the falling debris away before scrolling through to Delete All. He clicked OK and stepped away from the machine toward the door. It was done.

  Looking up, William realized the blaze had travelled above and behind him, lapping at the door by the stairs and blocking his escape. There was no time to hesitate. He had to plunge through the flames, or perish. Something fell and he spun around to look behind. The copier was still on. The display read Confirm Delete History, but it was too hot and too far away to reach.

  Fucking machines! It was too late. His last thought as he ran toward the stairs was to wonder if it was right to have broken the glass and gotten rid of the jerry can and tapes before deleting the manifest from the copier. It might have been his undoing, but he did not regret it. He was hopeful the dark figure on the bicycle had not been hurt as he bumped her with the car. She would be clear of this if she got home without incident and claimed to know nothing when questioned. It was something to hope for.

  He leapt through the doorway. The fire licked his face as he flew headlong down the stairs to the first landing, where he lay crumpled and still.

  January 12, 2018

  Arms and legs reached upward as if suspending him from above. It took a moment to understand the arms and legs were his. He was hurtling from the sky, looking up at the blue, when Owl came into view and began circling. To William’s right and over his shoulder the North Shore mountains seemed small and lay quiet, far below. To his left Vancouver appeared moulded like Lego on a kitchen floor.

  “Am I falling?” he asked. “Of course I am. I’ve let go of the hat.” He craned his neck to see where he might land and then realized the futility of the effort. All control of his landing was given up on letting go.

  Owl came closer and William asked, “Will it hurt when I land?”

  He strained to hear Owl and thought he heard, “The fall is more painful.”

  “Why?”

  “Remorse,” said Owl. “Pain of a kind. Stops when you land.”

  “Then I am in pain. I regret everything,” said William.

  “Too late,” said Owl. “Too late.”

  “Maybe I can make up for it … be different.”

  “How?” asked Owl.

  “I don’t want to be William Koren anymore.”

  “Ah,” said Owl. “That’s what you don’t want, and it will not do.”

  William’s descent quickened, leaving Owl circling high above
him. The hissing noise in his ears became a roar. Tearing wind caused his clothes to ripple and flap along his limbs, the Omega flew from his wrist, his pockets emptied and a shoe yanked from his foot, disappearing in the distant blue.

  Faster and faster William fell, now buffeted by hot winds. He began shouting, before it ended.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it was wrong of me. I made mistakes.” Wind whipped hair against his face, lifted his eyelids, entered his mouth, inflating his cheeks. He turned his head back and forth against the turbulence and roaring in his ears.

  Owl lunged into the trail of debris. “No, that will not do. We are all sorry. It will not do.”

  The air burned William’s skin as he neared the ground. Smoke and then flame from his back surrounded his body, engulfing arms and legs.

  William shouted, “Help me, please!”

  “You don’t have much time,” said Owl.

  The volume of noise was now so great he could not hear the words that came screaming from him. “I am a Doukhobor! I will let God into my heart, I promise.”

  “Too easy!” said Owl.

  William’s clothes began shredding from his body. “I am a Doukhobor. My name is Dmitri Korenov.” Fire and smoke trailed behind in a long plume in the sky. His flesh burned; his hands blackened and peeled.

  “Still too easy,” said Owl.

  The fear was gone, the pain lost in the noise and turmoil. With his remaining breath he said, “My name is Dmitri Korenov. My father is Pavel Korenov. My mother is Nina Korenov. I am their son. I am their son.” Over his shoulder William saw he was now level with the mountain peaks, his time nearly over.