Killing Adonis

by J M Donellan

  Harland is standing in the doorway of Jack’s room, eyes wide with rage, nostrils flared like a belligerent bull. His father’s anger does not instil quite the same fear in Jack, at the age of seventeen, as it would have a few years ago. What truly worries him is the vintage Webley service revolver Harland is clasping in his fingers.

  “Jack. Explain to me. How. Did. My. Webley. Find. Its. Way. Into. Your. Drawer?”

  It’s the same terse, staccato manner of speech Harland uses when firing an employee. It takes a moment for Jack’s eyes to disengage from the gun and register that both his mother and brother are sitting on his bed, gazing at him with sorrowful concern, genuine and otherwise, respectively.

  “It was Elijah. He must have put it there while I was asleep. He was the one who found the dove because he was the one who shot it. How can you run all those companies and be too stupid to figure that out?” The words escape his mouth in a stampede. It’s too late to grab them from the air and shove them back in.

  “Questioning. My. Intelligence. Would be. Ill advised. At the. Best. Of times. You’d better re-examine your situation.”

  “Why would I bring in the dove to try and save it if I was the one who shot it?” says Elijah, brushing back a lock of his hair. “I know you’re upset, but blaming me won’t help anything.”

  “You little shit!” Jack runs at Elijah with his fist raised and his tongue coppery with bloodlust. The room blurs into the background and he can see only his brother’s smug, deceitful face. He closes the distance between them, his fist rushing towards Elijah’s nose. The deed is all but done save for the doing, when he catches his foot on the leg of a chair and his rage is reduced to a Chaplinesque pratfall.

  He plummets to the floor, slams his shin hard against the coffee table and collapses in a fiery ball of pain and indignation. Jack’s eyes close with the image of his brother looking down at him, his face radiating mock concern.

  ***

  The cast is thick and heavy, as is the doctor’s tired diatribe. “Should know better”…blah blah blah…“Can’t risk this kind of incident with your delicate condition”…blah blah blah…“Lucky you have such caring parents”…blah blah blah etc.

  Jack knows all of this, word for word, concerned shoulder pat for concerned shoulder pat. He doesn’t say goodbye to the doctor when he leaves. Jack knows it won’t be too long before he’s back.

  Elijah strides into the room just as the doctor departs.

  “Sartre said, Hell is other people. I’m beginning to see where he was coming from,” says Jack, placing his book beside him as a symbol of defeat.

  “Sartre was a boring old twat who wouldn’t have known a good time if it had grabbed him by the balls and stabbed him in the face with a rusty screwdriver.”

  “Why did you shoot that dove, Eli? You’ve done some pretty creepy things, but this…”

  “I read an interview once where an author was asked why he wrote books. He answered, Mountaineers climb mountains because they’re there. I write books for the opposite reason.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “I did it because I could. Because I wanted to find out if I could get away with it. And I did, although there was some unfortunate collateral damage.” Eli slaps his brother’s cast with the back of his hand.

  Jack refuses to give his brother the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

  “My little escapades would be a lot more fun with you on board, Jack. You could be the Professor X to my Wolverine, what with that great bulging brain of yours and your adorable disability.”

  “Elijah, and I say this honestly, I’m worried about you. Drugs, stealing, fucking around, I can understand that. You’re young, healthy, and rich—”

  “Don’t forget good-looking!”

  “Let me finish. It makes sense to want to push the boundaries. But this…it’s inhumane.”

  “Inhumane, as in cruel to the point of being contrary to basic human nature? I’m not sure that’s a term that makes any rational sense. After all, humans are really the only animals that kill for reasons besides basic survival. I’ve never heard of an animal running a gulag, have you? You should worry about yourself, brother o’ mine. If you aren’t careful your life’s going to be no fun at all. You’ll end up some sort of eccentric recluse talking to your plants and spending afternoons trying to find coded extraterrestrial messages in the evening weather report. Here, I got you a present.” Elijah hands him a white feather. “Think of it as a metaphorical white flag. A thank you for taking the flak. Don’t worry, I cleaned it thoroughly. It’s perfectly hygienic.”

  “Why would I want this, Eli?” Jack says, even though he takes the feather delicately in his hands.

  “There, now. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? They say it’s better to give than to receive. Speedy recovery, Jackie boy.” Elijah throws him a mock salute and departs.

  Jack stares at the feather. It’s beautiful.

  ***

  Three weeks later, he still hasn’t got the hang of the crutches. He hobbles around the house like an archaic cyborg, knocking over stools and ornaments. It takes him several minutes to get from his bedroom to the back verandah, where he finds his father attempting to enjoy a cigar.

  “Harland, I need a copy of my birth certificate for my university application.”

  “First of all, I hate it when you address me by my given name. Second, you know I disapprove of this ‘distance education’ nonsense. Why study by distance when the goddamn university is a fifteen-minute drive away? And third, as I keep telling you, just give me a list of your preferences and I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “One, sorry. Two, the distance education program is very well regarded, plus it’s a lot more accommodating of my osteogenesis. And three, I want to get into university via my own merit. I’ve got the grades, I don’t need you making deals under the table for me.”

  Harland looks at him hard, and the pair lock eyes for a full ten-second count, long enough for a fallen boxer to be declared defeated. “Fine. I’ll get it for you.” A pause. “Later.” He stubs out his cigar, struts out onto the lawn and around the house before announcing his departure via the purring of his BMW’s engine.

  “Shit,” says Jack. He walks back inside to find Elijah in the kitchen, diving into the refrigerator and surfacing with an ice-cream sandwich.

  “What’s the matter, Jack-in-the-box?” he chirps.

  “Dad’s refusing to give me my birth certificate.”

  Elijah grins. “Sounds like I’ve got a brother in need. Would this help?” He holds aloft a tiny flat piece of carved brass.

  “What’s that?”

  “Copy of his master key. Worth its weight in gold, this thing. Ah…actually, since it only weighs a few grams, perhaps I meant worth its weight in weapons-grade plutonium.”

  “Get me into his office.” Jack’s voice is a desperate plea masquerading as a command.

  “Isn’t this nice? Two brothers up to mischief together? Just like a Hardy Boys novel. Hobble along then.”

  Elijah walks with brisk, confident strides, while his sibling’s steps are clumsy, halting, movements. “You want to do the honours?” Elijah hands him the key. “Harland’s been making noises about upgrading to a magnetic key system, like in hotels, so this baby might not be much use soon.”

  The key turns with almost disappointing ease and they enter Harland’s office, which reveals itself as a dreary ode to modern efficiency. Shelves filled with books on economic theory and business philosophy, computer screens streaming information about stocks and bonds, and a desk adorned with the usual office paraphernalia.

  “Alright, well say what you like about Daddy dearest, at least the man is organised. You start that end, I’ll start there,” Elijah says, running to the far side of the room. “Tax reports, employee files, medical records, blah blah blah…You got anything your end
?”

  “Car insurance, house insurance, credit card receipts…Hmm, here’s something. It’s a box marked ‘Family Documents’.”

  “Mission accomplished. Let’s make our timely escape.”

  “It’s locked.”

  “Wellity, wellity, well. Perhaps Daddy dearest isn’t quite the dullard we thought? I wonder if we have an evil twin he’s trying to keep secret. Unless…you are the evil twin!”

  “Quit the vaudeville. Help me get it open.”

  Elijah snatches the thin metal box from Jack’s hands. He grabs a couple of paperclips from the container on the desk, twists them into shape, and fiddles with the lock until it snaps open. He grins and says, “Handy, no?”

  Jack looks in the box. There’s a slim, lonely manila folder. “Let’s see…wedding certificate, health certificate, here’s your birth certificate…”

  “Aaaaaaaand?”

  “It’s not here.”

  “So, you are the evil twin!”

  “Stop fucking around, Eli. Why would yours be here but not mine? Wait…there are two copies of yours…”

  “Hang on,” says Elijah, fingering the two documents. “They’re both originals. Why would they have two originals of mine and none of yours?”

  “Wait,” says Jack. “They’re not identical. Look. The dates are different. This one is March 4th…”

  “My birthday.”

  “And this one is a couple of years earlier, on October 23rd…”

  “Why is that date familiar?” Elijah barely conceals his smirk.

  The pair fall into silence.

  “We have the same name,” says Elijah. “And what’s worse, you had it first. I’m supposed to be the trendsetter around here!”

  “Is there nothing you take seriously? I just found out I didn’t even know my real name. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  They stare at the almost-but-not-quite-identical documents for a few seconds more before Jack slips them back into the folder and shuts the box. He staggers out the door, falls to the ground and lies there, contemplating the ceiling.

  ***

  It’s not until he’s having dinner with his parents four days later that Jack summons the courage to confront them. His father has already “taken care” of his university application and Jack has been accepted, much to his parents’ disapproval, into a bachelor of creative writing, with a minor in philosophy.

  A dinner of turkey and Russian salad sits before them. Vivaldi is playing on the Bang & Olufsen.

  “Harland…” The angry glare on Jack’s father’s face tells him he’s off to a bad start. “Dad. I have something to tell you.”

  Harland stops mid-chew and lays his fork down on the table. “You haven’t gotten some girl pregnant?”

  “Ha! Not bloody likely,” chimes Elijah.

  “Eli! Don’t be rude,” says Evelyn.

  “It’s nothing like that. I have to confess something.”

  Harland stiffens and draws in a deep breath.

  “I broke into your office to find my birth certificate.”

  Harland and Evelyn glance at each other. Elijah raises his glass and guzzles his juice.

  “It says my name is Elijah.”

  “How. Dare you. Break—”

  “I broke in to get something that was rightfully mine. I took nothing, changed nothing, and saw nothing that wasn’t my right to see. Please, do me the simple courtesy of answering my question.”

  Harland purses his mouth and inhales again. He looks at Evelyn, her expression is characteristically ambiguous. Elijah’s grin is so wide he resembles a Muppet.

  “When your mother and I decided to have a child, the name Elijah was one of the few things we agreed on. We wanted to honour your great-great-great-grandfather, the man who made the Vincetti name something to be respected and revered a century and a half ago.” He moves his mouth in what he probably imagines is a passable attempt at a smile. “We put in enrolments at the best schools, made arrangements for language classes, piano lessons, a private tutor, and so forth. I don’t think you’ll ever really understand what it’s like until you’re an expectant father yourself, but waiting for a child to arrive is like winning the lottery and simultaneously being told you have an incurable disease. It’s exciting but terrifying. We wanted the whole world for our firstborn, our precious Elijah.”

  Jack struggles to imagine Harland and Evelyn as starry-eyed parents-to-be. He lets his father’s words seep into him.

  “When you were born, I felt like nothing else in my life had mattered. None of the money I’d made or companies I’d built was close to the achievement of my son’s birth.” Harland pauses to drain the last of his wine.

  To Jack, the seconds that pass until Harland resumes his story feel like rusty nails being scraped along his spine. But he says nothing and waits.

  “It wasn’t until your second week that we noticed the discolouration in your eyes. As first-time parents we thought it would clear up, some sort of early birth thing. Eventually we took you to the doctor and found out about…your condition.”

  Evelyn places her hand on Jack’s. Her fingers are surprisingly warm. He tries to remember the last time she touched him. Her voice is uncommonly quiet, “We are proud of you, Jack, but we had so many dreams for our Elijah. It wasn’t your fault, but we knew from that moment that you would never be able to fulfil them. We decided to let you be your own person, with a new name that…suited you. And then when your brother came along, well…”

  Jack grabs his plate and hurls it at the wall. The smashing of the fine china is not nearly as satisfying as he had hoped.

  ***

  After several hours of crying and Buzzcocks albums blaring louder than Evelyn would ever normally allow, Jack lies on his bed feeling entirely empty. Head. Heart. Stomach. All empty. He opens his laptop, stares at it as though it were a digital oracle that might produce an answer to his problems in beautiful binary.

  He opens a new Word document. He stares at the blank page and watches the cursor blink.

  Blink.

  Blink.

  Blink.

  His fingers begin to move.

  I’d always wanted to pull that trigger, but I’d been waiting for the perfect moment. When I watched that pool of red spread across the dove’s chest I felt like Benjamin Franklin catching electricity with a kite.

  24

  Home?

  ***

  Jack finds Freya on the roof shovelling jersey caramels into her mouth, chewing so hard she looks like a chipmunk that’s found a stash of nuts.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice trembling.

  “Fugg orf, Jork.”

  “What?”

  She chews and swallows. “I said, fuck off, Jack.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Didn’t what? Didn’t mean to hide a creepy bag of hair and feathers under your pillow or use me to sneak into the Danger Room? Christ on stilts, Jack, that’s messed up. I yearn for when life was simpler, and I just got pissed off at boyfriends for fucking my housemates on the kitchen table.”

  “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “No, neither did I. Look, I’m pissed off and I’m fucking with you. So, out with it. What have you got for me? Apology, explanation, artfully crafted deception, or all three?”

  Jack sits next to her and takes the caramel she offers him. He chews ponderously. “These are pretty good.” He looks at her, the blue of his eyes dulled with remorse. “I haven’t been totally honest. Honesty doesn’t exactly thrive around here; it’s as rare as orchids on a tundra.”

  “Please, spare me the bourgeois writer’s similes.”

  “Force of habit. Look, when you helped me get into that room, I fumbled in the dark and found that weird packet of hair samples. I don’t know where it came from, or who it belongs to, or
why it was there. I just kept it under my pillow for safekeeping. I didn’t know what else to do with it.”

  “But it belongs to someone in your family, right? Your father, your mother, Elijah?”

  “Or Rosaline.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just saying. She may have access to that room.”

  “Jack, Rosaline wouldn’t…couldn’t hurt a fly even if it had infected her family with the black death.”

  “Maybe. But there’s no denying she’s a few volumes short of The Complete Dr Seuss.”

  “So we don’t know who the hair belongs to, but what about where it comes from? And what about the white feather? And are you sure you couldn’t make out anything else in the Danger Room? Or did you feel something that might give us some clues? Shrunken voodoo heads? Magic potions? Ceremonial knives?”

  “No, I bumped into a chair, then just as I heard you talking to people outside, my hands felt a table and that plastic bag with the hair and the dove feather was on it. I fumbled around a bit more, and came back out.”

  Freya glares at him. She turns the image of the feather around in her mind, thinking of a similar object Jack had found in his desk on the day they first met.

  “I never said it was a dove feather, just a white feather.”

  “Ah…but how many birds have white feathers?”

  “Ibises, pigeons, seagulls, pelicans, cockatoos, cockatiels…”

  “Okay, okay, but a dove’s the most obvious choice, right? I’m telling you the truth. And I would have told the whole story to you this morning if you’d only asked me. Instead you run off, and I get a knock on my door from Evelyn telling me Maria is lying unconscious on the floor.”

  “I didn’t really feel like being in a house with a new lover who keeps hair beneath his pillow. You even lied to me about your name. When you scanned your retina at the door, it said ‘Elijah Vincetti’.”

  “It was Elijah, once. Still is, according to my birth certificate.”

  Freya’s hand, halfway to her mouth with another jersey caramel, freezes with surprise, its payload abruptly halted in front of its final destination.