Blood Fugue (5 page)

‘Common problem in these parts,’ he said.

Kathleen’s response convinced him she’d been kidding about the ice cream. She didn’t miss a trick.

‘Oh, don’t be such a dope, James,’ she said. ‘You made this life for yourself. You were the one who left us for the big city and then refused to move back in when you came home to the valley.’

‘Jesus, Kath, I couldn’t move back in. I was almost thirty. Everyone leaves home. It’s natural. Anyway, I’d never get any writing done if I lived here. You’re like a pair of spoilt teenagers.’

‘You’d know about that. You were the most ruined child in this town.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

Burt appeared. A couple of steps, a push on the walker. A couple of steps more.

‘I can smell fresh coffee.’

‘No you can’t,’ said Kerrigan, ‘I haven’t made it yet.’

‘Well, I’ll have a cup when you do.’

The old man had on a pair of jeans held up by a belt that Kerrigan had punched extra holes into. He’d put on the Nike trainers Kerrigan had bought him too, but he still wore the smelly pyjama top. Next to the clean blue of the jeans and the almost unworn white of the trainers, it looked truly filthy.

‘You won’t have anything until you start acting like a civilised human being. If you don’t change out of those pyjamas you can make your own coffee and you can drink it alone. I’m serious, Burt. What the hell has gotten into you? Where’s your self-respect?’

Burt said nothing. Maybe the old man knew better than to argue with him. Maybe he was too hurt to reply. Kerrigan watched Burt turn himself around and walk, six-legged, back to the bedroom.

Maybe he’s had enough.

He could understand how Burt might feel that way, especially when he thought back to the man Burt had once been, bending iron bars around his neck and lifting giggling ladies over his head like they were made of balsa. As a young lumberjack, he’d split thicker logs than any of the other local men and felled mature pines with an axe in seconds. Everyone had admired him for it. Now he could barely stand up after taking a dump. Kerrigan spooned the coffee into the filter and placed it over the cracked jug they’d used for making coffee since before he’d started drinking it.

‘I’m sorry, Kath,’ he said.

‘Don’t be. Someone had to say something and he doesn’t listen to me any more.’

‘When was the last time he changed clothes?’

‘Four or five days maybe.’

Kerrigan shook his head.

‘If he does this again, you remind him what I said.’

He poured the boiling water over the rich brown heap of coffee and stirred it as it seeped through the paper into the jug below. He poured until the jug was almost full. While they waited for Burt he put some of the groceries away.

‘How’ve you been doing, James?’ asked Kath.

‘I like it up there.’

‘But you want for company, don’t you?’

‘Yes and no. I get a lot of articles written and they pay well. Means I get time to write my stories. It’s good to have no distractions.’

‘Have you ever told the truth for any of those magazines?’ she asked.

‘I save the truth for my fiction.’

‘Maybe that’s why no one’s interested in publishing it.’

Kerrigan chuckled.

‘There’s more to it than that,’ he said, ‘but you’re probably right. I ought to write romances or something.’

He set three cups on the table along with sugar for Burt and milk for Kath. As he poured coffee, Burt returned. He was wearing a white shirt with a collar and he had combed his wisps of fine white hair across his head. He’d shaved too.

‘My God, who is that man? He looks like someone I married. Will you give an old lady a kiss and make her happy?’

Burt smiled. It was hesitant at first, like he was embarrassed to be capable of happiness. The smile was followed by a look of pure mischief.

‘I’ll give you a darn sight more than that when I get over there, lady. I just need to accelerate to my cruising speed. Might take a few minutes.’

Again the smile, ragged and careless like the smile Kerrigan remembered. When he eventually arrived, Burt leaned over and gave her the kiss he’d promised her and Kerrigan saw in that brief exchange their spirits flying colours bright as banners. A part of them would always be young.

Outside there was a sudden scratching before Dingbat catapulted through the dog flap in the back door. After two years, Kerrigan still hadn’t worked out what breed Dingbat was but he had a lot of energy. The dog barked like there was an army of cats in the kitchen. He ran to Kerrigan, wagging his fluffy tail in recognition and turning in excited circles. Finally, he collapsed onto his back in submission and growled for attention. Kerrigan gave him a treat from the glass jar on the counter and rubbed his tummy. Dingbat tried to chew the dog biscuit upside down, half choking himself on the shattered crumbs.

‘You should see a doctor, Dingbat,’ said Kerrigan, ‘You need Prozac.’

‘Don’t you talk to my hound that way, boy,’ said Burt, ‘He’ll bite your nuts off before you can say crossbreed. Ain’t that right, Dingbat?’

Dingbat leapt to his feet. He stood with his head cocked to one side, his tail swishing in expectation as he waited to be addressed again.

‘You catch any squirrels today, Dingbat?’ The dog turned his head over even further as Burt spoke then flicked it to the other side, whining a little.

‘I swear that dog understands every word I say.’

‘You both show similar linguistic abilities,’ said Kerrigan.

Kath smiled.

Burt said, ‘If I was ten years younger, James Kerrigan, I’d tan your hide,’

‘I think we’re both a little old for that, don’t you?’

‘A boy’s never too old to appreciate a good beating.’

‘How old a ‘boy’ do you think I am, Burt?’

‘Not old enough to avoid a darn good switching.’

‘Settle down, you two,’ said Kath.

Kerrigan saw a little colour in the old man’s cheeks. He was glad to see it.

For a while Burt and Kath talked about the little details of their lives and the things they saw on the news each day. They hardly ever went outside the old house and although Kath used Burt as her excuse, Kerrigan knew the real reason was that they were scared of the world now. They no longer understood or trusted it.

‘Why don’t you two come over to my place one time?’ asked Kerrigan.

‘We don’t have a car,’ said Burt.

‘So what? Maggie would give you a ride.’

‘Oh, we couldn’t ask her,’ said Kath. ‘And anyway, it isn’t safe for Burt to be out, he could take a fall.’

‘You should come. It’s only three miles. You’ll feel good for doing it. I’ll make sure you’re well looked after.’ Kerrigan smiled at them. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

‘If we come over,’ asked Burt, ‘will you return the favour and visit us for supper?’

The old man was staring at him. Kath looked down at the table. Kerrigan glanced at Dingbat who wagged his tail. He searched for a response.

‘I’m not exactly — I mean, I’d love to, but I usually do my best work in the evenings and —’

‘Come on a Saturday, then,’ said Burt. ‘You don’t work Saturday nights do you?’

‘Well, sometimes,’ said Kerrigan.

‘You mean you wouldn’t take one Saturday night off to come and visit the only family you have?’

‘Of course I would but I . . .’

‘What, James?’ Burt demanded. ‘You what? Don’t tell me you don’t have a car. We could get Maggie to give you a ride down.’

‘But I’d have to walk back. She’s in bed by nine.’

‘That’s right. But like you say, there’s nothing to be afraid of, right?’

‘Go easy, Burt,’ said Kath laying a hand on his forearm.

‘No,’ said the old man. ‘No way. One of the ‘big’ reasons he gave us for moving up to the end of town was that he wanted to get over his fear of the dark. Have you done that yet, James? Can you take a walk after sundown? Can you sleep right through the night without waking? Or do you still piss the sheets?’

‘That’s enough, Burt.’ Kath’s voice was icy. ‘I won’t hear you speak to our boy that way.’

Burt was breathless. Kerrigan saw real anger in his eyes.

‘It’s okay, Kath. He’s right. I should be able to do it. And I have been out walking when the sun goes over the mountain but just — not after dark.’

Kerrigan sat quietly for a time. Burt stared at the chequered pattern in the seersucker tablecloth. His breathing slowed and the fire left his cheeks. He looked ancient and exhausted again, no better than when Kerrigan had arrived.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll do it.’

‘What?’ Burt was incredulous.

‘Now, James there’s no need to go making rash promises after a few heated words,’ said Kath in a hurry. ‘Burt didn’t mean it. Did you, Burt?’

The old man didn’t have any fight left in him.

‘No, I didn’t mean it. I just wish sometimes that things were different.’

‘So do I,’ Kerrigan said, ‘and that’s why I’m going to do it. You let me know when you can come up and we’ll have lunch. I’ll cook us something really good, whatever you want. If it’s warm enough I’ll do a barbecue. And the following Saturday I’ll walk to your house for supper and then walk back. How’s that?’

Burt looked shocked.

‘You serious?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well, that’s just great, son. Just great.’ Burt’s expression lifted. ‘Why don’t you barbecue some corn on the cob and we could have those special chicken wings Kath used to make.’

‘I’ll bring them with me,’ she said.

‘Can you make a decent potato salad?’ asked Burt.

‘Of course I can,’ said Kerrigan.

‘Maybe Kath should do the potato salad,’ said Burt.

‘Listen, this is my barbecue and I’m doing the cooking. You can bring the wings but that’s all. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Kerrigan lifted the battered jug.

‘Who wants more coffee?’

Kerrigan stayed until he noticed Burt tiring again and he left to let the old man rest.

As Kerrigan said goodbye and walked out into the late summer sunshine, the threat of darkness was distant, the fear of it childish.

Chapter 5

A Candle. Matches. An earthenware bowl. Silt from the Singing River in a chipped coffee cup. A tightly bound bundle of Sweetgrass. A vial of water. A craft knife.

Kerrigan places the items on a large mat of woven rushes and kneels before them. The only light comes from a propane lamp. He glances at the windows, each one a black square pressurised by the gathering night, and shudders.

Hands trembling, he lights the candle and snuffs the lamp with a twist of its valve. Darkness leaps in from all sides. Kerrigan cowers.

Please.

He lights the Sweetgrass bundle and stands it in the river silt before blowing out its flame. Only when its redolent smoke reaches his nostrils does he feels the surge in his veins. His trembling ceases, the tension falls from his shoulders, he raises his head.

He uncorks the vial and washes his left forearm in its cool water, the moisture absorbing into his skin. He takes the craft knife, places its tip between the tendons on the inside of his forearm and thrusts. Something bursts within his wrist and a spray, black in the candlelight, jets from the wound. He lengthens the incision by drawing the blade towards his elbow and the spray becomes a dark tide.

Positioning his wrist over the earthenware bowl, he watches his fluids, dark as molasses, cascade from the wound, his palm, his fingers. With his right hand, he passes the blade of the craft knife through the candle flame and quenches the hot steel in the river silt. He waits for the level in the bowl to rise. Long before it is full, the flow recedes and the incision begins to close. Soon the cut is no more than a long, angry scab.

By the light of the candle, Kerrigan sets to work.

Kerrigan woke at first light, a flutter of anticipation in his stomach at the thought of what the day would bring; something a little different from a sore back and tired eyes sustained at his keyboard.

After washing and sitting quietly for a while on the porch, he smudged himself with the smoke of sage and cedar: He placed the crushed leaves in an abalone shell and set fire to the mixture with a match. The flame soon died leaving a smouldering pile that he could work with. Standing naked at the back of the house, he used an eagle feather to waft the smoke towards himself making sure it touched every part of his body. He paid particular attention that day to circulate the smoke around his genitals. Only when he was satisfied that he was cleansed did he tip the ashes from the shell and into the soil beside the back door; a dark place where nothing ever grew.

Buster watched like he did every morning. Kerrigan had the feeling that if he didn’t smudge, Buster would find a way to remind him. After breakfast, he sat on the porch once again and fashioned a binder using his goat horn lock knife. The blade was so keen it could pare away shavings thinner than Bible paper. He used withies softened in water from Singing River to bind the two shafts of the cross. He laid curved sections of pine into grooves cut at the outer ends of each shaft to surround the cross in a ring. Once the circle was in place, he secured it with further strips of damp reed. When the withy dried, it shrank, clasping the binder tight.