“This is nice,” Gloria said, sipping her beer.
Toby nodded, shifted due to the way the handle of the revolver was sticking into his belly.
“You okay?”
Once the gun was no longer poking into him, he said, “Fine.”
“Hey, forget what Paul said. He’s just drunk.”
“That’s when people speak the most truth.”
Gloria nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Toby watched some jock light his fart; two girls making out (one of which was Leah); and some poor kid, no older than Toby, puking all over the ground. His first drinking experience? Toby wondered. He shivered at the remembrance of his own.
When he felt Gloria’s stare, he turned and smiled nervously. “What?”
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“Who, Frankie? Of course I do.”
“No, not Frankie. I know you miss him. I meant Mr. Joseph.”
Toby faced the bonfire and staring into the flames, said, “Yeah, I do,” and there was no one else in the world—not even Frankie, if he was still alive—that he would’ve admitted that to.
There had been no word from Mr. Joseph, which didn’t surprise Toby. He thought about him most days, wondered where he was; hoped that, wherever he had ended up, he was at peace—well, as much at peace as was possible.
Toby thought back to what had woken him in the middle of the night a week ago, could still hear the gunshot echoing in his head, but then Gloria talking jolted him back to the present.
“It’s okay, I understand,” she said.
Toby wanted to tell her that as much as he appreciated her kindness, she didn’t understand. She couldn’t possibly begin to understand half of what had transpired between him and the old man. It wasn’t just a simple case of a lost teenager befriending a lonely old man; it went much, much deeper.
Toby finished off his beer, threw the can to the ground.
Maybe I should tell Gloria the truth about Mr. Joseph. What does it matter now? The old man is gone. Gloria’s the only person I can trust, the only person who may understand what I went through this summer.
Though he had just polished off the beer, his mouth was sticky-dry when he turned to Gloria.
She turned, smiled at him. The smile quickly switched to a frown when she noticed Toby’s pinched expression. “Toby, is everything okay?”
“There’s something...” he started to say, but then a body was hovering over them. Looking up, Toby frowned. “Jesus, Paul, what do you want?”
“To apologize,” he said, sounding even more drunk than he was just a few minutes ago. He stuck out an arm. Clasped in his hand was a bottle. “My peace offering.”
“What is it?”
“Rum,” he said.
“Rum?”
“That’s what I said. I want you to have it, as my way of saying sorry.”
“Where’d ya get it from?” Toby asked.
“I just found it on the ground,” Paul said. “A full bottle, just sitting there. It didn’t seem to belong to anyone, so it’s yours, if you want it.” He giggled to himself, as if remembering a private joke. “Well, I drank a teensy-weensy bit,” he said, “so it’s not totally full, but it’s near enough.”
Toby swallowed, remembering the taste. Still, he found himself intrigued by the bottle, drawn to the fiery promises it held.
“Tell the truth, who’d ya steal it from?” Gloria said.
“It just appeared, honest. I was tempted to keep it for myself, but then I remembered I don’t like rum. I’m more of a beer and tequila kind of guy.”
Toby knew he should decline the offer—he wasn’t a fan of spirits. Beer was enough for him.
Yet he found himself reaching up for the bottle. “Okay, I’ll have it.”
Paul handed it down to him. “So, we cool?”
Toby nodded. “Yeah, we’re cool.”
“Great. Well, I’m all out of beer, so I’ll leave you two crazy kids alone. Have fun. Oh, and enjoy the rum, too.” He winked and then staggered away.
“Do you even like rum?” Gloria said.
Toby turned the bottle over in his hand. It was white rum, Barbancourt, just like what Mr. Joseph drank. “No, not really,” he said. He unscrewed the cap and took a drink. He winced as the liquor cut a path of fire down his throat. He coughed.
“Can I try some?” Gloria said.
Toby passed her the bottle. She sniffed the drink, made a face, and then, taking a breath, placed the bottle to her lips and took a sip. She coughed, wiped her eyes. “That tastes terrible,” she said. She followed it up with another swill.
After her second drink, she handed the bottle back to Toby. Toby put the lip of the bottle to his own mouth, thought about how Gloria’s lips had just been on the bottle, and then he sunk back more of the clear white rum.
Wincing, he said, “Hard to imagine that some people drink this stuff all the time.” Leaving the cap off, he rested the bottle on the ground.
“Like who?”
“Well, people from Jamaica and Haiti drink it all the time. Mr. Joseph drank it all the time.”
“He did?”
Toby nodded. Remembered he was about to tell her about Mr. Joseph; but the moment had passed, and really, it was probably for the best he didn’t tell her.
“Well, I think I’ll stick to beer,” Gloria said. “Speaking of which, I’m all out. I’m gonna go and see if there’s any left.” She got to her feet. “You want me to bring you back one?”
Toby shook his head.
“Okay. Well, don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
Toby lifted the bottle. “I’ll be here waiting.” He took a sip and Gloria chuckled as she headed back into the ring of fire.
Gloria didn’t come right back. Instead, she got caught chatting to some people. Toby watched her talk and laugh from where he sat, and, steadily sipping the rum, enjoyed the view from afar.
With his head buzzing from the alcohol, and the smell of the bonfire evoking simpler times when he, his dad and Frankie used to go camping, Toby’s attention wavered between watching Gloria and everyone else around him enjoying their last vestige of freedom before the constraints of school bound them.
As he sat waiting for Gloria to come back, trying not think about school, or what his parents would do if they caught him sneaking home after the party, or smelled alcohol on his breath tomorrow morning—Let them smell the alcohol. What do I care? What can they do? Ground me? Stop me from playing with Frankie after school?—his attention was drawn to a person standing outside the light cast by the fire. Though the person was about fifteen feet away, and swamped by shadows, there was no mistaking the dark hat, clothes and sunglasses.
Toby frowned.
Guédé Nimbo? he thought.
But he knew that wasn’t possible. He wasn’t dreaming.
He figured it was just a party goer, for some reason wearing that unusual outfit. Still, though Toby couldn’t see the person’s face, he was sure the person was staring straight at him—he could feel their stare. He could also see the tiny light from the tip of a cigarette; it burned brightly for a brief moment before going dull.
Nobody seemed to notice the person; people walked past without so much as a glance or a “Hi.”
Toby grew nervous.
Could it really be? he wondered. If so, then what did the loa want? Why had he shown up here, now?
A sudden breeze fluttered, flapping his clothes and hair, and a chill passed through him. The wind died and the coldness left him.
Maybe he wants some rum, Toby thought.
But when he looked down at his right hand, Toby found it empty.
But I was just holding it...
The stranger in the dark clothes turned and walked into the woods.
Toby sat there, baffled, scared, but also curious.
Did the stranger want him to follow?
Toby glanced over at Gloria, still chatting.
Do I dare? If it is Guédé Nimbo
, then he must be here for a reason.
Getting to his feet, Toby headed for the area where the stranger had vanished.
He stepped around couples copulating on the ground, people lying drunk, stopping when he reached the spot. Swallowing his nerves, Toby stepped forward.
All light from the bonfire was soon gone and Toby was left to dodge tall trees and push past sharp branches and stinging twigs in almost total darkness. His only guide was the dabs of moonlight that managed to break through the foliage.
Just as Toby feared he had fallen into a trap, into some netherworld which consisted of nothing but trees and bushes, the woods ended and he found himself standing on the small, narrow clearing overlooking the cemetery.
Toby and Frankie had been up here many times over the years—though never after dark—and thrown rocks at the cemetery below. They used to single out a headstone and play ‘who can hit the headstone first’. It was a difficult game to win; not only was the cemetery a good twenty feet away, but you had the steep hill directly below to contend with. So one wrong slip and you’d go tumbling all the way to the wad of bushes which hid the bottom of the thick iron cemetery gates.
It was a disrespectful, immature game, Toby knew that now. Especially as he thought of kids picking out Frankie’s headstone and using that as target practice.
But he hadn’t been brought here to play any games. Toby gazed around. There was no sign of the stranger.
So why had he been brought here?
Probably wasn’t the Guédé after all. Probably just some senior playing a joke on me; or my imagination.
But when he sniffed the air, he thought he could smell cigarette smoke.
He was about to turn and head back, when he heard distant laughter from down in the cemetery. Toby squinted through the darkness; noticed a group of people sitting among the headstones, though at this distance he couldn’t tell who they were.
He soon got his answer when he looked further down the cemetery, towards the entrance, and saw a car parked out front—Bruce, Dwayne’s 1969 Chevy Camaro, looking remarkably like the animal it was named after, the way the moonlight glinted off its blue and white exterior, its front like a dark gaping maw.
Another burst of laughter, louder this time, the sound riding on the gentle breeze and floating up to where Toby stood. One laugh in particular stood out: a high-pitched cackle.
It was the laugh from his dream.
Fear, like a thousand icy worms wriggled into Toby’s body.
Remember...
And then he did.
Like Moses parting the Red Sea, layers of murky waters were peeled back to reveal what lay buried beneath, and he was catapulted back almost three months to that horrible life-changing night…
Toby on the ground, trying desperately to shield himself against the onslaught of baseball bats, iron bar and kicks that sent shockwaves of pain through his body;
hearing the sound of Frankie grunting, of gravel crunching as his attackers (there was more than one!) feverishly assaulted them;
and the laughter.
Throughout it all, the laughter.
Cruel, vicious laughter.
But one laugh in particular: a high-pitched cackle that cut through Toby’s pain like a machete through Jell-O. A laugh that belonged to one of Dwayne Marcos’s thug puppets—Sam Bickley.
Standing on the narrow clearing overlooking the cemetery, Toby felt as if all air had been sucked out of his lungs. He found it difficult to breathe, his legs had turned to rubber, threatening to give way completely.
Head spinning, he staggered to the nearest tree where he hugged its rough skin, desperately drawing air into his lungs.
I don’t... believe... it... all this time...
Dwayne, Toby thought, the name like poison on his tongue. Dwayne was responsible.
He knew there was at least one other participant, Sam, and most likely the other two thugs—but Toby knew with crystal-clear clarity that it was Dwayne’s doing. It was his want, his will, his evil mind that was behind the attack.
When he got some of his composure back, Toby unhooked himself from around the trunk. Tears trickled down his cheeks. Now he knew the truth, what was he going to do about it? The obvious answer was go to the cops and tell them what he had remembered, that he knew who had killed his best friend.
But that idea didn’t sit well with him. For one, he didn’t trust them. They didn’t try very hard to find the real murderers. Instead they were content to let an innocent man take the blame for Frankie’s death; as Mr. Joseph had said, a dead black vagrant was the perfect scapegoat.
Even if he did tell them what he knew, that he had remembered a vital piece of information that he thought lost forever, the moment they smelled his breath, not only were they sure to dismiss his accusations as ramblings, but he’d be in big trouble, both with the law and his parents.
No, he couldn’t go to the police.
Then why was I brought here? Why did Guédé Nimbo lead me to the murderers and reveal the truth?
Toby felt the pull of the gun tucked down the waistband of his pants.
Is that it? he wondered. Is that why I felt the need to bring the gun with me tonight?
But he was no hero—he had never stood up to Dwayne and his gang before, what made the Guédé think he could do it now?
Because they have to pay. Someone has to make them pay for what they did to me and Frankie.
Toby just wished that someone wasn’t him.
You don’t have to do anything. You could always run home and wake Mom and Dad, tell them of the situation.
No, this was his fight. He wasn’t a kid anymore—those days were over. He had to take charge of his life, stand up for himself.
Besides, the Guédé wanted me to find out, wanted me to have the gun and seek revenge for Frankie. The loa knows all, so I guess this is how it has to be.
Scared, body shaking, Toby turned and headed back through the woods.
When he broke through to the large clearing, he was crying, but he didn’t care if anyone saw. He didn’t care about anything at that moment, other than seeing those bastards pay for what they did.
In the cold distant echoes of his mind, Toby heard Gloria calling out to him. “Toby, where are you going? Toby, is everything okay?”
She didn’t see the smile through the tears, a smile full of pain, anger and relief.
Yes, everything is going to be okay, he thought as he started down the path that lead down from Taylor’s Hill.
He bumped into drunken teenagers on his way down, ignoring the cries of, “Hey, watch it,” and, “Looks like someone’s had too much to drink.”
When he reached flat land, the dark woods giving way to bright moonlight that shone over the parked cars making their chrome exteriors glitter, he headed left.
As he strode towards the cemetery, Toby thought about Mr. Joseph. Had he known the truth about who the attackers were? Is that what the Guédé told him that day? If so, then why didn’t he tell Toby?
There must’ve been a reason. Maybe he knew I had to find out for myself. Maybe the Guédé told him to keep the truth a secret. Perhaps I need to face this particular fear alone. Need to find my own peace.
Toby was thinking about all this when he arrived at Belford Cemetery.
With the sounds of the party up on Taylor’s Hill distant, the hooting of owls and the whisper of the breeze now filling his ears, he slipped the revolver out from under his shirt and strode through the entrance.
He pulled the box of cartridges from his pocket and as he plunged deeper into the cemetery, tears still flowing, he plugged the chamber with the bullets. Once filled, he snapped the chamber in place and pocketed the empty box.
Soon he heard the wicked laughter, smelt the sweet, pungent odor of dope.
He saw them up ahead. Scotty Hammond was standing in front of a grave, pissing on the headstone. Sam Bickley and Deb Mayfour were sitting nearby, laughing; Sam was cackling the hardest. There was no sign of Dway
ne or Rusty Helm.
“How’d ya like that, fat-boy?” Scotty laughed, his strong stream splashing against the white stone. “Drink up, Frankie.”
“That’s disgusting,” Deb Mayfour said, laughing, smoking a joint. “You’re a pig, you know that? It’s sac... sacri... against God to do that. He’ll punish you for it.”
“Fuck God,” Scotty said, finishing up. “And Fuck Frankie.”
“Yeah, fuck Frankie,” Sam said, swilling from a bottle of whiskey.
Scotty had just zipped up when Toby stepped forward, aiming the gun at the group of misfit teenagers. “No, fuck all of you,” he said, voice wavering.
Deb, taking a hit of Mary Jane, coughed out smoke and said, giggling, “Toby? Jesus, what the fuck are you doing here?”
“What is that, a cap-gun?” Scotty said, a wonky smile on his chubby face.
“You bastards,” Toby said, pushing the words past his constricted throat. “You killed Frankie. You fucking bastards.”
The laughter stopped.
Toby stepped closer, swinging the gun back and forth between the three older teenagers. He was unable to stop his hand from shaking. “Who else was there? I know you were there, Sam. And I’m sure Dwayne was, too. Who else? All of you?”
“What the fuck’s he talking about?” Deb said.
Sam got to his feet. “You drunk, Toby? ‘Cos I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Hey man, that gun looks real,” Scotty said, his gaze fixed on the revolver. “Is that fucking thing real?”
“It’s real,” Toby said.
Scotty huffed, suddenly looking nervous. “Well shit, why you got your knickers all in a knot, huh?”
“Because you killed Frankie!” Toby cried, and he was unable to stop the torrent of tears from washing down his face.
“You’re crazy, Toby,” Deb said, getting to her feet, brushing grass and leaves off her skirt. “Just put the gun down, huh? I don’t know what you think...”
“I remembered,” Toby said, his bitter voice cutting off Deb. “Guédé Nimbo brought me to you, so I could hear Sam’s laugh. Then I remembered. The night of the attack. It came back to me. So tell me right now, who was involved? And where the fuck is Dwayne? He needs to be here.”
The Awakening Page 45