by Ian Watson
She glanced at Sean and was surprised to see he already had his cell out. When he didn’t respond further, she kicked him and he looked up. “What?” he said.
“I’ll go to my place,” the old man said.
Sean said, “What’s going on?”
“Of course, it’ll take a while for me to scoot back and forth, and you’ll be stood out here the whole time. Middle of the road, middle of the night, you don’t want that. You want, you can hop in the back of the truck and come along.”
“We’ll manage,” Kelly said. “Thanks anyway.”
“I’m not staying out here,” Sean said.
She met his gaze. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He thought a while. Seconds later, his features brightened with recognition.
“We can bring it along,” he said.
Kelly shot him a you gotta be kidding look, but he ignored it and opened the shotgun door. Bringing out a canvas sack, he looked at the old man and said, “Let’s go.”
They climbed into the back of the truck. When they were set, Sean slapped the sides and they drove away.
Kelly waited until the truck hit fourth gear, then grabbed Sean’s ear and pulled his face level with hers. “Are you out of your damn mind?”
He shrugged.
“Dumb question,” she said. “You don’t think there’s a possibility he’s heard about the robbery? That two strangers carrying a sack might just arouse his suspicion?”
He shrugged again.
“You shoulda said something,” he said.
She wanted to hit him, and almost did. What stopped her was the knowledge that she’d be observed in the rear-view mirror.
“You don’t say a goddamn word from now on,” she said. “You don’t speak, look up or move unless I tell you. Clear?”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“Nobody is. That’s the trouble.”
They arrived at a two-acre farmstead and pulled into a garage that didn’t house any other vehicles. Looking around, Kelly saw milking sheds, hay barns and grain silos, but what stood out was the squat, square stone building with stained-glass windows. A brass plaque named it Halter Devil Chapel.
“You’re shitting me,” Sean said. “A chapel?”
“Built in 1723,” the old man said. “The farmer here then was a lush, and one night during a storm he tried to put the halter on what he thought was his horse, until a flash of lightning revealed the animal had horns. He naturally assumed it was the Devil, sobered up and built this place.”
“Fascinating,” Kelly said.
“One day my boy’s gonna get married here.”
“How old is he?” Sean said.
The old man’s face dropped and he didn’t respond.
Kelly looked at her watch. “Well, it’s been great….”
The old man took the hint. He led them into the farmhouse.
It wasn’t much: a smallish kitchen and a front room, but it was tidy and looked comfortable. Sean dropped the canvas sack and wiped his brow.
“Heavy?” the old man said.
“You’ve no idea.”
“What you got in there, stolen jewels?”
Sean grinned.
“Now how did you know that?” he said.
“Because I heard about it on the radio.”
Shit, Kelly thought.
The old man smiled. “Still want that rope?”
She nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was going to do it as a freebie, but in light of current events, I’ve had a change of heart.”
“Thought you might.”
“I’ll pull you out, send you on your merry way and keep my mouth shut. I figure that’s gotta be worth ten percent.”
“You do, huh?” Sean said.
The old man spread his hands.
A pistol appeared in Sean’s fist. “Funny. I see things different.”
“Put it away,” Kelly said.
“Uh huh. He’s seen us.”
“You put a flashing red light on your head,” she said, “and folks tend to notice.”
The old man chuckled.
“Anybody else here?” Sean said.
The man nodded.
“Mind telling us who?”
“Santa Claus is upstairs,” the old man said. “I don’t see the Easter Bunny anywhere, so maybe she’s out in the fields.”
“This isn’t the time for jokes, old man.”
“I wasn’t fooling. Santa must’ve gone to bed already. It’s getting late, you know.”
Sean stared at him.
“Sorry I can’t be more helpful,” the man said.
“Makes two of us,” Sean said, raising the .38.
Which was when Santa Claus entered the room.
Like his old man, the kid was big and fat, maybe six-four and two hundred pounds. The costume concealed everything else, which Kelly figured was the idea.
“Little early for the holidays,” she said.
The old man smiled. “He likes it. Wears it all the time.”
Sean laughed. “All year round?”
The man nodded
“He go to school like that?”
“He doesn’t go to school. He’s nearly middle aged.”
“And he dresses like that? What is he, a mongoloid?”
“No,” the man said. “He’s just a little slow sometimes. The Easter Bunny, too.”
“That’s your daughter, right?”
The man exhaled but didn’t say anything.
“I’m just guessing here, but does she wear a big bunny costume? Jesus Christ, man, you got a messed up family. What’s your wife like?”
“Dead,” he said.
“She kill herself? Out of shame, something like that?”
The man stared at him.
“You come into my home, point guns at me,” he said, “and then you insult my family? Why? Because I tried to do you a favour?”
“What was the favour? Taking ten percent?”
“Pulling you out of a jam and keeping my mouth shut. That’s got to be worth something.”
“All you got that we need is a truck and a bit of rope. I could just kill you and take it.”
The man let out a long, pensive sigh.
“Better get it over with, then.”
“That’s what I like about you. No small talk.”
“Ever kill anyone before?”
“Lots of times.”
“Uh huh, you’re green. Never killed anyone in your whole life. It’s written all over your face.”
Sean cocked the .38.
“Attaboy,” the man said. “Now point it in my face. Put the barrel right between the eyes.”
He did.
“Now pull the trigger, you limp wristed waste of space.”
Sean hesitated.
“That’s what I thought,” the old man said. “Santa?”
In one fluid movement, the kid disarmed Sean and pointed the pistol at him.
“Ho Ho Ho,” Santa said.
Kelly thought: I did not just see that.
The front door opened and slammed shut. A woman in a bunny costume entered the room.
She paused, surveyed the scene, then gave a surprisingly good impersonation of Bugs Bunny. “What’s up, Doc?”
“Hi, Honey Bunny,” the old man said. “You missed the fireworks.”
She began hopping around the room, shouting, “Rabbit. Rabbit. Rabbit.”
“That all she does?” Sean said
The old man laughed and shook his head.
“You have no idea,” he said. “Honey Bunny? Why don’t you go fetch momma’s dress.”
“Rabbit. Rabbit. Rabbit.”
“You must be very proud,” Sean said.
The old man pulled up a chair. “You think you’re in a position to cheek me, you son of a bitch? You’re here for one reason, and it isn’t to give me lip. When Honey returns, we’ll get righ
t to it.”
“Second thoughts,” Kelly said, “you may as well kill us both right now.”
“Kill you?” He shook his head, as though offended by the idea. “I’m not going to kill you.”
Honey Bunny returned, carrying a wedding gown.
“Thanks, Hon,” he said, and laid the dress out on the table. As he smoothed out the fabric, he looked up and said, “We’re going to the Chapel of Love.”
“Say what now?” Sean said.
“You heard. We’re going to the Chapel. And we’re gonna get married.”
“If you think I’m wearing that thing….” Kelly said.
“You’re not. Who’d want you for a bride? You’re violent, ugly and potty mouthed. Brides are supposed to be beautiful.”
The old man clapped a hand on Sean’s shoulder.
“Like this one.”
“The hell you say?” Sean said.
“Today is the day of your fruitful union with a member of my family.”
Sean looked up at Honey Bunny.
“Rabbit,” she said.
“Uh huh,” he said. “I ain’t doing it. I ain’t getting hitched to no mongoloid.”
“Not her, you idiot.”
Sean stared at Santa, who stared back.
“Ho Ho Ho,” he said.
“Enough monkey business.” The old man held up a hand. “Get yourself suited up. Ceremony’s in ten minutes.”
“What about me?” Kelly said.
“Now there’s a question. What’s this fella to you?”
“Less than a cockroach.”
“Hey,” Sean said.
“Then you know of no reason why they should not be joined together in matrimony?”
“Not one.”
The man nodded.
“And of course it stands to reason,” he said, “that once you leave here, you won’t be going to the cops.”
“You know it.” Kelly retrieved the canvas sack. “I’ll still need your help, though. Ten percent, wasn’t it?”
“Just went up.”
“Figured it might. Hell, I was on a fifty-fifty split with that nimrod, so the way I see it, you’ve just earned yourself half.”
“I like the way you do business,” he said. “We’ll attend to your problem after the ceremony. I have to give my son away first. There’s cake and ice cream for afterwards, if you want to stick around.”
She looked at Sean.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the World.”
“Ho Ho Ho,” Santa said.
Part 4
WELCOME TO THE WORK PROGRAM
They came for him that evening: two men in grey jump suits who kicked open his front door and threatened him with knives. They didn’t speak and didn’t have to. Bryant knew who they were.
They chased him around his apartment a while, but that was just for fun, a laugh. It didn’t become sport until Bryant ran out into the street, where he could shout for help. Then again, he lived in a low-income area, so even if anyone noticed him, they’d shake their heads and be thankful it wasn’t them.
Bryant burst onto the sidewalk and, sure enough, his presence caused people to rethink their plans. A jogger turned and disappeared around a corner. A man stepping through his doorway retraced his steps. Several others also beat a hasty retreat.
The men followed him down the street, then Bryant cut a sharp right, heading towards the park but forgetting they locked the gates at sundown. Instead, he tried to jump the wall, and landed badly.
As the ground rose up to meet him, the breath exploded from Bryant’s lungs and he staggered before collapsing in a heap. His legs refused his commands. A hand grabbed his head and smashed it against the concrete, three times.
The world blurred, then disappeared as the hood came down. They bound his hands and threw him into the van.
No, it hadn’t been a good year for Will Bryant.
Six months earlier, his job literally went up in smoke when the factory burned down, which occurred around the time the director was accused of plundering the pension fund. Astute folks said there was a connection.
Bryant went on welfare, told they’d refer him to the Work Program if he was still unemployed after three months, which he knew he would be. The town’s main businesses paid slave wages to teenagers and immigrants, so an old fart like him was shit out of luck.
He didn’t know what the Work Program was, and the welfare office was at best hazy with details, even when asked the question directly. They called it a referral service, said it would help him back into employment, and he knew what that meant. A bunch of assholes with targets to meet who didn’t care how they met them.
Oh, was that the truth.
Bryant came to in humid blackness, rocking and sliding with the road until the van stopped. The men pulled him upright and forced him out, then he walked unaided for a while before colliding with a post. That brought howls of laughter, then a hand grabbed his head and marched him forward.
Boots kicked against concrete, the sound amplified by wide, empty space. A door opened, then slammed after them. The hood came off.
He was in a long, well-lit corridor. The first man – tall and broad as a bouncer – led him to a small room and held him in place while electric clippers ran over his scalp. Hair rained in tufts, and when a small pile had gathered, the man grabbed his ear.
The bouncer dragged him another hundred yards in silence. Pausing by elevator doors, the man punched a button before freeing his wrists. Bryant wrung his hands as circulation returned and for a second – just a second – the bouncer’s back was turned.
It was all he needed. He swung a punch but the man turned and blocked it, hitting Bryant under the chin and knocking him off his feet.
The bouncer rolled up his sleeves and took him by the ankles, hauling him into the elevator and stepping out before the car descended.
Seconds later, the doors opened on an antechamber that led to a metal staircase. Getting to his feet, he stepped through and ascended toward the sound of voices.
Bryant could see the seated man in profile, but of him, the stranger seemed oblivious. He was talking into a headset, his jaw movements suspiciously mechanical.
“Excellent range to suit all tastes and incomes, attractively packaged and-“
He was as cold as wax, with a similar pallor. No life in the eyes. Even his shaved head didn’t reflect the heavy lights. Bryant reached out, stroking smooth plastic until a hatch loosened and fell away, allowing him to see what lay inside.
Batteries.
He turned away. Turned to see what he already knew.
More desks, all occupied.
“-because we’re proud of this remarkable product, and of course you’re under no obligation-“
“-been outperforming its nearest rival for many years now-“
“-guaranteed to please everyone-“
Bryant sank to his knees.
A figure hovered nearby, just out of sight.
Consume or be consumed, he thought.
Then thought no more.
Part 5
PSYCHOCANDY
03 OCTOBER 1986
When the rich guy opened the door, he stared at Joey, wearing a cape and pumpkin mask, and said, “What’re you supposed to be?”
“Pizza delivery,” Joey said, and showed him the gun. “Now get inside.”
The rich guy, whose name was Moran, did so. “This a robbery?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Oh, you know, there’s just something about you. Plus, there’s the gun. I don’t think I’ve been robbed by a pumpkin before.”
“I’m not a pumpkin,” Joey said. “I’m the Headless Horseman.”
Moran frowned.
“But you’ve got a head,” he said.
“Shut up.”
“And no horse.”
“Shut up.”
“And it’s supposed to be the other way around.”
“Don’t make me rough you up, man.”
“Okay.”
They sat a while.
“Not much robbing going on,” Moran said.
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re thinking about how to rob me?”
“No, just….Look, here’s the deal. I’ve told you twice to be quiet, and I’m not gonna do it a third time. Clear?”
“I guess.”
“Good,” Joey said.
“Be more threatening with a real gun, though.”
“Trust me, sport, this gun’s real.”
“With bullets and everything?”
“Yeah, man, bullets and everything. They come out through the little hole and make an even bigger hole. Care for a demo?”
“Because the Headless Horseman wouldn’t have a gun, either,” Moran said.
Joey sighed.
“I took a few liberties,” he said.
“That’s okay,” Moran said. “When you’re caught, the State will take them right back.”
“Not making this easy, are you?”
“Did you know they’ve still got Old Sparky up at San Quentin? Same one they put Dillinger in. Fried up him up real good.”
“Dillinger didn’t die in the chair,” Joey said. “They shot him.”
“I took a few liberties,” Moran said, and shrugged.
“Enough of this. Get on your knees.”
“Are you going to shoot me?”
“No. I’m going to pistol whip that stupid smirk right off your stupid face. Then I’m going to rob you. When you wake up, tell the police it was Boneyard Jack who stole from you.”
“Who’s Boneyard Jack?”
“I am, you turnip.”
“I thought you were the Headless Horseman?”
“1980s style,” Joey said.
“So you’re not the Horseman at all, then?”
“Enough,” Joey said.
He knocked Moran unconscious.
***
It began a week earlier when Sheldon Sherman, King of the B Movies, showed Joey a movie poster in his front room. The poster showed a pumpkin-headed figure chasing screaming teenagers above the tagline: Watch Your Back….Here Comes Boneyard Jack!
“How is he a modern Headless Horseman?” Joey Warbeck said.
“No New Yorker worth their salt is afraid of horsemen,” Sherman said. “We’ve updated him as a murdered teenager who roams Westchester County seeking revenge on his killers. When he finds them, of course, he cuts off their heads.”
“So why’re you calling it Psychocandy? Isn’t Sleepy Hollow public domain?”
Sherman shrugged and said, “We open shortly after Psycho III.”
“Nice marketing strategy.”
