James slurps his coffee and lays it down on the bedside table, next to his stupid hat. His eyes are fixed on the TV. Linda feels her simmering rage reaching a low boil at the base of her stomach.
“James?” she says, loud enough to make him flinch. He turns to face her.
“It’s fine, darling. The receptionist says he’ll bring us a can of petrol in the morning, enough to get us to the next petrol station, and then we can be on our way. We can be at the hotel before breakfast ends. I’ll explain what happened, and we can sit down there and enjoy the buffet. Pancakes, sausage patties, fresh pineapple, waffles. I’ve been salivating about that buffet since we booked the place.”
Linda’s stomach does a small somersault. When did they last eat? She grips her hands into fists, aware that they’re shaking quite badly now. They’ve got exponentially worse since the possibility of being stuck in here has become a reality. She must get what she needs from her suitcase, but she can’t get it out with James sitting right there. In every other hotel so far, they’ve had a separate sitting area. Space for them both to breathe. Space for her to get whatever she wants out of her suitcase and do whatever she wants with it, without James’s beady eyes on her. The irony of it all is, a few months ago, he would’ve paid no attention at all to what she was up to…and now, since the court case, he’s been over-the-top attentive. Wanting to know everything. Trying to look like he really cares. The biggest irony is, this is what she demanded of him: if he wanted to stay married, he had to make an effort. A big effort. This was the only way she could forgive him.
Except she can’t forgive him, can she? Just because he was acquitted, just because he actually got a huge sum in damages, after losing his job and having too much pride to go back to the place that upheld the accusations, doesn’t mean she’s forgiven him.
She’s not sure she can ever do that.
So she’d thought grand gestures would help her through it. Blow the cash on the holiday of a lifetime. Presents galore for her: sexy little Porsche Boxster, ridiculously bling jewelry, a Prada handbag that cost more than a month’s mortgage.
But so far nothing has worked. The resentment continues to roll and boil in her stomach, and the only thing that can stop it is in her goddamn suitcase.
“Did he mention anywhere we could get something to eat?”
“Ah,” James says. “About that…”
She walks over and grabs the remote control off the bed, angrily switching the TV off. “James, I need to eat. You need to eat.” Her voice rises as if she is holding down the volume button on the remote. “Tell me there is somewhere we can fucking eat in this godforsaken hellhole before—”
A door slams, and she stops yelling. A murmur of voices. Laughter. The sound of something heavy being dropped on the floor.
“Good job.” Male voice. Gruff Southern accent. “Let’s rest up here for an hour or two then we can be on our way.”
A second male, a bit younger, maybe. “We’ve still got a real job to do. We need to get ourselves over to the Tooth and Ale—”
“Will you shut up? We’re not even supposed to be together…”
“That’s why I did this, dumbass.”
“Shaving half your goddamn hair off doesn’t make you better at locating our target.”
“Sure helps with the heat though, buddy. Your head must be hotter than a Thanksgiving turkey’s butt with those crazy dreads.”
“Holy Hell, I said would you shut up?” Quieter, now almost a hiss. “I told you in the truck—don’t talk in here. The walls are like paper. We don’t know who might be on the other side.”
The voices fall silent and Linda freezes, imagining who’s behind that door.
“I think our neighbors are back,” James says, in a stage whisper. He gives her a lopsided smile. “Look, don’t worry, there’s somewhere to eat nearby. The receptionist gave me directions. We can walk around the back of the motel, cut through the woods, and it links us to a back road where there are a couple of fast-food places—”
“I am not walking through any woods. Back roads, are you fucking insane? People drive in this country for a reason, James. Only crazy people walk around here. In case it escaped your attention, there are no pavements.”
“Sidewalks,” James mutters under his breath. “I’ll go on my own, okay? Why don’t you stay here and have a nice bath?”
She closes her eyes and counts to ten. It’s still silent in the room next door. She’s no idea what those men might be up to in there, but the last thing she needs is for anyone to hear them arguing. Besides, getting James out of the room is exactly what she wants.
“I’ll be as fast as I can,” he says, halfway out the door. Letting that damp heat leech in from outside. “What will I get you?”
She thinks about what she’d planned for tonight, after reading the menus for each of the six incredible restaurants at the Renaissance. She was planning on a crisp green salad, a perfectly cooked fillet steak with hand-cut chips and a side of creamed spinach. Crème brûlée, followed by the choose-your-own cheese board and a glass of dessert wine. The signature martini to start. A fine wine matched with every course.
“Anything. Just get me anything.”
James leaves. The room is silent, except for the faint hum of the AC. She leans up against the adjoining door, straining to hear. But there are no sounds there either. They’ve either gone out again, or they’re asleep. Or they’re being quiet, like her. Listening. She shudders. You hear about these things. Naïve tourists getting raped and robbed, for a few dollars and an iPhone.
But she’s got more important things on her mind right now.
After lifting up the mattress and checking for the tell-tale Sharpie stains of bedbugs, she flips her suitcase onto the bed and unzips it. Then she feels down the side to where her canvas bag is acting as a bolster and pulls out the bottle.
She feels her mouth fill with saliva as she slides a finger under the seal. She twists the cap and feels a fizz of excitement whizz up and down her spine. She lays the cap on the bed. Doesn’t bother with a glass. The first slug burns her throat, and she gags, just a little. But then the warmth hits her stomach and the churning stops. She takes another sip and notices her hands have stopped shaking at last.
How long does she have before James gets back?
She takes another sip. No gagging now. The vodka slips down her throat like crisp, clear water. Her whole body is warm and fuzzy. Maybe just a little more, then she’ll hide it away again and have a little nap. Whatever it is that James brings her will taste of grease and cardboard anyway, whether it’s hot or cold. Besides, her hunger seems to have abated for now. She takes another long drink. Is vaguely aware of the contents depleting. She won’t get another chance later on. Might as well drink a bit more…
Just a little bit more.
Fucking James. Tears sting her eyes. Memories resurfacing through the haze. James and that patient…lying bitch…James never touched her. As if he would! Skanky whore. Yeah she was younger, but she was fatter too. Why would James want rump when he could have fillet? Those bastards at his work. Upholding the complaint! Lies. All lies. But the lipstick on his shirt that day. The earring in his car that wasn’t hers. Cheap, tacky little earring. She’d wanted to stab it into James’s cheating little eyes. James!
Did she just shout that out loud?
At some point, the empty bottle falls from her hand and she curls up on the bed, suitcase still open, contents spilled over the edges. As she drifts off, she only half hears the distant sound of the key in the lock.
Her mouth is like sandpaper. She moves her tongue around, trying to dredge up saliva. Her head is thumping. She opens her eyes, but it’s too bright. Colors swirling around. The room shifts, tilts. She closes her eyes again.
The door opening. James laden with brown paper bags.
She opens her eyes again, slowly this time. Letting the light in bit by bit. Giving herself time to acclimatize. She mov
es carefully, pushing herself into a sitting position. Blinks. Swallows. There’s a red paper cup on the bedside cabinet, plastic lid and a straw. She grabs at it, sucks hungrily. Gets the icy dregs of Coke and gulps it down. Warm now. How long has it been there?
James shaking her. Calling her name. Linda…Linda…Oh my God, what have you done?
She’s naked. The cool air from the AC sends a skittering of goosebumps across her body. She glances around the room, taking it in. Her suitcase is on the floor in between the two beds, upturned, the entire contents sprawled across the floor.
“James?” Her voice is little more than a croak.
No answer.
Awake. James slapping her face. Shouting into her face. I’ll call 9-1-1. I’ll get help. Hold on, darling. Just hold on. Bile and rage flowing through her. Get the fuck off me, James. Screaming. Pushing him away.
She slides her legs over the side of the bed. Climbs over the suitcase and all the stuff that’s littering the place. It’s a fucking assault course. The empty bottle of Grey Goose is lying by the bed. Her handbag is upturned by the coffee machine. Empty blister pack of codeine.
“Shit…”
The adjoining door is wide open.
“James?”
She grabs the floral duvet off the bed, wraps it around herself. Picks up the vodka bottle, and brandishes it in front of her. “Who’s there?”
No answer.
The door bursts open. Two men. What the fuck’s going on in here? No, it’s fine, we’re fine. My wife’s just a little under the weather. Tall man, a blanket of thick dark hair. Punching. James crying out. Her screaming. No please, just leave us.
She peers through the opening into the room next door. The beds are neatly made. There is no luggage. Nothing disturbed. No signs that anyone was ever there. She bends down slightly, examines the door. A single crack running downwards, close to the handle. A small wad of toilet paper on the floor nearby.
“This is so fucked up,” she mutters to herself. There’s another red cup on the desk and she picks it up, shakes it. It’s almost full. She drinks greedily. Watery 7-Up this time. The sugar hits her. Helps her. She tries to piece it together.
Where the fuck is James?
She gently closes the adjoining door, then pads down to the window and moves the curtain to the side. Their car is still out there, so James hasn’t left her—thankfully. He’s probably walked back to wherever he got the food from last night, hopefully to get some breakfast muffins and a vat of strong coffee.
She starts to pick things off the floor, but the movement is too much and she has to stop, hold onto the desk. Stay still until the room stops spinning again. A wave of nausea slides up her throat and she swallows hard, willing herself not to throw up. She hates to throw up. That sour, sticky sensation. The awful spasms. That hollowed out feeling afterwards. She drinks more of the 7-Up. Waits until she feels a little less wobbly, then bends down again—slower this time—and picks up a pair of sweatpants and a vest. She drops the duvet on the floor and dresses. Slowly. Everything has to be slow.
Jeez. She’d kill for some orange juice. Something sweet and soothing. No matter how pissed off James is, he won’t forget to bring her something nice. He’s good like that.
Arms being held. Kicking. Screaming. Leave us the fuck alone! Okay, lady. Holy Hell, we’ve got a crazy little bitch in here. Good luck with that, buddy. A thin man, half his head shaved, cut above his ear. Punching. Screaming. Being dragged into the bathroom…
She really needs to go to the bathroom. But something happened in there. Fragments of memories are spiking her brain like shards of broken glass. She tiptoes back across the floor, avoiding the detritus. Cosmetics. Hairbrush. Rolled up T-shirts unraveled and crumpled everywhere she looks. The bedside lamp is in pieces, lying on the desk. The coffee machine has been dismantled. Then…
A smear of red.
You need help, darling. Please just let me help you. I’ve known for a while about your drinking. You don’t need to be ashamed. You cheating piece of scum. Fuck you and fuck your whore of a patient. You did fuck her, didn’t you? Don’t lie to me. Please, Linda. Please. Linda. Linda. What the hell are you doing? Pushing. Screaming. Flailing. Grabbing. The sharp sound of nylon being pulled fast, like a zipwire…
There’s a piece of paper next to the smear of red. She lays her hands on the desk. Notices one of her fingernails has snapped off, leaving a raw, bloody edge. She squints at the note. Her vison is blurry. The writing is a scrawl.
Hey Batshit Crazy Lady…
When you wake, that is, IF you wake, you’re gonna need some help in here.
WE can help you. For a price, of course. You’ll get us on 555-6734.
Or you can dial 9-1-1. Your call.
What the fuck is this? She turns the paper over, as if expecting the answers to her problems to be written there on the back. But it’s blank. She flips it over. Reads it again. Help? Help with what, exactly? Okay, the place is a mess. But once she has something to eat, some pills, some coffee, she’ll be fine. James will be back soon. He’ll sulk for a while, then he’ll help. He doesn’t want to be here anymore than she does.
The 7-Up has finally made its way through her. Her bladder is ready to burst. A cramp hits her, and she doubles over. Lets it pass. Maybe she should make herself throw up. Maybe it might help this time. Get it out of her system quicker. She drank more than usual last night. She never normally goes for a whole bottle, not spirits. She’s not that hard-core. People have died drinking less, especially with the codeine. No more now, though. A drink now and she’d be a goner for sure.
It’s over.
What’s done is done, and that’s that, as her mother used to say. For now, the main priority is that she really needs to pee.
She picks up the piece of paper and scrunches it into a ball. Tosses it into the small wastepaper bin next to the bathroom, which, incredibly, has not been overturned or thrown across the room. She smiles to herself. Some self-control there, then?
Good work, Linda.
The seat is up, and she sits down hard, letting her arms fall to her knees. Her head down. She closes her eyes. Pees. Sits up slowly and realizes she’s feeling a teeny bit better.
She opens her eyes.
James is in the bath.
“Oh, there you are,” she says. “Why didn’t you answer me when I called? Listen, I’m sorry about last night. Things got a bit out of hand.”
Something isn’t right. She stops talking. Blinks.
“Why are you sitting with your head at the tap’s end…”
Oh…
“Oh…”
James is slumped in the bath. His face purple, distorted. It takes her a while to work out what she’s looking at. Then she remembers the sound.
Zipwire.
The clothesline is around James’s neck.
He slipped, oh god…he slipped…I didn’t…I couldn’t…Did I? Did I?
She stands up slowly. She can’t breathe. Doesn’t want to. She edges closer to the bath. James is fully clothed. There’s no water.
He didn’t slip.
A fragment of sparkly jade green acrylic nail is embedded in his cheek.
She gulps in air, like a landed fish. Backs away. Falls to her knees and crawls toward the wastepaper bin and pulls out the scrunched-up piece of paper. A lifeline. Help. Those men can help.
Or…
James? James? Can you hear me? What the hell? James grabbing, arms flailing, slipping. Grabbing him. Gurgling. Choking. Trying to pick him up. Trying to…
Screaming. Crying. Crawling back to bed. Make it go away—make it go away—make it go away. The door still open. Holy Hell, Lad…
Sleep.
Must…sleep.
She crawls over to her suitcase, flips it over. Slides her hand into the hidden pocket at the other end. The opposite end from where she’d squeezed in the Grey Goose, between her fancy eyeshadow pallets and her bag of dirty u
nderwear. Pocket at the side. Emergency stash number two. Bottle of Southern Comfort.
There’s a party on every street, and the good times never stop.
She breaks the seal.
Back to TOC
Gunfight at the Tooth and Ale
Alex Dolan
“You want anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
“You sure?” The waitress glared expectantly at Roland. He’d been taking up this booth for the past hour and nursed a single coffee the whole time. He understood why she was irritated, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. She issued an audible sigh and walked away.
Roland didn’t want to be here either. He was exhausted. Bullfrog croaks and cricket creaks had kept Roland awake last night. He swatted at his ear, either batting away a mosquito or haunted by the phantom whines from his hotel room.
He sat in a booth at the Tooth and Ale, in the industrial section of Jacksonville near the shipyards. The bar was a small brick fort with few windows and a pungent odor from the stratified beer scum on the floor. The air conditioning didn’t do its job, either. Roland sweated underneath his sport coat and rubbed paper napkins over his shaved head, saturating them all.
When he got here, Roland chose his seat carefully, in the booth closest to the bathrooms and the rear entrance, where he could keep an eye on the front door and make a hasty retreat. His tiny window looked out onto a wide alley, which held a homeless encampment full of domed tents. Bearded men and gaunt women shambled between them. He watched them the way one might marvel at an ant farm. He hadn’t been camping in years, and the thought struck him that he wouldn’t know how to pitch a tent, even though he heard the new ones popped up like top hats. During the past hour, the sky had unleashed a shock of thunder and splash of rain. While the air was still heavy and humid, the clouds had cleared and the sunset painted the sky pink.
The bar brightened its interior lights as the sun went down. His waitress with the mahogany tan reached over him without warning and pulled down the blinds. In a brassy twang, she explained, “We like our privacy at night.”
The Swamp Killers Page 5
