The Good Kind of Bad

by Rita Brassington

  It’s not a false alarm.

  Mopping Guy shuffled over. ‘I’m right about closing up now, folks.’

  ‘Come on, honey, the car’s right outside. Come home and I’ll make you some soup.’

  ‘He’s not hassling you, is he?’ Mopping guy was skinnier than his mop. I could do Evan more damage myself.

  ‘No, I’m not hassling her, man. I’m her husband. I need to get her home. She has these episodes.’

  ‘Well then, darling, you better go with him.’

  ‘No. He’s lying.’ I scowled at Evan. ‘He’s not my husband.’

  Evan pointed to the back of my chair. ‘Come on. Get your coat on, honey, and we’ll go.’

  ‘Don’t believe him! Look at my hand. Look at his. We’re not wearing wedding rings.’

  Raising my shaking left hand, for a moment he seemed to believe me, but then Evan stood from the table. Looking like he was about to make a grab for my arm, I launched out of my seat.

  ‘Shit. Honey, come back!’

  I dodged through the bolted-down tables before flinging open the door and making it out onto the street, though I got all of ten steps before a forearm hooked around my neck.

  ‘No!’ I screamed, elbowing him in the chest.

  ‘You need to calm down. You need to come home. You’re delirious.’

  I fought against Evan like I had between the cornfields, though this time I wasn’t guided carefully back to the car; I was dragged to it.

  ‘I didn’t want to do it this way, but you’ve left me no choice. Get in the car. Get in . . . now.’

  This was it. It was time to die a beautiful death.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Slumping over the cool leather of Evan’s car seat, I knew there was no point fighting him. There was no point kicking at a locked door. Evan was too clever to let me escape now I knew the truth.

  Five long minutes had passed since we’d screeched away from the café, en route to my fate: the cornfields, the black figures along Highway 88 and the wood in Kane County. I’d soon be in that soil, side by side with Joe. Mr and Mrs ’Til Death Us Do Part. Twenty-six. I’d reached twenty-six and all I had to show for my life was a dead husband and a multi-million dollar bank account I’d never see the fruits of.

  The money. I could offer Evan the money. I was worth a couple of million, give or take, and could plead for my life in exchange for cold hard cash. As Evan curved his mouth into an ever-so-subtle grin, his poise oozing control and subordination, I knew who this man was, not to mention all the vile things he’d orchestrated. I cursed myself for even thinking it. My Star Lounge coffee must’ve been drugged. I was never giving Evan a penny.

  As I searched my vicinity for things to fashion into a weapon, our short journey through the city was uneventful ‒ mundane, even. Stop, start, red light, green light. Checking our progress from the window, we crossed the junction with Clarke Street. We were going the wrong way for the woods. We were heading back toward the lake.

  I looked to the seat behind, expecting to see traces of soil, but it was clean. No shovel, no dirt, nothing.

  And then we were back in the underground garage of West Superior, where I was bundled into the lift, pushed up the stairs and escorted through the front door.

  Now back in the muted guest bedroom, locked in after Evan wedged a chair behind my door to stop me doing anything ‘stupid’, from between the sheets and lying above the briefcase, I stared out into the nothingness, blinking away the vision of the bullet entering Nina’s head while I waited for something I didn’t yet understand.

  Then there was a rustle at the door before it creaked open and Evan entered the bedroom, accompanied by a halo of light. Carrying a tray containing a bowl of soup and hunk of crusty bread, he placed it on the dresser before perching on the end of the bed.

  ‘I brought soup. You need to eat something,’ he suggested.

  ‘Soup? Do you think I’m sick or something?’ I’d tucked myself into the covers so only my head and mass of extensions peeked out; my illusion of protection.

  ‘No, but I thought you might be hungry.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Okay. Fine. Don’t eat.’

  Fine? Everything was from fine. ‘Why did you bring me home? Why haven’t you killed me yet?’

  ‘Kill you? Jesus, why would you say that?’

  ‘Evan . . . acting dumb doesn’t suit you. I thought we were going to the woods. I thought you were going to . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘What woods?’

  ‘The woods. Joe’s woods.’ I watched his faux ignorance grow. Exactly how long was he going to keep this up?

  Then his eyebrows rose at an alarming speed as a hand shot to his cheek. He was actually beginning to look worried. ‘Something is seriously wrong with you. What have you taken? Drugs, pills? First you accuse me of being someone else, and now you think I want to kill you? Look, whatever you’ve done, whatever you’ve swallowed, you need to sleep it off. Please, just eat something first. We can get you a doctor tomorrow.’

  Doctor? No. No doctors. Once Evan knew about the clinic, he’d dump me in an institution before I could say hallucination.

  Collecting the soup tray from the dresser, he placed it in front of me on the bed. Why was he doing this? Why deny it all and pretend like he cared?

  ‘Get some rest,’ Evan whispered, slipping back into the hallway before he jammed the chair back against the door handle.

  Evan was right. I had been taking something, though only in tiny doses, and only since the fight with Nina on Monday. I’d hidden my pills in the bedside drawer, my old supply retained for emergencies. I’d needed them to cope. It was easier that way. If anything, after tonight I’d have to up the dose.

  Attempting and succeeding one measly mouthful of soup, I pushed the tray aside. Reaching to the bedside drawer, I pulled the tub of Andlixcen from its hiding place within an old perfume box, and headed to the adjoining bathroom. Staring myself out in the mirror, daring myself to do it, I popped one pink pill to the back of my throat before my greedy gulps of water washed it into my gullet, eager for the unrivalled peace of unconsciousness.

  Heading back to bed, I never made it to the covers. I breathed into the darkness after hearing the bang, paralysed with fear before looking to the door, frightened to face what lingered behind.

  In the dressing table mirror, my dead husband slouched at the foot of the bed. The scream stopped in my throat. His teeth were like daggers in the dark, evil and unreal as with a finger to his lips, he smiled his crescent moon for me before the shadows swallowed him whole. As I climbed back between the covers, I waited for him to reappear, for the voices of the dead to narrate my dreams.

  Shafts of light meandered their way through the curtains, and even with the mirage of Joe now absent, I awoke with a bilious foreboding. I craved to sleep forever. Shivering between the sheets, my head pounded like I’d been punched in the face. I checked the clock. If Evan hadn’t left for work already, then he was imminently departing. I had time to collect my thoughts and run through my takedown plan before the continued interrogation and suggestions of doctors. I had time. I had time to mourn Nina.

  As my tongue travelled the roof of my mouth, the skin was so dry and parched it nearly stuck fast. I crawled from my pit in search of water, travelling the floor as if on a tightrope. Padding over to the door, I hesitated. About to kick the door open, I decided to try the handle, just in case. I found no barricades or bolts, latches or locks, and no chairs wedged against it. The door opened freely.

  I could escape, run and tell the police he’d kidnapped me, but that was too easy. Why had he taken away the chair? So I could run and call the cops? It didn’t make sense, unless it was a test. Unless he wanted to see what I did. After bearing the brunt of Evan’s scheming, it was time I devised a plan of my own.

  By the kitchen table I sipped hot coffee from Evan’s Visit Albuquerque! mug. Even if I had tried to leave, the worst headache of my life creeping its way over
my cranium and what felt like the beginnings of flu meant I wasn’t running anywhere. But that wasn’t the only reason I sat casually drinking coffee.

  ‘Morning.’ Evan plodded in, walking to the sink and retrieving a cup off the drainer.

  I felt myself stiffen.

  He fired up the kettle after shaking it at me. I hadn’t boiled enough water for two. Evan wasn’t at work, he was home; his hair damp from the shower and his shirt only half buttoned. It exposed his now ironic tattoo, the badge of the Chicago Metropolitan Police engraved over his heart.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he asked, rubbing his hair with the towel draped around his neck. He almost sounded chipper.

  ‘I didn’t sleep at all,’ I croaked, grasping the side of my head.

  ‘Right. Stupid question.’ He considered me with a sideways glance, like Joe used to before raising his fist. ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘Wow, thanks.’

  ‘Come on. What did you think you’d look like? Don’t you remember what happened last night? The things you accused me of?’

  ‘I remember you locked me in the bedroom.’

  He joined me at the table, scraping back the chair. ‘It was the best option, honey.’

  ‘For who?’

  ‘For both of us. I sure as hell didn’t feel safe. You called the cops, you thought I was going to kill you . . . You were like a wild banshee, a crazy woman.’

  How apt. Stupid girl had become crazy girl.

  ‘Last night you were delirious, I mean, you were weird. I shouldn’t have locked you in, I know, but you were talking nonsense, you were about to blow us wide open. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Not lock me in?’

  He was still denying it. I knew the truth and he was laying it on thicker than ever. I was the crazy one here, I was the one on drugs, I couldn’t possibly have seen what I’d seen because Evan was now Mr Holier Than Thou.

  He began buttoning up his shirt. ‘I have to go to work. Will you be all right here by yourself or do I need to take precautions?’

  ‘Locking-me-in-the-bedroom precautions?’

  He sighed. ‘I want to make sure there’ll be no phone calls to our friend Zupansky while I’m gone. Can you promise me that?’

  Engrossed by the riveting mug handle, I couldn’t look at him. I’d only want to punch him in the face. I would have loved to launch into a scathing tirade of abuse, accusing and chastising him for taking away my friend, but I knew how Evan worked, or at least, I thought I did. He’d removed the chair from the door to see what I did. I’d sat down, and made a cup of coffee. He was testing me. He wanted to see if I believed him. My actions said I trusted him, something I needed him to believe. That’s why I hadn’t shot out of the door.

  Even if I’d called the police, I needed cold, hard proof against Evan first. I’d have to swallow my words. If he trusted me, I’d stop being watched. If Evan was Victor, then nothing he said or did would let me forget that. This man before me, the man I could barely look at, was a dangerous, calculating criminal, but this time Evan would be the one in the dark. It was time to play some games of my own.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened last night. Maybe it was brain freeze from the slushies during Charlie and Me, but no drugs, I swear.’ Last night I’d accused him of ordering the execution of my friend. It was the lamest excuse known to man.

  He dipped his head. ‘You believe me now?’

  ‘I don’t know what I saw. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry, Evan.’

  What do you know? He bought it. ‘Christ, honey, don’t ever do that to me again. Man, I’ve been so worried about you. Has this ever happened before? Hallucinations and shit? It was scary. You were scary. I think we should still call that doctor. He could prescribe you something to take the edge off. To make you feel better.’

  The edges had been well and truly off for days, the muted tones of the apartment numbed by my old friends. At least Evan believed my lies now; though, more importantly, I knew his truth.

  After he left for work, mumbling into his phone, I crawled back between the covers to cry for Nina until I drowned in the tears. It was past midday already. Evan had left my confiscated phone on the kitchen table, telling me work had been phoning, but Faith was the last place I could stomach being, pretending Nina was on another jaunt to the Caribbean rather than weighed down at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

  The guilt tore at my stomach walls ‒ not only because I hadn’t saved her, but I couldn’t tell anyone what’d happened until Evan was strapped up to two thousand volts. I couldn’t go to the cops until I had evidence on him and Mickey, that sticky thing known as proof. I had to stay at Evan’s until I could prove he was Victor, until I discovered what it was all about. Then through a cloudy head came my lightning bolt moment. The money. The briefcase.

  I crawled from the bed and knelt down on the floor, peering beneath the mattress. The briefcase was still there, right where I’d left it. Pulling it into the light once more, I lifted the briefcase lid, checked the money and re-read the address on the scrap of paper. Journeying back to the kitchen and taking my phone from the table, I googled ‘The Principe, Lake View.’ There were a few old entries relating to some sort of sports bar, but nothing other than that. I needed my Victor proof – it could easily be a dead end but I had to try something. It was high time I visited Lake View, and The Principe.

  With my migraine tamed by super-strength painkillers and the address saved into Google Maps on my phone, I hopped the Red Line train north. After learning I was living with Victor, TC Guy didn’t have the same run-for-your-life hold on me. Like with Joe, the danger was within my walls, not outside them.

  As I alighted at Addison Station, the early afternoon sun warmed my skin. I walked the surprisingly quiet streets bordering Wrigley Field and along North Clark until I found Cornfield, a tree-lined road set two blocks back from the main action. There were no bleachers on the rooftops here.

  Cornfield was mainly cute townhouses, small apartment blocks and a few delicatessens. Along the street, I counted the house numbers. 107, 109, 111. The Principe. It was a falling-down kind of place, not in keeping with the rest of the street, and the faded shamrock stickers in the window confirmed its once incarnation as a sports bar. The peeling green sign had seen better days and the rotted wood-framed windows were caked in thirty-year-old crud. Judging by the scaffolding holding the place up, I was going for closed. I tried the front door. Locked.

  Using the alley at the left of the building, I checked around the back. The yard yielded no signs of life apart from some empty Coors bottles, stray cigarette ends and a pile of plastic beer crates.

  I was all ready to leave when an upstairs window opened, and a head poked out.

  ‘You here about the sale?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re from the real estate company, right? Ferguson’s?’

  ‘Yeah, Ferguson’s.’ Real estate? What did I know about real estate? Apart from a simple norm core white shift dress and my orange Givenchy bucket bag, I hardly looked like a house-selling diva. Blighted by the earlier headache, I couldn’t remember if I’d even combed my hair.

  ‘Hold on.’ The guy was soon at the back door, his bulging eyes peering out through the letterbox. ‘Come to the front. There’s no key.’

  When I did get inside, nervous as I went, I began to wish I’d never opened Evan’s briefcase. My guy at the window was going for most tattoos per square inch of flesh and looked like he’d lost his way home from a Hell’s Angels convention. The place was a dump. The peeling wallpaper was in a fashionable sick green and there was random crap strewn everywhere. Old magazines, discarded food wrappers, rusted cans of paint . . . Whoever started the spot of renovation had thought better of it mid-paint stroke.

  I dug my work folder out of my bag to look more like I had a clue, but my heart still raced at a million miles an hour. I was here because of an address in Evan’s briefcase of money. Not that Evan wasn’t, but this
guy could be some violent, psycho criminal and I’d thought it wise to go into an abandoned building with him. Forget the Kane County wood; there were plenty of places in The Principe to hide a body.

  After negotiating our way around the obstacle course to the bottom of the stairs, Tattoo Guy grunted, ‘Do you need to measure up?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The rooms, for the listing?’

  ‘Uh, I have a few questions first.’ I began writing on my pad, though the only words out of my pen were crap crap crap. ‘What’s the building being used for? Do any businesses operate out of here? It’s for the use clause.’ Use clause. Good one. That’d outfox him.

  ‘Nothing. It’s not used for nothing, lady.’

  I was about to ask who owned the place when I heard another voice calling from upstairs.

  ‘Yo, S. Who’s down there?’

  ‘It’s some lady from the real estate place,’ he shouted back, hanging on the newel post.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Well then, send her up.’

  I mumbled something about being late for a meeting, but S was quite insistent I met with the voice. Up the stairs I went, gagging after sidestepping a dead mouse. With the bulk of the mysterious Mr S behind me, there was no way out but up, and to the voice at the top of the stairs.

  Once on the creaking landing, S pointed to a blue door. ‘He’s in there.’

  ‘This one?’ I asked.

  ‘This one.’

  That bought me all of two seconds.

  Pushing the door off to the right, I walked into the room, dank and gloomy and mostly taken up by a grubby, cluttered desk. Behind it sat a man with his back to me, glancing through the small window ahead. As he spun the chair around, I almost expected him to be stroking a cat. Instead, a guy with a mess of dark hair and a face full of stubble smiled at me; a man in a trench coat.