by Tim McGregor
When the hospital came into view, she wondered if the doctor she had spoken to would be in. She tried to remember his name. Sanjay? Didn’t matter. They’d have her chart, know her history. It didn’t matter who she saw, as long as someone could help stop the acid trip freak parade in her head.
Coasting up the ambulance ramp to the Emergency Room entry, she glanced around for somewhere to lock the bike. Then her skin went instantly cold and when she looked up, Billie wanted to cry.
The freak parade came out to greet her. A handful of them at first, wandering outside the ER doors, muttering to themselves or staring into space. Some of them were in hospital gowns, the thin material stained dark with blood and other bodily fluids. Others were mangled or bent or torn like they’d stumbled away from horrible accidents with their shattered bones and torn flesh. They all turned their eyes toward her in unison, all becoming aware of her in the same moment.
There was no help for her here, she thought. No refuge from the madness clogging up her brain and throwing these wretched mirages in her vision.
More of them were coming now, spilling out of the Emergency Room doors. Shambling or limping or crawling as they bottlenecked at the entrance and stumbled out into the sunlight. Every pair of eyes locked onto Billie, every broken body shuffling in her direction. Dozens of them now and more coming still.
Keep moving, she thought. They can’t hurt you if they can’t touch you. Billie wiped away the tears as she turned the bike around and rode away.
10
THE GRASS WAS soft as she sprawled onto the wide span of lawn, the bike on its side where she had let it fall. Billie rolled onto her back and looked up at the clouds. The smell of freshly cut grass was a nostalgic comfort but it did little to dispel the nightmares she had fled.
They were everywhere, this pageant of ghastly freaks and broken bodies. All of them creaking after her like she owed them something, unseen in their wretched state by the rest of the world. With nowhere safe from them all, she had kept cycling, kept moving, to avoid being touched by them. Hurtling down King Street, she cut south on Prospect to avoid a ragged man clutching his own severed head before spinning east again on Main. The buildings thinned on her right as the dark expanse of Gage Park opened up and she slowed her pace. The park appeared empty. No surprise for this time of day but more than that was the fact that the freak parade ended here too. An oasis from the nightmares, she swung into the park and rumbled across the open field. No pedestrians, normal or otherwise. Hewing up near the bandshell, she dismounted but her legs jellied under her and she sprawled into the grass.
The quiet enveloped her as the sun set overhead. With the racket of the city muffled behind a wall of trees, the only sound that reached her ears was the chirping of crickets. The questions came on fast and urgent but the pain in her legs drowned them all out. If she closed her eyes, she could almost drift off to sleep here in the cooling grass. Almost.
“Running away won’t help, luv!”
Her eyes snapped open. The voice boomed over her, amplified as it was. Two stage lights had come on in the choral stage, making the aquamarine of the old bandshell appear otherworldy. A figure stood center stage, a dark silhouette against the pastel glow.
Another freak had found her out but she couldn’t move a muscle if she tried. “No more,” she pleaded.
“You been running long enough,” the figure bellowed. “Time to face the truth. Before you fuck yourself up royally.”
An accent tinged the syllables. Gantry.
Billie dropped back onto the grass, relieved that it wasn’t another twisted nightmare. It was just Gantry. Just a man wanted by the police for murder. “Go away!”
A lighter flicked then smoke bubbled under the hot lights. Gantry sat down on the floor of the stage, completely content to be alone under the empty sound shell. “You figure out what’s happening to you yet or do I need to spell it out?”
She didn’t respond. Maybe if she said nothing, he would just go away.
“If it’s any consolation,” his voice echoed. “You’re not going mad. Those nasty things are real.”
Billie jerked upright. He knew? She turned to the theatre but the bandshell was empty. Smoke wafted lazily under the lights.
“Bit of a shock, yeah?” Gantry stood in the grass before her. “Seeing those nasty things. Is that grass wet?”
She blinked. “What?”
“The grass. Is it damp? I hate sitting in wet grass.”
“You know what I’m seeing?” she panted.
“I do. I can’t see ‘em. But I know what they are.” He eased onto the grass. His face soured. “It is damp! Christ.”
She hadn’t noticed, slick with sweat as she was. She watched him grimace as he dragged on his cigarette. “It won’t kill you,” she said.
“No but it’s hard to be serious with a soggy bum, isn’t it? Here.” A plastic bottle of water was in his hand. “And you and me, we need to be serious for a bit.”
Creaking up into a sitting position, she looked at the water bottle but didn’t touch it. Was it laced with something? How dangerous was this guy? He looked harmless enough in his rumpled tie and messy hair. “What do you want?”
“Right now, I need you to drink some water.” He tossed the bottle to her. “Dehydration makes you foggy. I need your mind clear.” He tapped a finger against his brow. “How’s the noggin? You took a nasty hit.”
She unscrewed the lid. She didn’t realize how parched she was until the water hit her throat. “No thanks to you. That detective said you’re wanted for murder.”
“Mockler?” He laughed. “Of course he did. If he ever manages to unscrew his head from his ass, he might be dangerous.”
“So he’s wrong? You didn’t kill someone?”
“It’s complicated.” He looked up at the bandshell, eerie in its aqua-marine glow against the darkening sky. “I love this place at night. When there’s no one around like this? Living or dead.”
Water spilt down her chin. “What?”
“Haven’t you figured it out yet? Jesus.” Smoke blew from his nose like some lame dragon. “You can see the dead, Billie.”
Billie watched him take another drag and waited for the laugh, the punchline to whatever joke he was telling. No laugh came.
“That’s what those things are, luv. The spookshow that came out to greet you. They’re not an hallucination, nor a symptom of a bump to the head. They’re dead. You can see them. And they can see you.”
“I have to go.”
“Sit tight,” Gantry said. An order, not a request. “Haven’t you ever wanted to know why you’ve felt different all your life? Why you’re always on the outside of things? There’s a reason for it.”
“Please,” she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I’ve had a day full of crazy. I don’t need anymore.”
“You have had a day full of dead folks, not crazy.” He aimed a finger in her direction. “What murders me is how you’ve managed to block it out all these years. That’s a powerful sense of denial there.”
She swept her eyes over the field but there was no one there to call to for help.
“Denial comes with a price though. Devil’s bargain, innit? Those foggy spells you get. The migraines. That’s them, trying to get through to you. But you put up a wall a long time ago and blocked it all out. Why? Was it your mum’s murder? Did it happen after that?” Gantry smoothed a hand down his rumpled tie but it did nothing to straighten it. “My guess is your aunt had something to do with it. Maggie’s a peach, isn’t she?”
The warning bells she had ignored earlier began ringing a five alarm special. “How do you know about her? Or any of this? You don’t know me.”
“But I do, luv. I do. I had a little chat with aunt Maggie when she was staying at your flat. She’s sweet, I’ll give you that, but a bit too devout Catholic for my blood. How anyone can still pray to that papist claptrap is beyond me but, well, that’s religion for you. All ritual, no brains.” He stubbed his c
igarette into the dewy grass and reached for another. “My guess is that she drilled it out of you. Your talents. She recognized it early on after she took you in and it scared the hell out of her and she smothered it all under all the holy weight of the Roman Church. Am I right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A lot of people have it when they’re kids, seeing spirits and what have you. But it gets educated out of them as they get older, just like Santa Claus and then that’s the end of it. You, you’re a different story. Your ability is strong.”
It sounded insane and she was tired of the craziness, of being hounded. “So why now? Why am I seeing it all now? Did the bump to the head knock it loose?”
“Not the head injury. More the fact that you were dead for two minutes or so. Maybe the coma afterwards. A filter broke, letting your radar shine through.” Gantry raised his hands, palms to the sky as if offering something to her. “The question now is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to stop talking to crazy men in the park.” She got to her feet slowly, the pain in her lats somewhat bearable. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
“You can’t put the genie back into the bottle now, Billie. You need to learn how to deal with the spookshow out there. Or they will drive you to the nuthouse.” He unfolded his legs and got up. A pop sounded from his knee. “Same way it drove your mum there.”
Lifting her bike from the grass, Billie froze. “You’re an asshole.”
All he did was shrug. Guilty as charged.
She turned the bike around and walked away. “Stay away from me, Gantry. If I see you again, I’m calling the police.”
“Learn it the hard way, then. No skin off my nose.” He watched her march away, then hollered out. “You can tune ‘em out, Billie. Like turning off a radio. But you gotta learn how first!”
Billie quickened her pace, steering back toward the lights on Main Street, without bothering to look back.
11
SHE CYCLED THREE blocks before the freak parade came out again to greet her. Slowing down before a red light at Wellington, a figure ambled out from the shadows. Keeping her eyes on the cross light, she gauged her pace to anticipate the green. She did this all the time to avoid stopping altogether but now she had extra motivation.
Unwilling to witness yet another gruesome injury, Billie didn’t even look at the figure. Keeping her eyes locked on the traffic light, the figure slowed, as if unsure of its goal. The red turned to green and Billie rolled through the intersection. The ghastly figure seemed lost all of a sudden, staring off into the rush of passing cars as if he’d forgotten what he was after.
The tactic worked. Staying in motion, she clocked a woman standing in the middle of the street wailing at the sky. The city didn’t lack for its share of disturbed people but this woman had unearthly red eyes. Billie ignored her, avoided eye contact. The spooky woman turned toward her but hesitated when Billie didn’t look back.
It worked but for how long? Coasting up to her building, she locked her bike to the railing and hustled inside. After murdering her leg muscles on the stairs, she passed into her apartment, annoyed at herself for leaving the door unlocked. Switching on every light in the place, she found her bag on the coffee table and rummaged through its overstuffed contents. Receipts and coin and stale tubes of chapstick spilt onto the table until she plucked out a business card. The embossed name read: Detective Raymond Mockler, Hamilton Police Services.
She dialed the number on the card, sweeping her eyes over the apartment. Everything remained still and quiet but she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. The last thing she wanted right now was to run across the creepy amputee boy from last night.
The call picked up. A man’s voice. “Mockler.”
“Hi, uh, detective? It’s Billie Culpepper. We spoke a couple days ago. At the hospital?”
“Oh hey,” the detective said. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks.” Billie stuttered. Having never called a police detective before, she was unsure of the protocol. “Uhm, how are you?”
His voice seemed to laugh. “Most people don’t ask me that.”
“Oh. Should I be more official or something? I wasn’t sure if I should call.”
“No, it’s fine. Appreciated. Most callers just lay into it, you know? No time for niceties. What’s up?”
A shudder of self-consciousness passed over her, feeling suddenly foolish. She had no idea why. “Well, I wasn’t sure if I should call but you said you wanted to know. I ran into Gantry again.”
“Where?” The detective’s tone changed instantly. All business. “How long ago?”
“Ten minutes,” she said. Something blurred in the corner of her eye but when she turned to look, there was just the kitchen. Nothing else.
“Stay put. Give me your address.”
Noise creaked from the bedroom, like someone stepping on the old floorboards. “Can we meet somewhere else? I don’t wanna stay here right now.”
“Where?”
She blanked for a moment, then blurted out a suggestion. “You know the garden at Saint Clements? Near the fountain?”
“Be there in five,” he said and hung up.
Billie slid the phone into her back pocket. Why had she picked that spot?
She hurried back out the door, remembering to lock it this time.
~
“Are you all right?” Mockler asked. “You look a little pale.”
The garden of Saint Clements church was rigorously maintained and well lit and, for those reasons, almost always free of vagrants, crazoids and bored teens. She had circled the fountain at the centre of the garden six times before confirming that it was free of any hallucinatory nightmare people. Detective Mockler arrived two minutes after she did. He must have blown through a few traffic lights to get here so quickly.
“I’m fine,” Billie said, trying to shrug off the jitters that had prickled her flesh for the last twenty-four hours. She had nothing to fear from the officer but felt the compulsion to not appear guilty all the same. Cops always had that affect on her. “It’s been a weird day.”
“Why don’t we sit down.” He led her to the wide marble lip of the parched fountain. The water had been turned off a long time ago, leaving a dark scum on the bottom of the pool. “So. What happened?”
Billie related the story to him as briefly as possible, omitting a few details. “Then I called you.”
Detective Mockler hadn’t said a word through her recap of events and remained silent for a long moment afterwards. “Back up a moment. What exactly did he say you could do?”
She had meant to omit the part about Gantry’s assertion that she could see ghosts but it slipped out in the retelling. She had, however, skipped the fact that she had been hounded by a horde of refugees from a George Romero movie. “He said I had this ability. To see ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” His eyebrows shot up. “Like the moaning and rattling chains and stuff?”
“I guess. I don’t know. Crazy, huh?”
“That’s Gantry,” Mockler said. “He’s got a thing for the occult.”
Her eyes widened this time. “Occult? Like devil worship stuff?”
“He claims to be a paranormal investigator. A bullshit ghost-buster, if you’ll pardon my French.” He pondered the gardenia hedges before them before turning his gaze back to her. “And he just showed up out of the blue like that?”
She nodded. “Do you think he’s stalking me?”
“What do you think?”
“Seems like it. How else would he have found me at the park?”
Mockler propped his elbows on his knees. “Is there someone you can stay with for a few days? A friend or family?”
“You think he knows where I live?” That hadn’t occurred to her but it sent a shudder down her backbone now.
“Why wouldn’t he? If he’s tracking you, he knows exactly where you live.”
“Is he really
dangerous?” She chewed her lip, hoping for her mounting fears to be quelled. “You said he was a murder suspect. How?”
“I can’t really go into it.”
“Give me something,” she blew rough. “How concerned should I be? What did he do?”
Mockler stewed for a moment then sat up straight. “Two thousand and twelve, a girl died in what appeared to be some kind of bizarre ritual. Gantry was the main suspect.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Here, in town” he said. “But there was a similar incident in London five years ago. Gantry was involved in that too.”
A sobering thought. Just how deranged was John Gantry? “So he’s out there killing people?”
“That’s the working theory. Disaster seems to follow this guy around.”
“Like what?”
Mockler shook his head. “I’ve said too much already. Just know that he’s dangerous. And wily. For someone on an INTERPOL watch list, he slips through borders like nothing.”
Billie folded her arms and became still. Beyond the fenced-in garden came the barking of a dog somewhere in the night. The breeze was warm with humidity but Billie felt goosepimples chill her arms.
A figure bled from the shadows of the oak trees on the far side of the gardens. Billie didn’t need to see his face or any details to know that he belonged to the freakshow. He didn’t come any closer or even move. He just stood and watched her.
“Hey,” Mockler said. “Are you okay?”
Billie had never been good with a poker face, her emotions flashing loud and clear across her features. She tried to look nonchalant. “Yeah. Everything just seems kind of scrambled right now.”
