The Borrowman Cell

by Ingrid Betz

  He shook his head. “You only think you did. I’m to blame. I let the whole thing escalate. And now you’ve gone and killed a man.” He screwed up his face in a grimace of anguish. “Committed murder. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. Taking out Li Chen was my idea.”

  “I should have stopped you.”

  “Why? If it saves bears?”

  “But will it? China will only send more Li Chens to take his place. More Happy Long Life Mushroom companies. Violence is not the way to get anybody to change course. I see that now. I’ve always seen it, but I let the suffering of the animals blind me…”

  “What other options are there?” declared Verena. She hated the idea of Borrowman coming to the end of his life believing he’d fought for his cause with the wrong methods. “Talk? Petitions? Waiting for the public to get educated? Hoping the government will do the right thing and pass a law?”

  His head fell back on the pillow.

  “The human dilemma. How to right a wrong without doing more harm.” He looked exhausted. His face seemed to shrink and his skin grew more transparent before Verena’s eyes. “What if the police track you down?” he muttered.

  “They won’t. How can they?” she faltered. Already she could hear footsteps behind her. No one escapes retribution. If life so far had taught her anything, it was that.

  “It would be best if you left London for a while. But where will you go? What will you do? There’s no one…” He stopped and considered. “St. Denis? You could go and stay with him.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Asher, she thought. There was always Asher, at the back of her mind. She caught sight of Elaine impatiently prowling the corridor and wondered if she should risk asking. Borrowman’s eyes followed her glance.

  “You have something to write with? I’ll give you his phone number.” He waited while she dug a pen and a used boarding pass from her bag. He whispered the numbers while she jotted them down.

  “Go ahead, Dad,” Elaine loomed in the doorway. “Speak up. Tell her about Asher. Tell her the bastard’s decided to divorce me. As if she doesn’t already know!”

  Borrowman winced. “Elaine. I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to find out like this.”

  “No? I was looking for his address to let him know you were in the hospital when I came across his email. Ironic, isn’t it? Typical—he didn’t have the guts to tell me first.” She glared at Verena. “Your five minutes are up.”

  “Let her stay.” Borrowman rasped. “Please.”

  “Why?” Elaine approached the bed. “So she can upset you some more? Haven’t you learned by now, she’s nothing but trouble. Has been ever since you took her in!”

  “That’s not … not true…” His breathing became laboured. Clutching at his chest, he turned pleading eyes on his daughter. “Do one other last thing for me? Let Margaret know. Tell her I regret … tell her … I never stopped loving her… love you all….” The words became garbled and lost in the gurgling sound in his throat.

  “Dad? Dad?” Elaine patted his hand, his cheek, her movements frantic. She pressed the call button for the nurse and turned on Verena, her face contorted.

  “See what you’ve done? Get out, will you! Get out!”

  Verena stood transfixed, in the grip of unfamiliar emotions. Pity, compassion, distress; emotions she hadn’t been able to feel when her own parents died.

  “Do you hear me?” Elaine grabbed her by the shoulder and thrust her toward the door, her face blotched with fury. “Get out, I said! You’re not wanted! You’re not part of this family!”

  Verena, stumbling backwards, collided with the nurse hurrying in. Briskly, the woman ordered both of them into the corridor and rattled the bed curtains shut. Elaine pushed her up against the wall. She kept her voice down, but even low it resonated with fear and anger.

  “It’s all your fault. Encouraging Dad in his crazy activist schemes wasn’t enough. Oh no, you had to pester the life out of him to let you use a gun. To turn him into a criminal…”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Oh, wasn’t it? Don’t bother pretending. Dad’s been sick with worry ever since you went up north. I could tell something was different. Then two nights ago, it was on the CBC news. About a Chinese scientist being shot near Algonquin Park. They showed a film clip. Blood on the rocks and police swarming about. Dad couldn’t bear to watch. He was reaching for the remote when he collapsed. He could have lived months yet … a year, if it hadn’t been for you.”

  “You don’t know that.” Verena could hardly bring out the words. A terrible heaviness descended on her. “Think what you like. I love your father.”

  “How dare you even use that word?” Elaine pulled off her glasses; she was crying. “I suppose you think you love Asher, too. Now you’ve managed to take him away from me!”

  Verena felt a crazy urge to laugh. If Elaine only knew, how far she was from doing any such thing. All she’d ever been able to take was men’s lives, and that was thanks to a rifle. “You’re wrong…” she began.

  “Just go, will you? Take your thieving cat’s face and don’t ever come near us again.”

  Verena shrugged and turned to go. She’d never seen the point of argument and confrontation; in the end people believed what they wanted to.

  “And don’t think you’re going to get away with what you did up north. I’ll make sure of that.” Elaine’s voice flew hissing after her. “Till now you’ve had Dad to protect you. But not anymore!”

  As she waited for the elevator, the emergency trolley rumbled past, a doctor in green scrubs and rubber-soled shoes running silent-footed beside it. In the lobby, she headed for Tim Horton’s. The counter was closed for the night but Raymond and Donny were sitting at a table over colas from the vending machine. Their strained faces met Verena’s with a look of enquiry.

  “You’d better go up. Your sister needs you,” she told them. She would like to have said more—goodbye and sorry and good luck with the rest of your lives, but her departure was not the one of importance here.

  The boys exchanged glances and lurched to their feet. Donny led the way to the elevators; Raymond hung back and, in a tone of voice that was an echo of his father’s said, “Will you be all right?”

  She nodded and turned toward the exit. Before the tears had a chance to form. Pity was bad enough; she wasn’t going to do self-pity.

  26.

  AT FIRST SHE THOUGHT THE UNIFORMED man in the parking lot inspecting the Beetle was a security guard. But then the light caught on the badge of his visored cap and she realized he was the police. She moved casually away from the revolving door; she didn’t think he’d seen her.

  “Waiting for someone, miss?” The elderly guard behind the desk turned a page of his newspaper.

  “My lift. I think I’m at the wrong entrance.”

  “There’s the front street entrance. You could try there. Down the corridor to your left. Then turn right and keep straight ahead.”

  “Thanks.”

  On the way, she got out her mobile and called for a taxi. The dispatcher sounded half-asleep and she made him repeat the name of the hospital before she let him go.

  The driver was playing Basia Bulat at a rollicking volume too loud to encourage conversation, for which Verena was grateful. She picked an address half a block past 290 Springbank. On the way she reviewed the contents of her wallet: two twenties, a ten, and change in cash, her bank card and a credit card. In an inner pocket of her bag was her passport, which fortunately she’d had with her for the flight. Later, when she was settled somewhere, she could phone Mrs. Ivanovich and ask her to send whichever of her things Elaine hadn’t destroyed or the police didn’t cart off with them. Or she might not. Freedom lay in owning nothing, she reminded herself, in having nothing to defend. As
they drove past the apartment building, she checked the cars lined up in front. A white hatchback she was pretty sure she’d never seen before was parked among them.

  She leaned forward.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she said, speaking up to be heard over a guitar riff. “Take me downtown, please. To the bank at the corner of Richmond and York.”

  The driver slowed the car and lowered the volume on Basia. “Listen, lady. If this is some kind of…”

  “Here…” She pulled out a twenty and thrust it over the back of the seat. “On account.”

  A hand reached up and took the bill. “You’re the boss.” The cab swung into a U-turn.

  “You want me to wait?” said the driver, as he pulled up at their destination. The sidewalks stretched emptily in either direction, splashed at intervals with light from the windows of stores closed for the night.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Verena added an extra ten to the fare and held out the money. She flashed a smile, unexpectedly sweet. “I’d appreciate if you could forget you ever saw me.”

  “Can do.” Grinning, the driver leaned across the back of the seat and opened the door for her. “I hope the guy’s worth it.”

  Again she felt the unaccustomed welling of tears behind her eyelids as she let herself out of the car.

  Inside the lobby of the bank, the ATM hummed and blinked. She inserted her card in the slot and pushed the button for a printout. Borrowman had told her once that the police were able to trace account-holders’ movements from one location to another through the withdrawals they made. She had close to eleven hundred dollars in her account, her savings from everything she’d ever earned at the Dancefit Studio. Her best option was to withdraw the entire sum now and close her account, even though she disliked the idea of carrying so much cash on her person. Stuffing the bulky wad of bills into her bag, she thought with regret of the backpack she’d planned to pick up at the apartment, along with her toothbrush perhaps.

  The city was coming to life. More cars were on the street now. People passed her on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched and hands buried in their pockets against the dawn chill as they hurried to early jobs. Turning the corner of King, she walked on briskly to the Greyhound bus terminal. No one paid any attention to her. At this hour of the day they had other things to think about: problems of their own coming back to life with the morning, the next cup of coffee. She’d take the first bus heading west. The important thing was to get out of London before anybody realized she wasn’t returning to the apartment.

  There was a bus leaving for Winnipeg at six. “Boarding in twelve minutes,” said the man behind the wicket.

  “I’ll take it.” She handed him the money and he slid the ticket across to her without lifting his eyes from the computer screen. Chances were good he’d be unable to identify her.

  She went into the women’s washroom and quickly, before she lost her nerve, she dialed Asher’s number from one of the cubicles. She thought it would be easy; she’d rehearsed the call so often in her mind. Instead her heart pounded against her ribs like waves breaking on rocks, and she could hardly stand. After five rings she was about to hang up, when he answered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Asher?”

  “Who is this?”

  She’d woken him from sleep; London time was two hours ahead of Calgary. “It’s me. Verena.”

  “Verena. No kidding.” He murmured something not intended for her ears and she realized with a stab she recognized as jealousy that he wasn’t alone. She fought an impulse to hang up.

  “Have you any idea what time it is? How’d you get my number?”

  “John gave it to me. Elaine hasn’t called you?”

  “No. Why the hell should she?”

  “John is in the hospital, Asher. He’s dying.”

  “Christ.” When he spoke again, his tone had changed and he was the familiar accessible Asher she carried around with her in her head. “Bad news, chickie. Is it the cancer?”

  “You knew?”

  “He talked about it before I left. So I knew the day was coming. But not so soon. There’s nothing they can do?”

  “They operated. It wasn’t a success.” She didn’t know what else to tell him. She focused on the plastic hook behind the door, noticing it was broken. “I’ve just come from seeing him. I don’t think it’ll be much longer.”

  Asher groaned. “Tough on Elaine and the boys. And on you, chickie.” He paused. She heard a woman’s voice in the background. “Not now,” he said coolly and to Verena he said, “What will you do?”

  “I thought I’d come to Calgary. I’m at the bus station.”

  “What? Now?”

  “I can’t wait. I have to get out of London.” Elaine’s threat beat in her head. “I may not have much time.”

  “Something went wrong in Algonquin?” Asher asked sharply. She could tell he was sitting upright now, raking a hand through his hair, eyes intent.

  “It went right, actually. I used the Henry.”

  She was wary of speaking freely on the phone, but she needed to make Asher realize the seriousness of her situation. She closed her eyes. The broken hook glimmered behind her eyelids.

  “You’re kidding! John actually let you?”

  He didn’t have to sound so surprised. “He set it up himself. With St. Denis.”

  “Shit,” said Asher with feeling. “He must have been desperate.”

  “I’m not a little girl anymore,” she said, stung. Asher grunted. She heard the click of a cigarette lighter and waited for the familiar sound of his indrawn breath. “So can I join you for a while? You told me they’re always looking for recruits out west.”

  “I don’t know. If the police are on your tail…” He exhaled. “Makes you a liability, doesn’t it?”

  She looked at her watch. The minutes were speeding by. Heels tapped on the tiled floor and the door banged in the adjoining cubicle. She turned to face the other way. Somebody had used Magic Marker to write “Kevin suks” on the wall. “At least give me your address. We can talk about it when I get there.”

  He said nothing and she knew with a hollow lurch of despair that he had no intention of giving her his address. “If you could just put me up for a couple of nights.” She heard herself begin to beg, she who never begged. Only Asher ever had that effect on her. “Just till I get on my feet. Find a job. I don’t know anybody out there…”

  “Any other time, chickie. Nothing I’d like better than to have you here with me, you know that. But I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

  She sounded like the child she said she wasn’t, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Will you at least meet me at the station? I’ve never been to Calgary.”

  “When does your bus get in? Thing is, I might have to be out of town for a day or two. A protest up north…”

  “I don’t know yet. I have to change buses in Winnipeg.”

  “In that case, why don’t you phone me from Winnipeg? Once you know. That’ll still give us time to work something out.”

  The call came for boarding, and she was spared from making a further fool of herself and demanding more promises from him that she could tell he had no intention of keeping. Moving on automatic pilot, she stopped at the snack bar and bought a coffee and a plastic-wrapped bagel with cheese to carry on board with her. Near the back of the bus were two empty seats and she settled herself into the one next to the window.

  Her old luck held, and no one came to sit beside her. The bus pulled out on time.

  Outside the window, city lights were paling. The bagel was stale and the cheese tasted like eraser rubber but she forced them down. She drank the tepid coffee and replayed the voice she’d heard in the background during her call: a woman’s voice, soft with sleep and a note of enquiry. What had she expected? A man like Asher Curran didn’t live like a monk. Still,
he’d called her chickie, the old term of comradeship and endearment.

  She placed her folded jacket against the window and years of conditioning kicked in. Lulled by the hum of the tires on the tarmac, she dozed.

  Half an hour outside of London, she became aware of the bus slowing. It turned off the 401 and pulled into an abandoned service centre. The concrete building sat in an empty parking lot lapped by cornfields ready for harvesting. The sky had grown light, although a faint darkness still clung to objects on the ground. Passengers stirred in their seats.

  “Back in a minute,” announced the driver.

  He opened the door and swung himself out. A draft of cool air entered, and with it a whiff of diesel fuel. From the window Verena watched the driver, a long-legged man with curly hair showing around his visored cap, walk a few paces onto the cracked pavement and stop. A minute orange flame flared as he touched a match to a cigarette.

  Verena wondered if it was a signal of some kind. She fixed her eyes on the deserted building and waited. She might even have dozed again, because the next sound she heard was the wheezing of the airlock. Booted footsteps came down the aisle and as she watched, Comrade Lenin, with his cap and his small neat beard, eased himself into the seat next to hers.

  He slipped a hand into the pocket of his bomber jacket and drew out a police badge and a pair of handcuffs. Speaking quietly, he leaned toward her.

  “Going far, Ms. Vitek?”

  27.

  PETER HAD ALREADY CHANGED into a fresh shirt, sports coat, and tie by the time Darlene arrived home from work. He was in the den with the news channel turned on.

  There’d been an item about a Chinese guy up near Algonquin Park who’d been killed by a rifle shot to the head, shooter unknown. The police were investigating, they said. They weren’t releasing names but Peter had an uneasy feeling about it. He wondered if David Chang had heard anything.

  At the sound of Darlene’s key in the lock, he switched off the TV and wandered into the front hall. Christ, he thought, he was becoming like Marigold, with Chinese on the brain.