"Well, that was something," I say, trying to make sense of what just happened. "I've never seen that kind of enthusiasm for a politician before."
"This your first time attending?" Esther asks.
"Oh yeah," I reply, still taking it all in. "The energy, the rage, and so much more; it's like there's a magnetism to him, you know?"
"And how are you feeling?"
"Strange. That entire thing was crazy. It's hard for me to believe it all. He was . . . He was . . ." My words fail me, such was the electric mood of the crowd all around. "He was something, alright."
"Did you feel as angry as they were?"
"Not really. It was more like . . . like . . . like you were getting sucked in to a vortex with no way out. You feel like you were being dragged into this giant mass. Oh, that was too much." I pause to take some time to breathe. "How about you?"
"Annoyed at the whole spectacle," she says, observing some workers lifting chairs and dissecting the stage. "I've met him a few times, and I've attended his speeches a couple of times, so I know what he's like. But I'm just here because my Dad is somewhere around here." She looks around, getting somewhat impatient. "At least, he should be around here."
"How's your relationship with him?" I ask.
"Fine. Just fine," she says, without elaborating further. She checks her phone and feels disappointed about it.
"You don't seem like it."
"Nah, it's okay. Just probably taking his time, is all." She straightens her wavy blonde hair as we observe the gaudy fountain in front of us. The sunset is bouncing a dull gold shine from the paint around the top, which slowly irritates me.
"How's your mother, Ryan?"
"Same as always. Working cases. Being a good lawyer for the needy and all that. Why?"
"I've seen her a few times. Her hard work, her commitment; it's on another level. You should be proud of her."
"Really?" I say. This is new. Ma never tells me what her work is like, so Esther's compliment intrigues me. "What's she like in the field?"
"Well, from the few times I observed her, she's an absolute worker. She gives her best to those who have the least. She'd tell me stories about meeting single mothers in trailer parks or homeless widows living in the abandoned factories in New Dundee and helping them with their paperwork, and other times she'd be spending hours working the lines in the welfare office for their monthly stipends. She works incredibly hard for them, the poor and sick people in town. I admire her, Ryan. I really do."
"Oh. Thanks, I guess," I sheepishly say. It's nice to know a snippet of what she does, as I've never gotten to know what her work was like, beyond what she tells me. "And what about you, Esther? What do you do?"
"Ah, well . . . I . . ." she stutters, "It's complicated."
"Why's that?"
"It's a long story. Believe me, it's difficult to get your head around it."
"Why? It's not like it's any worse than mine. Come on, it can't be that bad."
She hesitates for a long time before looking at me. "I work with my dad to look for new mining prospects, but he doesn't really take me seriously. He said he wants me to take over the family business at some point, but he doesn't bother to train me or even help me understand how it all works. So I visit him at one of these potential sites, or in the town hall, or when he's meeting with investors or local officials, but even then he doesn't slow down to talk me through some complicated procedure or jargon; he, like, expects me to know what he's talking about right away. You know, I try to keep up, but it's so hard sometimes."
"Wow," I say, struck with her earnest thoughts. "That must be a heavy weight on your shoulders."
"Yeah. It's difficult enough without thinking that he's setting me up to replace him in the near future. I hate having that kind of expectation on me, like I have to know everything right now, right away. I just hate it." She sighs, the burden of it all taking a toll on her lithe frame.
"If you hate it so much, why don't you quit that role and do something else?"
"I've thought about it, more than once. I don't know. I don't really know. Sometimes I wanna do it, but I don't know where I'd end up if I did it. So I just play along and do this stuff until I can figure it out, you know?"
"Yeah, I get it. Your father sounds like a hard man."
"He is. He's nothing if not driven and ambitious. He gets what he wants, and he's clashed with everyone from the elites in the political and business worlds. But he always tells me how difficult it is to keep them onside, and how he's always watching for any signs they might be wavering, so he worries about that too. It's like spinning plates, he tells me."
"I can only imagine." I look around to see a bearded man in a three-piece suit and overcoat approaching us, a coffee cup in hand. "And this must be your father," I say, standing up and warily preparing for what he might say.
"Dad! How are you? What's going on?" Esther says, seizing the initiative.
"Not much. My damn phone died on me and I've been trying to get a hold of you." He gives her a fatherly embrace before turning to me. "And you are?"
I extend my hand. "I'm Ryan Clarke. You know my mother, I guess?"
"Oh yeah, you're Andrea's kid. The one she rarely talks about. She tells me you're at home a lot."
"Yeah. I consider myself an introvert, I don't go out outside of work and groceries."
"You have work?" he says, acting surprised that I could have a job. "What do you do?"
"I work with Mr. Behringer in his warehouse full of antique goods. He's the guy who owns that brick warehouse on that industrial estate just south of Lowescroft. It's along that coastal road heading down to Osborne. You know the one."
"I think I do. I've seen it a couple of times, though I've never had a good reason to go there. How long have you been working there?"
"A few months, I suppose. I tend to be forgetful with time. But it's a good job, albeit physically straining at times."
"I see. Well, good luck with your job. If you excuse me, my daughter and I have some other business to attend to." He points his finger at the town hall. "Let's go Esther, we got some people we need to meet," he says, turning around and heading back there, not bothering to see her following him.
"I gotta go. See you later Ryan," she says, as she runs after his brisk shadow in the glimmering sunset.
"Of course. See you, Mr. Eden." I wave my hand at them. I don't know if he's busy or just rude. Maybe I'm reading too much into this.
I shake my head and walk away, heading to the nearby bike rack next to a clothing store undergoing renovations. I pass by a row of shops selling assorted items from baskets of broccoli and a jar of cinnamon sticks to a real estate office with models of houses displayed on the window. The variety is nice to see, bringing some renewed vigor and life to this part of time after years of neglect and waste.
I pass by a cozy bookstore with an eclectic group of readers inside. Some of them are teenagers leafing through comic books and other publications, and some of them are elderly people walking to the counter with travel books on their arm. I also notice a wide mix of worn globes of different sizes, alongside framed maps of different countries like Liberia and East Timor. The owner, who I'm guessing is the nice thin guy wearing glasses and looking a bit young for this line of work, is manning the counter, and he has an adorable rabbit cleaning its long, floppy ears. He has a chat with an elderly customer, who is petting the rabbit's black and white fur. I watch through the open doorway and smile when the rabbit nibbles on the customer's travel book, so the owner scolds it by moving it behind the counter.
I shake my head and go on my way. For some reason, seeing all that brought a small smile on my face. I walk past a flower shop, a haberdashery modelling elegant suits, a vacant shop space with an agent's number, a small pharmacy, and a small art gallery displaying beautiful portraits of natural landscapes and celebrating couples. I don't know why, but sometimes I fancy myself to be a man of culture. Though I probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a Degas and a Rembrandt, I think I have a good eye for art and beauty. Is it possible to enjoy art despite having no skill for it? Can I have a completely individual taste, or do I have to base it on some kind of design language? And can good art be affordable as well?
My thoughts flood my brain as I head to the vacant lot where the bike rack is. My questions lack answers, and I'm in no rush to find them.
"Lemme go, you bastard!" A female voice cries out. "You can't do this to me!"
"Shut up, you stupid bitch! You ruined me! I'll make you pay for this!"
I run towards the corner of the row of shops. I see a pale guy with tattooed arms and a bald head holding Helen's face and aiming his revolver with his other hand. They're having a heated argument and it looks like it can tip over into violence at any time.
"Please! I have the money! It's in my car! Just let me go!" she pleads.
"You failed to pay me quickly, and now Don's boys have taken away my business and my clients. I have nothing left and it's all your fault."
"I know I screwed up, but please, lemme make it up to you. I won't even tell anyone about this."
The bald guy hits her with his gun, and she stumbles on the ground. He brings her up only to send a nasty punch on her stomach. That sick scumbag is clearly enjoying this.
"You think you can say sorry and fix all of this in an instant?" he says, waving his gun around. "It took me four years of scraping and clashing with all them other gangs to build my rep, and now Don's boys have taken my work away from me because you didn't pay me after your little deal. You'll pay for this, Helen."
"It's not my fault!" she says, leaning on a wire fence to support herself and putting an arm over her stomach. "Did you know I had to break into the sheriff's office and fight those officers just to get your money back? Did you know that, you stupid shit?!"
He responds by hitting her again with his gun, and she stumbles into the ground. With a sadistic grin he pulls her up by her hair to face her.
"So that was you? You got that officer killed? Don't you know, your little stunt got the cops thirsty for blood? They raided my stash and took me in for questioning, and now I'm tainted so nobody wants to deal with me no more. You got me in this shit, so now you'll die for this."
"No! Please! I'm begging you, don't do this!"
He drags her by her hair to his wine red Arbiter GT, and locks her in his trunk. He pulls his muscle car out of the parking lot and turns onto the road.
I give chase, hiding behind some cars to avoid detection. As soon as he turns left into a corner, I take an electric scooter to give chase, hoping he doesn't spot me.
"Hey! You thief! That's my scooter you're taking!" a delivery rider in a white and green uniform yells at me.
"It's an emergency!" I shout back. "I'll return it when I'm done!"
The Arbiter GT goes through traffic lights and lines of people in their cars, waiting for the lights to go green. I follow closely behind, some distance from them and hiding behind trucks and vans as I try to avoid being seen.
"Come on, you piece of shit," I whisper, "where are you going?"
The guy appears to be going on a road heading southeast, leaving Lowescroft behind for the tall, leafy redwoods and birches of the forest. The twisting road hugs the deep reaches of the forest with short bridges and tunnels and dangerous unprotected curves. Eventually he reaches a fork on the road, with the way to Mount Conner National Park on the right. But he passes by it and drives straight ahead, with two SUVs and a taxi separating him and me.
A short while later, he turns left on a dirt road and drives up a narrow lane filled with broken concrete and nasty potholes. My little electric scooter manages them with great difficulty, evident by the screeching sound it makes and the bumpy, slow progress I'm making trying to follow him.
After what felt like ages, he finally stops his Arbiter GT in front of a disused sawmill. Hiding behind a rock, I watch him pull Helen out of the trunk and drag her to where three armed men are standing.
"Look at this fresh meat we got here," says one of the goons with a pistol on his hand.
"Yeah, this bitch will do quite nicely," her captor says. She tries to break free from him so he slaps her again and drags her inside. "You're a feisty one, are you?" he says.
"Hey, save some for the rest of us!" one guard shouts as they disappear from view, laughing away at her pleas for mercy.
Damn, this is gonna be hard. The guards have the front gate covered so I go round the side, being careful with my movements to make as little noise as possible. It's difficult since I have to crawl through a lengthy drainage canal underneath the driveway for the loading bay in order to avoid two guards standing above me. After a while, they move on to another place, giving me the space to crawl out of the smelly detritus of that spot.
Entering through a collapsed section of a wall, I make my way inside, up some stairs to a level that opens up to an atrium. At some point, a storm or some other catastrophe has ripped a gaping hole through the roof, allowing the light of the half moon to shine through to the three goons smoking and drinking around a rusty old barrel that's been turned into a makeshift fireplace. I use the barrier as a cover to get to the door on the other side, while listening to the few scraps of conversation I pick up.
"How long is he taking up there?" One of the goons asks. "I can't keep waiting for that chump to finish until he pays me."
"How long has it been since your last paycheck?" His companion asks.
"A month now. Fucking prick, he expects us to protect him when he can't pay us our green."
"Yeah, I'm getting pretty sick of him too. Always making excuses, always delaying it, yadda yadda yadda. I'd like to kick his ass if I get the chance."
"Oh yeah," the third guy turns to them after he finishes messaging someone on his phone. "Darryl and the other guys are also saying it. Says he's deep in the red and sayin' all sorts of crazy shit to a bunch of people, even those he shouldn't be talking to."
"What, you knew about this too?" the first goon asks.
"Fuck yeah he has. Everyone's been avoiding him. The Mingullas, Don's boys, those hicks from the trailer park, that Hong Kong gang; they all know he's losing it with the cash. Told their bookies and lenders to stop giving him any more green, 'cause they think he can't pay them back."
"Absolutely." The second guy sips his beer. "They all said he shouldn't have given some cash to that broad he brought here. Don't know why he did it when they all knew she's an idiot who can't keep her nose clean."
"Who's that broad, anyway?" the first goon asks after smoking the last of his cigarette.
"Ah, some chick trying to make a name for herself. She's a petty hood, a pretty face stealing worthless stuff, and bad at selling it too."
"Now that's something. A person who's bad at being bad."
"Yeah, incompetent is the best word for her," the third guy says.
"Is there anything she's good at?" the second goons asks as he takes another drink.
"Only thing she's good at is her lips. She got real loose ones. Good at talking and doing nonsense. I'd like to see it for myself one day."
"I'll drink to that," the third guy says, before they all make a toast and drink.
Meanwhile, I've managed to exit the atrium to reach the stairs outside. I creep my way up, keeping my noise at a minimum, towards what looked like the supervisor's office. It provides an expansive, 360 degree view of the forest and the series of small waterfalls down below. The windows are misty with some grime around the edges, but I'm still able to see the horror of that bullying scumbag beating Helen up and tossing her around the room like a toy.
"I told you, I had nothing to do with it!" She pleads with him, her face beaten and bleeding. "I don't know why you think I ripped you off."
Instead of responding, the bald guy kicks her in the stomach. She groans and coughs in agony, curled up and unable to stand up, let alone fight.
"You think I care, you worthless sack of shit? You've been nothing but trouble to everyone around you. It's about time I end your useless little life." He pulls out a fearsome knife and prepares to kill her.
On impulse, I force myself inside the room and throw myself at him, pinning him to the wall and giving him a good punch to his face. His momentary loss of focus allows me to slap the knife away from his hand, before he switches his focus to shove me away. His face is filled with shock and rage as he turns to me.
"Who the fuck are you?" He shouts, smarting from my punch.
"Clarke, Ryan Clarke."
"Oh! You're Nicky's stupid little brother!" His face immediately changes to gleeful recognition. "That lonely little mouse who's too scared to leave the house! Yeah, I thought I heard of you before."
"Hey, fuck you!" I shout, but he shrugs it off.
"Yeah, I know you, and I know your family. Especially your hero of a brother. But I know he ain't no hero, he only pretended to be one to get his name on the news."
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" I say in a low, livid tone.
"You thought Nicky was a hero, but he ain't. He's a coward and a traitor. He never cared about them immigrant scum, he used them and only cared about himself. That's God's Honest Truth!"
"Shut up, you piece of shit! You have no right to disgrace his great memory."
"And lemme tell you something, Ryan. I had a wonderful time with your brother last year. Oh yeah, I met him on that wonderful August night. That night, in that small wooden cabin deep in the woods. I remember how your brother begged for his life right after we tortured and starved him. Yeah, he was begging like an animal. He was begging to go home, like the coward he was."
"That's not true!" I shout, charging at him. He blocks my incoming punch and hits me in the stomach. He presses his advantage by hitting my face with his knee, causing me to tumble backwards, sharp points of pain overwhelming my brain. My vision is momentary blurred, and then I see the bald guy towering over me.
"You know Ryan, you're just like your brother. You like to play hero and get involved in other people's fights. You should've learnt the lesson your brother wouldn't: Keep your nose away from this, because this doesn't concern you and your stupid brother paid the price for it. Believe me, you don't wanna mess with me."
"But I had to," I whisper, too blinded by the pain to get up. "I can't let you walk all over Nicky's memory. I need to know what happened."
"What makes you think I'll talk, you little mouse?"
Just then, he looks up at the rusting roof and screams. He bellows and yelps and tries to reach for his back. He turns around to see Helen staring him down, wiping her bleeding mouth with her hand. She stabbed him with his own knife in the middle of his back, the handle jutting out of the wound where streams of blood were flowing from his dirty white tank top.
"You fucking bitch!" he shouts. He attempts to close the distance to her but the knife constricts his movement, slowly weakening him. The sting of the stab wound brings him down on one knee, giving her the opportunity to land a punch on his face.
"You creepy dick!" she says, all fired up despite, or because of, her injuries. She punches him again and he doesn't block it, so she keeps hitting him some more."I told you to leave me alone! I told you I'll get you the money! But you just! Wouldn't! Listen! To me!"
She goes for a kick to his face but suddenly, he grips her ankle and pulls her towards him, allowing him to land an uppercut to her jaw. Then, he grabs her hand and pulls her to him again, so he could slap her with his backhand before punching her so hard it made me wince.
Severely weakened, she tries to fight back, but he stands up and prepares to punch her again. To stop him, I get back up and pull out the knife from his back, forcing him to release his grip. She collapses into the floor, sweat and blood mixing together, but she still finds the strength to crawl to the wall and lean her back to it to rest and take heavy breaths. I don't know how she does it, but she must have so much energy within her short, lean body to be able to survive this level of abuse.
The bald bastard turns to me, ready for an almighty fight. I grip the knife in my hand as if my life depended on it. And tonight, it truly does.
He stares at me for one long moment, like a predator sizing his target. My eyes are steady, awaiting his next move. Countless minutes pass, my blue checkered shirt drenched with sweat and my mind covered with a palpable sense of dread and nervous anticipation. I wait for his move, and then he strikes, running to me to land a punch. I duck from his fist and make a quick slash across his ribs before heading for the opposite corner.
He looks at the gash on his side, but he promptly ignores it. "Amateur," he taunts.
"Don't push me," I say, keeping a grip on my nerves.
He takes his time to breathe, and then he tries again. He charges at me and I block him again but somehow, he disarms me and gets the knife back. He tries to stab me but I dodge his arm and grip it with both my hands to press the blade close to his face. But rather than fear, his face shows amusement, using the moment to punch my rib and kick me aside. I roll down to another corner, smarting from my injured rib.
"Now I see how different you are from your brother," he says.
"How so?"
"You're weaker and less experienced than him. He would be charging and fighting head-on, rather than wait to be attacked. Looks like killing you will be easy, Ryan."
"You'll fail, you sadistic dipshit."
Again, he charges at me, swinging his knife like crazy. I duck from his blade but he turns around and presses it against me, backing me to a wall, the knife getting closer and closer to my face. It takes all the strength in my arms to hold it back but it's so goddamn hard, he's simply more powerful than me.
"How would you like to join your brother in a single grave?" he asks.
"How about you fall into a black hole and stop existing?" I retort.
He presses his advantage, the knife now inches from my face. I can see how dull and dirty it is, how a few bits and pieces have fallen from overuse, and how screwed I'll be if I don't find a way out of this. He keeps on going, pushing me into a corner. I'm trying, I'm really trying to push him back. His shit-eating grin is so close to me that I can see the molars of his teeth have been darkened from the cigarettes I smell from his mouth. It's so strong that I had to cough a bit because of how unbearable it is.
Out of nowhere, Helen leaps onto his back and wraps her arm round his tattooed neck to try to choke him. He attempts to resist her, so she kicks her knee against his stab wound, forcing him back to give me a few inches of breathing room. Her injuries don't affect her one bit as she uses her weight to pull him away from me. But she's so busy distracting him that she's not noticing him going backwards to the window, with his impact forcing it open and her crashing through. She lands on her back on the rusty walkway outside, seething in pain, while the bald guy refocuses his attention at me.
We're both tired and spent, both of us injured in some way, but both of us are well aware only one of us can go home tonight. He darts his eyes to my right, where the knife lies near the corner. I see it too, and then he makes a dive for it. Before he can grab it, I give him a really powerful kick to his ribs and throw him to the corner when he tries to stand up. His head hits the wall and a long gash now forms on his bald head. He watches me kick his knife away to another corner, looking tired but still furious. When he tries to get up again, I kick him again, right at his face. He drops down on the ground and spits some blood and two teeth from his mouth.
Satisfied to see him down, I rush outside to where Helen is. She's still lying down on the shards and broken glass of the window where the bald guy smashed her through. She looks so bad I can't describe it without feeling sick. She doesn't look like her usual ebullient self. She's got blood and other dark spots all over, and I can't bear to look at it.
"Helen, Helen," I ask, gently shaking her shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"I'm tired," she whispers, her eyes barely open. "Please take me home."
"Come on, you can't sleep on me now." I help her stand up and lightly tap her cheek to keep her focus on me. "I need you to stay awake and keep moving. Come on, get up."
She spits some blood from her mouth, but a trail is dripping from her jaw onto her khaki jacket. There's a red spot where it had pooled and dried. "Can't you see . . . I'm in so . . . so much pain . . . you moron?" she softly protests, her energy completely sapped. I had to put her arm over my shoulders to help her get up and set her leaning on the wall.
"Just let me rest, Ryan." She pushes me aside and grips the broken window frame for support. "I can do this on my own."
"Are you serious, huh?" I retort. I point out the hits and wounds all over her body. "You can barely stand, you've been pounded harder than a slice of meat, and you're far from home. You clearly need my help."
"How are you doing that, Einstein?" She takes her breath to wipe her bleeding lower lip with her backhand. "You can't even drive, and Big Honcho has goons all over this place."
"Trust me, I'll find us a way out. Right now, I need you to—"
I feel a rapid force shoving me away from her, and then half my body is hanging upside down as my body arches on the railing. It's the bald guy again trying to push me out, holding the knife once more, and I'm hanging on for dear life. I manage to hold him off from stabbing me, but this fucker doesn't know when to stop.
"Shit!" I'm doing everything I can to avoid falling off the rocky escarpment into the darkness below. "Someone help me!"
"No one's coming to help you now, asshole." His bleeding mouth curves into an ugly grin with some teeth missing. "Time for you to join your brother in the grave."
"Fuck you! When I get off this thing . . ."
"Say hello to Nicky for me."
I don't know how long I can hold on. My hands are gripping his wrists to stop him shoving his knife in me. He starts to push my body past the railing, hoping to get me to tip overboard. Slowly but surely, he's doing just that, and I can feel my waist scaling the metal railing and gravity pulling me down into the darkness. I can hear the flowing water down below but I keep my strength and focus on this guy, fighting the temptation to look down on the massive boulders on the bottom of the cliff. No matter what happens, I'm not dying tonight.
"You piece of shit," I tell him, feeling a mixture of defiance and desperation as the knife nears my face. "You killed Nicky. You killed my own brother. And you trample on his memory and make fun of his sacrifice. You're a sick animal."
"Oh Ryan, turns out you're brave but stupid as well." He pushes me a bit more. My thighs are now over the railing, and my knees are getting close. "You have no clue how much I wanted to do that, to kill your brother. And I still do, even after all this time."
"Wait, what do you mean?"
"I'm glad I got to be the one to kill you tonight. Killing you would be a good consolation for not killing your dear brother Nicky. I wish I had the chance to kill him myself."
"You're a fucking liar!" I shout. Why would he say that? He must be trying to get on my nerves and weaken my resolve. "You killed him! You tortured him and you killed him! You'll pay for this!"
"I tortured him but I didn't kill him! I wanted to, but I wasn't allowed to do it. They said so, they wanted to keep him alive. I had to listen to them if I wanted to get paid. So I did as I'm told. I still hate them bitches to this day for leaving me out of pocket."
"Wait, you didn't kill him? But if it wasn't you, who did? And who are they?"
Before I can get my answer, something odd happens behind him. He turns his head to see, but by then it is too late, because his legs get lifted up, and then he tips over and gets thrown over the railing.
But not yet. He's not dead yet. My hands gripping his wrists are all that's stopping him from falling down into the watery darkness. I'm still holding him but my body is being stretched to breaking point.
"Shit!" The sadistic joy in his face has been taken over by transparent fear. "Don't let go, Ryan!"
"Tell me!" I demand, now that his life depends on me. "Who are they? Why did you torture him?"
"Please! Help me! I'll do anything, just don't let go!"
"I said tell me!" My hands still grip his wrists tightly, but they're beginning to slip.
"Okay! Okay! We lured him to that cabin in the woods. We threatened to kill a loved one of his if he didn't get there by a set hour. We were told to make him suffer when we got there, to teach him a lesson for siding with them dirty Mingulla."
"What else?!"
"That's all we did! Honestly!"
Unsatisfied with his answer, I loosen my grip an inch, enough for him to fall a bit. He looks down at the abyss, his face more terrified than ever. "Ryan! For fuck's sake, don't drop me!"
"I said what else?!" I glare intently at him, while remembering my hands gripping his fingers now. But still, I'm slowly losing grip.
"Wait, we gave him electric shocks and water cures. We were told to starve him and stop him sleeping. They said we'd get a cash bonus the longer we kept him there. But somehow, he escaped on the fourth, and they stiffed me of my pay. They blamed me cause he got away. Didn't care that Nicky strangled a guard to escape, they blamed me for it!"
"I need to know, who ordered it? Who wanted him dead? And why?"
"I don't know, I'm not allowed to say it!"
"Do you really think they care to save you? Tell me who!"
"I can't tell you—"
"I said who?!" Shit, I'm only holding his digits now.
"I can't say it, they know everything! They see everything! They might even be watching us right now!"
"A name, now!"
"I can't! I can't, cause I don't know! I'm far below the food chain for them, but they know they're right at the top, and they do certain favors for each other! We were told to get Nicky away from them Mingulla because they have something very—"
His fingers slip from my grasp. His screams echo through the dark as he drops down the cliff. My body is seized with horror but I'm stuck in my place, unable to react. I watch him falling straight down, his skull bursts open from hitting a huge boulder, his body bounces off some more rocks, before finally landing on the rocky riverside, his mangled corpse half-submerged in the water below.
I can't think straight right now. I try to say something but nothing comes out. My mouth is open, yet I can only release deep breaths. My body is upside down, my knees firmly anchored on the railing, and my shocked eyes transfixed at the bald man down there, unable to look away from his half-destroyed face staring back at me. It's a face of condemnation, of missed opportunities, of a chance to come clean for once. But Fate has snatched the truth from my grasp, and now I'm left with nothing; just a hazy story of a crime that happened a long time ago, and the knowledge of it being ordered by someone from the very top. Not much to go on, really.
The water begins to rise and strengthen, flowing quicker under the crescent moon. The tide starts to pull his bloody corpse away with it, and as he gets carried down the rapids, the water unmistakably turns red with his residue. The sight of him being washed away makes me dizzy and sick. I'm trying to throw up, but nothing comes out.
"Well, there goes the rest of our pay," a voice says. I turn to my left to see the goons gathered on a lower catwalk, watching his body floating away below.
"Sure does. Fuck it, let's go home." They disseminate from their place and return inside. Soon I see multiple cars and motorcycles driving down the gravel road away from the sawmill. The night is still and eerie once more, apart from the nearby frogs and deer making noises deep in the forest.
Then, someone locks my ankles around their arms, and I'm being lifted up from where I'm dangling. As soon as the rest of my body scales the railing, I collapse into a heap of exhaustion and despair, too shell-shocked from everything I saw to say anything. I feel like all my energy has been spent, but I'm too wired to rest and turn off. I just want to stay still right here and not move a muscle.
"Ryan! You're still alive!" a woman's voice wearily says. Before I know it, Helen drops down on me and embraces me, sinking her face in my red shirt and mumbling something. I try to hear what she's saying, but it soon turns out she's actually crying, my shirt turning wet with her tears.
"Shit, I'm so, so, sorry for dragging you into this," her muffled voice says. "I didn't expect him to go this far. They're right, I should've been more careful, I shouldn't have taken his money, I shouldn't have been greedy, I should've—"
"Shhhh, it's okay, it's okay Helen." I gently tap my hand on her shoulder for reassurance. "It's okay now. It's over, there's nothing you can do about it. None of this is your fault, so don't blame yourself."
"But . . . but it is, I did—"
"But nothing. What's done is done. He's dead now and you're safe. That's all that matters."
"You think his buddies will come for us?"
"They've all left this place just now. Why would they fight for someone who can't pay them for their jobs?"
"Uh, I guess you're right." She sits down and catches her breath. "This is all too much to take in."
"Try to look on the bright side," I quip.
"What do you mean, 'bright side'?" She glares at me with irritation. "What bright side can possibly come out of this?"
"For one, the fucker's dead now, so he can't hurt you anymore. And two," I pause to get up from the floor, "your debt has been erased now that he can't collect it anymore."
"Hell of a time to be optimistic, Ryan. Is there a third one?"
"Is there anyone else you owe money to?"
"Just him."
"Thank God. I really hope that's true, for your sake."
"You think I'm lying?"
"Those guards said you do. Said you have some loose lips."
"Those assholes don't know what they're talking about. Come on." She takes my hand and helps me stand. She looks around the deserted sawmill before turning to me. "So what now? Where to?"
"Home. The only way." I walk past her and head back inside as she trails a few steps behind.
It feels entirely different, being in a big, empty place that had some people a while ago. The darkness, the sudden stillness, the discarded oil barrels where the flames are slowly ebbing away; it's indescribable. The energy can still be felt a few minutes after the guests have left. It's that kind of feeling I'm getting.
"Ryan, why'd you stop?" she asks, looking at me strangely. "You alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." I don't know what just happened. I continue down the stairs and head outside when my thoughts shift to the mental image of the attacker just now. I think of his bloody, bashed face, his cracked skull, his lifeless eyes peering into me. Then I think of how I watched his body being washed away down the river, the sickening sight of it. My head is getting heavier.
I rush toward some bushes and throw up. It's not a pretty sight. My puke has some blood on it. I keep throwing up and throwing it all out. I have never felt so grossed out at myself in a long time. I can feel myself getting weaker before long, so I force myself to stop and hold what's left in myself, hoping it doesn't come out in an inconvenient time.
"Holy Moses, you need to get some medicine," Helen says.
"I'll be fine, don't worry," I answer, ignoring her concern. "Let's go home."
We left the sawmill the same way I came in, down the stairs and through the empty atrium, until we reach the front gate where the wine red Arbiter GT remains waiting for its owner that'll never come back.
"Shit, it's a long way back to Lowescroft," I say, staring at the gravel road, my tired self unprepared for yet another journey. The luminous moon beams through the gaps between the forest, illuminating the downward path as if providing a way out. I turn to Helen to ask,"Who's gonna drive us there?"
But she's not beside me. Rather, she hops into the muscle car and rips out some wires underneath the steering wheel. She does a few tries before the big meaty V8 engine roars to life.
She leans back onto the driver's seat and closes her eyes. It feels like she's had the weight of the world lifted from her. I watch her taking deep breaths and releasing the tension from inside her. She looks as wounded and beaten as you could possibly imagine, but there's also a spirit of resistance in her, as if all the injuries she'd gone through only add to her charm, her willingness to go through life and come out fighting.
"What is it?" She asks, irritated at me staring at her.
"You really think you can drive? Especially in your condition?" I point at all the marks and wounds all over her.
"Can you drive us back?"
"No."
"Then that settles it. Get in." She grips her hands on the steering wheel, her knuckles now bearing dried blood on them. It takes her a while to shift gears and put the car in reverse.
"Oh wait, I almost forgot," I say, jumping out as she was about to step on the gas pedal.
"What are you doing? We don't have time for this!" She grumbles, looking through the rear view mirror to watch me lift the electric scooter still leaning on the boulder and throw it in the trunk.
"Alright, back to Lowescroft we go," I say, feeling my jaw to see where the pain is coming from.
She looks at me with confusion, unable to say anything in response. Shaking her head, she maneuvers the lumbering mass of the Arbiter GT to face the gravel road before driving away from the sawmill.
"I don't know why you had to do that," she says as we rejoin the main road.
"Do what?" I ask.
"That. You coming in, out of the blue, being a hero. I could've handled him myself, you know."
"Didn't look like it. Sounded like you were begging him to let you go."
"Please. I was just buying time to distract him."
"Really? That's hard to believe."
"I'm serious!" She overtakes a series of dump trucks loaded with dirt right before going through a series of curves. "I had a plan to get rid of him before you dropped in."
"I think you're pretending to have a plan. You know full well what he's capable of, right?"
"Yeah, but—"
"And you know he's got links to all the other groups in the county. What the hell were you thinking, Helen? Begging him for money, and then letting him beat you up like that?" I lean into the passenger seat and sigh. "You're incredibly lucky that they treat him like shit. What would've happened if one of them agreed to help him? You could've been yet another statistic, you know that? Another murder mystery in the nightly news."
"You think I had a choice?" She's gripping the steering wheel now. Her eyes are on the road but she speaks with indignation in her voice. "I didn't want to ask for money in the first place, let alone from him. If I could, I'd do it all myself. But I had no other choice. I needed the money real bad, and he's the only one I know who can get it quickly."
"But why? Why do you need money so badly to begin with?"
"Why? Why do you care? What's it to you?"
"Because I heard his guards talking earlier, calling you a worthless petty hood who picks up useless stuff."
"You believe those morons, Ryan?"
"And they said your mouth is the only good thing about you. What have you been doing?"
"Those assholes, they can't take it when someone does it better than them. Don't listen to them, all they do is bad-mouth me."
"Look, if it's money you need—"
"I DON'T NEED THE FUCKING MONEY! I don't need it! I can get it myself!"
"Helen!"
"WHAT?!"
"You're driving too fast! Slow down!"
Shocked at how fast she's driving, she slams the brakes, and the Arbiter GT skids all over the road before screeching to a smoking halt.
Her hands grip the steering wheel as if it was a lifeline. Her shocked, agitated eyes are fixed on the empty mountain road ahead, past the rusting yellow barrier, on the expansive nighttime view of Lowescroft down below. The rumbling of the V8 engine is the only audible sound around us, until I notice her heavy breathing, doing her best to get herself calm.
I observe her. The stress is seeping out of her. She stares at the road ahead, not moving a muscle, as countless minutes flow by. Then she puts the car back into first gear and goes forward.
For a few minutes I say nothing, avoiding anything that can rile her up. With the windows open and the radio off, she leans an arm over the door, lost in thought as the nighttime hues of the amber streetlights guide the route home. As we get closer to town, I decide to say something to lower the tension.
"Listen, I'm sorry, I clearly overstepped. I shouldn't have made presumptions about your living situation, and I should've been more sensitive about your feelings for this."
"No, I'm sorry," she says. Her surprising response disarms me and puts me at ease. "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I've been going through so much recently, and I've got a lot on my mind. You didn't deserve that when you only wanted to help."
"Does it mean we're square?"
"I guess so."
"Do you still want my help?"
"Oh, hell no." She chuckles to herself as we drive past the Welcome to Lowescroft sign. "I don't want to intrude on your messy life. You and your mom have got so much on your plate already, especially with the hospital fees and more. But thanks for the offer."
"Still, if there's any way I can help—"
"I get it. I'll call you if I need anything, don't worry."
Eventually we head back to the parking lot where the bald bastard took her from. On the side I see the delivery rider talking to a shopkeeper, and they stop their chat as soon as they see us pull up.
"You thieving moron!" The delivery rider attempts to charge at me, which the shopkeeper blocks him from doing so. "Where's my scooter?"
"I got it, it's right here," I say, pulling it out of the trunk. "As promised, I'm giving it back now that I'm done."
He snatches it from my hands and checks the screen. "It's only got 17% left on the charge, you dick!"
"I'm sorry, it was an emergency."
"Emergency my ass! How will I get home at 17%?" He mutters some choice words at me before riding off at full speed. My head falls back with an annoyed groan as I land my hand over my eyes.
"What was that about?" the shopkeeper asks. Now that I can see him up close, I realize he's the owner of the bookstore I saw earlier, a tall Asian dude wearing a gray apron over his khaki shirt and brown pants.
"It's a long and complicated story, and I'm too tired to discuss it," I say.
"Well, that guy was so pissed at you. He missed dinner and he's worried about his wife and kids back in the trailer park."
"Shit. Look, I'm sorry for that, but I needed to borrow it for an emergency. Simple as that."
"Whatever you say." He yawns and adjusts his thick-framed glasses. "I gotta close for the night, be careful next time."
"Yeah, sure." I wave at him as he walks back inside his bookstore, closing the door and flipping the Welcome sign before lifting a few books from the floor. I'd like to have a bookstore just like him when I'm older. One with lots of books about history and geography, together with a few ones for cooking and cars.
"Look at you, socializing with strangers in the middle of the night," Helen says, interrupting my thoughts.
"What are you still doing here? I thought you went home?" I ask.
"I just had to see this with my own eyes." She leans on the car and rests her head over her arms, staring at me from the roof. "It's nice to see scrappy little Ryan making new friends."
"He's not a friend. I don't even know the guy."
"But you felt relaxed around him, I can tell."
"What makes you say that?"
"You love books, and he runs a bookstore. That's all I need to see."
"Yeah, but anything can happen. We'll see if it turns out that way."
"Of course. See you soon, Ryan." She gets back in the car and closes the door.
"Wait, Helen." I run to the car before she leaves.
"What?"
"Will you be alright?"
"What kind of question is that?" She looks at me, incredulous that I'd ask something like that. "Of course I'll be alright. I always land on my feet."
"Okay. Well, if ever you need anything—"
"I'll call you, I get it."
"Okay. Take care, Helen." I turn to leave.
"Wait," she says, and I pause.
"Yeah?"
She sighs. "Thanks for rescuing me back there, Ryan. You're sweet."
Her compliment shocks me so much that I step back a bit. "Wow. That's . . . that's great. Y-You're welcome."
"Take care of yourself. I'll see you soon." She flashes a smile at me before driving off into the distance, now covered in a translucent mountain haze.