White Eyes

by Mark Z. Kammell

  Chapter 25.

  Jon Goldsmith sat by himself in a café. He looked around – at the rain lashing against the dirty glass windows – at the old wooden tables, covered in plastic cloths, slightly off white, with red stripes, at the rickety seats that didn’t look as if they would carry the weight of a small child (the chair he was sitting on felt decidedly wobbly). He kept most of his scorn, though, for the coffee – a murkish, off grey colour in an old porcelain mug with a crack in the side, through which he could see droplets of coffee leak out, and drip slowly towards the table. No one made coffee shops like this anymore, did they, he thought.

  He took a sip, grimaced, and then glanced at his watch. 12:07. The forty eight hours were up, over by seven minutes, and Joshua hadn’t turned up. He pulled out a pack of Camels, unfiltered, and shook one loose from the soft pack. American imports, from his trip there. What he was going to smoke in the future, he decided, though the paper dissolved in his mouth and the tobacco tasted rough and lifeless.

  He tapped it on the table, put it in his mouth, and lit up, taking a deep drag. He closed his eyes. And opened them again as he felt the table move. Joshua. Sitting there opposite him. In the same dirty, torn, blood stained clothes that he had left him in. But he looked at his face again. Was this Joshua? There was something about his face, his eyes, that didn’t look quite right. Jon put his hand nervously up to his mouth, then brought it down again.

  “Hello Joshua” he said uncertainly.

  Joshua didn’t say anything, he had this kind of crazy smile. He reached over to Jon’s packet of cigarettes, pulled one out of the packet and lit it. As he did so he seemed to crush the packet, before dropping it, crushed into a ball, the cigarettes broken, back onto the table. “Bad for you” he said in a husky, broken voice.

  Jon’s uncertainty rose as he saw the intensity in Joshua’s eyes. This is your meeting, he told himself. You’re in charge. He deliberately made his voice slow and deep, deliberately didn’t break eye contact.

  “You’re late.”

  Joshua blew smoke into his face and said nothing.

  “Well,” Jon continued warily, “have you got it? I don’t see you carrying anything?” By this he meant he didn’t see Joshua carrying a briefcase full of cash. Jon knew full well that, whatever happened, Joshua wouldn’t do that, he would use an approved bank or loan company to ensure that the money arrived clean, but he liked in his mind to stick to the old way. And he didn’t know what else to say. Gone was the harried look he had seen last time, gone was the satisfying glimpse of fear that he had left him with, replaced with the old confidence that had come soaring back, but somehow it appeared different, more aggressive. And Jon felt the first pang of fear.

  Joshua reached a gloved hand into the left pocket of his torn jacket, all the time looking at John, all the time with that crooked, crazy smile on his face, all the time his eyes blazing as if they were on fire. His movements, in contrast, were so slow, almost graceful as he pulled out what seemed to be a small packet, wrapped in brown paper. He put it down, in front of him, on the table, covering it with his gloved hand.

  Jon looked down at it, back up at Joshua then back down at the table. “I… don’t understand.”

  “A little present” Joshua was still holding the packet. Gone were the suave, crisp tones, replaced by something much more rough and guttural, as if he had started smoking heavily, and Jon looked at him, startled. As if to accentuate the change, Joshua started coughing, suddenly, violently, the cough racking his body and making him shake and shudder. He let go of the packet and tried to cover his mouth. Jon pulled himself back into his chair, as far away as possible without getting up, half frightened of Joshua, half scared he would catch whatever it was Joshua had. But the shine never left Joshua’s eyes. When he stopped coughing, he took his hand away from his mouth, then, with a curious look, reached into his mouth and brought out a tooth, covered in blood.

  He smiled. “Second time today. I need to do something about this.” He turned his hand over and dropped the tooth on the table, next to the packet.

  Jon stared at the tooth, then the packet, then glanced back nervously at Joshua. “What is it?”

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “Tell me what it is.” Jon’s voice broke, and Joshua smiled. “Why don’t you open it?”

  They both looked down at the packet on the table, wrapped in the brown, greasy paper.

  “What you having?”

  Startled, Jon looked up. He hadn’t noticed the man come from the back of the café, walk to the table, and stand, towering over them. He was a large, well-built man, incongruous in his white apron, which appeared to have pictures of pink flowers on it (though this was hard to tell because the apron was so dirty).

  “Erm, I’m fine… thanks” Jon managed, indicating his coffee. He looked into the unfriendly green eyes of the man’s dark, scarred face.

  “Wasn’t talking to you” the man said in a surly voice. “Got your coffee. Was asking him. He don’t got a drink.”

  Joshua kept looking at Jon. “Nothing for me, thanks. I was just leaving.”

  “But you only just got here” said the man.

  “No offence” Joshua said, scraping his chair back against the floor and standing. He seemed taller, better built than before. “I’m just busy.”

  “You look like shit” the man said. “Your clothes, they’re all covered in blood.”

  Joshua glanced at the man, as if actually noticing him for the first time. “Been a busy day. Just had some dealings with my friend here. But I’ve got to go now, thanks anyway.”

  Jon stood up, and both men, much taller, more imposing than him, looked. “You can’t go” he said, sounding more confident than he felt. “We haven’t finished our business.”

  “Sit down and finish your coffee” the man said.

  Joshua nodded at the packet on the table. “I think you’ll find we have. Take care, Jon.” And he was gone.

  Jon stared after him and sat down heavily. He sighed. This was all going to go to shit. You sure you can handle it? Mr. Steele at asked him, and he’d said yes, absolutely, leave it to me. This is your ticket, Jon. This is the way that you can prove yourself, you knew that, and now you’re what, sitting in front of an empty table with nothing to show for it. Jesus, he’s going to laugh in your face isn’t he. Jon put his head in his hands.

  “You want to watch that one”

  Jon looked up. “What?”

  The other man was sitting opposite him, in the chair that Joshua had vacated. For a big man, he made surprisingly little noise. Now he sat still, upright, facing Jon, his hands resting in front of him. Jon studied the man’s face again. The unfriendliness was still there but it didn’t seem directed at Jon.

  “You can’t trust that one. You want to watch him” the man repeated. He coughed as he spoke, spittle landing on the table, which he wiped off with his apron.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Him… him who was just here…”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know who you’re talking about” Jon said impatiently, “but why would you say I shouldn’t trust him?”

  The man’s voice dropped, almost to a whisper, even though they were alone in the café. “I seen him. Late at night. In the streets.” He looked down at the packet. “Ain’t you going to open that?”

  “So… what, you saw him in the streets? And…?”

  The man looked back up at Jon. “He’s not normal. I don’t sleep so well, I stay up, I sit and watch what goes on you know, from my window, upstairs” he nodded upwards, looked downwards. Sometimes I walk the streets, just for something to do. My missus, you can’t wake her, she’s dead to the world, but me, I just don’t sleep. You can see it in my eyes, can’t you. Sometimes it’s three in the morning and I’ll just head out, walk until dawn, go back to bed, maybe get an hour before I get up and get downstairs. She’s headed off by then. But sometimes, when I’m out, when my head’s all blurry, I see thing
s. I see things that I shouldn’t be seeing.” He looked up at Jon and shook his head. “I ain’t telling you this because I like you. I don’t like you. You come into my café and you turn your nose up at the coffee. You ain’t even gonna order any food cos you think it looks dirty. I don’t like you. But it ain’t fair not to tell you.” He shook his head again. “It ain’t fair not to tell anyone.”

  Jon started nervously playing with the package, turning it around in his hands, as he looked at the man.

  “I see things different” he continued. “The missus reckons it’s on account of me not sleeping, she reckons it does strange things to the mind. She tells me to go and see the doctor, but the doctor, what can he do. He can just give me pills that fuck my head up even more, so I don’t bother. But I see things different. I ain’t going to explain it well and you ain’t gotta believe me but it’s true. And it’s most true in the middle of the night. That’s why it’s about three that I head out. The night don’t come over me like it does most people. I don’t get lost in the blackness. It kind of looks… green… to me. Like, you know, if you ever used night goggles. I ain’t never used them but I seen them in films. You seen them?” he searched Jon’s face. “Yeah, you have.”

  The man got up suddenly. “You’re coffee’s cold. I’ll get you some more.” Jon started to say something, then saw the man’s firm gaze and stopped.

  He sat there looking at the rain lashing outside the window, playing with the packet in his hands, until the man returned and put two mugs of coffee on the table. He sat back down and looked at Jon. “You know him well?”

  “What?” Jon took his eyes away from the rain and looked back at the man. “Yeah, well kind of. I used to, you know. We went to school together, but you know, he was always…” he trailed off. “Then we worked together for a while, I used to work for his dad, we both did, but then his dad died and, well, we kind of drifted apart.”

  The man nodded. “Figured.” Tentatively, he stuck out his hand. “The name’s Sam.” Jon took it and they shook, their hands lingering there for a minute, as if each was not quite sure what they were doing there. “Jon” he said, his voice hoarse and dry.

  “He ain’t who you think he is. He ain’t who he was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sam’s voice became so low that Jon had to lean forward to catch what he was saying. “They come out at night. That’s when things change. I can see them. You ain’t supposed to be able to but I can. They come out and they fight. I thought it was men against women at first, when I first started seeing it. Fighting each other, tearing them apart. But it ain’t. You got men and women on both sides. And you got the horse. Well it ain’t a horse, really. Unicorn. Yeah, don’t look at me funny, I seen it, they exist. And it’s evil. I’ve seen it, it’ll charge you down and it’ll kill you, I seen it drive that horn straight into the heart of a man. He’s been there, I’ve seen him there. Soon as he came in here, I recognized him. I keep myself hidden, they don’t know I’ve seen them, else it’d be me, I wouldn’t be here telling you. But I seen him.”

  “What the hell?”

  “You ain’t seen nothing. You don’t understand.” Jon saw for the first time that Sam’s hands were shaking, the age, the scars that lined his face covered his hands too.

  “I mean, I’m not sure what to say. Jesus. This guy owes me money. You know. That’s what this is about.” Joshua’s strangeness seemed vaguer now, fuzzier. Why had he just let him go? And this madman in front of him? Somehow it brought him back to reality.

  “What the fuck are you telling me?” He stretched out his arms, felt the flex in his muscles, made sure Sam could see his strength. “What the fuck are you telling me?” he asked again. He pushed himself forward, so his face was only inches from Sam’s, so he could smell his warm, sweet breath.

  There was nervousness in Sam’s gaze, but he held his ground. “I’m telling you the truth” he whispered.

  “That man.” Jon pointed towards the door of the still empty café, “that man is a fucking waste of space. He was a fucking stuck up bully at school, and he took it with him into work because his father was some kind of big shot. And now he’s in the shit and I’m glad. You know why. Because for once he has to listen to me, and I don’t have to… And then you…” he held out his hands, “you feed me with some shit about unicorns? Seriously? Are you… you’re working for him, right? He’s paid you to do this, right. One last laugh before he has to… Fuck’s sake, why am I so fucking dumb?”

  Sam gazed at him as he got up, crashing the chair to the ground. “Where is he?” he shouted at Sam, who was still sitting there, silent. “Where is he?” he shouted again, grabbing the chair and hurling it at the wall, watching it smash. “Where the fuck is he?” He knelt down by Sam, grabbing the top of his t-shirt and pulling him close. No reaction from Sam and Jon snarled. “You tell him… he needs to pay me. Mr. Steele has said no more chances. You tell him he’s run out of time and I’m coming to find him. Fucking unicorns. He doesn’t need to worry about them. He needs to worry about me.”

  Sam whispered something. “What was that?” Jon asked.

  “Mr. Steele” Sam whispered, his voice strained. His face was turning red, Jon was pulling his t-shirt tight around his throat, but he made no attempt to move.

  “What?”

  “Mark Steele” Sam said again. Joshua released his grip a little. “What the fuck do you know about Mark Steele?” Sam’s eyes flicked downwards and Jon followed his gaze to the table, where the little brown package that Joshua had left was lying, unwrapped. On top of the brown paper lay a small, black, leather wallet. Jon shot a look at Sam then let him go, pulled himself upright and picked up the wallet. He flicked it open to see the usual contents – credit cards, some cash. The cards were made out to Mark R Steele, and Jon felt something cold rush through him. On the right was a clear plastic cutout for photos. There was a photo inside, the usual one, of Mark, his wife and their one kid, a little girl, about five years old. Mark’s eyes had been blacked out. Jon looked back at Sam and dropped the wallet on the floor.

  He looked at Sam, a lost expression on his face, as if he expected Sam to give him the answers. But Sam just returned his gaze with a puzzled, sad gaze. They remained like that, silent, as the noise of the rain was broken by the scream of sirens and the screeching of brakes, as the door was flung open and two policemen rushed in, grabbed Jon and flung him against the wall. One of them held him there, one arm under his chin, the other against his chest. “Jon Goldsmith, I’m arresting you for the murder of Mark Steele. I don’t give a fuck what you say, but you’re going down for this, motherfucker.”