by Graham Smith
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 i
s 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 relief 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.
The smell of the scarring agent causes one or two of the bar’s patrons to look at me, wrinkle their noses and move seats. I figure they think I’ve soiled myself. They can make whatever assumptions they like.
I leave the bar and make my way towards Union Hall Street. According to the newspaper’s reporting of crimes, it’s one of the worst areas in Queens. If I can’t get mugged here, I can’t get mugged anywhere.
With my hood pulled over my head, I stagger and lurch my way onto Union Hall Street. It’s a residential area and it wouldn’t look too bad were it not for the occasional boarded window, and the basketball courts encased by rusty, broken, chain-link fences.
Some young punks loiter across the street, and there are a few knots of girls – three parts attitude, one part scared children – who’ve been forced by circumstances to grow up way quicker than is natural.
None of them look like they’ll tackle me, so I cut through a side street and find myself in a different kind of place.
The buildings here are taller and closer together; there is an air of menace, and those who inhabit these streets are older and meaner than any of the kids on Union Hall Street.
Beneath the cover of my hoodie, I smile.
57
I exaggerate my lurch into the alleyway. It’s dim, dark, and has piles of garbage everywhere. Most people would have more sense than to go anywhere near a place like this, but I feign a stagger as I walk halfway along it.
I pause by a dumpster, undo the zip on my jeans, and widen my feet to shoulder width. Anyone looking at me will think I’m taking a whizz. Anyone who wants the contents of my wallet will think all their Christmases have come at once.
I hear footsteps behind me but I don’t give a visible reaction. Instead of turning my head, I’m listening, and calculating how many would-be muggers there are and where they are positioned.
A hand grips my shoulder and I smell breath that’s even fouler than the stench coming from the dumpster.
‘S’matter? Can’t a dude take a whizz?’ The slurring I add to my tone isn’t perfect, but it should be good enough to convince the hand’s owner.
I feel something press against my right kidney, and get a second, stronger, blast of the foul breath.
‘You forgot to pay the tax, buddy. Just hand over your wallet, cell and watch, and you can walk outta here.’
The speaker’s accent is low and guttural. There is no refinement in his voice, no suggestion that he’s had even a half-decent education. The wisecrack about the tax shows as much. It’s the kind of line you’d get in a bad movie.
From the corner of my eye I see a second person. If Bad Breath is at my six o’clock, Compatriot is at eight.
The fact they’ve pulled a weapon so early on, neutralises any qualms I have about hurting them.
The hand on my shoulder removes itself, as Bad Breath waits for me to turn round.
When I do turn, it’s a lot faster than he’s expecting; I drive myself round and throw my left elbow towards his head. As I spin, my body whirls away from whatever weapon he’s holding against my right kidney.
My elbow catches the side of his jaw; whether it’s dislocated or broken isn’t important. My right hand follows up and slams into his temple.
As Bad Breath is collapsing, I’m stepping towards Compatriot.
He pulls a knife from his pocket and waves it in front of my face. I raise my hands into a boxer’s stance and watch his eyes. There’s uncertainty and fear.
I feint a jab. He slashes his knife wide.
A fraction of a second later, my hand is on his wrist and I’ve got it twisted until he’s in an armbar.
I drive the heel of my hand into his elbow and hear the double crunch of breaking bone and tearing sinew before he howls in agony.
Compatriot drops to his knees so I introduce his chin to my boot. They don’t get on.
I search the two prone bodies for weapons, and find two knives and just over a hundred dollars.
The knives get tossed into a dumpster and the money goes into my pocket. I’m not a thief and this is the first time I’ve ever taken something that wasn’t freely given to me. The money I’ve taken from them will find its way to a charity. I’ve only taken it as it seems like poetic justice to mug the muggers.
The next two alleyways I walk down see me collect another one hundred and fifty bucks for charity. The nearest emergency ward also got another three patients, but hey, while I may have intimated I was an easy target, I didn’t force them to mug me.
I pass an alleyway between two apartment blocks but choose not to go down it. There’s too much light and there is nobody around to follow me.
Perhaps the local muggers have seen me followed three times already, and emerging unscathed. If that’s the case I may have to give up on my plan.
I decide to give it one more go and cross the street. There’s an alleyway on the left that I stagger along. I have one hand on the coarse brick wall, and I’m going through my taking-a-whizz routine when I hear footsteps.
I stay in position and wait to see what happens.
‘Yo.’
I don’t answer.
‘Yo, dude. I’m like, talking to you.’
I turn around and see three people. All are wearing hoodies that shade their faces.
Their faces don’t matter.
What matters is the gun the one in the centre is holding. It’s pointed at my nose and he thinks he’s being cool by holding it at ninety degrees from upright, but he’s being stupid and reducing his chances of firing with any great accuracy.
I give up the pretence of drunkenness and address the man whose gun I plan to steal. ‘I’m listening.’
‘We been watching you, dude. You think you can come here and take my bros down? You think you’re some vigilante? Man, you are sooo wrong.’
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He adds an insult which suggests I have intimate relations with my female parent.
I’m from Glasgow, where the c-word is used as a term of endearment. If he wants to insult me, he’s going to have to try a lot harder.
‘I’m not a vigilante. I’ve just come here for something, and I’m not leaving until I get it.’
The calmness and certainty in my voice triggers something in him. He steps forward so his gun is three inches from my nose.
‘All you’re getting, is your ass well and truly whupped.’
As Gunman speaks, his buddies circle round from behind him.
‘You’re wrong. Let me tell you what I want, and if you give it to me, I’ll let you walk away unhurt.’
Gunman’s buddies halt. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve kept my tone conversational, or that I have never flinched, despite having a gun inches from my face. Whatever the reason, it’s enough to make them cautious.
‘Before we kick yo’ ass, you can give us a laugh and tell us what you want. Whatcha after, Mr Vigilante? What’s down here that you want?’
I duck my head left as my right hand grabs the gun and twists it upwards, breaking the finger he has in the trigger guard. As he drops the gun, I smash an elbow into the face of the guy on the left. The guy on the right is coming for me with balled fists, so I let him throw a wild punch and counter with a hard shot to his gut.
The gunman is kicking at me, so I grab his raised foot and twist it until he flips and lands face down. My boot connects with his genitalia hard enough to score a fifty-yard field goal. His buddies have recovered enough to straighten up, and the guy on the left is pulling something from his jacket.
I charge at him and drive him backwards towards an abandoned shopping cart. He falls over it and smashes his head on the hard cobbles of the alleyway. While he’s still groggy, I arrange a meeting with my boot for his already shattered nose.
