Blood Sports

by Eden Robinson

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Yeah, who knew he had balls.

  G. FRANCIS: Tom’s a gutless wonder. He got this piece of shit to do his dirty work.

  The camera swings over to a Caucasian male, late teens/early twenties, shaved head, and a large, red dragon tattoo on the right side of his neck. He is tied to a weight-lifting chair with white rope. His shirt has been removed. He is bleeding at the nose, mouth, and ears.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Not so tough now, are you, Willy?

  She strikes him on the side of the head.

  J. RIEGER: Pace yourself.

  Ms. Mazenkowski blows a kiss at the camera.

  [00:27:39]

  Tom Bauer sits on the stone steps of an unidentified building. The camera views him from below. He is smoking a marijuana cigarette.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Have you seen Jeremy lately?

  T. BAUER: Nope. [pause] You can do better, way better.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: I can, huh?

  T. BAUER: Shit, yeah. Even Shane was better than Jeremy, man.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Shane was an asshole.

  T. BAUER: I’ll take asshole over homicidal any day.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: What’d he do?

  T. BAUER: Man, let’s get off Jeremy.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Now you got me curious.

  T. BAUER: You want another one?

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Sure.

  Mr. Bauer lights up a marijuana cigarette and hands it to Ms. Mazenkowski. The streetlight flickers on above them.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Do you need a ride anywhere?

  T. BAUER: I’ve got my bike.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: We can put it in my trunk. [pause] Least I can do if I’m going to crash at your place.

  They finish the marijuana cigarette. The camera faces forward, bouncing as they walk.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Home, James?

  T. BAUER: You don’t have to. You really don’t.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: There’s my car.

  They walk toward a dark brown 1970s model four-door Chevrolet Cavalier.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Let me pop the trunk.

  Mr. Bauer loads his bike into the trunk and shuts it. The camera points toward the dashboard. The sound of a door opening can be heard.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Don’t slam it too hard or it’ll fall off.

  The door squeals closed. Ms. Mazenkowski turns the radio on to a classic rock station.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: I need a Slushie. Do you mind?

  T. BAUER: Nah.

  The engine starts and then stalls.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Fuck.

  T. BAUER: I can double you.

  Ms. Mazenkowski laughs again. The engine starts and then stalls two more times before it starts.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: If I can get my car started, you want to come to a party on Friday?

  T. BAUER: Sure.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Hey, Grandpa Sunday! [honks] Pick a lane!

  UNIDENTIFIED MALE: Up yours!

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Fucking dink in his fucking lame-ass bug. [honks] Turn already! [honks]

  UNIDENTIFIED MALE: Get bent!

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Jesus on a crapper.

  T. BAUER: I don’t think we should – holy fuck!

  The tires squeal and other cars honk.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: That’s better. [The engine stops] You coming in?

  T. BAUER: Let me squish my guts back down my throat first.

  Ms. Mazenkowski laughs. The camera is jostled and then the recording stops.

  [00:37:20]

  Jeremy Rieger removes Tom Bauer’s jacket. Mr. Bauer struggles to get away. They appear to be in an attic with dark wood panelling. A bare bulb hangs from the middle of the ceiling. The only other furniture is a bed. Mr. Rieger then removes Mr. Bauer’s shirt. The camera is bumped continually.

  J. RIEGER: I think you’d better leave.

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: I want my stuff.

  Mr. Rieger releases Mr. Bauer, who staggers toward the door.

  J. RIEGER: Christ. What’s the matter with him?

  P. MAZENKOWSKI: Gave him some stuff.

  Mr. Rieger grabs Ms. Mazenkowski by the hair.

  J. RIEGER: You stupid bitch. I wanted him sober.

  The camera rocks as they struggle, bumping into the tripod. Ms. Mazenkowski also appears to be intoxicated. Mr. Rieger throws her to the floor and kicks her in the head three times. Mr. Bauer is struggling with the door, which appears to be locked. Ms. Mazenkowski remains curled on the floor.

  Mr. Rieger reaches into a duffle bag and removes a pair of handcuffs. He pauses and looks at the camera. He reaches toward the camera and the recording stops.

  [00:49:50]

  00:50:11 has been erased and replaced with a partial recording of the movie Scream, Blacula, Scream.

  [01:40:01]

  Tom Bauer sits on the kitchen counter. He has small, round burns on each shoulder. His nose is bleeding, and he has a large bruise over his left eye. The camera zooms in on the burns. He raises his hands to cover his face. The cuffs of his shirt are stained reddish-brown. Mr. Rieger opens his wallet and hands some bills to Mr. Bauer.

  J. RIEGER: Go get yourself some pot.

  Mr. Bauer does not move to accept the money.

  T. BAUER: Jer. [pause] I can’t … I don’t …

  J. RIEGER: As far as I’m concerned, we’re even-Steven.

  Mr. Bauer does not respond.

  J. RIEGER: I’m forgiving you, you dumbass.

  T. BAUER: You’re forgiving me.

  J. RIEGER: You took it farther than most people would. I’m giving you credit for balls. So I’m letting you off the hook. For now. But you’re going to be good, Tom. If you fuck up again, I won’t be so forgiving.

  [01:52:37]

  The view is grainy from low light exposure. A fire alarm rings loudly in the background. Smoke limits the range of the camera to a few feet. The light from the camcorder suddenly illuminates a set of dark, wet footprints leading to the bedroom window. The camera follows the footprints backward, pausing at a clump of what appears to be hair at the bathroom door. Near the clump is a broken toilet-tank lid stained dark red.

  The bathroom floor has a large, red puddle near the wall, which has multiple arches of what appear to be blood splatter. The camera tilts up to examine the ceiling, which also has been sprayed.

  J. RIEGER: You think you know someone. You live with them. You eat with them. You fight with them. And then they go and surprise you.

  The camera pans the bathroom. The bathtub is filled and the shower curtain has been ripped off. The camera pans the walls.

  J. RIEGER: Look at what he can do.

  G. FRANCIS: Fire trucks!

  J. RIEGER: Look at the rage. Written all over the walls. Like a haiku.

  G. FRANCIS: Move your fucking ass, Rieger! I’m not carrying these damn –

  7 JULY 1998

  The sun hit their apartment every day at three. By this time, Mel needed two bottles, two snacks, breakfast and lunch. Hearty eater, Mel. They were weaning her, so only two short boob-sessions. If it was hot, she needed less. Maybe two bottles. A juice. A Popsicle. But she definitely needed a big breakfast. Always woke with an appetite.

  Tom could hear them ripping things, breaking things, the tinkle of things coming apart. The burglars hadn’t demanded valuables but they hadn’t asked any questions either. They’d said shut up, sit down, stay still.

  In the evenings, Mel needed a small dinner: a piece of chicken, some rice, maybe a little broccoli or peas if they bribed her. She liked dessert, understood the words cake, cookie, candy, grapes, strawberries. Like her daddy, a sweet tooth. Paulie was greasy-salty oriented – chips, grilled cheese sandwiches with bacon, hamburgers – except for caramels. Paulie had a weakness for caramels.

  Through the pillowcase over his head, Tom had a gauzy view of the living room and a blurry view of the kitchen. The shaft of sunlight (finger of God, finger of God) appearing through the gap in the curtains highlighted the landscape of overturned, dismantled furniture. The burglars had taken
apart the living room, moved into the kitchen, and were now in the bedrooms.

  The duct tape had no give. His forearms and chest and legs were taped to an armchair he and Paulie had found during an ambitious dumpster dive. It smelled of old sweat, the avocado-green upholstery grey with the grime of many owners, the seat pale from the pressure of many bums. Heavy armchair. Tom had dragged it six blocks, Paulie laughing as he flopped down on the sidewalk, flailing, “I can’t give you any more power, Captain! The ship’s breaking up, she’s breaking up!”

  Paulie had held her hand to the small of her back, her belly jutting out. “Suck it up, buttercup. Two more blocks.”

  He was willing to give them the money hidden in The Regina if that was what they were looking for. More than willing. He would deal with Jeremy when Jeremy got out, when Jeremy was released (dancing to the jailhouse rock) and free to come and kick his butt. But Glock Man had taped his mouth shut. The slime of sweat oozing down his face did not loosen the layers of tape as he’d hoped it would. Sweat making his pants stiff, making his shirt clammy, the sting of sweat dripping in his eyes, blurring his vision. They had not opened the windows. The men did not seem inclined to turn on the old-fashioned fans that he and Paulie had nervously bought from second-hand stores, worried about the fan blades and Mel’s chubby fingers interacting. The men did not seem to mind being slow-cooked as they burgled.

  Maybe Mel and Paulie hadn’t been home when the burglars came. The apartment was hot. Maybe Mel had heat stroke and Paulie had taken her to Emergency. Maybe Mel had been hard to get down last night and Paulie had taken her for a long stroller ride. Maybe they were in the park, right now, waiting for him.

  Paulie in a fury was not quiet. Even if they’d gagged her, Tom would have heard something. Duct tape was no match for Paulie. Mel. Mel. Mel would not be this quiet this long. Mel would not be still. Mel wasn’t quiet even when she slept.

  (Blubbering does not help us, does it?)

  Maybe Paulie had needed to go to a meeting. She would bring Mel to a meeting. Maybe they were at a friend’s place. Maybe they were safe with some friend that Paulie had not introduced Tom to, that she had never mentioned before. Maybe she’d gone in search of air conditioning. Maybe she was visiting her parents. (Paulie shot, in the bedroom, Mel beside her. Paulie unconscious, Mel tied up and dying of dehydration.)

  “Shut up,” Muscle Shirt said, coming over to hit him on top of the head. “Do you hear me, snitch? Shut up.”

  (Blubbering does not make us look tough, Jeremy used to say. God, Tom, no one likes a crybaby.)

  “Leave him alone,” Glock Man said. “For the love of – fucking go do the bathroom.”

  He tugged the pillowcase off Tom’s head. Tom flinched.

  “Are you thirsty?” Glock Man said.

  Glock Man crossed the room, opened the duffle bag on the table, and brought out a sports bottle. He popped off the lid, stuck a bendy straw in the orange Gatorade. Then he put the bottle down and unsheathed a Bowie knife. With the bottle in one hand and the knife in the other, he walked over to the chair. He put down the Gatorade. Glock Man lifted the knife and brought it slowly to Tom’s face. Tom pulled back, yanking against the duct tape. Glock Man carefully poked a hole in the duct tape between Tom’s lips. He wiggled the knife tip to widen the opening. He pulled the knife back and stuck the straw in the hole.

  Tom drank the lukewarm Gatorade, uncertain about where to look, glancing at the overturned and dismantled furniture, glancing at the closed curtains, finally focussing on Glock Man’s forehead. He stared steadily at Tom, concern or curiosity, Tom wasn’t sure.

  “Settle down, Tom,” Glock Man pulled the straw out of Tom’s mouth. “Let’s give you something to take the edge off.”

  Tom shook his head.

  “Don’t worry,” Glock Man said. He took a Visine bottle out of his pants pocket and squeezed the contents into the Gatorade bottle. “It’s not Visine.”

  Tom yanked harder against the tape. Glock Man clamped a hand on Tom’s forehead. He shoved the Gatorade bottle against Tom’s mouth, tilting it up, trying to pour it into Tom’s mouth. Tom twisted, but Glock Man caught a handful of hair and yanked his head back. Tom pressed his tongue against the hole. Glock Man shifted, tucking Tom’s head under his arm to free up that hand so he could plug Tom’s nose until he gasped, sucking back too much Gatorade, choking and straining for breath.

  “Good boy, Tom. Good boy.”

  He’d brought home a box of Freezies last week. Tom thought of them as the slanting, early evening light hit his knee. He dozed, startled awake by the sound of cordless drills or heavy thuds. Things you take for granted: getting up and walking over to the fridge and getting a Freezie.

  They reminded him of Sno Cones, migraine-inducing cold and kid-friendly sweet, favourite flavour, Rocket Raspberry. Walking through the Pacific National Exhibition with Paulie, Mel strapped to his chest, only a few weeks old, Labour Day weekend. The crush of kids, of couples and seniors buying lottery tickets for the Dream Home on display. They’d toured it, tried to imagine owning a house with four bedrooms. They couldn’t afford the tickets, though. They’d spent seven-fifty each getting in. Paulie determined to get out and do something, sick of staring at the walls. Blew the rest of their budget on food: Paulie had a bag of mini-doughnuts and Tom had a Sno Cone. They wandered through the Marketplace, window shopping, snacking on samples, watching the salesmen and women hustling their buns. Paulie would lean over and slip him tongue, moving the raspberry-flavoured ice back and forth between them, their mouths numb and stained Kool-Aid red.

  They were on the bus in search of snow. The bus packed with kids with snowboards and skis, with sightseers like themselves. As Mel clutched Paulie in the front seats, Tom stood over them so the skis and snowboards wouldn’t fall and hit them. The bus driver wore a Santa hat, wished everyone a ho-ho-ho Mer-ry Christmas as the passengers trooped on, paid their fare, and crammed into the aisles. Tom refused to move, even though he got dirty looks.

  They wound through North Vancouver, past the Capilano Suspension Bridge, another site on Paulie’s Mel-must-see list. But not until she was older. Not until she could walk by herself. They’d watched the coverage of the woman who’d accidentally dumped her Down’s syndrome kid over the side. (The woman’s flat reaction when she was told the kid had survived.) Paulie wasn’t taking any chances. No kid falling from her arms, plunging hundreds of feet to the ground.

  “End of the line, Grouse Mountain,” the bus driver yelled out. They waited for the crush to pass them, and then followed the crowd up the hill to the Skyride ticket counter. The line snaked down the sidewalk.

  “I’ll wait,” Tom said. “Go sit down.”

  The tram was packed. Paulie elbowed her way up to a window. Tom stayed in the centre, queasy as the swaying tram (Italy: low-flying plane snaps the tram wires and everyone dies. French Alps: old wire breaks and everyone plunges to their deaths) chugged up and up. Mel squealed and hit the window. Paulie’s girl, no fear of heights. Tom was perfectly content to not have a view.

  The sun disappeared behind a rolling bank of grey cloud. The first snowflakes, fat and wet, stuck to the north side of the tram as it shuddered and came to a stop.

  Mel squinted at the sky as they stepped off, shaking in surprise when a snowflake touched her cheek. Mel looked puzzled and serious as they walked through the snow, the skiers tromping all around them, booted footsteps as heavy as astronauts’.

  A shadow blocked the light from the window. Tom raised his head.

  Glock Man changed drill bits on the cordless screwdriver and put the TV back together. Muscle Shirt righted the coffee table. He threw a blanket over the couch. They sat, arguing over what to watch, Wheel of Fortune or Wild Weather Week on the Discovery Channel. Glock Man won by slapping Muscle Shirt upside the head.

  “As the tropical storm unleashes torrents of rain, the weakening dam bursts,” the deep-voiced host said, thumping danger music accompanying the scene of a family eating suppe
r in their dining room. “The villagers are unaware of the wall of water rushing through the deforested hills above them.”

  “Do you want to order a pizza?” Muscle Shirt said.

  “Don’t be any dumber than you have to be,” Glock Man said.

  “Phone him then. There’s nothing here. I’m not fucking spending the night in this heat trap for nothing. I need air conditioning.”

  “Go fucking stick your useless head in the crapper. That’ll cool you down.”

  “At least open a window. One window.”

  “I’m not warning you again, idiot.”

  “Maria Santos is trapped on the highest branch, her frantic family unable to reach her as the water rises.”

  “I’m taking a shower,” Muscle Shirt said.

  “Good. Go do that.”

  Glock Man put his feet up on the coffee table as Muscle Shirt disappeared down the hallway. He turned the TV’S volume up.

  Tom’s tongue felt too big for his mouth, felt dry and strange like a piece of rubber. He didn’t feel hot any more. Cold thoughts had worked. Mind over matter. Mel is okay. Mel is fine. Mel is somewhere else.

  He remembered a news story where a woman with five children left her baby in the car seat. She thought the babysitter had taken her baby girl out with the other kids. The baby girl was asleep. The mother was tired and late for work. The mother came back six hours later. In the Arizona sun, with the family van’s windows closed –

  Think cold. Think Arctic. Polar bears. Midnight sun. A documentary he’d seen with Paulie: two scientists studying polar bears had lived in Churchill, a town directly in the path of migrating bears.

  The first scientist grew a patch of sunflowers indoors. Sunflowers turn their heads to follow the sun, and he was wondering what would happen if the sun never set. As the midnight sun began, he planted the flowers outside, and they followed it around and around, followed it until they twisted their own stalks so tight they strangled themselves and died.

  “At the top of the hour,” the news anchor said, “Good news about the softwood lumber dispute.”