by Julie Frayn
She could feel his googly eyes boring into her.
“I know you?”
She cut her eyes his way then refocused on the boobs across the street. “I think you do.”
“You work in a shelter?”
“No.”
He shifted his weight and extended his legs. One real leg. One peg leg. He tapped her prosthesis with his. “Me too.”
Her heart sank. Did he have that back in 1993? She scoured her memory and tried to focus her eleven-year-old’s eyes away from the blade, away from the bandana and the tooth, away from the barrel of the gun. But she just couldn’t see anything else.
She swallowed. Sympathy would be the last thing this monster posing as a regular man deserved. He must remain a monster. If he wasn’t, her whole life was a lie.
“How’d it happen?” She mustered a hoarse whisper. Her red pen drew a pig’s nose over his, though his wasn’t much better. He had the bulbous, open-pored, glowing proboscis of a lifetime drunk. She added ink fangs protruding from his mouth. Gold ones.
“Lower extremity arterial calcification.”
She gawked at him. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t make me say it twice, lady.”
“No, of course not.” She tugged at the hem of her jacket. “When?”
“Five years back. Doc hacked it off in prison. Can’t afford no fancy foot like you got.”
She nodded, returned her eyeballs to tits and vodka. “Why prison?”
“I done something real bad.” His voice cracked.
Billie gave him a sideways glance. “What was that?”
“I was messin’ where I shouldn’ta been messin.’ Cop and his lady died. Little girl got sho-.” His body went rigid. He inched his head around until his eyes met hers. “Oh, no. No way.”
She raised one hand and gave him a tiny wave.
Tears sprung from his eyes and left clean tracks on his dusty cheeks. “Is it you? Is it really you?” He rested the back of his head on the brick wall behind him and squeezed his eyes shut. “Wilma? Willie?”
“It’s Wilhelmina. I go by Billie.”
He nodded, his eyes still shut, a crooked grin on his face. “Billie. I remember now.” He opened his eyes and turned to her. “He was gonna kill you.” He looked away and wiped his face with one hand.
A man in a suit that probably cost a month of Billie’s salary dropped a toonie in Gold Tooth’s cup. He smiled and nodded at the man who didn’t even slow down. “Fuck you. Fuck you very much.”
Billie snorted. “You are saying that. I couldn’t tell before if it was thank or, well, that other word.”
“Fuck. Go ahead, little girl, say it. It don’t bite.”
She rubbed her palms together. “The Crown Prosecutor, Mr. Robbins, said you’d found God. Had you lost him before?”
“Oh, yeah. Lost him big. I’d been doing everything wrong. Thinking that God was watching all that? Well, I couldn’t deal with it. So I just let him go.”
“You found him in prison?”
He chuckled. “Nah. I found him in my heart. I was just lying on the exercise yard floor with a shiv in my gut when it happened.”
“But you say that word out loud. He doesn’t like that.”
“Well, my God likes it. Out loud is honest. And I like it too. Says everything all in four little letters. Now don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the cash. But most folks ignore me or dig a quarter out of their pocket. Five buck coffee in the other hand. So that’s my sanity keeper. Mumbled thanks that flips ‘em off at the same time.” He grinned wide. Next to his gold tooth, the rest were rotted, some down to stumps.
“How long have you been out of prison?”
“Ah, they didn’t tell you, did they?”
She shook her head.
“Paroled a while back. Been three winters.” He swallowed and wiped fresh tears from his face. “I always wanted to tell you how sorry I was. But you never came to any of the hearings.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
“Well, I still am. Sorry, I mean. More than ever. If I hadn’t been doing that deal in that alley, you’d have parents. And a leg.”
She wiped her own cheeks dry. “Too late for that.” She dug a five-dollar bill from her purse and tucked it into the cup. “Well, Mr. Dickinson. I’ve got to get to work.” She stood.
He fished the bill out and handed it back to her. “Call me Tony. And I don’t need your money. Don’t deserve your kindness. I’ve taken enough from you.”
She took the money and tucked it in her pocket. “Most everyone deserves kindness.” She turned and walked away.
Friday the 21st
BILLIE ROLLED THE SCROLL wheel on her mouse and read line after line of garbage on the screen. How did these people get past the slush pile? She had no appetite for proofing, each spelling misstep, each rule of grammar murdered on the page like a bite of liver dripping with ketchup and onions when she was nine. Cover that shit up with all the metaphors and adjectives you want, she still couldn’t choke it down.
“Fucking crap,” she mumbled. She smiled. Gold Tooth was right. Saying it out loud didn’t bite. She bit a section of apple in two.
The ring of her phone, shrill and intense, startled her. Her hand jerked and tightened against the mouse’s body. In one movement she’d highlighted and deleted most of one shitty paragraph. The literary world should thank her.
She eyed the call display, not in the mood for Katherine, or for cold calls from office supply companies that dial every number until they find the one dolt in the building willing to commit to buying toner at criminal markups. Her brows arched. It was Debra, executive assistant to the editor-in-chief.
Billie lunged for the receiver, dropped it on her desk with a clatter, snatched it up, and put it to her ear. She swore a blue streak in her head, but her mouth said, “Good morning, Debra, Billie here. What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Billie. We’re letting everyone know the result of the interviews. We’ve shrunk the candidates down to a short-list.”
Billie swallowed and closed her eyes. Next was the easy let down.
“Can you come for a follow-up interview on Tuesday at ten?”
Billie squeezed her closed lids more closed and hit the rewind button. Follow-up interview. Tuesday. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.” She opened her eyes and glanced around the office. Jeffrey had rolled his chair into the aisle.
She gave him a thumbs up.
He flashed both of his thumbs up and grinned like a lunatic.
“Tenth floor, in Ms. Armbruster’s office.”
“I’ll be there.” Billie knew all too well where the editor-in-chief’s office was. “Thank you so much, Debra.” She eased the receiver back on its cradle and stared at it for a few seconds.
“You’re in, right? I told you!” Jeffrey put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a playful shake. “Tonight. Shopping. You and me. Girl, I’m going to deck you out.”
Billie laughed. “I’m in. But not tonight, tomorrow. Tonight is date night.”
Jeffrey pouted. “Aren’t you living with him or something? Isn’t every night date night?”
“Not living. We just stay over once in a while.” Like, every night for almost two weeks. But it didn’t matter. Date night was sacred.
Billie flung the glass doors of the office building open and freed herself from its crumbling cocoon. She skipped down the marble steps and strode toward the subway, her eyes making contact with every face, offering each passerby who dared to share her zest for life a sharp nod and a heartfelt “good afternoon.” Not that there were many of them.
The business end of downtown cleared out early on Fridays, and she’d chosen to work late, clean up some of the backlog of proofreading, and meet up with Bruce directly from work. The sun slipped behind the tall buildings on its descent into nighttime. The towers cast the sidewalk into eerie shadow. Billie shivered at the evening chill.
A breeze caught her hair and tossed it about. A wave of tresses flew in front of
her face. She pushed it aside and tucked it behind her ear. A month ago, she’d have captured it, tethered it to the base of her skull with an elastic band, and wrapped it tightly in a bun. Heck, she’d have never allowed it loose to begin with.
She fluffed it with both hands and let it fly free, let the wind have its way with her hair and twist it into knots.
A man jostled her from behind and rushed on past, his suit jacket open and flapping in the wind. A bike courier, his basket empty of deliveries, nearly ran her down, his eyes averted. Did no one want to share her good vibrations?
Her path crossed in front of an alley. She made eye contact with a young man in the shadows, leaning against the brick building.
He pushed away from the building and stepped from the anonymity of the alley. He held his arms out, both hands pointing at his crotch. “Hey momma, you want a piece of this? ‘Cause I’m gonna get me some of that.” He gestured at her chest with one hand and assaulted her with his eyes.
The bandana, the neck tattoos, the swagger. She’d recognized him immediately. But he didn’t seem to have a clue who she was.
He blocked her path, looked up the sidewalk past her then over his shoulder. “Come on, baby.” He grabbed her around her waist and pulled her into his body, his other hand in his pocket. “Don’t scream and don’t try to run or I’ll shoot you, bitch.” The stench of whisky rolled from his mouth, his hoodie stunk of sweet, acrid smoke. His pocket bulged with what could be a gun.
Or probably just his pointed finger, the little faker.
He pulled her into the alley and she let him do it. He dragged her behind a Dumpster and she didn’t resist. Adrenaline pumped through her body, her hands trembling. Not in fear. In anticipation. This was no fugue incident. This was real life. And she was ready for it.
She elbowed him in the ribs and ripped herself free of his grip. “Get your hands off me.” She dug her hand into her open purse. Her fingers found her can of pepper spray.
The boy pointed at her and laughed. “Shit, maybe you’re too dumb to fuck.”
She glanced down. Her prosthetic foot rested in the gutter that ran down the middle of the lane. Mucky water dripped into her snakeskin flat. Filth wicked up her pant leg. She raised her eyes to meet his. “What’s the matter, Bat Head? You not man enough?”
He cocked his head. “Bat Head?”
“Yeah. Bat Head. You don’t have what it takes, do you? Can’t get it up for the gimpy chick?” She shook the swill from her foot and took a step toward him.
He took two steps backward. “No fucking way.” He rubbed his eyes.
Billie advanced. “I hear you’ve graduated from bullying innocent bystanders on the subway to actual crime. Theft. Drugs.” She raised one hand and pushed on his chest with her fingertips. “Rape.”
He tripped on a crate that had fallen from a pile of wood stacked against the brick building. He landed on his ass and scrambled to his feet. “It can’t be you.”
“Can’t be who?”
“You. Gimpy chick. Shit, look at you. You’re hot.” He smirked. “But if it is you, then this is my lucky day.” He shoved his hand in his pocket. “You owe me, bitch.”
“I owe you?” She laughed. “What do I owe you, you thug? Comeuppance? Another kick in the pants? Retribution perhaps?”
He pulled a knife from his pocket and launched the blade. “Then maybe I owe you.” He lunged at her.
She jumped sideways. His knife sliced the air, his body bolted forward. She caught the seat of his pants with the toe of her wet foot and shoved him to the ground, face first. He rolled onto his back and jumped to his feet. “You crazy bitch. I’m done playing with you.”
He raced toward her and grabbed her hair. He pulled her head back, shoved his face into hers, and pinned her arms. “You’re mine now.” He pushed her to the ground. She landed on her knees and dropped her purse. At the sound of his zipper coming down, she spun around and shot pepper spray at his face.
He swore and swiped his face, his cheeks red from pepper, one eye watery.
She’d been too far away.
He covered one eye with one hand and held the knife out with the other. “Shit, I’m gonna cut you, whore.”
She focused on the glinting blade and froze. Wet garbage, filthy asphalt, tall buildings closed in on her. She shut her eyes and shook her head. No. This was not 1993. She was not a helpless little girl.
She bounced to her feet, stood in fighting stance, her good leg in front, prosthesis behind, her fists raised and ready, the pepper spray still in her firm grasp.
He dropped his arms to his sides. “Seriously? You think you can take me?” He shook his head and pounced.
She weaved left, planted her good leg and brought her prosthetic foot to his groin.
He stopped mid-attack, like a DVD on pause. He fell to his knees and grabbed his crotch. His knife skittered across the pavement and came to rest in the gutter a few yards away.
Billie bent over him. “Yeah, I think I can.” She shot pepper directly into his face.
He screamed, his hands flew to his face.
Her head ping-ponged, her gaze cutting from his face to the knife that rested a few feet behind her and back. Her fingers itched to snatch it up. To slice him into ribbons, to feel his hot blood against her skin. To make him truly pay for his vile crimes. There had to be more victims than the reporters knew about. He was ripe to reoffend. Hell, he was probably a serial killer in the making.
He swept one leg up and kicked her in the stomach. The air left her and she stumbled backwards, landing hard on the alley floor.
Bat Head scurried toward her and pinned her to the ground.
She stared up into his swollen eyes, blazing with hatred and oozing tears. She spat at him.
“Oh, that’s it, you fucking bitch. Now you’re going to know what being a whore feels like.” He backhanded her across the face.
Her head snapped to one side. Her mouth filled with liquid metal and rage.
“Get off me, you fucking little bastard.” She jerked her body and tried to buck him off.
He laid one forearm across her chest. “I’m done talking, skank.” He ripped her blouse open with his other hand.
She grabbed at the sleeves of his hoodie, squirmed beneath him and struggled to breathe, unable to scream.
He fumbled with his pants, undid the button of hers and tried to yank them down. “Fuck, why you bitches gotta wear skin-tight jeans?”
Billie got one knee up, planted her heel and pushed. She scooted back a foot.
He scrabbled along the payment with her and took her by both shoulders. He lifted her upper body until their noses were so close she could hear his inhale whistle through snot. “Stop moving,” he said, his voice a low growl, “or I’ll bash your pretty head in.” He pushed her.
Her shoulders and head hit the pavement. Her right arm flopped to the side. Something cut into her elbow.
Bat Head shoved one hand in her bra and squeezed her breast, his other hand grabbed at her pants and tried to rip them from her body. His waistband was around his thighs, his erection tenting his loose boxers.
She’d figured he’d have Batman briefs.
She scanned the ground, her eyes wild, her heart about to explode. That’d show him. She’d die during the commission of his crime. That was first-degree murder.
No, God damn it, that was not the way she and Bruce had written it. The little prick had to go to jail with not one more victim. But maybe it was too late for that.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the knife. She cut her eyes to him. He was all wrapped up in the difficult task of stripping tight jeans from a woman who wouldn’t quit kicking and bucking. He had them down far enough that she could see most of her white cotton underpants. And he could see them too, his thug eyes on her private underthings. His grimy, disgusting hands on her flesh, touching things he had no right to.
She shook her head.
No. Fucking. Way.
She scooted the bla
de closer with her elbow until it was close enough to grab.
Bat Head curled his fingertips around the elastic of her panties and smirked. He looked into her eyes and yanked on them.
She thrust the blade into his belly and held her breath. It slid in easier than a steak knife through tenderloin.
His face twisted and contorted. His boxer bulge deflated on impact. He squeaked something unintelligible.
Billie pushed him off of her and rolled away. She crawled a few feet, filth and rocks and broken glass digging into her palms, until she bounded to her feet. She ran to the alley entrance, the knife still gripped in her hand. At the sidewalk, she screamed for help.
The street was empty except for a lone woman exiting Billie’s office building. The woman ran to Billie, stiletto heels clacking against the cement. “Oh my God, Wilhelmina?”
Billie looked up into the confused face of Katherine. “Call the police.”
Katherine dug in her purse and pulled out her iPhone. “I need cops and an ambulance at Seven-fifteen Fourth Avenue. The alley entrance on the east side.” She squatted in front of Billie and examined her. “Assault,” she said into the phone. She pulled what was left of Billie’s blouse over her partially exposed breast. “Make that rape.”
Katherine tossed her phone into her bag, took off her silk blazer, probably Holt Renfrew, and draped it around Billie’s shoulders.
Billie’s body began to tremble. “I think I killed him.”
A patrol car careened into the mouth of the alley, sirens wailing and lights flashing.
Billie winced.
The doctor put one final stitch in the knife wound on her elbow.
She sat on the hospital bed in a scant gown that opened in the back. Her skin crawled with gooseflesh from the air conditioning and the remnants of Bat Head’s hands on her body.
She’d already undergone the debasing experience of a sexual assault exam, even though she told them he didn’t get the opportunity. For evidence, they said. The crime geeks made her strip, took her clothes, swabbed her and scraped her and clipped her nails. She felt like victim and criminal at the same time, like she was being assaulted all over again.
