'Where is he in all of this?'
But now the noises have started again, closer now - coming up the stairs. Footsteps coming up the stairs. I grab the 9 Iron from beside the bed, leaning against the door to listen?.
Breathing
On the other side of the door
Door knob rattling
Stepping back
Door knob turning
Golf club swinging back behind my head and
CRASH!
A man cries out and starts running off down the hallway. I yank the club out from the hole in the splintered door and take flight, chasing down this intruding bastard with Paul's 9 Iron. I see him trip halfway down the stairs and tumble to the floor. He lies motionless on the hardwood. I follow the trail of blood with the 9 Iron clutched tightly between my fists, descending the stairs slowly, trying to look everywhere at once.
The man scrambles to his feet and runs into the kitchen, I bound after him and corner the bastard behind the island counter-top. His face is gored, a gash running across his forehead starting at the bridge of his nose.
"You picked the wrong house to fuck with," I say.
He reaches up and touches his wound, flinches, then stares back at me.
"Who the fuck are you?"
He doesn't say anything, his face covered by the shadow of night. The wind whistles through the shattered living room window.
"I said who the fuck are you?" I move closer with the club swung back in ready position.
"I'm no one," he says.
"Don't fucking test me, bud."
"I'm no one," he says again.
"Are you the one who took Cindy? And Jordan?"
He nods his head.
"Why?"
"What do you mean why?"
"Why did you take them?"
"Why do you ask stupid questions?"
"But you killed him - you fucking killed a 12 year old boy!"
"I didn't kill that kid, his parents killed him, his teachers and the police officers who never showed up killed him, the media killed him with their tireless stream of bullshit, Hollywood killed him with their superficial glory, music killed him with their whorish messages, and you killed him, Charlie. You."
"You're insane," I whisper, horrified at the smirk on his face.
"Oh, I think we're more alike than you'd like to admit, Charlie boy."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
He laughs and shakes his head.
Outside a siren drives by somewhere else in the city.
We stand in the silhouetted silence for some time, and his eyes are like little black beads. Beetle eyes. I can see my reflection in them and it disturbing, seeing a part of me inside him. My grip tightens around the golf club as I watch Septum reach behind his back.
"What have you done with Natasha?" I ask, my jaw straining.
"She's safe - she's fine."
"Tell me the truth!"
"You never cared for her anyways Charlie, isn't that right? You wanted things to turn out this way?"
"That's not true."
"You're the reason she's gone, you and all of your friends. You are all the same, such easy prey?"
"Liar!"
And before he can start laughing again I lunge out at him with the golf club, catching him square in the temple. The bastard plummets to the floor and moving fast I come around to the other side of the island to find his crumpled body - I swing the 9 iron up over my head and prepare to strike him down with one final blow - but there's a bang and a burning in my shoulder, spreading to my chest fast like hot lead. I see a figure, much larger than Septum, move into the kitchen from the hallway. Drowning beneath the pain, I fall against the kitchen counter and hear Frank's raspy laugh echo inside my head as the warm blood spills against the linoleum floor.
Chapter 26
Wrapping myself in the warmness of her sheets, tangled forever in this bliss, why do I only think about the happy times? These feelings drift on inside my sand trapped skull, tiny grains shifting in and out, and even after I'm dead these memories will rot away beneath the dirt and grime - never to be realized or resurrected. But as long as my heart still beats, this love will burn inside me like a tortured cry - a piercing wound that stings to touch. Lemon juice splattered all over my severed heart. There's snow outside, wind against the window pane, flesh against flesh - my hand on her sweetness - inside her - outside her - transcending what we call love because companionship is one thing but dependency is another. And we both were without knowing it, which is the worst part. By the way her empty hand reached out towards that cold pane of glass, I could tell she was looking for someone, someone who wasn't there. And so sadly, she was stuck with me, and I with her. If only we had known. For a while I did my best, it's true, when it was easy and there wasn't any trying to it or doubting but everything spun with radiance and potential. It all happened too soon - I guess - too fast. I had never loved before, and somehow I doubt I will ever love again. Is it ever the same twice? Regrets stay bogged down in a person. Everything you see, every song or TV show you used to watch with her - they all choke you up, seizes you like some virus and then it's the red. The red red rage. Where are you daddy? Oh daddy where art thou? Please, don't mind us, we're not here to bother you, honestly, but can you tell me about the birds and the bees, or how I'm supposed to find a girl who will ever love me the same way - is it ever the same twice?
Chapter 27
Waking up through the white; swimming upwards through the depths of my flickering consciousness to the sound of her voice. My vision doubled in this morphine induced haze, everything swirling against the dull hospital walls. My bed stiff and body supine, stark still against the bleeding sunlight leaking in through the parted curtains.
"Am I dreaming?"
"No, Charlie, you're awake," and there are tears in her voice.
"Why are you crying Sam?" I ask.
"Because you're hurt," she says.
"Yeah, but you don't care about me anymore. You don't feel the same way."
"Oh, Charlie!"
I laugh for some reason and when I close my eyes I'm travelling to a faraway land where humans ride on dinosaurs and the stars are fingering my vision. There's a flickering light somewhere in the corner of my eye, but every time I try to look at it I go blind.
People filter in and out of my hospital room over the next week. My mother comes back and makes a scene. Watching her cry is the worst part about all of this. The bullet ended up missing my shrunken heart but my shoulder burns because there's still a bit of lead stuck inside me. I have a little pad with a button on it connected to the side of my bed, and when I push the button everything goes clear, then blurry, then clear, then soft and warm. But eventually I reach my limit and the warmness goes away so I'm left with the pain - wrapped in a warm blanket of bitterness and confusion.
"Mr. Mahon, there's someone here to see you."
"Send them on in!" I say, looking towards the door expectantly.
Natasha's dad walks in with his hat in his hand and a bowed head. I look at him and he meets my gaze for a second before looking away. He sits down beside the bed and rests his hand against my bed frame. The nurse asks if there's anything she can do, and we both shake our heads no. I try pressing the morphine button, but nothing happens. He looks out the window blankly and I can hear him sigh.
"Your mother called. She told us what happened to you?"
"You must have been pretty thrilled," I say.
He shakes his head and doesn't say anything for a while. The hospital is pretty dead, soft noises of machines with wheels being rolled around, the occasional cough fading away beneath the faint hush of breathing.
"We still can't find Natasha," he says. "We're sorry we blamed you. I guess it's just easier that way, blaming other people."
"I went over to her house," I tell him. "I went over there to find her but? it looked pretty bad."
He nods his head.
"Have you been there?" I ask.
&n
bsp; "The police told us we can go in and look for ourselves, but Mary is just too broken up?"
"I think someone took her," I say.
"But who?" he asks incredulous.
"I'm not sure," I say. "But she's gone."
Patty and Den come in with Brennen, who has a black eye.
The three of them regal me with the tail of how that black eye came into existence; including a cross-dressing stripper, a bouncer, one helluva pair of tits, and a pile of cocaine.
"Standard," I say.
They laugh and pat me on my good shoulder. I smile because for a second I don't feel alone.
There's a speck of dust caught in the stale air of my hospital room and I watch it linger there encased within a single beam of light, but eventually something happens and it drifts away as I evaporate into the worn-out fog.
The Ottawa Citizen
March 18, 2013
Police and border officials have busted an Ontario-based human smuggling operation, detaining 30 people in or around the Ottawa and Gatineau areas. Sources tell CBC News that many or most of the detainees are under the age of 18, and that includes victims of the alleged human sex trade operation.
Three men were formally charged with 28 counts in connection with 10 separate incidents involving 7 victims. The charges include human trafficking, abduction and sexual assault.
Police are still on the hunt for one suspect, who allegedly escaped capture during the raid that took place near the Greyhound Bus Station at 3am last night. The missing suspect is described as a young man, 25-30 years old, with short hair and various tattoos on his arms and torso. Police say he is armed and should be considered extremely dangerous. Please do not approach this man, contact the police. Anyone with information can call 613-330-3300.
The two detectives come into my room and tell me that Deviated Septum is gone.
"His real name was Victor Campbell."
"A real sicko - straight out of Montreal?"
"? Hells Angels, lots of crimes connected to this scumbag. He first got booked for assault when he was 14, trafficking coke when he was 16 - got off on a man-slaughter charge a couple years back when one of the witnesses wound up dead?"
"So? what?" I ask.
The two of them look at each other.
"I'm waiting for the part where you tell me he's going to be caught," I say, "the part where you tell me everything is going to be okay."
"Oh," the older detective says, "we're going to catch him."
"Everything is okay," says the younger one.
"What in the hell were they doing here, in Ottawa?"
"Well?" the younger cop starts.
"We're still trying to figure that out," the older one finishes.
"Is there any evidence? A clue for Christ's sake?"
"We found a couple expired passports?and an extensive collection of pornography - some of it was pretty sick shit too, children and animals, well you get the idea - other than that, some used syringes and empty bags? there may be a connection to an underground sex market in Thailand, but all of that is unsubstantiated at this point?"
"And what did that taxi driver have to do with all of this?"
"Frank Delapedat?" says the old-timer.
"He's dead."
"What?"
"He's dead," says the rookie, looking pretty goddamned pleased with himself. "We found him out behind the Southkeys mall with two bullets in the back of his head."
"Apparently they were using Frank to abduct the kids. It didn't really make sense until we took a look back at his police record. Mr. Delapedat spent two years in jail for child molestation charges back in '99 - he's got two kids and an estranged wife - been on the run for the past year with nowhere to go."
"But why did they need the kids?"
The cops look at one another yet again and say nothing, although in the stale hospital air their silence seems to say it all.
The doctor comes in and tells me that things are going well, that the lead is gone and infection is not present. I tell him that's great but I still can't move my shoulder. I've been here now for just under a week.
"That will take some time," he says.
"How much time?"
"Just be thankful you're alive."
"Oh yeah, cause I have so much to be thankful for, is that it doc? I have so much great shit to look forward too. I've got so much fucking shit to be thankful for. How many wives you been through so far, eh? Three? You look like a three time man - is this the charm? Did you finally get it right?"
His eyes burn at me and he opens his mouth to say something, but then he thinks better of it. He leaves me alone with the sounds of the machines and sickness.
Samantha comes back the day I'm supposed to get out. My arm is in a sling and there's been an empty whistle blowing through my head for the past couple of nights. There are shadows on the walls that make funny faces at me and somehow I know that Septum is gone. Never to be seen again. It's a small world but there are still plenty of places left to hide.
"I have to tell you something," she says.
"You love me?"
And for some reason she starts crying when I say this, tears streaming down her soft cheeks.
"Samantha," I say, reaching out to her.
She pulls away and buries her face in her hands, and through her clasped fingers I hear her say 'Sylvester gave me Syphilis' and in my mind something snaps. She's sobbing now beside my bed. I can feel her tears fall all hot and wet on my arm. I wish I had Cindy's locket with me still (or at least some more morphine). Samantha pulls away from me and looks down at her crumpled hands.
"What will I do?" she asks.
"Donate your yeast to a bread factory," I say.
She starts crying harder and makes to run out of the room, but I can't watch her get away like this, not again. So, dashing up I make to reach for her, my IV slides out all burning through my vein and I slip on the cold linoleum floor. Samantha turns back and comes over to me on the ground.
"Charles, please - tell me you still love me."
"Of course I still love you," I cry. "Of course I can't stop loving you. There's nothing that can change that, because I've loved you ever since we broke up. I can see past all the things we've done, all the mistakes we've both made. We'll find a way because we have to. I can hear the clocks ticking Sam and it's not good - nothing has ever been good since you left me. There's been all this regret haunting me - following me everywhere I go - and now it's me to blame!"
"What do you mean Charles?"
"It was me - I'm the syphilis!"
She looks at me all torn up here on the floor of my hospital room, her dark brunette hair all matted against her cheeks, hiding the freckles around her nose and the tiny red scar on the corner of her head from when she got chicken pox as a child; Samantha with her soft black hair and green-blue eyes like emerald sky.
"I want things to go back the way they were," she says.
"They will my sweetness - believe with me that they will. Everything is different now - I am different now."
"Oh Charlie!"
And in the bright glow she kisses me with trembling lips, her scent filling me up - taking my soul through the roof and out into the open sky, past relevance and meaning and time - before the oceans swam and the earth split - before my last breath and after - always after, because something like this can go on forever when a twisted girl meets a twisted world.
Chapter 28
There's a line at the Cabin to get in for White Trash Night but Sylvester knows the bouncer and the two of them give each other a solid handshake and talk about protein supplements for a couple of mindless minutes before Sylvester ducks in behind a pack of young girls who look just about drunk enough to fuck.
Sylvester checks his coat and tries not to scratch his dick.
The coat-check girl smiles at him and he gives her a five dollar tip for having an excellent rack.
Inside the Cabin it's pretty dead downstairs but the action was always up top w
ith the DJ. There's a couple people scattered around the bar and a long line waiting to get upstairs where the loud music and flashing lights are coming from. Sylvester orders a coke and goes to the bathroom with it. He takes a piss and it burns a little while he pours the contents of his flask into the watered down coke. He takes a sip and cringes, not at the sight of the yellow-crust on the inside of his boxer shorts, but at the strong taste of the whiskey.
He leaves the bathroom with his mix drink and stands by the bar. He wishes he was back in Toronto. The market in Ottawa was alright - lots of pretty girls or whatever - but most of them were university students with at least a meager sense of moral dignity. The clubs in Toronto were a different story. Sure, lots of niggers and spics, but they knew to stay the fuck out of his way. And the girls in Toronto were mostly 18 at the club, little daddy-going-nowhere-girls with the ambition to live their lives as free and post-modern as they possibly can. You want those breast implants? You need that diet pill, a smoke - maybe a little speed - oh I couldn't - no really, it's quite alright - well, just for a little bit - hehe.
Syl snickers and takes a sip of his drink while he thinks about all the girls he's fucked.
Pat and Den come stumbling down from upstairs and notice Syl standing by the bar. Pat has a fake moustache on and his hair is greased back tight across his scalp. They're both wearing wife-beaters (most of the guys in the Cabin are) and Den has dried blood beneath his nostril.
"What's up Silly Syl - not the monster I hope?"
"Not yet anyways."
"Lots of girlies up there," Den says. His eyes are like marbles rolling around in their sockets.
"Yeah they're all dressed up like little Pamela Andersons' - short cut-off jeans and tiny white shirts - a Kid Rock heaven."
"Nice," Sylvester nods. "Hey - you guys seen Mahon around?"
"Oh, Charlie boy, he said he was coming?"
Pat whispers something in Dennis's ear and the two of them share a look. Dennis starts to gag on his double-vodka and cran so they tell Sylvester they'll catch him upstairs. They go to the bathroom together and Pat waits for Dennis while he pukes for the fifth time that night. They say vodka can cure ulcers but so far it just seems to make them bleed more. Pat looks at his reflection in the mirror and for some reason he expects the mirror to crack. And through his hollowed out eyes he imagines himself as a young boy. Shorter hair and thinner lips with that hopeful look in his eyes that he used to see but didn't notice anymore.