Both Dave and Mark were sixteen years old. And so was Debbie Brand. ‘And I’m only thirteen,’ Jennifer muttered as she walked down the street. It was as simple as that. It was a fact, a bitter fact, and there was nothing she could do about it. Obviously the make-up didn’t help her look older. She glanced down at the front of her t-shirt, casting an appraising eye at her breasts. They were bigger than Debbie’s, weren’t they? And Mark liked her breasts, didn’t he? Hell, he’d played with them often enough.
It felt good when she let the boys hold her breasts, knead her ass, and French-kiss. But though she sometimes liked her reputation – she knew most people considered her loose – she knew it was for the most part exaggerated. She never went all the way. But maybe Debbie Brand did. Maybe that was the difference.
And that just made everything worse, since she had led Mark and Dave to believe that she wasn’t a virgin: thus far, her excuses that she didn’t want to get pregnant had kept them from pressing their attentions, though she knew that they were beginning to distrust her continual ‘bad timing’. So, if she was to lose her virginity, it couldn’t be with either of them.
Goddammit, what a mess. And even if I start screwing, I’m still thirteen years old, and Debbie’s still sixteen. That problem doesn’t change. Shit, how do I get rid of her?
Jennifer was halfway down the street’s hill when she saw, coming from the treed entrance to the Yacht Club, first Lynk, then Roland, and then the Brand kid and Carl – all running like madmen. She stopped, watching them, her gaze narrowing on the third runner. They’d probably broken a window or something, she mused. And there was the Brand kid, Debbie’s younger brother – what was his name? Owen. Owen Brand.
He was running on Roland’s heels, his stride long and sure. From the looks of it, he could’ve overtaken both the farmboy and Lynk easily. Owen, who was twelve years old, who didn’t look half bad, who was Debbie’s little brother …
Jennifer smiled. ‘Well, well. Two birds with one stone, maybe.’
She watched them running down the street, not stopping once to look behind, to find out if they were even being pursued. ‘Chicken shits,’ Jennifer chuckled. All running full tilt, except for Owen.
After they passed beyond her range of vision, she continued on her way, pausing once to light a cigarette. Suddenly she was feeling much better. ‘Two birds,’ she whispered. ‘All fucking right!’
PART TWO
Ship of Nails
CHAPTER SEVEN
I
A child with a sprained wrist sat with his mother across from Elouise. There was no one else in the waiting room this Saturday morning.
The bus trip to Riverview had not been as traumatic as she had feared. Like the clinic’s waiting room, the bus had been almost empty; she had found a seat up front and thus did not come under any sort of scrutiny from the few passengers – at least, not that she was aware of. When she came to the reception desk the nurse had given her some forms to fill out and had asked if it was an emergency. Elouise had shaken her head ‘no’. There had been no more questions, which was a relief, since she couldn’t open her mouth to talk.
Under the bandages her face felt hot, and the world had acquired a painful clarity to her eyes. She was certain that she had a fever.
Since she had taken her seat the child – a young boy – had not taken his eyes off her. And they were such strange eyes, Elouise thought. That kind of glittering blue that seemed to carve sharp edges on all that they touched on. And though his sprained arm must have been painful, his expression was one of cool control. The child had a man’s face, Elouise realised. Why?
The door to the examination room opened and a nurse stepped out and read a name from her list: ‘Arnold Fraser?’
‘Let’s go, Arnie,’ the mother said to her child. They both stood, the mother offering an apologetic smile to Elouise. ‘A farming accident,’ she whispered. Elouise nodded.
After the door closed behind them, Elouise leaned back and shut her eyes. Even her hands, folded together in her lap, felt hot. It was as if her blood was boiling in her veins. She wanted to cry out, to give voice to this pain, which went so much deeper than just bone and flesh, but she couldn’t. If she screamed now, it would be a scream that would last for ever. And so she turned her thoughts to that other stranger living in their house, the one who walked with endless anger. Poor Jennifer. What a terrible world the young girl with the music in her eyes had found waiting for her. It came as no surprise that she had raised walls of rage around herself – it was a protective measure. Still, there were times when Elouise could not bear to see what those walls were doing to her daughter.
It all made her feel so helpless. Somehow, she had to find a way through to Jennifer. Somehow.
‘Mrs Louper?’
Her eyes snapped open, and she saw the nurse standing in front of her. Elouise nodded and rose unsteadily to her feet. She followed the nurse into the examination room.
The nurse indicated a paper-covered bench. ‘Please sit up here.’ She was an older woman with silver hair and smile-lines around her grey eyes. But she didn’t smile when she unwrapped the swath of bandages covering Elouise’s face, and her voice had assumed a stiff tone when she asked, ‘When did this happen?’
Elouise tried to say ‘a week’ but the words came out unintelligibly. She held up seven fingers. Their eyes met briefly, then Elouise looked down.
‘A week?’
She nodded.
‘Why didn’t you come in earlier?’
She shrugged without raising her head.
The nurse looked at Elouise’s forms on her clipboard, then said, ‘The doctor will be with you in a minute,’ and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Elouise was still staring at her hands when the doctor entered, the nurse following.
‘Good morning, Mrs Louper, I’m Dr Roulston.’
She glanced up at the young man, tried to smile but failed. She nodded.
‘Don’t try to talk, Mrs Louper.’ Wheeling out a chair from the desk, Dr Roulston sat down facing Elouise.
‘She writes here,’ the nurse said, ‘that she tripped and fell and hit her jaw against the corner of the stove.’ She paused, then added, ‘Seven days ago.’
Nodding, Elouise glanced at Roulston. He was just sitting there, watching her. After a moment he sighed and rose to his feet. He leaned close, examining her face, then reached up and touched her swollen jaw. Wincing, Elouise pulled back. He straightened and said to the nurse, ‘Set her up for X-rays at General.’ He turned back to Elouise and gazed at her for a moment before saying, ‘Now, we both know you’ve been beaten. You’ve got an infection and probably a broken jaw. I’m having you admitted into Riverview General—’
Elouise stood up quickly, shaking her head, but the doctor held up a hand and continued.
‘Look, either you go into the hospital to get this properly treated, Mrs Louper, or I phone the police on this matter. And if I do that, well, this will get very messy. Your choice, Mrs Louper.’
It was hopeless, she realised. There wasn’t any choice. She nodded.
‘The hospital? Good. Now, Nurse Stevens will take care of the details. Do you wish to stop off at your house to get some personal effects?’
She shook her head, then thought: Jennifer. She indicated her desire for pen and paper, and received them. She wrote: Let my daughter, Jennifer, know where I am. Just my daughter, please. Then she handed the notepad to Roulston.
He read it, then nodded. ‘Can she be contacted through her school?’
Elouise nodded.
‘West St John’s?’
Again she nodded.
‘I take it your husband hit you, then.’
She looked down at the floor.
‘Has he ever hit you before?’
She shook her head.
‘Was he drunk?’
Yes.
‘Does he have a drinking problem?’
Yes.
‘Is he getting
treatment?’
No.
Roulston turned away and slowly pushed the chair back to the desk. ‘You’ll be in the hospital for at least two weeks. After that,’ he faced her, smiled, ‘we’ll see what we can do.’
II
His wife was outside planting flowers around the maypole. Rolling a cigarette, Hodgson Fisk paused to watch her for a moment before setting the paper to his tongue.
God, she was still so beautiful. So graceful. She was on her knees, concentrating on her task, carefully removing the flowers from their pots – they had spent the winter indoors, and were now only days away from full bloom – and gently lowering them into holes she had dug in the rich black earth.
Beyond her the field lay black and overturned, ready for seeding. He would be working a whole quarter-section this summer; if he didn’t lose any to hail he’d be hiring a couple of hands to help him with the harvesting. Fisk never knew whether it was him or her that was sterile – he told himself that it didn’t really matter, that it was something you couldn’t blame someone about. They’d talked, years ago, about adoption, but nothing ever came of it, and even that didn’t seem to matter. He had a woman he loved, and she loved him, and that was all that counted. Come the harvest, it was easy enough to hire hands.
Full of contentment, Fisk lit his cigarette. It was a beautiful spring, wasn’t it. Just enough rain, no flooding from the river, and at the very least a break-even harvest ahead.
‘Hodgson?’
Fisk grinned at his wife. ‘Yeah?’
‘Could you mix me up some Alka Seltzer?’
He frowned. ‘Heartburn again?’
Walking towards him, she nodded.
He rose to his feet, flung away the cigarette. ‘Bad?’
She nodded. ‘Getting there.’
‘I’ll bring it right out.’ Fisk entered the house, walked to the kitchen, vaguely worried. He filled a glass with cold water, dropped two tablets in it then returned to the back porch.
His wife lay on the ground, and the only part of her that was moving was her hair and apron, fluttering in the warm spring wind.
* * *
Sitting in his chair on the porch, Fisk stared at the weeds crowding the base of the maypole. Those weeds, he knew, were a kind of defamation. And yet, he did nothing, he felt nothing. She had been gone eleven years to this day – he had waited a long time to die. It seemed he was going to have to wait for ever.
And all the while he would be sharing this world with the weeds, the black field, and a sea of glittering eyes watching his every move.
They’re all waiting for me to break, but I won’t. If I have to wait for ever, I will. If that is my punishment, so be it. I can just sit here and stare at the growing shadows. I can wait for the darkness that’s coming, I can watch this world go to hell. I can watch those little punks walking across my field, I can keep them locked up in my cellar and those cold little black eyes can stare at me all they want – we’ll see who blinks first.
His hands twitched. It had been some time since he had made his captives sing. Just staring at them had been enough to bring his loins alive, and he exulted in the luxury of taking his time, of letting the temptation pull him taut. And he loved to watch them eating the intestines he fed them – they were so avid when they tore into the rotting guts of their kin – the way they licked their muzzles and forelegs afterwards – it was beautiful.
The little punks, with their twisted little brains full of brave thoughts, all the while sucking my blood dry. Sure, we handed them everything on a fucking silver platter – we fought for those snivelling bastards, and what’s the first thing they do? Spit on our feet, and shake their fists in our faces – hell, it’s all there on the news, isn’t it? Peaceniks. As if peace is free.
Bastards. But now, oh, now, I’ve got ’em where I want ’em. And I can do what I want with them, that’s the clincher. I can lock ’em up, feed ’em guts, and I can make ’em sing. That’s the clincher.
Nobody spits in my face and gets away with it. This is my land and on it I’m king. And I can line them up in rows and I won’t be the one who blinks first. Their eyes aren’t the only ones that glow at night. Not here. Not on my land.
Fisk began rocking in his chair, and he watched his hands slowly wrap themselves around its arms. They waited for him down there, in that black cellar. They waited for him. But he wasn’t in any hurry. He would just sit here in the shadows, rocking, staring at the weeds and at the black field – they couldn’t reach him now.
With darkness came a cold wind, the last sigh of slumbering winter. It slipped through his clothes, plucked the sweat from his flesh, and slowly stole the gleam from his bared teeth.
III
It was as if she had just left every room he entered. Sten could swear he saw the swirling air of her wake, the telltale currents of her imminent presence, but he knew he was just fooling himself. Another game, cynically cheered on by the thousand monsters mobbing his thoughts. But where was she?
Outside, his dogs were whining. They were hungry, and he’d run out of food for them. He entered the kitchen and stood by the window, trying to force a decision through the cacophony in his head. The dogs were hungry. She was gone. And he was thirsty. Statements, nothing but statements. They didn’t go anywhere, just went on over and over again through his brain, a child’s rhyme. And all the while the monsters laughed – oh, how they loved his helplessness; they laid suffocating deadness in his inner rooms like carpets, absorbing the echoes of his screams, his rants, his pounding fists.
Sten rubbed his hands on his thighs, but it was hopeless – the sweat just kept oozing out, and everything kept slipping from his grasp, and it didn’t help him decide what to do. He knew he was trapped, that there was no way out, now. Just that endless spiral down into the seething darkness – but God! how thirsty he was!
And yet the dogs whined, and she was gone, and he didn’t know what to do.
Sten frowned, then shook his head. The dogs were hungry. He’d have to phone Fisk. Anything to make them stop their whining. He’d get them food, all right. He stumbled from the kitchen. Holding his arms out to either side, he negotiated the hallway and then pushed open the back door. He paused on the steps, reeling slightly.
She was gone. Listen to them whine!
Rage poured outward from his skull, filling his limbs with fire. The back yard dissolved into a swirling haze as he staggered down the steps. He saw the three dogs lined up in an expectant row with their noses pressed against the wire, watching him. And their tails – oh yes, so bloody hopeful, weren’t they?
Sten roared when he collided with the cage, a wordless explosion of sound that sent all three dogs bolting for the far end of the kennel. His fingers curling savagely around the chain links, he pressed his face into the wire.
‘Shut the fuck up!’ he screamed. ‘Shut your fucking whining! She’s gone! Don’t you fucking get it yet?’
IV
It was supper-time, but Jennifer wasn’t hungry. The playground was empty, as usual, when she entered it and approached the swing. It wasn’t much of a playground, actually. Just a swing, a slide, and an open field. But it had been there all her life, in all its mundane familiarity. She sat down on the swing, gripping the cold chains on either side, but did not rock herself into motion. She faced the open field, her house a mere twenty yards behind her.
Dimly, she remembered her father’s hands at her back, strong yet gentle. And she remembered her own childish laughter, as she flew higher and higher into the air, and it seemed it would go on for ever – she’d never imagined that those hands could get tired, she’d never dreamed that they’d eventually turn away and leave her suspended there, clutching at chains that would only pull her back down. She’d never known what it was to be betrayed.
Times had changed, she told herself. The foolishness was over, no more senseless laughter. The times of asking Mommy and Daddy ‘why don’t I have any brothers and sisters?’ were gone. That question had been
answered a thousand times since then, in the silences and murmured evasions, in glances exchanged over her head, in sheets tucked up to her chin and swift, empty darkness.
Jennifer knew about accidents, now. Unwanted pregnancies – the little girl nobody wanted, sitting there on the swing wanting to be pushed higher, higher, higher. Wanting wings, wanting to soar into the world, forever demanding strong, gentle, supporting hands.
She jumped when her father roared behind her. Pushing herself to her feet, she whirled and faced the house. He was nowhere to be seen. And then came his screams. At the dogs – it had to be at the dogs. A sickening chill pooled in her stomach. He’s gone insane.
The slamming of a car door turned her attention to the road. A car had stopped at the edge of their driveway, and a man was now standing beside it, facing the house.
Slowly, she walked towards him. She didn’t know who he was but she didn’t want him to go to the house. He began walking around the car, noticed her and stopped.
Jennifer studied his face. His broad forehead was clenched in a troubled frown, and he ran a long-fingered hand through his thinning blond hair. For some reason this deepened her fear. She opened her mouth to speak but he was quicker.
‘Are you Jennifer Louper?’ he asked, his voice deep and soft.
Her breath caught. She nodded.
‘I’m Dr Roulston.’ He stepped forward, smiling.
Jennifer did not return the smile. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded stiffly.
Roulston seemed unperturbed by her attitude as he continued walking towards her, his smile still in place. ‘Perhaps we could go inside? I’d like to speak with you.’
Jennifer shook her head. ‘No. Not inside.’ She hesitated, a part of her mind noting with some satisfaction that his smile was becoming fixed. She said, ‘Where’s my mother?’