I Am the Messenger (28 page)

“Nice talking to you,” I say, and we shake hands. “Merry Christmas to you, Simon.”

I guess he’s Simon now, not the boyfriend.

Once inside, I sleep on the couch in my casual black suit and the ocean blue shirt.

Merry Christmas, Ed.

I work on Boxing Day and visit Bernie at the Bell Street Cinema the next day.

“Ed Kennedy!” he cries out when I get there. “Back for more, ay?”

“No,” I tell him. “I need your help, Bernie.”

Immediately he comes closer and asks, “What can I do for you?”

“Well, you know your movies, right?”

“Of course. You can watch anything you—”

“Shh—just tell me, Bernie. Tell me everything you know about these titles.” I pull out the Ace of Hearts although I could easily recite them without it. “
The Suitcase, Cat Ballou,
and
Roman Holiday
.”

Bernie clicks into business straightaway. “
Roman Holiday
I have, but the other two I don’t.” He inundates me with facts. “
Roman Holiday
is widely considered one of the best movies starring Gregory Peck, made in 1953 and directed by William Wyler, of
Ben-Hur
fame. It was filmed with breathtaking beauty in Rome and was famous for the glorious performance of Audrey Hepburn, who Peck insisted have equal billing. He claimed that if she didn’t, he would be a laughingstock—such was the strength of her performance. This was backed up when she pocketed an Oscar for her troubles….”

He talks on at a very fast pace, but I rewind to one word that Bernie has spoken.

Audrey,
I think.

“Audrey,” I say.

“Yes.” He looks at me, disoriented by my ignorance. “Yes, Audrey Hepburn. And she was absolutely marv—”

No, don’t say
marvelous, I beg.
That word belongs to Milla
.

“Audrey Hepburn!” I almost shout. “What can you tell me about the other two?”

“Well, I’ve got a catalog,” Bernie explains. “It’s even bigger than the one I showed you last time. It contains just about every movie ever released. Actors, directors, cinematographers, sound tracks, musical scores, the lot.”

He brings back the thick book and offers it to me. First up,
Cat Ballou
. I read aloud as soon as I find the page.

“‘Starring Lee Marvin in one of his most famous roles….’” I stop because I’ve found it. I go back and read the name again. “‘Lee
Marvin
.’”

Now I move on to
The Suitcase
.

As soon as I find it, I read the cast list and the director. The director of
The Suitcase
is someone called Pablo Sanchez. He and Ritchie share the same last name.

And I have my three addresses.

Ritchie. Marv. Audrey.

There’s an express exhilaration that is quickly replaced by anxiety.

I hope the messages are good,
I think, but something tells me this won’t be easy. There must be good reason these three were left till last. As well as being my friends, they’ll also be the most challenging messages I have to deliver. I can feel it.

I hold the card and drop the catalog book to the counter.

Bernie’s concerned. “What is it, Ed?”

I look at him and say, “Wish me luck, Bernie. Wish me the heart to get through this.”

He does.

Still holding the card, I walk out onto the street. Outside, I meet the darkness and uncertainty of what will come next.

I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.

The smell of street struggles to get its hands on me, but I shrug it off and walk on. Each time a shudder makes its way to my arms and legs, I walk harder, deciding if Audrey needs me, and Ritchie and Marv, I have to hurry.

Fear is the street.

Fear is every step.

The darkness grows heavier on the road and I begin.

To run.

My first instinct tells me to go straight to Audrey’s.

I want to make it there as fast as possible to ease whatever problem she has. I don’t even dare to contemplate the fact that I might need to perform something unpleasant.

Just get there,
I tell myself, but then it’s another instinct that takes control.

I walk on but pull the card up and hold it in front of my eyes.

I check the order.

Ritchie. Marv. Audrey.

A strong feeling reaches out in front of me and drags with it a knowledge that I have to go in order. Audrey’s last for a reason, and I know it. First up’s Ritchie.

“Yes,” I agree with my thoughts, and I keep walking hard. I make my way to Ritchie’s place, on Bridge Street. I work out the quickest way there, and my feet move further and faster.

Am I hurrying so I can make it quicker to Audrey?
I ask, but I give no answer.

I focus on Ritchie.

A vision of his face comes to me as I pass under the branches of a tree. I brush through the leaves and wipe him from my sight, hearing his voice and the constant remarks during cards. I remember his Christmas joy at Marv’s kiss with the Doorman.

Ritchie,
I wonder.
What message do I deliver to Ritchie?

I’m nearly there now.

The corner of Bridge Street is up ahead.

My pulse goes into spasm and gains momentum.

As I round the bend I see Ritchie’s place immediately. A question of shock stands beside me and breathes at my face.

I see the lights in Ritchie’s kitchen and in the lounge room, but my path is distracted by one thought. It refuses to leave.

What do I do now?
it asks me.

Every other place was relatively easy because I didn’t really know the people (excluding Ma—and when I was sitting in that Italian restaurant, I had no idea I was waiting for
her
), so there wasn’t much choice. I just waited for the opportunity to arise. But with Ritchie, Marv, and Audrey, I know them all far too well to loiter around their houses. It’s the last thing I would ever do.

Still, I weigh it up for close to a minute and eventually decide to cross the road and sit against an old oak tree to wait.

I’m there nearly an hour, and to be perfectly honest, not a whole lot’s happening. I notice that Ritchie’s folks are home from their holiday. (I saw his ma doing the dishes.)

It’s getting late, and soon it’s only the kitchen that’s lit up. House lights across the whole street are being cut down at the knees, and all that’s left are the streetlights.

In the Sanchez house, a lone figure has walked in and sits at the kitchen table.

I know, without question, that it’s Ritchie.

For a moment, I consider going in, but before I get a chance to rise to my feet, I hear some people moving in my direction from down the street.

Soon there are two men standing above me.

They’re eating pies.

One of them looks down and speaks at me. He looks at me with a kind of familiar, indifferent disdain and says, “We were told we might find you here, Ed.” He shakes his head and throws down a pie, obviously bought from a local service station. As it drops to the ground, he says, “You’re a dead-set shocker, aren’t you?”

I look up, completely lost for words.

“Well, Ed?” It’s the other one talking now, and as ludicrous as it sounds, it’s actually quite hard to recognize them without their balaclavas.

“Daryl?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Keith?”

“Correct.”

Daryl sits down now and gives me the pie. “For old times’ sake,” he explains.

“Right,” I reply, still in shock. “Thanks.” Memories of their last visit start to hurry me. Crowded thoughts of blood, words, and the dirty kitchen floor. I have to ask it. “You’re not going to…” It’s still a little hard to speak.

“What?” says Keith this time, sitting at my other side. “Lean on you a little?”

“Well,” I say, “yes.”

As an act of good faith, Daryl opens the plastic wrapper of my pie and hands it back to me. “Oh no, Ed. No touch-ups today. Nothing of the sort.” He allows a nostalgic laugh to exit his lips. He makes it sound like we’re old war buddies or something. “Mind you, if you get smart on us…” He gets comfortable on the ground. He has pale skin and a face infested with fight scars, but he somehow still manages to be handsome. Keith, on the other hand, has a face bulleted with old acne, a pointy nose, and a crooked chin.

I look over at him and say, “Jesus, mate, I think I liked you better with the mask on.” Daryl lets out a shot of laughter. Keith, by comparison, is not impressed, or at least not to begin with. Soon he calms down, and the feeling among us is good. I guess it really is because we’ve been through something together, even if from totally different sides.

For a minute or so, we sit and eat.

“Any sauce?” I ask.

“I told you!” Keith accuses Daryl.

“What?”

“Well,
I
said we should get you some sauce, Ed,” Keith explains, “but tight arse over there wouldn’t hear of it.”

Daryl throws back his head before answering.

“Look,” he begins, “sauce is too dangerous.” He points a finger at my shirt. “Look what Ed’s wearing there, Keith, huh? Tell me. What color is it?”

“I
know
what color it is, Daryl. There’s no need to get all condescending again.”

“Again? When the hell am I ever condescending?”

They’re almost shouting across me now as I take another bite of the half-cold pie.

“Right now,” continues Keith. He attempts to bring me into it, asking, “What about you, Ed? What would you say?” His eyes are pointed right at me. “Is Daryl being condescending?”

I decide to answer Daryl’s original question.

“I’m wearing a white shirt,” I say.

“Exactly,” Daryl responds.

“Exactly what?”

“Exactly,
Keith,
it is simply far too dangerous for Ed to even
contemplate
eating that pie with sauce.” His tone is definitely condescending now. “It’ll drip off, land on that lovely white shirt, and the poor bastard’ll end up having to wash the bloody thing. And we don’t want that now, do we?”

“It’s not going to
kill
him to wash it!” Keith’s particularly vehement on this point. “He can put a load on while he’s washing that shitheap dog of his—that’ll take at least a few hours or so.”

“Now, there’s no need to bring the Doorman into it,” I protest. “He hasn’t done anything.”

“Exactly,” Daryl agrees. “That was uncalled for, Keith.”

Keith cools down a moment and admits it. His head drops. “I know.” He even apologizes, “Sorry, Ed.” And I can tell that this time they’ve been ordered to be on their best behavior toward me. That’s probably why they’re having double the arguments with each other.

They go on awhile longer, until they’ve both apologized, and for a while, we talk among the night that has dripped upon us with silence.

We’re all quite happy, with Daryl telling jokes about men walking into bars, women with shotguns, and then wives, sisters, and brothers who would all sleep with the milkman for a million dollars.

Yes, we’re all quite happy, until the light goes off in Ritchie’s kitchen.

That’s when I stand up and say, “Great.” I turn to the two best arguers I’ve ever met and tell them I’ve missed my chance.

They seem unconcerned.

“Your chance at what?” Daryl asks.

“You know,” I tell him.

But he only shakes his head.

He says, “No, Ed, as a matter of fact, I don’t. I only know that this is your next message and you still don’t seem to be thinking clearly about what you’re supposed to be doing.” His voice is so casual, but so heavy with something else.

Truth,
I think.

That’s what the voice weighs in with.

He’s right. I really don’t know what I’m doing. I’m still guessing as I stand here hoping that the answers will simply come.

Daryl and Keith stand up next to me under the oak.

It’s Keith who deals the last questions from my left side.

He feeds the words into my ears with a coarse, gentle, knowing voice.

Close, so close to me, he says, “What are you even doing here, Ed?” The words loom nearer still and crawl into my ear. “Why are you standing here waiting? You should
know
what to do….” He rests a moment before delivering the final deluge of words. They enter me like a flood. “Ritchie’s one of your best friends, Ed. You don’t need to
think
about anything, or wait, or decide what to do. You
know
already, without any question or doubt. Don’t you?” He repeats it now. “Don’t you, Ed?”