‘Have you ever told the truth for any of those magazines?’ she asked.
‘I save the truth for my fiction.’
‘Maybe that’s why no one’s interested in publishing it.’
Kerrigan chuckled.
‘There’s more to it than that,’ he said, ‘but you’re probably right. I ought to write romances or something.’
He set three cups on the table along with sugar for Burt and milk for Kath. As he poured coffee, Burt returned. He was wearing a white shirt with a collar and he had combed his wisps of fine white hair across his head. He’d shaved too.
‘My God, who is that man? He looks like someone I married. Will you give an old lady a kiss and make her happy?’
Burt smiled. It was hesitant at first, like he was embarrassed to be capable of happiness. The smile was followed by a look of pure mischief.
‘I’ll give you a darn sight more than that when I get over there, lady. I just need to accelerate to my cruising speed. Might take a few minutes.’
Again the smile, ragged and careless like the smile Kerrigan remembered. When he eventually arrived, Burt leaned over and gave her the kiss he’d promised her and Kerrigan saw in that brief exchange their spirits flying colours bright as banners. A part of them would always be young.
Outside there was a sudden scratching before Dingbat catapulted through the dog flap in the back door. After two years, Kerrigan still hadn’t worked out what breed Dingbat was but he had a lot of energy. The dog barked like there was an army of cats in the kitchen. He ran to Kerrigan, wagging his fluffy tail in recognition and turning in excited circles. Finally, he collapsed onto his back in submission and growled for attention. Kerrigan gave him a treat from the glass jar on the counter and rubbed his tummy. Dingbat tried to chew the dog biscuit upside down, half choking himself on the shattered crumbs.
‘You should see a doctor, Dingbat,’ said Kerrigan, ‘You need Prozac.’
‘Don’t you talk to my hound that way, boy,’ said Burt, ‘He’ll bite your nuts off before you can say crossbreed. Ain’t that right, Dingbat?’
Dingbat leapt to his feet. He stood with his head cocked to one side, his tail swishing in expectation as he waited to be addressed again.
‘You catch any squirrels today, Dingbat?’ The dog turned his head over even further as Burt spoke then flicked it to the other side, whining a little.
‘I swear that dog understands every word I say.’
‘You both show similar linguistic abilities,’ said Kerrigan.
Kath smiled.
Burt said, ‘If I was ten years younger, James Kerrigan, I’d tan your hide,’
‘I think we’re both a little old for that, don’t you?’
‘A boy’s never too old to appreciate a good beating.’
‘How old a ‘boy’ do you think I am, Burt?’
‘Not old enough to avoid a darn good switching.’
‘Settle down, you two,’ said Kath.
Kerrigan saw a little colour in the old man’s cheeks. He was glad to see it.
For a while Burt and Kath talked about the little details of their lives and the things they saw on the news each day. They hardly ever went outside the old house and although Kath used Burt as her excuse, Kerrigan knew the real reason was that they were scared of the world now. They no longer understood or trusted it.
‘Why don’t you two come over to my place one time?’ asked Kerrigan.
‘We don’t have a car,’ said Burt.
‘So what? Maggie would give you a ride.’
‘Oh, we couldn’t ask her,’ said Kath. ‘And anyway, it isn’t safe for Burt to be out, he could take a fall.’
‘You should come. It’s only three miles. You’ll feel good for doing it. I’ll make sure you’re well looked after.’ Kerrigan smiled at them. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
‘If we come over,’ asked Burt, ‘will you return the favour and visit us for supper?’
The old man was staring at him. Kath looked down at the table. Kerrigan glanced at Dingbat who wagged his tail. He searched for a response.
‘I’m not exactly — I mean, I’d love to, but I usually do my best work in the evenings and —’
‘Come on a Saturday, then,’ said Burt. ‘You don’t work Saturday nights do you?’
‘Well, sometimes,’ said Kerrigan.
‘You mean you wouldn’t take one Saturday night off to come and visit the only family you have?’
‘Of course I would but I . . .’
‘What, James?’ Burt demanded. ‘You what? Don’t tell me you don’t have a car. We could get Maggie to give you a ride down.’
‘But I’d have to walk back. She’s in bed by nine.’
‘That’s right. But like you say, there’s nothing to be afraid of, right?’
‘Go easy, Burt,’ said Kath laying a hand on his forearm.
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘No way. One of the ‘big’ reasons he gave us for moving up to the end of town was that he wanted to get over his fear of the dark. Have you done that yet, James? Can you take a walk after sundown? Can you sleep right through the night without waking? Or do you still piss the sheets?’
‘That’s enough, Burt.’ Kath’s voice was icy. ‘I won’t hear you speak to our boy that way.’
Burt was breathless. Kerrigan saw real anger in his eyes.
‘It’s okay, Kath. He’s right. I should be able to do it. And I have been out walking when the sun goes over the mountain but just — not after dark.’
Kerrigan sat quietly for a time. Burt stared at the chequered pattern in the seersucker tablecloth. His breathing slowed and the fire left his cheeks. He looked ancient and exhausted again, no better than when Kerrigan had arrived.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll do it.’
‘What?’ Burt was incredulous.
‘Now, James there’s no need to go making rash promises after a few heated words,’ said Kath in a hurry. ‘Burt didn’t mean it. Did you, Burt?’
The old man didn’t have any fight left in him.
‘No, I didn’t mean it. I just wish sometimes that things were different.’
‘So do I,’ Kerrigan said, ‘and that’s why I’m going to do it. You let me know when you can come up and we’ll have lunch. I’ll cook us something really good, whatever you want. If it’s warm enough I’ll do a barbecue. And the following Saturday I’ll walk to your house for supper and then walk back. How’s that?’
Burt looked shocked.
‘You serious?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, that’s just great, son. Just great.’ Burt’s expression lifted. ‘Why don’t you barbecue some corn on the cob and we could have those special chicken wings Kath used to make.’
‘I’ll bring them with me,’ she said.
‘Can you make a decent potato salad?’ asked Burt.
‘Of course I can,’ said Kerrigan.
‘Maybe Kath should do the potato salad,’ said Burt.
‘Listen, this is my barbecue and I’m doing the cooking. You can bring the wings but that’s all. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
Kerrigan lifted the battered jug.
‘Who wants more coffee?’
Kerrigan stayed until he noticed Burt tiring again and he left to let the old man rest.
As Kerrigan said goodbye and walked out into the late summer sunshine, the threat of darkness was distant, the fear of it childish.
Chapter 5
A Candle. Matches. An earthenware bowl. Silt from the Singing River in a chipped coffee cup. A tightly bound bundle of Sweetgrass. A vial of water. A craft knife.
Kerrigan places the items on a large mat of woven rushes and kneels before them. The only light comes from a propane lamp. He glances at the windows, each one a black square pressurised by the gathering night, and shudders.
Hands trembling, he lights the candle and snuffs the lamp with a twist of its valve. Darkness leaps in from all sides. Kerrigan cowers.
Please.
He lights the Sweetgrass bundle and stands it in the river silt before blowing out its flame. Only when its redolent smoke reaches his nostrils does he feels the surge in his veins. His trembling ceases, the tension falls from his shoulders, he raises his head.
He uncorks the vial and washes his left forearm in its cool water, the moisture absorbing into his skin. He takes the craft knife, places its tip between the tendons on the inside of his forearm and thrusts. Something bursts within his wrist and a spray, black in the candlelight, jets from the wound. He lengthens the incision by drawing the blade towards his elbow and the spray becomes a dark tide.
Positioning his wrist over the earthenware bowl, he watches his fluids, dark as molasses, cascade from the wound, his palm, his fingers. With his right hand, he passes the blade of the craft knife through the candle flame and quenches the hot steel in the river silt. He waits for the level in the bowl to rise. Long before it is full, the flow recedes and the incision begins to close. Soon the cut is no more than a long, angry scab.
By the light of the candle, Kerrigan sets to work.
Kerrigan woke at first light, a flutter of anticipation in his stomach at the thought of what the day would bring; something a little different from a sore back and tired eyes sustained at his keyboard.
After washing and sitting quietly for a while on the porch, he smudged himself with the smoke of sage and cedar: He placed the crushed leaves in an abalone shell and set fire to the mixture with a match. The flame soon died leaving a smouldering pile that he could work with. Standing naked at the back of the house, he used an eagle feather to waft the smoke towards himself making sure it touched every part of his body. He paid particular attention that day to circulate the smoke around his genitals. Only when he was satisfied that he was cleansed did he tip the ashes from the shell and into the soil beside the back door; a dark place where nothing ever grew.
Buster watched like he did every morning. Kerrigan had the feeling that if he didn’t smudge, Buster would find a way to remind him. After breakfast, he sat on the porch once again and fashioned a binder using his goat horn lock knife. The blade was so keen it could pare away shavings thinner than Bible paper. He used withies softened in water from Singing River to bind the two shafts of the cross. He laid curved sections of pine into grooves cut at the outer ends of each shaft to surround the cross in a ring. Once the circle was in place, he secured it with further strips of damp reed. When the withy dried, it shrank, clasping the binder tight.
He made two that morning, entering a pleasant trance in which time ceased to exist. When they were finished he put them aside and sanded down the two he’d made the previous morning until the surfaces were as smooth as the skin of a child’s face.
Amy was due at eleven thirty and the morning had almost disappeared without him noticing. He’d bought ham and salami for her sandwiches but in his own he used mushroom pate and a piquant bean paste made from his own crop. He slid a bottle of white wine into a chilled sleeve and made a salad. Everything went in his backpack with a couple of candy bars and some water.
Before Amy arrived, he stood outside the back door and removed a binder from his pocket, testing the weight of it in his right hand. The wood was ruby dark. It felt like a good one. He twisted to the left, curling his index finger around the binder, and snapped his posture open, flicking his wrist at the last moment. The binder breathed a single sighing note as it flew, clear as a flute. It spun towards the compost heap and disappeared deep into the compacted organic material, its song cut short with a soft thump.
As he went to retrieve it, he heard Amy’s Honda pull up out front. Not wanting to meet her with dirt all over his fingers, he decided to dig the binder out later.
Knowing she wouldn’t want to walk far, Kerrigan let Amy drive them to The Clearing to begin their walk. The place he had in mind for the picnic was secluded but if she didn’t have the energy to get there, the privacy it offered would be worthless.
Amy drew the Honda up to one of the squat wooden posts forming the circular boundary of the car park and picnic area. She’d barely pulled on the park brake before Kerrigan was out of the car and sniffing at the air. Amy spent a moment inspecting her make up in the rear-view mirror before joining him.
Noticing he’d left the passenger door open, Kerrigan gave it a push. It slammed, rocking the Honda on its suspension.
‘Shit, Jimmy, be careful.’
‘Oops. Sorry.’
‘You don’t know your own strength, sometimes.’
‘I’m excited,’ he said. ‘Come on, lets’ go.’
He pulled his pack on and adjusted the straps.
‘This way.’
He set off at a gentle pace towards the Eastern Path.
As he walked past the Jimenez’s Land Cruiser, parked a few yards from the path, he glanced into the covered bed of the truck and saw they’d laid a canvass tarp over whatever they’d left behind. Each of them must have been carrying a heavy pack. He’d expected them to turn around when they found out how rough the trails were; that they’d be back before the weekend, contrite, but having enjoyed a challenge nonetheless. They’d already been gone four days.
‘Hey, slow down. You said this was a stroll.’
‘It is a stroll, Amy.’ He waited for her to catch up and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I love it out here. I get —revved up.’ He grinned at her. ‘You set the pace and I will guide you.’
The urge to pull away and forge ahead was difficult to resist. Kerrigan wondered how the Jimenez’s would be coping. By now they’d be footsore, hankering after a decent meal and a soft bed. His thoughts turned to Carla, in her sleeping bag in the depths of the forest at midnight. He walked faster but Amy’s hand held reined him in.
‘Why did you come back?’
For a moment, Kerrigan thought she meant to Olsen’s to ask her for a date. Then he understood.
‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ she said.
‘It’s not that, Amy. I want to give you a real answer but it’s hard to pin down.’
‘Take your time. We’ve got all day, right? I want to know more about the mysterious Jimmy Kerrigan.’
His laugh was hollow.
‘The city didn’t need me,’ he said and regretted his choice of words immediately.
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Is Superman turning his back on the citizens of Metropolis? Come on.’
The sneer in her voice cut him. He tried to let it go.
‘What I mean is, I didn’t feel I was adding anything. The things I did there, I could have done them anywhere and, in the end, the city’s a far worse place to be than here. It’s dirty, it’s loud, and it’s dangerous. Actually, from my point of view, it sucks.’
‘That wasn’t how you thought it would be?’
‘No, of course not. I thought it would be fast and exciting. I thought it would be different every day. But every day was the same.’
‘Were you lonely there?’
No need to pause for that question.
‘Sure, I was lonely. But most people are lonely if they’re honest about it.’
‘You didn’t have a girlfriend?’
‘Oh, I had girlfriends. Several. But that just made it worse somehow.’
He saw Amy’s expression tighten.
‘And no one was honest,’ he continued before she could get angry, ‘Everyone played games with your head. Never said what was really on their mind until after they’d taken what they wanted and dumped you. I got used to that real quick.’
For a while she was quiet. Walking at her pathetic pace took all his willpower.
‘How come you never left Hobson’s Valley?’ he asked, more to slow himself down than anything else. ‘Must have been plenty of places you could have gone to. You got family anywhere else?’
‘No. Just my brother, Mark — he’s real sick right now — and our mom and dad. My grandparents lived right here in the valley but they’ve been gone a lo
ng time. Mom and dad are only children so no aunts or uncles either.’
‘I didn’t know that. What’s wrong with Mark? I thought he was working up in the motel at Segar’s Cabin.’
‘He was but they laid him off. And it wasn’t because the season’s nearly over, either.’
‘So what was it?’
‘He had some kind of . . . episode.’
‘Oh yeah? What kind?’
For a while there was only the sound of their footsteps scuffing over the dirt of the trail. Amy’s dumb ‘flat shoes, for walking’ and his Meindl hiking boots.
‘They’ve got him over at the Pine’s unit in Saracen.’
‘He was sectioned?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He, uh, attacked one of the housekeepers at the motel. Tried to bite her neck open.’
‘Jesus. Was she hurt?’
‘Just shaken, I think. She had a broom handle across his throat. She said all she could hear was the click of his teeth as he strained towards her. He kept screaming, ‘I’m one of them,’ over and over. He was still yelling it when the police took him away.’
Amy stopped walking and turned towards Kerrigan. She couldn’t hold his gaze. Looking down she said:
‘I signed the papers.’
‘What papers?’
‘The ones that allowed them to lock him up for his own safety and the safety of others. I betrayed him.’
‘No you didn’t,’ he said, giving her as much sympathy as he could force from himself. ‘You did what anyone would have done in the same situation. I would have done it too.’
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes to make the statement stick. To make it real. At the same time, he tried to push the vision of Mark’s assault away, the sound of her brother’s jaws snapping,
‘You would?’
‘There’d be no other choice.’
She managed a smile.
‘Thanks.’
He pulled her close, loving the feel of her plumpness against him and hating himself for it. About a mile further Amy’s breathing became louder and more laboured. Her pace slowed.
Blood Fugue Page 4
