Authors: Matthew Crow
I stood up and Harlow stopped talking, the shadow disappearing as he stepped back from the window.
“Anyway,” he went on, this time from a distance. “If you hear anything, I know we’d both be grateful. And you need anything you just call us. You know where we are.
I’ll be back, tomorrow, check you’re okay. I left some chilli out on the front porch in case you get hungry. It aint gone by the time I get back I’m knocking this damn door down,
you hear me?” he said as he shuffled to the side of the house, closing and locking the side gate as he went.
For three days not a drop passed my lips. I became weak with hunger and almost delirious with thirst, my mouth parched and longing like a weaning child’s. The only
conscious activity I completed was to pass my hand through a crack in the doorway to retrieve Harlow’s kind gesture of food, which I promptly binned and returned to my bedroom, where I
consoled myself with glimpses of the outside world from the crack in the curtains.
I thought about Michael, about the past, about my life in this town; once so golden, it now pulsed in purples and greys like the first lick of a summer storm. The feeling of hope I had carried
along with my measly suitcase was no more and I know I am not the only one to feel this degeneration. It is as though the elements are shifting to my very own mood the way they did so conveniently
in Levi’s storybooks. What had once seemed a shimmering prospect appeared danker, like a puncture had drained it of its lifeblood. This is a town that now lives in fear. Fear of the minor -
the vandalism, the robberies - and of the major - crystallised by the brutal murder of an innocent woman for an amount that wouldn’t even buy you a week’s worth of groceries. This is a
town now well versed in loss. Cellophane sentiments line the streets and the cars in Caleb’s driveway have suddenly increased in quality and quantity. Evidence of the communal rot could be
observed almost everywhere you looked; small businesses closed and relocated to pastures new, front doors that would once have been left gaping were locked, double locked, alarm systems were fitted
and surveillance cameras now winked their glassy eyes as you entered most stores or, worse still, television monitors hung overhead so that you caught a skewed version of yourself walking in the
opposite direction. The reaction was almost enough to turn a man to crime, if only to justify the irreversible slide into mistrust.
I thought about you, about you over and over again, and the terrible things that you have been through.
How could you not tell me, Verity? I could have helped. I could have tried. I’m not sure how, exactly. But if only you’d been honest with me, something could have been done I’m
sure. It breaks my heart to think of you that way, and reading your post-mortem of the ordeal was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But why hadn’t you told me sooner? What
were you so frightened of? Judgement? Pity? Scorn? All I ever did was love you. All I ever do is love you. Maybe I take that for granted sometimes, maybe I should attempt to prove this to you more
often. I guess I only realise how vital you are to me when I read letters detailing how close I’ve been to losing you, the way you only ever really remember your anniversary once the divorce
is signed. All I can promise you is that someday, somehow, those men will get their just deserts. Of that I can promise you. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. And if keeping you
safe means I have to sacrifice myself to Michael’s will then so be it. I know you don’t understand this now. But I hope you might in time.
On the fourth day I heard a knock at my front door. I stood up on instinct, my mind snowy and unfocused, despite having no intentions of answering. The knocks sounded again and
I made my way to the bedroom door where I rested my weight against the steady beams. Something slid between the lock of the door and after a brief clicking, it flew open to reveal a gentle, amber
light inside of which dark shadow hovered.
“I won’t lie to you friend, I begrudge the inconvenience,” said Michael, walking straight into my front room as he returned a blade to his pocket. “Hey, get in
here!”
I heard something small fall to the floor and break. I followed its sound, steadying myself on the walls as I went. His image still had not set, and my eyes struggled to focus on his slight,
jerky movements. I sank into the couch and used every ounce of strength I had to hold my head upright.
“Well you look like the living dead, you aint going to croak on me I hope.”
“I’m fine.”
“Now that’s a fabrication if ever there was one.” Michael jumped heavily into an armchair next to the window, making his image all the more painful to look at.
“What’s wrong? You sick?”
“I don’t know. I’m just hungry I suppose.”
“When’d you last eat something?” he said, standing up again.
“What day is it?”
“Now that is not an answer that warms my heart. Myself I could go for a little nourishment. Let’s see what you got.” He darted from the living room and out of sight, his
frenzied rustling sounded from behind the walls, marked by the creak and crash of cupboard doors. “Boy you sure as hell gone to town on this place. There isn’t one damn wall you
haven’t kicked holy hell out of. I take it you found the deposit?”
Tins and glasses clattered across the kitchen’s tiles. I nodded and felt my eyes grow heavy once more as my head lolled back onto the arm of the couch.
“Damn it that is one barren landscape you have in there. Man can’t live off bread alone. Especially not stale bread at that,” said Michael, tossing a bluing loaf into the unlit
fire. “Here, let’s try this for starters,” he placed a glass of water in front of me and took a gulp of his own. “It’s a cold setup you got here all of a sudden,
friend. I had me finer feasts when I had but the stars for shelter and my wits for currency. Go on - ” he said, pushing the glass towards me “ - take a sip. You don’t look so
smart. In fact you weren’t talking I might try to bury you myself.”
I picked up the glass and cradled it in my palms.
“So,” he said eventually. “You get the cash?”
“Yes.”
“Seek and ye shall find.”
“It took me four damn hours.”
Michael smiled and widened his palms. “All part of the test.”
“Did I pass?”
“Time will tell. So what you spend it on? Sure as hell didn’t put it towards groceries.”
“I burnt it.”
“Up two rungs of the ladder and straight down the snake! Why’d you go and do a thing like that?”
“Town like this every dollar’s marked.”
“Still, there’s other towns. And you and I are nothing if not adaptable.”
“I was happy here.”
“Say, you remember that old beach hut we hid out at, back in the day?”
I nodded.
“Man those old sailor boys took no prisoners. You still got your mark?”
Michael rolled up his sleeve and stroked the smudged blue anchor inches above his wrist. The ink had faded so much that you could barely tell what it was you were looking at, beyond an unnatural
dark smudge on an otherwise unexceptional patch of skin.
I nodded and rolled my own shirt a few inches.
“Well I’ll be... you can hardly see it at all. What do you say we refresh the memory? You got any Indian ink lying about? I’ll carve real gently. You won’t feel a
thing.”
I shook my head and returned my sleeve. “What do you want Michael?” I said, my voice hoarse and old.
“... and those girls? You remember those sisters?”
“There were no girls.”
“Course there were girls. There were always girls. The Fentam sisters, that was it. Daddy owned the bar room on the pier.”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s a fine memory to let slide. You don’t remember? I tell you, those little girls they tasted sweet as honey. I was picking kelp out of my teeth all morning
long!”
“I can’t... ”
“Where you got your name, too.”
“I always had my name - ”
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“ - had it my whole damn life.”
“Boy when that shark started circling I thought we were gonners... ”
“That never happened.”
“Old Melvin, dragging you onto the deck, ‘well - ’” Michael chuckled “ - he says as he’s bandaging you up, ‘I guess part of you’ll forever be in
the belly of some whale!’”
“That never happened.”
“It’s right there - ” he said, pointing to my stomach. I raised my shirt and looked down, playing my fingers across the pink, puckered flesh haloed with fading teeth marks.
“Where’s your friend?”
“The girl?”
“Your
associate
?”
“What you talking about?”
“The man you came here with.”
“There was no man.”
“He was here.”
“I walk alone.”
“You told me his name.”
“Must have been my shadow.”
“No... ”
“God damn it what was the name of those fish they served up at that old shack. Ugly sons of bitches... had to swallow them whole in case they turned and bit you first... ”
“Michael... ”
“I know, I know, I’m rambling. You sure I can’t get you something to eat?”
“What do you want?”
“Straight to the chase, huh?”
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
“I miss us, Jonah. We belong together, boys like us. This is the nature of my visit.”
“How?”
“From the day I set eyes on you I said to myself, I said there is a man after my own heart. You haven’t changed Jonah, you haven’t changed one bit. I see straight through you.
I know exactly what you are.”
“And what’s that?”
“You’re me, or some variation of. Now my proposition, if you’d be so kind as to hear me out, is our last chance to reclaim our kingdom, before the effort outgrows us. This is
no game for old souls, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
I nodded and took a sip of my water. “So what did you have in mind?”
“You mean to tell me you’re amenable all of a sudden?”
“You promise to leave forever I’ll do just about anything you want.”
“Well now - ” said Michael, standing up as if readying to address an audience “ - that is music to my ears my friend. Music to my ears.”
After an hour of discourse during which I did little but nod weakly I stood up to see Michael out.
“I’ll be in touch in due course. Glad we’re reacquainted, friend. I tell you, this’ll be the making of us. I can feel it in my bones.”
I returned to the house and made my way back towards the bedroom when a draft crept up and around me like a shawl. I turned back to the door, my stomach churning and my head pounding. The door
hung ajar and I took one step with difficulty. I reached out to place my weight on the wall and made a second step, which in itself felt like a mighty triumph. I lifted my right leg once more and
felt the light from outside wash over me. I felt cushioned and tranquil as I drifted slowly towards the ground, like feather spat from an air vent. I remember the sensation, the sinking, wallowing
descent. And then... nothing.
A bright light shone above me, something electrical beeped and then exhaled before the sound of scribbling became prominent. A more localised light shone into my eyes and,
gently, my name was called over and over again.
“... can you hear us?” Two women all dressed in blue, their hair tied back and their aprons starched, leant over me; one stroked my forehead whilst the other removed the miniature
flashlight from my eyes. At the base of my bed I felt a lotion cool my feet as a gentle hand and damp swab circled the stinging bracelet of dried blood around my ankle.
“Short round of antibiotics and it should be as good as gone,” said the third woman as she applied a linen bandage to my wound before tucking both of my feet back inside the
covers.
“Do you know where you are?” the blonde woman asked.
I took in the room from the slim brick of a bed and tried to sit up.
“No, no,” said the other. “You just get some rest. Nasty bump on the head you got there. You must have fallen real hard.”
Despite the weight of her hand pressing my shoulder I sat up and cracked my neck. “How did I get here?”
The nurse placed a clipboard into a slot at the base of my bed and stroked a crease from the sheet that had gathered and knotted around my feet. “Friend of yours found you, good job too.
You were in quite some state.”
“How did I... ”
“Doctor said dehydration. It happens, usually to the older folk though, or the kids that think beer’s the tonic. There’ll be someone along in a moment to talk to you. Until
then just get some rest.” She moved over and turned the blinds to a half mast and left me alone in the dimmed room.
I reached for the cup of water at the side of my bed and went to take a sip, then another. The cool stream seemed to tease each corner of my body like some miracle elixir, and before I knew what
I was doing I had knocked the lid clean off the jug and was pouring its contents straight into my mouth, gagging when my throat was unable to maintain the speed at which the torrents poured into
and around me, soaking my chest and hands.
I slammed the empty jug down and went to stand up but found myself unable to balance, and so flopped back onto the hard mattress, cold and damp.
“Do you feel better?” said the man standing in the door. He moved towards the side of my bed and from the pocket of his white coat took out a flashlight which, without asking, he
scanned across each eye.
“I don’t feel any worse.”
“It’s a start I suppose. It’s a good job they found you in time. You lost a lot of blood.”
I touched my head and felt a warm liquid soaking through the sutures. “Who brought me here?”
“Didn’t say. Just said they’d be here to pick you up when you were better. Left no number.”
“I think I’m ready to go now.”
“We’d prefer to keep you in overnight for observation, you understand.”
“It’s nothing painkillers and liquor won’t cure.”
“Not a combination we’d be in a hurry to recommend,” he said with a laugh, walking over to the blinds and opening them fully.
“You were extremely dehydrated when you came in, that probably caused the blackout.”