On The Run

by J. M. Parker

  Bannon nodded and the doctor handed across the prescription. “Okay,” said the doctor.

  “Yeah,” said Bannon, placing the prescription beside the bed before he looked at Hawkes. “Something I can help you with?”

  Hawkes reached into his pocket and passed Bannon an envelope. “In return for the information.”

  Bannon ran his hands across it, feeling the thin wad of cash inside. “Okay.”

  “There’s a business card in there as well. Call that number if you think of anything new.”

  “What happens if you catch him? Will you need me to testify?”

  “We have enough to charge him with. We just have to find him first.”

  “Well, I guess that’s good-bye then.”

  “Guess so,” said Hawkes.

  Bannon looked around the room. A backpack and a fresh pile of clothes lay at the foot of the bed and he thought suddenly of his things. “Wait,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Hawkes, stopping just before the door.

  “Did you manage to retrieve anything from the crash?”

  Hawkes shook his head. “Not much. They torched the camper. Was there something in particular?”

  “There was a photo I would have liked back.”

  “Of what?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Bannon. “Nothing that would have helped. Just a photo I was fond of, picture of my father and me.”

  “I can check, but I doubt I’ll find anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s alright,” said Hawkes, reaching back for the door. “You stay out of trouble.”

  Bannon didn’t answer, turning away as the agent left the room. He felt tears form in his eyes as he thought of the photo curling up in the flames. The door clicked shut and Bannon grabbed his sheet and wiped his eyes. He took a long, deep breath and fell back into his bed, the diamorphine seeping into his veins as he reached down and pressed the button again.

  16

  He ate the first of the painkillers within an hour of leaving the hospital, stretched out on a motel bed. His skin was covered with scars and his whole body ached. “What is this shit?” he said, reaching back for the hydrocodone and swallowing another tablet. He leaned back into the mattress, thinking over the last few months as he waited for the meds to numb the pain. He felt his anger spike as he thought about Alina and the Frenchman. He remembered the two of them pressed together, their arms wrapped around the chainsaw as they lowered the blade into the wood. “Bastards,” he said, dragging himself from the bed and removing a mini bottle of vodka from the fridge. He poured himself a glass, his hand trembling with the weight before he knocked it back. He felt a bit better and he drained another glass, retching a little before a faint warmth started to envelope his muscles. He felt his legs numb and he stumbled back to the bed. He lay there for a while, a sudden giddiness coming on as he tried to stand and his legs wobbled beneath him. “Fuck,” he said, his smile slipping as his mouth lolled open.

  *

  A loud knock on the door woke him. He felt sick and his stomach ached terribly. He edged across the room, the pain seeming to leap between his head and his stomach. When he got to the door he found a squat maid glaring at him.

  “Check out,” said Bannon, fear gripping him as he looked out across the second floor walkway, into the parking lot, and on toward the town.

  The maid nodded.

  “One moment,” said Bannon, his nausea worsening as he stepped back into the room and ripped open the bedside drawer. He returned with a handful of bills and he thrust them at the lady. “Two more nights.”

  The maid shrugged and Bannon held up two fingers. She nodded, copying the gesture before she handed him a pile of towels.

  Bannon slammed the door, turning his back to it and sliding down the wood. He felt paranoid, afraid that someone had seen him, afraid of who or what might be out there. “No one’s looking for you,” he said, his breathing quickening as he started to panic. He dragged himself to his knees, fumbling with the latch before he staggered across to the fridge. He uncorked another little bottle of vodka, the booze spilling onto his shirt as he drank. He finished two more bottles, his worry still intensifying. He curled his legs up to his stomach, wrapping his arms around them and rocking on the floor. He fell onto his side, curling tighter as he saw feet pass beneath the door. He turned and grabbed a beer, his whole body shaking as he tried to gulp it down. He saw the orange prescription bottle sitting on the nightstand and he crawled over and grabbed it. He remembered snorting Adderall off the hood of the camper and he remembered the words of the Frenchman: “We are working now, not when your metabolism decides. The effects will kick in much faster this way. Stronger too.”

  Bannon tipped the pills out onto the tabletop and grabbed the lamp, grinding the tablet beneath the base and leaving a thin powder running along its bottom edge. He licked his thumb, sweeping it across the residue before he rubbed it into his gums. He felt his whole mouth tingle and he brushed the powder into a line. He reached back into the drawer and rolled a bill, his whole face numbing as he snorted the powder. He felt a little calmer and he lowered back toward the drug. He snorted again, his muscles relaxing this time, and he crashed into the bed stand, sending the lamp crashing to the floor. The sound made him jump and he felt another burst of paranoia. He snorted a third line, powder covering his nostrils and spilling down onto his lip. He tried to breathe and he felt his throat constrict. He tried breathing through his nose, dragging snagged powder deeper into his body as his throat tightened again. He pressed his fingers into his mouth. His windpipe was almost jammed shut and he felt it suck around his fingers. He dragged his hand away, air creeping into the gap in his throat before it sealed shut again. He felt bile in his throat and he tried to spit. He couldn’t, the bitter fluid lodging in his airway as his stomach bubbled violently.

  Chunks stuck in his throat as he retched again. He felt his eyes water as he tried to suck air back into his nose and vomit jammed his nasal passage. In the corner of the room he saw a chair and he desperately stepped that way, his drugged legs barely holding, his head lolling sideways as his muscles ached for air. He hurled himself stomach-first onto the chair, driving the puke upward through his throat and blasting the windpipe clear in one gruesome explosion. He gasped for air, a little strength returning before another jet of vomit shot out onto the seat. He fell sideways, landing on his back and staring up at the ceiling, his throat tightening slightly but remaining loose enough to breathe. He pressed a thumb against his nostril and blew it clear, he saw powder in the snot. Again he breathed, a sudden euphoria seizing hold as air rushed into his lungs. He let his arms spread out onto the carpet, the soft fabric felt good against his skin. He smiled as a pleasant warmth flowed through his body, barely able to move his muscles as the sponge carpet of the room seemed to wrap like a blanket around him.

  *

  The meds wore off around three hours later. Bannon sat on the edge of the bed, turning the prescription bottle in his hands. Twice he uncapped it before his nerve failed him and he dropped the pills back into the container. He stayed in the room for the rest of the morning, peering through a crack in the curtains and scanning the view for danger. A little after lunch he saw the housekeeper and he called her over through the gap between the latch and door. On a piece of paper he’d drawn a bottle of water and a sandwich. He pressed a few bills to the back of the paper and passed it through.

  The maid returned an hour later with his food. From the window Bannon peered up and down the walkway, waiting for a couple to step into their room before he opened the door, the clammy smell of his room pouring out toward the housekeeper. She passed him the food, a disgusted look appearing on her face as she spotted the puke-encrusted chair. “Thanks,” said Bannon, shutting the door and fumbling with the latch, the rubber soles of the housekeeper squelching along the walkway as he moved back over to the window.

  He scanned the view a final time before he drank the water; the icy fluid felt goo
d against his throat. He unwrapped the sandwich and ate, food falling from it to the floor as he took messy, ravenous bites. The food and the water seemed to steady him slightly and he turned away from the window and looked back into the room. Empty bottles of booze lay scattered across the carpet, the crusted puke stunk worse than ever. He sighed, feeling stupid as he thought of all the imagined terror. He snatched the prescription bottle off the nightstand and rushed over to the bathroom, dumping the pills into the toilet, a slight anxiety coming over him as he saw the hydrocodone floating in the water. “You fucking pussy,” he said, flushing the toilet and watching the pills suck away.

  *

  For a while he wandered the city streets, looking nervously around the crowds, flinching when people brushed against him. Across the street he saw a bar and he hurried inside, ordering a large beer and a whiskey shooter on the side. The pair came together and he slammed the shot, chasing it back with a big gulp of beer. The bartender looked from Bannon to the clock and then he turned away, shaking his head as he counted out the cash.

  Bannon jumped as a white teenager slipped into the stool next to him. He took another big gulp of beer, fighting the urge to leave. The boy smiled in his direction and Bannon felt his worry subside a little. “Mind if I join you for a bit?” said the boy.

  “Sure,” said Bannon, sliding his arms off the bar as he saw the boy look over the scars.

  “Sorry,” said the boy.

  Bannon smiled, wondering if the boy felt the same urge to up and run. “It’s alright. Just self-conscious is all.”

  “Okay.”

  “You traveling alone?” said Bannon, still feeling uneasy but determined to see the conversation through.

  The boy grimaced, “No.”

  “How many more?”

  “Two.”

  “And where are they at?”

  The boy paused. “They’re off at the park.”

  Bannon smiled as he started to get a feel for the conversation. He took another gulp of his beer, a slight trace of confidence returning. “There is more to it than that.”

  “Won’t tell anyone?”

  “Tell who?” said Bannon, looking around the bar.

  The boy grimaced again before he spoke. “They’ve been eating sleeping pills and drinking energy drinks.”

  “What’s that do?”

  “They said if you can stay awake long enough, you’ll hallucinate. And really hard, too. They said they were bored of all the temples and the hiking here, they wanted to get fucked up.”

  Bannon took another gulp of the drink and the boy looked intently back at him. “Stupid, isn’t it?” said the boy.

  “Sounds that way.”

  “Why would someone do something like that?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Bannon, flagging the bartender over. “My frame of reference is way off.”

  “What?”

  Bannon smiled. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Let me buy you a beer.”

  *

  He returned to the hotel a few hours later, striding confidently across the parking lot. A woman descended the stairs and he waited to let her pass before he moved to the top, taking two steps along the walkway before he stopped in shock. The owner stood in front of his door, a baseball bat in hand. Bannon’s backpack sat in the middle of the walkway, his clothes spilling from the top. The door opened and another man stepped out, carrying the puke-stained cushions of the chair.

  “It was an accident,” said Bannon, the confidence vanishing as the owner stepped his way.

  “You go,” said the owner, kicking Bannon’s backpack across the ground.

  “I’ll get it cleaned up.”

  “Go,” said the owner, raising the bat and pointing it at Bannon’s chest.

  “Alright, alright,” said Bannon, stammering as he felt a familiar anxiety coming on. “Just let me check my things,” he said, searching through his backpack and finding everything there. He stood and pointed to the room. “One thing,” he said, pressing his palms together as he looked from the owner to the room.

  The owner lowered the bat and Bannon rushed past the men, nudging the door shut behind him and lunging at the fridge. He tore the door open, his heart lifting as he found the fridge restocked. He grabbed a handful of bottles, stuffing them into the backpack before he heard feet hurry across the room and the men seized his arms.

  They dragged him kicking and screaming across the parking lot and dumped him on the curb. Bannon heard glasses smash in the backpack as they threw it at his feet. “Pigs,” he said, retreating further down the curb as the owner stepped in his direction. When the men finally disappeared he slumped onto the concrete and rummaged through his things; everything reeked of booze. He picked out the shards of glass and tossed them into the road. He found three little bottles of whiskey and quickly drained the first. “Fuck this place,” he said, sweat pouring across his brow as he pushed himself to his feet and staggered down the road.

  *

  He bought a ticket for an evening bus, finishing the rest of the drink while he sat in the shelter of the station. He boarded the bus drunk, his hands shaking as he saw passengers look over his dirt-stained clothes. He curled up into a window seat, his backpack tucked into his body, already feeling a little claustrophobic, a little trapped. The bus rolled off and he jumped at the movement, glancing back into the bus and relaxing as he saw the other passengers turned away.

  Before long it was dark and Bannon watched as people drifted off to sleep. His body cramped as he shifted in his seat and he let out a loud groan. He heard someone stir behind him and he pressed his head into his backpack, closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep…He saw a lake stretching out beneath the night sky. He moved to its edge, shining a flashlight across its black surface. He heard the familiar sound of air passing through a scuba circuit as he slipped a regulator into his mouth. He plunged into the water, a cold shudder passing through him as he disappeared below the surface. He saw dim figures move through the dark water and he stared at them. A shape passed above him and he heard the tubes rip from his tank. Air sprayed out into the water and he felt himself choke. He tried to swim upward but something gripped his ankle. He flashed his light that way and he saw the Frenchman, his eyes rolling back as he dragged him into the lake. Bannon tried to scream but the water muffled his words. He shined the flashlight out into the water, searching for a way out. He saw something sink into the light, Alina, her hands outstretched toward him. He reached up, his fingertips brushing hers, when her lips curled into a cruel grin. “Fool,” she said, drawing her arm away as she rose up into the water, her features washing out as she dissolved into the lake around them. He heard the Frenchman’s laughter cut through water and he looked down, watching as the Frenchman dragged them deeper into the lake. He felt pain course through his body as he tried to twist away, the Frenchman’s laughter growing louder and louder as Bannon pointed the flashlight in his direction and the whole scene burst with light…

  He came to in a hot sweat, passengers stared at him and he turned away. He saw lights outside, the green cross of a pharmacy shining among them. “Stop,” he said, still trembling, pain running through his body as he dragged himself from his seat. More faces turned in his direction as he staggered along the aisle. He reached the front and gripped the driver by the arm. “Stop,” he said. The bus driver looked his way, a worried look appearing on his face as he noticed Bannon’s scars. “Stop,” repeated Bannon.

  The driver swung the wheel to the side, horns blaring out from the cars as the bus skidded to a stop. Bannon headed down the stairs, losing his footing and tumbling out into the street. The bus started as quickly as it had stopped and Bannon lay in the gutter, trying to catch his breath as the wheels of passing cars sprayed dust across his body. Another horn sounded and Bannon stood, not bothering to wipe the dust away as he limped on to the pharmacy. He reached the building, cursing as he saw the long metal bars pulled down in front of the window. He slammed his arms against them, the metal
slapping together and ringing out into the quiet of the night. “Goddammit,” he said, flinging his backpack at the bars, the metal slapping noisily against the glass. Clothes flew from the backpack as he swung again. Lights turned on above the pharmacy and a siren wailed at the end of street.

  Bannon turned as the squad car rolled in his direction. He heard the car speed up as he limped into an alley, his legs aching badly as he tried to run. To his right he saw a large square trash can and he raised the lid, dragging himself across the brim. Garbage bags split as he landed on top of them, the sour smell of trash filling the can as the lid shut. He heard the car drive past, the siren sounded once more, then everything went quiet. He waited for a moment longer, too sore and too scared to move. He felt something stick to his elbow and he retched as the smell worsened. Slowly, he dragged himself from the container, his haggard body stinging as he fell out into the alleyway. He tried to rise but his legs buckled. He felt sweat pour down his cheeks and he wiped an arm across his face, leaving a sticky trail of slime running across his skin. He grabbed a T-shirt from his backpack and wiped himself clean, the pain still coursing through his body as he tossed the shirt aside and leaned back against the alleyway wall.

  *

  The prescription shook in his hand as he passed it across to the pharmacist. The man looked skeptically back at Bannon before he nodded, returning with a small orange bottle of pills. Bannon snatched the bottle away, turning to leave, when the man called him back. “Oh,” said Bannon, watching as the pharmacist pointed to the numbers on the register. He reached into his pocket and handed across the money, tapping his hands against the counter as the man counted out his change.

  The pharmacist looked up from the till. “You okay,” he said, staring at the dirt on Bannon’s clothes.

  Bannon pointed at the till. “The change, please.”

  The man grabbed a handful of coins and slapped them onto the counter. “Next time find other place.”