It became apparent rather quickly that it was not at all as they had been led to believe. The factory itself was ramshackle at best and staffed with locals who couldn’t speak a word of English. Their unrushed and relaxed work ethic was a frustration for Harry from the start, and on top of that, the beachfront house he’d been promised was actually a tiny two-bedroom apartment located right in the center of the tourist heavy area of town. It was boisterous in the evenings, and by early morning the streets were filled with empty bottles and half-eaten cartons of takeout food. Although the beach was within walking distance as advertised, it was also within close proximity to the Favelas—great ramshackle shanty towns stacked haphazardly on top of one another, covering the Rio hillsides. Instead of the dream job that would take him to retirement, Harry was confronted with humid, sticky evenings and intense arguments with Maggie, all set against the backdrop of gunfire and police sirens. All of it was just about bearable until Harry lost his job without warning.
Unable to adjust to Harry’s new regime of hard work and long hours, the factory workers had threatened a strike unless things reverted back to the way they were. Faced with losing either one man or a hundred, the company made Harry the scapegoat and he was released from his position after just three months. Maggie was furious and had demanded they go back to Atlanta, but Harry, as stubborn as he was, had refused to leave with his tail between his legs. He told her in no uncertain terms that they were staying where they were. He tried to find work but many local businesses were reluctant to employ a foreigner, and as the rejections increased, his confidence plummeted.
With a grunt, he tossed the remote onto the small coffee table, dragged himself with some effort out of his chair and moved to the window. Peering out in to the near dusk, he glanced at his watch. Almost seven thirty. It was time for them—the city’s night people—the pushers, the pimps, and the whores. Time for them to seep out onto the streets and go about their business. It was a world away from the picture painted for him by Eng. Tec when they had initially approached him. They had promised him clean streets, a peaceful environment in which to live and work. He should have done more research of his own, but the truth was he had been dazzled by the sales patter and accepted everything without question. With an irritable sigh he yanked open the window, praying for a cool breeze. Instead, sticky, humid warmth enveloped him he leaned out. Even at dusk the heat was oppressive.
“Hottest damn summer in years,” he muttered as he squinted off into the distance.
He was just able to see a blue grey smudge of ocean on the horizon, between the labyrinth of buildings and hotels that dominated his immediate view. He let out a deep sigh and surveyed the landscape, wondering if other people out there were as miserable as he was. He certainly hoped so. As dusk gave way to darkness he could see the sickly neon glow of the main town parade that was depressingly close to his apartment block. He’d learned quickly that Rio was a place split right down the middle. The days were for the respectable tourists—young families looking to see the sights or perhaps buy some souvenirs for friends back home. Maybe a postcard showing a crescent of white beach set against a perfect and cloudless blue sky.
He could see it now. Welcome to sunny Brazil. Enjoy your stay.
He’d been sold this image by Daniels. He hated him, but to his credit, Daniels was good at his job. Really good. Harry suspected he could sell sand to Arabs, or snow to Eskimo’s. Hell, he sold Rio to Harry Harris after all. Daniels aside, as soon as the sky began to grow dark and those sickly neon lights began to cast their harsh red and blue hues, the other half of the city began to crawl out of the shadows. The pimps, the pushers, the gangs. And of course the prostitutes. Many were old and broken, their bodies ravaged by life on the streets. Crack cocaine was rampant here, as easy to get as groceries from the local supermarket. Many of the prostitutes were painfully young. Thin waifs of girls with desperation and fear in their eyes as they touted openly for business—usually monitored from nearby by the gangs or their pimps who lingered in the shadows. It was clear that the night was theirs. When he first arrived he had ventured out to see for himself, to convince himself that he wasn’t afraid. He realized soon enough that the world had changed into one he no longer understood. As he walked, he would see them watching him with eyes that said—
Hey, old man, you better get the fuck out of here, ‘cos I’ve been sleeping off my hangover all day and now I’m ready to fight, fuck, drink, and maybe do some coke. This is no place for the likes of you.
They were right, and after that he rarely ventured out after dark. He’d seen enough and ducked back into the room, slamming the window closed. “Motherfucker!” he barked, overcome with rage as he snatched up the phone and punched in Daniels’s number. The air conditioning was supposed to have been fixed the week before, but the little shit had slinked away citing some lame excuse about a family emergency. Harry blamed him for this whole mess. He had sugar-coated the shit as it were, and at first he couldn’t do enough to help.
‘Anything you need, and I do mean anything, call me anytime night or day and I’ll make it happen. We at Eng-Tec look after our own,’ he had said, flashing his veneered salesman’s grin. Since Harry had been fired it seemed Daniels was gradually but unquestionably phasing them out. Taking the wireless handset with him, he stalked through to the small kitchen slamming open the fridge as he yelled over his shoulder.
“Damn it, Maggie. The damn air conditioning still isn’t working and Daniels isn’t answering the fucking phone!”
A disembodied voice drifted back from the bedroom.
“He’s not home, Harry. His mother died last Friday.”
Harry shook his head, squeezing the handset so hard his knuckles turned white.
“I don’t give a damn about his dead mother, it’s a hundred degrees in here!”
She came out of the bedroom, giving him a disapproving glance as she swept past, the smell of her perfume causing him to wrinkle his nose.
“Maggie, how much of that shit do you have to plaster yourself with? I can hardly breathe in here as it is!”
She didn’t rise to the bait, pausing instead to look at herself in the mirror over the fireplace
“Don’t start, Harry, I’m not in the mood.” Her irritation was undisguised. He snapped open a beer, tossing the lid into the sink rather than the bin.
“You aren’t in the mood? Fuck, Maggie, neither am I. Family emergency my ass. The son of a bitch is avoiding me, I just know it.”
She swept past him again, a vortex of perfume and hairspray as she grabbed her purse from the worktop.
“Come on, Harry, give the guy a break. I imagine our air conditioning is the least of his worries.”
He screwed up his face in disdain, throwing the handset on the worktop and taking a great chug of beer, almost draining the entire can.
“I don’t give a fuck, I just want my damn air conditioning fixed. It’s like a GOD DAMN FURNACE IN HERE!”
Ignoring Harry’s rage, Maggie checked the contents of her purse before spraying even more perfume onto her wrists and rubbing them together. Usually she wore her hair down to the shoulder, but tonight Harry noticed that she had re-styled it and colored it blonde, a radical departure from its usual auburn shade. She now wore it swept back and tied into a ponytail. He felt a stirring in his groin, but it quickly subsided. Getting lucky was no longer in the cards, and hadn’t been for some time. Although she was only six years younger than he was at thirty-nine, she could easily pass for late twenties. Her skin was flawless and without worry lines. Her eyes were blue and shone brightly. It was clear to him from the beginning that he’d struck lucky with her. They had shared a certain spark once, but its intensity had faded over the years. Now she seemed distracted and distant for the most part, and he found affection harder and harder to give.
He watched her now as she found what she was looking for—the earrings he had bought her for Christmas. She saw him looking at her as she clipped them in.
&nbs
p; “Go easy on Daniels—he’s having a tough time right now, Harry.”
Before he could stop himself, he jabbed a finger at her accusingly.
“It’s ok for you,” he snarled. “You are never here, always somewhere with those damn friends of yours.”
She took a step towards him, opening her mouth as if to speak, but letting out a deep sigh instead. He was full of anger, and although he had never laid a hand on her, he had to restrain himself from lashing out.
“Whatever, Harry. I don’t have time for this crap. I’m going to be late.”
“You and those damn women. I don’t like them Maggie. You‘ve changed since they started whispering in your ear, telling you how to think.”
Maggie didn’t look at him; she was at the mirror toying with her hair.
“Harry, they’re my friends. You could go out too, you know. Get out of this damn room for a while.”
“I shouldn’t have to leave my own damn house because some lazy shit won’t do his damn job!” he bellowed, face flushed red with anger.
“Besides, you know I have no friends here. Do you expect me to go out on my own?”
“Betty’s husband is a nice guy—the two of you could go out for a beer or something. Just stop making me feel guilty for having a life.”
“Betty? The bitch with the buck teeth? Her husband is a prick. No thanks.”
He saw her reflection glare at him in the mirror.
“Do what you like, Harry. I’m sick of this shit.”
She turned and swept past him, her anger obvious. He grabbed her arm and spun her around, unable to ignore the flicker of hate and revulsion in her eyes. He let go of her and lowered his gaze.
“Look, Maggie, I’m sorry. I just worry about you. I know things have been rough since we moved out here. I’ll put it right, ok?”
She looked at him and nodded, but he could see in her eyes that it was a token gesture. He felt a pang of sorrow deep inside, which hurt more than he expected. Maggie smiled, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.
“Harry, please don’t worry. There’s a whole bunch of us and I’ll take a taxi back. I’ll be fine. But I meant what I said; you really need to start getting out of here. It’s not good for you to stay home all the time.”
He looked down at the floor, scuffing his feet on the cheap carpet.
“I’ve been in a god-awful mood all day, and this business with the air conditioning just sent me over the edge. I think I’ll make it an early night and wake up in a better mood tomorrow. You go out and have fun.”
She kissed him again on the cheek, flashing him a smile.
“No need to wait up, I have a key. Get some rest. You look tired.”
He sank into his chair and stared at the TV as she swept towards the door. She opened it and looked back.
“I love you, Harry”
“Love you too,” he responded, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the television screen. She waited for a few seconds as if she were thinking of something else to say, then left, leaving the smell of her perfume hanging in the sticky heat of the apartment. He waited for a full count of thirty before he switched off the TV and crossed to the window. He watched the street below and waited for her to appear. She left, walking unhurriedly away from their building and towards the center of the town. He pulled on his jacket as a fresh wave of anger flowed through him.
She’s having an affair.
Harry had ignored the voice in his head for some time now, but found he could no longer block it out.
Something isn’t right, Harry.
“No shit, chief,” he mumbled to himself in response to his inner voice.
You had better find out what’s happening before she has a chance to cover her tracks.
“Yeah, I know.”
Besides, it’s an excuse to get out of this apartment.
Harry moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “Say again,” he mumbled to the empty room
I said don’t forget the knife.
“Knife?”
Just in case you need it. For protection.
Harry grunted and went to the kitchen. He selected a medium sized steak knife, wrapping it in kitchen paper and slipping it into his pocket. The voice inside spoke up again.
Ready? Now let’s go.
Harry opened the door and set off after his wife.
II
It didn’t take long to confirm that his suspicions were more than the paranoid delusions of a depressed husband. For the last half hour he had followed her at a distance, and as he pushed his way through the crowded streets, his heart sank. His initial curiosity and anger had now given way to an overwhelming sense of sadness. For the first time in years, he craved a cigarette.
Just wait it out, Harry, old pal. Let’s wait and see what happens.
“Shut up,” he barked, drawing a few puzzled glances from the people around him. Embarrassed, he pulled his collar tight around his neck, even though it was still hot and humid. Shoving his way through the humid streets, head aching and drenched with sweat, he felt a rage boiling up within him. In a sudden shift, the anger melted away to sadness when he thought about what would happen once he confronted her.
He had met her by chance in a bar back in Atlanta. It was a busy night and the room was bustling and full. He noticed that the seat next to her was free and had approached to ask if he could sit. She nodded absently, her head buried in a notebook in which she was writing furiously. He was mesmerized by her natural beauty. The way her nose tilted upwards slightly at the tip and the way her mouth moved silently as she wrote. He saw that her glass was empty and asked if she would like another. She had smiled at him, and Harry sat and plucked up the courage to engage conversation. He had told bad jokes at his own expense and Maggie had laughed at him, gradually opening up. When the discussion turned to her notebook, she told Harry that she was a nurse by day, but also an aspiring novelist. She allowed him to read a few pages and Harry fell in love with her style. Her copy was punchy, the characters vivid and full of life.
Over the next few weeks they continued to see each other, and their relationship grew. The following summer they married. Their friends thought it was way too soon, but Harry and Maggie had no doubts. They wanted to be together, and for a while life was perfect for them. Maggie’s writing was evolving in leaps and bounds, and Harry continued to work hard so that she might leave her job and focus on writing. It seemed the world was theirs for the taking. Things got even better in the spring of 87’ when Maggie got pregnant. Harry was over the moon and couldn’t believe the lucky hand life had dealt him. But it was around this time that things began to fall apart.
He snapped back to the present, pushing his way through the throngs of people walking the streets. The faces were a blur, insignificant obstacles between him and his impending confrontation with his wife. The only thing that was clear to him was the back of Maggie’s head as she walked towards the seedier area of the town. The bars and nightclubs were just as numerous, but the lights didn’t shine quite as brightly, or penetrate as far into the recesses and darkened corners of the street. This was where the locals spent their nights, away from the tourists and within spitting distance of the Favelas. They sat on doorsteps or stood in groups on street corners, smoking huge acrid smelling cannabis joints that made Harry’s nose wrinkle. He tried his best to ignore the icy stares as they watched him. He knew he looked as out of place as he felt, and wondered if he would even survive long enough to confront Maggie. Every fiber of his being told him to run; to go back to the relative safety of his overpriced sweatbox apartment and forget about this—just go on living the lie. After all what good would it do to confront her? He would only end up alone. If he went along with it she would probably stay with him, and he would still have company at least. Besides, he could have it wrong. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation; he had simply put two and two together and come up with five.
Come on, pal, you know the score here as well as I do. J
ust take a look. She isn’t out with her friends, so she has already lied to you. Who knows what else is on tonight’s agenda.
“Shut up,” he muttered again, this time under his breath so as not to draw anymore needless attention. The voice inside responded with calm patience, as if explaining something to a child.
I just don’t want you to hold out hope. Let’s see where she goes from here.
He froze on the spot, his heart almost leaping into his mouth as it skipped a beat. He hadn’t noticed that she had stopped ahead of him to talk with two locals. To Harry’s horror, they seemed to know her, the three of them laughing and joking. Maggie handed them a roll of cash and was given a small plastic bag containing white powder in return. Harry was in shock. Drugs? He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. They had both smoked a little pot when they were younger, but cocaine?
Aren’t you glad you didn’t pussy out now, old buddy?
Harry ignored his inner voice and kicked himself for not concentrating on the task at hand. He looked around for somewhere to hide and ducked into a ramshackle news stand, turning his back to her as he pretended to browse the magazines. He kept a careful but watchful eye on her as she said her goodbyes to the locals and set off walking again. Harry relaxed, glancing at the wiry old man behind the news counter who was looking back with a bemused and somewhat distrustful look on his face.
“Can I help you, sir?” the storekeeper asked, the sketchy English rolling uncomfortably from his tongue.
“No, no thanks.” Harry turned to leave, but stopped short. “Actually, I’ll take a pack of Marlboros.”
On her tail again, he saw her go into a bar a little way down the street. Even from a distance, he could see how seedy it was. Its windows were grimy and covered with posters.
Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror Page 21
