Thought You Were Dead

by Nick Craine

Harm, he thought, and here he was seated in one of the more dangerous places in the Western world – a hospital. He could almost hear bacterial novelties mating, hybridising, seething as they dripped off the walls like swaths of Spanish moss or virulent macramé wallhangings from the sixties. Consider the operating theatre itself, where the moral of the performance was all too often the old sad truth that to err is human. He fully expected the patients that passed him in the halls to clank as they ambled by given all the medical hardware that was sewn up inside them, tools forgotten at a work site.

  On entering the hospital, Chellis had scrubbed his hands with so much of the anti-bacterial gunk on offer it was a wonder they had any identifying features left. Mannequin hands, like Vaughan’s, those smooth, long-fingered rakes that scooped up life’s gifts and pleasures (simple pleasures!) as they tumbled his way.

  Was Chellis bitter? Am I, he asked? Naw, only bored. (Bitter was for pills.) Hence the hand reading. He’d forgotten to bring a book with him, but hadn’t been able to delve into the matriarchy of literature that Moe had compiled on Hunt’s bedside table, even though, unlike most males, he was an equal opportunity reader. He eyed the book pile. Paper progeny was perhaps a more accurate descriptive, as there was an identifiable theme at work here: Desirable Daughters; The Optimist’s Daughter; Not Without My Daughter; The Daughter of Time, A Family Daughter etc. All for Moe’s own edification and entertainment certainly, since Hunt had not yet returned from his souljourney. But his return was expected, and for this miracle Chellis knew he should retract his hospitalist sentiments. Hunt was hooked up in the bed beside him, the machinery burbling away like an old-fashioned percolator, and where there’s coffee, there’s life. Even though Hunt didn’t look so hot himself, more like a blancmange, unnaturally white and puffy, the IV having pumped him full of fluids.

  Harm, he thought again, remembering how a friend of Rennie’s had read her palm once for a lark, predicting among other far-fetched improbabilities that she would lose her adopted son, that a tall, dark, and beautiful stranger would spirit him away. How was Rennie to know that Elaine would transform herself into Ms. Universe, his whole world? Instead of laughing along at this bit of joshing, Rennie had slapped her friend hard across the face, knocking the friendship right out of her. True, it hadn’t been much of a jest. It had been more of a dig for the love she bore him, her found mutt. Before this uncharacteristic, hair-trigger response, he hadn’t realized that there were aspects of her motherly self that were unprotected by her own wallto-wall (and off it) sense of humour. Humour, armour, amour – a revealing declension. Well, love was a funny business all round. Rennie’s hands had been small and rough, she hadn’t been one for kneading emollients into them. He could almost feel them still, fingers grazing his forehead, brushing back his hair, but lightly, tenderly. No sucker punches for him. Not from that source.

  Elaine had mathematician’s hands, fingers slightly square-tipped at the ends. Hands that were rarely empty or at rest. She’d twitch them away if you tried to hold them. He suspected that not even Vaughan had any luck there. Her hands were not a propitious breeding ground for idle-worms, which in former times was an affliction dreamt up to intimidate servants who were deemed lazy. A laziness that presumably could strike at any time in the course of an endless, brutish work life. (His own unknown ancestors likely were lazy sods.) Did they fall for such medical malarkey, the credulous, indentured masses? But then, why wouldn’t they? Their modern equivalents – anyone who wasn’t a CEO – had also been goaded into the 24 hour workday. No millions socked away for retirement? No RRSP’s? No investment properties, no Hummer, no designer sneakers . . . get to work you idle worm!

  Chellis brought his hands together and cupped them, creating an empty bowl worthy of contemplation.

  An Intensive Care nurse whispered over to Hunt’s bedside to check on him and twiddle with the machinery. She smiled at Chellis as he sat staring down into his fingerbowl of nothing.

  He glanced up, and returning her smile, asked, “Do you have an RRSP?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “May I be your beneficiary?”

  This netted him a bigger smile. Great, he was earning some interest.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said. “You might have to marry me first, though.”

  “Bring on the chaplain.”

  “I’ll have him paged.”

  “Tell him it’s an emergency.”

  “I will,” she laughed, and moved to the next bed, where a child lay in a coma, the victim of a hit and run. Humour drained instantly from her features as she checked the heart monitor, adjusted the IV. No idle-worms writhing on her fingers.

  Later, he overheard her say to another nurse, “Rèal Hunt’s brother? He’s sweet, isn’t he?”

  “Really, eh. Been here for hours. I’d be lucky if my brother bothered to come to my funeral.”

  “They must come from a wonderful family. Both have such neat names, too.”

  “Yeah, class. A name’s a dead giveaway. That’s why I called my daughter Krystal.”

  As in meth? Chellis reflected, not so sweetly. His forename was rather swish, wasn’t it? Pretentious some might say, and had said. He tolerated it, his name, but was too accustomed to it to hate it. Rennie had discovered it while standing in line at a Loblaw’s checkout and flipping through a Cosmopolitan magazine. (And why did the significant moments in his life have to occur in a grocery store?) The intensive care unit was restricted to family, so Moe had come up with the fib about him being a brother, which was all but literally true. He was happy to claim bro-hood with Hunt, and it was a refreshing change to have a last name that was a verb and not an arrested state, like Beith. Chellis’s only fear was that this new, if invented, relationship would doom his friend, since he seemed to be a family-repellant, the very fact of his existence blew his relations away.

  He opened his cupped hands and let his woolgathering spill into his lap. If he stared at his palms straight through to the bone, he’d still not be able to read them. Heck, since he was here, maybe an X-ray was in order, some revealing medical palmistry. But what if there was absolutely nothing to discover: hollow man, hollow bones? No discernable future. He certainly didn’t seem to have an employer at present; he was as empty-handed in that regard as he had been at Havlock House after searching Mrs. H’s office. Something significant was there, of that he was certain. Or had been there. Whoever had been hunting and gathering before them could have already taken it. The elusive, indefinable it, to which Elaine had not given much credence.

  “So she messed up her office,” she had concluded. “She was rushing to catch a flight to some writer-gig and couldn’t find her specs.”

  “Ransacked is not her standard modus operandi.” Filing cabinets had been left open, contents yanked out, papers and old proofs littered the floor, as did books, disgracefully splayed and exposed, pages a vulnerable, dog-belly white. “Why are you resisting the obvious?”

  “Okay, fine. She killed him and has gone into hiding.”

  “Pardon me? Who are we talking about?”

  “That guy they found in Claymore, what was his name?”

  “Jude Thomas. And exactly how do you deduce this?”

  “All this . . .” Elaine had been hovering over a pile of newspaper clippings on the desk that had been left undisturbed by the recent raid. “She collected everything even remotely related to the murder.”

  “Murder’s her business. As in, her subject. She’s simply panning for gold, a new take, a captivating detail.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Trust me. I know how she operates.”

  “So you really think something’s happened to her?”

  “I do.”

  “Then go to the police, Chel. File a missing persons report. This is damning enough.” She’d swept her hand around the room. “Unless she did it herself to make it seem like she’s in trouble.”

  “I will.”

  “You won’t.”


  “I will.”

  “No, you won’t, I will.”

  “Tomato. Hah!”

  “What?”

  Would she? Chellis wondered. Not likely, she was simply using Laney slychology. She knew that he knew he shouldn’t leave it (it!) in her hands. Nor would he (would he?). He vowed to go to the copshop as soon as Moe returned from getting her nails done. A seemingly frivolous mission under the circumstances, but therapeutic, and she could use that. Given the time it had taken, he guessed that she’d worked in a soothing round of shopping, too. Loyal Moe had logged in hours and hours at Hunt’s bedside, healing him with her reliability, her irrepressible optimism, her touch.

  Chellis thought about Moe’s hands, which were pretty, soft and dainty. Unfortunately her handshakes were of the alarmingly limp variety; she could as easily be handing you an empty angora mitten. Or a dead vole. Whereas Elaine could wrench your arm off. Her hands were dextrous and patient in invention, but much less so when it came to some of the ‘womanly’ arts, if one dare even think in those terms. Sewing, for example. Her method of re-attaching missing buttons involved either a stapler or wire. Watching her ‘put on her face’ was unfailingly entertaining. Not that she needed makeup, but like every female gazing critically into a mirror – which is to say, every time a gazing occurred – she felt that improvements were required, that something needed to be done. The ritual never varied. First she would briskly pencil on some eyeliner like a copy editor fiercely marking an error, then rub most of it off with her finger, concerned about overdoing it. Next, she’d dab on some reddish-brown lipstick, which vanished into a tissue when she blotted her lips, and then came the blusher applied in a flurry of pink dust. In the moment of doubt that inevitably followed, she’d wipe this off on her palms. There, done! When she turned to him (and she had, no fantasy this) with a small, endearing smile, she looked exactly the same as she had before initiating the beautification project. But she felt better.

  “Let me see,” he’d said once, taking her hands in his own, and turning them palms up.

  “They’re blushing, you must like me. Caught you red-handed, didn’t I?”

  His rosy-fingered girlfriend? Make that girl friend. And what a heartbreaking and unbridgeable chasm lay between those two words. The tiny space between them defined a breach as wide as the continental drift.

  Chellis drummed his own pale fingers on his kneecaps, then brought his palms together in a prayerful salute, then crossed his arms, tucking his hands under his pits. Now that he’d taken notice of his hands he couldn’t stop noticing them, they kept crawling or leaping into view. Hands are expressive, but his seemed to be involved in some sort of theatre-of-the-absurd dumb show. Wasn’t there a condition where one’s hands couldn’t be controlled? Alien Hand Syndrome, that was it. A rare affliction, although not as rare as idle-worms. It was a neurological condition in which one’s hands refused to obey orders from brain-central, rebelliously following an agenda of their own. In the case he’d read about, a woman pinched her own nipples uncontrollably. Self sexual harassment. If thy hand offends thee, cut it off. Chellis clamped his upper arms more tightly against his sides so as not to attract the attention of a sawbones who had swanned into the Unit and was flirting with the nurses. Including his intended! Physicians used to carry dead men’s hands in their bag of tricks. Stroke a tumour nine times with a hand that had been lopped off, fresh from the gallows, and voilà, the horrified patient’s tumour remains intact, but if he pays up for the treatment he at least has a decent chance of getting rid of the doctor.

  Chellis hid his hands by sitting on them, risking molestation, and thought about the recent publishing trend in book covers: photographs of hands holding eggs, or flowers, or fire, or hands that were beseechingly empty and appeared to be offering more ineffable produce to the potential reader. Either that or the hands were simply begging the hard-hearted book buyer: Buddy, can you spare a dime? That’s all my 2% royalties amount to. Mouths were popular for awhile, and feet, usually shod. Big red lips plugged with roses or oozing caviar, but as far as he knew there were no book covers that featured the foot-in-mouth option, which would optimize both fads. He would have to mention this unexploited anatomy angle to Mrs. Havlock . . . dear Mrs. H . . . it’s not as though he wasn’t worried about her. He was worried sick, but given the present environment didn’t want anyone to notice. He’d prefer to get out of this place alive.

  My Hands, Your Death. Jesus! Or was it, Your Hands, My Death?

  He held out his hands again, which had fallen asleep while his thoughts had maundered on, and began waving them around and flexing his fingers.

  Moe pushed through the door and hurried over to the bed.

  “Hi Chel, I’m back. Sorry if I was a teensy bit long. What are you doing?”

  “Playing.”

  “Aww.”

  “Actually, it’s a new technique I’ve been trying out. I’ve been massaging the molecular force field around Hunt.”

  “Chelly, you’re such a good person. Hunt looks better, he does.”

  Instantly and painfully, Chellis became aware of why the Supreme Being had bothered to give hands to humans. They were the required appendages for hiding one’s face in shame.

  “No I’m not.” He sighed and attempted jerk reparation. “Your nails, Moe, they’re sexsational. Truly. And is that a new dress? Colourful, jazzy! I had no idea muumuus were back in style.”

  “This is a maternity dress, Chel.”

  “A . . . no way! Are you serious? I . . . holy cow, Hunt never said you guys were thinking about starting a family. Why would he, but, I mean, we’re pretty close, and, my God, I’m going to be an uncle, how fantastic is that, I – ”

  Moe had raised a hand, enough with the julienned congratulations. “I’m not pregnant yet.” She dropped the hand to pat Hunt’s inert blanketed leg. “But I have plans.”

  “Uh, yeah? You know, it might be a while before Hunt can, uhh, contribute.”

  “Not that long.”

  “Love is very bad for the heart. And most other major organs now that I come to think of it.”

  “Life is precious, Chel. I don’t want to waste any more of it.”

  “So you’re saying where there’s a willie there’s a way?”

  Moe giggled. When was the last time he’d made a female giggle? Grade school?

  “Chelly, you are a good person. Please take care of yourself.”

  “I’ll try, Moe. Here comes a nurse right now to give me an immortality transfusion.”

  It was the nurse he’d spoken to earlier, and by her worried expression he could tell she was having some doubts about the engagement.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, sounding perplexed. “There’s a police officer in the hall outside the Unit and I think he’s looking for you, Mr. Hunt.” Her smile wavered. “But he used a different last name.”

  The fuzz again? He honestly didn’t need any more wallets. His needs were simple, like Vaughan’s. They were exactly like Vaughan’s.

  “My pseudonym,” he explained.

  “Gee, you’re a writer?”

  For a mere second longer, he held onto her interest. But then he had to let go. “Not me.” He offered her an open-handed, Jesusgesture. “Truth to tell, I’m just an ordinary liar.”

  15

  Missing

  “WE MEET AGAIN.”

  “An unexpected pleasure, I’m sure.” Chellis was going for suave. “But preferable under different circumstances.” He gave his opponent the eye. “I see you’ve been promoted. In record time, too. From cop on the beat to detective in what, a day, a couple of hours?”

  “We’re short-staffed.”

  “Right, it’s those new rules.”

  “Come again.”

  “Short staff.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Never mind.” Chellis had to remember that he was among the humour-deprived. “I guess that’s why you guys haven’t solved that Claymore case yet.”

&
nbsp; “Not our call, as you know. Unless you can tell me something about it.”

  “Not me. May I go now? Being dragged in here is doing untold damage to my reputation.”

  “You have one?”

  In truth, Chellis was secretly thrilled to find himself in an interview room at the police station. He’d worked up descriptions of such rooms for Mrs. Havlock without an iota of actual or imaginative exertion, and this room did not disappoint. It was as windowless, underfurnished and anti-ambient as one could wish for, if one’s wishes ran along particularly bleak lines and included hideous synthetic carpeting. The only feature he would not have thought to summon up was an oil painting that was hanging crookedly on the wall to his left, a concrete wall, ideal for smacking uncooperative heads against. The painting’s purpose may indeed have been to conceal an embedded smattering of blood and hair, but it was doing a masterful job all on its own as an advertisement for violence. In colour and content it was painfully lurid and busy, like one of his more hectic and overpopulated nightmares, an extravaganza of interbred Jungian archetypes on the rampage. He hoped that the artist had been apprehended and sent straight to solitary confinement.

  Taking in Chellis’s disapproving appraisal, the detective got up from his chair and straightened the painting. As soon as he sat back down, it dipped out of alignment again, which made Chellis smile. Not only a bad painting, but a bad attitude.

  “A fine example of horror vacui,” Chellis said.

  “Which is?”

  “And I quote, ‘A fear or dislike of leaving empty spaces in an artist’s composition.’ Oxford English Dictionary. Not only a good book but the good book, and I believe every word of it. Can’t wait for the movie,” he added, so as not to sound too earnest.

  “Be a scream.”

  They stared at one another. Chellis noted that the detective was large enough to have good and bad cop incorporated as one. There may have been cutbacks in the force, but not in the donut supply.

  “Name’s Inspector Arthur Foote.”

  Damn. He wished that the man hadn’t introduced himself. A named minor character usually turned up again, or so a lifetime of reading had taught him. But then, a body part last name, that was noteworthy. At one time Chellis had been a collector of those and had accumulated quite an extensive list. He’d seen it as a kind of informal, nominal-anatomical survey to see if the whole range of available body parts were being put to good use. Like verbal prostheses. But for all the John Bones, Roberta Heads, Mark Legges, and Sally Hands he’d discovered, as well as the physical unmentionables – the Groins, Bladders, and Butts – his Holy Grail, Anita Vagina, was still out there somewhere in the badlands, unrecorded and running wild. Or monologuing on some theatrical stage, God help us.