For Everything a Reason

by Paul Cave

  ***

  The darkness before Joseph’s eyes had become impenetrable, so much so that he thought for a moment his soul had been launched into space, forced to roam for all eternity, lonely and lost. He felt as if he’d been trapped in this bleak universe for what seemed like an aeon, and had now started to wonder if he’d actually entered the Great Beyond, only to find it lifeless and empty.

  ***

  Struggling to breathe, Marianna stood and moved towards the window. She parted the drapes further, which allowed a magnificent burst of sunlight to fill the room. She looked down at the passers-by and wondered how many of them were at the mercy of their own burden of grief. She slid the window open as far as the track allowed. Cold air billowed in, turning her dark hair into a living black scarf. The coolness helped to dispel some of the unwanted tension.

  ***

  Something brushed past Joseph’s face: A breath. He inhaled deeply, surprised and excited by the unexpected sensation. How could it be? Trapped in this dark void, another equally surprising sensation stirred his consciousness.

  The sounds of music.

  ***

  Marianna turned away from the window, the faintest hint of song drifting in from some workman’s distant radio. She returned to her husband’s side and found him motionless. Not even his eyes moved. Now a solid ebony statue, only the rise and fall of his chest gave any indication he was still alive.

  ***

  Joseph focused his attention on the noise. It came from far away, barely discernable in the rushing cacophony of silence. The darkness that surrounded him split, tearing open in front and behind. Two blinding lights exploded, one on each side of him. Multiple white lines, running in parallel to each other, appeared from one of these lights, snaking towards the other. The music increased, now clear and distinct, and Joseph recognised the clash of guitars and bass. A chain of shapes broke through the farthest tear, seemingly linked together, rushing in the same direction as the white lines. At first they posed a mystery, strange symbols and complicated swirls, but then Joseph realised they were the components of written music. Making up one continuous chain, treble and bass clefs, quavers and semi-quavers, rests and crotchets, careered towards Joseph, riding the lines of the stave like a never-ending freight train. As the combination of notes and signs drew closer, the once melodic sound became a rushing boom of thunder.

  The lines snaked towards Joseph, and for one terrible second he thought they were about to rip into him. But no, they twisted away and continued towards the second open rift. Joseph became aware of his own substance. On impulse, he reached out towards the musical notes, and felt unexpectedly pulled towards them. A double quaver raced past him, sending a pulse of energy through his spirit-like body. More signs and notes rushed by in a dizzying blur. With startling clarity, he knew this magical ride had been sent to collect him. He reached out again, this time snagging a semi-quaver, and felt himself pulled along.

  The note he rode turned brittle. It began to crumble, pieces breaking away, disappearing into darkness. Joseph began to panic. At this speed, he knew that if he lost his grip, he would be sent spinning into oblivion. He chanced a look behind and spotted the twists and turns of a treble clef. Leaping away from the disintegrating note, he landed awkwardly on the hurtling sign. He slipped and almost fell clear, but with grim determination held on. Soon, though, the clef too began to fragment.

  ***

  Marianna looked up from her husband’s face. The noise outside had changed in pitch and amplitude. A grating noise, rasping like the lungs of an asthmatic, drowned out the music and shook the open window. Marianna stood up, intent on shutting out the dreadful noise.

  ***

  Now hanging from the top of a double quaver, Joseph leaped across the void and landed on a vibrating crotchet. Without warning, the notes and signs had become an explosion of movement, not only travelling forwards at breakneck speed, but also vibrating up and down violently, as if the lines they rode had been plucked like the strings of a guitar. Joseph chanced a look ahead. What he saw made him whimper like a terrified child. The rift had begun to shrink. Notes struck the sides, shattering instantly in a shower of gleaming white ceramic. Joseph knew now that if he didn’t make it to the opening, he would become trapped in this abyss forever.

  ***

  The window opened out an inch, just enough to allow the clatter of music to filter through. The door swung shut, turning Marianna’s thoughts away from the troublesome noise outside. A young, pretty nurse had entered, carrying a clipboard and chart underneath her arm.

  ***

  Someone had pressed fast-forward. The notes raced around him in a blur, individually unrecognisable, and had now merged into a single streak. Joseph hung onto the note or sign, whatever it once was, now little more than a jagged white rock, and watched in horrified wonder as the rift dwindled to the size of a manhole. He hunched his shoulders, gripping tightly onto the hurtling meteorite, offering silent prayers, watching as the tear drew closer. The lines flapped crazily, some disappearing through the hole, taking the notes and signs with them, while others continued into darkness, and there they faded quickly out of existence.

  ***

  The nurse stepped back from the foot of the bed, her initial job completed. She frowned slightly, something clearly beginning to bother her. “What’s that god-awful racket?” she asked, her attention drawn to the window. She stepped past Marianna and reached out, intent on shutting out the annoying sound.

  “Wait!” Marianna said, stopping the nurse’s arm short.

  “What is it?” she asked, concern written across her face.

  Marianna stepped closer to the hospital bed. “I-I thought I saw something.”

  “What?” the nurse asked eagerly.

  Marianna bent over her husband. A faint exhalation of air was the only real sign of life. Then, just as it had happened moments earlier, Joseph’s eyebrow ticked upwards. “There!” she said, pointing towards his face. The nurse joined her at the bedside, and the noise outside was momentarily forgotten.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Wait,” Marianna said.

  Together they stood silently. For the third time Joseph’s eyebrow jumped, causing the smooth skin of his forehead to crease.

  “Did you see it?”

  “Yes,” the nurse replied. “But it may not mean anything, just a reaction, possibly from a dream or something else.”

  “Something else?” Marianna parroted.

  “Okay, I’ll inform the doctor,” she said on her retreat to the door.

  ***

  The light was so close now that Joseph could actually feel heat radiating from it. The sign he held onto had disintegrated to little more than a fist-sized rock. With only feet remaining, he watched as the three central lines pulled together, contracting sharply to fit through the tiny gap. He threw away the white rock and gripped the two outer lines. Laying his head tightly against the line in the middle, he closed his eyes and then held his breath. His clenched hands were pulled together, until barely inches apart. One final look upwards revealed that the light had dwindled to the size of a mailbox. Joseph had one terrifying moment to think he’d never fit through, especially his ample gut, before fire burnt at his knuckles.

  “OOOhhhh shit..!” he cried, as the rest of his body caught fire.

  In the next instant he was through.

  ***

  And once again, silence.

  Pain stabbed at his eyes. He squinted, surprised by the sensation, the light source harsher than the one he’d just witnessed. Something shifted above him, a dark silhouette, and unexpectedly, he was confronted by his wife’s beautiful face. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes. Two clear rivers of tears sprang from them, which ran down the fine contours of her face, before coming together at the tip of her elegant chin.

  She watched as his mouth opened slightly, just the left side under his control, and a thick stream of saliva pooled out onto his shoulder. He grinne
d sheepishly. With his swollen left side and his slack right, he could have put Quasimodo to shame. Yet, as Marianna looked down at his battered and distorted face, she thought it was by far the most beautiful she had ever seen.

  Chapter Three

  Ice-cold wind bit into exposed flesh with the same conviction as cruel fangs. This, the coldest day of the month, had sprouted vicious teeth and nails, which would have given any beast from the Jurassic Age a run for its money. Winter held on with unsympathetic malevolence. The branches of the trees that lined the streets and avenues were burdened with frost – stark white limbs reaching desperately towards the washed-out February sun. In some places, patches of grey snow lingered on colourless swathes of frozen land, out of reach of the sun and children alike.

  The remnants of snowmen lurked along sidewalks; obese sentinels watching the hub of New York City go about its business. Like a superhuman heart, Manhattan Island pumped people into its core – millions of corpuscles, each charged with enthusiasm – held them there momentarily, and then sent them home, worn-out and defused. Wrapped in long scarves, thick overcoats and insulated boots, the city’s inhabitants rushed home in the early-evening twilight, eager to take refuge from the biting wind.

  In stark contrast to the freezing horrors of outside, indoors was a warm haven, which offered sanctuary to both saints and sinners, irrespective of whether their hearts were filled with innocence or murderous intent.

  The aroma of the bowl of stew beneath Thomas Carter’s nose barely registered. Small, unidentifiable pieces of god-knows-what floated on the surface and seemed to avoid Carter’s spoon, no matter how hard he tried to scoop them up. A crusty bread roll lay untouched beside the bowl. Carter eyed it with uncertainty. The roll looked stale enough to have come from some recently unearthed Egyptian tomb. Dark crumbs dotted the bread intermittently, reminding him of sand. He’d read somewhere that ancient Egyptians had mixed fine sand with dough in an attempt to make supplies of flour go further, before offering it to unsuspecting slaves.

  “Are you gonna eat that?” someone at his side asked.

  A dreadful stench wafted towards Carter. He turned to his right and found a wrinkled old face looking at him expectantly. The old man’s head bobbed towards the crust, his hooked nose almost close enough to peck at it.

  “Gonna eat it, or what?” the man asked. Blackened gums barely retained one or two yellowed teeth, and the choking stench of rotten breath assaulted Carter’s nose.

  “Take it,” Carter said.

  Fingers that hadn’t seen soap or water in a long time scooped up the roll and then began to tear it into more manageable pieces.

  Sandwiched between two ragged tramps, Carter turned back to the bowl of stew in front of him. He continued to trawl for the few lumpy bits on the surface half-heartedly, his belly still full from the meal he’d eaten in the comfort of his uptown apartment. Consciously aware that he had not started eating, he raised a spoonful of the watery stew to his lips.

  Fire erupted inside his mouth. Tongue, gums and throat screamed with the unexpected bite of the clear liquid. It was then he realised that the dish before him was basically hydrated pepper. He looked around the table, expecting others to be fanning open mouths or grabbing for the jugs of cloudy water dotted around the table. Everyone else was spooning mouthful after mouthful of this fiery broth into gaping mouths without complaint. Carter shook his head, understanding why. Most of the people in the room had the desperate look of chronic alcoholics. Bright red bulbous noses, eyes that seemed incapable of focusing, no matter how hard they tried, and that slight nervous tic that accompanied most hardened drinkers, reminded him that his fellow diners were the unwanted, unseen community of New York City’s homeless. People who lived day-by-day on a diet of small handouts, neat whisky and narcotics.

  A feeling of pity washed over him. Not a condescending demonstration of fake compassion, but the honest sincerity of someone who was witness to the lowest depravations of man.

  “Not hungry?” the tramp at Carter’s right asked. The guy’s bowl had been licked clean, and all that was left of the bread roll were the few crumbs sticking in his tangled beard.

  Carter looked down at his bowl. He had barely touched his stew. For a second, he battled between an uneasy feeling of looking out of place and a sense of guilt.

  The tramp’s clothes looked about ready to split at the seams, just dirt and grime holding them together, and his eyes were deep and hollow. Those eyes contained a desperate yearning that would not be satisfied by the offer of a thousand bowls of stew.

  Unwilling to give the tramp his meal, Carter grumbled a warning then hunched over his bowl. He cringed slightly, expecting the guy to launch into an uncontrollable rage. Ten seconds passed; nothing happened. An eagerness to get out of this desperate place drew Carter’s thoughts away from the bowl before him, and his eyes towards the door marked EXIT. His gaze settled on a small doorway leading to the only washroom. As if he was suddenly in danger of fouling himself, he offered a surprised look of agony, stood clutching at the seat of his pants, and then quickly tottered towards the doorway.

  He’d barely taken three steps before the homeless guy reached over to take the bowl of stew. A black man opposite him chuckled, revealing a mouthful of pink gums. He muttered, “Crazy asshole,” then returned to the half-empty bowl in front of him.

  In the washroom, Carter breathed a long sigh of relief. Now was not the time for mistakes. He’d only get one shot at this. And he needed to be sure his target stayed oblivious to his presence.

  Presley Perkins had been a hard man to find – not at all surprising, considering the amount of shit he’d gotten himself into. A two-bit loser, with barely the sense that God had given him, Perkins had somehow managed to remain out of sight for almost three months now. He’d seemed to have left town, leaving behind him the aftermath of a despicable act of violence.

  Carter knew better. Perkins was still here in the city, somewhere.

  The guy didn’t have the smarts to leave. Stupid to the nth degree, Presley Perkins should have been born with the word ‘Loser’ tattooed on his forehead. Son of a slumlord, the sad fuck had never travelled farther than the Eastside Express could take him. While the real estate boom of the 1980s had given the family a somewhat classier cachet — bad habits die hard. Old Man Perkins, called Don ‘Dolly’ Perkins, had a taste for greasy food, good booze, dumb cheap hookers and strippers with big chests and gold-digging ambitions, and, most of all, high stakes gambling. The moniker ‘Dolly’ was added to his name by his gangster buddies because he went through women like he did cocktail napkins. He also paid protection money to established Italian crime bosses to keep himself out of trouble. Black and Latino gangs and certain Eastern Bloc syndicates were constantly trying to expand their borders into Dolly’s turf. Despite his substantial real estate earnings, his string of easy women and his big player lifestyle, running with the mob always tapped Dolly’s cash-flow.

  Presley Perkins possessed the additional bad luck of being named after his father’s favourite musician and getting his mother’s less than room temperature IQ. Dolly learned early on that Presley needed to be kept away from any of the Perkins money if there was going to be anything left at all.

  That all changed the night Dolly moved on to the next world. His considerably high cholesterol count finally pushed his heart too far. He died in spectacular fashion, in the embrace of one of his paramours. Presley inherited his late father’s wealth, and within just eighteen months had lost all of it. Slave to the roulette wheel, he’d gambled Dolly’s fortune away, and had also found himself in debt to a Russian mafia boss to the tune of twenty-five grand. Now in serious trouble, he’d taken the only option left available to him.

  These were the events that led to Presley standing at the counter of a convenience store, arm outstretched and pistol in hand. Head clad in a ski-mask, he was in the process of demanding a register full of cash, when, in a terrible stroke of bad luck, the door opened and a unifor
med cop walked in. Cop and robber froze, both rooted to the spot, the unexpected presence of the other freezing each of them solid. Then, instinct taking over, the cop reached for his sidearm. Already at an advantage with his gun drawn, Presley squeezed off a shot first. The bullet caught the cop across his throat, nicking the carotid artery and sending a bright red spray of blood across the aisle.

  It was the first time Presley had ever fired a gun.

  He fled the scene empty-handed, with the stench of blood thick in his nostrils. Taking to the back alleyways, he stopped abruptly, the magnitude of what had just happened overwhelmingly apparent, and dropped the contents of his bowels, along with the firearm, which he hid unimaginatively in a half-filled dumpster. In simplest terms, Presley Perkins had sealed his fate by leaving behind him a big pile of steaming DNA for all to see.

  Now, three months after the shooting, Thomas Carter lay in waiting, the moment of Presley’s reckoning fast approaching. In an attempt to disappear, Presley had done the most obvious thing – hidden amongst the homeless. Not a bad plan in itself, but somewhat compromised by Perkins’s occasional use of ATM machines. Six weeks after the shooting, small amounts had been withdrawn from Perkins’ small savings account. Just enough for someone who was living on the streets to survive with the tiniest measure of comfort. It had been a simple case of triangulating the cash withdrawals and locating the nearest soup kitchen. What had been harder for Carter were the weeks trawling the underbelly of society in the hope of catching his quarry.