Between the Cracks She Fell

by Lisa de Nikolits

  So, Joss luv, wherever you are, just look after yourself and try to have some fun. I’ve always got money for a ticket to bring you back home, no matter what. And no matter what happens, I will always love you, and I am always proud of you.

  Ta for now, and keep the postcards coming. Simon sends love too. He is planning our next cruise, to Amsterdam, where I might even try one of those naughty brownie thingies!

  Love and hugs,

  Mum

  My eyes filled with tears, and I laughed out loud causing odd looks from those around me.

  I put my head in my hands and said a quiet thanks to Mum for never letting me down.

  I typed up a long reply, telling Mum about my new friends, Emma and Ashley, saying that we were all camping and that really and truly, things were fine. I left out all the gritty details, but I told Mum what my boss had said, knowing that’d make her feel better.

  And thanks for everything Mum. And listen…. Tell Mr. Alright that he’s a good dad to me. He always has been.

  Then I fired an email back to my work colleague telling her not to worry, that I was fine, just taking the summer off to camp with friends, and that I hoped the woman and her kids were okay.

  I was tempted to send Shayne a sarcastic reply like, well, you finally emerge from the womb of your sister’s basement and pretend to care now that you’ve found Jesus?

  But I finally settled on a brief reply:

  Hello Shayne. I’m fine. I have made excellent new friends. Mum is fine about the house and everything, she understands. I’m not really interested in hearing from you again. I don’t hate you, but you have proven you have no place in my life. Joss

  I studied it for a while, then sent it. And after that, I had no idea what to do with myself at all. I sat in that chair and gazed at the screen, biting my nails until my fingertips were raw.

  31. THE DEALERS IN FRAUD

  I WAS FILLED WITH RAGE AT SHAYNE and I still wanted to get drunk. I had all this pent up energy to burn off, but it was cool and peaceful in the library and I could not bring myself to leave yet. It was screamingly hot again outside, and the coolness inside the building was like drinking a beautiful glass of water or lying close to the bottom of a swimming pool and never wanting to come up as the mirage of the real world rippled overhead, far away.

  Thinking about the swimming pool had me wondering about a visit there, but I decided to stay put. I thought about meeting up with Emma, but she would just nag me to colour her hair and I was not in the mood to do a girlie hair day.

  I checked in with Imran on Facebook and was more than a little disturbed by his most recent posting:

  BURIAL ARRANGEMENTS in accordance with these words expressed by the respected professor, Raj Bhala in his esteemed work, Understanding Islam, I quote his directions and ordain that:

  1. My body be prepared for burial in keeping with the Sunni (Orthodox) Muslim Law (Sharia).

  2. Under no circumstances, may my body be voluntarily turned over for an autopsy or embalming or for organ donation.

  3. My body to be prepared for burial by Sunni (Orthodox) Muslims according to the dictate of Shariah (Sunni Islamic Law). Once the body is prepared for burial there is to be no viewing of my remains.

  4. Absolutely no non-Islamic religious service or observance shall be conducted upon my death, or on my body or at the grave site. No pictures, crescents and stars, decorations, crosses, flags, flowers, plants, any symbols or music be involved at any stage of my burial.

  5. My body may not be transported over any unreasonable distance from the locality of death unless necessitated by the circumstances or consensus of my Muslim family members.

  6. My grave must be dug in complete accordance with the Islamic practice. It should face in the direction of the Qiblah (towards the Ka’aba at Makkah, Saudi Arabia).

  7. My body must be buried without casket or any other encasement that separates the shroud from the surrounding soil.

  8. My grave may be covered with dirt only. The marking, if necessary, should be a simple rock. There should be no inscriptions or symbols.

  9. My burial should take place as soon as possible, preferably before sunset on the day of my death or the following day. Under no circumstances should the burial be unduly delayed.

  10. In the event that the local laws require casket encasement, I command that such encasement be of the simplest, most modest, and least expensive type possible and I furthermore command that the encasement be left open during burial and filled with dirt unless prohibited by law. No one is permitted to cry out, moan or wail. I demand that such a person leave the burial site. Only what comes from the eye is acceptable (tears). Muslims should say a dua for me “(that Allah bestows firmness upon me when they bury me and put the dirt into my grave”). No recitation of the Qur’an is to be permitted over my grave.

  There was that word again, dua. I took a moment to look up what it meant. It was defined as an “invocation” and an “act of supplication,” calling out to Allah in a profound act of worship.

  Imran was really making me nervous. I returned to his Facebook page and noticed that he had also changed the slogan on his big profile picture. The image was the same, the man on a camel surrounded by soldiers and haloed by rings of golden light but the slogan now read:

  “And kill them wherever you find them, and turn them out from where they have turned you out” [The Holy Quran 2:191].

  To me, these posts had all the ear-marking of danger — was Imran becoming a suicide bomber? Although, I argued with myself, suicide bombers didn’t leave remains to be buried, do they?

  I wondered what to do. Imran’s Facebook profile had him living in BC, which was the other end of the country. And besides, didn’t they have people monitoring Facebook? Weren’t there hordes of specialists dedicated to fleshing out insurgents and arresting them? Should I alert Serena, the cop I’d just met? And what could I say? Serena, there’s this boy who used to study at the school where I’m squatting, and I’m reading his notebook and stalking him on Facebook and I’m worried he’s going to blow up something?

  But what if I didn’t say anything and this guy killed a bunch of people? That would make me as responsible as him.

  I had to tell someone. I dug into my purse, found Serena’s card, and typed up an email to her.

  Hi Serena, I’m the girl you met in Tim’s the other day. The one Lenny was threatening.

  I was on Facebook and I came across this guy I thought you should take a look at. He’s posting militant Islamic slogans and also, his burial requirements. He lives in B.C., and most likely it’s nothing but I felt I had to tell someone in case it is something.

  Here’s the link. Thank you, Joscelyn.

  I felt better having done that, but I still wasn’t ready to leave the sanctuary of the library, and so I clicked on a national news site to see what was happening in the outside world.

  I scrolled through various links, clicking on this and that when a photograph caught my eye. I was certain the guy in the picture was Rob, Ashley’s Rob. I would have recognized that fake suntan and Hollywood-style plastic surgery anywhere.

  Oh no. Poor Ashley.

  LOCAL ENTREPENEUR UNDER INVESTIGATION

  Local high profile entrepreneur Frances Weston is being investigated on several counts of fraud, tax evasion and assault. He allegedly struck an elderly man who approached Mr. Weston in the hopes of retrieving the funds he had invested in a fraudulent Facilitated Care Centre for the Elderly. According to the source, who wishes to remain anonymous, Mr. Weston convinced a number of elderly patrons to purchase waterfront lots of land which would house modern-day cottages. These cottages would be serviced with daily housekeeping and other amenities.There would also to be a main central building with a spa, a 24-hour five-star restaurant, a convenience store, a pharmacy, as well as nursing facilities. A trail of buggy paths would conne
ct the cottages and allow the residents easy access to the grounds.

  The source said Mr. Weston was a convincing act, loading his sales pitch with glossy brochures and detailed blueprints, and asking for cheques in advance.

  “We were all taken in,” another elderly lady said. “Even my grandson agreed it was a sound investment. Mr. Weston also promised us that the wetlands to the east of the facility would be developed into a bird watcher’s paradise, with walking trails and lookout spots and all kinds of wonderful things. Imagine our shock when we took a drive to the proposed land, after handing over all the money, only to find that the address was fictitious and that the place didn’t exist at all.”

  When investors tried to get hold of Mr. Weston, he evaded their calls but one gentleman refused to give up and tracked Mr. Weston down and confronted him, receiving a broken nose for his troubles. The man immediately reported Mr. Weston to the police who said they would initiate investigative proceedings.

  The elderly community are up in arms.

  “This shyster isn’t going to get away with it,” one victim of the scam declared. “As far as I am concerned this is war and nothing less. We won’t rest, none of us, until we’ve got our money back.”

  “What kind of person hits an elderly man?” another asked. “This guy is the lowest of the low.”

  Investigative sources revealed that Mr. Weston has strong connections with a well-known biker gang in Montreal, and it is believed he worked out of Quebec until it became too risky for him, following a similar deal that went wrong. He has since been spotted in Toronto but police have not been able to pin him down. The police are urging anyone with information about Mr. Weston’s whereabouts to come forward and assist with the investigation.

  Frances Weston. I was sure he was Rob, Ashley’s suntanned, nip-and-tucked lover.

  No wonder Rob wanted to keep Ash under wraps. He didn’t want him learning of this.

  I snagged the librarian as she rolled past me with her trolley of books.

  Can I print off the Internet?

  Sure, twenty-five cents a page, she said. I printed two copies of the story.

  This development was so shocking that I lost interest in the rest of the world news. I had been right. Rob was a nasty piece of work but far more than I had realized.

  I decided to check my email in case Serena had replied and she had:

  Thx. Will take a look. S

  Not the most wordy of emails but good news.

  My mind buzzing, I logged off and left the library.

  I still was not ready to join Emma. I needed to think. There was so much going on, with Imran a potential danger, and Rob a real danger.

  I sat in the park outside the library drinking a coffee and when I finished, I went to the Goodwill where I purchased the yellow and red wagon.

  Back at the car, both Sam and Em were fast asleep and I was loathe to wake them. I sat on the sidewalk in the sun, with my hat pulled down and thought about the way things had turned out. I thought about Shayne, newly-baptized and wide-eyed with the joy of opening his heart to Jesus, spouting all kinds of Reborn Holy Writ rhetoric while on the other side of the country, and at the other end of spectrum, there was Imran apologizing to Allah for his weakness, and hell-bent on waging Holy War. And there was Ashley too, also part of the religious melting pot, disfellowshipped and kicked out of his resurrection, set adrift by his family for simply being who he was.

  Religion. I had not prayed in years, and if I did, what would I say? But then, leaning against Emma’s little red car, I recalled my prayer at the swimming pool: God, if you’re there, give me a friend. And now I had Emma and Sammy and Ashley, a veritable little community of friends. Was it coincidence or had my prayer been answered? Unsure, I rubbed my beautiful Celtic cross tattoo that I had inked in defiance against the nuns. That tattoo clearly stated, I’ll choose my God, and you won’t tell me what to confess or what to believe.

  I had more affinity to the pagan rituals of Wicca and had enjoyed challenging the nuns by tracing Easter back to Eostre, the Anglo Saxon dawn goddess.

  When it came to religion, I felt like Gibreel Farishta when he said, I’m supposed to know the answers here? I’m sitting here watching this picture and now this actor points his finger out at me, who ever heard the like, who asks the bloody audience of a “theological” to solve the bloody plot?

  Or maybe Saladin Chamcha understood it better: Not only the need to be believed in, but to believe in another. You’ve got it: Love.

  Maybe that was the one big earthly answer to life’s questions: all we need is love.

  I thought about Ashley and wondered how he was doing.

  I heard the sounds of stirring coming from inside the car, and I got up and peered in.

  Wakey-wakey, I said. I got the wagon. Let’s go for a stroll.

  Emma scrambled out and sniffed her armpits. Eugh, she said. Time for a washroom visit soon. I’m stinky as a whore’s old panties.

  We put Sam in the cart and he settled down quickly, resting his huge head on his paws. Every now and then when we went over a bump, he made a quick sharp whining sound but was generally silent.

  Along the way I told Em about Ashley and the visit to Emergency. I pulled out the phone to see if I had any missed calls but there were none.

  He must be sleeping, I said. I hope so, he was really banged up.

  Em’s eyes shone at the sight of the phone. A phone? Give me that!

  No way, I said. Do you want Ash to get killed for sure? This is only for Ash to call me. Don’t even think about it.

  Em looked momentarily put out, but she soon cheered up. I have been thinking, she said, about how we can steal Rob’s fortune from him. How’s this? We get all his artworks repainted, and then we get them done in such a way that there is a tiny, tiny detail wrong, just enough to drive him totally crazy every time he looks at it. Like he knows there is something wrong, but he can’t put his finger on it.

  I see a few flaws in this plan. Do you know a painter who can do reproductions? And how do we get the art out of his house, and if he even has any? Plus, how do we get the original art sold?

  Picky picky, Em said airily. I’m the ideas person here, sweetie, you’re the points person.

  I laughed. And thanks for that.

  We reached the edge of the field and stood looking across the high grass.

  I guess the points person made a fundamental error, I said. No way is the wagon going to make it across the field.

  We were silent for a moment.

  I know, I said, brightening. We’ll walk along the road to the library. Then from there, there’s a small asphalt path to the admin building.

  We strolled along the road, as Em fantasized out loud about how to get rid of Rob and steal his fortune, each idea more outrageous than the next.

  We stopped within sight of the library, and we got Sam out of the wagon and then lifted him and the wagon over the low white wooden fence that surrounded the school grounds. We deposited him back in the little cart and set off down the path.

  We walked up to the library, and I told Em about Lenny and how oddly he had been behaving lately.

  What’s odd is you finding him behaving oddly, Em said.

  As we approached the library, my sense of foreboding kicked in and I was covered in goosebumps. Something’s wrong, I said to Em who was chewing on a piece of field grass.

  What? she asked.

  I don’t know exactly, I said slowly, but something is really very wrong, trust me.

  32. THE INNER APARTMENTS

  WE EYED THE LIBRARY WARILY. The side door was still nailed tight so there was no access there. We circled the building taking care to make as little noise as possible.

  There, I pointed, look. The window up there has been smashed in since I was last here. And it was no easy task either. Those thick gl
ass bricks, the four-sided kind, are heavy.

  We examined the window.

  I bet I could get in there, I said.

  As you would say, don’t even think about it, Em said sharply. Are you crazy? Lenny could be in there for all we know.

  I doubt it, I said. I bet I can reach it if I stand on this. Good thing I am tall.

  I dragged an old chair over, placed it on an upturned box, and climbed onto the wobbly structure. Keep an eye out, I said to Em who scowled at me and hugged her arms to her chest.

  I don’t share your love of derelict places, she said. They frighten me.

  I wasn’t listening to her. I’ll have to sacrifice my sweatshirt, I said. It’s going to get ruined by this glass. Never mind. I can go to Goodwill and get a replacement.

  I peered inside the window.

  Yes, I can fit, I called to Em. The trick will be, will I have something to stand on inside? Yes, I added in my running commentary that was more for my benefit than Emma’s, there’s a box underneath. Someone must have been inside before me. Whoever smashed the window, I guess.

  Maybe they still are inside, Em said, not happy.

  No, I don’t think so. I would have heard a noise of some kind. Okay, going in. I eased my way through the window, like an acrobat doing contortions through a small box lined with shards of sharp glass.

  It’s certainly a tight fit, I called back to Em, who didn’t answer and I pushed on. Once I had my torso through, I turned around so I was no longer on my belly and I saw there was a row of pipes I could hold on to while drawing my feet through the window. I slowly unfolded until I landed gently on the box. I crouched down, and took my knife out, as well as my pepper spray. My skin felt electric, and I could hear the pump of blood in my ears and taste acidic fear in my mouth.

  I inched forward in the gloom of the dark library, stopping only to pull out my flashlight. I had entered via a small classroom that was filled with overturned desks and chairs, and the room had led me out into a hallway. This was adjoined by a washroom with a blackened toilet filled with scum, and a dark mirror that could have been a hundred years old. It was a cobweb of jagged breaks, and covered in fly specks.