Slow Burning Lies (17 page)

30

A few days drifted by – exactly how many Patrick wasn’t quite sure and didn’t care to dwell on. He went to work, coded all day, came home, sometimes went to a blues club in the evenings, but mostly stayed alone playing video games, reading, or watching football on TV. Once he thought about picking the guitar up again, but dismissed the idea, thinking it would only unnerve him – he didn’t want that.

But sure enough, the nightmares that made him want to bang his head on the wall until his ears bled had stopped – either that or they never woke him. Either way, he remembered nothing each morning.

But still he wasn’t happy.

He knew he
should
have been, but he felt like he’d swapped one version of hell for another. He missed Rozita as much as any man would miss his murdered wife. He wanted to feel her soft brown skin warming him at night, to have the sensuous brush of that mass of hair drawn across his face in the dark, to see and love that beauty spot. He thought he’d never forget those little things and it hurt like a salted wound. He also wished he could make her laugh just one more time to see how the skin above her top lip creased whenever she did. He wanted to take her to their favourite restaurant just to admire how elegant her slim frame looked when slipped into one of her best designer dresses. He wished he could spend the other nights watching a movie together on TV with her head lodged beneath his chin as though that part of his body had been designed for just such a purpose.

But more than anything else, he wished he hadn’t killed her.

Damn those thirteen children. God, how he regretted putting that bullet in her chest.

And then there had been the more pensive, lucid moments, when he stepped back and tried to look at his situation in some impartial capacity. That only led to a brick wall when he realized how damn stupid the whole thing sounded, with a whole set of characters in a dreamworld somehow filtering through to Patrick’s real world like cockroaches squeezing themselves through cracks in the doorframe.

But Rozita
had
been in Wichita – he saw her in the flesh even though she didn’t seem to recognize him – he felt the recoil of the pistol crack his wrist back, he smelt the burning powder. And Beth had been with him most of the time and she was no cockroach, so that part, at least, was no product of his imagination.

So no, although the bad dreams had stopped, he was no less strung-out than before. And, as ever, the only thing holding him together – the very thing that gave him self-worth, even made him feel sane – was the recurring
good
dream, the one that washed a wave of pleasure over his body, the one where fire raged in the background but his heart slowed to a relaxing cadence as he simply watched and listened to everything burning and cracking and fizzing. Yes, he could spend the rest of his life bathing gloriously in the harmless pleasure of that.

Although the nightmares had seemingly stopped, he still approached his bed every night with a certain amount of dread, remembering what had happened on those bad nights, and missing Rozita.

And so he bit the bullet and saw his doctor. He managed to tell him he’d been having difficulty sleeping, but didn’t tell him exactly why, studiously avoiding mentioning the troublesome nightmares, because he knew that once the floodgates opened he would be incapable of keeping quiet about Rozita and Wichita and the killing, and thus would get himself locked up for either murder or insanity. Not good. In any case, those bad dreams now seemed to have stopped, their disturbing images starting to fade from his memory. He also hadn’t mentioned the comforting dreams – the flame-filled ones – because… well… he’d never even considered telling a soul about those thoughts because they were his own secret pleasure – nothing to share here – and if he did, then it might even break the spell and make the dreams less comforting at the worst possible time in his life. No, those dreams had been going on as long as he could remember and weren’t a problem; quite the opposite, in fact – they constituted a therapy of sorts.

So he told the doctor that he sometimes spent the whole night awake, with all of his worries – which seemed minor irritants in the cold light of day – churning over and over in his weary mind. He said the sleepless nights only came in intermittent episodes, but when they did occur he spent the whole of the next day floating around like a caffeine-fuelled zombie. The doctor nodded sympathetically and told him not to worry or think he was some sort of weirdo (the layman’s term was a nice touch, Patrick thought), and told him not to take any medication for his insomnia in case it interacted with the small pink tablets he took for the ongoing treatment of his minor facial surgery. There had been that very weird moment at the end when the doctor had faced him straight on and told him that should he ever have nightmares he could always come back and open his heart in complete confidence, but other than that Patrick felt happier that he’d told a physician he had a problem – even if it was a much sanitized version of the truth.

And throughout all of this, Beth was there to help. There was now a bond of sorts between them. He’d told her of his nightmares – albeit without the grisly detail – and likewise she’d confided in him of her childhood in Tennessee and of what happened to her there when she was fifteen and how it had shaped her as a person.

Yes, she was there to help, but he wished she wasn’t. Sure, there was a bond, but he hadn’t egged her on to kill someone, whereas that’s exactly what she’d done to him, right down to driving him to the doorstep and providing him with the weapon. In short, she hadn’t exactly behaved as you’d expect a textbook high-flying manager to, and there were one or two things she’d said and done that didn’t quite add up – for one thing he was damn sure he hadn’t told about Carrie Carlini.

But what could he do? Talk to the cops? Yeah, right. In any case, since the killing Beth seemed to be behaving with a professional detachment – like nothing had ever happened, and that actually afforded him some relief. It was almost like she’d erased the whole episode from her mind.

Another few days passed by, the gaming industry conference season approached, and Patrick saw an opportunity to get his life get back onto the ‘normalcy roadtrack’ – as the natives would say – to put his recent troubles behind him and get his career back onto some sort of upward curve from the current flatline.

He went to see Beth.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said to her.

Beth sat back and twirled a pen in her hand. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘I want to broaden my skillset. I want to go to the GameOn’05 conference, check out a few seminars and perhaps sort out some training courses.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Patrick waited for a more helpful response. It didn’t happen. ‘So what do you think?’ he said.

For a moment she almost nodded.

‘Any ideas on specifics?’ she said. ‘Such as what sort of area you might want to diversify into?’

‘I have a few ideas, but really I guess I mean a look-see of all the latest developments. Of course, while I’m there I could do some promo work for Zombie Stomper.’

Beth’s face finally cracked, her lips pursed and she started nodding slowly. ‘Sounds good to me.’

‘So I can go?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ She stopped twirling the pen and gripped it tightly. ‘Actually, I just forgot something. I need to check a few things out.’

‘Like what?’

‘Look. Give me thirty to make a few enquiries and I’ll get back to you. Okay?’

‘Enquiries?’

‘Just protocol. I’m sure it’s just a formality but I need to check how many attendees we already have going and stuff.’ She checked her watch. ‘Look. Actually, better make that tomorrow. I’ll let you know in the morning.’

Patrick shrugged and said that that was fine, then returned to his desk

As usual he worked diligently for the rest of the afternoon, apart from fifteen minutes checking out the conference details. It alternated between Los Angeles, New York and Houston. This year it was the turn of the Big Apple. He also browsed some mid-range hotels within walking distance of the conference centre, then packed up and left for home.

As he walked back along the pedways there was something of a skip in his step, a positive outlook that hadn’t been there for a long time.

Things were changing. Perhaps the nightmares really had gone forever, perhaps he was maturing as a man rather than constantly chasing the next chunk of woman that his jolted his loins, and perhaps soon his career would start to hit an upward curve.

Perhaps he was growing up.

31

That evening Patrick got home, showered and left the apartment, giving security the wink they had become accustomed to as he signed out, but this time with that extra bit of zip.

He visited his favourite Italian restaurant and dined alone on fresh tagliatelle in a deep red Siciliana sauce. He had a glass of house red to accompany it, even though he’d still have preferred a mug of tea. At various points in the evening he looked up and allowed his eyes to hop between the three young waitresses for a few seconds, while his mind hopped back to the days when he would be weighing them up, instinctively and uncontrollably calculating the permutations of good looks, hot body and ‘bedability’. In those days he would catch the attention of the winner with a broad smile, regale her with vaguely accurate stories of his lifestyle, affably pass compliments without making his intentions too obvious, but most of all, come hell, high water or nuclear holocaust, get her phone number. That was first base.

Today, however, he mostly kept his face down, his shoulders hunched over, and tried to read a book rather than pretty girls’ minds.

He’d finished his meal and was flicking through the book – a guide to New York – when a waitress sidled up to the table.

‘Everything okay?’ she said.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘You need anything else?’

Patrick shook his head.

‘Just let me know if you do.’

‘I will.’ Patrick returned to his book.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Are you British?’

He looked up again and perused her form. She was standing almost over him, one hand on her hip, the other locking both her pen and order pad nonchalantly between forefinger and middle finger. Her face was brighter than the bare glass lanterns that followed the run of tables down the room. Her eyes were held wider than before. Her lips were pulled tightly back to expose crystal white teeth – artificially white Patrick reckoned. She might have been consciously or unconsciously pushing her breasts out towards him, which might have been because they were slightly underdeveloped. She might have been the youngest and best looking of the three. Or possibly not.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m British.’

‘Say, my sister’s over there at the moment – she just loves it.’

‘Good.’ Patrick bent the spine of his book back, gave her not quite the smallest smile he had ever given anyone but fairly close, then slowly moved his eyes off her and onto his book. He sensed her frame shrink just slightly before it reached across the table and gathered his plate and cutlery. Then she grabbed his glass and walked away.

‘Wait,’ Patrick said.

Perhaps he’d been a little ignorant.

The waitress stopped but didn’t turn her body, just her head.

‘I’m sorry. Look, I’ll have some ice-cream.’

‘Whatever you want,’ she said. ‘Be with you in a second.’

Patrick watched her tight white skirt disappear into the kitchen.

Less than ten seconds later she returned with a small plate of Neapolitan ice-cream and settled it down in front of him with the same well-practiced politeness she used to put the smile back on her face.

‘Please enjoy,’ she said.

‘Thanks. I will.’

‘So does that mean you’re new to Chicago? You need someone to show you around?’

He looked but could see no warm olive skin around hazel eyes, no long wiry black hair, no mole just to the side of her nose.

‘Actually, no,’ he said, ‘I’ve lived here for a few years now.’ He gave her a proper smile this time and plunged the spoon into his ice-cream.

The waitress hesitated for a moment, then started wiping a damp cloth over nearby tables.

Ten minutes later Patrick gave a generous tip and left.

He wasted another hour in a blues club – avoiding eye contact with pretty much anyone apart from the band – and returned home. He went to bed hoping to dream of Rozita.

There was nothing – at least, nothing he could remember.

Early the next morning, at work, Patrick was called into Beth’s office.

‘I’m sorry, Patrick. For you GameOn’05 is game-off I’m afraid.’

He tried a small laugh, like it might make Beth laugh along with him and say she was joking.

But she didn’t.

Patrick screwed up his face. ‘I can’t go?’

‘Not this year.’

‘Are you going?’

‘I am.’

Patrick let out a large tut.

‘Now don’t be like that, Patrick. I just talked to my manager, he doesn’t think it’s right for you this year, and he’s—’

‘But why not? I don’t get it.’

‘If I can finish. He’s already got a list – or rather he already
had
a list. Look, it’s not my decision, but I can see his point. We can’t take the whole damn company. With flights and hotels it’s too expensive.’ She got up and shut the door. ‘Besides, we have a new programming job for you, an important one. Seems someone screwed up a module of the scoring program on Zombie Stomper. We need you to take a look.’

‘But the conference isn’t for two weeks. What if I sort it before then?’

Beth yawed on her swivel chair a couple of times before drawing breath to speak. She told Patrick to sit down and he did.

‘If I’m honest, Patrick, I’m still not convinced you’re in the right frame of mind for this sort of thing yet.’

He felt his heartbeat getting stronger, and dryness in his throat. He took a couple of long gasps and spread his frame across the chair.

‘Are you okay?’ Beth said.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You know what I’m talking about?’

‘You didn’t tell anyone?’

‘Patrick. Of course not. Why would you think that of me?

He held his hands up. ‘I’m sorry. We know each other better than that.’

‘Sure,’ Beth said. ‘Apology accepted. But tell me. Are you still having the bad dreams?’

He didn’t answer at first. Then he shook his head.

‘That’s good. So what is it? Are you still hung up about this Rozita thing? Is that it?’

‘
Hung up?
’ Patrick said. ‘
Hung up?
’ He jumped to his feet and clasped both hands onto his head. ‘I killed her, Beth. For Christ’s sake, I
killed
her.’ He let out a long breath. ‘At least… I killed
someone
.’

But Beth was shaking her head, saying, ‘No, no, no.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?

‘I don’t really think this is the time or place for—’

‘Well I think it is,’ Patrick said. ‘I feel like you…’

‘Like I what?’

‘I feel like you made me kill her.’

‘Oh, Patrick. Have you been watching the news?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t take TV news.’

‘Just believe me, Patrick. You didn’t kill anyone.’

‘TV upsets me too much. It’s all bombings and murders and war.’ Suddenly he locked his stare onto her. ‘What did you just say?’

‘If you’d been watching the news you’d have noticed there was no reported killing in Wichita that day. A shooting at a school in sleepy Kansas would have made the headlines. It didn’t.’

‘But I did!’ Patrick said. ‘She was in front of me just like you are now and I shot her.’

Beth was still shaking her head.

‘I killed her!’

‘Only in your mind, Patrick.’

Patrick went to speak but only raging air came out. His hands formed fists and then opened to clasp onto his head. ‘No. Shit, no! I can promise you it was definitely not just in my mind. There was a big hole in her chest. Blood. I can still picture her body in that storeroom. I still picture it every bloody night. And you were in Wichita with me. For God’s sake, you drove me down there. Have you forgotten?’

‘Of course not. I know what happened. I was helping you battle your demons. I knew you needed help and thought I’d play along with your f— with your game.’

‘My what?’

‘Your game.’

‘Were you going to say “fantasy”? Is that what you think it is?’

‘Can’t you understand? Your mind was…’ Her words trailed off as she checked herself and stood up. ‘Like I said, this isn’t really the time or place. It’s perhaps something you need to talk to your doctor about. I can be very understanding. I can give you time off for that if you want.’

‘You can give me time off? So, suddenly the Zombie Stomper work isn’t quite so urgent?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Well, is it or isn’t it?’

‘Patrick! Stop this! I’m trying my best to be helpful here.’

‘Like when you lent me your gun?’

‘No. Like whenever I keep quiet about your mental health issues.’

‘My what?’

Now she stood directly facing him, hand on hips. ‘Oh, come on, Patrick. You know what I mean. You should go see the company doctor if you have mental health issues. He’s under an oath of patient confidentiality and I’m not. I choose not to put your issues onto the records – I choose that because I’m trying to help you.’

‘That’s very big of you.’

‘You’re damned right it is. You’re beefing about how going or not going to GameOn’05 might affect your career. Let me tell you, buster, a history of psychosis will kill it stone dead.’

Patrick let his jaw drop a little, then his gaze went glassy and he stepped back. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Oh, thanks.’

‘Sort yourself out, Patrick.’ Beth swept an angry hand towards the door handle. ‘But don’t think you killed anyone in Wichita because you didn’t.’

Patrick left without a word, spent five minutes fidgeting at his desk, then went home.

Two hours and a dozen bottles of beer later he was sprawled lifelessly on the sofa, dreaming of flames dancing all around his young body. The thoughts had become the only constant in his life – the only things that never played with his mind, never upset or annoyed him, but simply told it as it was and gave him solace in an otherwise cruel world.