Grant Mckenzie

by Switch (v5)

  Less than a week ago, Zack would have been mortified by his appearance. He was a man for whom clothes advertised not only wealth and status, but also confidence and attention to detail. And although he didn’t like to admit it, dressing for success was necessary in a town where he had to bring an extra edge to his game if the porcelain blondes and sun-kissed brunettes were to trust a black man with their skin.

  Now, however, his appearance seemed so inconsequential as to make him wonder why it ever mattered at all.

  Apart from two homeless men, the river path had remained deserted in the dark, silent hours leading up to dawn. The men had stumbled past on their way to find late-night shelter amid the dank concrete crannies and wide iron rafters under Burnside Bridge.

  Their faltering footsteps as they caught sight of the bottle had gone unnoticed by Zack. As did a low growl from the throat of one, which made the other shake his head.

  The Mercedes’ powerful engine had grown cold while Zack sat on the hood, his back against the windshield, oblivious to the icy fog rising off the slow-moving river. He had been waiting for the sun to rise, to fill the eastern skyline with a taunting blood-red glow. And when it did, he raised the near-empty bottle to his lips in salute.

  Zack didn’t want to be a burden, although to whom he was no longer sure. He needed the alcohol to short-circuit his hard-wired instinct for survival, to make it easier to walk to the river’s edge, fire a bullet into his brain and be washed out to sea. But all the whiskey seemed to do was numb his legs and churn his anger.

  He rubbed his eyes, tilted the bottle to his lips once more, and drained the last of the amber liquid.

  His body swayed unsteadily as he cocked his arm and threw the empty bottle in a high arc that soared over the low embankment. He lost sight of the bottle before it struck the water.

  His head began to spin and he slid off the car and on to the ground, landing on his back. Cursing his own ineptitude, he struggled to rise once again, but the effort was too much and the damp grass felt oddly comforting.

  He closed his eyes, meaning to rest for just a moment, and sank into welcoming blackness.

  8

  Sam was stopped one block from his house by a single police cruiser parked in the middle of the road. Its blinding bar of red and blue flashed in a slow, silent pulse.

  In front of the car, one hand held up flat and rigid, the other hooked casually in his gun belt, a lone uniformed officer barely out of his teens waved him down.

  As Sam pulled to a stop, he could see a commotion of cars and lights further down the block very near his own home.

  ‘What’s going on, officer?’

  Sam unclasped his seatbelt to lean out of the Jeep.

  ‘I’m afraid this area is closed off, sir.’ The officer had a voice deeper than his age would imply. ‘You’ll need to drive around.’

  ‘I live here,’ Sam said. ‘Just down the block, actually.’

  He grabbed the edge of the windshield and swung out of his seat to stand on the lip of the doorwell. From this heightened vantage point, he could see over the roofs of the neighbours’ parked cars. The ambulance, fire and police lights looked to be practically in front of his house, although the street-lights were off and it was difficult to be sure.

  ‘What’s going on down there?’

  ‘There’s been an accident, sir. I’m afraid I can’t let you through.’

  Something cold and slippery uncoiled in his belly. ‘What kind of accident?’

  ‘A gas explosion of some kind.’

  ‘Was anyone hurt? I live at one ninety-two.’

  Sam saw it cross the rookie officer’s face: a flinch followed by a short intake of breath.

  ‘Was it my house?’ Fear filled his chest. ‘Hannah! MaryAnn! Are they OK?’

  ‘Sir, if you would like to wait in your vehicle, I can contact my supervisor. I’m sure’

  ‘ARE THEY OK?’ Sam shouted.

  The officer flinched again and took a backwards step, reaching for his radio.

  Sam dropped into his seat and floored the gas. Before the officer could react, the Jeep swerved around the parked cruiser, crunched over a portable safety light, and tore down the street.

  When Sam screeched to a halt near a cluster of official vehicles, no one seemed to be moving. It was as if by tearing through the barrier, he had also stopped time.

  Blind with panic, he pushed through the police and firemen, knocking away outstretched arms, unable to stop his own perpetual motion until he hit the immovable object – his house.

  Only, it wasn’t his house.

  It was a smoldering hole filled with charred timbers, discarded bricks and misshapen steel. Nothing was recognizable as anything he owned. The smoking pit was more like something shown on TV on Veterans Day: Scenes from the London Blitz.

  Sam looked to either side. The neighbours’ homes still stood. The walls were scorched and large strips of vinyl siding had melted away to expose cheap, particle-board sheathing underneath. Fireproof glass-block bathroom windows had cracked and blackened, but the houses themselves remained unbreached.

  This hole was where his home should have been.

  Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out except for a slippery hissing exhalation, which roiled across his tongue and vanished like mist through his lips. He inhaled and felt cold air climbing into his brain, numbing it further. It slid into his lungs, constricting them and making it harder to breathe.

  He peed himself again, warmth trickling down his leg. But even that sensation lasted for only a short moment before the cold reclaimed it.

  There were voices all around him, hands trying to pull him back from the edge of the hole where his house had stood, but no one could move him. His feet were part of the ground.

  He remained frozen until a flicker of colour on the edge of his vision made him turn, and the flashing red and blue of an ambulance drew him forward.

  The back door of the ambulance was open. Inside lay two large, zippered, white nylon bags. One was shorter than the other, but not by much. Sam walked to the bags and knew with heartbreaking certainty what they contained.

  ‘Where’s mine?’ he asked numbly.

  The ambulance attendant just looked at him.

  ‘Where’s my white bag?’ Sam asked, louder this time.

  And in that moment the bubble burst and time, noise and commotion rushed in to fill the vacuum. Sam felt the tugging pressure of a hundred pairs of hands. The hands were also screaming, a thousand sharp little mouths nipping at his skin and making incoherent noises that suddenly blended into one ear-piercing, agonized wail.

  And just before he collapsed, Sam wished the hysterical fool making all the racket would shut the fuck up.

  9

  The world had stopped spinning.

  Zack lay curled in a ball, his mind buzzing with a thousand radio stations all broadcasting at once.

  ‘Sir?’

  Zack felt a strong hand grip his shoulder and give a firm shake. His eyelids fluttered open, and the morning light pierced straight into his brain. He squeezed his eyes closed again and groaned.

  He didn’t want to be awake; he didn’t want to be alive. Most of all, he didn’t want to accept all he had lost.

  ‘Sir, are you injured?’

  ‘Fer Chrissake, Colin,’ said a woman’s voice, its smooth, sing-song centre edged with a faint Celtic burr. ‘He’s a bleedin’ drunk. Either forget it or take him to the cage.’

  ‘He’s wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit, Mary. He probably owns the Merc.’

  Zack lifted his hands to cover his eyes and slowly raised his eyelids again.

  ‘What happened here, sir?’

  Zack opened his fingers slightly to see a poster boy for police recruitment. The officer, who he presumed was Colin, stood six foot four with broad shoulders, a lantern-shaped jaw and skin the rich, velvety colour of medium-roast coffee.

  Zack shifted his gaze to the woman. Officer Mary was a pale, sharp-faced brunette with
thick, wiry hair that defied styling.

  ‘Are you injured?’ Officer Colin repeated.

  ‘More than you know,’ Zack mumbled.

  The words felt too large for his mouth. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was thick and woolly and far too dry.

  The officer produced a small plastic bottle of water from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top and held it out.

  The bottle was still cold and Zack rolled it across his forehead before tipping it forward and pouring a generous amount into his mouth.

  He held the water for a few seconds before allowing it to trickle down his parched throat.

  It hit like acid.

  Zack tried to fight the sudden uprising, but his heart wasn’t in it. With a lurch, he rolled on to his side and vomited watery green bile.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Officer Mary shook her head and looked away. ‘Nothing like a puking drunk to start the day off right.’

  Zack continued to heave, his eyes bulging from the strain. Until finally, with watery eyes and dripping nose, he sucked in a deep breath and managed to relax his muscles, sending his body the message that there was nothing left to expel.

  When he felt strong enough, he lifted the bottle again and took a swallow. This time his stomach retracted its claws and accepted the fluid with only a mild gurgle of protest.

  Water had never tasted so good, and soon the bottle was empty.

  ‘So what happened, sir?’ Colin asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Zack’s tone was angrier than he intended. ‘Just leave me be.’

  Mary leaned forward and sniffed. ‘You drink the booze or bathe in it?’

  Zack rolled on to his back and stared at the sky. He wished he was dead. There were too many awful things to face and yet he had been unable to take the simplest first step. He felt the weight of the small gun in his pocket; it wasn’t too late.

  ‘You drive in that state?’ Colin asked.

  Zack shrugged, but answered, ‘No.’ His first reflex was still honesty; lying took concentration.

  ‘Were you attacked? The car looks scorched and your clothes . . .’

  Zack shrugged again. He didn’t want to be himself right now. He wanted to be James Cagney in Angels with Dirty Faces: tough, defiant, abusive to screws and priests alike. He wanted to sit up straight and cold-cock the handsome son of a bitch. Maybe then the cop’s partner would help him do what he couldn’t. Hell, her act of heroism could get her on the fast path to the gold shield she coveted; maybe that would make her smile.

  ‘What you grinnin’ at?’ Mary snarled impatiently.

  Zack hadn’t realized he was smiling. He turned to look at the woman. Her eyes were a rather remarkable shade of turquoise.

  ‘You have pretty eyes.’ The words flowed automatically from the one part of his brain he never needed to question, nor doubt. ‘But you need to stop squinting. The deep wrinkles are the hardest to remove.’

  Mary’s face turned red. ‘Who asked for your opinion, asshole?’

  Her partner began to laugh. ‘You know, I think he’s right. You do have nice eyes—’

  Mary stopped him with a cold stare.

  Colin rested his hands on his hips and turned back to Zack. ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  ‘Zack Parker.’

  ‘This your car?’

  Zack nodded.

  ‘You want to report the damage?’

  Zack shook his head.

  ‘You hungry? There’s a great pancake place just a block away.’

  Mary sighed heavily.

  Colin held out his hand until, hesitantly, Zack reached out and grasped it.

  10

  Sam stood on the edge of the crater that had been his home.

  A thin ribbon of yellow crime-scene tape surrounded the pit. The tape rustled and rippled as a light breeze tested its temporary bonds. One section, near where Hannah’s potted herb garden would have stood, had already ripped from its post and now fluttered in the wind like an elongated flag. Appropriately, it flew at half-mast.

  A light rain turned the last smouldering embers to mud, and the dull sun, filtered through a veil of cloud, cast the scene in a softer glow than the emergency halogen lights of just hours before.

  Neighbours peeked from behind curtained windows, keeping their distance, not daring to encroach on his space. For this, at least, Sam was thankful. He knew nobody wanted to contemplate how easily this could have happened to them, to their home, their family.

  They would talk among themselves after he was gone. Some would even visit the hole, mourn the loss of life and thank the universe for being spared. They would call it a tragedy and then begin to forget.

  This realization made Sam feel even more distanced from the ‘normal’ community that Hannah had embraced. Before this, all he lacked was money to keep pace with the business-class neighbours and their rotating parade of shiny leased cars.

  But now his family was gone and he had lost everything.

  Sam began to cry again, salty tears painful against the raw skin around his eyes. The little blue pills the harried doctor at the hospital gave him had made him numb, but uncomfortably so, as if his brain was packed in cotton wool laced with slivers of crinkled tinfoil.

  After giving him the pills, the doctor told him to leave. ‘Go home’ were his exact words. There were no beds available, except for the dying, and even then it helped if you knew someone.

  Sam tried to explain that he no longer had a home and that death was an acceptable trade for somewhere to lay his head.

  The doctor thought he was joking and laughed aloud as a police officer stepped forward to take Sam’s arm and lead him away.

  He had begun to shiver in the back of the police cruiser, his body convulsing savagely and his teeth chattering so loud, he worried they would break. He popped two more of the blue pills and the young officer handed him a thick, woollen blanket to wrap around his shoulders.

  When the shivering refused to stop, he asked the officer to drive by his home. The young man had looked at him with large, sad brown eyes before reluctantly agreeing.

  As Sam walked the circumference of the pit, he felt as though he had turned to stone. The young officer cleared his throat. ‘I need to get you downtown, Mr White,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t really supposed to bring you back here.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Sam enquired softly.

  He didn’t turn around as he spoke and anyone passing would think he was talking to the crater rather than the young man who shifted nervously from foot to foot beside his cruiser.

  ‘Dale, er, Officer Dale Ryan.’

  ‘Thanks for everything, Dale.’

  ‘You’re welcome, sir, but we really need to get going. The detectives will want to talk to you.’

  Sam turned his head slowly, as if his skull had grown too heavy for his shoulders. He looked down the street to where someone had moved his abandoned Jeep from the middle of the road and parked it against the kerb. Beside the mini-vans and family sedans, it looked more battered and forlorn than usual.

  And, Sam realized, it was all he had left. ‘Can I take my own vehicle?’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ Ryan said quickly. ‘I’m supposed to make sure you get there.’

  Sam snorted. ‘You’re to make sure I don’t do anything stupid like drive my piece-of-shit Jeep into this fucking hole at 120 miles per hour, huh?’

  ‘Um, yeah, I guess so, Mr White.’

  Sam stared at the officer and a sudden wave of rage burst from within.

  ‘Christ! When did I become so fucking old that twenty-somethings started calling me Mr and Sir, and watching over me like I was about to crap on their good seats?’

  The officer stayed mute.

  ‘I’m only forty-two.’ Sam’s anger crested and ebbed as rapidly as it had erupted. ‘And I’m not planning to crap on your seats.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ Ryan said tentatively.

  Sam stepped back from the crater’s edge and walked to the cruiser.

  ‘
Tell them we’re coming in.’

  11

  Zack picked at his plate of potato pancakes, slicing off a tiny bite with the side of his fork and pushing it around his plate.

  ‘Are you going to eat that?’ the male officer asked through a mouthful of waffle. ‘Cause it looks delicious. I’m starting to wish I had ordered it.’

  Zack put down his fork, the morsel uneaten. He opened his mouth to speak when the cellphone in his pocket chirped.

  The two officers exchanged glances as Zack reached a trembling hand into his pocket, his fingers sliding over the tiny gun until they wrapped around the plastic phone. He flipped the phone open and held it to his ear.

  ‘New friends?’ asked the distorted voice.

  ‘What of it?’ Zack’s voice was void of emotion as he automatically scanned the restaurant, searching the faces of the other diners, trying to find who didn’t belong.

  ‘You don’t want to talk to them,’ said the voice.

  ‘Why not?’

  Zack finished his scan of the restaurant, but didn’t see anyone who stood out. Four people were on cellphones: two women, sitting across from each other at the same table and occasionally exchanging smiles even as they talked to other people; a skinny messenger with long, hairy legs squeezed into skin-tight bicycle shorts; and a grey-haired salesman in an out-dated check jacket who kept dabbing at his forehead with paper napkins.

  Colin leaned across the table, his hand stretching to touch Zack’s arm. ‘Everything OK?’

  Zack nodded, but twisted around in his chair to face away from the two cops.

  ‘You still have something to lose,’ said the voice.

  Zack almost laughed. ‘I have nothing.’

  The line went silent for a moment and then another voice came on.