The Boy

by Paul Heatley

  “I swear –”

  Ricky pulls him to his feet, keeps hold of his arm and his head, shoves him forward. “Show me where it is, you son of a bitch! Show me the fuckin camera!” He drags him back to Luann’s trailer. She steps out, wrapped in a short nightgown.

  “You get him, Ricky?” she calls, leaning out the open doorway, one hand clasping her robe closed.

  “Yeah, I got him.” Ricky dumps him on the ground, then grabs him by the hair and lifts his head so she can see his face. “You know him?”

  Luann cocks her head to one side. A flicker of recognition crosses her face. She remembers sharing her cigarettes with him. Remembers talking with him. Remembers all the times she has seen him round school. “No,” she says. “I don’t know him.”

  Ricky pushes his face back into the dirt, then stands and kicks him in the ribs. Jake feels pain explode there, like his ribcage is going to split open, feels the wind rush out of him. He clutches at his side, gasps for breath.

  “Jesus, Ricky!”

  “He had a camera, Luann! This little freak was takin pictures of us!” He kicks Jake again, forces him onto his back, then pins him with a knee across his chest. “Where’s the fuckin camera?” he says, then he punches him in the mouth. Jake can taste blood, his lips torn open against his teeth. “Where’s the fuckin camera?” He hits him just below the eye. Jake feels fireworks go off in his skull.

  He wants to open his mouth, to speak, to explain what has happened, who it really was, but he is knocked dizzy, his mouth won’t work, it just hangs slack and fills with blood until he gags. He is aware of being hit again, maybe a couple more times, and he thinks he can hear a voice, a female’s voice, Luann’s voice – “Stop hittin him, Ricky! You’re gonna kill him!”

  And Ricky is talking, talking to Jake, ignoring Luann. “That what gets you off, huh? Watchin other people – takin pictures of them? You’re sick, man, you’re fuckin sick.” There is another punch. It lands on the nose. Jake can hear things pop and crunch, but he doesn’t feel them.

  Then the hitting stops, the shouting stops, the weight is gone from his chest. Jake forces his eyes open, but only one – the right – will comply. The left is probably blackened, he reasons, from all the punching.

  Two men are above him. Talking. Ricky is one of them. Jake tries to push himself up onto his elbow, so he can better see. Ricky gestures towards him on the ground, points sharply. Jake lies back down before Ricky notices he has moved. The other man holds up his hands, tries to calm the situation.

  Jake hears the blood pounding in his ears, can’t hear what they are saying. He looks at the other man, tries to see who it is. His vision is bleary with tears and blood. When he finally hears something, it is Luann’s voice. “Ricky – come on.”

  Ricky turns to her.

  “Just go,” the other man says. “It’s okay. I’ve got this.”

  It is Carlson. The other man is Carlson.

  Ricky walks away.

  Carlson waits until he is gone, until he and Luann are both inside, then reaches down and pulls Jake to his feet. “Can you walk?” he says. He grunts and wheezes as he wraps Jake’s arm around his shoulder.

  Jake’s limbs feel like jelly. His consciousness feels separate to his body. “Whuh?”

  Carlson drags him to his trailer, gets him inside and lies him down on the sofa. Jake stares at the fan on the ceiling. It is off. He is becoming aware of the various pains all over his body, primarily his face and head. The dull sensation that enveloped him during the beating is wearing off, everything is growing sharp.

  With a groan, he manages to push himself upright, to a sitting position, but the back of his head rests against the wall and his eyes flutter. Carlson is in the kitchen, wetting one towel and using another to wrap ice. He brings them both over, uses the first to wipe away the blood, then gives the makeshift ice-pack to Jake to press where it hurts most.

  “You wanna explain yourself?” Carlson says. “Because I’m pretty sure I warned you off this not so long ago.”

  Jake mumbles something. He can’t get the words out. His tongue feels funny in his mouth, like he’s bitten it.

  “What?” Carlson says.

  Jake escapes into sleep.

  11

  It is not a dream. It is a memory.

  Down an alleyway off the main street. Homeless men and women occupy the shade of disused doorways, and the threat of violence lingers in the air mingling with the stink of piss and vomit and cheap booze and sweat. The bums watch passers-by through half-closed eyes like they’re sizing them up, contemplating the contents of their pockets and their wallets, but they don’t strike. They don’t even beg. Their jaws work, toothless gums grind against each other, and this is worse. This inaction. It is as if they are taking mental photographs, formulating plans; as if they are about to become intrinsically entangled with the lives of the people they are watching. They are going to follow, to stalk, to watch and wait and when the moment is right and only when will they make their move. They are like snakes, coiled and ready and lightning fast. But they are patient.

  There is one shop here, though it never looks open. The front is uninviting, as is the inside. The windows are covered with rusted metal grating, gaps in the glass where the posters on the inside are not overlapping. It is called the Back Alley Valley. It sells pornography.

  Sometimes, they throw stuff out. Faulty DVD’s, damaged books and magazines. They drop them in the dumpster outside and don’t care if the bums retrieve them, use them for fire fuel or padding or personal gratification.

  Jake and Ray and Glenn go to the dumpster. They search inside it, flick through the magazines they find. They have been inside the store but they were chased out. They were never going to buy anything, they were just going to shore up mental images for when they were alone, and to giggle amongst themselves at the more ludicrous things they found.

  There is one magazine with a garish, almost comic book style cover featuring a dark-clad man lurking at the corner of a window frame, a young girl oblivious inside her room, getting dressed for bed. It is called ‘Peepers, Prowlers, Pervs’. It is as expected filled with naked women, fully naked, page after glossy page of them. Only a few of the shoots look like they’ve been professionally staged, with the women looking coquettishly down the camera lens, biting on a lip or a fingernail, playing with their hair or their nipples. For the most part, the women seem unaware, or at least play at being so. The pictures look like they’ve been taken through windows, catching them while they prepare for bed. Towards the back of the magazine there are pictures that have been shot through cars, catching couples sprawled naked across the backseats, doing things to each other. Some of the people, especially in these candid car shots, wear masks. Ray and Glenn point out the more ludicrous visages and laugh. The homeless people watch them, dozens of eyes unblinking in the shadows.

  Ray finds another magazine. Its front cover is ominously dark with the title printed in white. It is called ‘Murder Lust Magazine’.

  It is naked women again, but there is something different this time. There is a darker tone. There are no candid window shots. These people know they are being photographed. There are men in the pictures, too. Some people wear leather straps that criss-cross their torsos, and some – mainly the men – wear masks again.

  The people are having sex. Angry sex. It is hard to tell if the women are enjoying it, or if they are in pain. Then, at the end of every shoot, someone is killed. Usually it is the women, but sometimes it is the men. There are stabbings, strangulations, there is one gunshot. Then there are close up images of the corpses. If it is a bloody death there are artful shots of the blood, pooling beneath the body or sprayed up the walls and across the ceiling. One woman licks an open head wound.

  Ray and Glenn discuss whether or not the deaths are real. Jake looks through the window, through a gap in the posters. He can see a man behind the counter, an incredibly fat man, he talks to someone Jake can’t see, shows him something. He
laughs hard.

  Jake knows he has seen him before.

  The fat man kicked them out of the shop.

  But before he kicked them out he showed them something, in a magazine, something Jake has tried to forget.

  Jake imagines him with a camera in his hands.

  Imagines him running away, disappearing into the dark.

  Outside Luann’s trailer.

  12

  Carlson’s trailer is the same as the one Jake has grown up in. It is the same model. It has the same layout. But Carlson has kept his tidy. There are no unwashed clothes hanging over the backs of chairs; no empty bottles on the benches or in the middle of the floor; the surfaces are not coated in tobacco dust or particles of marijuana, and they are not marked with sticky rings where cans and bottles have stood in spilled alcohol. Carlson lives alone, and he keeps his home neat.

  Two days have passed since Jake received the beating from Ricky. Carlson is usually at work. So far they have not seen much of each other. Jake keeps the curtains closed during the day and at night. He shuffles round the trailer in darkness. Everything hurts. He has searched the cupboards for painkillers but found none. There was beer in the fridge, so he drank it. It helped a little, but fleetingly so.

  In the bathroom mirror, he inspects the damage. His left eye is closed, the top and bottom lids purple and bulging. Yellow-green bruising covers his face. His lips are cut and swollen. Flaps of skin hang loose on the insides of his cheeks. When he swallows he can taste blood. The taste puts him off food, for the most part, but when he does search for something to eat he finds nothing.

  He sits and watches the television. Indecent Proposals. The fat loner is losing. The host is humiliating him. Jake turns it off. He goes to the window, bites his bloodied lip and peers out around the curtain, toward Luann’s place, but sees nothing and quickly lets the curtain fall back into place.

  When the pain gets too bad he lies on the sofa where he has slept the past two nights, and stares at the ceiling and wills sleep to come. He does not hurt when he is sleeping. He tells himself that when he is sleeping he is healing.

  Last night he woke briefly when Carlson returned. Opened his eyes to see him locking the door after himself. He did not turn on the light. He stepped closer to Jake, leaned over with his head tilted to the side, listened as if he was checking his breathing. He didn’t talk. When he was satisfied he turned away and went to the refrigerator. He looked inside then looked back over his shoulder at Jake and made a chuckling sound in the back of his throat. Jake figured he was looking for the beers. He closed the refrigerator door and made his way to his room, to bed. Jake promptly returned to sleep.

  But when he tries to sleep, to escape the pain, it will not come. It stabs through his face and head like a million needles. He grits his teeth against it. He clenches his fists and stiffens his whole body and wishes he would stop hurting.

  Carlson gets back late. He carries a grocery bag. Jake is not asleep, though he sits in darkness. Carlson sees him upright and turns on the light. He nods, says “How’re you feelin?”

  “Like a million bucks.”

  Carlson grins with one side of his mouth. “You look it.” He puts the bag down on the bench. “I brought food.”

  Jake sniffs. A new smell is in the air, but it does not come from the groceries. It is a greasy smell, of burgers and fries. Carlson has brought this smell in with him, and it lingers on him. “Where do you work?”

  Carlson is busy putting things away. He pauses at Jake’s question, turns his head. “I’m a chef,” he says. “Well, maybe not so fancy. I’m a short-order cook. You ever been to Good Eats?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “That’s where I work.”

  Good Eats is on the far side of town, on the way out. Jake remembers that someone has spray painted a dragon on the wall outside. It is a very fine painting, and he thinks this is why no one has scrubbed it off.

  Carlson finishes putting things away then stands at the counter. He moves very slowly, very deliberately. He rests his fists on top of the counter and leans forward. “Now. We need to talk about the other night.”

  Jake says nothing.

  “You wanna explain yourself? Because I’m pretty sure I warned you off this kind of thing. And shit, when was it – like three days before you got beat up or somethin?”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  Carlson looks him up and down. Jake is still wearing the same clothes. All black. “Uh-huh.”

  Jake could protest, could tell him that he knows who it was – the fat man with the camera, and he knows where he works – but he doubts Carlson would believe him so he doesn’t bother. He doubts anyone would believe him.

  “So you like to look in on young ladies, huh? Just her over the way, or are there more?”

  “No. Just her.”

  “Then tell me what’s so special about her.”

  Jake opens his mouth but finds that the adequate words escape him. Instead, he manages “I know her.”

  “You know her.”

  “Yes.”

  “What – you’re friends?”

  “I know her from school.”

  Carlson raises an eyebrow. “Does she know you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How well?”

  Jake hesitates. “Enough.”

  Carlson crosses his arms. “So what’s the deal, Jake? You think she’s the one or some bullshit like that? Two of you ever get together you’ve got a real meet-cute goin on there – boy meets girl, boy peeps obsessively through girl’s window while she’s entertainin, girl finally realises it’s the stalker she really wants to be with and not the Mr Muscles she’s been shackin up with.”

  Jake looks away.

  “That what you want?”

  “I don’t know what I want.”

  “Maybe I’m just gettin old, but she looked way too thin to me. She the most beautiful girl you laid eyes on?”

  “I dunno – there’s more to it than just looks –”

  “I’m sure she’s got a winnin personality.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because like some damn fool you’re gonna get yourself killed just because you can’t stop yourself from lookin in through her windows.”

  “Are you gonna tell my dad?”

  “No, I ain’t gonna tell him. But I don’t see how you’re gonna keep it secret with your face all messed up like it is.”

  “I’ll just…I’ll stay somewhere else until it heals. He won’t notice I’m gone.”

  “Where you gonna stay?”

  “I got friends…”

  “What about their parents? They won’t say anythin to your pa?”

  Jake shrugs.

  Carlson lets out a long breath. He looks off to one side, scratches the back of his neck. Jake hasn’t seen him in the light before. He is not a tall man, just a few inches on Jake, and thin, his cheeks and eyes sunken in his face. His hair is shaved close to the skull, and his skin is leathery tough. Age-wise he is about the same as Harry.

  “You can stay here. Least until the worst of the swelling goes down.”

  Jake chews a loose flap of skin on his bottom lip. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you let me do that?”

  “Ain’t a man alive that hasn’t tried to avoid a thrashin from his daddy at some time or other. I’m just offering you a way to do so.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “That’s true. I’ll understand if you say no. Hell son, it’s no skin off my back, believe me. I’m just tryin to do you a good turn. If you wanna walk out then you go right ahead, I won’t stop you.”

  Jake looks past Carlson, to the door. Carlson steps aside, clears the way. Jake thinks about Harry. Thinks about Maggie. Thinks about Maggie’s dress. Thinks about the noises he’d heard her make, in his father’s room.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay what?”

  “I’ll stay here.”

  Carls
on nods. “Okay. But you leave that damn girl alone, y’hear?”

  Jake nods.

  Carlson looks at him for a long time. The muscles in his cheek dance as he grits his teeth, looks like he’s thinking something over. “Well then, now I need to ask you a question.”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  “Whuh – what?”

  Carlson shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looks uncomfortable, but he perseveres. “Have you ever had sex?”

  “Why?”

  “Just answer.”

  “What’s it got to do with you? It’s none of your damn business.”

  “I guess that’s probably a no.”

  “I didn’t say that –”

  “Then say Yes.”

  Carlson looks away, says nothing.

  “Look, Jake, I ain’t tryin to embarrass you here. I’m askin for a reason. This whole peepin business, it needs to stop. You don’t wanna take another beatin like the one you took the other night – ain’t always gonna be someone there to get the other guy off of you. Could be one day someone comes chargin out with a shotgun – reckon you could outrun that? You couldn’t outrun me, you didn’t even hear me comin. Somethin like this, we gotta nip it in the bud before it gets you in trouble, or hurt. You know what they do when a dog’s aggressive?”

  “They put it down.”

  “Well, sometimes. Or they get it laid. That evens it out. Now, we ain’t gonna get you put down, so I’m figurin if we get you laid that’ll straighten you out, get this whole peepin nonsense outta your head.”

  Jake snorts.

  “You think it’s stupid?”

  Jake shifts in his seat. “Maybe. I dunno. But I mean, who’s gonna – who would even wanna sleep with me? I ain’t got anyone lined up or nothin.”

  Carlson scratches the back of his neck. His face is conflicted, looks like he is still trying to decide whether this is a good idea or not. Finally, he says “I know someone.”

  13

  Jake has sneaked peeks at Luann’s trailer every night. Ricky has not returned. His truck never pulls up. Jake wants to go outside, creep over and look in and see what she is doing, but he can’t. He’s scared.