Lost Girls

by Andrew Pyper

  They keep waving. Cast my eyes over them again and notice they wear no shoes. The tiny pink crescent moons of their toenails standing out like polished stones.

  “You’re doing a very stupid thing here, ladies.” I step out into the street. “There are charges for this.”

  Something aside from makeup shrouds the details of their faces, an angle of light that effects a veil of shadow. I keep my eyes on them and step forward. Their mouths enlarging as I approach, borders marked by gummy lipstick.

  “You think this is funny? I don’t think it’s fucking funny. I think you’re some very sad hick bitches is what I think.”

  Take a step across the yellow line at the street’s midpoint and follow it with another. Close enough to see their mouths open. Strings of spit caught between their lips. Close enough to hear—

  H H R R R O O O O N N K K!!!

  A pickup truck barreling through the intersection directly to my left, weaving into the wrong lane without slowing, its huge front grille widening like the mouth of a deep-water fish. No headlights on, just a green glow from the dashboard illuminating a blank-faced, ball-capped driver with Abe Lincoln sideburns. There’s time to catch all of this, to understand that in the next second it will meet the same place where I stand, but not time to move.

  Eyes closed, but I can still see the peeling stick-on racing stripe and jagged rust holes around the truck’s wheels as it blows past my face. Knocks me down with the suction of air it creates in its wake, the back of my head smacking neatly against the pavement on the way down. A white flash across my eyes followed by blue pinprick static. A million strings of pain spun out from rear molars, sinuses, top of the spine.

  By the time I get back to my feet the truck is lurching around the courthouse corner at the far end of the street, giving me a double blast on its horn as it goes.

  “Homicidal inbred!” I shout into the empty street. Then I see that the street is empty.

  The black-eyed girls in ragged dresses and bare feet are gone.

  NINETEEN

  I dream of water.

  Not the sparkling, pale blue kind, but frigid, black, suffocating. The plots are varied: swimming in an indoor pool with glass French doors all around looking out on a lush garden; lying in a tub with the hot water rising slowly to my chin; taking a long drink from a crystal glass. Comforting, even tedious dreams that bring me down to the edge of a sleep where nothing is remembered. But then everything changes. My muscles cramp and I sink in the pool’s deep end, the lush garden outside the window now a seething body of vines crashing through to wrap themselves around arms and legs. Close my eyes in the bath and a hand comes down on my head, presses me under until the scalding water is taken in. The crystal glass breaking in my grip and shards of it flowing into my mouth, slicing their way down to my lungs.

  Wake with the covers kicked down to a damp roll at the end of the bed. So tired I feel sick. And just as I manage to convince myself that it was only a dream and that I better put my head back down so that I can grab a couple hours before dawn—the phone. Down at the front desk. Echoing up the stairs and under the door.

  Pull the pillow up around my ears and let it go until sleep returns. And when it does the dreams again, different and the same every time.

  I should rip them down. Pull the already yellowing pages off the walls and turn this room back to what it was instead of the obscene shrine it’s become. I’m going to, no question about it. I’ve got enough to worry about without glancing up every fifteen seconds to make sure they’re still there.

  And they always are. Still there, but are they still? It’s that photographic trick, the one where the eyes in a picture follow you wherever you go. At the desk. Stepping out naked and dripping from the shower. Lifting myself up onto bare elbows in the morning. Every moment I’m dead in their sights.

  Smiles that change. An adjusted angle caused by the head turned to the left instead of the right will do it, the double-take play of low-wattage bulbs. It’s nothing more than shifting perspectives but there it is, a fraction of movement carried out behind my back. Giving me an insinuating look not entirely masked by ample cheeks, oversize adult teeth and eyes a little pinched in the trained constriction of a posed smile. And then the mask disappears again. It never was a mask. It’s the assembled features of a face and nothing more, two faces, flat and benign, free of opinion or interest. Still. But with eyes that are somehow always busy. Devouring the dust hanging in the light from the window, pulling in the tangled bedsheets, gathering up the pens, pencils and paperclips and claiming all of it as theirs.

  Somebody brings clean sheets every third morning and leaves them outside the door in a pile. It appears that I’m expected to change the bed myself. And maybe I will sometime. But so far I’m just pulling the sheets inside and throwing them on top of the ones before, so that now a stack of white cotton folds stands crooked as a drunk against the wall. Definitely whiter than what I’m sleeping on at the moment though, the covers thrown back to reveal rolls of pinched gray blotched by stains that may or may not be my own.

  I get up from the desk to pull the covers back into place, more to hide what’s underneath than from any real effort at tidiness. But I don’t even get this job done before my attention is again drawn away. Something heavy stuck between the comforter and the itchy pink polyester blanket beneath. A History of Northern Ontario Towns by Alistair Dundurn. The book I took out from the library, the one Pittle recommended.

  Carry it over to the window and set myself on the ledge. The old kind of recycled paper flecked with brown fiber, almost every page randomly punctuated by gummy spots the color of hot dog relish. The whole thing typewritten, gaping breaks between the lines and notched paragraphs. A homemade job (“Published by A. Dundurn Press, 1982”), there’s even some handwritten corrections visible in places above the text. The dedication: “For My Fallen Colleagues of the Royal Highland Riflemen, 2nd Division.”

  I turn to the table of contents and run my fingers down the list of towns. Blind River. Sturgeon Falls. Thessalon. Capreol. New Liskeard. Then Chapter Five: Murdoch.

  Before its settlement less than a hundred and fifty years ago, the area where the town of Murdoch now sits at the gateway to the great Northern Ontario wilderness was nothing but untouched Canadian Shield: 300,000 square miles of naked Precambrian rock, forest and deep, crystal lakes. Natural gifts that had yet to be exploited to their full potential by the Algonkian tribes who for previous centuries were largely oblivious to the vast riches they lived, hunted and fished on. It took the arrival of the first civilized white settlers to the region at the end of the Eighteenth Century—mostly United Empire Loyalists, hearty farming and merchant stock from Great Britain seeking adventure and a better life—before the land was finally recognized not merely as barren bush but as a glorious opportunity…

  And God save the Queen. Pittle wasn’t kidding when he described Dundurn’s work as amateur. All the usual White Man came, White Man saw, White Man sold everything off—cheap stuff that could apply to virtually any Canadian town.

  Scan down through the rest of the Economic Origins section and start again at Social Character.

  …It has been argued by some that the true tenets of the Victorian Age were more fully embraced in the young Canadian nation than within even the United Kingdom itself. There is little question, however, that the whole of Ontario society at the turn of the century was caught in heated debate over the moral future of the province, and that the greater part of this debate was primarily concerned with the public sale and consumption of liquor. Through the 1890s, prohibitionist organizations such as the Sons of Temperance, the Independent Order of Good Templars and the Women’s Christian Temperance Union had over 40,000 registered members! And in an 1894 Ontariowide plebiscite, 400,000 of the Age of Majority voted 65% in favor of prohibition. Within Murdoch County, that figure rose dramatically to eighty-nine percent.

  Among other things, this result clearly indicates the worthy foundations of
Murdoch’s moral history. Mostly devout Orangemen, Murdoch’s fathers boasted one of the largest lodge memberships north of the County of York. Intent on preserving their Protestant ideals in the savage New Country, all of the men’s organizations of the town—Odd Fellows, Knights of Pythias, the Orange Order and the Masons—closed their membership to those explicitly involved in the liquor business. However, it should be noted that drink was permitted for its use in formal toasts made during meetings. Because of the established traditions unique to each of these orders, such toasts tended to be numerous.…

  I skip ahead again to what Pittle must have wanted me to find in the first place: Appendix: Murdoch’s Lady in the Lake. The whole section taking up only a page and a half, but more or less summarizing events as Mrs. Arthurs related them to me. Dundurn’s tone is just as serious with this material though, treating it with the same sober consideration as Murdoch’s honored contributions to both world wars, the suffering during the Depression and the Queen Mum’s ribbon-cutting visit at the new, “state-of-the-art” high school in the early ‘60s. At moments the writing even slides into obvious sentiment, an effort to capture the dramatic details with a flourish of language.

  …A woman wearing nothing but the rags set upon her but a considerable beauty shining out from beneath her long, bedraggled hair…two transfixing daughters, each carrying something of their mother in the sometimes hardened, sometimes playful set of their faces…Many took the view that she rarely spoke because she didn’t understand the language, others that she simply chose not to speak at all…descending with a chilling scream…now said that her spirit can still be seen roaming the woods next to Lake St. Christopher, seeking to take the hand of others’ children…the lonely cold of an unblessed, watery grave…

  No mention of the daytime skinny-dips or the male visitors she may have entertained. Nothing about the state-sanctioned hysterectomy or the townsmen who flushed her out onto the ice. But there is a brief telling of her escape from Bishop’s Hospital, the “mysterious” and “accidental” drowning, her voice calling out to any who might have heard on the shore, to her daughters, to “the wicked, war-torn world.” Then there’s a doublespaced gap separating all of the preceding from a rather strange summation:

  …They say there’s a fraction of truth in every story, no matter how hard it may be to believe. In this, the Lady of Murdoch is likely no different. But how much truth there can be in a tale of a vengeful spirit returned from the dead to lay claim upon the living is a matter of faith more than fact. One way or the other, Murdoch’s history has been shaped as much by this one unnamed stranger as by influential merchants, the passing fortunes of industry and the decisions of elected officials. What remains of her is the memory of a life, which is nothing less than history itself. We will never know who we are if we fail to remember what has come before—both the victories and the disgraces. All the public pride of glory and the private shame of ghosts.

  It has been said that we only fear that which we do not know. Yet perhaps what we fear most is not the possibility of the unknown, but all of the horrors that we know to be true.

  The chapter ends here, with this insertion of amateur metaphysics to go along with the amateur history. Still, there’s something in this section of Dundurn’s writing that feels different from the rest. The brief emergence of a voice. Intent, fervent. Something personal.

  I close the book and push myself up from the window’s ledge, looking again at the confusion of sheets on the bed. For a moment I actually wonder if a couple had silently entered the room to use the honeymoon suite for its proper purposes behind my back, leaving everything twisted and warm, a vague sweetness in the air. And me reading history in the background.

  There’s nothing to do but go to bed myself now. Empty my pockets out onto the flaky varnished surface of the dresser. The sound the coins make like an ancient machine clattering to its final stop.

  I place Dundurn’s book there on top of the change and spiraled tufts of lint, but something in the angle of the spine flips the back cover open a second after I pull back my hand. There, glued to the inside of the last page, a small yellow envelope holding the Due Date card.

  Pull it out with my thumb and lay it flat, run my finger under the stamped dates and handwritten names. Last borrowed only six months ago. The signature the same as the one beside the X at the bottom of my Form of Retainer. My client. Thomas R. Tripp.

  I confess it’s something of a personal lawyer joke that my worst mark at law school was in Professional Ethics. Would never have taken it at all if it hadn’t been mandatory, which could be said for most of my colleagues as well. But at least they went to the trouble of faking it, offering up the “right” answer for every hypothetical put to them by the forty-five-grand-a-year Justice Ministry schmuck hauled in to teach it. From what little I can recall, the entire course could be broken down into a handful of fundamental rules one had to repeat a dozen times out loud in order to pass:

  Don’t take all the money held in trust for someone else.

  Take a good long look before accepting sex from clients in exchange for fees.

  Try not to lie, but if you feel you must, try first to say nothing at all.

  And this: if a young lawyer ever feels he’s losing control of a case—however slightly—he should seek the advice of a senior member of the bar before things are allowed to go any further.

  That would be me.

  So it is that the next morning I call Graham with the intention of talking to him one-on-one, but he’s not in. And when he calls back I can tell immediately it’s from the boardroom, over the speakerphone, and that Bert’s there too, the clicking of his lighter and bubbly throat clearings giving him away.

  “So, Bartholomew, how goes it? Everything in order and geared up, I trust?” Graham sings, using the same voice he uses on his most humorless clients.

  “Pretty much. I mean, there’s nothing in the disclosure materials that we didn’t know already. And although the DNA results aren’t back yet, no matter what they say I think we still look good.”

  “Of course you look good. Always did, always will. Now, what about Sir Thomas Tripp of The Village of Murdoch. Is he being reasonably cooperative?”

  “Cooperative wouldn’t be quite the word, no. He’s not entirely stable, actually, although he’d fall well short of insanity on a psychiatric assessment. But he does claim to hear voices.”

  “What kind of voices?” Bert joins in from what sounds like the furthest corner of the room.

  “It’s not clear. A woman, I think he said. Or a group of women, talking together all at once.”

  “Sounds like the definition of hell to me,” Bert coughs.

  “Is he going to be alright?”

  “I shouldn’t have to call him to testify, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Very good. Any other preliminary matters?”

  “I wouldn’t call them matters, but yes, there’re some things I wanted to—some vaguely troubling things I thought I’d air out. Nothing to cause concern, but I felt that bringing them to light at this point might be a good idea.”

  “Bartholomew, what are you on about? Have you fallen in love or something awful like that? If so, I know Bert and I can offer nothing but our strongest discouragements.”

  “It’s not love. It’s little things. Coincidences. Funny stuff.”

  “Intriguing,” Graham says, sounding not at all intrigued. “Do go on.”

  “Well, for example, there’s this stripper who was working in the bar downstairs who’s been calling the hotel almost every night, waking me up. I know it’s her because I answered once and it was her voice.”

  “And what did she want? Your lap for a private dance, perhaps?”

  “No, Graham. Crank call sort of shit. But there was something about—it’s like she wasn’t just kidding around. You know what I mean?”

  “No,” Graham says at precisely the same moment Bert says, “Yeah.”


  “And she’s not the only thing. There’s some people in town trying to get under my skin. To distract me.”

  “And how is that done?”

  “The other night there were two girls standing across the street from my bedroom wearing these old cotton dresses. Waving up at my window. And it’s getting pretty bloody cold up here.”

  “I’m sure it was just your fan club, Bartholomew, bidding you out onto the balcony for a speech or blessing.”

  “Don’t fuck around, Graham. It’s like they were trying to freak me out.”

  “Now, now, now,” Graham soothes. “There’s no need to be freaked out. We’re here and we’re listening.”

  “And so far we haven’t heard shit,” Bert cuts in, collapsing into a chair that screeches in protest as it accepts his weight. “So some kids do a little routine on you. Small towns are like that, they don’t like outsiders. Especially outsiders doing the job you’re doing. My advice is acquire some balls and get on with it.”

  “Thank you for that, Bert. As usual your comments have been very thoughtful.”

  “Piss off.”

  Nobody says anything for a while, and I consider hanging up, walking straight down to The Lord Byron and injecting two or three rye-and-gingers into my system before calling back with the excuse that we must have been cut off. Then Graham’s voice returns.

  “Well now, gentlemen. Shall we move on?”

  “Wait. There’s another thing. Kind of funny.”

  “We like funny.”

  “I’ve been around to the lake a couple times where Tripp is accused—where whatever happened happened. Anyway, I bumped into an old lady, a Mrs. Arthurs who lives on the water who told me this story about an escaped mental patient after the war who was living in the woods, trying to get some of the local kids to go with her, kidnap them I guess, and—”

  “What war?” Bert interrupts.