Pages Torn From a Travel Journal
Page 10
“Ah. Probably random, then, theft-related.”
“Likely as not. O’Slaughnassey was pig-shit rich from that show’n he’s been doin’ it fer decades, they said. ‘Least, there’s some good news, though.”
“Really?”
“Good news fer the girl, I’se mean. See, her bein’ married ta the scum, and him dyin’, well, they said she’ll inherit all his money’n the whole blammed carnival ta boot.” He chuckled again. “I guess that there’s what’cha call a happy endin’, huh?”
This I of course already knew, yet I play-acted a look of satisfaction. “Yes, yes, indeed, it is.” I smiled. “A happy ending . . . ”
He snapped his fingers in a sudden disgruntlement. “Just wish I could’a gotten me one’a them toothless cock-sucks off her. Ain’t no way she’ll be turnin’ no tricks no more, that’s fer shore, not with all’a O’Slaughnassey’s loot.”
“Mmm, you’ve a pertinent point. It’s the young lady’s good fortune, and I have the notion that she deserves it.”
As the sun rose further, dragging a curtain of stunning, prismatic light across the fields, then the garage itself, Nate glanced at his watch in an after-thought. “Now where the hail’s that dang driver? Must still be snoozin’. I’ll shag his ass up’n let him know his bus is fixed.”
“I’m sure he’ll be very grateful, as are we all.”
This proved the last of my discourse with the vulgarian mechanic whose final persuasions indicated at least some modicum of benevolence I hadn’t otherwise detected. From this point, all was well, and details as to our sequent debarkation (which would, I’m happy to add, continue on toward my destinational goal: the sultry, atmosphere-rich city of New Orleans) needn’t be expounded upon.
How the imponderably evil O’Slaughnassey came to meet his demise needn’t be expounded upon, either, I shouldn’t think. However, I will say that–on the evening prior—just before taking my leave of the baleful woodland clearing & the immense presence of one Eamon Martin, a few further words might be appreciated. I shall briefly recount:
Eamon had made a parting query, “But before ya leave, is there anythin’ I’se can do fer ya?” I’d instinctively prepared to say “no” & be on my way. Simultaneously, however, my mind was abuzz with turmoil, founded chiefly by my own sense of regret & self-condemnation. What I regretted I would expect to be obvious: my failure to aid Bliss in her unspeakable travails. Earlier, I chatted with Eamon about the subjectivities of justice; I’d even proposed the certain legitimacy of effecting common-sense judicial license when crimes are committed outside the curtilege of established laws & also beyond the reach of police. “ . . . proper engagement of the law where there are no formal laws,” was something I’d said, if I recall with any accuracy. Though I can’t say I approved of the manner with which the child-rapist/murderer had come to meet his decease, I must say I agreed with the end result: justice.
Eamon & his unkempt & uncultivated hillfolk had suffered a horror from which they could not turn a cheek; & hence were determined to do something about it, even though what they did was not within the letter of the law. It was that primitively simple.
Yes. These men would not rest until justice had been implemented. They did something about it.
But with regards to Bliss? I’d done nothing. I’d presumed instead to return to the dismal garage having aided Bliss not in the least, making every excuse in my coward’s perceptions. That is why when Eamon had asked if there were anything he could do for me?
I’d steeled myself & answered, “Yes. I’d be grateful if you would be so generous as to give me a mallet similar to the one you made use of not too long ago . . . ”
There was great risk, certainly, in returning to the carnival, but I believe that fortune was with me now, for absolutely no one who’d espied me on my first visit saw me upon this return. The mallet concealed in a bag, I played the part of an intrigued carnival-enthusiast until I’d quite stealthily re-found the execrable trailer where I knew O’Slaughnassey to abode. No component of scholarship nor deductive sleight is required to enlighten one of what followed. I shan’t mention it again.
As for Bliss, I decided it best to never return to see her, as much as my heart yearned to. Her condition had no choice but to improve exponentially. What purpose might therefore be served by another meeting with her? She was young, beautiful, &, now, financially solvent for life. Never again would she be forced to engage in “tricks” or that heinous “peep-tent” act. She was the magnate of the travelling show now, & I’m confident she would serve it well, & vice-versa. In her new life, there’d be no comfortable place for a bookish, pining, reclusive man such as myself. For me, the memory of her smile, of the genuine look in her eyes, & of her kiss, was all I needed, & far more than I deserved.
Like the ruffian mechanic Nate has so said–a “happy endin’.”
Writers keep journals in order to attend to a variety of needs, i.e., the most likely for a majority is the simple “exercise” of craft. Others keep them to leave a personal record for descendants (hardly the case for me), while others (writers of a more self-aggrandized bent), to be published posthumously, to follow on in their fame (I can hardly count upon that!) For me, however, journaling provides an arcane & very effective catharsis. Had I not scribbled down this account before my eyes, I suspect I’d exist in quite a forlorn & intractable emotional status; but now that I’ve filtered the events through my mind & released them through my pen, I am able to come to terms with it all, & have managed to glean crucial & previously unrealised aspects of myself–I should say my deepest inner self. In spite of the truly unutterable horrors I’d witnessed, I am now more at peace than I have ever been, & better armed & opportuned to function within the world & proceed with my life. Odd as it may seem, I feel as though I’ve been blessed . . .
This entire matter is moot, however. Often I compose journals—I’m sure due to inclination & indoctrination—as though they are to be looked upon by typical readers. I’ve written many, many travel journals, for instance—& perhaps some of those shall be read by close friends &/or my literary executor after my demise. But that must not be the case in regard to this particular journal, wouldn’t you agree? There are indeed potential legal ramifications, given my conduct of last evening. My full name does not appear here, & only one of a rare distilled fanaticism might identify me based on certain remarks herein. Unlikely, in other words. &, as an added good fortune, the Burlington Superior Bus Lines Co. does not require positive identification in order to purchase a ticket. Hence?
The proverb “Scot free” comes to mind.
I see that this particular coach is conveniently equipped with a waste receptacle by the exit door. The transfer point for my next connexion will soon be arrived at; therefore I’ve decided to tear these damnable sheets from my binder right now, & then make prompt use of said receptacle upon my off-boarding–
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Edward Lee has authored close to 50 books in the field of horror; he specializes in hardcore fare. His most recent novels are LUCIFER’S LOTTERY and the Lovecraftian THE HAUNTER OF THE THRESHOLD. His movie HEADER was released on DVD by Synapse Film in June, 2009. Lee lives in Largo, Florida.
Table of Contents
1 May, 19—
2 May, 19—
Table of Contents
1 May, 19—
2 May, 19—