The Kissing Fence

by B. A. Thomas-Peter

  The target seemed without problems and the sight of the empty street eased the tensions in the car. So often in New Denver Pavel had felt like this. A tide was moving, all could see, but nothing would stop it. He was helpless again and wanted this to be done.

  A white flash, sudden noise beyond imagining and skin-blackening heat arrived without notice. The Chevy seemed to bend in the middle, doors whipped open and the roof lifted into the air. Soft billows of smoke followed the now dead car to a standstill and then climbed up and up.

  In the front passenger seat Pavel searched for his ear, unaware of his scalp having been peeled back to the crown of his head. He was unable to hear or think clearly and waited for the world to make sense. The front bench seat had folded, squashing him into the footwell and forcing his breath away. To his left John was up against the dashboard. His face seeped blood through blackened flesh. George struggled to untangle himself from the steering wheel. Pavel pushed the seat back and fell out of the car, his blood dripping from his chin onto the snow. Finally his breath returned. He stood and looked into the back of the Chevy. Harry and Peter were unconscious. Their heads had fallen back and to the side.

  Pavel approached the rear door. Harry had been behind him. Flesh and bone from chest to pelvis had gone. Pieces of Harry were everywhere. To Harry’s left Peter sat lifeless, one arm mangled beyond recognition, his body smoking. Pavel could not hear his own cry and recoiled from the image. Stumbling from the car, he headed toward the river. There was somewhere he had to go, to wash his ear, to get help, to get away, to do something. He had to speak to Nina. She needed to know what had happened.

  Nelson Courthouse, April 1962

  “Your ear is looking better.” Nina put her hand to Pavel’s face and was careful not to touch the livid scar tracing red in front of his ear and into the hairline. He took her hand and pressed it against him. “How is your hearing?”

  “My head is still ringing, but I’m all right.” He could not hide his sadness.

  She said, “I’ll come and see you at the Mountain Prison.”

  “If that’s where they send me.”

  “It will be. They built it for Doukhobors. That’s where you will be.”

  Pavel marvelled at the certainty. Of course she was right. The Mountain Prison was built to be indestructible by fire and to house Doukhobors who refused to work at the command of government authority. That is where he would go.

  She was trying to keep the conversation flowing. “I’ll see you every week or so. We’ll talk about everything, just as if you were home. Lots of women will come. You’ll hear us singing, just like our parents sang when they came to New Denver.”

  Pavel heard the enthusiasm in Nina’s voice but struggled to lift himself to it.

  “What did the lawyer say?” she asked.

  “He said I might get five years. They want to make an example of us.” Pavel felt his emotions wobble but Nina’s gaze held him. She would not let herself waver in this moment. He felt he had let her down by going with his friends, and now they would be separated. Five years seemed like forever.

  “We’ll still be young when it’s over. I’ll be waiting for you. We’ll still be young.”

  “No, Nina, you mustn’t. You must find someone and get on with your life. Mine’s gone; please don’t waste yours on me.”

  “Yours is not gone and you don’t choose for me, Pavel Korenov. I’ll make my own choices.” Her mock indignation caused him to ache for the loss of her. “You told me not to give them everything. ‘Always keep something for yourself,’ you said. Well, keep me and I’ll keep you.”

  Of course she would wait for him. “You don’t have to. Really. I’ll understand, and I’ll be happy for you.”

  “Stop this! We know how to live with it. All our people do. Have you forgotten?” She pulled his two hands into the space between them and placed hers flat on his, palm to palm in mirror image. “Remember?” She brought their thumbs together and rotated her hands until their forefingers touched. They brought their lips together through the diamond space and remembered the kissing fence where their affection sparked.

  Pavel felt his courage returning. Her hands held his face. The thick Russian unbridled kiss connected him to all that was good and wholesome about Nina and their people, transcending his sorrow.

  The loss of his friend Harry and the disappointment of being without Nina for five long years could be endured with this kiss. He felt a rush of optimism. He could survive prison, especially as so many of his people would be there, and many of those he knew from New Denver, including his friend Paul. There was a prospect of a life, maybe even children, when this was over if he could be strong and keep true. He would draw on Nina’s strength and be strong for her. It was a reason to continue.

  He asked, “How are the others?”

  “Like you.” She smiled. “Everyone is confused. Some have been told to confess to everything and others tell them to stay quiet. It’s impossible.”

  “No, I meant from the car.”

  “They were cruel to Harry’s mother. She had to identify Harry’s body. They uncovered his whole body. He was in pieces. She saw everything.” Pavel winced with the recollection of his last glimpse of Harry. “They put a picture in the paper of his body with his mother identifying it.”

  “Why would they do that?” he asked.

  “To teach her a lesson—to teach all of us a lesson. Someone even said she taught him to be a terrorist from the time he was a baby. All of us have been educated to be terrorists by our mothers, according to the English.”

  “It’s the English who have taught us everything.” Pavel shook his head, unable to tolerate the cruel depiction of his people.

  “It’s not what our people are. Always remember.”

  “I’ll remember, all right. And I won’t let them forget.”

  “Neither will I.”

  A door opened and a large man in a blue uniform said, “It’s time.”

  They stood without breaking eye contact. He felt strong enough to stand in front of the judge and keep his sadness and anger in check long enough to be sentenced.

  11

  Vancouver, January 5, 2018

  William looked up at the curtains falling from the ceiling, defining the allocation of hospital space he had occupied since the previous evening when he passed out. It was quiet, for all the movement outside his space, and peaceful, for all the suffering in the cubicles nearby. The medication washed away most of what troubled him and allowed him to observe without feeling.

  Soon he would be returning to the outside world, where the turmoil he had created would not end. He could not escape what he had done and wished it could just be over. The thought of ending it did not seem so bad. There was something decisive in bringing his time on earth to an end. Was it possible that his father had the same thought?

  William had claimed nothing in common with his father until this moment. The mellowness of his mood allowed the contemplation of a commonality. It opened him to long-hidden thoughts, returning unfiltered or unobstructed by pride or anger. All of his father’s past was not his, so he had contended. The commitment to others, the obligation, the grinding faith and, most of all, the trust or hope that justice, even fairness, might prevail would not be allowed by William as his father had allowed it. The world was not a place for such naïveté and weakness, he was sure. Yet he and his father had arrived at a point, each before his time, where ending was an option. William tried to push away thoughts of his father and the frailty they might share, but they would not leave him.

  It must be the drugs, William thought, checking his watch. It was 7:00 a.m. He would be discharged as soon as the ER consultant came by. He forced himself to get off the bed and began dressing. He had to get grounded again and attend to the opportunity this hospital visit had afforded him. Julie would be coming soon, but there was time.

&nb
sp; It had not been very long since the wild-eyed man had surgery. William calculated he would still be somewhere in Lions Gate Hospital. He walked to the hospital reception, asked after David Kerrigan, claiming to be a brother-in-law, and got the direction he needed.

  At the ward entrance, he chose his moment to enter, moving quickly past the desk and along the corridor. The hospital reception staff were unlikely to remember him, but the ward staff might. Better if he went unseen. William walked steadily, as if he knew his destination. In one of the rooms was a man with the right hair and bruised face, criss-crossed at the nose with white strips. He opened the door and entered.

  The man in the bed was motionless, save for the hoarse breathing expanding his chest. At least he’s alive. The hospital gown exposed wiry white forearms and the nut-brown hands of someone who lived on the streets. On the plastic band around his wrist was the name “Kerrigan, David,” a number and a date of birth. William thought it might not have been a good idea to come to this room. The task, he recalled, was to stop Kerrigan from talking to the police of their meeting. It was not a chance Uri would leave unguarded. William shuddered at the thought of what Uri might do in this situation.

  He examined the bruises on Kerrigan. The colour of plum shaded his eyelids like thick mascara. His cheekbones bulged and dried blood caked the tip of his nose. There was nothing he could do with David Kerrigan, the man who slept in dumpsters and defended his space to near death. William noticed the purple eyes watched him.

  “I owe you a hundred dollars,” William said. Through the purple swelling the whites of Kerrigan’s eyes grew as large as they could. “Yes, it was me in the laneway when you fell out of the dumpster.”

  William pulled his wallet from his jacket and removed five green twenty-dollar bills, folded them in half and lifted the bundle so both could see. “This concludes our deal”—Kerrigan reached for the money and William pulled it away—“which no one ever needs to know about.” He returned the money to the line where their eyes met. “Do we have a deal?”

  Kerrigan eyed the money and then the wallet. William had anticipated this. He removed another five green notes and Kerrigan nodded his approval before snatching the money and hiding it under the hospital blanket. He reached for a pen and pad by his leg and wrote, What was it?

  “It had sentimental value,” said William. He hesitated. “Can I ask you a question?” Kerrigan shrugged. “Why do you live outside like that?”

  The writing started again. Kerrigan lifted the pad and shoved it toward William’s face.

  Fuck off.

  * * *

  “I’m making a habit of picking you up from hospital,” said Julie, smiling at William from the driver’s seat. He smiled back and watched the street through the smoked glass.

  The Tesla passed through the streets unheard and unnoticed. He was insulated from sights and sounds of people struggling to get through the days. William had constructed his life to achieve this. His disconnection from obligation and separation from those with less money was his life’s work, if only he had understood what he was doing. It had become his crowning achievement, and it shamed him now that it came to mind.

  Kerrigan returned to his thoughts, and William began scanning the sidewalks for people like him, wondering about the life Kerrigan led. What did he eat? He had descended into a life of subsistence—grabbing each small opportunity, treating all comers with equal hope of taking something, be it food, comfort or status, from the encounter. Each was in such short supply that the smallest morsel was prized beyond any common value. It led William to think of those working in the offices they passed. Like him, they would sweep by in cars to private homes with views toward Vancouver Island over the tankers that squatted in Burrard Inlet or English Bay. It was discomforting to think that people like Kerrigan would be invisible through those windows, but down here, as they drove west along Marine Drive, he looked closer and, unmistakably, they were there.

  It was after 10:00 a.m. The morning rush had ended and the business people were indoors. William picked out a scruffy man leaving middle age, wearing blue jeans, a black jacket and soft shoes. He seemed aimless and moved slowly, before disappearing from sight. Another one appeared, this time smoking and incongruously wearing trainers. A third man appeared in ill-fitting black leather in blouson style, track pants and soft black shoes. His brown-grey hair curled stiffly on his collar. There were more of them everywhere he looked, middle-aged and older men, wandering the streets in the uniform of the dispossessed, with nothing to do. He had not seen them before. There was something terrifying about the number of men without purpose. He thought how awful it would be, to have nothing to do, and yet it seemed he was working toward having so much money he need do nothing. He had forgotten what he was grasping for, unless acquiring money, buying things, competing against everyone for more of something and being disconnected from everything was the point. Maybe he was not very different from David Kerrigan, except there was no pretense in Kerrigan’s life as there was in his own. William closed his eyes, feeling upside down.

  His phone dinged. It would be the emoji he had been dreading. Uri was beckoning him back into the world. Another shipment was due and arrangements would have to be made, but Uri would have to wait until he was home. They stopped at a red light and then pulled away when it turned green.

  “I’ve never seen that before,” said Julie.

  “What’s that?”

  “You didn’t look at your phone.”

  “Maybe I should make a habit of it,” said William.

  “That would be good,” she said. “I told Kelly that you went to hospital for a checkup, about the operation.”

  “I didn’t see the surgeon. Another doctor saw me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said there was no problem with the operation.” The question reminded him that so much had happened since the tumour had been removed.

  “So, what was it?” she asked.

  “They don’t know for sure.” William searched for a way to say it. “There was nothing physical.” He waited for the implication to settle with her, hoping there would be no lecture.

  There was relief in her voice. “I knew something was up. You’ve been different.” She was quiet for a moment. “I wanted to help.”

  “There wasn’t very much you could do.”

  “To be honest, it hasn’t all been bad,” she said. “I mean, I’d rather be like this with you than to be just cut off.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ve needed us more. I’ve worried about you more, being under so much pressure, but I haven’t felt frustrated or angry with you, with us, with work. At least you’ve been human.”

  Would she be as concerned about me if she knew what I’ve done? thought William. It was true that the connection between them had become more intimate, and he had felt the relief of being at home with Julie in a way that he hadn’t for a long time. But he had thought this was something to do with the tumour, or with her, and nothing to do with him.

  Julie said, “I know there’s lots going on at work you don’t want to talk about, but can I ask one question?”

  William nodded. “Okay.”

  “Is it very bad, the trouble we’re in?”

  “It could be. I’m not sure yet, but it could be.”

  “I’m worried that you’re in a different kind of trouble. Not just the business. Am I right?”

  “That’s two questions, but the answer’s the same.”

  “I’m glad you told me. It won’t come as a total shock if something happens.”

  William knew that something might happen, but what absorbed him was the way she said it. There was no castigation. It was solid, matter-of-fact, totally accepting, without fear or judgment. It was not what he was expecting.

  January 8, 2018

  William arrived at the warehouse to start the week. It
was quiet. He retrieved his keys from his pocket and let himself in, closed the door behind him and then headed for the security panel before the alarm started. The quick steps from door to panel annoyed him. Every demand the system, his system, required of him, rankled. The pleasure of thrusting himself into work had gone. There had been a time when he could hardly wait to turn the key, bolt upstairs or into the warehouse and start sorting, asking, deciding on whatever was next. All of this with the phone stuck to his ear. The buzz of building the business had been heroin to his system. Nothing and no one else had mattered.

  He wondered if Cathy would be coming in. They had not spoken since his visit to her apartment. The thought made him cringe. In his office, he phoned her—no answer. The voice message invited him to leave a message.

  “Hi, Cathy. I was wondering how you are. Let me know if you’re coming in today. Don’t worry if you’re not up to it yet, just let me know. Take care.”

  It was odd. She always answered. The phone rang in his hand. It was an unfamiliar number. William hesitated before answering it, but if it was Uri it could not be avoided.

  He accepted the call. “Hello?”

  A brusque male voice asked, “Who is this please?”

  It was not Uri or anyone he recognized. His mind began racing with possibilities and then doubt about the wisdom of answering at all.

  William said, “You called me. Who is this?”

  There was silence on the other end, and then, “This is Constable McKinnon from the RCMP Integrated Homicide Investigation Team. You just called a number we have an interest in. I need to identify you.”

  “My name is William Koren. I was phoning one of my employees, who hasn’t shown up for work. Is there anything wrong?”