by Nathan Field
“I’ve got the worst goddamn headache,” she said, opening the fridge door and peering inside. Pale light spilled into my dark kitchen. “You got any soda water? I need something fizzy.”
“Only Sprite.”
“That’ll work,” she said, finding the half-empty bottle and guzzling back the remains. She swung her hips into the living room and went up to my fish tank. “How are my two boys today?” she said, pressing her nose to the glass. “Been up to mischief again?”
Mitch and Murray, a pair of thumb-sized goldfish, had lived with me for the past four years. I credited their healthy lifespan to the three foot long, forty gallon tank I kept them in. Aquarium geeks would probably say I spoiled them, but Mitch and Murray used every square inch of their luxury pad: playing hide-and-seek around the sunken shipwreck, scooting along the gravel base, and sometimes disappearing for hours on end in the reeds and rushes. They were happy fish, I liked to think.
“Frisky this morning, aren’t you?” CC laughed. Mitch and Murray were performing cartwheels in front of her nose, giving every impression they were delighted to see her. When they eventually darted off, CC turned and squinted at me. “What’s up with you?”
“It’s a long story. You got a minute?”
“Sure,” she said, moving to her regular armchair opposite the sofa. She flicked off her heels and folded her long legs into the seat cushion. “This headache won’t let me sleep, anyway.”
I first met CC at a North Beach club I liked to frequent, as much for the dim lighting as the girls. After being mesmerized by CC’s kinky stewardess routine, I dropped a small fortune on twenty-buck cocktails and private lap dances. She was gorgeous, no question, but there was also a sly intelligence behind her long blonde hair and dusky blue eyes. One night she admitted to turning tricks on the side, but only with men she was genuinely attracted to, and strictly on the hush-hush. I was happy to accept the lie, and after a handful of enjoyable “dates”, we came to a mutually beneficial arrangement. CC lived in West Oakland, and every so often, after an exhausting night’s work, she couldn’t bear the early morning commute. Since I was usually awake, and my Potrero Hill apartment was only a ten buck Uber away, I gave her carte blanche to call round any time she wanted. And it wasn’t always about sex. Sometimes we’d talk, sometimes we’d watch TV, and sometimes she’d go straight to bed while I hung out in the living room. The unique relationship suited me down to the ground. No strings, no emotional demands, and an easy rapport that had built up over the past eighteen months. CC now kept clothes in my wardrobe, and toiletries in my bathroom. Outside of Bruno, she was the closest thing I had to a friend.
Easing back into my sofa with a large scotch in hand, I gave CC a detailed rundown of the strange goings on at my office. For a twenty-four year old, she could be remarkably astute.
“I don’t get it,” she said when I’d finished. “You thought Ralph T Emerson made the phone call, but you’re not sure if he was behind the script?”
“It just seems too obvious,” I explained, thinking aloud. “He’s the only other person with a key to the office – he must know I’d suspect him. And you should see his photos – he’s a buttoned-up, Brooks Brothers kind of guy. I can’t believe he’d write the violent stuff that was in the screenplay. He wouldn’t have the stomach for it.”
CC sat up to stretch her tanned legs out in front of her. She wriggled her painted toes – something she often did when deep in thought. “You should trust your instincts,” she said. “If you thought it was Ralph’s voice on the phone, it probably was. And if he made the call, he had to have changed the screenplay. I mean, what’s the alternative? Two stalkers? You’re not that interesting.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. But who the fuck is Ralph T Emerson? I’ve never heard the name, don’t recognize the face…”
“–You tried Googling him?”
“Yeah, and all I got was his company website, which is basically just his name and contact details.”
“Weird. Well, just ‘cause he says he’s Ralph T Emerson doesn’t make it true. And you’re hardly one to talk. You don’t go by your real name.”
“That’s different. I don’t like my real name.”
“Yeah, well maybe Ralph doesn’t like his. Come to think of it, what’s this mysterious nickname he called you? The one nobody’s supposed to know?”
“It’s not important.”
CC cocked her head, her eyes softening. “Is it to do with your scars?” She traced a fingertip along her jaw line and down her neck, perfectly charting the wound that had almost killed me. I had plenty of other marks from my last night in Sacramento, but the s-shaped scar on the right side of my face was the big attention-grabber.
“It’s not Scarface,” I said, second-guessing her. “The scars came later.”
“Oh. That would’ve been cool though. What about your sunglasses, is it something to do with them?”
“I wasn’t wearing shades then, either.”
“Man, you must’ve looked so different. Like a regular dude.”
“I still like to think I’m a regular dude.”
CC snorted with laughter. “I love you, Sam, but you’re a long way from regular.”
I smiled, conceding her point. Since the age of twenty-five, I’d suffered from photophobia, a severe sensitivity to light. Sunlight was the worst, bringing on a stabbing pain behind my eyes, even when I wore polarized aviator shades. That’s why, eight years ago, I made the decision to turn the day upside down: sleeping during daylight hours and only venturing out at night.
The lifestyle adjustments were difficult at first. It took my brain a while to associate morning with bedtime, and nighttime with getting up. Then there were the practical challenges. Getting hold of clients outside business hours. Having to turn down work when it involved lunch meetings or travel. Even mundane tasks became a hassle, like taking the car in for a tune-up, or finding a dentist who was open after 7pm. But the extra effort was a small price to pay to protect my eyes from the sun. And before long, I thought nothing of operating on a different timetable to the rest of the world. It became my new routine.
While the night was easier on my eyes, there were still some simple rules I had to follow. Harsh indoor lights could make my head throb, even behind dark glasses, so I tended to avoid shopping malls, supermarkets, train stations and fast food restaurants (none of which I lost any sleep over). In fact, sports stadiums were the only brightly-lit venues I occasionally pined for.
I also had to be careful what I looked at. Television and computer screens needed to have their brightness levels turned down. I couldn’t peer inside the fridge for too long. Even car headlights could cause me grief, especially if the roads were jammed and the approaching lights streamed into one. But in the vast majority of nighttime situations, my dark glasses provided ample protection from the glare of artificial light. Better yet, there were some places where I didn’t need shades at all. Dark restaurants and bars, outdoor locations like parks and beaches, and in the two places I spent the most time, my apartment and the office, where light control dimmers were like balm for my eyes.
Within these confines, I’d managed to forge a life for myself. It wasn’t an easy life by any means, but it was probably close to what I deserved.
“I don’t like regular guys, anyway,” CC said. “I probably wouldn’t have fancied you back then.”
“You prefer a man with scars?”
“Absolutely! I keep telling you – girls dig scars.”
“They’re intrigued by scars,” I corrected. “There’s a big difference.”
“You’re saying girls don’t like intrigue?”
“No, I’m saying in my experience, intrigue is something they prefer to enjoy from afar. Like murder mysteries, haunted houses, and men with eyepatches. Girls are interested, maybe even fascinated, but they don’t want to get too close.”
CC twisted her mouth to the side, pondering the point. “Yeah, maybe some girls are like that. But what
do you care, anyway? You’re not looking for a boring Marina girl who drinks soy lattes and dates men in pressed chinos.”
“True.”
“Not when there are red-hot bitches like me around.”
I laughed, momentarily forgetting my troubles. Observing the change in mood, CC brushed the hair away from her face and re-crossed her legs, pressing her long calf against her knee to highlight its elegant curve. Then she hooked a finger under her pencil skirt and inched it up her thigh, flashing me a corruptible smile.
“Headache’s gone,” she said.
I shook my head – not tonight.
“Come on baby,” she purred, slowly parting her magnificent thighs. “You know you want to.”
And suddenly I was standing over her, running my fingers through her hair while she deftly whipped off my belt and reached inside my jeans.
Despite everything that had happened, I was still so easily swayed.
“Is that you CC?”
I was sitting upright in bed, roused by the click of the front door closing. My senses were instantly on high alert, and I wasn’t sure why. CC often left my apartment in the middle of the day, when I was fast asleep. She wasn’t in the habit of exiting quietly, either. I was used to hearing the water pipes groan as CC ran a shower, her agitated footsteps as she scoured the apartment for her mobile phone, and the clang and clatter of crockery as she fixed herself a quick breakfast. They were familiar, comforting sounds. Even when I woke up, I always went back to sleep with a contented smile on my face.
But this time was different.
Thinking back, I hadn’t heard the shower running, or the usual racket from the kitchen. And the front door had been eased shut rather than slammed.
The clock on my nightstand read 1:48 PM. A clammy feeling came over me as I remembered CC moaning about a meeting with her bank manager first thing in the morning. Meaning she’d probably left the apartment soon after I’d fallen asleep, several hours ago.
A bead of sweat ran down behind my ear. It struck me that the carefully closed wasn’t the sound of somebody leaving. It was somebody coming in.
I slowly peeled back the covers and levered my legs out of bed. My bedroom was pitch black, courtesy of the foam-backed velvet curtains pulled across every window in the apartment, but I stopped myself from reaching for the bedside lamp. I knew the layout of my apartment like the back of my hand, and could maneuver my way in the dark. The intruder needed light more than I did.
I bent down to retrieve the baseball bat under my bed, feeling a little bolder when my hands wrapped around its taped grip. There was a gun in the hallway closet, but I didn’t fancy my chances of making it across the living room and loading the clip in the dark. I guessed the intruder was trying to catch me in my sleep. My best chance was to meet him halfway.
I moved towards my bedroom door, which I always left slightly ajar. I peered into the living room dark. Apart from my thumping heart, the only sound was the faint burbling of the aquarium’s air pump. I sniffed the air, detecting a foreign smell. A combination of musky aftershave and sour body odor.
The same stench that greeted me in the office every night.
Confirmation that Ralph Emerson was the intruder only intensified my fear. I immediately thought of the brutal murder of Charlotte in the R-rated version of Sensible Shoes, wondering if Ralph himself were capable of such an act. From experience, I knew you couldn’t always judge a writer’s character by his material. Some of the nastiest screenplays I’d read were written by guys who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Nevertheless, Ralph’s violent imagination seemed intensely relevant when he’d just broken into my fucking home.
I stood still for twenty seconds, counting them out in my head. Ahead of me was a bare stretch of wooden flooring – about seven paces between my bedroom door and the edge of the sofa. Even though it was deathly quiet, and I couldn’t make out any shapes in the darkness, I was convinced Ralph was standing in the no-man’s zone, equally still, watching me through night vision goggles. Waiting patiently for me to walk into his jagged blade.
Despite the danger, I felt a powerful urge to confront him. The main light switch was just around the corner, on the wall to my left. If I moved quickly enough, I could turn on the light and surprise him. It was better than feeling like a sitting duck….
I lunged forward, but before I could grope for the light switch, my foot landed on something hard a lumpy, rolling my ankle and throwing me off balance. I cried out as I crashed to the floor, losing my grip on the baseball bat as I reached out to break my fall. Straight away I flipped onto my back and began kicking and punching the darkness, hoping to land a lucky blow on my attacker. But I was fighting thin air, and by the time I’d finished thrashing about, I realized the apartment was just as quiet as before.
Scrambling to my feet, I flicked on the wall switch. The living room furniture emerged in the dimmed light. One of CC’s black stilettos lay at my feet, the cause of my stumble in the dark. But there were no phantoms in the shadows. I was alone.
I walked around the apartment, taking a quick inventory. My gun was safely hidden in the back of the hallway closet. My key ring and wallet were still sitting on the kitchen bench. Everything seemed to be present and accounted for. I sniffed the air again, frowning. Maybe I’d imagined the strange odor. And the click of the front door could’ve carried over from a dream.
Then I saw something shift in the corner of my eye. As I turned towards my aquarium, my heart seized. A huge brown fish stared back at me from one protruding black eye. It looked like a grotesque cross between a trout and a puffer fish. Whatever the species, it had no fucking business being in my aquarium.
I approached the tank and peered into the dark water. I was hoping for a glimmer of orange in the rushes, but instead, my eyes honed in on a translucent white matter floating on the surface. At first I thought it was some kind of fish excrement, but on closer inspection, I recognized the filmy substance as cartilage. They were two tiny goldfish skeletons, tangled together.
“You fucker,” I hissed, directing my anger at both Ralph T. Emerson and his cannibalistic fish.
I turned away from the tank, balling my fists in frustration. What message was Ralph trying to convey now? What the hell did killing my poor goldfish achieve?
Despite my incredulity, deep down I knew exactly what Ralph was doing. It was simple, really. He was boasting that he could get to me anytime, anywhere – on the phone, in my office, even in my own home.
He had a plan for me that wouldn’t end well. And in the meantime, he was enjoying making me squirm.
6. “He watches me all the time”
Lucy’s rejection at the coffee shop fucked me up, big time. In the space of a few days, I was reduced to a mumbling husk of a man: skipping work, holing up in my tiny studio apartment, and replaying our two brief encounters until my head throbbed.
How could I have misread the situation so badly? I’d been certain she was interested, especially when she’d subtly mentioned her husband’s advanced age, and the fact she didn’t care for her stepchildren. There’d been no need to reveal such personal details up front, and I’d presumed Lucy was letting me know she was available, or at least not unavailable. But that wasn’t the case at all.
In many ways I hated her – the way she strutted around, oblivious to her charms, assigning pity to the poor fools who fell under her spell. Or maybe she was acutely aware of the effect she had on men, taking pleasure in reeling them in before ruthlessly shattering their egos, like a suburban siren.
Where the hell did she get off?
But the surges of anger were fleeting. For the most part, I was stuck on miserable. Miserable and utterly humiliated.
After my third successive sick day, Izzy came to check on me. I knew it was Izzy from the way he held his finger on the buzzer. He’d been calling my cell non-stop, leaving messages I didn’t want to hear – like my editor was losing patience with me, and the other cub reporters could smell blood. I reluctantly b
uzzed him in, realizing it was the only way to shut him up.
“Fuck me,” Izzy said when I opened the door. “Has Charlie Sheen been crashing with you?”
I glanced behind me. Pizza boxes, fried rice cartons and crushed beer cans covered the carpet. I started kicking a path to the sofa. “Drink?” I offered.
“No thanks,” Izzy said, following me in. He swept the sofa clear of crumbs before sitting down. I went to the fridge to grab another beer.
“What the fuck’s going on, Pete?” Izzy said. “You call in sick three days running, you don’t answer your phone, and now it looks like you’ve turned your place into a crack den. It’s that woman, isn’t it? The one on your computer.”
I snorted. “Nah, she’s history”
“Oh yeah? You sure about that?”
“Positive,” I said, popping the tab on my beer. I took a long gulp before setting the can on the kitchen bench. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’m doing fine, really.” I caught Izzy’s expression of disbelief. “Okay, maybe not dancing on the ceiling fine. She fucked me over, and I’m taking a few days to wallow in self pity. But it’s a temporary thing. I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
I realized how I must’ve looked to Izzy. I hadn’t showered in three days, and I’d been drinking so much it was starting to feel like a permanent state. I asked, “You want to stay for dinner? I’ve got some leftover pizza.”
“You’re joking,” Izzy laughed. “It’s not fit to serve food in here. Even breathing the air feels like a health risk. I’m taking a shower as soon as I get home.”
“So why’d you come over?”
“To check you hadn’t stuck your head in the oven.”
“Well, you can see I’m alright.”
“You’re still breathing, but you’re a long way from alright. C’mon Pete, this is crazy. You’re losing the plot over a woman you only met a few days ago. At a chili cook-off, for fuck’s sake.”
