Cracked Lenses

by L J McIntyre

  “I know you like Budweiser so I got it delivered this afternoon.”

  Chapter Five

  “You know I like Budweiser?” I ask.

  “Yup. Knew you were coming, too. You used one of those hatch-tags on the internet.”

  He must be talking about my #nesgove hashtag on Facebook. A couple of weeks ago I wrote ‘Love it when you find a hidden gem #nesgrove’. But how does he know I like Budweiser? An image of me holding a bottle of Bud at Phoenix airport comes to mind. I posted it on Facebook before flying to New Zealand.

  So he’s one of my Facebook followers. Nothing strange about that, Jack. I choose not to ask what else he knows about me, and grab the four-pack from the fridge, return to the counter.

  “I’m Ben Pearson. I own this dairy but I’m also mayor of Nesgrove. Been mayor for twenty three years, I’ll have you know.” He rolls forward and up on his toes again.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Jack Coulson.”

  “Yep, and you’re here to photograph our lovely town.” He gives me a wide grin and opens his arms in a welcoming gesture at those last few words.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Well, if you need any advice, I’d be happy to help.”

  I probably do have questions for him, but my desire to get out of that place overpowers my desire to talk to Ben. I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. He rings the stuff in the register and I pay.

  “Okay, well, thank you for ordering the Buds for me. Much appreciated.”

  “No problem at all, Jack.”

  Just before I leave the store, I ask, “By the way, is it hunting season around here?”

  He smiles. “It’s always hunting season.”

  I close the door behind me, but glance back as I walk away. He’s still smiling at me through one of the cracked glass panes of the door.

  Early evening has now rolled in and the rain is lighter, the clouds a menacing black, and someone shuffles under one of the few street lights that work, and then they shuffle back out into the colourless, shadowy ether.

  A shiny silver Ford Mustang, its motor rumbling deeply, rounds a street onto the main road and slows down as it comes toward me. It looks like the most expensive thing in this town. And the newest. I peer in through the windscreen, even though I tell myself to keep walking. An empty hood looks back at me. It’s a man, I think, wearing a black hoodie, his face concealed in the shadow. The driver window lowers as the car creeps up to me, its headlights cutting through the wet evening air.

  He takes his hand off the steering wheel and pulls the hood back, shows his young face, stares at me with deep-set and dark eyes, a long face, skinhead. He’s got tattoos of what look like drops of water under his left eye. Just as I’m level with his window, he leans down to grab something.

  My shoulders tense up as I run through mental scenarios of what’s about to happen because I’m still hopped up on residual adrenaline from the hunters. There’s an explosion of sound and my body jerks at the surprise. Trance music blares from the car, and the guy’s head starts bopping slowly back and forth. He smiles at me and slams the accelerator down, the motor roars and he speeds down the main street and out of town.

  Man, I’m feeling mentally fragile right now, my nerves shot. On the other side of the street, I spy my motel room, dark, empty, not exactly inviting. What would Dr Randel tell me to do? I shouldn’t be alone when I’m stressed. A few buildings down from me, golden light filters through the windows of the Devil’s Breath pub along with muffled music and chat. Despite the bag of booze in my hand, I’m drawn to the pub and life inside.

  When I drag open the heavy door, I’m expecting one of those everyone-stops-talking-and-stares-at-you moments, where the music stops, too. The complete opposite happens. The door slams behind me, but everyone continues talking and drinking. I scan the room as I step and don’t notice the glass bowl that’s on the floor, presumably a dog’s water bowl, until I boot it across the bar. The thing smashes into pieces and I look up and slap an apologetic expression on my face. Again, no one pays me any attention, not even a sideways look, and the volume of everything remains unchanged.

  The bar is dark, wood panelling covers every wall, and even although it’s illegal to smoke in public places in New Zealand, thick clouds of cigarette smoke hover just below the ceiling, and swirl around on one of the many currents of air that have squeezed through cracked windows or the large gap under the lopsided entrance door. The place smells like stale alcohol. Stale alcohol and cigarettes, and the wooden flooring is sticky underfoot. Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire is rocking from a dusty ghetto blaster at the end of the bar.

  A couple of lone drinkers sit at the bar, backs to the main room, hunched over their chosen poison, and two separate groups of locals are gathered by the windows, sipping and chatting quietly around tables.

  The bartender, a young woman with a dark complexion in her early twenties, gaunt and slightly hunched, has been watching a little square T.V. since I came in. When I get to the bar she kind of scowls at me and waits for the order without saying anything.

  “You got a brush handy?” I ask. “I can sweep that up.”

  “Nah, leave it.”

  “I really don’t mind.”

  She shrugs.

  “Okay, thanks,” I say. “Do you have any local ales?”

  She points to the pump in front of me. “Midget’s Nipple. It’s an IPA.”

  “Can we use the term ‘Midget’ nowadays?” As soon as I ask that I regret it. Keep conversation to a minimum, Jack.

  She points to one of the occupied tables by the window. “Ask him.” There’s a little man drinking beer next to a giant lumberjack-looking man. “He’s a midget. He brewed it. Named it after his own nipple.”

  The way she says ‘midget’ and ‘nipple’ in that strong Kiwi accent, makes me want to smile.

  “Fine, I’ll have a pint of that.”

  She hands me the ale. I pay and climb onto a bar stool. I take a big mouthful of the IPA. It’s sour and hoppy and not at all nice, and my face instinctively scrunches up just as I look over and see the little man glaring at me, at my reaction to his brew. I smile and hold my pint up, but the damage is done. He knows I hate it. I feel like peeling my skin off.

  I sit at the bar and sip my drink. At one point the lumberjack comes over, stands next to me, smells like grease and grass. He has a great big scar—deep and jagged as if his face had been torn—and he orders a round of drinks in a voice so deep my testicles shrivel to half their size. He doesn’t look in my direction or acknowledge me in any way, thankfully.

  The liquid torture of my pint finally runs dry just as the backpacker girl from the motel comes into the bar and scans the room. She orders a drink, and after the bartender serves her, I ask for another Midget’s Nipple, not because I want one: that would be a form of self-harm. I just want the brewer of this disgusting ale to see me willingly swig it: damage control, I suppose.

  I’d planned on leaving the pub after the first pint, but the sight of the girl has made me feel connected to someone in this place. The girl and I have something in common: we’re not from around here, and I’m guessing that means we both feel equally unwelcome.

  I try to catch her eye. She runs her finger along the rim of her pint and glances up at me. I look down at my drink. She takes a sip of hers. I shouldn’t talk to her. She doesn’t come to bars like this to be pestered by some creep.

  She brushes hair away from her face and looks around the room. She’s very pretty in a vampire movie way, pale and slim, blue eyes, blonde hair, not quite emo but probably has her melancholic moments, like now.

  Christ, I’ve just invented a backstory for her.

  As I take another mouthful, swill the ale around my mouth and find the bravery to gulp it down, out of the corner of my eye I see her looking again in my direction. Our eyes meet and she smiles a sloping, unique smile that lights up her face. I lower my eyes to the ground and sip my ale.

  Half a pint lat
er, I reach my limit of this horrible drink, and leave the bar, giving the backpacker girl a brief nod as I pass. Back in my motel room, I get my photography gear ready for tomorrow morning’s shoot.

  Rummaging through my backpack, I’m hit with the terrifying realisation that my bathroom bag is missing. It can’t be. I become a little frantic, tear clothes and stray cables from my bag and throw everything around the room.

  This can’t be happening.

  Eventually, when the backpack is empty, I look around the scattered contents on the floor. I sink into a cross-legged posture and cover my face when I’m certain the little blue bag that has my shaving stuff, toothbrush and toothpaste—and more worryingly, my anxiety pills—isn’t there.

  The biggest concern is that it was, without any doubt, in my bag this morning. I know because it’s always the first thing I pack: a little reassuring ritual of mine that makes certain I’m never without my medication.

  Chapter Six

  I’m sitting in a grotty motel room in dumpsville, worried and without the one thing that keeps me sane: my medication. I need to remind myself why I’m doing this, how important unique photos are in this day and age where every man and woman with a smartphone thinks they’re a photographer. It takes determination and risk to separate photographers from the snappy tourist. And that’s what I need right now: determination.

  Maybe I misplaced my bathroom bag. Maybe I did forget to pack it. All the days and mornings tend to blur into one. I can’t be certain I had it here in Nesgrove. Worst case scenario: I have to drive to Queenstown tomorrow and pick up some more medication. No big deal, so don’t make it one, Jack.

  I take my laptop and open my emails and find one from Tracy Dayton, a woman who works for LaserTek, a massive company that develops and sells a boatload of high tech camera gear. I chew my bottom lip as I read it.

  Hey Jack,

  Thanks for your reply.

  I think we’ve come to a pretty fair agreement so far. To sum:

  We’ll pay you 20,000 British pounds per annum.

  In return, you will use our gear (tripod, camera bag, waterproof cover etc.) exclusively. You will tag our Facebook page at least once a month in one of your posts. You will list our gear under each image you publish. In the About section on your Facebook page you will state you work with LaserTek. And you will collaborate with us on three launches of new products.

  In the next few days I’m going to send you a PDF of the contract for you to sign. After which point we will send you the first payment of 10,000 pounds.

  We look forward to working with you.

  Tracy

  A smile stretches across my face. My anaemic bank account is about to become a whole lot healthier. It’s my first big sponsorship. It won’t sustain me for the year but it’ll help, and if I can capture something special tomorrow morning, who knows, maybe I’ll be the next viral photographer whose image flashes across millions of Facebook walls. Perhaps Panasonic or Apple will come knocking at my door with an offer I can’t refuse.

  My screen flashes up with Skype and says my best friend—my only friend—is calling me. I answer the call, and Ethan Lawless’ grinning face engulfs the screen.

  If there were one sentence in which to describe Ethan’s appearance it would be: Not Brad Pitt. I say that only because he once described himself on his Tinder profile as ‘Britain’s Brad Pitt, only chubbier, uglier and with darker hair.”

  “Hey Jacky-boy. I saw you were online. Thought I’d catch you before I head into the office. What’s with the smile? You met a lady?” he asks.

  “Ha ha, very funny. You been drinking too much beer?”

  “It’s only a couple of extra pounds you cheeky bastard.”

  I laugh. “What on Earth is that on the wall?”

  He looks back at a photo hanging up on the light grey wall next to his T.V. “It’s called the All Seeing Eye of Buddha.”

  He always was a pretentious idiot. “Looks like two eyes and a question mark to me,” I say jokingly.

  “Well you wouldn’t know art if—”

  “Says the journalist to the photographer.”

  He laughs. “Don’t act like you’re not a writer really. This whole photography gig is just a front.”

  “Oh, yeah, how’s that?”

  “I reckon you’re itching to write a travel book sometime soon, pen some of those journeys you’ve been having.”

  “Dream on, mate. My writing days are long gone and you know it.”

  “Anyway,” he says, “where you at now? New Zealand, wasn’t it?”

  “Yep, in buttfuck nowhere.”

  “Still searching for that viral photo?”

  “You know me.”

  “Sadly, I do know you.”

  I shake my head. “You working on anything interesting at the moment?”

  He shrugs, “Not really, mate.”

  “How’s Kelly?”

  “I’m going to break it off with her.”

  “Really? I thought you liked her.”

  “Honestly, and I know this is going to make me sound shallow, but she has the worst smelling feet of anyone anywhere.”

  I try not to laugh but my shoulders start bobbing up and down.

  “Go on, Jack. You can do it. Let it out.”

  I chuckle and say, “Piss off, Ethan.”

  He looks at his watch. “Well, that’s the customary five minute chat over with. Time for work.”

  “You be gentle with Kelly, okay.”

  He salutes me like a navy cadet and ends the call.

  There is one reason and one reason alone why I am friends with Ethan: he forced me into it. Those first few months at university I avoided more or less everyone as much as possible, including him. But he wouldn’t take the hint. “Jacky-boy, you coming out with us tonight?” he’d whisper during a lecture, knowing fine well I’d shake my head. Week after week, long after everyone else had given up, he kept badgering me, a trait that has undoubtedly helped him become the journalist that he is now.

  One day he was sitting next to me during a lecture. There was a guest speaker, a lady discussing music, and for some bizarre reason she decided to sing to get one particular point across. She sounded like a choking cat. I could feel Ethan’s shoulders moving up and down against mine, hear the forced exhalation of a laugh that wasn’t allowed. It infected me, got my shoulders bopping up and down. We both started to giggle uncontrollably and were eventually asked to leave the auditorium. Since then he’s been my best friend. Even if I wanted to ditch him from my life, he wouldn’t let me. He’s as a loyal as a German Shepherd.

  I look around the room, remember where I am. I get into bed, drink a couple of Budweisers and watch an old episode Game of Thrones on T.V. Eventually tiredness wins and I turn out the light.

  I lie with my eyes closed and get a nagging sense that sleep isn’t going to come soon. Too much excitement today. No matter what position I put myself, I grow increasingly uncomfortable and feel a bubbling up of worry, the sort of worry that hides from daylight and likes to sneak out, little by little, once the lights have gone out. A building undercurrent of needless thoughts holds me too high above the realms of sleep for what seems like an eternity, and so I do what I always do, I turn to my phone for distraction and comfort.

  I bring up google and type the word ‘Nesgrove’.

  The first article, titled “Nesgrove Mayor Interviewed Over Two Missing Men,” is a piece from last year in the Queenstown Daily online newspaper. Must be what the old man was talking about. I click on the link and read the story.

  The two Christchurch men, Jonathan Leyton and Reece Morton, reported missing last week, were thought to have visited Nesgrove—a town off Highway 94, south of Queenstown—shortly before their disappearance.

  Their cars were found close to one another in a wooded area only thirty kilometres away from the town. Both vehicles had been set on fire. There were no signs of the men, and no signs of a struggle, in or near the cars.

  Poli
ce now believe the men could have been abducted at a different location and their cars disposed of later.

  The officer in charge of the investigation, Sergeant Nathan Collins, released a statement late last night saying that the case was now being treated as a murder investigation.

  The nature of the relationship between the two victims, Leyton and Morton, is unknown, as is the reason for their visits to Nesgrove. However, the police are investigating several leads, and have interviewed a few key potential witnesses.

  Ben Pearson, the mayor of Nesgrove, was one such witness. He issued a statement late on Friday evening: “It would not be proper to talk publicly about any ongoing investigation, but we are happy to assist the police any way we can in the hopes of finding these two men safe and well.”

  The investigation continues but we will bring you breaking news as it comes.

  I turn my phone off and lie with my eyes open in a timeless trance. I was already wired, already stressed, already aware that this place wasn’t exactly white-picket-fence-town, and yet I chose to read an article that from the title I knew wouldn’t help.

  More successful comfort comes in the way of my headphones and some contemporary piano pieces. After a while, the music overtakes my turbulent internal dialogue and sends me into a swampy sleep for minutes or maybe hours—hard to say, really—and the light from the vending machine outside glows disturbingly bright, so bright the room is almost fully lit and I’m forced awake again. I turn my back to the window.

  Among the foggy sleep, something flashes bright then dark, like a light turning on and off quickly. I open my eyes and see the long, yellow wall of the motel room still lit by the vending machine outside in the opposite direction I’m facing. And then the room flickers again, slower this time, and everything turns dark and bright again.

  My eyes, wrenched open, are fixed on the wall, my breathing louder, and I watch and watch, and this time the room goes dark and stays dark, and my body goes rigid, a torrent of stress pumping blood to every part. I slip the headphones off my ears and turn around.