by Brent Pilkey
Teach those bitches for getting security on his ass. So what if he’d been whacking off? It wasn’t like he’d touched the nurse while he was stroking it. And was it his fault they’d left his stretcher bed in a hallway? Fuck them.
Jesse shot a finger in the general direction of St. Michael’s Hospital then doubled over, clutching his broken ribs. The sudden movement started his head spinning and black dots slewed across his vision as the laneway spun around him. He staggered over to a car and collapsed on its hood, only to jerk back as the hot metal seared his forearms. The laneway was whirling madly and Jesse dropped to his butt, the impact pounding another wave of nauseating pain through his ribs.
The doctor may have been right. Maybe he should have stayed in the hospital.
Groaning, Jesse reclaimed his feet. He may have a dent in his head, one of those fucking percussion things, but he wasn’t dumb enough to lie in the laneway; someone would fucking run over him thinking he was a bag of fucking garbage. And if someone fucking did, would the fucking cops do anything? Not fucking likely. Did they do anything when he told them people were trying to kill him? Fuck, no.
Bet some of those fuckers that jumped me were fucking cops.
He carefully walked back to the car and even more carefully knelt down to view his face in the side mirror. Something that looked like it belonged in one of those zombie movies stared back at him. His left eye was hidden beneath a mass of swollen, purple flesh. His other eye was just as colourful but not puffed up, thankfully.
“Yeah, fucking lucky me,” he whined.
His nose, broken at least twice before, was splinted as straight as possible with a wad of fucking tape holding it in place. It looked like he was wearing a fucking white tent in the middle of his face. His lips were a mess of cuts, some stitched shut. He knew his body was just as mangled and his arms bore wounds from trying to protect himself.
I should fucking sue the cops. I fucking told them I was a marked man.
But they’d wanted to know why people wanted to kill him and Jesse wasn’t about to tell them that. No fucking way. The stupid fucking cops hadn’t known but everyone else had. Just because he’d been running with that fucknut Kayne while he was slicing up people’s faces. Jesse told anyone who’d listen that he’d had no choice, that Kayne would have killed him. Tried to tell them that he, Jesse, had actually held Kayne back, had stopped him cutting when that crazy motherfucker wanted to slit some throats. But no one listened and after months of hiding, he’d been found. Found and beaten almost to death.
But no one would fuck with him now. He’d made a stop right after getting out of the hospital. The next asshole fucker who got in his face would be as dead as that fucking Kayne.
That fucking cop. Twice now, that motherfucker had fucked up Jesse’s life. But no more. No one was going to fuck him up anymore.
Patting the hard bulge under his shirt, Jesse Polan slowly but deliberately walked up the laneway behind the Seaton House in search of some crack or pussy. Whichever came first. He wasn’t picky.
The man had come out from the laneway behind the Seaton House and Jenny watched as he limped in her direction. Someone had laid the boots to the poor bastard something fierce. His face was a colourful mosaic of swollen flesh and bruises, made all the more vivid by the startling white splint over his nose, and by the way he was hobbling along, she was sure someone hadn’t spared his body.
Jenny expected him to simply shuffle on past; no one in that condition could possibly be interested in sex, but he surprised her. And not for the last time.
He stopped in front of her, close enough for Jenny to smell the sick sweat coming off him. “Hey, baby, how about you and me go somewhere and fuck?”
“Aren’t you a charmer,” she told him as his eyes unabashedly trolled over her body. Jenny fought back the urge to shudder. Where Jack’s earlier appraisal had been subtle and, in a way, complimentary, this creep’s blatant inspection was palpable, an oily touch sliming her skin.
Despite her revulsion, she didn’t sucker him into a communicate charge. She knew she could, he didn’t look all that bright, but anyone busted up to that extent deserved a touch of sympathy.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” With his lips stitched up, the creep was having a hard time talking. His words were coming out all mushed together but there was no mistaking the tone. The creep was getting angry, but Jenny really didn’t give a damn.
She lowered her sunglasses, and there was nothing seductive about the gesture this time. She fixed him with her cop stare and said, “It means I’m not interested. Keep walking.”
The creep pulled back but didn’t retreat. “Fucking bitch. Just like those fucking high-snotted bitch nurses.”
“Whatever. Take a hike.” She tossed her head in the direction of Pembroke.
“Bitch,” he spat and turned away. But kept turning and when he was facing Jenny again he had a gun in his hand.
“Shit,” she breathed and then he was on her, the revolver jammed painfully into her ribs.
The creep clamped his left hand over her mouth and dug the gun in harder. “You listen to me, bitch,” he sneered. His breath reeked. It smelled like some small, diseased rodent had crawled into his mouth and died. “I’m gonna fuck you, bitch. Dead or alive, I’m gonna fuck you. You understand?”
Jenny nodded beneath the creep’s hand. He smiled, showing rotting teeth behind his ruined lips, and cautiously removed his hand.
“You fucking scream, bitch, and I’ll fucking shoot you. You fucking got that?”
“Yeah,” Jenny whispered huskily. “Let’s get started.” She dropped her hands to his belt buckle, her left forearm resting against the inside of his gun wrist.
“Can’t wait now, can you, bitch?” His left hand slid down from her face to her breast, squeezing greedily.
“Like that?” Jenny asked. She had his belt undone and could feel his eager hardness behind the zipper.
“Yeah, bitch. Keep going,” he sighed, and his eyelids slipped shut.
Jenny swept her arm out to the side, pushing the gun away, and at the same time drove her knee into his balls. The creep gagged deep down in his throat and his legs sagged under him. She grabbed his gun hand and twisted the palm skyward, locking the elbow joint in a tight arm bar. Bent over, his free hand clutching his groin, the creep was unable to defend himself as Jenny snapped two vicious kicks into his body, driving her shin hard into his ribs.
He hit the pavement like a sack of shit and Jenny plucked the gun from his unresisting fingers. The creep was curled tight, clutching himself, but managed to glare up at her.
“You fucking bitch,” he choked out.
Jenny smiled sweetly at him. “That’s Officer Bitch to you, asshole.”
Taylor flipped open his cell phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Taylor. It’s Sandra. I hope you don’t mind but I got your number from Gregory.”
Why would she be calling him? He suppressed a tremor of — what? Alarm or anticipation?
“Are you still there?”
Taylor shook his head. “Sorry. What can I do for you?”
“Gregory said you have his car. I was wondering if I could get a lift to work. Amy’s not feeling well so she’s staying home.”
Relief. And disappointment? “Yeah, no problem. Where should I pick you up?” He jotted down the address on Drewry then realized where he was. “I’m actually close by. If you don’t mind being a little early, I could come and get you now.”
“That’d be nice. Maybe we could grab a coffee or something before work,” she suggested and that unknown quake ran through Taylor’s body again.
He closed the phone and sat still, tapping the cell against his chin. Part of him wanted to see Sandra outside of work, perhaps try for something normal, that elusive goal he believed he had found with Sherry. He had had less than a month with Sherry but in
that brief period he had lived as the man he wanted to be. The anger, the shame, the guilt, all laid to rest. But that had been before that night, before that hooker had —
No. Best not to relive that horror. Unconsciously, he rubbed his hands across his chest. His hands were trembling but, again, from fear or excitement?
He had one last stop to make before meeting Sandra; he could not imagine her wanting to accompany him as he made the last of his steroid deliveries. As he started the car he wondered, not for the first time, why he did it, sold for Rico, but the answer was obvious: he couldn’t afford the apartment and the steroids from Rico on the money he made at the club. Selling let him keep both.
A quiet voice timidly spoke up. But why use it at all?
He recognized the voice as that of his sister, Sara. She hid deep in his mind, too weak to reveal herself except in times of confusion and doubt. Hers was a voice he never liked to hear.
“Go away. Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Leave me alone. You’re dead.”
But she would not rest easy. You don’t need it, she insisted. Be who you are.
“I am who I am,” he rumbled. “Who I want to be. Now fuck off, you snivelling little bitch.”
Sara’s voice, her ghost, fell silent but the seeds of doubt she had so swiftly and precisely sown took root, growing and spreading like poison, reaching deep into Taylor’s soul. The ire, entwined as always with self-loathing and doubt, intensified, burning ever stronger until it was a rage he could barely contain.
At York University he rid himself of an order of Deca and gh to a university linebacker, a student whose scholarship depended on his gridiron success. Taylor wound his way through the parking lot back to his borrowed vehicle, grumbling under his breath the whole way. He passed a van and spied himself in the passenger window.
He stopped and stared at his reflection. The man staring back at him was not yet old but his youth was masked by eyes that had seen much sorrow and anguish. Skin drawn taut over a solid brow and chiselled jaw gave his face strength beyond its years. But for all the power and confidence his body and visage exuded, he saw only a small boy cowering from his father’s wrath and haunted by the ghost of his sister.
Taylor screamed, an inarticulate bellow of rage, and slammed his fist into his mirrored self. His first punch spiderwebbed cracks through the glass; the second shattered it completely.
His rage vented, drained for the moment, he trod wearily to Gregory’s car, heedless of the blood dripping a trail of red from his scored knuckles. It was not until he was pulling out of the parking lot that he became aware of the blood. Swearing incoherently, he jammed his fist against his thigh, pressing the cuts to his jeans to inhibit the bleeding. By the time he reached Sandra’s house on Drewry Avenue, the blood was no longer flowing, only oozing where it had not congealed into soft, ugly scabs.
Sandra trotted down the driveway, a vision of blond hair, pink tank top and black shorts. Taylor looked at her, at the smile she gave him, and felt dead inside.
Better that than the other.
She jumped into the car and before Taylor could react gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks so much for picking me up.”
“Um, no problem,” he stammered, then feeling more was needed, asked, “you live here?”
“Only in the basement,” Sandra told him as she belted up. “Amy and her boyfriend live upstairs. Taylor! What happened to your hand?”
She reached for his hand but he curled it away. “I . . . fell. It’s nothing.”
The drive down Yonge Street was slow, congested by traffic and road work. “You know the old saying,” Sandra joked. “There’s two seasons in Toronto: winter and construction.”
Taylor grunted and Sandra said no more, but Taylor could see her watching him, studying him. Some time later she asked him if he wanted a coffee or something cold to drink. He didn’t but told her yes to be polite; he was feeling guilty and embarrassed for rudely ignoring her during the drive.
Second Cup coffees in hand, they resumed the drive, the AC in Gregory’s car performing well enough that the hot beverages didn’t seem too out of place.
“Is that the right time?” She tapped the digital readout on the dash. “I didn’t realize it was so early. I don’t have to be at work for another hour at least.”
“Sorry,” Taylor said glumly. “I shouldn’t have picked you up so early.”
But Sandra was quick to reassure him. “No, it’s not that. I just meant that if you’re not in a hurry we could stop somewhere to finish our coffees and chat, maybe.”
He turned to her and gave her what felt like a genuine smile. Tired and little, but genuine. “Sure, I’d like that.”
“I know the perfect place.” She directed him off Yonge Street onto Rosehill Avenue. Leaving the car, they ventured out into the heat.
“Is this okay for you?” Sandra posed. “I can’t believe you’re wearing jeans. Why don’t you take your shirt off at least?”
Taylor shook his head firmly. “I’m okay.”
She looked at him questioningly, clearly puzzled by his defensive attitude, but shrugged her slender shoulders and let it go.
They strolled through an open park that was, in defiance of the broiling sun, teeming with people. A game of ultimate Frisbee ebbed and flowed alongside a soccer match while children and dogs splashed in the artificial ponds and streams birthed from the central fountain.
Taylor gazed about, a sad, faint smile in his eyes as he watched the children playing. “I’ve never been here before. It’s nice.”
Sandra nodded, sipping on her coffee. “I grew up around here until . . .”
“Until what?”
“Until my mother died,” she admitted then sighed, a breath full of lost hope.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s okay.” She smiled, tossing her hair, and Taylor recognized it for the protective act it was. “I moved away when my dad got remarried,” she elaborated, her voice hard and bitter. “His new wife didn’t like me and since I wasn’t the one fucking him, he took her side.”
Hearing the pain in her words, he blurted out, “My family’s dead,” and instantly regretted it.
“All of them?” Sandra whispered, shocked.
Taylor nodded, clamping his jaws shut. You’ve said enough, asshole. Shut up.
But Sara’s ghost disagreed. Tell her. Let her in.
Sandra didn’t pry and they walked in companionable silence until they reached the east end of the park where it dropped away into a heavily wooded ravine. Running a finger along Taylor’s sweaty brow, Sandra joked, “I think we better get you out of the sun before you melt.” She guided their steps to a service road that curved down into the narrow valley and its cooling shade.
The air was indeed cooler within the deep green shadows but still held enough heat to mould Taylor’s shirt to his body with sweat. The sounds of the city, a harsh constant background, also faded as they descended into the vale and the knot that was binding Taylor’s guts loosened ever so slightly. At the ravine floor, the service road became a smaller paved path, but Sandra tugged Taylor away from the asphalt.
“This way is nicer, less people.” She led him onto a dirt trail that hugged a small stream as it crooked and flowed through the ravine. The path was well-worn, packed hard into the earth and wide enough in places for two to walk abreast. Sandra slipped her hand into his and he did not pull away.
“What happened to your family?” The question was gentle and caring, not accusing, but even so Taylor flinched. Sandra immediately apologized. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Tell her, Sara whispered.
“It’s all right,” he said at length. “It’s just that I haven’t talked to anyone about my family since my girlfriend.”
“Your girlfriend? Oh, I didn’t know.” Sandra tried to pull
her hand free but Taylor held onto her.
“We broke up months ago,” he told her and was happy when her hand relaxed in his grip. He almost added, She killed herself a few days ago, but held that in, as painful as it was.
If you leave me I’ll tell!
His hands, reaching for Sherry, then Sherry falling. Falling.
Taylor clamped his eyes shut and willed Sherry away, forcing her memory down into the depths with his sister’s ghost. When he opened his eyes, he found Sandra looking at him, concern on her face.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” she told him.
Taylor gave her a shaky smile. “She . . . didn’t take the breakup well.” He lifted Sandra over a fallen tree and thrilled to feel her skin beneath his hands. When he set her down she kept one of his hands on her waist and curled her arm around him.
Her touch and the loss of Sherry —
If you leave me I’ll tell!
— unlocked memories Taylor had believed laid to rest a lifetime ago.
“I was a twin,” he revealed. “I had a sister. Her name was Sara. My mother killed her.”
Sandra’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
Taylor smiled weakly at her in reassurance. “Not on purpose. We — my parents, Sara and I — lived in Sudbury. Dad worked in the nickel mines. God, he was an asshole.”
Pulling Taylor after her, Sandra climbed the ravine’s slope for a ways before settling on a fallen tree a distance from the path. Wordlessly, she drew him down beside her and with his hands clasped in her own, silently encouraged him to share his pain.
Taylor’s eyes drifted past her, focusing on distant times.
“He drank and he beat us. All three of us, but Mom and Sara more than me. I was never good enough for him. He didn’t care about school but in sports I was never good enough, never strong enough, never fast enough. I used to listen to him beat Sara, telling her how useless she was, how she should have been a boy. If Mom tried to stop him, she got it worse. Eventually, she stopped trying to protect us.
“Dad drank and Mom started taking Valium. By the time I was thirteen, she was stoned most of the time. What a useless cunt. She let her husband beat her kids and just sat there smiling like some fucking drug addict. And that’s what killed Sara.”
