Like Clockwork
by Patrick de Moss
Copyright 2012 by Patrick de Moss
No portion of this work may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Very special thanks to Lee Burton, who was the editor of this story, and fantastic to work with.
Like Clockwork
By Patrick de Moss
“Where u at b1tch?” Smiley face.
That was how Evie found Adam: sitting at a bus stop, on the curb, in the rain.
It was two in the morning. Evie saw the message, and was about to finally give in and tell Jenny where this b1tch was truly @. That she was @ the bus stop, soaking wet, her makeup a mess, her hair a mess, and that she’d had enough, and she was going Home. No, she di-ent want a drive. Or a cab. She was tired, weary, weaving a little, but that last was okay. Her hair was clinging to her face, and on top of everything, her stupid phone was getting wet every time she had to pull it out of her purse when it chimed. This had been going on for a good twenty minutes now, and she was tired of lying, as tired as she was of Jenny’s lunatic shorthand. Honestly, it would have taken her just as much time to type “bitch” as b1tch. Besides, she was drunk, and hated lying (and filling in vowels) when she was drunk since she was so terribly, awfully, bad at it, even under the best of circumstances. Which this wasn’t.
She liked Jenny, really. She liked Jenny and Ames and even Tori from collections (even though Tori could be a real, authentic b1tch). She wouldn’t have gone out with them if she hated them, obviously. But she did hate being called a b1tch. Hated seeing that stupid one in the middle, and the obligatory smiley face at the end. She pretended she didn’t mind, and even, occasionally, full of self-loathing, replied in kind. But she just … she just hated all of it in the end: the high fives, the ass-checking with high fives, the endless tilt o whirl of hugs and hugs and shots and hugs and b1tches b1tches b1tches that was a ‘girls-night-out.’ It sort of, kind of, like, you know, really wore her out. Maybe it was where she was a little older than them and hadn’t wanted to be a snobby b____, so she’d just left. And when Jenny had sent her a text to find her in the bar (wr u @?) she’d said she was in the bathroom, then on the dance floor, and then out on the patio, when really she’d been walking (stumbling, really, let’s be honest here) to catch the bus. It had been so crammed in the bar that all of those lies had been plausible. But by now it was two, the bar was emptying out. The jig, so to speak, was up. It’s a fair cop, she thought to herself, and smirked in the rain.
“OMW Home. Threw up.” Sad face. She hadn’t though; she seemed particularly obsessed with lies tonight for some reason. But the reply made her feel quite vindicated.
Sad face. “Boston wz l00king for u” winky face. She made an actual face herself, and snorted, but it turned into a sneeze instead. Sad face back. Boston. God. Thank god she was out of there. Meathead.
She’d thought he was nice to begin with. Boring, but nice. Jenny had elbowed her, and nodded to his ass with an ’okay’ sign, and he’d looked back while she sat there, mortified, and came to talk to them at their table. He had that Red Sox hat on backwards, but he wore it well, and brought his own little cadre of smooth criminals on their own ‘Guys-night-out’ with him. He was in construction, concrete and cobble, really, and blah-blah-blah. “Creeper” was the guy that kept bumping into their table while he looked down Ames’ top, and another guy in a Misfits t-shirt told a few jokes. Well, maybe not jokes, though Tori had laughed way too loudly. They were more like … bon mots, really. Though not even that. They were mal mots, but he told them with a wink that Tori seemed to like.
Her phone buzzed again.
Sad face. “C u l8er!” She smirked at it. Mal mots. That wasn’t too bad. Just another girls-night-out.
But not really. Not for her. She’d actually done her hair in really nice curls tonight. Christ, she thought, wiping one thick, stuck auburn lock from over her eye, what a waste of time that had been. She’d slipped into one of her favorite dresses, a blue oriental print number that was more a wrap, and hardly even a dress at all. She’d even used a sample spray she’d hoarded out of an old Elle, and “Stepped Out,” feeling dangerous, vivacious, brilliant.
But really, that only lasted so long. The breaking point for her was the “she’ll do” face from Fuck-You-Boston. Sad face my ass. If I could find a stupid I-don’t-give-two-shits-because-I-loathe-you-you-mouthbreathing-meathead, Mr. Red Sox asshole, I’d use it. Probably one out there somewhere too.
“Boston Face,” she said out loud, and put a hand over her mouth, giggling even though no one was around. Drunk. Shit.
That was when that little voice in her head decided to chime in, the one that always asked whether she’d left the stove on, or if she had her keys with her. That little snide voice that said it knew about looking after her better than she did.
“Bus fare?” it whispered, sounding not a little like her mother, but a little more cruel.
“Fuck,” she said to the little voice, and out loud. She grabbed her purse with its stupid buzzing chiming phone and dug through it, and as always it offered up everything she could possibly need except the one thing she wanted while she cursed at it in her head. But even as her hand wrapped around the little change purse inside, she had a sinking feeling and a half memory of her blushing to the bartender and dropping a few dollars into his jar, proud of her own self-control. Or, well, her poverty as means of self-control. Aren’t I a smart cookie, she’d been thinking at the time. Don’t I know how to look after myself. I can cut myself off … cause … well … I can’t afford another drink.
“Fuck,” she said again, quietly. She rattled the coin purse in her hand while that little voice told her how much of a smart cookie it thought she actually was. A quarter short. Well … shit.
I just want to go home, she said to that voice and the rain and the lack of buses and the cold. She sneezed. I just want to go home. Why, oh why do you punish a poor girl so? And sneezed again.
She’d caught that look out of the corner of her eye. That “She’ll do” look. It’s one of those faces a girl isn’t supposed to catch when it’s shared between a pack of testicles. The pack in question had retreated to their own table for a moment, leaving the Raging B1tches of ACOA Electronics and Services to their high fives and shots, and she could see the “guys” talking among themselves, looking over at the “gals,” separating them like a pack usually does. Calling dibs. Boston had been looking her up and down (and that had pissed her off even more, that he was either too drunk or too … fucking ... man to not see that she could see him looking at her), his eyes running up and down her oriental wrap, her perfectly set curls, her breasts (of course), and the rest of her, putting her on the scale in his head. You reject me cause you think I’m fat, I will fucking kill you, she’d caught herself thinking, and refused to shift her legs on the stool, even though one had fallen asleep. She continued to pretend that she wasn’t aware of being measured by his scale, or felt up with hypothetical hands in his own imagination. Already, her own hypothetical Boston in her bed doing wicked things clumsily was fading rather fucking quickly, being replaced with old faithful, reliable Mr. Rabbit, and some reading material. Oh, Peter Rabbit, she’d thought while Boston tried to stay on his feet while fantasizing on her from his table, You go through too many batteries these days. And then she saw Boston shrug. That shrug and look on his face that said, “Guess she’ll do for tonight” That’s it. She’d stumbled to her feet. That’s fucking i
t. Cheque, please. She’d wobbled away from the table, half from her whole leg being asleep, half from wine-weave.
“Be back.” And Jenny had been going to go with her, for a little calling dibs themselves and a philosophical discussion of asses in the bathroom, but Evie had waved her off, and had lost her in the crowd of people in the bar. So, yeah, part of it was the shrug, but part of it was also that there had been this perverse (and now that she thought of it, really, really perverse) part of her that was happy with even that faint (very fucking faint) praise. Sucker. Peter Rabbit and his magic finger would take care of that pathetic desperation but quick.
“Dude. Dude!” Evie’s head snapped up from her self-pity and saw three guys stumbling down the hill to the bus stop. They were pretty far away, but loud. “Dude, you’re all over the fucking road, dude.” A harsh bray of laughter. Speak of the devil. Son-of-a-bitch. For a second, she gripped the curb, frozen, but they were laughing and trying to keep each other from tripping over the curb and hadn’t sniffed her out yet, alone, and as drunk as they were. That was when that same old, same old, hot curdle of fear rose in her stomach: that fear of being a girl-out-alone. Much as she hated it, it did come in handy, as it made her move now. She got up off the curb and almost sighed when she remembered there was a thicket of trees just behind the bus stop. It took her only a few seconds to slip into them, watching the oncoming testosterone out of the corner of her eye to make sure it didn’t catch a whiff of estrogen.
I can wait for the next one, she thought to herself, working further into the trees. Not that you’re not a bunch of gentlemen, I’m sure. It’s really no biggie. Half an hour? No problem. An hour? It’s fine. I’ll wait. She sneezed, but they were talking about UFC or some other brain-bashing senselessness as they got closer. The rain had stopped, but she was squidging through mud between the chestnut trees and her poor ballet slippers were soaked. Shit, she thought, turning around and backing further in, pretty sure they couldn’t see her now. Shit shit shit shi-
She caught her breath just before she let out a scream. There was an arm outstretched beside her. Evie bit her lip, eyes wide with panic and shivering. Someone was behind her in the woods. Her breath came out in short bursts as steam, quick jets in the cold night air. There was an arm to her right as well, she could see it from the corner of her eye, both frozen in the moment, maybe of wrapping around her. If those arms moved, she would scream.
Fuck you, mouthbreathers. Come save a goddamn damsel in distress. But the arms didn’t move a hair.
“Please don’t kill me,” she whispered. “Please.” But the arms didn’t respond. The blind panic receded enough for her to catch a glint on the outstretched fingertips. A glitter of metal, slightly rusted, covered in kudzu. She could see now in the half-light from the road that the fingers were bronze and copper bands jointed with some ebony black material. One upraised hand had a beer can stuck into it. She turned then, and looked up.
At first, she couldn’t quite make out the face, but a car passed and in the brief flash of headlights she caught that it wasn’t exactly human. It was sort of round, with rather simple circles for eyes and a gap for a mouth. The top of the head was hollow, covered over with fine filigree bands of copper and bronze, and the same witty individual who had put a beer in its hand had rammed another can in under the metal there. She caught a glimpse of the Kokanee label in the passing light. Its head was bent down, as if looking at her or at the puddle at its feet, and the whole of it seemed tinged with sorrow. Vines covered broad shoulders, and wild raspberries were growing up all around it. The rain had gathered along the dome of its head and was still dripping down into the puddle, and the whole thing had the look of being completely forgotten. The arms were raised up to either side, hands lifted to the sky, or maybe to the viewer. Whoever had made the statue had done an incredible job, if they were hoping to evoke sympathy. There was no plaque, there was no pedestal. Someone had just made this … rather strange and beautiful thing, and had walked away from it. Yet that seemed fitting, given what it was – a forlorn thing lost in the world. Evie reached out to touch it.
The rainwater ran from its half-empty head down the bands of its breast in rivulets, and it was pitted and rusted from it. Her palm brushed down to its belly, and she stepped into that frozen embrace to look at the face more clearly, the world of the bus stop and Boston and testosterone completely forgotten for a moment.
The eyes were little balls of copper, and the small dent in each that served for a pupil were focused directly on the ground in front of it. It did look sad, as far as a round bronze face and little copper balls could. She knelt down in front of it, looking for an insignia, a marker or anything that could tell her who had made it, and what they had made it for, but there was none. And as she brushed some of the mud away from the foot she saw something else, a quarter, buried under leaves and sludge, half under the copper.
Thank god for small favors, she thought. Now I don’t need to beg the bus driver, or do a breast lean and plead to get home. But it was really under there. At first she was worried it was part of the statue, but with a little wiggling (and a lot of cursing under her breath) she was able to work it free.
But it kept coming out. She cocked her head a little as she saw a point coming out with the quarter, and it was only when she had it in her hand that she saw that it wasn’t a quarter at all. It had two faces on it, to start. One was a face she didn’t recognize, and the other looked quite a bit like the statue in front of her. The point was rather long, coming right from the edge of the round two sided “coin,” and ended in three little prongs that looked rather like a stubby key. It was all in silver, tarnished of course, but she could see how much it would shine if she were to polish it. She turned the key over in her hands, and looked up from the ground to the statue looming over her.
There was a hole in it. Right in the breast on the left-hand side, in the shape of a small heart. The moon slowly pushed out from the ragged clouds of the night, and the statue twinkled a deep faded bronze as if in response to the moonlight..
She had wanted to see. That was how it had started. She had wanted to see, even if it was nothing. If it was nothing more than a stupid wave (and it probably was) she’d be satisfied. The night had been so shitty so far up until now, and this was such a … such a peculiar find. She picked away the bubble gum that another wit had used to plug the hole, making a face directed at all the brilliant passersbys who had discovered this thing before her. Goddamn savages, she thought. Barbaric mouthbreathers ruining this … well, work of art, really. Who would make such a strange and lovely thing only to leave it here, in this little clearing? She put the key into the hole and gave it a turn. There was a little resistance, and she wondered how old the thing was, how ruined. She pushed again, and the key turned once more with a satisfying click. Maybe there was an inscription on the key, she thought. I’ll take it home and polish it up. There has to be something. She could Google it, come back tomorrow when it was daylight and see –
The clicking sound picked up speed on its own, and the key began to twist in her hand. Evie gasped and fell back, letting go. Somewhere in that narrow band along its chest a gear must have caught, for now the key was turning by itself, slowly at first, and then so quickly it became a blur, a flutter at its breast. The eyes which had been looking down into the puddle started to raise up. And then they were looking right at her.
“Pity,” it said. Its voice was low and scratchy, warbling like an old phonograph recording, but it was still quite loud.
Shit, she thought. Boston. But it was half a thought, really, because it was actually looking right at her.
With a shift and whir of gears from somewhere inside, it straightened up, dropping the can it had been holding. The head turned a little to the side, spilling the rest of the rain water, and then jerked sharply to the right, making the can inside the head rattle. It reached up, fingers probing for the can, but the fingers were too big to actually reach inside. It dug for a moment, th
en, gave up, the eyes going back to her, “Please,.” it said. “It is wet. Where is Stephen?”
“Shhh” she said, as if it could hear. But … it was looking right at her.
It turned its head a little;, and the can rattled once more. The hand went up again, to try and dig it out, but it was no use.
“Have you done this to it?” it asked, still groping for the can.
“Quiet!” she hissed. “Shut up!”
Someone on the other side of the thicket, rather loudly said, “The fuck was that?”
The head of the thing turned to the noise. It’s here. It’s actually here, she thought. It was looking to see where the noise had come from, thudding on rusted legs to turn around. Still one hand groped for the can, tugging at its own head this way and that, but the can was firmly wedged in place, and rattled when it turned to look at Evie again.
“If you please,” it said. There was an accent to that recorded voice, but she couldn’t catch it. The tone was flat, no word had a single inflection. “This thing is lost. Do you know Shepherd?”
“Shut up!”
“Stephen Shepherd,” it said again, the volume raised, and still no tone.
“Shut up!”
“Stephen Shepherd. It is looking for Stephen Shepherd.”
“Gone!” she hissed. “He’s fucking gone! I don’t know! Shut up!” She crouched as she heard a crashing sound from the bus stop.
“Gone?” it asked, and the crashing through the bushes turned towards the clearing. The sound from the thing was too loud to not have been heard clearly.
“Gone! Yes. Gone. Shut up! Keep still!”
It looked at the ground again. “Gone. Ah,” it said. “Pity.” And it looked down at itself then, at its hands. “Pity,” it said again.
There was no time to agree. Evie scrambled farther back into the woods around the clearing, hoping, praying, willing the thing not to turn around or point her out. While it was bad to be a girl alone at a bus stop, it was even worse for a girl Alone-In-the-Woods. Whether or not the bush-crashers would be gentlemen (which she doubted), she’d still feel pretty stupid being found out here. She scrabbled back into the underbrush and felt raspberry bushes tearing her dress.
Like Clockwork Page 1
