The Crash of Hennington

by Patrick Ness

  —And you liked doing it?

  —Very much. The Crash sort of seem to exist outside of us, you know? In their own separate little world with their own separate little destinies. I like the idea of being the one who makes sure they’re allowed to keep on doing that. Understand?

  —Yeah, I guess so. Aaaaah!

  —That’s an emu. They’re pretty much harmless.

  —'Pretty much'?

  —You don’t have anything to worry about.

  —It’s huge.

  —You wouldn’t want to climb on it, but it’s not going to hurt you. Look, it just wants some seed. Here, go get some out of the dispenser and see if it’ll let you feed it.

  —No.

  —It won’t hurt you. Come on, I’ll go with you. Here. See, just put a little in your hand. Now, hold it out.

  —Daddy! It’s pecking!

  —Of course it’s pecking. That’s how they eat, but it’s not hurting you, see?

  —Oh. It’s got a funny neck.

  —I know. Like a rubber band.

  —It’ll be neat to tell people you help The Crash.

  —Good.

  —Will it pay enough?

  —We’ll be fine, honey.

  —I hope so. I like that job.

  —Me, too, pumpkin. On to the giraffes?

  —Yeah, giraffes.

  —Here, take my hand. The exit’s on the other side of the emu.

  55. Sometimes It’s Just Sorrow.

  This is it. The moment of my death.

  Physically, Luther had gone completely haywire. He put his head between his knees to try to keep himself from vomiting again. No good. He rushed to the bathroom and only made it to the door before heaving pink bile onto the floor. Since Archie had refused to see him, a sort of progressive deterioration had taken over, hand in hand with an emotional doom that overwhelmed him. He didn’t see how he could go on living, and his body apparently agreed. Chest pains began to keep him awake at night. He perspired constantly, and no matter how much water he drank, his urine remained a stinging, burning sun color. When he did physical exertion of any kind, including something as simple as walking to the mailbox, he was split by muscle cramps that ultimately kept him from going anywhere without something to lean on. And for the past three days, he had been unable to eat any food but somehow threw up anyway.

  It can’t always be like this.

  Peter assumed that Luther had a bad flu, but Luther knew otherwise. This was a spiritual sickness that was so poisonous it was killing him. Archie had provided a second life for Luther for so long that when Luther cut it off he wasn’t able to subsist on what was left. He was going to die. He knew this, felt it through every heaving, ailing, feverish cell in his body. He was the parasite that killed its host, only to have nothing left to live on.

  But I was more than a parasite.

  Which of course is what makes it so much worse.

  How can this be? Where did I lose my grip?

  He had to get Peter safely away before he died. Peter would be hurt (which is all you seem to he able to do), but Luther was afraid that if he didn’t get Peter to a safe distance he’d take Peter down with him. His head ached so bad now it was affecting his vision. He fell to his knees as spasms rocked his diaphragm. He coughed up bright red blood onto his shirtfront. How would he be able to convince Peter of anything in this condition? He had to, though. It had to be done now, today, because he knew whatever it was that was killing him would finish the job soon. He would be dead, and Peter had to be gone before then.

  It’s your own fault. No one to blame but you.

  He struggled getting to his feet and had to rest on the counter to catch his breath. He felt his bowels loosening and rushed to get his pants down in time. Black, evil-looking liquid spilled into the toilet. The smell made him retch again, this time splashing more blood onto the increasingly covered bathroom floor. He noticed through the mucus that his nose was bleeding, and suddenly he knew.

  He was afraid. Now, for the first time. Now, when it was too late, he realized. He didn’t want to die. The mistake wasn’t fatal. It was just a mistake. It could be rectified, and if it couldn’t be rectified, it could be lived with. No. No, this is wrong. No. He vomited again and then again. The violent heaving threw him to his hands and knees. The bathroom floor was slippery with blood and bodily fluids. There was no way he could stand, but he had to get out of the bathroom. He forced his arms to move, forced his legs and knees to push forward. He tensed his stomach and torso as tight as he could to fight off further vomiting. He had to get to his phone. He had to somehow get himself to a hospital. Peter was on his way over for what was to be the final separation, but suddenly it didn’t have to be that way. Peter could help him. It really could happen.

  I can be saved. I can. I’m going to make it.

  Peter let himself in carrying a takeaway noodle soup dinner he had picked up on the way home. He took it into the kitchen, grabbed some silverware out of the cabinet, and opened up the boxes of food. He called out Luther’s name. He transferred all the food to real plates and bowls. He folded two napkins for them to use and turned the coffee maker on to brew. He called Luther again. He picked up one of the bowls of soup and headed upstairs.

  Somehow, before he reached him, before taking the six steps from the bedroom doorway over to the bathroom, before dropping the soup onto the carpet, he knew that Luther was dead. Holding Luther’s body in his arms, oblivious to the blood and the mess, Peter decided. It was that quick. He was able to lock away the grief, the unbearable pain, if only for a moment. The next actions were in front of him, and with every passing second they became clearer.

  There was no question. It was obvious. He knew what he had to do.

  56. And What of Eugene?

  Sitting in the Bisector waiting for Jon, Eugene cleaned his fingernails, an obsession that had begun the instant he had given up chewing them, or rather, was forced to give up chewing them when he was eight by a mother with a will, some cotton balls, and a bottle of tobasco sauce. He trimmed them once a week with an extremely sharp clipper (replaced every three months) that he kept attached to his keyring. He took each clipping away in a single piece, then he filed down the rough corners with a set of three emery boards that flipped out from the clipper, the first for the big corners working down to the smallest one which buffed the edge to a smart, shiny tip. More than one girl had mistaken his valuable fingernails for a personal fastidiousness that promised perfect boyfriend things like flower-buying or apt performances at dinner with mom. More than one boy had mistaken his perfect fingernails for an attention to preening and awareness of himself as a sexual object that promised a cultivated night of sweat.

  Neither could have been further from the truth. Eugene was obsessed with the condition of his fingernails, and that was the beginning and end of it. It didn’t even cover his cuticles, which he still chewed and peeled and which still bled most of the time. Any girl who succeeded in getting him undressed quickly noticed an unwelcome but easily recognizable smell coming from the sweatier corners of his body. The few who summoned the courage to go through sex with him, steeling themselves to call his body odor ‘manly', had often had that same courage fail them when discovering what lurked in the folded corners of his foreskin. No boy, of course, had ever gotten that far, poor Eugene being too clueless to notice the pale-skinned schoolmates who laughed too loudly at his infrequent jokes. He would have been too mystified to act on the interest even if he had ever suspected it anyway, and besides, as he freely pointed out, that wasn’t his bag.

  Which is not to imply that Eugene was a virgin or in any way inexperienced with the grander passions of what those around twenty choose to call love. The still-nagging scaly chrysalia was proof enough of that (though mercifully it was on its way out, thanks to Jon’s surprising offer of health coverage, a perk that had also helped to clear up Eugene’s purplish acne to a point where he could almost shave without having to sop up blood afterwards). His last gir
lfriend, the one who had left him for that bastard non-Rumour No Margin surfer with the blond curls and small waist that Eugene thought made him look like a ballerina, that girlfriend had liked to have sex in the shower anyway, so it didn’t matter. The times they did it in bed, she would often come equipped with a Q-tip which he thought was her kinky way of getting him hard. She hadn’t been perfect, a little wide about the backside, a little too flirty with his friends, but all in all, she was a catch that Eugene felt lucky to have. Until she met the surfer. Well, if that’s what she wanted, someone tanned, muscular and brainless, then fuck her, let her have it.

  He realized while digging out a piece of red lint from deep behind his thumbnail that he hadn’t thought about suicide once in the weeks that he had been working for Jon. Jon was a good guy. He treated Eugene fairly and, more importantly, like an adult or even better, a friend. Jon paid well, more than the Solari anyway, and Eugene actually found himself looking forward to coming to work. The guy was kind of nuts. This whole fixation on the Mayor, for one thing, and what was with all the black clothes? But otherwise, there was nothing too weird. No strange groups Eugene had to join, no bizarre midnight journeys to destinations unknown, no stray hands on Eugene’s knee, though there was a very small part of him that wondered why he (Jon) never put a hand on his (Eugene’s) knee and what he (Eugene) would do if he (Jon) ever did. No, Jon was definitely a good guy. Half the time, Eugene couldn’t believe his good fortune at falling into a job this cushy and one that seemed to promise so many connections and future opportunities.

  Who would have ever thought a guy like him had any luck left?

  —To Hennington Hills, my boy.

  —God! You scared the crap out of me!

  —Pardon me for tearing you away from your manicure. You know, if you put even a tenth of the effort into the rest of your personal appearance that you do your nails, you’d have the girls knocking down your door.

  —Nah, that’s not true.

  —You’ll talk none of that self-flagellation in my presence, Eugene. In fact, you know what we’ll do? I have someone I want to see at Hennington Hills, but after that, why don’t we get you a haircut?

  —A haircut?

  —Yes, and some new clothes. I have standards for my associates, and I’ve been letting you lag. We’ll get you all cleaned up and sharp-looking.

  —For what?

  —'For what?’ For the sake of itself. For the simple fact of looking good. For the way you’ll feel. Has no one ever taught you this?

  —No.

  —Obviously. It’s settled. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.

  —I don’t really have any cash on me.

  —My God, Eugene. Do I have to hit you on the head with a block of wood? I’m paying, of course. Now, drive.

  —Thanks.

  —Don’t mention it, and I mean that. Don’t mention it. The tiny amount of money it will take could hardly be called generosity. It’s the least I could do. Trust me. I’m not a bad person, despite what others may tell you.

  —No one’s told me anything. I haven’t even met anyone else who knows you.

  —But of course not. Why would you? Still, I want you to believe that, Eugene, no matter what happens.

  —What’s going to happen?

  —Nothing. Certainly nothing to worry about, but maybe things that don’t reflect on me too well. I’m not exactly sure yet.

  —Okay, I’m not really following you here. You’re asking me to forgive you in advance for things you may or may not do? How is that possible for anyone?

  —Once again you surprise me, Eugene, by calling me out. I’m going to have to get used to that one of these days. You’re correct, of course, I can’t ask you any such thing, especially in these vague terms. So, I’ll try and clarify. What do you know about revenge?

  —Fucking someone who fucked you.

  —In an astoundingly blunt phrase, yes, in a way, fucking someone who fucked you.

  —Or is it someone who didn’t fuck you?

  —Meaning?

  —You’re mad at the Mayor.

  —Mad doesn’t quite get the flavor of it.

  —You’re not going to kill her, are you? Because if—

  —Good heavens, no! Kill her? Are you mad? What sort of person do you take me for?

  —You said not to think bad of you no matter what happened. What else could you have been talking about?

  —Surely not murder!

  —Well, what other kinds of revenge are there?

  —You are so very, very young, aren’t you? I am a gentleman, and I shall have a gentleman’s revenge.

  —So that’s, what? A duel?

  —I told you I’m not going to kill her.

  —With her husband, then.

  —Mmmm, yes, well, no, of course not. I’m not going to shoot anyone.

  —You could use swords. Or, what are those things? Rapiers?

  —I’m not quite that old-fashioned.

  —So what’s a gentleman’s revenge then?

  —It’s elegant, first of all, and refined. It doesn’t kill them, because, to put it brutally, where’s the fun if they’re dead? It needs to hurt them where pain would be felt the most acutely. It must be done, of course, perfectly legally, because who wants to end up in jail? The target must know who is doing it to them and, here’s the real clincher, be completely powerless to stop it in spite of that knowledge.

  —Sounds impossible.

  —Difficult, yes. Impossible, no. And the difficulty only makes it that much more satisfying when it’s completed.

  —But why even bother? Why go to all that trouble in the first place? Why not just let the Mayor have her life?

  —Because I haven’t told you the last step. Truly brilliant revenge ultimately ends in the target recanting and capitulating completely.

  —So you’re going to hurt her to get her back?

  —In a sense.

  —Why would you ever think this would work? She’ll just be more pissed at you than ever.

  —You’ll have to trust me.

  —But still—

  —One day, if you’re lucky, you’ll fall hopelessly in love. If you’re unlucky, that love will be taken away from you. That day, and that day only, will you truly understand. She will see the error of her ways. She will see how much I love her, how right I am for her. She will. You’ll see. She will.

  —It’s when you talk like this that I kind of stop listening.

  —Never mind, then, Eugene. You’ll see how it will all work out.

  —When is this going to begin?

  —Starting today, if we’re lucky, and I expect to be lucky.

  —It starts here at the country club?

  —Yes.

  —How?

  —Patience, my boy. Patience. Wait for me. I’ll be back within an hour, and then we’ll go and get a whole new you.

  57. Fever Dream.

  They were after him.

  (Were they?)

  They had seemed so welcoming up until now, his big gray friends with their hardy hides and warm ‘helios'. (Or had they ever even said that? There’s a mistake here, hut which side?) And now they had turned against him. They were merely biding their time. Why was it so goddamned hot? Why did they bring the sun out? What had he done to them?

  They were on him. (No, wait.) They were on him. Stomping and cheering, calling out his name as they pounded him into the ground. He could feel his body flatten, even his voice when he tried to scream. Then they were laughing, laughing at poor, flat Maggerty, melting into the mud. (This wasn’t right.) Grass shot up through his flattened body, and they grazed on him, pulling bits of his flesh away with each mouthful, the caress of their soft, full lips followed by a horrible, painful snap. Then the worst came, the worst of it all. After they had eaten him, pulling him to bits, his bones in rubble, they turned away. They left. They left him behind.

  Maggerty woke, or at least he thought he did. He hoped he had. It was hard to te
ll lately. His head felt like constantly boiling soup. Some days he really couldn’t figure out where he was, knowing only that he should stay as close to the animals as possible. Other times he would emerge from a purplish-orange haze and have no idea what had gone on since the previous day. Once he had opened his eyes to find himself waist deep in a bog with the herd grazing onshore. Another time he was somehow near the top of a tree, two pine cones in one hand, apparently ready to drop them on the animal resting below. Each time, he had rescued himself from his predicament slowly, trying in vain to retrace how he had gotten where he was.

  This was worse than his normal cloudiness, much worse. Losing himself in a haze was one thing, but to disappear completely, so much so that he vanished into his own mind for hours at a time, was a different story altogether. His lucid moments, which had never been dependable, were now plagued with fear every time he reached them. A cycle had begun where he either didn’t know what he was doing or was worried about what he had done. He couldn’t even remember where or when all this had started. It felt like it had always been this way, now until forever. During the brief moments of awareness, when he wasn’t too stricken by fear to move from a huddle close to the ground, he did his best to fill his stomach with grass or berries or water. He was terrified that he might die in one of the hazes, and by forcing himself to eat as much as he could, he somehow hoped that he could stave off an unknown, unseen death.

  It was a wretched existence, even relative to what he had lived before, and he didn’t know what to do. He had tried communicating his troubles to some of the animals, including the leader. He knew this wouldn’t work, even he knew that, but it felt at least like he was doing something, anything to stanch the flow of panic, to try to at least act like he had control over what was happening. It was all so exhausting, too, which was another thing. When he was lucid, he couldn’t sleep, and he didn’t think he slept when he was away from his senses. There were times, like just now, when he felt like he had woken up from a nightmare, but he couldn’t have even said with certainty that he had been asleep then or was awake now.