Past Echoes

by Graham Smith

  ‘Whatcha after, son?’

  ‘Shave off all my hair and give my head a wet shave please.’ I see the puzzlement in his eyes and give a shrug. ‘It’s my girlfriend’s idea.’

  He gives a throaty chuckle. ‘Damn, son, you gotta give the ladies what they want.’

  I sit and listen as the barber does as requested while regaling me with tales of the things he’s done for the various ladies who’ve been in his life. Despite my serious mood, I can’t help but chuckle with him, as he tells of a former lover who would only make love to him if he was dressed as a fireman. The mental image of this frail old man being swamped by a fire helmet and flameproof clothing is just the kind of thing that tickles me.

  I leave the barbershop and resume my walking. As far as disguises go, a bald head and two days’ worth of stubble is not what you’d call innovative, but we all have to start somewhere.

  There’s a different feel to having all your hair shaved off. It’s more than just a change in look, I feel the heat from the sun more, and when I step into shaded areas I notice a breeze that wasn’t apparent before.

  53

  I find a cheap hotel and book a room for a few hours. Although I’m wired, I know I should try and get some sleep.

  When I open the door to my room I find the hotel is worse than crummy. The fact I’d been able to book a room by the hour had indicated the level of luxury I could expect but, despite having low expectations, I find myself underwhelmed nonetheless.

  The room looks as if it was last refurbished when Jesus was in nursery school, and the furnishings are exhausted rather than tired. Sure, it might be the kind of place where hookers bring their johns, but jeez, who’d want to have contact with a woman who’d put her bare skin on a bed this ratty?

  I pull back the top sheet and get a whiff of something that was once a bodily fluid. The towels in the bathroom are damp and there’s a trickle of lukewarm brown water when I turn on the tap.

  That someone has bathed in this water is enough to make my gag reflex spring into action, before I crush it down and think of the person as one of life’s unfortunates who is unable to enjoy the basic comforts I’ve always taken for granted.

  The room may have been cheap, but there’s no way I’m putting any part of me, other than my hands, on the bed or bedding. Instead of trying to sleep, I reach into my backpack and remove one of the knives and the sharpening bar.

  It takes me a few minutes to build up the right rhythm, but I soon get things right. Once the knife is sharp enough to shave the hairs on my arm, I return it carefully into my backpack and pull out the next one.

  After an hour I have all four knives sharpened to a degree that I’m satisfied with. I dare say a professional chef would have done the same job in less time, with better results, but now I’ve decided to forego sleeping in this room I have time on my side.

  To make the best use of that time, I secrete the knives around my person and practise drawing them out at speed.

  The paring knife I hide in my boot is the biggest problem. Not only do I have to bend to get it, but I have to make sure it doesn’t turn and slice my foot as I walk.

  I open the drawers of the dresser and find what I’m looking for. What’s better is that it is largely untouched. This isn’t the kind of place where the clientele will hunt out the obligatory bible therefore, other than a coating of dust, it’s clean.

  It’s sacrilege to slice the cover from a bible but I do it anyway. My next move is to slide the piece of hard-backed cover into the gap between the bathroom door and its frame.

  A little pressure and I have a ninety-degree fold. I reverse it and do the same to the other side.

  I press the two folds inwards until they form a narrow cardboard sheath.

  With the homemade sheath wedged between the outside of my foot and my boot, I practise drawing the knife again. It is much quicker and allows me to arc the knife several different ways as I straighten after gripping it.

  The next thing I want to practise isn’t something I should do in here, but I figure that the management of this so-called hotel will either curse and do nothing, or be prompted to make improvements that will only benefit the room’s next guests.

  I position myself six feet away from the bathroom door and throw one of my larger knives. My throw is an underhand one, aimed about four feet above the floor. The torso is the largest target on the human body, and I know I don’t have time to perfect my technique enough to accurately hit someone in their throat or eye.

  The knife’s handle bounces off the stained wood and it falls to the floor.

  I try again with the same result.

  It takes another fifteen attempts before the blade strikes the door, and forty-three before it sticks in.

  A half hour later, the knife blade is striking the door with every throw, and sticking in it every other time. The bathroom door is suffering under the knife’s onslaught and bears a two-foot circle of chipped and splintered paintwork.

  I step back and try from a longer range. It takes me a few dozen throws to get my eye in, but I achieve similar results to the first position a lot quicker now I’ve learned the correct amount of power and spin to put on the knife.

  My next step back puts me a good twelve feet from the bathroom door. This proves to be harder than either of the previous two stances, as the ratio between power and spin has changed exponentially now that I’m throwing further.

  It takes me a half hour to master this distance, but I train myself to at least hit the door with the knife’s blade – even if the point doesn’t stick in. The human gut is a lot softer than the bathroom door, and the knife will inflict damage whether it pierces enough flesh to impale or not.

  I step forward and back again between my three points and at random intervals between them.

  The bathroom door is disintegrating as the knife either digs in or gouges out yet another splinter.

  I move, throw, move, throw, until I’m happy that I can change distance if necessary.

  I try a few throws with my left hand but they prove a waste of time. Not only can I not get the blade to hit the door, sometimes I miss with the handle as well. Giving up on that as a bad idea, I try moving around to see what results I get. They’re not great, but I take heart from the attempt that sees me whirl round from having my back to the bathroom door.

  The knife embeds itself right in the middle of the destruction I’ve wrought on the door and wavers back and forth until its momentum is spent.

  I retrieve the knife and thumb the blade.

  The repeated strikes against the door have dulled its edge.

  I retrieve the sharpening steel from my backpack and hone the blade to its former sharpness.

  54

  Cameron unclamps his hands from his ears and marvels at the quiet. Ivy has sat outside the door, talking to him all day. Except it hasn’t been a conversation. It’s been a constant diatribe that has ranged from soft verbalisations of long ago feelings, to snarled abuse about the way he abandoned her and the kids.

  At first he’d listened to her with an uncaring indifference, but her words had penetrated the tiny portion of his heart he reserved for feelings about others. Once the penetration was complete, she’d twisted the verbal skewers, and reiterated key points, before attempting to shame him with the results his actions had had on Jake and Sharon.

  The problem Cameron has, is that he doesn’t regret anything; other than the fact he’d tried to play at being a husband and father when he’d known it was a mistake from the day he’d put a ring on Ivy’s finger.

  He knows he’s not the considerate type, that he always puts his own needs before those of others, that if he’d stuck around any longer he would have turned on Ivy and quite possibly the children.

  Walking out on them was a terrible thing to do, but he’s spent years justifying that it would have been worse for them had he stayed.

  His second marriage was an even stupider idea. Vanessa had fallen pregnant and he’d been so
infatuated by her beauty that he’d believed he could change. Six months after John was born, he’d started making plans to leave when Vanessa had told him she was expecting again.

  He’d stuck around until she’d had the baby and left before she’d returned from hospital. John had been deposited at his grandparents without an explanation, and once again Cameron had done his bit to improve the lives of his wife and kids, by not being around to be a failure to them.

  A pizza box slides under the two-inch section that’s been cut from the bottom of the door.

  Cameron opens the box and sees a pepperoni pizza. His stomach growls: it’s the first food he’s had since a pre-packaged sandwich at the hospital.

  He picks up a slice and stuffs it into his mouth. It’s not as warm as he’d like, but he’s too hungry to care. As he chews on the pizza he feels his tongue and lips start to burn. There’s some spicy sauce or chilli flavouring on the pizza. He’s never liked spicy food and the few times he’s tried it he’s felt unwell afterwards.

  Cameron puts the pizza box on the floor and fills a plastic beaker from the bathroom sink. It takes five beakers of water before his mouth is somewhere close to normal. So far as he’s concerned, the pizza is inedible.

  He closes the box lid and slides it back under the door.

  Ivy’s response is immediate. ‘That was quick. Oh, you’ve not eaten it. Aren’t you hungry?’

  There’s something in her tone that Cameron recognises from all those years ago. It’s triumph. She always did like getting one over on him when they’d argued.

  ‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did what?’

  Cameron isn’t fooled by the innocence in her voice. ‘You deliberately got me a hot and spicy meal because you knew I wouldn’t be able to eat it.’

  ‘Why, Cameron, what an awful thing to suggest. Why would you think I would do such a thing?’

  His mouth opens but he doesn’t speak. Ivy has had her petty revenge and she’ll be delighting in it. He’s prepared to let her have a small victory – at least for the moment.

  He’ll let her have her moment of triumph, and in an hour or so he’ll point out that if he’s to donate bone marrow, it would probably be best for John if he’s fit and well. Being starved, or given foods that prompt illness, will not have him as fit as he may need to be.

  ‘Of all the things you’ve done to me and my kids, do you know what is the worst?’ Ivy doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘You’ve stolen my only chance of grandchildren. Sharon can’t conceive, and Jake has never had a relationship that’s lasted more than three months until he met Taylor. She was the only girlfriend he’s brought home. She was the one he wanted to spend his life with. When you used her to save your own miserable hide, you didn’t just kill her; you killed any chance of Jake ever settling down.’

  Cameron pulls the pillow over his head and presses it against his ears. He can’t be bothered listening to Ivy any longer. So, Jake isn’t going to settle down, boo hoo. The decision to let his kids live their own lives without him had been taken, and acted upon, many years ago. To come complaining about it now, when they need him, is hypocritical. If he was such a loss to their lives, why has it taken them so long to hunt him down?

  Ivy’s voice carries through the door and the pillow. ‘What’s worse than him never settling down, is that he’ll never experience the joy of being a parent. You may not think it’s a joy, but believe you me, those kids of mine have made me proud every day since they were born. Since they grew up and left home, all I’ve ever wanted for them was to be happy, and to have the love and pride for their children that I have for mine. Jake will never settle now. Never experience that joy. You took that from him and, despite everything else you’ve done, that’s what I hate you for most of all. You may not know it, but you’re a grandfather thrice over. Your other son has two girls and his sister has a son. You’ve turned your back on your grandchildren the same way you turned your back on your children. Can you imagine how much it hurts me to know that you have grandchildren you don’t want, while I want the grandchildren I’ll never have?’

  Cameron knows he should feel shame, or self-loathing, or something other than what he’s feeling. He doesn’t though. He just feels hungry.

  55

  The young woman, who opens the theatre’s back door an inch, gives me the once-over with a brown eye and a suspicious expression.

  I give her a smile, and the false name I used when making this booking.

  She nods and the door opens a foot. ‘Sorry about that. You gotta be careful.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  The theatre isn’t in the best of areas and I’d say it gets used more by community groups than budding impresarios.

  ‘I’m Melody. Come on in.’

  When the door opens I see she’s had a friend provide backup. He’s a hippy type with lank dreadlocks, and provides the same level of intimidation as a goldfish. Unless he’s a closet martial artist, he’ll be easier to drop than the proverbial hot potato.

  I follow Melody to a dressing room.

  There’s the obligatory bulb-surrounded mirror, and a clothes rack with a variety of different costumes hanging from it. A toolbox is open on the worktop and while it looks well stocked, it doesn’t allay my doubts that Melody isn’t as good as she makes out on her website.

  The rundown theatre and the fact she’s nervous don’t give me confidence in her professional skills. However, it’s too late to find an alternative, so I either have to let her do her stuff, or forego this part of my disguise.

  ‘Have you just had your head shaved today?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘The skin on your head is a different colour to your face and neck. I’ll need to match the colour because it looks a bit odd.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Melody arranges me in a chair by the mirror with the bulbs and flicks a switch. She gives an embarrassed grimace when only three of the bulbs light up.

  As she goes to work, Melody gives a running commentary while I watch her actions in the mirror. I feel her draw a short line on the back of my head, then she opens a vial of liquid that has a brush fitted to the lid.

  A strong, unpleasant smell fills the dressing room and makes my nose wrinkle. It’s similar to the chemical scent of lacquer. Melody doesn’t react to the smell – other than a fast disappearing smile at my reaction.

  She paints the liquid several times over the same area that she’d drawn the line, blowing gently on the back of my head to dry it between each new layer.

  The sensation of her warm breath is accompanied by what I can only describe as a contracting of my skin in the area where she’s applied the solution.

  Melody works quickly and without hesitation. More products are retrieved from her toolbox and applied to the back of my head.

  ‘Done.’ She turns me to face the mirror and, like a barber, uses a second mirror to show me the back of my head. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Looks good to me.’

  The scar she’s drawn looks so realistic I want to reach back and touch it, feel its rough edges and caress the puckered skin of what looks like a scar I’ve had for years.

  The scar she creates on my cheek is even better, although she makes it look as if it’s a recent addition.

  As she’s using the foul-smelling liquid on my cheek, I have an idea. It’s an impertinent one, but I’m long past the point of worrying what other people think of me.

  I wait until she’s finished doing the second scar, and ask a few questions about the liquid. It turns out to be a specialist scarring product called Rigid Collodion.

  Melody explains that as it dries, it puckers up loose skin to form the effect of scars on flesh.

  My idea is beginning to look as if it might just work. ‘Could I buy the rest of the bottle from you?’

  ‘Sure.’ She looks a little apprehensive. ‘It’ll be twenty bucks though.’

  ‘No problem.’

  The look of re
lief on her face tells me that Melody has just overcharged me. I’m not worried, I’d have paid fifty bucks if she’d asked.

  I thank Melody, pay her the agreed price for my makeover, and leave.

  The alley at the back of the theatre is deserted, so I paint my left forefinger with a liberal amount of the Collodion. Once it has dried, I wipe the screen of my cell on my shirt until it’s clean and press my left forefinger against it.

  As I’d hoped, it doesn’t leave a fingerprint.

  56

  With my disguise complete I have one more part of my plan to finalise before it’s time to go on the attack.

  I may well have a disguise, and a minor level of proficiency at throwing knives, but the people I’m going up against can track cell phones, bring in a sniper, and will have countless goons in their employ. I need a gun before I engage in any conflict with them.

  I’m sure buying a gun is easy enough, provided you have the right kind of ID with you. Mine has been left in Casperton on purpose.

  There is always the black market, but it will take time I don’t have to identify the right person and establish my own credentials.

  As always, there is another solution. One that involves me finding someone who has a gun they no longer need.

  First though, I stop at a twenty-four-hour mini-market and buy myself a hoodie. The scars have given me a much tougher look than I normally have, and I need to hide them if I want to get mugged.

  The newspaper has given me a location that will heighten my chances of being rolled over, and as I stride towards it I feel my jaw setting and my heart blackening.

  I stop at a bar, a half block from Union Hall Street, and order a whisky.

  Rather than drink it, I dip my fingers in the liquid and dribble it on my neck and rub it into my clothes.

  Now that I stink of whisky, I put my hands beneath the table and paint all my fingertips with three coats of the Collodion.