I Am the Messenger

  The sun hits its head on the horizon, and I fasten my hand to the gun. My finger's on the trigger. Sweat slides down my face.

  "Please," he pleads. He bends forward in a half breakdown. He feels like he'll die if he falls completely. A disturbing kind of sobbing takes hold of him. "I'm sorry, I'm so--I'll stop, I'll stop."

  "Stop what?"

  He hurries his words. "You know...."

  "I want to hear you say it."

  "I'll stop forcing her when I get--"

  "Forcing?"

  "Okay--raping."

  "Better. Continue."

  "I'll stop doing it, I promise."

  "How in God's name can I rely on your word?"

  "You can."

  "That isn't the answer I'm looking for. You'd get naught for that in an essay," and I dig the gun in a little harder. "Answer the question!"

  "Because if I do, you'll kill me."

  "I'm killing you now!" I'm feverish again, coated in sweat and what I'm doing, struggling to believe it. "Put your hands on your head." He does it. "Walk closer to the edge." He does it. "Now how do you feel? Think before you answer. A lot depends on whether you're right or wrong."

  "I feel like my wife does every night when I come home."

  "Scared out of your mind?"

  "Yes."

  "Exactly."

  I follow him over to the edge, aim the gun, and make sure.

  The trigger sweats across my finger.

  My shoulders ache.

  Breathe, I remind myself. Breathe.

  A moment of peace shatters me and I pull the trigger. The noise of it burns through my ears, and just like the day of the bank robbery, the gun now feels warm and soft in my hand.

  part two: The Stones of Home

  Dryness.

  I stagger out of the car and slip toward the flyscreen door. There's a feeling in me that resembles complete and utter desolation. It trips through me. No. It zigzags. I don't care that I'm a messenger anymore. The guilt of it handles me. I shrug it off, but always it climbs back on. No one said this was going to be easy.

  The gun.

  All I can feel in my hand is the gun. The warm, soft metal merging with my skin. It's in the trunk of the cab now, cold again and stony, feigning innocence.

  As I walk toward the porch, I hear his body hit the earth again. I think it was a shock to him that he was still alive. Each breath he took was a gasp, sucking up life, collecting it, to keep. It was over. I'd shot at the sun, but of course it was too far. At the time, I wondered vaguely where the bullet landed.

  Often on the way back, my tires retreading the path we'd driven, I looked over at the passenger seat. It was filled with emptiness. An aftermath of a dead man was probably still lying on the flat, flat earth, breathing up the dirt till it lined his lungs.

  I find that all I want to do is make it inside and hug the Doorman. I hope he hugs me back.

  We share a coffee.

  "Good?" I ask him.

  Brilliant, he answers.

  Sometimes I wish I was a dog.

  The sun's well and truly up and people are going to work. I sit at the kitchen table and feel quite sure that no one on my anonymous, dew-covered street has had a night like mine. I picture them all getting up in the night to have a leak or having orgasms together in their beds--while I was out channeling the end of a gun into the neck of another human. Why me? I think, but typically, no answer is forthcoming. I only know it would have been nice to be making love instead of attempting murder. I feel like I've lost something, and my coffee's getting cold. The stench of the Doorman reaches up and pats me. His sleeping comforts me, in spite of my thoughts.

  The phone rings pretty soon.

  Oh no, you can't handle this, Ed.

  It's them, isn't it?

  My heartbeat doubles. It tangles itself up.

  An incompetent pulse.

  I sit.

  The phone rings.

  Fifteen times.

  I step over the Doorman, stare at the receiver, and finally decide to pick it up. My voice crumbles in my throat.

  "Hello?"

  The voice on the other end is irritated but, thankfully, belongs to Marv. In the background, I can hear men at work. Hammering. Swearing. Foundations for Marv's voice, on top.

  "Well, thanks for picking up the bloody phone, Ed," he tells me. Personally, I'm in no mood for this right now. "I was beginning to think--"

  "Shut up, Marv." I hang up.

  Predictably, it rings again. I pick up.

  "What the hell's wrong with you?"

  "Nothing at all, Marv."

  "Now, don't start this rubbish with me, Ed. I had a real rough night."

  "Did you try to kill someone, too, did you, Marv?"

  The Doorman looks at me as if to inquire whether the phone might be for him. Quickly, he gets back to his bowl and licks it, searching for a few stray coffee fumes.

  "Again with this nonsense?" Nonsense. I love it when a guy like Marv uses a word like that. "I've heard some excuses in my time, Ed, but nothing like this."

  I give up. "Forget it, Marv. It's nothing."

  "Well, good." Marv's always happiest when I have nothing to say. He gets to the point he's been hoping to make all along. "So have you thought about it?"

  "Thought about what?"

  "You know."

  My voice loudens. "No, Marv, at this point, I wouldn't have a single clue what you're talking about. It's early, I've been out all night, and for some reason I'm not really emotionally equipped for this little heart-to-heart of ours right now." I feel like hanging up again but resist. "Could you help me out and tell me exactly what we're talking about?"

  "Okay, okay." He acts like I'm the biggest bastard on earth now and that he's doing me a favor by not hanging up on me. "It's just that some of the fellas are asking whether you're in or out."

  "Of what?"

  "You know."

  "Fill me in, Marv."

  "You know--the Annual Sledge Game."

  Well, shit, I chastise myself, that barefoot game of soccer. How in the hell can I have forgotten about that? What a selfish bastard I am. "I really haven't given it much thought, Marv."

  He's unhappy now, and not just an unhappy kind of unhappy. Marv's boiling. He delivers me an ultimatum. "Get keen then, Ed. Let me know within twenty-four hours if you can play. If not, we'll get someone else. There's a big waiting list, you know. These games are a highly sought-after tradition. We've got blokes like Jimmy Cantrell and Horse Hancock dying for a run...." I tune out. Horse Hancock? I don't even want to think about just who in the hell that could be. Only when the phone starts beeping do I realize that Marv's hung up on me. I'd better ring him later and tell him I'll play. Hopefully someone will break my neck in the middle of a giant nettle patch. That'd be nice.

  As soon as I get off the phone, I take a plastic bag out to the cab and unload the guilty party from the trunk. I put it back in the drawer and try to forget about it. I fail.

  I sleep.

  The hours go numb around me as I lie in bed.

  I dream about last night, the crackling sun of morning, and the shivering giant of a man. Is he already back in town? Has he walked back in or even managed to hitch? I try not to think about it. Every time those thoughts climb into bed with me, I roll over, trying to squash them. They seep out.

  It feels like midafternoon when I wake up for good, but it's barely eleven. The Doorman's wet nose kisses my face. I return the cab, come home, and take him for a walk.

  "Keep your eyes peeled," I tell him when we make our way onto the road. Paranoia has broken into me. I think of the guy from Edgar Street, though I know he's most likely the least of my concerns. It's whoever sent me the Ace of Diamonds I need to worry about. I've got a bad feeling they'll know I've completed the card and will deliver the next one soon enough.

  Spades. Hearts. Clubs.

  I wonder which card will end up in my letter box next. It's the spades that worry me most, I think. The Ace of Sp
ades scares me--always has. I try not to think about it. I feel watched.

  Late in the afternoon, we walk a fair way and end up at Marv's place, where a lot of guys are hanging around out back.

  Once in the backyard, I call out. Marv doesn't hear me at first, but when he comes over, I say, "I'm in, Marv."

  He shakes my hand like I've just asked him to be best man at my wedding. It's important to Marv that I play because we've both been in it the last few years and he wants it to become a tradition. Marv believes in it, and I realize I shouldn't look down on that. It's what it is.

  I look at Marv and the other people in his backyard.

  They'll never leave this place. They'll never want to, and that's okay.

  I talk with Marv awhile longer and attempt to leave, despite being offered beer by several cooler-toting suburban men. They're in board shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops. Marv comes with me through the gate to where the Doorman waits. When I'm nearly midway back up the street, he calls out.

  "Hey, Ed!"

  I turn. The Doorman doesn't. He doesn't care much for Marv.

  "Thanks, okay?"

  "No worries," and I keep walking. I take the Doorman home, make my way to the Vacant lot, and clock on. As I drive back through town, I think again of last night. Fragments of it stand by the road and run next to the car. When one image slows down and drops off, it's replaced by another. For a moment, when I glance in the rearview mirror, I don't seem to recognize who I am. I don't feel like me. I don't even seem to remember who Ed Kennedy's supposed to be.

  I don't feel anything.

  One piece of luck is that I have the next day off, completely. The Doorman and I sit in the park on the main street of town. It's afternoon, and I've bought us both ice creams. Single cone, two flavors. Mango and Jaffa orange for me. Bubble gum and cappuccino for the Doorman. It's nice, sitting in the shade. I watch intently as the Doorman gently lunges for the sweet taste and softens the cone with his slobber. He's a beautiful individual.

  Footsteps crease the grass behind us.

  My heart seizes up.

  I see shadow. The Doorman keeps eating--a beautiful individual but a useless guard dog.

  "Hi, Ed."

  I know the voice.

  I know it and shrink back down inside me. It's Sophie, and I see a glimpse of her athletic legs now as she asks if she can sit down.

  "Of course," I say. "You want an ice cream?"

  "No, thanks."

  "You don't feel like sharing one with the Doorman here?"

  She laughs. "No, thanks.... The Doorman?"

  Our eyes come together. "Long story."

  We're silent now, both waiting, till I remind myself that I'm the older one and should therefore initiate conversation.

  But I don't.

  I don't want to waste this girl with idle chitchat.

  She's beautiful.

  Her hand falls down to gently stroke the Doorman, and all we do is sit there for about half an hour. Eventually, I feel her looking at my face. Her voice enters me.

  She says, "I miss you, Ed."

  I look across and say, "I miss you, too."

  The scary thing is, it's the truth. She's so young, and I miss her. Or do I cling to her because she was a good message? I think I miss her purity and truth.

  She's curious.

  I feel it.

  "You still running?" I ask, denying it.

  She nods politely and plays along.

  "Barefoot?"

  "Of course."

  There's still a graze on her left knee, but as we both look at it, there's no regret inside the eyes of the girl. She's content, and if nothing else, I take comfort in her comfort with me.

  You're so beautiful when you run barefoot, I think, but I don't bring myself to say it.

  The Doorman finishes his ice cream and laps up the pats from Sophie's hand and fingers.

  A car horn blows from behind us, and we both know it's for her. She gets up. "I have to go."

  There's no goodbye.

  Just footsteps and a question when she turns around. "Are you okay, Ed?"

  I turn and see her and can't help but smile. "I'm waiting," I answer.

  "For what?"

  "The next ace."

  She's smart and knows what to say. "Are you ready for it?"

  "No," I say, and resign myself to one clear fact. "But I'll get it anyway."

  She leaves properly then, and I see her father watching me from the car. I hope he doesn't think I'm a miscreant or something, sitting in parks and preying on innocent teenagers. Especially after the shoe box incident.

  I feel the Doorman's snout on my leg now, and he stares up at me with his lovely geriatric eyes.

  "Well?" I ask him. "What's it to be, my friend? Hearts, clubs, or spades?"

  How about another ice cream? he suggests.

  He's no help really, is he?

  I crunch through my cone and we stand up. I realize how stiff and sore I still am from two nights ago at the Cathedral. Attempted murder will do that to you.

  A third day passes, and still nothing.

  I've been down to Edgar Street, and the house is dark. The woman and the girl are asleep, and there's still no sign of the husband. I've contemplated going back out to the Cathedral to see if he jumped or if something else happened to him.

  Yet.

  How ridiculous am I?

  I was supposed to kill the man, and here I am worrying about his well-being. I feel guilty about everything I did to him, but on the other hand, I feel guilty about not killing him. After all, that was what I was sent there to do. I think the gun in my letter box made that perfectly clear.

  Maybe he made it to the highway and kept walking.

  Maybe he threw himself off the cliff.

  I stop myself before I think of every possible scenario. Soon I won't have time to worry. A few more days.

  I return one night from playing cards, and the house smells different. There's Doorman's smell, but something else as well. It smells like some kind of pastry. It hits me.

  Pies.

  I move with hesitance toward the kitchen and notice that the light's on. There's someone sitting in my kitchen eating pies, which they've taken out of my freezer and cooked up. I can smell the processed meat and the sauce. You can always smell the sauce.

  With pointless optimism, I look for something to pick up to use as a weapon, but there's nothing in my path except the couch.

  When I make it to the kitchen, I see a lone figure.

  I'm shocked.

  There's a man in a balaclava sitting at the table, eating a meat pie with sauce. Many questions rush through my mind, but none of them stick. It's not every day you come home to something like this.

  As I contemplate what to do, I realize with considerable panic that there's another one behind me.

  No.

  A big slurp wakes me up.

  The Doorman.

  Thank God you're all right, I tell him. I say it by shutting my eyes with relief.

  He slurps again, and his tongue is red from the blood that's cracked down my face. He smiles at me.

  "I love you, too," I say, and my voice is like a rumor. I'm not quite sure if it came out or not or if it's true. It makes me realize that I hear nothing outside me. It's all inner and like static.

  Move, I tell myself, but I can't. I feel cemented to the kitchen floor. I even make the mistake of trying to remember what happened. This only makes a noise blur across me and the Doorman's face disfigure above. It feels like a kind of precursor to death. A prologue, maybe.

  My mind folds itself down.

  To sleep.

  I fall deep inside me and feel trapped. I fall through several layers of darkness, almost reaching the bottom, when a hand seems to pull me up by the throat and into the pain of reality. Someone is literally dragging me through the kitchen. The fluorescent light knifes me in the eyes, and the smell of pies and sauce makes me want to vomit.

  I'm propped up to sit there n
ow, on the floor, barely conscious, holding my head in my hands.

  Soon the two figures merge with the haziness, and I can see them under the kitchen-light whiteness.

  They're smiling.

  They're throwing smiles at me from the insides of two very thick balaclavas. They're slightly bigger than average, and both muscular and strong, especially in comparison to me.

  They say:

  "Hi, Ed."

  "How are you feeling, Ed?"

  I'm treading water in my thoughts.

  "My dog," I begin to moan. My head soaks through my hands now, and my words are quickly drowned. I've already forgotten that it was the Doorman who'd previously brought me back into consciousness.

  "He needs a wash," one of them says.

  "Is he okay?" Quiet words. Scared words that break and shiver and fight to keep themselves in the air.

  "And a flea collar."

  "Fleas?" I respond. My voice is scattered on the floor. "He hasn't got fleas...."

  "Well what are these?"

  One of the men grabs me gently by the hair and lifts my head to see. He shows me a forearm full of insect bites.

  "They're not from the Doorman," I say, wondering why in God's name I would choose to be obstinate in this situation.

  "The Doorman?" Like Sophie, the intruders are curious about his name.

  I confirm it with a nod of my head, which, surprisingly, wakes me up a little. "Look--fleas or no fleas--is he okay or not?"

  The two of them look at each other now, and one takes another bite from his pie.

  "Daryl," he says casually, "I'm not sure if I like Ed's tone just this minute. It's..." He struggles for the appropriate word. "It's..."

  "Sour?"

  "No."

  "Unappreciative?"

  "No." But he's got it now. "Worse--it's disrespectful." The last word is spoken with quiet, complete disdain. He looks directly at me as he speaks. His eyes warn me more than his mouth. It makes me suggest internally that I should break down and cry, begging them not to hurt my coffee-drinking dog.

  "Please," I finally say, "you didn't hurt him, did you?"

  The hard eyes flatten.

  He shakes his head.

  "No."

  The best word I've ever heard.

  "He's a useless guard dog, though," says the one still finishing his pie, dunking it in the sauce on his plate. "Do you know he slept through us breaking in?"