by A J Grayson
‘Amber, oh God, you weren’t supposed to see …’
29
David
I was positive, from the instant I walked into the house on a quick pass back home after Amber left for work, that she hadn’t drunk the smoothie I’d made for her this morning. She’s a sly creature. Tries to hide the fact that she skips out on my little gifts, but I know her far too well. At best she takes a sip, two if I’m lucky, before the rest is sent down the drain. Her attempt at pleasing her man, despite hating what she’s being given. Got to give her that much.
She thinks I don’t know about her little manoeuvre, too, and that’s almost endearing. Maybe it’s innocence. Maybe naïveté. At least she’s keen to play the part of the doting wife who’s happy her husband is concerned for her health. The traditions of a marriage form in strange ways, and this little cat-and-mouse game has become one of ours. And it’s okay. Games are a part of life. A pleasant part, I’ve always thought.
We simply have to find other ways to ensure things get done.
I had just enough time on my little trip back to the apartment to put away the washed glass she’d left in the sink, tidy up the countertop and anticipate what was to come later in the day. I’d been planning to be home before her. Theoretically, it’s a possibility, and I enjoy the earlier shifts in the city. Nice to beat the traffic home if I can, and I can always do some of the paperwork from the house. Insurance documents can be scrutinized from anywhere.
Besides, I like being in the apartment when Amber arrives. She always makes a slow entrance at first, almost timid; but then her soft blue eyes meet mine and joy covers her face, and she suddenly bounds in with energy. I know that not every man genuinely, passionately, rapturously loves his wife, but I have to confess, that’s a fact I simply can’t comprehend. There’s nothing in this world I cherish more than Amber. Every day with her is one to cling to.
But not every day goes according to plan.
I arrived home this evening, far later than intended. Work sometimes does that, though what had occupied me today had been something heavier than work. Still, back home things at first appeared ordinary. Mostly so, at any rate. There were no signs of dinner having been made – not that I’d expected she’d have gone to the trouble of leaving something for me, late as I was; but I did assume she’d have cooked something for herself. The counters, however were just as I’d left them at lunchtime, the tea towel still hanging over the curved tap where I’d left it.
My first motivation had been for a drink. Something to help me shake off the shock of the whole day. Ever since last night my mood had been sour and tense, and the events of the day had made that radically worse. I glanced at the niche by the microwave where our Krups coffeemaker has its permanent home, and noted there was nothing but dregs left from the morning. Good. The fact that the native tea drinker has adopted that habit of mine is something I’ve consistently put to effective use. It’s become predictable, and from predictability comes control.
I wasn’t motivated enough to brew a new pot, and drinking those particular dregs was out of the question, so I opened the refrigerator to pull out a bottle of microbrew IPA instead. There were no noises from upstairs. My watch read 9.20 p.m., so it was just possible Amber had opted for an early night in. I glanced over to where I’d set out a few wine bottles earlier, one of them appropriately prepped, and saw that it was absent. That prompted a satisfied sigh. Amber can do justice to a whole bottle of wine by herself, and that one certainly would have knocked her out cold. My smile broadened. The quiet in the apartment was no longer a mystery.
I sat for a few moments at the side of the table. I wasn’t quite trembling as visions of the past few hours cycled through my memory, but I was suddenly grateful for the beer in my grasp. I took a deep swill, the bubbles tickling my throat – probably more than I should have tried for in a single mouthful, and fizzing drops trickled out the sides of my mouth.
It was as they ran down my chin that I heard what I’d thought I wouldn’t hear: noises from upstairs. I glanced back to the bottles on the counter, just to reassure myself, but the important one, the one from the front, was still absent. I hadn’t invented that. If Amber had drunk it, she should be all but immobile.
But then … movement, again. In an instant I knew something was wrong. My beer went down on the table and I strained to listen, keeping my body as motionless as I could.
The noise wasn’t coming from the bedroom. It was creeping down through the ceiling from a different direction and a higher storey.
My office.
With that, I cringed in panic, and my body thrust itself towards the stairs.
To permit Amber to discover that box … it’s an inexcusable oversight. And God, the leash. Still wet. She was never supposed to know about any of this. Especially not today. She’s not up for it. Amber is a woman constitutionally built for things to go according to plan.
She’s so perfectly trusting that the carpeting of my home office has been all but untouched by her feet since we first converted the former upstairs sitting room. A few visits early on, a bit of familiarity, but that’s all. She has her space, I have mine. She’s never pushed those limits. I’ve hidden things from her there before, more times than I can remember. She’s never discovered them. Never crossed the threshold to even being tempted to look.
In this instant I realize that had made me overconfident. Too relaxed. Of all the stupid mistakes. You can plan for a lifetime, but things can all turn on something so small.
Though maybe it isn’t entirely my fault. After all, I’m hardly in this alone.
When I walked in, as calmly as I could after bounding up the stairs, Amber was barely able to stand, already on her knees and wobbling even there. At least she came upon things in the right state of mind. Thank God. I’m not sure she fully recognized who I was.
Had she been wholly lucid, I don’t know if we could recover, or if I could keep her safe.
But the dose from the wine bottle had been strong enough to do the job. I’d seen to that at the start of the day; after the previous night, there was no point taking chances. One of my usual preparations, innocent and loving and predictable, and Amber had drunk far more than expected. I’d barely said two words after I entered the room before she collapsed on the floor, entirely out. I gave her another shot, anyway, after I’d tucked her into bed, just to be safe – the old-fashioned way, the needle so fine it never rouses her from sleep.
With so much in her system, there’s the chance she might wake up remembering nothing at all. At the very least, her thoughts will be disturbed. I’m confident the drug will have its intended effect. Memories dwindle, turn to fuzz. Reality drifts into a haze at the edges of one’s vision.
My breathing has slowed a little. I don’t have to panic. Things are under control.
But she saw more than should have ever been put into her head, or pulled out of it. Damn it. I really wish I could have prevented her that. How the hell did she get into my briefcase? How did she even spot it? I woke up a mess after her revelation last night. Maybe I didn’t stash it away like I should have. Maybe I —
But there are heavier questions that assault me before I have time to analyse the path of my day. What must the sight of the leash have done to Amber?
She can’t possibly understand what it really means.
Though I’m not certain she’ll have to. I’m still not sure, even after all this time, how much the drugs can mask.
Worst of all, she saw the T-shirt. Damn it all, she saw the t-shirt. I knew it should have just been thrown away, tossed into the trees. But then another might be needed, and cheap as they are, one doesn’t want to leave a trail any larger than one has to.
When death is so rampant, you can’t always be in control.
THE MORNING
I’ve taken care of the office upstairs. Packing my case back up took only a matter of minutes, and the room as a whole was tidy again after a few more. No sign Amber had ever been in there.
The box and the t-shirt, though, were going to be a problem. I know my wife. When she wakes, her head will spin. She’ll blame her memories on the wine – she’s always been prone to drink far too much of the stuff, which is such a helpful trait – and the rest to an overactive imagination. But the box, the t-shirt, these are unusual enough that they might push their way through. If any memory does survive the drug, she’ll want to verify. She’s an inquisitive person, despite her shyness. The memory of a box beneath my desk will prompt follow up.
So a box needs to be there if she goes back to check on things. It just needs to be … different.
The box she actually found is no longer present, its contents out of sight and, as far as certainties will ever go, out of existence. There’s a new shoebox under the desk now, as similar as I could find to the other, stuffed with an old white UCLA t-shirt that until about fifteen minutes ago had been folded among my other clothes. It’ll work perfectly. Red lettering, blood – a drunken mind could make the leap.
My briefcase is coming back to work with me. The leash, too. I’ll find a way to make sure that disappears forever, and can buy a new one on the way home. Maybe even that will slip her mind. Maybe that perception can be altered.
My watch squeezes at my wrist. 6.15 a.m. If I leave any later than this, another day’s pattern will be at risk.
There’s just the matter of putting the finishing touches on the usual routine.
The smoothie today will be peach-banana-pineapple. I haven’t tried that one on her before, but Amber has a history with pineapple, and part of the tradition is her bemused willingness to let me ‘expand her horizons’. But I know this won’t be the magic combination she chooses to embrace. At this point that would almost be counterproductive. I punch the blender to high and the noise shatters the quiet of the morning. I’m confident it won’t wake her.
The fruit dissolves into a swirl of colour. As it blends, I lift off the top. The final ingredient, always at the last moment. I extract the small bottle from my pocket and twist open the black cap. I notice, as I seem every day to do, that it has no smell, even in its pure, concentrated form. I waft the dropper, already full, past my nose – a little motion of reassurance – then raise it over the blender. Fifteen drops. If she drank the whole thing she’d be in a coma, but I know she only takes a sip or two. Need to keep the dose high for that.
And then it’s over to the coffee pot. I’ve had my cup already, another poured into a silver thermos flask and ready to go. A little less than half the pot is left. I slide the carafe off the heating pad, flip back the lid, and raise the dropper once again.
Five drops into the coffee. She usually takes a good cup of that, so this is more than enough. She needs to remain functional throughout her day, just not … whole.
A moment later and the carafe is back in the unit, the little bottle back into my pocket. I force myself to breathe. I pat down my suit, ruffle my hair.
Relax. This situation can still be saved.
30
There were three men involved in the ring. A trio, and a carefully calculated number. Larger, and there was too great a risk of sprouting a leak and things getting out. Just two, and one could get cold feet and turn his back on the other. A third kept them honest and held the whole group to account.
So that’s how it was. Three men, with the power to destroy worlds.
They were ordinary men, as outward form went. Dutifully employed, two of them for over twenty years at the same jobs. Family men with wives and relatives, who still cooked a traditional Sunday roast and came out with blankets and coolers to picnic in the park on the Fourth of July. Who frequented their local restaurants and knew the staff on a first-name basis.
Who, in the moments when the world that loved them wasn’t looking, ate away at its very core.
Men who killed without ever taking a life, who found their satisfaction in souls being crushed, and who smiled paternally when their fun was done.
They hadn’t organized themselves into a hierarchy. No one was the leader. They worked together, with a child cheaply bought and ritually effective in doing what they asked of her. Their helper. They never had to stalk; only to receive, and do what they wished with what was brought to them. All for the price of a bit of pocket cash and some toys.
If the devil had tempted Adam and Eve with something as trivial as an apple and the whole world had fallen into his grasp, it didn’t seem out of place that they could follow the same pattern, and to the same ends.
So their world bent to them, and there was no end in sight.
There were always more apples.
31
Amber
Every morning, my eyes look out from the mirror and taunt me.
I feel like this is how my day begins. Really. This is how it’s supposed to start. I lean over the bathroom sink, the vast mirror looming closer to my nose, peering with increased intensity into my own face.
There are facts here that are supposed to gel in a comprehensible way. I sense that, but I can’t seem to make them obey. I grope for the solidity of what’s in front of me.
My eyes.
They’re blue, not amber. They don’t match my name.
So the fuck what?
A blur of anger, just for an instant, unexplained but ferocious. It comes from nowhere, and then it’s gone – instantly. It was never there.
My face remains in the mirror, but now the world is gentle, just like that. Outside, I feel the sun must be shining; and here, inside, in the midst of it all, my eyes jokingly tease me in their customary way. The anger is now gone, simply evaporated away. I merely shrug and smile.
I’m used to this. The thought echoes through my head.
In the next instant, I’m in motion. My morning ritual, automatic, performed without pondering. They’re a well-honed routine, the actions of each minute tuned to fit—
The internal narration freezes. My hand is mid-motion, light brown mascara wand halfway to my left eyelash.
Mornings are well-honed. The thought reemerges. My hand doesn’t move, stuck in mid-air. I’ve done this before.
I always do this.
In the same moment, I begin to feel something deep within me. Whether it begins just then, or whether I only now become aware of it, I’m suddenly overwhelmingly uncomfortable. I feel it at first somewhere in my chest, then deeper, and then everywhere. Something within me is upturned, like all my organs have been removed and put back incorrectly, nothing fitting as it should. There is no specific part of me that hurts, precisely, yet nothing feels right. I focus again on the sight before me, and it too is wrong. I’m an improperly assembled version of the woman in the mirror.
But it’s not actually true that nothing hurts. I have a splitting headache – the reality announces itself with glaring swiftness. My head is pounding. Throbbing.
And then, Drink. The word chimes in my mind and a memory flashes into the present. I remember a strong wine, though not a very good one. Vague, swirling images of an overly colourful bottle. My chest unclenches. Shit, that would explain this. Another of those nights. I’ve had them before – too much of the booze, in whatever form is handiest, with its welcome numbing power and ability to rid me of unsettling emotions. God bless the stuff. Whoever thought up the craft of letting grapes go sour and rot before bottling them has my eternal thanks. I’ve been the beneficiary of the power of a bottle of wine on more than one evening, to the degree that—
To the degree that my current state shouldn’t shock me. Instead, I’m now being scolded by another memory. The too-familiar voice of my mother, somewhere out of the past. Only fools drink to excess, she says, and she smells of orange blossom hand soap and annoyance, even in the memory. It’s a sin with its penance built right in.
Then her voice fades and autopilot switches back on. I have the tools to shake away my unease. The landscape changes. Back into the known.
Within a few moments my face is done and my hair brushed. I’m all polished up
and ready to go.
My feet are already moving towards the kitchen, speeding me along to the next motion of my normal day.
Like they’ve lives of their own.
In the kitchen things are a portrait of normalcy, as I suppose I should only expect them to be. The formica is peeling at the edges of the counter, like it has been since we moved in, and the fourth leg of the table is still a quarter inch shorter than the others. Everything looks like it needs dousing with a good swath of bleach, even though I’m pretty ruthless about keeping it clean. You can only scrub the thirty-year-old surfaces of a cheap apartment up to a point. Beyond that, you have to admit defeat.
There’s a vase full of yellow tulips near the sink, a sign that David must be in his customary cheer, and that can’t help but make a person smile. Even me. And it’s not even a vase, really: it’s a cleaned-out jam jar with pebbles in the bottom, David not having been entirely successful in getting all the label off the side. Something about that pleases me immensely. Who needs crystal when glass and stones say so much more about the love of another person?
Near the flowers is a large glass, filled with something thick and hideous and yellow. A groan is already on my lips. I lean forward, lower my nose to the surface – so very much wishing it would smell like tulips – but instead am rewarded by some combination of banana, and something citrus, and pineapple. God forbid, pineapple. David is so forgetful.
You’ll love it, the memory arrives with the scent. Our honeymoon, at one of those fake but lovely seaside resorts. He’s laid back on a beach chair wearing only his swimming shorts, sand in the hairs of his chest sticking to oil with the scent of coconut, the sun beaming down. Between us is a small table onto which the overly Caribbean waiter, who must have attended a class in order to become so stereotypically Jamaican, has just deposited two drinks David had ordered. They both have umbrellas, which is ridiculous.
