“No.”
“Good. You don’t have to lie outright. Just don’t answer the questions. Clear?”
Charlie nodded.
“Good. Now we have an hour to discuss Shamus. After this, you may only discuss him in private.”
“Um, Rochelle?” Nina’s soft voice was almost inaudible. Rochelle always forgot she was even there.
“Yes, Nina?”
“Did it hurt?”
“What?”
“When Shamus choked on the bird. Do you think it hurt?”
Rochelle smiled. “No. He probably passed out before he died.”
Nina frowned.
“What is it?”
“I read somewhere that when you get close to death, everything you feel is heightened, and pain would be like, orgasmic.”
“Shamus wasn’t orgasmic.” Rochelle sometimes wondered how these people survived to adulthood.
“How do you know?”
“I just know. He wouldn’t have felt anything.”
“If you say so,” Nina sighed.
***
Milo sat in an uncomfortable arm chair facing five pissed off strangers. Each one frowned at him from the sofa he’d occupied a few hours before. On his right, Rochelle and another pissed off stranger bored holes in the side of his head with their stares. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do or say. The awkwardness of it all was smothering him. He never did well with strangers. Hell, he wasn’t so shit hot with acquaintances either.
The fact he was forced to wear mittens was not helping. They were itchy, and his had an owl’s face on each one. He tried not to look at the button eyes, but it was difficult.
“So,” Rochelle finally said. “Let’s welcome Detective Milo Smalls to our group.”
He frowned. “Isn’t this supposed to be anonymous, like AA?”
“We aren’t anonymous to each other.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“Why would it be an issue?”
“Giving my full name to a bunch of nutters I know nothing about? I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
“I said the same thing, fucknuts.” The ginger-haired man on the left side of the sofa said. “It’s okay. Ass-basher. None of us is a tit killer.”
“Yet,” he said. He assumed the profanities Ozzie muttered were a compulsion, but he was still a little offended by them. The guy was a ginger, and that told him all he needed to know.
“This group’s strength is in the trust we establish with one another,” Rochelle explained. “No one outside of the people in this room knows you’re here or why. You have to trust us enough to know we won’t show up at your home or your work, and we don’t discuss the group outside of this house. I discourage fraternization of any kind.”
“No worries there,” he mumbled.
“Good,” Rochelle clapped her hands. “Let’s all introduce ourselves to Milo and share the things we’re working on.”
Silence.
“This is the part where we show Milo he’s not alone. Don’t be shy.”
Milo smiled at the continued silence.
Rochelle rolled her eyes. “Why don’t I begin? My name is Rochelle Middleton. While I was in university, I realized I had several unusual quirks that might be considered abnormal should I let them fester. This is why I decided to pursue psychology.”
“So the shrink is crazy too?” He didn’t like any of this. “Very comforting.”
“None of us is crazy. We’re struggling with some demons, but all of us function very well in society. For example, I have a successful practice, advise in legal matters and have counseled many patients to a healthy and happy outcome.”
“According to whom?”
“The patients.”
“I’d rather see some proof, as the people confirming your effectiveness are a few eggs short of a dozen.”
“I have no proof that I can share. Confidentiality, you understand.”
Convenient. “What are your… quirks?”
She smiled. “Well, I like cats. If I let myself indulge this infatuation, my home would be overrun. In fact, it once was, but I got my hoarding impulses under control. I can love cats without collecting them. In addition to that, I tend to be a perfectionist. Everything has a place, and I have, in the past, become obsessed to the point of self-detriment trying to make sure my world is in perfect order. I also have a fear of heights. I haven’t overcome that, but I plan to. And bumpy surfaces make me a bit nervous. I’d rather avoid touching them.”
“Wow, you’re practically certifiable,” he didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice. Her confession was totally fictional. They weren’t even real problems. “Cat hoarding is also known as spinsterhood, and not really unusual.”
“You forgot the light bulbs, bloody whore,” the ginger pointed out.
Rochelle’s cheeks turned pink. “Oz, I’m not afraid of light bulbs. I explained it’s a matter of safety.”
“Mmhmm. Sonofabitch,” Oz said.
“Why don’t you share next, Oz?”
Oz rolled his eyes. “My name is Ozzie Lemon. You’re an asshole. Yes, that’s the name my dick-face parents gave me. I have an uncontrollable urge to swear every time I fucking talk. Usually, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. Shit-smacker.”
“So you have Tourette’s?” Milo asked.
“No. Wanker. It’s just a—mm…rrr… goddamn-it-fucksakes—a compulsion.”
“I see.” He didn’t see. The man had Tourette’s, clearly.
“When I was a kid,” Ozzie continued, “my brothers used to light their shitty farts on fire. I hated it, but what the fuck was I going to do? Just a dirty little ass-monkey. I was the youngest and they picked on me. One time they lit one at me, and I caught fire. Fuckers didn’t make clothes flame-retardant back then. Mother-cunts, both of them. Grams tried to put it out, and she—lick-my-asshole—caught fire.” Ozzie paused.
He thought he saw a tear, but Ozzie hid it well enough he wasn’t sure.
Ozzie took a breath. “Grams had a heart attack and died. So to this day I’m afraid of farts. I know it’s fucking stupid, but I can’t control the fear.”
“Seems rational to me,” Milo said. “I’d be afraid of farts too.”
“Thanks. You’re an asshole, but that’s not all, ssss—cocksucker. Sorry. Don’t mean anything by it. I don’t like the number eight, because the piece of shit fucker has no end and no beginning. Just a cunt-slapper, I mean a bad deal all around.”
He considered the number eight, and then smiled. “If you turn it on its side, it looks like an ass too. Asses fart, so I guess it makes sense you don’t like it. It’s also the symbol for infinity, which goes forever, meaning no end. Always something left over, which is never good. I don’t like eight either, if it makes you feel any better.”
Ozzie’s eyes widened. “It does! Fuckwit.”
“Plus, eight is two groups of four or four groups of two, depending how you look at it. You could make two groups of three, which is okay. Three is good. But then you have two left over, and that’s not good. Neither is two groupings of anything, although two groups of three is the best pair you can ask for, unless it’s nine. Nine is triple lucky. Three groups of three, you see. Four is untrustworthy and two is bad luck. Having both in one number…” He stopped. They were all staring. He had to stop letting the numbers take over when he was anxious.
“Wow,” Ozzie said. “I—cock-shit—never thought about it like that. Fuck my uncle.”
“Milo,” Rochelle interrupted. “We are not adding to Ozzie’s issues. Let’s try not to give him more reasons to mistrust eight.”
He sighed. “I was just saying I don’t like it either.”
“Ozzie is also a compulsive gambler,” Rochelle said. “And he likes to sort everything by color and size. He’s almost beat that one, haven’t you, Oz?”
Ozzie nodded.
“Okay, Andy?” Rochelle smiled at the man seated next to Ozzie. He had a baby face, blue eyes, a
nd long, curly hair most women would kill for.
“Yeah,” Andy said. His voice was barely a whisper. “So my name is Andy Zunser. Sometime I lick kids and I think I could probably eat them if I let myself.”
He had no answer for that bit of fucked-up-ness.
“I was a teacher,” Andy continued, “but they fired me for licking the kids.”
“Obviously,” Milo said. “Think you could speak up a bit? No one but us is going to hear you anyway.”
“No judgment here, Milo,” Rochelle reminded him.
“Right. Sorry.”
Andy nodded. “I can’t speak louder than this,” he whispered.
“But he’s speaking much louder than he used to, which is wonderful,” Rochelle said.
He snorted. “What happened when they caught you licking the kids? Did you go to jail? You on a sex offender registry?”
“It’s not sexual. I um....” Andy pulled at the sleeve of his jacket. “I don’t feel anything sexual when I do it. I just feel happy.”
“Right.”
“I was okay, until I started trading grades for licks. Kid told his parent, and here I am. Rochelle and the others helped me realize I lick because when I was a kid, the housekeeper used to punish me for licking the spoons when she baked. Used to put a clothespin on my tongue. Made me leave it on all day.”
Milo blinked.
“Anyway, that’s my biggest problem. We’re working on a plan to face the compulsion and beat it. Rochelle says I’m almost ready.”
“And you are,” Rochelle said. “Now it’s Estella’s turn.”
The petite blonde seated next to Andy smiled. Milo didn’t like the catlike way she eyed his crotch. He shifted in his chair.
“My name is Estella Butler,” she said and held up her hands.
“What the fuck?” Milo stared at her hands. The fingers were gone from the second knuckle to the tips. Only angry red stumps remained.
“I bit them off. So I guess you don’t need to hear much more on that.”
“Estella,” Rochelle’s voice was chastising.
“Okay, I have a terrible fear of fingers. That’s why you have to wear mittens. When I was twelve it started, but we’re not sure why. By the time I turned twenty, I’d bitten off all of my fingertips. I almost died.”
“Um…” he swallowed. “That’s hardcore.”
“Yeah.” She smiled. “It’s much better this way. I don’t have to wear mittens, because I don’t scare myself.”
“Okay. Maybe we should all bite our fingers off so we don’t scare you either.”
“Rochelle says that’s not a realistic expectation.”
“Do you think?”
“I also like how whiskers feel on my palms. I used to rub my dad’s all the time. Now I have to force myself to keep my palms to myself if I see a scruffy face. The need to rub them is almost painful sometimes.”
“That’s not so bad,” he offered. “A lot of people like whiskers, I guess.”
“What else, Estella?” Rochelle asked.
“The bitch likes ghosts big time,” Ozzie blurted.
“I don’t like them.” Estella punched his arm. “Ghosts are dangerous. You can’t prove they aren’t real.”
Milo didn’t believe in ghosts. “You can’t prove they are.”
“I can, though,” Estella said. “When you sleep, they get in your dreams. I’ve done terrible things because the ghosts whisper to me.”
“Isn’t that called schizophrenia?” he asked.
“No.”
“Sounds like schizophrenia to me.”
“You a doctor?”
“No, but I think this is an obvious diagnosis.”
“And you’re an asshole.”
“At least I’m not a psycho.”
“No? Tell me about the numbers again.”
Rochelle sighed. “Let’s move on. Buggy?”
The fortyish man seated next to Milo cleared his throat. “My name is Buggy Flint—”
“Seriously?” He couldn’t hide his disbelief. No one named their kid Buggy.
“Yeah,” Buggy said. “My parents thought it was funny. They were hippies.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. I wear these glasses because I can’t stand the sight of the color green.”
“Really?” He noticed the glasses Buggy wore had a strange tint to the lenses.
“The lenses remove all green from my vision so I can go outside,” Buggy said. Only one side of his mouth moved. The right side stayed immobile, which slurred Buggy’s words a little. “I also have an extreme desire to eat broccoli. Makes things tough sometimes. I ended up in the hospital after a broccoli binge where I knocked my glasses off and saw the broccoli was green. I panicked, but had to eat it, and then I ended up having an episode that’s kind of like a stroke because of the combination of intense fear and euphoria. My neighbor called 911 in time, though, and they don’t think there’s any permanent damage.”
Milo opened his mouth, but a quick look at Rochelle stopped his reply. No judgment was getting pretty fucking hard.
“Tell Milo why you fear green, Buggy,” she said.
“Oh.” Buggy smiled. “On my ninth birthday, my dad threw this Green Lantern themed birthday party. I fucking loved the Green Lantern.” He sighed. “Anyway, it was green everywhere. Cake, decorations, and everyone wore green clothes. Sadly, that’s the day my dad decided to pop one too many acid tabs or whatever was the drug of the month and lost his shit. Came in and shot everyone. I was the only survivor.”
“Wow…” He wanted to make notes, but Rochelle told him he couldn’t bring his book into the group session. He’d have to remember all of this for later. These people were homicides waiting to happen… or serial killers.
“Charlie?” Rochelle interrupted. “Your turn.”
A large man in an ugly blue sweater, seated behind the sofa on a folding chair sat a little straighter. “I’m Charlie Howard. I fuck things.”
“Charlie…”
“Okay.” He sighed. “I put my dick in holes. Don’t care where or what the hole is. As long as it’s the right size, I like my dick to be in it. I don’t always fuck the hole. Sometimes it’s enough just to put it in there.”
Milo’s stomach turned. “Is that… why would you do that?”
Charlie shrugged. “Sexual abuse, probably.”
“You were never abused, Charlie,” Rochelle said. “We talked about this. Charlie is also a compulsive liar. We’re working on that as well.”
“We’re not,” Charlie said. “I mean, we are. I love July.”
“It’s May,” Milo said.
“They’re canceling May. Maybe June as well.”
“Wish they’d cancel January. February could fuck off too.”
“I heard a rabbit bark once.” Charlie wiped his forehead. “I can’t do this, Rochelle. One lie leads to two. I have a third nipple. It lactates. Don’t know Sham—”
Rochelle cleared her throat. “Charlie and I will discuss this later. Charlie also fears toes and the sound of a zipper makes him nervous. Let’s move on to Nina.”
The woman seated next to Buggy on Milo’s right side smiled. She kicked her impossibly high stilettos off and then flexed her toes.
“Make her stop,” Charlie said.
“Nina,” Rochelle warned.
Nina sighed. “Fine.” She put her feet back into her shoes. “My name is Nina Fleet.”
“And she’s a whore,” Charlie said.
“Oh! I know this one,” Milo smiled. “If the liar is telling me she’s a whore, that must mean she’s afraid of sex.”
“Not at all,” Nina said. She looked Milo directly in the eye.
He had the distinct sensation of being stripped and fucked in that brief stare.
“I fuck everyone.”
“So…” He looked at Rochelle. “Really?”
“Nina is a nymphomaniac.”
“I see.” Maybe this wouldn’t be a total waste of time. Ni
na was hot. If she was also as fastidiously clean as Milo, things might get interesting. “I can’t seem to turn down anonymous sex, so I guess I’m not one to judge.”
“So my no fraternization policy is not just for respectability and all that,” Rochelle added. “It’s because it hurts Nina’s recovery.”
“Not supposed to fuck Nina, shithead,” Ozzie said.
“And I’m afraid of touching people,” Nina added. “Terrified, actually.”
“How do you fuck without touching?” Milo asked.
“There’s a lot of crying and regret. Fucking weepy little mmm—cunt.” Ozzie said.
“If I don’t touch you, it’s okay,” Nina explained. “You can touch me and the fear isn’t as bad.”
“Still cries. Titty-twister—ffff—basket-fuck.”
“Oz and me had a thing,” Nina said. “He’s still angry at me.”
“Am not. You’re a c…you’re… bitch.”
His head was spinning. The murders… or so-called suicides… he’d investigated didn’t even come close in terms of weirdness to this group. These people should be locked away somewhere, so they didn’t hurt anyone. He was positive each one of them had the potential for some seriously messed up criminal acts.
“And Nina is also a hoarder. She hides things, though, so that’s a bit of a dilemma. Most of her hoarded items are stashed in places even she doesn’t recall,” Rochelle said. “Since she has no particular item she prefers to hoard, she hides perishable items, which can smell after a while.”
He decided he wouldn’t sleep with Nina.
“And the cat,” Andy whispered. “Don’t forget the cat.”
Nina sighed. “We all promised we wouldn’t talk about that again.”
“The fish too,” Charlie said. “She ate the fish.”
“What?” Milo was lost.
“I never ate the fish, Charlie. Stop telling people I did.”
“Did so.”
“I didn’t.”
“What did you do to them?” Milo asked.
“I hid my cat in a box of fish,” Nina said. “It was… I don’t know why. I kept buying goldfish, because they were pretty. I thought they’re so pretty someone might try to steal them, so I hid them away, but I forgot to take them out of their bags. Later, someone gave me a cat. It was always getting lost, so I hid it in the box with the fish, because cats like fish. Then I forgot about the cat.”
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