by Julie Frayn
“So what, then, is her punishment, oh judge and jury, oh wielder of the magic red pen of justice?” Bruce had finished his dinner, cleaned every speck of dough and bacon and fried onion. All that remained was a whisper of sour cream clinging to the plate. He may as well have licked it clean and put it right back in the cupboard. He watched her, his eyes alight with their shared game, her red pen in his hand, hovering above the page. “How about I shoot her?”
“With what?”
“My gun. What else?”
A tingle ran through Billie’s spine. “You have a gun?”
He nodded. “I used to do competitive shooting. It’s a real stress reliever.”
She blinked. “I bet. What kind? Forty-five magnum?”
He raised one eyebrow. “Uh, no. Just a Glock 22 semi-auto. I take it you don’t shoot?”
A vision of her father’s gun case came to mind, of him emptying the magazine and putting the bullets into a separate locked box. She swallowed. “No. Never.”
“I can take you to the range some time.”
Her heart fluttered and sent a surge of hot ice through her veins. “Yes. I’d like that.” She put the last bite of dinner in her mouth, rolled the dough and potato and cheese around, and squished it with her tongue. She picked up both their plates, her trembling fingers making the forks rattle against the glass. “But shooting her isn’t the right punishment.”
The beginning of the evening had her on edge. Another article. More justice gone awry. A quick flick of red ink to set the theoretical world right. Would that seal Janis Jones’ fate? Would Billie wake to another report of vigilante justice and find her father’s clothes in heap on her bedroom floor? But as they read more about the woman, fueled by online gossip and background checks, the less she cared. Doc was right. Strange coincidence. And damn it, Billie just couldn’t stop herself from editing the news.
She scraped the wad of Nicorette gum Bruce left on the side of his plate into the garbage, set the dishes in the sink, and ran the water to rinse them. “I say she should never be allowed to reproduce again.”
“I assume we’re not talking about frequenting Kinko’s here?”
Billie hovered over the open door of the dishwasher, the plates in her hands. She looked sideways at him. The delight on his face made her tummy flutter. “Nope, no ban on photocopying. How about someone cuts out her womb?”
“Wouldn’t that kill her?” He put one end of the red pen in his mouth and held it between the peace sign made by his index and middle fingers. He sucked fantasy smoke from the pen into his lungs.
“Not if they did it right.” She stood the plates up between the tines of the dishwasher tray. “But it would serve her right anyway, stealing that baby’s entire life away. Taking him from his daddy.”
She rinsed forks, squirted dish soap into the pot and fry pan, and filled them with water until bubbles cascaded over their rims. It took a couple minutes for the utter silence from Bruce to sink in. She turned, suds dripping from her hands. He stared at her, his face a confusion of concern and caring. And maybe just a dash of pity.
She glanced back at the sink. “What? Am I doing it wrong?”
He laughed. “I’m not sure if there’s a wrong way to clean dishes.” He stood and joined her at the sink, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, kissed the top of her head.
“Then what was with the look?”
“Just that, you seem to not have too many feelings about the dastardly ends you wish on these people. Like it wouldn’t bother you if it were true.”
Two clown faces crossed her mind. They deserved what they got. That didn’t bother her. What had bothered her was that they met the end she’d written. But tonight, even that didn’t bother her. What if she was doing it? Meting out appropriate recompense for the victims? No amount of cash would make those little boys better. And dead men can’t rape.
She’d had fantasies of herself in a leather suit and cape, standing atop a tall building, overseeing her beloved Grantham. Well, the city had never been beloved before. It had been the scene of every horrific moment in her life to date. It had cuffed her upside the head every chance it got and stuck its leg in the aisle of her healing to trip her just for the heck of it. But in her superhero fantasy life, the city was held in high esteem. This is where she’d met Bruce, after all. It can’t be all bad.
Maybe it was fate. Kismet. God’s will. Maybe she was God’s red pen, fixing what the living world couldn’t get right. What He wasn’t able to do without the assistance of human hands. An eye for an eye, that’s what He said. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe God was in the revenge business. And maybe she was His eyes and ears on the ground. Or at the very least, His willing scribe.
“It’s not like I’m the one doing the womb dissection. It’s just for fun.” She shifted in his embrace until she was facing him, rested her head on his chest. “Right? Just for fun?”
He rubbed her arms and rested his chin on her head. “Right. Just for fun.” He pulled away and picked up the pen. “So, some stranger walks in and cuts out her womb.”
“Well, he can’t just walk in. There’d have to be a ruse. Somewhere nobody would see.” Billie nodded. “Maybe a disguise.”
July 23rd
“WELL, LOOKY, LOOKY. It’s the gimpy chick.” Bat Head tapped Billie’s prosthesis with his shoe. High tops this time. Red, like freshly spilled blood. Or an ordained editor’s ink.
Billie gathered her purse close to her side and held her newspaper to her chest. She looked the little bastard in the eye. “Leave me alone.”
He scanned the car, his arms out, palms up. “Where’s Prince Charming? Your superhero boyfriend? No one here to save you today?”
His posse must have taken the day off. Perhaps even bullies need a vacation. Only one of them hung behind him, eyeing the few riders on the car.
A mother cowered in the back and held her toddler close, unable to make eye contact. Billie didn’t blame her. Why risk the safety of your baby for some stranger?
But Billie wasn’t about to back down. “I don’t need to be rescued.”
He laughed at her. “Hear that, Todd? She can protect herself.” He loomed over her, his feet on either side of hers and bent down until she could smell the weed and alcohol on his breath. “How about I prove you wrong, huh, crip?” He grabbed at her breasts over the newspaper.
She leaned back, gritted her teeth, and rammed her knee into his groin.
His breath whooshed from his lungs and he backed away, his face scarlet. His thug buddy snickered. Bat Head regained his composure, glared at his wingman, and shut him up with one look. Clearly, this little boy was in charge of the other little boy. He jumped toward Billie and swatted the paper out of her hand. It floated to the ground in an anti-climactic swish. He poked his finger near her nose, careful to keep his legs together. “You think that’s funny, bitch?”
She slapped his hand away.
He backed away, his mouth agape, eyes dazed.
She sat up straighter and leaned toward him. “You reek of booze. Aren’t you a little young to drink? Is that the best use of your summer vacation? Maybe you ought to try volunteering or something. Help an old lady cross the street. I don’t know …” she shrugged. “Read a book.” Her red pen drew nerdy spectacles on his face and made him buck toothed. She scratched a pocket protector where a breast pocket should be and filled it with pens. In her head, he pushed his glasses back up onto his nose and peed his pants.
His eyes clouded and he approached again. “I’m gonna fuck you up, bitch.” He took hold of her cardigan and yanked her face toward his. His words slurred together and his balance faltered.
She smirked. “You couldn’t keep it up long enough to fuck me, punk.”
His eyes twitched. For a second he looked like a puppy that’d just had its nose smacked by a rolled up newspaper. But that second passed quickly. He released her cardigan and drew his fist back.
She closed her eyes. The impact hit her cheek and set fir
eworks off behind her eyelids. She slumped to the side and her hand flew to protect her face. He loomed over her, his eyes glinting with anger and smug pleasure, his hand still balled into a fist.
She patted her cheek and looked at her hand. Blood marred the tips of her fingers.
“Dude, leave her be, man.” Bat Head’s friend tugged on his sleeve. “I ain’t going back to juvie for this.” He headed for the exit at the far end of the car.
Bat Head leered at her. “I don’t know. I think it’ll be worth it.” He pulled his fist back again.
She pitched sideways and ducked.
His knuckles cracked against the metal frame around the subway window. He bounced backward and jumped up and down, cradling his fist in his other hand. “Fuck, you stupid bitch-ass whore.”
Billie tried not to laugh on the outside. She swept her good leg at his ankle and knocked his feet out from under him. He landed on his ass again, just like the last time. Billie stood up and loomed over him. “I told you I don’t need to be rescued.” And she’d never be a victim again.
He scrabbled backwards like a crab on an oily beach. She drew beady red eyes and little crab antennae. He hit his head against a pole; used the pole for leverage, stood, and backed away. “You think you’re tough, bitch?” He curled his fingers at her, dared her to come closer, all the while edging his way to the door. “Come on, then, let’s see what you got.”
Bright station lights streamed past the windows. Billie grabbed the railing overhead as the subway screeched to a halt. Bat Head lost his footing and, once again, his ass found the rubber floor.
“You want to know what I got?” She took a step toward him. “I got titanium alloy.” Billie brought her prosthesis back and kicked Bat Head between the legs.
He groaned and grabbed his nuts.
She sneered. “How do you like me now, bitch?” She dug into her purse and pulled out a red pen. She kneeled beside him, her knee inches from his groin, and drew circles around each eye while he moaned and called her names under his breath. She stood and admired the spectacles she’d drawn on his bully face. “Seriously, dude. Read a book.”
The door opened. Bat Head crab-walked away from her and bounded to his feet. “You crazy fucking gimp.” He pushed Todd out the door and they ran down the platform.
Billie dropped into her seat and pulled her purse to her chest. She shut her eyes, counted to ten and breathed with intent; willed her heart to shut up and quit screaming in her ears. She might have peed in her pants a little.
“That was amazing.”
Billie opened her eyes and looked up into the frightened face of the mother who’d been cowering in the back. “Excuse me?”
“You were awesome. I’m too afraid to say anything. To stand up to them. I wish I had your strength.” She reached out and touched Billie’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
Billie clenched her trembling hands into fists and straightened her spine. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m gonna kill that little bastard.” Bruce dabbed at the cut on Billie’s cheek with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.
Billie loved the dichotomy between his gentle nursing of her wounds and his rough language and he-man, testosterone-fueled outbursts. “I don’t think the death sentence is a fair punishment for bullying.” Though she’d envisioned Bat Head hanging from the rafters by the strings of his Batman hoodie more than once on the walk to Bruce’s apartment.
She couldn’t face the gym. It was a hard enough day at the office. Katherine had taken her cold-hearted, don’t-give-a-rats-assedness to a whole new level. She’d announced that interviews for the new editing post were delayed until better resumes came in. She stared at Billie with every word that hissed from her fork-tongued mouth.
Billie just needed some comfort. Some warmth. Damn it, she wanted Bruce’s protection. And that just pissed her off.
“This isn’t bullying. It’s flat-out assault.” He used a Q-tip to cover the cut with antibiotic ointment, then applied a Band-Aid. “There. It shouldn’t leave a scar.”
Not on the outside.
“And if it does,” he wrapped his arms around her and helped from her perch on the bathroom counter. He kissed the bandage and then her forehead. “I’ll give him a matching one. Maybe add a few more for good measure.”
She hugged him, her sore cheek against his chest. The thump of his heart against the throb of the wound on her face was a healing salve. “I think I did one better. I kicked the little prick in his, well, in his little prick.”
“That’s my Billie. Defender of justice. Now in three-D and surround sound. You’re not just an editor anymore.” He squeezed her, took her hand, and led her to the living room. He arranged her on the couch with pillows behind her back.
“I’m not made of porcelain. I’m fine.” She sat up. “But thank you. For taking care of me.”
“You hardly need me to take care of you. But I sure enjoy doing it.” He grinned. “I’ll make tea.”
With the heat from the teacup soothing Billie’s nerves, Bruce read the newspaper to her aloud. They cherry-picked two articles where justice did not prevail and rewrote the endings.
“How would you edit the ending to your encounter this morning?” He set the paper aside and slid closer.
Billie shifted, leaned against his shoulder and rested her head against his cheek. She smirked at the picture of Bat Head’s red-bespectacled face that popped into her mind. “I’d make him a different person. Change him into a good kid. I wonder how he got to be such a jerk?”
“Well, maybe it’s his upbringing.”
“He appears to be well off. Expensive shoes, high-end jeans. It’s like the attitude and the delinquency is all an act.”
“Having money doesn’t make you good. And having rich parents doesn’t make you well-adjusted. Sometimes it’s just the opposite. Parents who don’t have time for their kids. Or have all the time in the world, but prefer to spend it golfing or traveling. You don’t have to be poor to be a criminal.”
Billie nodded. She knew that was true. She’d been poor. Still was. And she’d never broken the law in her life. Except inside her head. But until God told her to stop — or the thought police nabbed her — that didn’t count.
Bruce ran one finger along the exposed skin of Billie’s arm. “My parents had money. A lot of money. But they were assholes. And look what I turned into. An asshole. You know, before the metamorphosis into the butterfly I am now.” He jostled her. “Or maybe I’m just a moth. Because I am drawn to your flame.” He pulled her into his lap and kissed her.
She reached her arms around his neck and returned his affection.
He stood and lifted her into his arms in one movement, swift and agile and precise, like a ballet dancer. A big, lumberjack of a ballet dancer. He was so strong, he could snap her in half if he chose to. But she trusted him more than she’d ever trusted anyone. They still barely knew each other, their relationship just a few milliseconds old in terms of a whole cosmic day. And yet she wanted to tell him everything. Be with him always.
Maybe she was nuts.
He carried her to the bedroom and laid her gently on his bed. He began to dismantle the parts of her prosthetic leg; slid down the sheath and rolled the socks away from her skin. “Tell me if I’m too presumptuous. If you’re not up for it, or if you just don’t want to.” He removed the leg and set it on the armchair kitty-corner from the bed.
She sat up, slid her fingers into his belt loops and tugged him closer. “As long as you don’t stick your thing in my aching cheek, it’s all good.” She whipped his belt free and tossed it on the floor.
The bed creaked and shifted. Cool air filled the void where Bruce had been nestled next to Billie’s aching body. She reached for him, her fingers trailing against his arm. “Don’t get up yet.”
He stood, bent over her, and kissed her forehead. “Sorry, love. I have an early meeting and need a shower. You stay as long as you need to.”
“No. I have to go home to change.
Just what I need, Katherine noticing that I’m wearing the same clothes.” She sat up and rubbed sleep from her eyes.
Bruce opened his closet and flicked hangars with suit jackets and white shirts aside. “Maybe you should bring a change of clothes over.”
Above his head, a black case rested on the shelf. The periphery blurred and the case came into laser focus. “Is that it?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What?”
She swallowed. “Is that the gun?”
He followed her pointed finger. “Yeah. That’s it. You want to see?”
Billie nodded.
He brought the case down and rested it on the bed beside her. His giant thumbs turned the tumblers of the combination lock.
Four. One. Nine. His birthday.
The lock opened with a click. Bruce lifted the lid. Inside, swaddled within a foam liner cut out to perfectly match its sleek body, lay the gun. Billie poked at it, prepared for its hot steel to burn her. But it was cool and icy. “Is it loaded?”
“Never. Except at the range.”
“Can I hold it?”
Bruce rescued it from its nest. She held out her hands and he placed it in her palm.
“It’s heavy. I always thought they’d weigh next to nothing.”
“Wait until it’s loaded. It weighs almost a kilo.”
Billie ran her fingers along the length of it, her heart bouncing about her chest. “When can I shoot it?”
1998
“WILHELMINA FULLALOVE.”
Billie mounted the short staircase, stage left. Her grandmother had taken her shoe shopping and bought her a pair of royal blue flats, all patent and sparkling under the glare of the spotlights. They matched the cap and gown to perfection, the school’s primary colour. A gold sash representing her high academic achievement — highest in her graduating class — circled her shoulders. At least she hadn’t lost half of her brain to a hail of bullets.
