He leaned in close and inspected the grey which had started to crop up sporadically on his head, and at the hairline itself which was slowly, grudgingly, retreating from the un-winnable war.
And now his brother was dead. Again he wondered how he’d known. Was it a twin thing? Had he been secretly hoping for it? He splashed water on his face and tried to wash the thought from his mind. No. He would not hope for that. Wouldn’t that make him the sick one?
Staring in the mirror he reached up to the light switch on the wall and flicked it off. He could still make out the contours of the reflection of his brother's face.
He flicked the light back on. Far from the first time, he wondered what cosmic flip of the coin had made him the chosen one. Why had he been born whole and blessed, while his brother had been cursed and lost?
He flicked the light off.
He flicked the light on.
He flicked the light off.
He flicked the light on.
Off.
On.
Light.
Dark.
Off.
On.
Off.
A shower, shave, and a good cry later, and he was back on the road, heading to his ex-wife’s house to break the news to his son.
CHAPTER 3
The constant commotion of the newsroom was strangely comforting to Richard Lansdown. After forty years in broadcasting, he had come to rely on the chaos associated with covering the happenings of a turbulent world.
By his calculations, he had paid his dues twice over. Had climbed the ranks to now sit as the network’s lead anchor. While he had realized all his professional goals, he had long ago begun to feel more like a mascot rather than a real newsman.
As the lead anchor of the world’s leading news organization, he presided over a vast kingdom of resources and streams of information that flowed into the Los Angeles headquarters from all corners of the earth. But in the end, he was just the puppet monarch, who spoke only the words the shadow government of the network put in his mouth. Richard Lansdown the broadcasting legend, was nothing more than a spokesman, reading a script written by an army of reporters, journalists, associated contributors, producers and executives. And even then, he was only given those words that didn’t conflict in any way with the many and varied interests of the multinational conglomerate by which they were owned.
He couldn’t even remember the last time he had gotten his hands dirty and done some real reporting. His job was to stay abreast of virtually everything. He had to at all times, as best he could, get up to speed on whatever was happening on planet Earth that was of reasonable import to the masses—and many things that weren't. Pop culture was Frankenstein’s monster, assimilating the youth of the world, and marginalizing the old and out of touch via passive annexation, to the point where one was forced to acknowledge the memes of the day, or be considered irrelevant. Why else would someone like him know who Snookie was or have any idea about “Gangnam style”?
Sitting trying not to get impatient as the hair and make-up artist prepped him for camera, Richard watched the young woman as she obsessively flicked at the wave of his meticulously sculpted, silver head of hair. A single strand in the front was not complying. He chuckled realizing their jobs were not so different.
“Sorry Mr. Lansdown. Just trying to make it perfect,” she said, misunderstanding his amusement.
“No, no. It’s quite alright,” he assured her. “You know I wanted to dye my hair when it started greying?”
“Oh?” she asked too preoccupied with the rebellious hair to sound truly curious.
“Oh yes. It was very controversial. The network felt very strongly that the grey added a certain . . . oh I don’t know . . . ‘credibility’ to my look. They even suggested a man of my age dyeing his hair may have seemed somewhat . . . undignified!”
“I don’t even remember what my real hair colour is,” she said dismissively, finally defeating the stray hair.
A production assistant giraffed his neck into the dressing room.
“Five minutes to camera.”
The young lady removed the paper bib from around Richard's neck and began to pack up her stuff. He tried to get a glimpse at the roots of her hair—it was a very good dye job, he decided. He wondered if she bleached it white first. He had heard that’s how it’s done but wasn’t entirely sure.
“Thank you,” he said, smoothing out his tie and pulling himself to his feet.
The ‘newsroom’ set was bright and sterile like an operating room. There had always been something clinical about it that made it feel impersonal to Richard. The days of jittery nerves right before going live were long gone. Even as the teleprompter flashed to life and the cameras switched on, Richard’s thoughts were elsewhere: Had Debra cooked diner? Who was on Conan tonight? Would he get home in time to watch it? Maybe she’d made her shaved pork. It’s probably just when you dye your hair completely blond that you have to use peroxide. A shaved pork sandwich while watching Conan would be a nice way to end the day… That’s right it was Ryan Reynolds on tonight. He really enjoyed his sarcastic humour. Was that Canadian humour? Was there such a brand?
“Five, four, three,” the line producer counted down then switched to a 'hand count' for the remaining three numbers and the camera's ‘go hot'.
“Good evening and welcome to News Hour. I’m Richard Lansdown.”
Richard pivoted smoothly over to camera two and took his serious baritone new man voice down two notches to ‘sombre’.
“He has struck again. The serial killer known as “Mister,” who has confounded police and terrorized the state of California since he first became active over five years ago, has claimed new victims, adding three more lives to the growing death toll and abducted another. Late last night the Los Angeles Police Department received an anonymous phone call believed to be from the killer himself, alerting them to the murder scene in Pico County, Santa Monica. The police were directed to the home of Gregory and Sarah Whinner and their two children.”
“At the scene the body of Sarah Whinner along with those of her children, ages five and six, were discovered. They had been murdered and their bodies mutilated. The specific nature of their injuries are too graphic to relay in detail here. A special press conference was held this morning to address the public’s unabated concerns regarding the murders perpetrated by the individual whom some are calling, 'the Jack the Ripper of the twenty-first century'. During the news conference, Chief Randel of the Los Angeles Police Department referred to these most recent incident as ‘a horrific and inhuman act of unspeakable violence.' He later went on to cite the Mister killings as a prime example of why the death penalty is still implemented in the state of California and even suggested other states who have overturned the death penalty should perhaps reconsider that decision. Chief Randel seemed visibly shaken over his department’s inability to apprehend the serial killer.”
The teleprompter flashed to coverage of the news conference indicating to Richard that he was off camera. He reached below the desk and grabbed his water. Maybe it wasn’t Ryan Reynolds after all, he thought. It could be Ryan Gosling. But he was Canadian too, wasn’t he? Which was the funny one?
The line producer counted back down to hot camera.
“Our thoughts and prayers go out to the friends and family affected by this horrible, crime. Special hotlines have been set up by the Los Angeles police department and the FBI who are urging you to contact them if you have any information regarding the crimes or the whereabouts of Gregory Whinner. As per his usual methods authorities are expecting Mister to upload a video of the killings to peer-to-peer sites. The police and the FBI would like to remind you that the downloading and possession of such videos is a criminal offence and subject to prosecution.”
Richard turned back to camera two. “More disturbing news from Wall Street today. Could America be headed for yet another national credit score downgrade?
CHAPTER 4
Christopher’s apa
rtment was exactly as Jeremy had expected it to be—not only messy, but dirty. The floor looked as though it had never been touched with a mop or broom. The sink was crammed full of dishes which, by the look of the detritus of food crusted on them like barnacles, had been there for a very, very long time. Next to the sink was a stack of empty TV dinner trays. Jeremy was sure that once all the dishes were dirty, instead of washing them Chris just started eating straight from the package. He knew if he looked he would find a box of disposable plastic forks and had to open only two kitchen drawers before he found them. The whole place stunk of body odour and cigarettes.
In the living room next to the old rear projection television was the ever-present, ever-growing, stack of video games. Christopher had virtually every video game console ever made. His library of games was astonishing. Hundreds of discs and old school cartridges teetered in towers like proud little monuments to anti-socialism.
The spot he would sit on the couch and to play was obviously sagged in. Next to the couch was a two litre Coke bottle full of urine. Jeremy had seen him do this before during all-night vid binges. There were days when his brother would play these fucking video games for 18 hours or more, stopping only when he couldn’t fight the sleep off any longer. He would eat in front of the screen, sleep in front of it, and apparently piss in front of it.
There was a time when he tried to get his brother to break this understandable but counterproductive habit but as his condition worsened over the years Jeremy came to understand his need for escape. It was an opiate for his soul. He even started buying games for Chris. It seemed like a distraction was the best strategy in lieu of a cure.
It had been two days since he’d learned of his brother’s death, and he hadn’t been able to sleep more than a couple minutes at a time since. Wearily he let himself crash down into the crater in the couch created by his brother’s weight. He could almost feel the springs poking beneath him, the fabric and cushion having been squeezed down so far. Why hadn’t Chris started sitting on the perfectly plump and seemingly unused cushion beside it?
He thought about going through Chris’ drawers and personal items but he knew there would be no point. There were no clues, no evidence, and no reasons why his brother killed himself, other than the fact that there was basically no reason for him not to; nothing ever changed. No matter how much concern, or help, or anger, or love was spent, nothing ever changed. Even his apartment stayed, frustratingly, agonizingly, the same. Then he realized that he was wrong. Things had changed—they had gotten worse. Much worse. As bad as they could get, he supposed. Once the will to live is gone, what more could be lost?
He felt the urge to cry start to slowly tickle the back of his throat, and the pressure of the coming tears behind his nose and eyes. But he was afraid that if he started he wouldn’t be able to stop. He had to be strong. If he just got through the funeral and the wake he would be okay. After all, he’d always known that this day would come. His schizophrenia had grown steadily within him since he’d been a child. He suspected even Chris knew it would get the better of him sooner or later.
He could use some coffee. Or gin. Or both. And a shave, he realized rubbing the stubble on his face. He still had to go and buy a suit for Chris to be buried in.
He got up and walked to the bathroom. He stood outside the door, which was mercifully closed, placed his hand on it and wondered if it had been messy. He was almost impressed that Chris had the balls to go through with it. Having grown up knowing their father committed suicide, it was something which Jeremy had thought about often, as Chris must also have. It was always a mystery to him how one could willingly take that leap. Was something, anything, not better then nothing? Didn’t hope for a better tomorrow exist as long as there was a tomorrow? Or was it hope of what awaited us in the afterlife that encouraged them to go? Then again, if there was a benevolent God, or being, or whatever, waiting to welcome us into paradise, why was the world He insisted we live in first so . . . fucked up?
No matter what his poor, sick brother believed, suicide took a type of wilfulness he didn’t think Chris capable of. If he had just shown as much determination and conviction for anything else in his life . . .
He couldn’t let himself think about it. He had to just get through the funeral and the wake and the next week or two, and eventually he would be fine . . . he would be fine. Everything will be okay.
The apartment was so quiet he could hear water running in the pipes from somewhere in the building. He placed his hand against the cold surface of the bathroom door. Had they cleaned up the mess? Probably not. Of course he would have to do it himself. Metaphorically speaking that seemed about right.
He gripped the door knob but couldn’t turn it. He just couldn’t. He needed coffee.
A half an hour later he was in the parking lot of Mcdonald’s drinking a large black coffee, thankful that they had replaced that old swill they used to serve. It was actually good now.
He had the windows rolled down but cranked the AC anyway because it relaxed him.
Some black kids in an Impala on the other side of the parking lot were blaring a Kanye West song. It was a good song. He thought maybe it was about not being able to find love because he was obsessed with his career. That sounded familiar. It had been somewhat of a big deal when was able to go ahead and cancel the remainder of his appointments for the week. Even Margret seemed surprised. Is that what it’s come to? His own brother dies and people expect him to what? Just keep on living and working like nothing happened?
He looked down at his watch, contemplating calling it day. He had to pick up Charlie at 6 a.m. in order to get to the funeral home before everyone else, but wanted to wait for the song to end first.
The black kids in the car were all in their teens or early twenties. They seemed like good kids. Homies of all colours, it appeared, seemed more friendly and happy these days. The unprovoked cold stares and aggressiveness of the nineties and early millennium seemed to be tapering off. Rap, he thought, also seemed to be on a positive upswing. He was sure the two were connected.
And the wheel turns. He felt his stomach knot up again. That was something his brother had said to him once in one of his rare moments of baffling maturity.
It was in ‘05 or ‘06. He’d been visiting Christopher, as he often did back then.
“Have you heard from Aileen?” Chris asked casually from where he sipped his tea at the dining room table.
Aileen was a woman Jeremy had dated for a few months after his divorce. One day she had just severed contact without explanation.
“Strange that you ask actually.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“I heard from her just last week. She called me out of the blue. Said she was sorry. That she made a mistake and never should have left me.”
“Did she say why she just disappeared?” Chris asked.
“Not really, no.”
“So what did you say?”
“I told her it was too late and that if she had just explained herself to me, perhaps we could’ve picked things back up again but she didn't even show me that respect so I had no time for her.”
Chris put down his tea and smiled slyly at him from across the table.
“And the wheel turns,” he said.
The words struck Jeremy. So succinct. So true. Indeed, the wheel turns. After that whenever Jeremy was able to discern karma making its long gradual rotations through all things, he would say these wise, wise words to himself: And the wheel turns.
It was always disturbing to Jeremy when he could glimpse past the mask of madness that obscured his brother’s true face. How alike would they have been if not for the mental illness? Throughout his whole life he’d wondered if one day he too might fall ill.
He felt something cold on his cheek and realized he had begun to cry. Wiping the tears away with the back of his hand he realized he couldn’t hear the music in the parking lot anymore. The car full of kids was gone, his coffee cold.
He sta
rted the car and pulled out of the parking lot, unaware that the wheel really had, in fact, begun to turn.
CHAPTER 5
Mary was always late. And that was okay because everyone knew it, and had even come to expect it from her. So it was as though she wasn’t actually late at all in their minds, when she’d come into a meeting 20 minutes in. She had her own time zone—Central Mary Standard Time, or whatever. But this time, by even her own standards she was late.
Careful not to twist an ankle, she click-clacked her heels as fast as she could down the hall towards her office. Her assistant Erin met her at the door, the way a Chihuahua with separation anxiety might greet its owner after they had been away for the weekend.
“You’re…”
“—late, I know. Has he been here long?”
“About an hour.”
“Shit, okay. I’ll make it up to him. Get together a bag a merch for him.”
The tiny office just outside of West Hollywood was the home of Rue Morgue Magazine, a monthly horror genre mag, and it was decorated as such.
A framed and autographed picture of the late Bela Lugosi hung proudly on the wall by the front door. It was a promotional photo from the Dracula movie shot in 1930 by Universal Studios. In it, Mr. Lugosi is wearing the high collared black cape which he came to establish as a mainstay of the character’s wardrobe for many years to come. His hair slicked back, his hungry intense eyes accentuated with a perfectly lit swath of light, his regal gentlemanly demeanour offset by a single drop of blood hanging incriminatingly from the corner of his thin lipped mouth.
Although only a blown-up copy of the original, the picture was still very old by movie memorabilia standards. Mr. Lugosi was far from the only classic horror star who stood sentinel over the small offices. Next to Bela was Boris Karloff the master of horror himself, also from the golden age of the genre, who had immortalized such classic characters as Frankenstein and the Mummy.
The Black Chronicle Page 3
