The Kissing Fence

by B. A. Thomas-Peter

  “What vintage, do you think?” said William, allowing the game to play out.

  She sniffed again. “Poodle and trout.” He snatched his hand away and they laughed.

  It seemed that each time he looked at her there was something else to see. “When did you get so funny?” He gazed at her.

  “We can call it Hero’s Red,” she said, not wanting the game to finish.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a hero, Dad. We’ll call the vintage Hero’s Red.”

  “I don’t think I’m a hero.”

  “Yes, you are. You stopped and saved a man.”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that.”

  “You didn’t have to do it. Most people would have driven by, but you stopped to help him.”

  “No, Kelly, it’s something anyone would do.” The mood changed and Kelly seemed disappointed. Suddenly her closeness unsettled him. The responsibility of affection pushed him into turmoil, and he stood. “I better get on with a few things for work,” he said, lifting his wine from the coffee table.

  In his office he sat in his leather chair. His head pounded and his thoughts tumbled. He remembered as a young child seeing his father as an oak. There was such strength and conviction in everything his father had said and done. He had been all that every boy wanted his father to be until the collapse began, and then it was shame and disappointment. William had resolved to never allow that collapse to happen to him. To have his father’s passion and commitment to anything that could be eroded was a weakness that might render him broken and pathetic. No, he thought, that wasn’t quite right, but the next thought was hard to hold. He feared anyone being so loyal to him. There could never be someone as disappointed in him as he was in his father. Tears came close to the surface, and he felt hesitation in his breath and the trembling of his chin. Now Kelly had elevated him to hero status, and William realized she might have always done so without him ever noticing. It was too late to escape her affection, and maybe, he thought, it was too late to avoid failing her. What would she think? William allowed tears to run down his face. The strength of feeling was again a surprise. He hated the weakness and feared what was happening to him.

  “What’s happening with you?” Julie came through the door and William swivelled away from her. “I’ve never seen you like this. It must have really been awful.” He nodded and tried to wipe the shine from his cheeks. There was no explanation required. She had offered him sympathy for what he had seen and he allowed it to run. “Don’t turn away,” she said.

  He swivelled halfway back. “I’m all right now,” he said. “I guess I’m still not right after the operation. I get tired, can’t concentrate, and this howling in my ears is enough to drive me mad.”

  “Some people take months to get over a concussion. You’ve had a head injury, two general anaesthetics and two operations. You’re just doing too much. I wish you’d listen to me.”

  “There’s so much to do. I can’t just let it drift.”

  “Sorry. We shouldn’t be talking about your work. It was miserable finding that man. Was it bad?”

  “His face was smashed in. Teeth and blood everywhere. I thought he was dead.” The graphic image steeled him against shuddering tears. He could be the strong one in the face of someone else’s horror.

  Julie quivered. “Oh God! No wonder it upset you. Did you tell Kelly?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just said that he knocked himself out. She thinks I’m a hero.”

  “Well, that’s nice. Maybe you are.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” William closed his eyes, wishing the conversation would stop.

  Julie said, “She wants to think of you like that. She’s proud of you.”

  “I know,” he said, without opening his eyes.

  Julie stood. “You need to go to bed.”

  He allowed her to pull him to his feet and lead him upstairs to the bedroom. No need to undress, he thought, crawling onto the bed. I just need a few minutes. The last thought before sleep took him was a wish that the wild-eyed man survived. He had not wanted that to happen. He was responsible for too much already.

  New Year’s Eve 2017

  The smell of coffee and toast found him. “What time is it?” William lifted his head from the pillow.

  Julie put the cup and plate on the night table and arranged pillows behind him as he sat up. Her breasts were close to his face, and through the sleepy fog, he noticed.

  “Nearly ten o’clock,” she said. “You haven’t moved all night.” She sat on the bed close enough for his hand to fall on her thigh. She held his forearm and inspected the marks on the heel of his hand. Her hands were warm and gentle.

  “I slept like the dead. How did I get my clothes off? I don’t remember.”

  “Guilty,” said Julie, smiling. “Don’t worry, I didn’t take advantage of you. Actually, I don’t think you even noticed.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.” William smiled and then felt awkward on the ground he was treading and was surprised he had ventured there.

  “It wouldn’t have been a disappointment. How did you get these scratches on your hand and wrist?”

  “I’m not sure,” said William. He recalled leaping on the dumpster and falling back. “I suspect I got them the other night.”

  “You have more on the other hand.” She reached across him, lifting the other arm for inspection. “There are bruises on your back too. What’s this?” she asked, turning his face to see his chin. “You’ve got a bruise just there.” Julie put her forefinger under his chin at the corner of his jaw.

  “There was quite a lot of scrabbling around.” William thought she didn’t believe him but he had enough cover to slip this story through. “Thanks for looking after me last night. I was washed out.”

  “You need quite a lot of looking after at the moment. I’ve never seen you like you were last night.” There was nothing to say to her. “Let’s see your back. I’ve got some gel for the bruises.”

  He shuffled and leaned forward and she switched positions with him, perching at the head of the bed.

  They had not touched in years, and yet this was not unwelcome. A sudden burst of cold gel under his shoulder blade startled him, but it was her hands—they were familiar, knowing hands, touching him as he used to be touched. Her hands worked into his back and pulled memories to the surface. The deep push of her palms shifting muscle in his back distracted him from the strangeness. William allowed the sensations through the long-established resistance, without knowing why.

  “Where is Kelly?” he asked. Once asked, it seemed an awkward question, implying so much. It had come without thinking, as an unconscious wish for a long impasse to be broken. Now that it had found its way into the open, William wanted it to be broken.

  “Downstairs,” said Julie. “She’ll be fine for a while.”

  * * *

  William checked the message on his iPhone. The emoji was the same but the number was different. He called it and waited for Uri to answer.

  “Hello, William. I thought we should speak. What progress have you made?”

  “I’ve got it. When shall we meet?”

  “Good. We can meet soon, perhaps Tuesday morning. Do you remember the meeting place we arranged off Welch Street near your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll be there at nine. See you then.” The phone went dead.

  William noted that he had only mentioned having one item. Uri was unconcerned about the second item he was to have retrieved. It was confirmation that the manifest was already with Uri.

  8

  New Denver, June 16, 1958

  Flanagan arrived at the dormitory for another Monday and wondered when his purgatory would end. It was dulling to spend day after day on a detail better suited to a babysitter than a police o
fficer. He had hoped he would be part of some rotation relieving him from this, but it had become clear, as weeks passed, that was not what his sergeant intended.

  As he passed the security hut he noticed it was empty and locked. Mr. Nori was always there before Flanagan and had become his first stop of the day. There was always a smile and cheerful comment from Mr. Nori, who was endlessly kind and polite to everyone. Ahead, he could see the matron standing at the door of her office.

  “Constable.” Matron MacDonald demanded Flanagan’s attention from a distance. “I need to speak with you.”

  Flanagan altered his course toward the starch-white figure. When he was close she said to him, “Good morning, Constable.” It was the first time she had greeted him with pleasantry. “We have a problem and I’ll need your help. One of the boys has become unpopular. It’s not safe for him to walk to school by himself.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Matron said, “We found out about that woman on Third Avenue. The one they call the Green Witch.”

  “I’ve met her, with my sergeant.”

  “Well, it was this boy who told us about her.”

  “She seemed a harmless old lady to me.” Flanagan recalled how the fierce demeanour of the Green Witch had altered with the mention of her now dead boys.

  “Somehow, the children found out he told us what she was doing.”

  “Brathadóir.” The Gaelic term for “informer” came to his lips as if he had never left Ireland. For a moment he was steeped in memories. “We don’t know she was doing anything wrong, but I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  Flanagan understood precisely the implication of this. The boy had done something and, without knowing, changed the course of his life. He would for always be known as an informer, a collaborator or traitor—words not understood by schoolchildren but would, by increments, be first stitched to the boy and then branded on the psyche of the man he would become. Flanagan raged inside at those who had exposed a boy to this, persuading him to give up the Green Witch to the smiling white witch standing in front of him, and then carelessly allowing his peers to know.

  “They call him Juda. It’s Russian for Judas,” she said, without discomfort or concern. “He’s in sick bay now, too frightened to come out, or too ashamed to show himself. Either way, he still has to get to school this morning and it’s your responsibility to make sure he gets there.” She caught his eye briefly to emphasize the point.

  “Do you know anyone likely to give him trouble?” he asked.

  “Hard to say. They’re all in on it.”

  “All in on what?”

  “Nobody’s talking to him. He’s been shunned.”

  “Maybe he shouldn’t be going to school today, if it’s as bad as that,” said Flanagan.

  “He’ll go to school if I say he’ll go to school. You reminded me of my responsibility, and I’ll remind you of yours.”

  Matron’s righteousness nearly burst the buttons on her tunic. She had rehearsed that comment designed to slap him. The satisfaction it gave her was clear.

  He chose to allow her the victory without retort and said, “Is he ready to go? I’ll get him to the school gate before the others.”

  “I’ll bring him.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Flanagan.

  “Marko,” said Matron. “His name is Marko.” She went into the building and returned with the boy.

  Marko’s face was red, his eyes puffed and wet.

  Flanagan said, “Let’s get you to school, so you can settle in early.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and eased him into motion. Marko’s body was stiff and trembling.

  Flanagan turned to the matron and asked, “You’re sure this is the right thing?”

  “He’ll go to school like everyone else.”

  In the short time Flanagan had been at the dormitory he had learned there was no charity for the sick. Children with broken bones had waited a day before being taken to hospital in order to confirm their injury was real and staff time would not be wasted on the journey. In whatever condition, children made their way to school. No one would say why this was so important, but Flanagan suspected the school attendance figures played a part. Marko’s plight would never cross the threshold exempting him from school and in so doing challenge the precious attendance rates of dormitory children at the local school.

  Flanagan and Marko moved off toward Union Street, passing the security hut on the way. A new face peered out of the window.

  Flanagan stopped and asked, “Where’s Mr. Nori?”

  “He doesn’t work here anymore,” said the new face.

  “Whyever not?”

  “Not my business really. I was told he got too close to the children and they took advantage of him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Flanagan.

  “That’s all I heard.”

  The new face seemed familiar. “Sorry, I should have introduced myself. Constable Flanagan.” He offered his hand.

  The new face shook it and said, “Benson, John,” and smiled broadly.

  June 27, 1958

  It was the last Friday of the school term, which meant children left school thirty minutes early. At 2:30 p.m. Pavel gathered up his things and headed for the exit with the other children. There would be time to get to the den they had made in the forest next to the dormitory, deep enough to be hidden. Those who shared the secret of the den had moved their treats from the Green Witch’s cellar to the den to avoid the interest around her doorstep. Rumour suggested the girls had done something similar, not far away.

  Pavel turned right out of the school gate and began running toward the church on the corner of Union Street, hoping to catch sight of Nina before she disappeared into the town or across the bridge with the other girls. He looked back up Seventh Avenue to see if she was following. Something caught his eye. A group of boys were running east, away from the school, toward the hill beyond. The large figure of Sam lumbered steadily behind his three jackals in pursuit of someone too far away to make out.

  From the corner of Union and Seventh, Pavel scanned the crowd of children for the taller, dark figure of Constable Flanagan but could not see him. Normally he would be at the back of the group, and lately he would have had Marko at his side, but there was no sign of him today. Up Seventh Avenue, the boys were in the distance. It could only be Marko they were chasing. Pavel began running, his heart already pounding, as he had never run before.

  He was gaining on them until the trees took them in. If they changed direction in the shadows he would not find them in time. He shouted, “Marko!” With luck his friend would hear him coming. It was unimportant to Pavel that Marko had been shunned, nor did it matter that there would be little he could do to stop the boys even if he caught up with them. He and Marko had been together in the same dormitory since the beginning, stood cold in the shower as a punishment they did not understand and comforted each other when their parents and people were cursed and belittled. Now Marko was in trouble and he would go to him, whatever had gone before.

  In the woods, he followed the noise of the boys, now laughing and shouting off to his right. The sound of groaning to his left stopped him and he pushed through brush to a hollow between tall trees.

  “Marko,” he said. “You all right?”

  Marko could say nothing. His nose was bleeding and his teeth showed blood in his grimace of discomfort. The smaller boy held his chest and struggled for the breath punched from him. Pavel pulled him to a sitting position and held his shoulders. A minute passed before he could breathe.

  “The policeman didn’t come. They were waiting for me.”

  “Sorry,” said Pavel. “I didn’t see what has happening until you were near the trees.”

  “It’s not your fault,” said Marko. “No one else would have come.” The tears had stopped. Marko took large stuttering brea
ths. Pavel stood and pulled him to standing. Marko spit blood and said, “And it wasn’t me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone about the Green Witch. It wasn’t me.”

  “Who was it, then?”

  “I dunno.” Marko cleared tears with the palms of his hands and wiped the blood from his nose on his sleeve. His face was marked with mud and red streaks. “Everyone just stopped talking to me and I didn’t know why. Only found out when Sam came for me after school.”

  “It was Sam that told you. What did he say?”

  “He said Matron MacDonald told him I had been talking to her about the Green Witch. But I never. It wasn’t me. You need to help me. The others have to know it wasn’t me.”

  Pavel listened to his friend and allowed the words to fall into place. Why would Matron tell Sam anything, and why would Sam say something like that if it wasn’t true? Pavel understood his friend to be just what he appeared to be. Not the smartest of his friends, nor was he committed to the Doukhobor way. Of all his friends, the time in New Denver away from his parents had done to Marko what the English had planned for all of them, but he was not a liar or an informer, or someone who would break ranks. The only way he had survived all this time was by being cautious and loyal to his friends. There was no reason for that to have changed overnight. It had to be Sam.

  Pavel said to his friend, “C’mon, I’ll get you back,” and put his arm around him. Some of this did not make sense, but his friend was true. He was sure of that.

  2:55 p.m.

  Constable Flanagan arrived, confused and troubled, at the Union Street bridge. Some children were already at the dormitory and others mooched about on the street. Toward Slocan Lake, he caught glimpses of children at play and recognized them as children of the dormitory, but it was too early for any of them to be out of school. He walked quickly toward the school, hoping Marko was waiting there. On the way he asked some of the children if they had seen Marko, but none replied.