I Am the Messenger Read online

  "I don't doubt it."

  "Even when he woke up he only came in here wanting food."

  "And?"

  "We gave him a pie."

  "Cooked or frozen?"

  "Cooked, Ed!" He seems offended. "We're not savages, you know. In fact, we're quite civilized."

  "Are there any left for me?"

  "Sorry--the dog got the last one."

  The big bloody greedy guts! I think, but I can't hold it against him. Dogs will eat anything. I can't argue with nature.

  In any case, I try to catch them out.

  I fire.

  One quick question.

  "Who sent you?"

  Once in the air, my question loses its pace. The words float, and gingerly I stand and sit at one of the vacant kitchen chairs. I'm feeling a little more comfortable, knowing this is all part of what happens next.

  "Who sent us?" The other one takes over now. "Nice try, Ed, but you know we can't tell you that. Nothing would give us greater pleasure, but we don't even know that ourselves. We just do the job and get paid."

  I explode.

  "What?" It's an accusation. Not a question. "No one pays me! No one gives me--"

  I'm slapped.

  Hard.

  He then sits down again and resumes eating, dipping the last crust of pie in the big pool of sauce on his plate.

  You overpoured, I think. Thanks a lot.

  He calmly eats the crust, half swallows, and says, "Oh, do stop whining, Ed! We all have our duties here. We all suffer. We all endure our setbacks for the greater good of mankind."

  He's impressed his mate and himself.

  They're agreeing with each other, nodding.

  "Nice," the other one tells him. "Try to remember all that."

  "Yeah, what was it? The greater good of...?" He thinks hard but can't come up with what he wants.

  "Mankind," I answer, too quiet.

  "What, Ed?"

  "Mankind."

  "Of course--you got a pen I can borrow, Ed?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "This isn't a newsagent's, you know."

  "And there's that tone again!" He stands up and slaps me even harder, then sits back down, casual.

  "That hurt," I tell him.

  "Thanks." He looks at his hand--at the blood and the dirt and the smear. "You're in a pretty awful state there, Ed, aren't you?"

  "I know."

  "What's wrong with you?"

  "I want a pie." I swear--and I'm sure you can back me up on this from previous actions--I'm definitely like a kid at times. A giant pain-in-the-neck kid. Marv's not the only one.

  The one who slapped my face imitates me in a childlike voice. "'I want a pie....'" He even sighs. "Would you listen to yourself? Grow up, for God's sake."

  "I know."

  "Well, that's the first step."

  "Thanks."

  "Now where were we, anyway?"

  We all think.

  Silently.

  The Doorman walks in, looking guilty as all hell.

  I s'pose a coffee's out of the question? he brings himself to ask me. The neck of him!

  All I do is glare at him and he walks back out. He can tell he's in the bad books.

  All three of us in the kitchen watch him make his exit.

  "You can smell him coming, can't you?" one says.

  "Damn right."

  The slower eater of the two even stands up now and begins rinsing the plates in the sink.

  "Forget it," I tell him.

  "No, no--civilized, remember?"

  "Oh yeah, that's right."

  He claps his hands now and turns around. "Any sauce on my balaclava?"

  "Not that I can see," replies the other. "What about me?"

  He leans in and examines. "Nah, you're clean."

  "Good." The slower eater wrestles with his own face a moment, saying, "Ah, this bloody shit thing. It's itchy as all get-out."

  "Is that right, Keith?"

  "Doesn't yours itch?"

  "Of course it does!" Daryl can't believe he's having this discussion. "But you don't hear me complaining about it every five minutes, do you?"

  "We've been here an hour."

  "Even so, remember--these are the things we have to suffer for the greater good of..." He clicks his fingers over at me.

  "Oh--mankind."

  "That's right. Thanks, Ed. Lovely. Good work."

  "No worries."

  We're kind of friends now. I can feel it.

  "Look, can we just get this over with so I can get this woolen mask off, Daryl?"

  "Could you just show us a little discipline, Keith? All good hit men have impeccable discipline, all right!"

  "Hit men?" I ask.

  Daryl shrugs. "Well, you know, that's what we call ourselves."

  "Sounds plausible," I concede.

  "I suppose." And he thinks hard now.

  He ponders. He speaks.

  "Okay, Keith, you're right. We better head off soon. You got the pistol, didn't you?"

  "I did, yes. It was in his drawer."

  "Good." Daryl stands up and pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket. On it are the words Ed Kennedy. "Got a delivery for you, Ed. Please stand up, son."

  I do it.

  "I'm sorry," he now reasons, "but I'm under instructions. I have to tell you one thing--that so far you're doing well." He speaks more quietly. "And just between you and me--and I can get maimed for telling you this--we know you didn't kill that other man...."

  Again, he apologizes and delivers his fist beneath my ribs.

  I'm bent over.

  The kitchen floor is filthy.

  There's Doorman hair everywhere.

  The hammer of a fist lands on the back of my neck.

  I taste the floor.

  It joins my mouth.

  Slowly, I feel the envelope land on my back.

  Far, far away, I hear Daryl's voice one last time. He says, "Sorry, Ed. Good luck."

  As their footsteps echo through the house, I hear Keith now as well.

  "Can I take the mask off now?" he asks.

  "Soon," Daryl answers.

  The kitchen light fades, and again I'm sinking.

  I wish I could tell you that the Doorman's helping me up, but of course he isn't. He comes over and licks me a few times before I find enough strength to get to my feet.

  The light dives at me.

  Pain stands up.

  As I try to keep balance, the Doorman sways, and I ask him desperately for help. All he can do, however, is sway and stare.

  From the corner of my eye, I see something on the floor.

  I remember.

  The envelope.

  It's fallen from my back, under the kitchen chairs, with all the Doorman hair.

  I bend down and pick it up, holding it in my fingers like a kid holds something filthy, like a used hankie.

  With the Doorman in tow, I retire to the lounge room and slump gracefully onto the couch. The envelope wavers, mocking its own danger, as if to say, It's only paper. Only words. It never mentions that the words might be of death or rape or awful, blood-filled duties again.

  Or Sophies or Millas, I remind myself.

  Either way, we're sitting on the couch.

  The Doorman and me.

  Well? he asks, chin on ground.

  I know.

  It has to be done.

  I tear the envelope open and the Ace of Clubs falls out, with a letter.

  Dear Ed,

  All appears to be going well if you're reading this. I certainly hope your head isn't too sore. Undoubtedly, Keith and Daryl mentioned that we're all quite pleased with your progress. If my instincts serve me well, they probably also let it slip that we know you didn't kill the man from Edgar Street. Well done. You dealt with the situation in a neat, well-executed manner. Very impressive indeed. Congratulations.

  Also, in case you're wondering, Mr. Edgar Street boarded a train to some old mining town not long ago. I'm sure you
'll be glad to hear of it....

  Now some more challenges await.

  Clubs are no snack, my son.

  The question is, Are you up to it?

  Or is that question irrelevant? Surely you weren't up to the Ace of Diamonds.

  But you did it.

  Good luck and keep delivering. I'm quite sure you realize your life depends on it.

  Goodbye.

  Perfect.

  Just perfect.

  I tremble at the thought of the Ace of Clubs disclosing its intentions. All reason tells me to keep from picking it up. Against all reality, I even envision the Doorman eating it.

  The only problem is that I can feel it just beyond my big toe. The damn card is like gravity itself. Like a cross to strap across my back.

  It's in my fingers now.

  I hold it.

  It's in my eyes.

  I read it.

  You know when you do something and realize only a few seconds afterward that you've actually done it? That's what I've done now, and as a result, I'm reading the Ace of Clubs, expecting another list of addresses.

  I'm wrong.

  Typically, it's not going to be that easy. There are no addresses this time. There's no uniform to this. There's nothing to make any part of it secure. Each part is a test, and part of that is in the unexpected.

  This time, it's words.

  Only words.

  The card reads:

  Say a prayer

  at the stones of home

  So could you tell me, please? Could you please tell me what that might mean? At least the addresses were cut-and-dried. The stones of home could be anything. Anywhere. Anybody. How do I find a place that has no face and nothing to point me in the right direction?

  The words whisper to me.

  The card softly speaks itself in my ear as if recollection should be immediate.

  There's nothing, though.

  Only the card, me, and a sleeping dog who gently snores.

  Later on I wake up, crumpled on the couch, realizing that I've been bleeding again from the back of my head. There's blood on the couch and rust on my neck. The pain's back, but not sharp or gashing anymore. Just constant.

  The card's on the coffee table, floating on the dust. Growing among it.

  Outside is dark.

  The kitchen light is loud.

  It deafens me as I walk toward it.

  The rusty blood scratches my neck and reaches down my back. I decide on the way that I need a drink, hit the light, and stumble through the dark toward the fridge. At the bottom I find a beer and go back to the lounge room, attempting to drink and be merry. In my case, merry means ignoring the card. I pat the Doorman with my feet, wondering what day and time it is and what might be on TV if I can be bothered getting up to turn it on. Some books sit on the floor. I won't be reading them.

  Something leaks down my back.

  My head's bleeding again.

  "Another one?"

  "Another one."

  "What suit this time?"

  "Clubs."

  "And you still have no idea who's sending them?" Audrey's noticing the spilled beer on my jacket and now the crusty putrid blood on my neck. "God, what happened to you last night?"

  "Don't worry."

  I feel a bit pathetic, to tell you the truth. The first thing I've done when the sun's come up is gone over to Audrey's place for help. It's not till halfway through our front-door conversation that I realize how badly I'm shaking. The sun warms me, but my skin is trying to shake itself from me. It wrestles with my flesh.

  Can I come in? I wonder, but my answer arrives within a few edgy moments when that guy from work enters the background, asking, "Who is it, darlin'?"

  "Oh." Audrey shuffles.

  Uncomfortable.

  Then offhand.

  "Oh, it's just Ed."

  Just Ed.

  "Anyway, I'll see you soon...."

  I begin walking backward, waiting.

  For what?

  For her.

  But she doesn't come.

  Finally, she takes a few steps out of the doorway and says, "Will you be home later, Ed?"

  I continue backward. "I don't know." It's the truth. I don't know. My jeans feel a thousand years old as they wrap around my legs. Almost like a bluebottle. My shirt burns me cold. My jacket scrapes at my arms, my hair is frayed, and my eyes feel shot with blood. And still I don't know what day it is.

  Just Ed.

  I turn.

  Just Ed walks on.

  Just Ed walks fast.

  He begins an attempt at a run.

  But he trips.

  He rips a foot into the earth and slips back to a walk, hearing her voice call out, coming closer.

  "Ed?"

  "Ed?!"

  Just Ed turns back to listen to her.

  "I'll come over later, right?"

  He resigns, gives up.

  "Okay," he admits. "See you then," and walks off. He has a vision of Audrey in the doorway: A too-big T-shirt used as pajamas. Beautiful, great morning hair. Handled hips. The wiry, sun-showered legs. Dry, sleep-covered lips. Teeth marks on her neck.

  God, I could smell the sex on her.

  And I wished with silent anguish that it was also on me.

  Yet I can only smell dried blood and a sticky spilled drink on my jacket.

  It's a beautiful day.

  Not a cloud in the sky.

  For the record, Ed, I tell myself later, eating cornflakes, it's Tuesday. You're working tonight.

  I dismiss the Ace of Clubs to the same top drawer as the Ace of Diamonds. For a moment, I imagine a full hand of aces in that drawer, fanned out as a player would hold them in a game. I never thought I wouldn't want four aces. In a card game, you pray for a hand like that. My life is not a card game.

  I'm pretty sure Marv'll be at me again soon, wanting me to run with him in preparation for the Annual Sledge Game. For a while, I even manage a few laughs thinking of it--seeing us running barefoot through the dew and the frightening nettles of people's front lawns. There's no point running in shoes if the game's played barefoot.

  Audrey arrives at about ten, all washed up and smelling like clean. Her hair is tied back except for a few gorgeous strands that fall over her eyes. She wears jeans, tan-colored boots, and a blue shirt with the Vacant Taxis badge embroidered on the pocket.

  "Ed."

  "Audrey."

  We sit on the front porch with our legs dangling over the edge. A few clouds have formed now.

  "So what does this one say?"

  I clear my throat and speak quietly. "'Say a prayer at the stones of home.'"

  Silence.

  "Any idea?" she eventually asks. Her eyes have settled on me. I feel them. I feel their softness.

  "None."

  "And what about your head and"--she looks at me now with a kind of concerned disgust--"the rest of you." She says it. "Ed, you're a complete mess."

  "I know." My words land on my feet and slip off to the grass.

  "What did you do at the addresses of the first card, anyway?"

  "You really want to hear it?"

  "I do."

  I say it and see it.

  "Well, I had to read to an old woman, let a sweet girl run barefoot till she was all trodden on and bloody and glorious, and"--I still speak calmly--"I had to kill a man who was pretty much raping his wife every night."

  The sun emerges from a small cloud.

  "Are you serious?"

  "Would I say it otherwise?" I try to get some hostility in my voice, but none arrives. I don't have the energy.

  Audrey doesn't dare to look at me now, scared she'll know the answer by the look on my face. "Did you do it?"

  I feel guilty now, getting short with her like that and even telling her all this. There's nothing she can do to help. She can't even try to understand. She'll never know. Audrey will never feel the arms of that kid, Angelina, wrapped around her neck or see the pieces of the mother all over the supe
rmarket floor. She'll never know how cold that gun was or how desperate Milla was to hear that she'd done right by Jimmy--that she'd never let him down. She'll never understand the shyness of Sophie's words or the silence of her beauty.

  For a second or two I'm lost.

  Inside those thoughts.

  Inside those people.

  When I climb back out and find myself still sitting next to Audrey, I answer her question.

  "No, Audrey. I didn't kill him, but..."

  "But what?"

  I shake my head and feel some tears register in my eyes. I keep them in there.

  "What, Ed? What did you do?"

  Slowly. I talk the words. Slowly.

  Slowly....

  "I took that man up to the Cathedral and had a gun jammed into his head. I pulled the trigger but didn't shoot him. I aimed for the sun." Treading over it like this doesn't help. "He's left town and hasn't come back. I'm not sure if he ever will."

  "Does he deserve to?"

  "What's deserve got to do with anything? Who the hell am I to decide, Audrey?"

  "All right." Her hand touches me gently, in peace. "Calm down."

  "Calm down?" I snap now. "Calm down? While you're screwin' that guy, while Marv plots his pointless soccer match, while Ritchie does whatever the hell he does when he's not playing cards, and while the rest of this town sleeps, I'm doing its dirty laundry."

  "You're chosen."

  "Well, that's comforting!"

  "Then what about the old lady and that girl? Weren't they good things?"

  I slow down. "Well, yeah, but--"

  "Was the other one worth it for the sake of them?"

  Damn.

  I hate her.

  I agree.

  "It's just...I wish it was easier, for me, you know?" I make a special point not to look at her. "I wish it was someone else who was chosen for this. Someone competent. If only I didn't stop that robbery. I wish I didn't have to go through with it all." It comes gushing out, with words like spilled milk. "And I wish it was me with you and not that other guy. I wish it was my own skin touching with yours...."

  And there you have it.

  Stupidity in its purest form.

  "Oh, Ed." Audrey looks away. "Oh, Ed."

  Our feet dangle.

  I watch them, and I watch the jeans on Audrey's legs.

  We only sit there now.

  Audrey and me.

  And discomfort.

  Squeezed in, between us.

  She soon says, "You're my best friend, Ed."

  "I know."

  You can kill a man with those words.

  No gun.

  No bullets.

  Just words and a girl.

  We sit on the porch awhile longer, and I look down at Audrey's legs and her lap. If only I could curl up and sleep there. It's still just the beginning of all this, and already I'm exhausted.