by Amy Cross
"It's not what they are," I say. "It's where. Stand back".
I pull the cord and the sprayer starts up, making a loud revving sound and vibrating heavily.
"We should probably be wearing ear protectors!" I shout.
Tepper puts a hand up to her ear. "What?" she shouts.
"I SAID," I shout louder. "WE SHOULD PROBABLY BE USING EAR PROTECTORS! NEVER MIND!" I turn the dial on the sprayer and Rexin shoots out the front into the shipping container. I find the grip and start to turn the nozzle, making sure to spray the whole of the inside of the container. There's a massive amount of spray and it's impossible to see anything, but after a few minutes the machines starts making a gurgling sound and starts to splutter. I switch it off.
"Can't you break those things if you run them dry?" Tepper asks.
"No idea," I say. I step towards the door to the shipping container. Switching on my torch, I walk into the spray, which is still settling. I stare at the walls. "It worked," I say after a moment.
Tepper, Alice and even Lou follow me in.
"What the hell is that?" asks Tepper.
On the wall, picked up by the Rexin, are the bodily fluids that we detected earlier. But now it's clear that they weren't put on the walls randomly. The Rexin has turned the fluids bright pink, so that we can see them. And the fluids have been used to paint a large picture, with crude drawings of houses and people. On one of the houses, the word 'Naxos' has been written.
"The kid David wasn't writing his name," I say, indicating the little pile of fingernails and crap in the corner. "He was signing it. He was drawing a picture, using the only paints he had: all the shit, piss and everything else that he and his fellow prisoners were producing. He drew something important to him, something that can tell us where he and the other kids were being held before they were brought here. And now we have to work out where this place is. Because it sure doesn't look like the inside of a shipping container". I turn to look at Lou, who is staring open-mouthed. I smile. "Still think I should've taken the day off?"
The pain has been eating at me all day, but it's getting worse now. I excuse myself from the rest of the Scooby gang and I go into a little alley. I can't even stand up straight. It feels like something evil is growing in my belly, which I guess is kind of what's happening, except it just feels like it's in my belly. It's actually in my pancreas, and it's getting bigger by the second, pushing everything out of the way and spreading its cancerous seed through my body. My whole bloodstream is probably filled with reminders of what's happening inside me.
I gasp as the pain builds and builds. Is this it? I was told I'd have five years, but maybe he meant to say five hours? I sit on the ground and look around. Is this alley the place where I'm going to die? Maybe, except the pain seems to be subsiding now. I know they say the pain goes away just before you die, but I'm pretty sure I'm getting back to 'normal' now. I realise, quite suddenly, that I'm sitting in a puddle of something. Hopefully it's just rain water, but round this end of town you can never be sure.
I pick up a bottle of vodka and head home. It's not that I can't think of anything to do, more that I can't pick one. Tepper and the others are running copies of the picture past various people and groups, trying to find someone who recognises the place that the kid was drawing. That's basic procedural legwork, anyone can do it and it's boring, and they don't need me for it. I've told them to ring me when they've got something, but I'm not expecting miracles. Meanwhile, my options basically come down to drinking in a bar or drinking at home, so I choose home. I never used to drink this much, but I figure there's no much damage I can do to myself and, anyway, perhaps the alcohol will dull the pain, which has been in my gut on and off all day.
Dr. Fibes is waiting outside the door to my apartment.
"Booze?" he asks.
"It helps," I say. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard you confirmed your appointment for chemo".
"That's right," I say. "For next week".
"But you're not going to show up".
I pause as I get my key from my pocket and stick it in the door. "I'm not?"
"No," he says, "you're going to come up with some lame excuse to duck out. And you're going to do it again and again until I forget about you".
"I must say, you're an awfully cynical doctor. You want to talk about your feelings?"
"I didn't come here for a long conversation, John," says Fibes.
I get ready to shut the door in his face. "So what did you come here for?"
"This". Before I can stop him, he reaches up and injects something into my neck.
"What the fuck?" I say, pulling away.
"It's the first round of your chemo," he says as I step backwards. "In concentrated form. If you'd prefer to receive it in a more conventional and less uncomfortable way in future, please make appointments that you intend to keep. You'll be fine in 24 hours". He shuts the door and I hear him walking away.
I walk over to my sofa, but I'm already feeling strange: woozy and sick inside, and my balance seems to be off. I can barely keep my eyes open. Damn it, I can't think any more. All I can think is that this isn't going to be nice. Is my hair going to fall out? My teeth? My fingernails? Is it even legal to just turn up at someone's house and shoot them up with a ton of drugs they've I can't...
concentrate
Black.
5. Moment
something
Ellen smiles, but it's not a good smile. It's the smile of someone who's acutely embarrassed by her husband's behaviour at the dinner table. The others all looks embarrassed too. Jesus, was it something I said? Perhaps I should shut up, but that would be admitting defeat. So I plough on, trying to salvage the situation, except somehow I manage to knock over a newly-opened bottle of wine, which spills all over the table. I look at Ellen. She's not smiling now. She looks sick of me. Completely and utterly sick of me. But there's something she doesn't understand. I'm not drunk. I haven't touched a drop all evening. This is just me.
black
at first I think I'm dreaming, but I pinch myself and I realise it's real
I saw a ghost once. Years ago...
I would often drive home past the crematorium. It was by far the calmest route from my old precinct back to where I lived with Ellen when we started out, and there was rarely much traffic after 5pm. One evening in August, as I drove through the valley in which the crematorium sat, I was listening to Bach and enjoying the slowly fading light. I slowed a little as I passed the crematorium - as I always do, a mark of respect - and then about 250m later I noticed a man hurrying along at the side of the road. He was wearing a charcoal suit that was clearly a few sizes too big, and as I pulled up alongside him I saw that he was a little older than me, perhaps in his early sixties.
I wound down the window. "Can I take you on a little?" I asked.
"I'd be grateful. Where are you going?"
"Downtown."
The man nodded. I leaned across and opened the passenger door. He got in.
"Unusual place to pick up a traveller," I said as we set off.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.
"Not at all." I kept my eyes on the road as he lit up. He already stank of cigarette smoke, or perhaps cigars - an unusual aroma that I couldn't quite place. I tried to think of something to say. "It always strikes me as lunatic," I said as we drove over the top of the hill and began the descent into yet another valley, "the way they don't have any public transport to the crematorium."
The man reached down into the foot-well and took off his brogues. He began to examine them. "These aren't my shoes," he muttered, as much to himself as to me.
"Do you work at the crematorium?" I asked.
"No, no," he said quietly, still investigating the shoes.
"Oh I'm sorry," I said. "I suppose - it's a nice little place, very respectful, I always think they... treat the dead well." I flinched at the stupidity of what I'd just said.
The man put the shoes back on. "I guess
they do. What were you saying?"
"Oh nothing, just that it's a very nice crematorium. As these things go."
"I guess so," he said, sitting back and, it seemed, relaxing. "How far did you say you were going again?"
"All the way to Mile End," I said, smiling and tapping the steering wheel. "I spend the week in Crouch, then every Friday I drive home to spend a couple of days with the family." We reached a T-junction. I took the left. 25 miles to the centre of town, which wasn't really where I was going, but what the hell, right?
"So where are you from?" I asked.
"San Francisco."
"San Francisco? Christ, that's a fair distance. Just down here for the funeral, are you?"
"Yes." We drove along in silence for half a mile. "My sister's from near here, you see," he said eventually. "She married a man from Bottom."
"Nice church," I said.
"Very nice church," he said. "Terrific apse. Neo-Georgian."
"Yes," I said. "Terrific neo-Georgian apse." We came over the crest of Topse Hill and began a slow descent into the Riover Valley. The lights of the city, bright and blazing, twinkled in the distance. "So where are you going tonight?" I asked.
He threw his cigarette out the window and lit another. "I suppose I'm going back to San Francisco," he said.
"It's getting late," I said. "You won't get there tonight. You got a room booked somewhere?"
"No."
"Well I'd say you could stay with us, but Ellen - that's my wife - doesn't like strangers and, you know how it is..." I trailed off. The truth was, I only got two days at home each week, and I didn't want at least one of them disturbed by this gentleman, no matter how nice he might seem. There was also something about him that suggested he might linger.
"That's okay," he said. "I'll find a room somewhere."
For some reason, I doubted that in that over-sized suit of his he had a wallet, or any money. I thought about lending him enough for a room, but felt my chances of getting it back would be slim. "Here we are," I said as we drove through the outskirts of the city. I switched the headlights on and headed for the church square, which I felt was the best place to drop him. As soon as we pulled up outside the Maiden Over bar, the man said his goodbyes and got out of the car. I watched him walk towards the church, then stop and look around. In the quickly fading light, he looked terribly lost in his own suit, let alone lost in downtown Miami.
I got out of the car and approached him. He was just a dark outline now, against the darkening blue sky.
"Look, I could lend you some money for a room tonight," I said. "They do a nice line in small quiet ones at this place around the corner, terrific breakfasts. You could, I don't know, repay me next time you're passing through."
He kept his back to me. "No, it's alright," he said.
"Your best bet for San Francisco is just to get to the airport and see what they've got. But it's Sunday tomorrow, so it might take a little longer than usual."
He nodded.
"Oh but you have a sister, don't you? Over in Bottom? I - well, I could drive you over there if you like, it's not far. Do you want me to take you over to your sister's?"
"No, thank you. I don't suppose I should."
"Well let's go to the hotel and find you a room."
He turned and followed me to the door of the hotel, but then he seemed reluctant to go in. He seemed resistant to the sound of people and music coming from inside. "I think it's okay, actually," he said. "I don't think I should."
"Don't think you should what? You can't sleep on a bench, man."
"I don't think I should - I don't think I can go inside. Thank you."
I had to get out of the way as a couple came out of the bar. "You don't think you can go inside? Teetotaller? It's very quiet, you can have a Coke. I'll get it for you. You can pay me back next time you come through."
"No, it's alright. I was going to -" He looked across the square.
It was getting cold, and I for one was starting to shiver even if he wasn't. Ellen would be wondering why I was late, and she'd have the fire roaring ready for me. "Didn't have much of a plan for tonight, did you?" I said.
"Not really," he said. "Look, I don't suppose - I don't suppose I could ask you one more favour, could I?"
"Of course," I said.
"Look it's a terrible inconvenience, I know, and you've been so kind already, but I was wondering if I could put you out just a little more, and then I'll be out of your hair. I know it's getting late, and you must be tired. It's terribly dark, and cold I imagine, but I wouldn't ask if it wasn't, well, I think it's the best thing all round, really. So I was thinking, all in all, would you be put out terribly if I asked you to drive me back to the crematorium?"
We drove back in almost complete silence. It was crazy. I didn't have time for this. I had to be up at 6am for work. Ellen wouldn't be happy, losing the whole evening with me, and I knew this story about giving a guy a lift from a crematorium into town and then back to the crematorium was hardly going to make her see things from my point of view.
When we got to the crematorium, I pulled over and the guy immediately got out of the car.
"Thank you," he said.
"No problem," I replied. That was a lie. It was a huge problem. I'd damn near wrecked my night, possibly my fucking marriage, just driving this guy into town and back for no reason. "What's your name again?"
"David," he said. "I'm sorry to have bothered you". And with that, he turned and walked through the gates and into the crematorium. I decided to get home, but as I pulled away I realise it was getting late. I stopped the car and looked back, but the crematorium had no lights on. For a moment, I thought about getting out of the car and going to look for him, but I didn't have a torch and something told me not to go wandering about a crematorium at night.
"What?" Ellen asked, staring at me in disbelief.
"A guy," I said. "He wanted a lift into town, I helped him out".
"That's the worst excuse yet," she said. She came closer, as if she was about to kiss me. I was ready to kiss her too, but then I realised she was just smelling my breath. "Whisky," she said. "Have you been driving drunk?"
"I've been driving," I said. "I wasn't drunk".
She sighed. "Forgive me for not believing an alcoholic," she said sadly.
The day I discovered Tepper's a lesbian was one of the saddest days of my life. Truly. I can only imagine...
I turned to the marriage counsellor.
"Everyone thinks I have a drinking problem," I said. "But I really don't. I know you must hear that all the time, but I really truly don't".
I stared at her.
"You don't believe me, do you?"
She took a deep breath. "I believe you if you believe you. Do you believe you?"
I got up to leave. "What kind of bullshit answer is that?" I asked. "This is just self-perpetuating bullshit".
"What are you missing in the shipping container?"
I stared at her. "What?"
"In the shipping container," she continued. "You missed something. What is it?"
"This is a bad dream," I say. "A really, really bad dream".
She nodded. "You should probably wake up," she said.
"Hang on," I said. "Is this a dream or a memory?"
She said something, but it seemed pixelated and distorted so I have no idea what it was.
"Okay," I said. I stood there.
"How do I wake up?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said.
I closed my eyes.
6. Home
I wake up in darkness. Just as I'm wondering what happened, the room is momentarily illuminated by the headlights of a passing car in the rain. I heave myself up off the sofa and immediately feel sick to my stomach, and sure enough I vomit all over my legs. My hands are shaking slightly and I feel, for some reason, incredibly scared, almost as if I'm panicking. And there's another problem: I have absolutely no idea who I am.
A phone rings. The light from the sc
reen is flashing. I pick it up and answer.
"Hello?" I ask cautiously.
"Where've you been?" asks a female voice. "Don't you check your messages?"
"N-No," I stammer.
"We pulled a body from the water. DNA matches some of the samples from the container. It's a kid".
Container? I have a vague memory of being inside a metal box. There were other people there. It was dark and we were looking for something.
"Are you still there?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say. "What kind of body?"
A pause of the other end of the line. "What do you mean? Listen, you should get in here. We're making real progress. I'm sending a car". She disconnects.
I somehow find the switch for a lamp, and finally get some proper light in the room. It's a complete mess, with clothes and books and all sorts of crap all over the floor. There are dirty plates by the sofa, empty whisky bottles stacked up on a table, and a full, unopened bottle on a table by the door.
Right, the shipping container. I was there because of the explosion. And there were kids inside, except they weren't there. I'm a detective. I got shot once. The woman on the phone was Tepper. I know her. I like her, kind of. And if a body has been found, that's important. And...
I have cancer.
Fibes drugged me. He injected me in the neck. That must have been hours ago. And now my head feels all kinds of wrong. How the hell am I supposed to help out on the case if I can barely even remember who I am. In fact, although I remember pretty much everything now, there's one thing that's missing: my name. Who the fuck am I?
I look at the whisky bottle.
"My name is John Mason and I'm a" -
There. That was easy. My name is John Mason. Good. Sorted. Okay. I get up, walking across the room, but the phone rings and I go back to the sofa to grab it and answer.
