The Kissing Fence

by B. A. Thomas-Peter

  The Kissing Fence

  Copyright © B.A. Thomas-Peter On behalf of Entelic Consulting Ltd. 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, www.accesscopyright.ca, 1-800-893-5777, info@accesscopyright.ca.

  Caitlin Press Inc.

  8100 Alderwood Road,

  Halfmoon Bay, BC V0N 1Y1

  www.caitlin-press.com

  Text design by Shed Simas / Onça Design

  Cover design by Vici Johnstone

  Cover image C-01724 from the Koozma J. Tarasoff Collection, courtesy of the Royal BC Museum and Archives

  Edited by Meg Yamamoto

  Printed in Canada

  Caitlin Press Inc. acknowledges financial support from the Government of Canada and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publisher’s Tax Credit.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  The kissing fence / B.A. Thomas-Peter.

  Thomas-Peter, Brian, author.

  Canadiana 20190172665 | ISBN 9781773860237 (softcover)

  LCC PS8639.H605 K57 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  The Kissing Fence

  By B.A. Thomas-Peter

  Caitlin Press

  This novel is dedicated to the Doukhobor people of Canada. The stories I have drawn on—while changing identities and creating drama and fictitious characters for literary purposes—are largely true. Some are drawn from first-hand accounts spoken directly to me by those who experienced them. I am grateful to both the orthodox Doukhobors and those from the Sons of Freedom for their generosity, for inviting me into their homes, and trusting me with their stories. The contemporary storyline is entirely fiction.

  Thanks also to my wife, Kate, who helped in the field research, and for reading the first draft. Others were also generous with their time and support. I hope they know of my appreciation.

  1

  West Vancouver, November 17, 2017

  Her shoulders fell at the sight of William in the ridiculous shoes and clinging clothes of the cyclist. His genitals protruded in three conspicuous lumps. “Are you going out again?”

  “I won’t be long,” he said to his wife. “I had to drive to work today, so I need the exercise.”

  It was an easy tale, not quite a lie and not something he wished to explain. He should be hungry and tired from a long day at the business, and pleased to relax at home with the family. Instead he was setting off into a damp evening with more relish than could be justified, except with what was nearly a lie.

  “Where are you going?” Julie asked. “There’s ice on the roads.”

  “I’m not going far, just along Marine Drive.”

  “Please wear your helmet,” she said, as he pulled on his merino wool hat and stretched the band of a headlight over it. “Will you be back to see Kelly into bed?”

  “I should be,” he said. “Just an hour or so.” She turned away from him, his padded bottom reminding her of a filled diaper, and he clip-clopped into the garage.

  The bicycles, cleaned and ready, waited patiently. He touched the sensor to open the garage door and lifted the bike he loved the most from the rack. It rose without effort and the wheel turned at a touch. There was something magical in the featherweight carbon frame and titanium engineering designed to such dedicated purpose. Dust on his daughter’s bike rankled, and he pursed his lips. I’ll get rid of it. She’ll never use it. Kelly’s sight was failing. There was nothing to be done about it and within years, months, perhaps weeks, she would see nothing but diffuse light. It was a blessing, he thought, that she was a cheerful girl.

  William checked chain and derailleur, stepped over the machine, clipping his shoe into the pedal, and pushed out along the drive and down the hill toward Lions Gate Bridge. The bicycle ticked and hummed under him. The rain fell gently through the mist, but it did not matter that it was cold and damp. He gripped the handlebars, his quads took up the strain and he was on his way. The sense of freedom came with the spit of rain and wind on his face. He could go anywhere he wanted, but now there was only one place he needed to be.

  In three minutes he arrived at Lions Gate Bridge and began powering up the ramp, gathering speed as the bridge swooped down into the park. At the first opportunity he turned right to join Stanley Park Drive. It was a long road on which travellers moved only counter-clockwise around the park. Everyone in the flow of traffic could be seen. He slowed, allowing cars to pass, and considered if he had seen any of the cars or occupants before. The caution seemed excessive but he had agreed to it, and in some way it excited him.

  At the southerly entrance to Stanley Park, before the apartment blocks began, he turned into Park Lane, timing his turn to maintain the steady rhythm, crossing the stream of cars, their lights catching him briefly. His attention lingered behind, anticipating the lights of a car following him. There were none, but even so there was always reason to be cautious. He turned right onto the cycle path and headed toward the city lights, stopping after twenty metres where the footpath intersected another at the beginning of Comox Street. Switching off the light strapped to his head, William watched. He was alone with the darkness under the late autumn skeleton of an old magnolia tree. The rushing noise of a few cars travelling on moist streets could be heard. Breath plumed in front of him. A hundred metres away a man shuffled along, pushing a shopping cart. William watched the little wheels tremble across the street. Large bags of clanking bottles and cans jostled for position to remain on the cart. He thought of all the man’s possessions being pushed along in the rain.

  Pathetic, he thought. A life wasted. A car passed along Park Lane and he looked carefully. It was nothing. The tall buildings at the edge of the park were settling down for the night. There was no danger he could see.

  With headlight on, ears tucked under his hat and a shoe clipped into a pedal, he pushed off again along the footpath, past the No Cycling sign, and headed north toward Coal Harbour. It was quick and effortless in the cold air and empty streets of the late evening. At the end of the underpass of Lions Gate Bridge Road two raccoons scrambled out of his way and into the darkness. They watched warily as he flew by. He turned left onto the unused road and powered up the hill toward the outdoor theatre. At the next junction he turned right toward Brockton Oval, crossing the road leading up to the aquarium, and started the short climb to the crest of Brockton Oval Trail. Already the park had enveloped him in deep quiet. Just the crunching of stones under his wheels could be heard as he pushed on, unsettling patches of mist drifting in and out of his path.

  The mist thickened. Branches snagged him and he moved to the left. Again a thorny branch caught him, digging into his scalp, and he moved to the right. Once over the summit, he accelerated. His hat and headlight suddenly lifted from his head. The beam of light careered in all directions. He grasped for it, catching the branch as it snatched his headgear away, pulling his arm straight. He twisted to look up. The thrashing light caught images of a great feathered crucifix looming over him, brilliant white against the black sky. In another sweep of the light an owl stared down at him.

  He bundled the hat, light and leg of the beast in his fist as the bicycle trundled downhill. The owl lifted and pulled him forward into the blackness. He felt the control of his fate slipping from him. Only the owl’s strength kept him upright. The talons tried to pull away and he shifted his grip as the bike wobbled. He tried pulling himself upright and wondered, momentarily, how this would end. Th
e front wheel veered and buckled suddenly, launching him through the air into the darkness. In his head he shouted, I can’t be late, and realized he still had the hat. Noise of bushes being disturbed all around him began, scratching and whipping at clothes and face. Then everything stopped.

  * * *

  William dangled below the owl and looked down at Stanley Park, nearly black below him. Silver-grey mist lay in the crevasses and on the water all around. To the right, Vancouver sparkled like a party dress. To the west, the black jagged ripple of Vancouver Island stood on the horizon. Ochre and blue painted the sky, and lights from the North Shore were approaching.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked the owl. Its wings washed cold air over his face. “I don’t want to go.”

  The owl gawked at William. He had a choice to go with the owl or let go of the hat. The hat was worth nothing, but still he did not want to give it up and neither did he want to fall.

  William said, “I can’t be late for the meeting. I’m never late.” There was no reply.

  Lit pillars of Lions Gate Bridge poked through the mist. Heavy wings of the owl pulled on the hat, lifting and lowering William, causing him to swing in the cold air. There was so much he did not want: to leave, to give up the hat, to be late for the meeting and to fall from the sky. They all seemed so important.

  * * *

  Voices of men surrounded him in the darkness. Twigs broke and rough hands brushed leaves from his face, forcing his eyes to squeeze tight and then open. Flashlights backlit a scrum of steaming ogre-like figures smelling of earth and sweat.

  A light blinded him suddenly and an ogre spoke. “Don’t move. You fell off your bike and we don’t know what you’ve done to yourself.”

  William grimaced with the pain in his head and stiff discomfort. Strong hands of the ogre pressed on his chest. “Stay still till the ambulance comes, and let them deal with you.”

  “I have to get up.” More hands pressed him down. He struggled against them. The pain rose again, this time in his shoulder. He searched for his left arm and tried to move it, but it was lost to his senses. Only pain registered.

  “Just stay still now,” said the ogre. “You’ve done something to your shoulder and banged your head. Just stay still and you’ll be okay.” Someone laid a coat over him. “What’s your name?”

  “William.” The pain was clearing his head. “My name is William. Who are these people?”

  “Rugby players. It’s training night. We train over there.” He gestured with his head to a field somewhere down the path. “Someone saw the bike, then we found you.”

  William groaned. “How long have I been here? What time is it?”

  “I think it’s about seven thirty.”

  He closed his eyes and recalled the plan should something like this happen. He had never thought it was to be used to make up for a failing of his. He hated the idiots who found reasons not to deliver what they said they would, and who tolerated disappointing others.

  Pain arrived in another wave, and he began anticipating what would happen now that the meeting had passed. A small group of steaming ogres would stay and be kindly in the cold evening until the ambulance arrived. He dreaded being manhandled into the ambulance and having to go to the hospital, waiting for his turn to be prodded and X-rayed. His schedule would be lost. It was not what he had planned.

  High above him it seemed as though a star moved one direction and then another. Again it moved, this time in an arc.

  “Where’s my headlight?”

  “Didn’t see a light,” said the ogre. “We’ll find it when the ambulance guys move you.”

  They would not find it, thought William. He could see it in the sky: a small sparkling dot circling above.

  Something buzzed underneath him and a cowbell repeated. His iPhone vibrated in the small storage pocket at the back of his cycling jacket.

  “Would you get my phone please? It’s my wife.”

  November 20, 2017

  It was the sudden, unexpected jostle as he lowered himself into Julie’s car that sent his mind elsewhere with pain. Sleep had been impossible. Now, even with the sling to inhibit movement, there had been several knocks of the elbow causing him to suppress a yelp. Julie noticed this occasion and shook her head in disapproval.

  “Why can’t you do what everyone else would do and just stay home, at least until you can drive?” She continued to ease William downward into the seat.

  The ache radiated from his shoulder in all directions. “You know I can’t leave the office.” William wondered if her irritation was about having to drive him to work. Two days had passed since the fall, and she had reached the end of sympathy with him. The passenger-side door closed.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Julie as she stepped into the driver’s seat. “You’ve had a concussion. It’ll be a few weeks before you’re ready to do anything.”

  She was right, he thought. Of course, he should have a few days off. “It’s just a bad time to leave it. Something always goes wrong when I’m not there.”

  “They can manage without you for a week.”

  “No, they can’t.” For the first time William noticed a high-pitched hissing in his ears and pulled at the lobes with his good hand. “I can’t risk an order being messed up, or someone being careless and giving our secrets away.”

  “What secrets does the company have? You import bicycles and sports gear. How secret can a bicycle get?”

  The mocking tone enraged him. It was never good to talk about the business with Julie. It must have been the pain in his head that disoriented him. Her contempt for what he did was normally the end of talking, but today was different. He exhaled slowly to give himself time to respond in a way that did not bring another question.

  “You’re not a business person, Julie. You don’t understand what the competition is like. The competition would love to know about our contracts and how we manage the business. They all want to know how we do it. If they did know, we’d be in serious difficulty and suddenly it would be gone.” Not yet at work but he felt exhausted.

  “Sometimes, I think it would be good if it was ‘gone.’”

  Nothing of his efforts, he thought, was what she wanted. “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do mean it! It would be better if it all went up in flames.”

  “That’s hard to believe.” Anger caused his head to pound. “No second car or personal trainer, living in the valley next to a mall, Kelly in public school and waiting for the sales to buy your shoes. I can’t see it working out … can we talk about this later? I’m really not up to it today.”

  Julie ignored him. “You’re married to the business and your bicycles. It’s all you think about. Sometimes I think I’m just something on the side, cooking dinner, looking after Kelly and keeping the bed warm.” She paused.

  “Not very warm,” he said. He had strayed onto unforgiving ground and waited for the retort. Then it came.

  “It needs a spark to start a fire.”

  It was true, uncomfortably true, that he had not been interested. He had never understood how his voracious appetite for women had melted in the years since Kelly was in kindergarten. It was easy to believe that Julie’s ambivalence had switched him off, or that he had been busy developing the business, but no other woman had generated interest of any kind in that time. It was not what his youth would have predicted.

  “I should have told you that we have a special order coming in this week. High-spec bikes with tight distribution arrangements. I can’t leave it to anyone else.” He thought the concession might be enough to divert her.

  “You mean you won’t leave it to anyone else.”

  It was time to say nothing more. William watched the passing of cars and shops. There were glimpses of Burrard Inlet toward Stanley Park as they drove along Marine Drive. The traffic thickened as they passed the main road feeding the bridge. He speculated where the owl had dropped his headlight.

  Julie turned south off Marine
Drive into the industrial district, east of the bridge. After a few blocks she turned left and pulled up outside the office.

  William recognized a car across the road. A man sat motionless within it. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, and opened the passenger door with his good arm.

  “Let me help you out,” she said, opening the driver’s door.

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  She turned toward him. “Don’t spend all day at work.”

  He could hear the frustration in her voice. “Okay. Just a few hours and I’ll get a taxi home.” Carefully he swung his legs into the street and lifted himself out, resisting the temptation to check the car across the road. “Thanks,” he said, before walking toward reception.

  Through the glass doors Dennis, the warehouseman, came scampering down the stairs from the office. William thought it a little odd that Dennis was upstairs when all his work was in the warehouse. “Morning, Dennis,” said William as he came through the doors. “I’m just coming in to see you.”

  “Morning, Boss.” The warehouseman spotted the sling. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Nothing serious, just a fall from the bike. Has the delivery arrived this morning?”

  “Not yet. It’s too early. Not sure when it’s coming.”

  “Find out and let me know.”

  “They said it would be today but didn’t give a time.”

  “Get them on the phone and tell them if they want the next shipment contract, they better give us a time, and it better be this morning.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  William turned to go out the door, thinking how good it was to employ someone with an army background. They were not always bright, but they did what they were told without complications. He made his way up the stairs to his office. Each tread assaulted him with a jostle. Cathy, his admin assistant, should be in by now and would have dealt with the mail and, with any luck, made the coffee.