Memory Hole

by Douglas Jern

  Homer saw nothing wrong with a man of power exerting it over the weak, but power was something a man had to earn, and Vincent had done nothing to earn his. He was able to live out his depraved fantasies purely by virtue of his birth, blessed as he was with an adoring and influential father, whose money and clout could get Vincent out of any bind he got himself into.

  Killing Vincent Morricone would be both enjoyable and productive, as Homer would not only get the chance to take out his frustrations on the spoiled, perverted brat, but also to strengthen his own reputation, and exercise his abilities—three birds with one stone.

  He arrived in front of his apartment, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. As he removed his coat and went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee to compensate for his interrupted lunchtime espresso, a plan was already taking shape in his head. He would do it in public, make it visible, and ugly. He wanted Giuseppe to know that no one who crossed Homer Moley would ever be safe on the streets again.

  While he waited for the coffee maker to finish, Homer hummed to himself as he worked out the kinks in his plan. It would take a while, but that was fine. Sooner or later, he would have his revenge.

  MORNING, NOW

  Homer picked up the letter from the printer’s tray, enjoying the feeling of warm paper against his fingers before he folded it neatly in half and put it in the envelope. Once this letter reached its addressee, Vincent Morricone would be dead, and old man Giuseppe would learn the price of mocking Homer Moley.

  He placed the envelope on the kitchen table and went into the bathroom to shave his head. He had let his hair grow during the last six months, and now it was time for a change. The electric shaver buzzed merrily as it traveled over his head, shedding locks of hair on the bathroom floor in its wake. Though he did it for practical purposes, to alter his appearance and facilitate disguise, he appreciated the symbolism of the act. The act of cutting one’s hair was a way of indicating a parting with one’s past self, a symbol of growth and change—a ritual of rebirth.

  When his whole head was closely trimmed, he switched the shaver off, nodding at himself in the mirror. With his long hair gone, he looked unfamiliar even to himself. He rinsed his head in the shower to get rid of any excess hair, then toweled himself dry. The air felt cool against his bare scalp.

  He went into the bedroom and opened the walk-in closet where he kept his tools. From a shelf he selected a backpack that was roomy and easy to wear. Then he opened his clothes drawers and picked out a gray hoodie; a cheap leather jacket; a long, black wig; a false beard; a trilby; a baseball cap; three pairs of disposable rubber gloves; a pair of new sneakers; and three holsters, each containing a combat knife—he may need to change clothes during the operation, so his special sleeve knives were off the table for today.

  Getting in touch with Vincent had been easy, thanks to the combined knowledge of his expansive Survivor’s Network, a group consisting of people he had scouted while out on business, frightening them by demonstrating his power and promising them safety in exchange for their complete obedience. He had grown their ranks over the years, and by now they were a diverse bunch, ranging from meager grunts to high-level made men, private security employees, and even a few cops. The Network proved useful not only for securing work, but also for gathering information and setting up meetings with key people both in the underworld and in public society, two ostensibly distinct categories that nevertheless often overlapped. It was a gray world indeed.

  He had contacted Vincent through one of his Survivors; a small-time crook called Joey who was familiar with the Morricones. Homer had stopped by Joey’s usual hangout the day before and left him a note to be delivered to Vincent. The note was an invitation for Vincent to take his car over to a street just a block away from Rivertree Park, where his “date” would be waiting. Vincent had reportedly been eager as a puppy upon hearing the proposal, just as Homer had foreseen; there was nothing that beast would not do for some underage flesh. This time, however, he would be disappointed.

  Homer zipped up the backpack and put on a t-shirt, jeans, and his lucky Timex—still ticking after all these years. He had had it repaired once, and the watchmaker had looked at him like he was a madman. No one bothered to repair a Timex; they hardly ever broke, and if they did it was cheaper to buy a new one. But Homer would not replace his lucky watch for anything in the world. He closed his eyes and listened to its familiar ticking, that steady drumbeat to which he had synchronized a myriad of killings. Today it would accompany yet another.

  As he looked at the watch, the second hand finished its lap, moving the minute hand to three. A quarter past nine in the morning. Forty-five minutes from now, Vincent, the target, would arrive at the designated location.

  With all other preparations complete, Homer went back to his study to fetch the most important tool in his arsenal: his operating notebook, which was an ordinary spiral notebook with lined pages, where he had recorded a treasure trove of information that could come in handy in his work. Its pages contained the contact information of every member of the Survivor’s Network, a list of current email accounts, phone numbers for various public services in the city, including fire departments and police stations, addresses and locations of interest, and much more. He put it in the backpack along with the rest of his gear. He left the study, picked up the envelope from the kitchen table, and set out.

  The day outside was bright and warm, the sun shining down amid a few small, fluffy clouds. It was exactly the kind of calm summer day as when his power had awakened and he for the first time had found himself gazing into the Memory Hole, curious and excited but not yet aware of the full potential dwelling within.

  That had been thirty years ago. Thirty years ago today, in fact. Though his preparations had been ready for a while, something had compelled him to delay the execution of his plan until today, and now, as he stepped out from the apartment building into the glorious summer day, he saw how beautifully it all fit together. Today, three decades after the birth of his power, he found himself once more on the precipice of a momentous occasion: a restoration of his name in the circles of power of the city, and a catalyst to further strengthen his ability. Homer smiled, caressing his newly shaven head. His rebirth was at hand.

  First, he had to secure a cell phone. This was not so much a part of his plan as of his daily routine. He did not own a cell phone himself, as he was wary of being traced, and instead stole phones from random people on the street, evading pursuit by using his ability.

  He soon spotted a suitable victim, a young man in shorts and a tank top walking slowly down the sidewalk, eyes glued to his smartphone. Homer hastened his step, snatched the phone from the young man’s hand as he went by, and set his sights on an approaching jogger. Two seconds would be enough.

  Switch

  While the newly phoneless victim confronted the confused Lycra-clad scapegoat, Homer walked away with the phone tucked away in his pocket. He never kept a stolen phone longer than a day, and never brought them home; the phone’s location could all too easily be traced via GPS. It was safer to simply destroy the stolen phone before going home and then steal a new one when the need arose. There were plenty of them about, after all, and with so many people walking around with their phones constantly in their hands in front of them—much like the young owner of this one—he never had to worry about coming up empty-handed.

  Homer strolled at a leisurely pace in the general direction of the meeting place. He passed by a mailbox where he dropped the letter to Giuseppe Morricone, imagining the old man’s reaction when he read the detailed description of his son’s unsightly demise, written and timestamped well before the fact, proof that Homer Moley held true to his word, and the word on his lips today was vengeance. The envelope hit the bottom of the mailbox with a hollow clang, and Homer continued his walk satisfied, basking in the sunlight and humming a tune to himself as he went.

  He did not even have to look at his watch to know that it was now nine-forty; he had
been counting the seconds in his head since this morning. Today was an important day, and it would not do to miss a single beat. As his trusty Timex ticked through the seconds, shaving away little slices of time until the fated hour, he envisioned his ensuing encounter with the target, planning out each move, each blow, estimating the time it would take to finish the job, and contemplating how he would make his exit.

  What he was about to do today was no mere phone theft or practical joke, and he had to make the switch look natural, to avoid arousing suspicion among the onlookers who were sure to gather round to watch. Anyone could be a pickpocket, but the violent assault Homer had in mind required a reasonably big and strong-looking scapegoat. This was the most crucial and risky part of the plan, the mainspring upon which the entire clockwork relied. If it failed, if he could not find a suitable scapegoat to use for the switch, the gears would grind to a halt, and all would be for nothing. It was a daring plan, perhaps too daring to be prudent. Operating in public always came with a slew of risks, and there were many ways he could have made this simpler and safer, at the expense of his reputation. But, to paraphrase Benjamin Franklin, if he were willing to sacrifice his reputation for safety, he deserved neither. If people did not fear him, then Homer Moley’s entire existence was meaningless.

  Nevertheless, he conceded as he sidled into an empty alleyway and donned the black wig from his backpack, protecting his identity had to come before all else. To that end, he put on a pair of disposable gloves and slipped one of his knives down the waistband of his pants. He would eliminate the target no matter what happened, even if it meant deviating from the script and dashing his chances of striking terror into Giuseppe Morricone. Although the death of his son alone was sure to devastate the old man, Homer wanted it to happen exactly as he had described it in the letter—which stated that a random passerby beat Vincent Morricone to death with his bare hands—to demonstrate his precision and infallibility both to old man Morricone and those among his ranks. The rumor mill would do the rest.

  But in case he could not find anyone to take the fall for the murder, if the area happened to be deserted by some freak twist of fate, he would finish the job quickly and disappear, relying on his disguise to protect him from discovery. Likewise, if some Good Samaritan decided to intervene too early, he would finish the target off with the knife and open the Memory Hole right then and there, erasing any evidence of his involvement. Whatever Benjamin Franklin may have had to say about it, there had to be limits to the risks he could allow himself to take.

  It was now five minutes to ten, and Homer was just a stone’s throw away from the meeting place. The black wig was itchy on his bare scalp, but he endured. This would not take long.

  Passing the western gate of Rivertree Park, he spotted the target’s car—the kind of gaudy affair he had expected of a person as vulgar as Vincent Morricone—in the distance. It was driving slowly near the edge of the street and soon stopped. Homer picked up the pace, his lips parting in a toothy grin. This was what he lived for: the thrill of the hunt, the anticipation of violence and danger, the triumph of a successful switch. As he walked, he opened and closed his hands again and again, trying to soothe their urge for destruction, if only for a moment. He saw the target open the door and begin to step out of the car. He smiled at the target as he closed the distance between them, though it seemed the target had still not noticed him.

  When he was about two arms’ lengths away, Homer lunged.

  He threw the first punch at the target’s cheek, knocking him to the ground. Homer followed, punching the target’s face again and again, not giving him any chance to fight back. A swift jab broke the target’s nose, a well-aimed elbow his jaw. Grasping the target’s head in both hands, Homer slammed it into the curb once, twice, three times and more, until the target was bleeding both from his ears and from his eyes, the bright red rivers converging into a pool on the asphalt around his head. His fists pounded the target’s face like hammers. Underneath the rubber gloves, Homer’s hands too were bruised and bloodied, the knuckles worn away to oozing lumps, but he felt no pain—he had not felt pain in decades. The target, on the other hand, moaned and whined with each blow, batting feebly at Homer’s arms and face, but lacked the strength to put up any real resistance.

  Even through the intensity of the beating, Homer kept part of his senses tuned to his surroundings, listening for any sign of interference. A group of onlookers had formed on the sidewalk nearby, murmuring and talking in frightened voices among themselves, a few of them shouting at him to stop. No one showed any indication of stepping in directly. He was not surprised; people were cowardly creatures by nature, and in groups this trait became particularly evident. Confronted with a public scene of violence, the individual human gratefully subsumes her consciousness into the herd, telling herself that someone else will take the first step, relinquishing her sense of responsibility in the process. Thus, a group of humans—all fine, free-thinking beings taken individually—can render itself completely passive in the face of the most monstrous deeds, thinking, as if with a single mind, of its own safety before all else, twisting the old adage of empathy into the far more comfortable “There, by the grace of God, goes someone else.”

  Homer continued his bloody work unhindered. The target’s face was by now unrecognizable, and his weak attempts at resistance had ceased. It was almost over.

  The sound of footsteps approaching at speed caught his attention.

  “Stop it! For God’s sake, you’re killing him!”

  So, here was the Good Samaritan at last.

  Homer looked up at the approaching man, taking his measure. The man was of average height and build and lacked any prominent features. The kind of man whose face blended in with the background. Homer could not recall ever having seen the man before in his life. He was a nobody in every sense of the word. He would do.

  As a final measure to ensure the target’s death, Homer drove an elbow into his throat, putting his entire weight on it, and felt something collapse beneath him. That should be enough; a crushed windpipe was certain doom for even the sturdiest of people if help was not close at hand. The target was as good as dead.

  Satisfied with his handiwork, Homer retraced the last forty-four seconds of history, back to the moment he had begun his assault. The relative brevity of the actual violence did not surprise him; he knew better than most how the briefest event can change the course of a life completely—a sudden slip on a deceptive patch of ice, a careless word uttered on the spur of the moment, or indeed, a nearly imperceptible twist of the pitcher’s hand as he throws the ball. A minute was an eon by comparison. The approaching man was now mere steps away. Homer opened the Memory Hole.

  Switch

  The man stumbled and went down on his knees in front of the dying target. Homer swiftly backed away, arranging his features into a mask of terror, slipping into his new role of the Good Samaritan Who Lost His Nerve with well-rehearsed ease. He turned tail and fled into the comfort of the crowd, who welcomed him as one of their own and then turned their attention back to the object of their terror, who in their eyes was—and always had been—the man now kneeling in front of the victim. Homer suppressed a laugh. He had been successful. All that remained now was to stay in the crowd for a while and play the part of terrified onlooker and then leave the scene. Already several onlookers were talking on their phones, reporting the crime to the police.

  Homer observed the scapegoat, filming him with the stolen phone. The man was staring from the target’s ruined face to his own sullied hands with an expression of utter disbelief. Slowly he raised his head and looked around, his dazed eyes sweeping across the crowd, his mouth open in a caricature of slack-jawed idiocy.

  Then something impossible happened.

  When the man’s gaze reached Homer, it sharpened, focused, and seemed to pierce right through him. The scapegoat raised his finger and pointed straight at him.

  “You!”

  Homer nearly dropped his phone.r />
  My God, he knows!

  The realization stunned him, rendering him unable to move an inch, even when the sound of approaching sirens signaled that it was time to leave.

  The man had recognized him.

  Homer stood as if rooted to the ground, watching as the police cruisers arrived and the officers approached the man and took him into custody. He watched in horrified silence as they manhandled the scapegoat into a cruiser and drove off.

  Only then, when the cruiser disappeared around the corner, did the spell break. He took two steps backward on unsteady legs, his brain trying to process what had happened.

  The man had pointed at him. That was all. Why should that make him feel so frightened, so guilty? After that first time thirty years ago, he had never felt the slightest twinge of guilt over the things he had done. Nor had he ever needed to fear being exposed. No one had ever been able to see through his ability.

  No one… until now.

  He had always assumed that it was impossible for anyone subjected to his power to see through it, and that he alone was aware of the past erased by the Memory Hole. But of course, an assumption was all it had ever been. Feeling mildly nauseous as he forced himself to accept the reality of the situation, he admitted to himself that perhaps he had grown overconfident in his own power, believing it to be infallible, while dismissing the possibility that there existed people whose consciousness for some reason—be it due to a genetic mutation, mental illness, perhaps even divine providence—remained unaffected by the Memory Hole’s revision of history. If that were the case, and the behavior of the scapegoat after the switch seemed to imply as much, he now had a new problem on his hands.

  Although there was no feasible way for the scapegoat to prove Homer’s guilt and cause him any legal repercussions, the mere possibility that he knew Homer’s secret and could reveal it to others meant that he must die as soon as possible.