Vile

You Can’t Save Her

I can make out her outline.

I hear her cry.

I reach for her.

A never ending white sheet separates me from everything.

Her screams get louder.

A moist noise is followed by a heavy liquid hitting against the sheet.

Her screams die.

Red seeps through.

I try to call out; my voice has been stolen. I try to tear the sheet; it is unbreakable.

I feel, see, hear flames, embers sparking, disappearing, the answer on a page curling into a disintegrating black.

I try to hold her; she falls apart like ash. The bed disappears from under me.

I fall through a dark nowhere, always trying to scream.

I continue to fall. And fall. And fall…

I wake. An impossible blackness pushes against my eyes and I grope in the dark. The blood pounding through my temples is a speeding freight train. I put my hand to my face; feel a layer of cold sweat. The sheets are soaked with a thick wet. My brain has been picked clean by hungry vultures. I shakily stand and navigate the room from memory. I reach the light switch; click it on. I try not die as I see her. I move to a chair, slump, pour whisky into a glass, drain it, cough, hold my head in my hands. She’s motionless on the red soaked sheet.

I make coffee, move to the bathroom, stand in front of the mirror, looking at everything but my eyes; they are sunken, dead and the direct sight of them might derail me.

I look thin. I look ill. I splash water on my face, wash blood from my torso and hands. I apply shaving foam, tidy my beard, towel myself off. My reflected pale-blues manage to catch me, leave me cold. I exit the bathroom, take my shirt from the chair, put it on, button it, return to the mirror, run a hand through my long, dark hair. I take a sip from my coffee, swallow my medication with it then start to feel like I know what to do. Firstly, get rid of everything I use for cooking. Secondly, call the police.

*

I crouch and smoke, making eye contact with the heads that come out of doorways and do nothing to hide their curiosity. Something in my stare makes them turn away but before long their greedy eyes return to the scene, trying to work out what the fuck is happening.

Men in white suits enter through the door next to me but I don’t acknowledge them. The detective to the right of me, wearing a sharp beige suit and brogues, smokes, too; we both seem to be grateful for this silent, private moment. Of course, there is noise, but none of it punctures my balloon of shock, despair, inappropriate calm and calculation. I should be crying. I should be screaming. But I am not.

I have answered questions with an unwavering monotone, and I am prepared for more, which will surely come. Suspicion sits at my door. It is polite, it will wait, but inevitably it will hunt me down and hound me until even I doubt my innocence. It doesn’t help that I can’t remember what I’ve done for the past several days. I push the heels of my hands against my eyes for a moment then stand. I look to the detective, who throws down his cigarette.

‘I’m ready,’ I say…

*

I sit on a hard chair, look around the listless, grey box in which I find myself. They’ll be with me shortly, they tell me. I sit and smoke, barely thinking, barely alive. The clock ticks inexorably onward. I scratch my beard, grateful for the calm and almost complete silence. The detective enters the room, closes the door behind him. He sits, hits a tape recorder. A red light comes on. He interlocks his fingers, leans on the table toward me.

He smiles.

‘I appreciate you coming in today.’ he says.

‘No problem.’

‘I understand you must be going through hell…’

‘Must I?’

He doesn’t know what to say, so says nothing for a while.

‘You understand why you’re here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. So… can you tell me the events of last night and any information you feel might be relevant to the investigation?’

The truth is I can’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.

‘We had dinner at home, as always, then she went to a friend’s. She comes back, we sleep… that’s it. I wake up and find her dead.’

He nods.

‘Tell me, what is it you do for a job, Mr Coe? For money?’

‘I’m currently unemployed,’ I say.

‘Really? And for how long has that been now?’

I know he knows, but I entertain his little game.

‘Two years.’

‘Wow. You know, for a man of your education, that really is a long time to go?’

I nod.

‘It is. I’m lucky enough to have come into some money. I don’t need to take just any job that comes along. I don’t see how this is relevant.’

He pulls out an ornate, silver case from his jacket pocket, takes a cigarette from it. His smile leaves, narrow eyes glint in the flame. He looks at the case for a moment before tilting his head back, breathes out smoke. He smiles again, but this time, it’s different.

‘OK. So… you go to sleep. You wake up, she’s dead. No noises in the night? Nothing disturbed you?’

‘No.’

‘You see, there are no signs of forced entry. And you yourself are of course unharmed. You see the problem we have here.’

‘Of course.’

He leans forward.

‘Do you know of any reason anyone would want to hurt your wife, Mr Coe?’

‘No.’

‘How would you describe your relationship… recently, I mean, Mr Coe?’

‘We had our arguments, sure. But all in all, a healthy relationship.’

‘Arguments about what, Mr Coe?’

Now

I lean forward. ‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business.’

He kills his cigarette. ‘Thank you, Mr Coe. That’ll be all for now. But don’t you be going anywhere. Do you have a place to stay?’

I stand, extend a hand. ‘I think I’ll be OK.’

He stands, shakes my hand, winks. ‘Be seeing you real soon, Mr Coe.’

Dracula with Sunglasses

I shut the door, latch the many locks, one by one. I hit the kettle as I pass, decide my meds just aren’t cutting it, grab a few Valium. I pop the tablets in my mouth, try to swallow; this doesn’t work. I pick up the bottle of whisky, take a good slug. Better. I throw down my jacket, sit on the bed, lie back, look at the uninteresting patterns on the ceiling, sigh. I stay this way too long. Finally, sit up, light a cigarette, look round the apartment. Haven’t been to this one for a while; it’s on the other side of the Complex, breathing distance. I stand, turn on the record player. Beethoven dances round the room. I pour the coffee, turn on my apparatus.

The phone rings.

‘Yes?’

‘Get to the payphone.’

Dead line.

It’s him.

I drain my coffee, put on my jacket. I hadn’t planned on facing the outside World for a couple of days, after what I’ve been through, but here it is, as ever, pulling me back in. I notice some sunglasses on the side, pick them up.

I unlatch my many locks, one by one.

*

The combination of sunglasses and the Valium coursing through my blood stream leaves me twice removed from my surroundings. My feet thud on the floor and I feel I could walk for days. I still feel the eyes on me, still can hear the voices, but I just don’t care. Prescription drugs are underrated. I skip down the stairwell, past the syringes, the thrown down takeaways, walk out into the courtyard. I stand by the payphone, wait, looking round at my filtered surroundings. Cracks in curtains close. Doors creak shut. I half smile.

The phone rings.

‘Yeah?’

‘Good afternoon. A pleasant time at the police station?’

‘You don’t miss a trick.’

He laughs. ‘It’s in my interest not to.’

I wait.

‘I need to see you this afternoon. We require another delivery. I will accept half the size of the last batch.’

‘I can make it by early evening.’

He grunts. ‘That will have to do.’

Dead line.

‘Be seeing you, Mr Frisk. Thanks for your sympathy.’

I hang up.

The fact that he lets his own Complexes get wired is what I have to thank for this dubious pleasure; a trip beyond my door for next to nothing. To him, P.R. is paramount. "Dare use that mobile for business, you’ll wake up wishing you were dead" he once said with a radioactive smile…

I shrug the memory off, walk back up the stairs, past the other apartments.

It’s quiet today, no doubt because of the police. I can feel the eyes pressed against peepholes, the hands waiting by receivers, waiting for word of when they’ve left. They’re on the other side of the Complex, but still, you can never be too careful in a neighbourhood like this. I put my hand in my pocket for my keys, hear a door open.

‘Psst. Hey. Coe.’

I stop, look through the crack in the door.

‘Jimmy? That you?’

‘You got anything, man?’

‘If you can face the world, come with me.’

The grin gets bigger. He disappears briefly, comes back out, shuts the door stealthily, locks it.

‘She’s asleep,’ he whispers. He barely fills his vest. Drug weight, sporting a thin moustache and fat pupils. He walks just behind me. We get inside. I latch the locks, one by one.

‘Aw shit, man,’ he says.

‘What’s up, Jimmy?’

‘I heard.’

‘You heard?’

‘About her.’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘Man. I am so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It happens.’

He looks at me strange, shrugs, takes a seat. Other things are on his mind.

‘Man, I been needing this. Where you been the last few days? Living in the here and now has been a bit too much, I can tell you now, man.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Huh?’

‘Where I been. I don’t know.’

His brow contorts through thought. ‘I saw you the other day, but you looked real focused, so I let you be. You seen Woody much?’

‘Less and less, mate. You want a drink, Jimmy?’

‘Yeah, man.’

I flick the kettle, light up a tab, throw one at him. Beethoven still dances round the room. I glide to the boiling apparatus, turn the heat down.

‘Man, I been missing you. You ain’t been around much, you know?’

‘To be honest, Jim, I don’t. Things have gotten a little… hazy, of late.’

He nods. ‘Mmm hmm. I know that feeling, brother. I just thought I’d let you two, you know… work things out,’ he says, patently regretting not thinking his utterance through. Curiosity killed the cat, so I keep it schtum.

‘Just fixing up a new batch, Jim. But if you look in the cabinet by the bed…’

I throw him the key.

His face looks like a kid’s on Christmas; a junky, disheveled kid, no doubt, but a happy fucking kid, none-the-less. He roots round the drawer, pulls out a vial.

‘Take more than one, Jim.’

‘Aw, you know I can’t afford…’

‘Don’t be dense, Jim. It aggravates me. Take a handful.’

That smile plays across his wasted face again. He fills his pockets.

‘Thanks, man.’

I nod and pour the coffees.

‘So, where you going tonight, Jim?’

He leans back in the chair. I put the coffee next to him. His eyes gloss over, look at something to the left. A slow, satisfied smile grows, splits his face.

He breathes deep.

‘Maybe back to the big game we had… at college? And that after party. Man… I was a fucking hero.’

‘Yeah, Jim?’

‘Ah yeah…’

He talks and talks. I busy myself with adding the right ingredients, checking the temperature, draining my coffee. I like what I can do for Jimmy, the happiness