by Aaron Dries
She had time to wonder if Brian had escaped, or if the short fat man had snatched him from the river and dragged him away. She wished she had kissed her best friend back there on the bridge, wished that she hadn’t asked him to come back to her house—but insisted on it.
By the time she’d made these wishes, Jenn crashed against the uppermost branches of the trees below. Her scream cut short. Owls startled into flight.
Part Three: America
Chapter Thirty
It was the sense that things were peripheral, that things no longer existed when he turned his back to them, which gave the dream away, not the randomness of it. Marshall was semi-lucid, yet had little control. The power of the dream was stronger than his power over it. He struggled to remember where it was he must have fallen asleep. He couldn’t remember going to bed.
There was only the library.
The ceilings were tall and spinning fans chopped through the air, Apocalypse Now style. Although he couldn’t feel the humidity, he somehow knew it was there. There was condensation on the windows; the people around him were dripping sweat. The pot plants were overgrown with vines strangling each other in the fight for light. Mosquitoes buzzed by his ears. He swatted one and it exploded against the side of his head. When he inspected his palm afterwards, he saw blood. It was Thai jungle heat.
He wiped his hands on his jeans and continued through the open room.
Two librarians, one female and one male, lifted their heads as he passed. Marshall looked at them and his breath disappeared. They had no faces, their expressions erased. The librarians raised a finger to where their mouths should have been and although they made no noise, he could still hear their hiss.
Faceless patrons were crouched over books on tables across the floor. One slammed his volume shut, stood and ran away, skittish as a lizard. Nobody else moved. All was quiet except for the fans, the occasional flipping page.
Marshall stepped towards the back of the library, only now aware that he was barefoot. On his right were the impossibly long aisles of books. Each row ended in darkness and there were crows busying themselves among the shelves. Some cawed, others polished their beaks against the cracked spines of classics.
He rounded a corner and saw the individual computer stations. Marshall could hear his heart thumping as he scanned the small desks. He recognized some of the people. There was the young, attractive celebrant who had married Claire and him so many years ago back in the Hunter Valley. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun. Her computer screen was blank and she appeared to be praying. It was hard to tell, she not having a face. She rocked back and forth, the wooden seat creaking beneath her weight.
Keep swinging like that and your chair is going to buckle and you’re going to go tits-over-ass, he thought but didn’t say. For some reason he didn’t feel brave enough to speak out loud. Perhaps he feared the librarians. Although they had no eyes he could still feel their looks burning into his back. Marshall thought it best not to question dream logic, and walked forward.
His father was at the next desk, the front fold of his huge stomach resting on the spacebar of his keyboard. The cursor did frantic, never-ending laps across the screen. Next to his legs on the floor was his leather mail bag he had used to deliver the post back in James Bridge. It was overfilled with un-addressed packages. Marshall wanted to reach out and hug his father, to hold him close and tell him how much he was missed. He wanted to ask for help in a whisper so nobody else would hear. Yet again, he remained silent.
The librarians had moved from their position behind the information desk and now stood near the bookshelves. Crows lit on their shoulders and did the peeking for them.
Claire was at the next desk, only it was the Claire he’d met in Thailand, not the woman who had abandoned him in Vancouver. A bowl of pre-gluten free Massaman curry sat on the desk next to the mouse pad, and her large travel bag rested against the legs of her chair. Her hair was a brighter shade of red than it had ever been in reality. She had a spoonful of the curry in her fingers. The meat was rotten, climbing with maggots.
Don’t eat it, he screamed in his mind. If you eat it you’ll get a stomach bug and you’ll get sick and we’ll have to go home early and God only knows if I’ll see you again. But it was too late, the spoon was in her mouth, the maggots exploding between her jaws. He moved on, holding his stomach.
Next to Claire was Liz Frost. Marshall had never met Liz Frost during his time in James Bridge, but he, like everyone, knew about her. She was the infamous bus driver who had gone insane and kidnapped her passengers back in the mid-nineties. Nobody really knew what had happened, only that many people had died and the reputation of the town had been blackened. Everyone in James Bridge seemed to know someone who knew someone who had been directly involved, but nobody ever seemed to meet these people face-to-face. Liz had become something of a local bogeyman—or woman. Her name was used by desperate parents seeking last resort threats against their children.
“Clean your goddamned room otherwise I’ll stick Liz Frost on you,” they would say.
“You will go to school and you will do your homework, otherwise one morning Liz’ll pick you up and take you home with her. How’d you like that, huh?” Marshall had seen photographs of her, but that was all. It was her bloodstained bus uniform that gave away her identity. Images of dead people played across her screen.
There were two people sitting at the computer next to Liz. They were his ex-employee, Simone, and Claire’s ex-workmate, Benny. Marshall had only met Benny once in person and that was at his son’s funeral, but he’d often overheard him talking when he was on the phone to his wife. Marshall had not seen Simone since he took her out to dinner just before he moved to Canada. When they had shared their final hug that night, Simone almost cried. Her eyes may have swum and her voice cracked, but the girl remained strong for his sake alone. It was clear that Simone would miss more than just her well-paying job.
Noah was at the last table.
The small flashing USB stick was in the computer hard drive. Unlike everyone else in the library, Noah didn’t seem to notice Marshall’s presence, and he still had his features. His brow was knitted with tense lines and his cheeks were sunken, as though almost dead. His hand moved the mouse in quick jerks as he cut-and-paste fragments of his MSN conversations into Microsoft Word. There were overlapping windows open on his screen, but Marshall couldn’t make out what they all were. Noah was looking around, oblivious to how evident his nervousness was. He looked guilty.
Marshall couldn’t move. This was the first time he’d seen his son in any of his dreams or visions, as an intact, living thing. It was almost as though he’d forgotten what Noah had looked like before his head had hit the morgue floor and cracked open, spilling black blood and brains. Seeing him there in the humid library raised Marshall’s spirits, and all of a sudden he realized that Noah had not died. No. Noah was still alive. But not for much longer. Blood dripped down the computer screen and pooled between the keys. Noah typed his replies to HelveticaBoy with a speed that Marshall could never match, blood splashing up onto his shirt and chin.
“Noah, stop!” Marshall screamed, his voice echoing through the room. Some of the crows flapped into the air and crashed against the windows, cracking the glass. He flung himself around to face the librarians. They were walking towards him now.
No.
Not walking.
Gliding.
He turned back to his son and tried to reach out to him. It was as though his body were covered in drying concrete. His movements were sluggish and his arms heavier than he ever imagined they could be. Although he couldn’t feel the concrete on his skin—just as he couldn’t smell the rotting pot plants, even though he knew they were rotten—he could feel the frustration in his body. It was a very real sensation.
It terrified him.
“God, Noah—stop!” he cried, collapsing.
Noah didn’t turn and acknowledge his father. He kept on typing, his face full of
sorrow and defeat. Blood splashed with every tap-tap-tap.
The librarians closed in around him, their clammy hands fastening to Marshall’s skin. He could hear the rustling of their cloaks. When they pressed close to him, he could see the outline of their skeletons through the fabric.
It began to rain inside the library, starting with a patter that had all of the faceless patrons turning their heads towards the ceiling, and ending in a downpour. The lights flickered and the crows shat themselves as they flew around in circles, covering the vacant desks in white scat.
Marshall used the last of his strength to raise his head high enough to see that his son was gone from the desk, replaced now by Detective Starke, the man who had headed Noah’s case four years prior. He too had his face, and his mouth was open in an exaggerated grimace. His teeth were rotten. The smile faded and Marshall watched the old man’s jaw disjoint from his head, swinging open like that of a snake preparing to swallow something four times its size.
Starke’s eyes were made of tears. And his mouth was full of peppermint candy.
Marshall woke up, confused. Terrified.
It was unnerving to have all of his senses back, to feel the weight of gravity again. Warm water shot over his face and body. He shook off the final images of the dream and tried to open his eyes. The light in the room was too bright and the air felt thick.
Smoke, he thought.
Marshall fell forward and slipped against the tiles. He landed face first, mouth pressing against the water drain, the grate flush against his lips. He could feel pain and heat. The dream was almost forgotten.
I fell asleep in the shower.
His body ached as he pulled himself upright. He reached up and turned off the taps, the water running to a burning drizzle that forced him to his feet. Marshall sighed, his heart beat returning to normal.
The glass door of the shower was foggy with steam and beads of water. He focused on these twinkling, fragile dots. They were calming for some reason. When stuck at a urinal with a case of shy bladder, Marshall counted tiles; were he waiting in line for the next available teller at the bank he counted shoes. Now, in the bathroom, the panic receding, he counted the water droplets. Soon the shock was gone.
Marshall looked through the door and saw the fuzzy outline of his son looking back at him. He could make out the darkened parts on his face and chest.
Blood. Brains.
The abdominal pain he associated with the visions came on strong again. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him. Marshall ground his jaws together and pushed his hands against the glass to steady himself, conscious of the water rolling down his face and between his shoulder blades. The chill he had felt on the bus in Vancouver crept back in. It seethed.
“Go away, Noah,” he said, his voice even and flat.
Marshall hadn’t realized that he’d closed his eyes until he opened them. His son was gone.
The razor ran over his skin, slicing away hair in a wash of white foam. The sink was half full of water. Marshall stopped shaving and studied his reflection. He looked old. Everything he’d always associated with himself seemed far away. It had gotten to the point where he could no longer hold an object, be it a pencil, fork or razor, without shaking.
Marshall put the razor down. He could smell blood. It was rare for him to shave and escape un-nicked. There were small plops of red in the water. Black clippings gravitated towards one another.
He put his hands in the water and splashed them around. He cupped them together and watched the pink liquid shiver on his palms. The dripping sounded louder than it really was in the small motel bathroom.
A long time ago he’d bathed Noah in a sink like this… Marshall remembered how his son’s skin had flushed in the warm water and of how soft that skin was. A child was the most fragile thing a man could have in his hands. It wasn’t just that a child was young and underdeveloped, yes; a fall would kill it for certain—it was that the stakes were so high. A child was fragile because a man’s entire life depended upon his responsibilities as a father. Marshall knew then, as he knew now, if he fucked that up, he fucked everything.
He never expected things to turn out the way they had. It would have been unnatural to have ever considered it.
Claire laughing with him in their bathroom. Her hand on his shoulder as he rested Noah against his bare chest. She wore a towel, her red hair flat against her head. They were laughing. She hugged him from behind and the towel fell away. Mother, son and baby, naked amid the steam.
Marshall pushed the memory aside; he shook like a man who had just taken a shot of whiskey after a handful of years on the straight and narrow. He gagged and left the room.
The motel room was small. Everything was painted blue. When he’d pulled back the bedspread to reveal the starched sheets, he’d knocked the North Bend and Snoqualmie Falls brochures to the floor. He climbed under the covers. Warmth wrapped around him. An old episode of Perfect Strangers droned on the television, and outside, the wind shook the trees. His laptop was on the floor, still plugged in. He’d removed the screen saver with the pictures of Claire and Noah on the rotation, replaced now with images of open fields.
Chapter Thirty-One
It had been a long, tiring trip from Vancouver to Seattle on the Greyhound. There had been a moment of hesitation as he’d set foot on the bus, its sewer stink reaching out to grab him. The passport felt hot and heavy in his hand.
The driver’s seat was empty. The front window was covered in smears.
Turn the fuck around and get out of here, said the voice in his head.
I’m doing nothing wrong.
You’re ruining your life.
“Are you hopping on, son, or you just going to stand there and age with me?” asked the man behind him. Marshall looked at him. He had a tartan handkerchief wrapped over his mouth and kept his balance with the aid of a cane. His pale eyes bore into Marshall’s face—but not with anger. It was as though the man could see everything Marshall had done, everything he intended to do.
And was afraid for him.
It was just one of many opportunities turn back that Marshall had faced. Another opportunity to return to his apartment and call the police. To call Claire and to not hang up this time. He would tell her that their son did not kill himself. No, he had been murdered.
He stepped on the bus, took his seat and didn’t say a word until he went through customs. The buildings slid away. Roads ran into a grey blur. Then there were trees. Lots of trees.
A sickness was inside him; it would clench and then release. His shirt was sticking to his skin when he got off the bus to claim his luggage. He felt feverish.
Seattle loomed overhead. The buildings looked down at him. He felt tiny. Insignificant.
Marshall stopped to get a coffee before picking up the hire car he had booked before leaving Vancouver. The Seattle’s Best blend tasted like warm sugar water, and the cafe’s mellow interior design was unnerving. A worker was throwing Christmas decorations around the room. A piece of tinsel landed next to his hand and he was too terrified to push it away. It caught the light and winked up at him. He shifted in his seat, trying to quench the feeling that everything was falling apart. Sitting opposite from him was a middle-aged woman wearing a shirt that read:
WHO GOT OSAMA?
WE DID!!!!
The laptop was in its sleeve on his lap. Inside were the emails.
He picked up the hire car from Hertz, a Chevy Impala. Red. The woman at the counter looked at him as though she knew what he was doing. Marshall drove out of the city, chewing aspirin all the way.
Trees. Tall Douglas-fir ground together in the wind; mountains wrapped in fog. He couldn’t shake the pit in his stomach.
You’re giving yourself cancer, he told himself.
Good, he replied.
He passed the Welcome To North Bend sign. It was midafternoon. He got lost looking for his motel and stopped off at a grocery store for directions. The two women behind the counter were dres
sed in matching plaid lumberjack shirts.
“Where are you from?” one asked. “Golly, I love your accent!”
“Sydney.”
“Sydney, Australia? You’re off the beaten track. G’day!”
The other customers in the store were looking at him. There was kindness, even pity in their eyes, as though they knew his past. They all looked like men and women who lived off the land. Slow-paced, but inviting.
The two shopkeepers pointed him in the right direction. Marshall returned to his car and continued up the main stretch of town. People scuttled back and forth across the road, carrying brown paper bags and walking their dogs. A newspaper twirled on the footpath before lifting into the air and catching on the suspended traffic light. There were blue jeans everywhere he looked.
Marshall parked the car near a line of dew-covered motorcycles out the back of a diner called Tweeds Cafe. Once he’d slammed the door shut and dropped the keys into his pocket, he noticed the mural on the rear wall. TWIN PEAKS, it read and painted behind these words were the surrounding mountains. He recognized the iconographic image straight away and assumed that the television show must have been filmed around these parts.
With a sad sigh, he realized that stumbling into this place was something the old Marshall would have found thrilling. The new Marshall was numb to almost everything now, his focus entirely upon a mission he didn’t really understand or wish to accomplish.
His reflection wrapped around the motorcycle reflectors and hubs as he passed by and entered the cafe. He pushed the door open and felt warm air rush over him. The sick feeling in his stomach abated. Marshall felt a sting of nostalgia at the sight of the interior, with its checkered floor and booth seating—it was the same diner used in the Twin Peaks show. The restaurant was typical mid-America, not quite retro, but close. There were overstuffed Tweety Birds lining all the walls, on every shelf, at every second table. They stared at him with their bulbous yellow heads and unblinking eyes. The longer he looked at the toys the more menacing they appeared.
