by Markus Zusak
"I'm Ed," I whisper back.
"I'm Angelina," she says. "Are you here to save us?" I can see a tiny spark of hope awaken in her eyes.
I crouch down to look at her properly. I want to tell her I am, but nothing comes out. I can see that the silence from my mouth has all but extinguished the hope she has conjured up. It's almost gone when I finally speak. I look at her truthfully and say, "You're right, Angelina--I'm here to save you."
She steps closer as it rekindles. "Can you?" she asks with surprise. "Really?" Even a girl of about eight years can see there's almost no rescue from her life. She has to double-check if she can believe me.
"I'll try," I say, and the girl smiles. She smiles and hugs me and says, "Thanks, Ed." She turns around now and points. Her voice whispers even quieter. "It's the first room on the right."
If only it was that easy.
"Well, come on, Ed," she says. "They're just in there...."
But again, I don't move.
The fear has tied itself around my feet, and I know there's nothing I can do. Not tonight. Not ever, it seems. If I try to move, I'll trip over it.
I expect the girl to scream at me. Something like, "But you promised me, Ed! You promised!" She says nothing, though. I think she understands how physically powerful her father is and how scrawny I am. All she does is stumble over to me and hug me again.
The girl tries to crawl inside my jacket as the noise from the bedroom reaches us from inside. She hugs me so tight I wonder how her bones survive. When she lets go and leaves, she says, "Thanks for at least trying, Ed."
I answer nothing because the only thing I feel now is shame. I watch her feet as they turn and walk away beneath the yellow pajamas. She turns once more and says, "Goodbye, Ed."
"Goodbye," I say through my curtain of shame.
She closes the door completely, and I crouch there. I allow myself to fall forward and rest my head on the door frame. My breath bleeds. My heartbeat drowns my ears.
I'm in bed now, swallowed by the night. How can a person sleep when all he can feel are the arms of a tiny kid in yellow pajamas holding on to him in the dark? It's impossible.
I feel insanity will come after me soon. If I don't get back down to Edgar Street in the next few nights, I fear I might go crazy. If only the kid didn't come out--but I knew she would. Or at least I should have known. She'd always come out before and cried on the porch, followed later by her mother. I know as I lie here, flat on my back, that I'd meant to meet her. I wanted her to give me the courage. To force me inside. But it failed miserably. In fact, it couldn't have been more disastrous. Now a worse feeling empties itself into me.
At 2:27 a.m. the phone rings.
It shocks through the air, and I jump up, run to it, look at it. This can't be good.
"Hello?"
The voice at the other end waits.
"Hello?" I say again.
It finally speaks, and I can picture it now, mouthing the words. The voice is dry, permanently cracked. It's friendly enough, but it still means business. It says: "Check your letter box, Ed."
A silence overhauls us, and the voice leaves me completely. There's no more breathing at the other end.
I hang up and walk slowly out my front door and over to the letter box. The stars are gone completely now and a haze of rain is falling as each of my footsteps step me closer. My hand shivers as I bend down and open the latch. I reach in.
I touch something cold and heavy.
My finger touches the trigger.
I shudder.
There's only the one bullet in the gun. One bullet for one man, and this is where I feel like the unluckiest person on earth. I tell myself, You're a cabdriver, Ed! How in the hell did you end up in all this mess? You should have just stayed on the floor in that bank.
I'm sitting at my kitchen table with a gun warming up in my hand. The Doorman's awake and demanding coffee, and all I can do is stare at the gun. It also doesn't help that whoever's setting all this up gives me just the one bullet. Don't they realize I'm most likely to shoot off one of my own feet before I even get started? I don't know. This has gone too far now. A gun, for God's sake. I can't kill anyone. For starters, I'm a coward. Second, I'm weak. Third, the day of the bank robbery was obviously a fluke--nobody's ever even showed me how to use a gun....
I'm angry now.
Why have I been chosen for this? I beg, despite knowing without question what I have to do. You were happy with the other two, I castigate myself. So now you have to do this one.
What if I don't do it? Maybe the person on the phone will come after me. Maybe that's what it's all about. Maybe it's a case of either I do the job or the rest of the bullets wind up inside me.
Shit, I can't sleep now!
I'm about to have a hernia, for Jesus' sake.
I look through the old record collection my dad gave me. Stress relief. I shuffle through the albums feverishly and find what I'm looking for--the Proclaimers. I chuck it on and watch it spin. The ridiculous first notes of "Five Hundred Miles" come on, and I feel like going berserk. Even the Proclaimers are giving me the shits tonight. Their singing's an abomination.
I pace the room.
The Doorman looks at me as if I'm insane.
I am insane. It's official.
It's three in the morning, I'm playing the Proclaimers too loud for their own bloody good, and I'm pretty sure I have to go and kill someone. My life has really become worthwhile, hasn't it?
A gun.
A gun.
Those words shoot through me, and I constantly look at it to check this is real. White light from the kitchen stretches into the lounge room, and the Doorman's paws reach out and lightly scratch me, asking for a pat.
"Piss off, Doorman!" I spit, but his huge brown eyes plead for me to calm down.
I break and pat him on the stomach, apologize, and make us some coffee. There's no way I'm sleeping tonight. The Proclaimers are just warming up on that misery-to-happiness song--the follow-up to "Five Hundred Miles."
Insomnia must kill people, I think as I drive the cab back from the city. It's the next day. My eyes are itchy and burning as I drive with the window down. The warmth of the air feeds on my eyes, but I let it. The gun is under my mattress, where I left it last night. I've got the gun under the mattress and the card in my drawer. It's hard to tell which has cursed me more.
I tell myself to stop whingeing.
Back at the Vacant Taxis lot, I see Audrey kissing one of the new blokes who works there. He's about my height but obviously goes to the gym. Their tongues touch and massage each other. His hands are on her hips, and hers are in the back pockets of his jeans.
Lucky I don't have the gun now, I think, but I know I'm all talk.
"Hi, Audrey," I say as I walk by, but she doesn't hear me. I'm heading to the office to see my boss, Jerry Boston. Jerry's a particularly obese man with greasy hair combed over his bald spot.
I knock on his door.
"Come in!" he calls out. "It's about time you--" He stops mid-sentence. "Oh, I thought you were Marge. She was s'posed to bring me some coffee half an hour ago." I saw Marge smoking a cigarette in the car park but choose not to mention it. I like Marge, and it's not the sort of thing I like to get involved in.
The door closes behind me, and Jerry and I watch each other.
"Well?" he asks. "What?"
"Sir, I'm Ed Kennedy and I drive one of your--"
"Fascinating. What do you want?"
"My brother's moving house today," I lie, "and I was wondering if I could take my cab home to drive a few things over to his new place."
He looks at me generously and says, "Now why on earth would I let you do that?" He's smiling. "Do my taxis have Removalists painted on the doors? Do I look like a charity to you?" He's irritated now. "Buy your own car, for Christ's sake."
I remain calm but move closer. "Sir, I've driven night and day sometimes, and I've never taken a holiday." To be honest, due to my nine months of experience, my
shifts fluctuate from night to day week after week. I'm not sure if that's legal. The new people get nights. The veterans get days. I get both. "I'm only asking for one night. I'll pay for it if you want."
Boston leans forward on the desk now. He reminds me of Boss Hogg.
His coffee comes in with Marge, who says, "Oh, hi there, Ed. How's it going?"
Ah, this tight arse won't let me have a cab for the night, I think, but all I say is, "Not bad, Marge, how are you?" She puts the coffee on the table and politely leaves.
Big Jerry takes a sip, says, "Ah, that's lovely," and has a change of heart. Thank God for Marge. Impeccable timing. He says, "Okay, Ed, since you work well enough, I'll let you have it. One night only, right?"
"Thank you."
"You working tomorrow?" He checks the roster and answers his own question. "Night shift." He ponders his coffee and resolves the issue. "Get it back to me by midday tomorrow. Not a minute later. I'll put a check on it in the afternoon. It needs a service."
"Yes, sir."
"Now let me drink my coffee in peace."
I leave.
I walk past Audrey, who's still going at it with the new bloke. I say goodbye, but again she doesn't hear. She won't be at cards tonight, and neither will I. This will annoy Marv no end, but I'm sure he'll survive. He'll get his sister to fill in for Audrey and his old man for me. His fifteen-year-old sister's a good kid but cops an awful lot for having a brother like Marv. He makes her life a living hell in many different ways. For example, all her teachers hate her because Marv was such a smart arse in school. They all think she's hopeless when she's actually quite intelligent.
Either which way, I've got more on tonight than cards. I attempt to eat but fail. I pull the Ace of Diamonds and the gun out and stare at them on the kitchen table.
The hours trickle past.
When the phone rings I feel afraid for a moment but then know it's Marv, without a doubt. I pick up.
"Hello?"
"Where the hell are you, Ed?"
"At home."
"Why? Ritchie and me are sitting here bored shitless. And where's Audrey? Is she with you?"
"No."
"Well, where is she?"
"With some guy from work."
"Why?" He's like a kid, I swear it. Always asking why for no reason. If she's not there, she's not there. Marv doesn't understand there's nothing that can be done about it.
"Marv," I say, "I've got a lot on tonight. I can't make it."
"What have you got on?"
Should I tell him or not? I wonder. I go for yes, saying, "All right, Marv, I'll tell you why I can't make it...."
"Well, go on."
"Okay," I say. "I have to kill someone, all right? Is that all right with you?"
"Look"--he's getting frustrated now--"don't shit me, Ed. I'm in no mood for your litany of crap." Litany? Since when does Marv have a vocabulary? "Just get over here. Get over here or I won't let you in on the Annual Sledge Game this year. I was talking to some of the fellas about it today." The Annual Sledge Game is a preposterous game of soccer played at the Grounds before Christmas. It's played barefoot by idiots like Marv, who's conned me into playing the last few years. And every year I nearly break my neck.
"Well, count me out this year," I tell him. "I'm not coming over." I hang up. As expected, the phone rings again, but I lift it and put it straight back down. I almost laugh at the thought of Marv swearing at the other end in disgust. Right about now he's turning to yell, "Okay, Marissa! Get out here for a game of cards!"
It doesn't take me long to focus on the job at hand. This is the only night I can carry out my plan. One night with the cab. One night with my mark. One night with the gun.
Sooner than I hope, it's close to midnight.
I kiss the Doorman on the cheek and walk out. I don't look back because I'm determined to walk through the door again later tonight. The gun is in my right jacket pocket. The card is in my left, with a flask of doped vodka. I put a lot of sleeping tablets in it. It better work.
The difference tonight is that I don't go down to Edgar Street. Instead, I stay closer to Main Street and wait there. At closing time, one man isn't going home.
It's late when all the drunks drop out from the pubs. My bloke can't be missed because of the sheer size of him. He yells goodbye to his mates, not knowing it's for the last time. I turn my cab around so I'm facing the same way he's walking. He looms closer in my side mirror and goes past. When he's further down the road, I start up and drive toward him. The sweat I feel is normal now, and I know I'm going to do it. I'm inside the moment. There's no getting out.
I pull up beside him and call out quietly.
"You need a lift, mate?"
He looks over and burps. "I'm not payin'."
"Come on, you look to be in a pretty bad way there--I'll give you a free one." At that, he smiles and spits, then comes around to the passenger side. When he gets in, he begins to explain his address. "Don't worry," I say. "I know where you live." There's something around me, numbing me. Without it, I could never go on. I remember Angelina and the way her mother fell to pieces in the supermarket. I have to do this. You have to, Ed. I nod in agreement.
I pull the vodka out of my pocket and offer it to him. He grabs it without a second thought.
I knew it, I congratulate myself. A man like this takes everything he wants without even thinking about it. A man like me thinks too much.
"Don't mind if I do," he says, and he takes a good hard swig.
"Keep it," I say. "It's yours."
He says nothing but keeps drinking as I drive past Edgar Street and head west, circling to the back end of town. There's a place out there on a dirt track called the Cathedral. It's the rocky summit of a mountain that looks over miles and miles of bushland. We're not even out of town when he falls asleep. The vodka flask drops and pours itself onto him as I drive on.
I drive for over half an hour, hit the dirt road, then go for another half hour. We get there just after one o'clock, and when I cut the engine, we're alone, in silence.
Time to get fierce, or at least as fierce as I get.
I get out of the car and go to the passenger side. I open the door. I beat him in the face with the gun.
Nothing.
I hit him again.
After five attempts, he's momentarily startled, tasting his own blood from his nose and mouth.
"Wake up," I order him.
He stutters a moment, not knowing where he is and what's happening.
"Get out."
I have the gun pointed exactly between his eyes.
"If you're wondering if this is loaded, it might be the last thought you ever have."
He's still groggy, but his eyes grow wide. He thinks about a sudden movement but understands very quickly that he can barely pull himself out of the car. Eventually he makes it out, and I walk him up the track with the gun grinding into his back.
"This'll go straight through your spine," I say, "and then I'll leave you here. I'll call your wife and kid and they can come out and look at you. They can dance around you. Would you like that? Or should I put this through your skull and let you die fast? Your choice." He falls down, but I follow him hard with my knees. I cripple him with my boyish boniness and have the gun pointed at the back of his neck. "You feel like dying?" My voice shivers but remains hard. "You deserve it, I can tell you that much." I jump off him and bark, "Now get up and keep walking or you die now."
There's a sound.
It rises from the ground.
I realize it's the sound of a man sobbing. Tonight, however, I don't care. I have to kill him because slowly, almost effortlessly and with complete contempt, this man kills his wife and child every night. And it's me alone, Ed Kennedy, a less than ordinary suburbanite, who has the chance to end it.
"Get up!" I get stuck into him again, and we press on to the top, to the Cathedral.
When we reach the summit, I make him stand there, about five meters from the edge.
The gun's pointed at the back of his head. I'm about three meters behind him. Nothing can go wrong.
Except.
I begin to shiver.
I begin to shake.
I begin to lurch and quake at the thought of killing another human. The aura that surrounded me earlier is gone. The air of invincibility has deserted me, and I'm suddenly aware that I have to do this surrounded by nothing but my own human frailty. I breathe. I almost break.
I ask you:
What would you do if you were me? Tell me. Please tell me!
But you're far from this. Your fingers turn the strangeness of these pages that somehow connect my life to yours. Your eyes are safe. The story is just another few hundred pages of your mind. For me, it's here. It's now. I have to go through with this, considering the cost at every turn. Nothing will be the same. I'll kill this man and also die myself, inside. I want to scream. I want to scream out, asking why. The scattered stars shower down like icicles tonight, but nothing soothes me. Nothing allows me an escape. The figure in front of me collapses, and I stand above him, waiting.
Waiting.
Trying.
To reach a better answer than this.
God, the gun is so stiff in my hand. It's cold and warm and slippery and rigid, all at once. I tremble uncontrollably, knowing that if I do this, I will have to press the gun into the man's flesh or I'll miss. I'll have to bury it in him and watch as his human blood blankets him. I'll watch him die in a stream of unconscious violence, and even when I explain to myself that I'm doing the right thing, I still beg for an answer as to why it has to be me. Why not Marv, or Audrey, or Ritchie?
The Proclaimers thunder through my head.
Imagine it.
Imagine killing someone to the tune of two Scottish nerds wearing glasses and flattop haircuts. How will I ever listen to that song again? What will I do if it comes on the radio? I'll think of the night I murdered another man and stole his life with my own hands.
I shake and wait. Shake and wait.
He starts snoring. For hours.
First light seeps through the air, and when the sun comes up closer to the east, I decide it's time.
I wake him up with the gun. This time he responds immediately, and again I stand three meters behind him. He gets to his feet, attempts to turn around, but thinks again. I step closer and hold the gun behind his head, saying, "Now, I got chosen to do this to you. I've been watching what you do to your family, and now it's going to stop. Nod if you understand." He complies, slowly. "Do you realize you're going to die for what you've been doing?" No nod this time. I hit him again. "Well?" This time he nods.
