Mercy of St Jude (21 page)

Callum knew from experience that this was the end of the night for his father. He carried him up to bed and removed his shirt and pants. Farley wore no underwear. Callum tucked a couple of blankets around the withered naked body and went down to the kitchen.

The walls shook as the storm built momentum. He decided he would give his sister half an hour, then he'd head out to find her.

Fifteen minutes later, Mercedes tiptoed in. Her skin seemed abnormally pale in the dimly lit kitchen. When she saw Callum her hand flew to her chest.

“Cal? Is that you? What are you doing here?”

“Is that all the ‘how-are-you-good-to-have-you-home' I'm going to get?” he said.

Bolting across the room, she fell into his arms and started to cry.

“Merce, it's okay, it's okay. Everything's going to be all right.

I'm home now.”

“Oh, Cal, I'm some glad you're here. I've been so scared.

And Dad's no help. It's that frigging Paddy Griffin. Even after I kicked him out Dad kept bringing him home. He wouldn't listen to me. I didn't know what to be doing.”

“You shouldn't have stayed here, Merce.”

“But how? I couldn't just show up on someone's doorstep.

Besides, this is my home, not his, even if he acts like he owns the place. He even got the truck running and acts like he owns that too. And all Dad does is send him out for more booze.”

He steered her to a chair and sat down next to her. “Did Paddy hurt you?”

“No, not really.” She shivered and rubbed her arms with her hands. “It's just…well, he's always watching me and he gets that look on his face, kind of like he's doing stuff in his head, and he gets so close, right up in my face.” She shivered again.

“He's been stopping here off and on for months and Dad got him doing all kinds of stuff, getting the mail and buying booze and food and doing all kinds of things like that, just like he's you or Joe. Dad hasn't left the house all week, just sits there drinking till his head hits the table...” She was talking so fast she could barely catch up to herself. “…and he keeps getting worse, it's like there's something wrong with his brain. Paddy feeds him lies and Dad believes him. I'm half afraid to sleep at night.”

Forcing himself to remain calm, Callum held her face gently between his palms. “Slow down, Mercie. I'm home now. So what's Paddy telling him?”

“Stuff about how he heard you were making it so big in New York and you must be too big for your boots to come back here and that's why we haven't heard from you. And he says it like the Pope told him and Dad's foolish enough to believe him. Some days he really doesn't seem all there.”

“Who, Paddy or Dad?” Callum was only half joking.

“Paddy too, but Dad's really gone. He keeps calling me Mary.”

“He thinks you're Mom?”

“I guess so. He looks at me right strange like he's trying to remember who I am. And Paddy plays it up and pretends like Dad is so funny. Then the old man starts yammering at me like I'm really her. I know he's a bit cracked but it's sad.”

“I remember Jack Griffin saying how Dad's father went foolish in his old age, but I never put much pass on it. I mean, who's a Griffin to talk about crackpots? Of course, fifty years of boozing and a crack on the noggin down a mine shaft don't help.”

“He's even crazier lately. Him and Paddy are always on about going to Toronto. At Dad's age! I hear he's a right laughing stock down at Patron's. Gets all riled up and tells everybody they'll see, he'll go, he's just waiting for the right time.”

“The old man wouldn't survive a day in Toronto, especially with that scoundrel Paddy. You did right to kick him out. If he comes back, I'll take care of him.”

Mercedes almost smiled. “I was at the mail sending you a letter this afternoon, and I heard someone say he's gone for good, got run off a few days ago. And they should know. His mother works there. Besides, if he was still around he'd for sure be here drinking Dad's booze.”

“Speaking of mail, what do you mean you haven't heard from me? I've been writing all the time. I even sent a telegram to let you know I was coming.”

“You did?”

“Yes, but I didn't think I'd get here this quick. I'm sure glad I did though.”

“I got nothing from you in ages. I was getting worried that something happened.” She winced as a particularly loud roll of thunder rumbled outside.

“What about the money I sent?”

“Like I told you, no letter and certainly no money. And I wrote—” She clamped her hand to her mouth. “Paddy gets the mail. He's even been helping his mother out at the post office since she got sick. He'd have the run of the place, even the telegraphs.” She stopped. “Surely to God he wouldn't mess with the mail.”

“He's been working at the post office? How could anybody trust that good-for-nothing to handle the mail? First thing tomorrow morning we're going over there.”

“I bet that's why he left. He knew you were coming.” She clicked her fingers. “Frig! Sure that's it. He got your money and took off. How much did you send?”

“Enough to get you a place to stay and away from that crook,” he said.

Mercedes smiled. “You're doing pretty good for yourself, aren't you?”

“I'm doing okay.” In fact, he was doing better than anyone had expected. The Macleans hadn't thought it right to have their daughter's husband working on a regular crew so they'd brought him into the office. He'd caught on quickly – so quickly, in fact, that his father-in-law had begun to leave him in charge when he had to be away. “But I can't stop home too long. Once I take care of things around here I got to get back.” His stomach growled; he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Mercedes jumped up. “I'll make us a scoff while you tell me about New York. First, how's Joe?” She took a log from the woodbin. “His little girl? Is she any better?”

Callum shook his head. “It's not looking good. Leukemia.”

“Leukemia! Oh my God, poor Joe.” Mercedes put the wood in the stove and stared into the flames. “Is there any hope at all?”

“The doctor said no, but Joe won't believe it. All we can do is pray.”

She worked at the wood for a while, jabbing it with the poker, then wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Tell me about Judith. Is she pretty?”

Callum felt himself blush as he described his wife. Soon, Mercedes was teasing him in a singsong voice, “Ca-lum's in lo-ove, Ca-lum's in lo-ove.”

They spent the rest of the night catching up. Around midnight, he took a couple of blankets to the front porch. Outside, thunder and lightening raged. The house shuddered. Mercedes fetched him an extra afghan.

“Some racket.” Callum yawned. “I don't expect it'll keep me awake, though.”

“Me neither. It'll be the first time in months I won't be hiding a rock under my pillow.” Mercedes hugged him tight and went upstairs to bed.

Callum lay in darkness, his sister's words echoing in the night. Maybe he should take her to New York to live with him and Judith. There was little he could do for his father. Callum had a new life now, and although Mercedes might be able to become a part of it, Farley never could.

As the house settled into the night's blackest hours, Callum drifted into an odd restless sleep, half dreams, half memories.

The only reason he was certain he slept at all was because he kept waking up, yet he was never sure when he was truly awake.

Suddenly, his eyes shot open. His gut rocked with alarm but he heard only the hard, exaggerated beating of his heart. He lay still, trying to listen past the storm. There was a springy scratching sound that he thought had been part of a dream. He rushed into the house. The back door was open, sending a frigid breeze across his bare feet and chest and making him grateful he'd kept the bottom half of his long johns on.

He heard a thud above him. He ran to the stairway. The noises were more pronounced - muffled grunts, gagging noises.

Callum took the stairs two at a time.

Through the open doorway of Mercedes' bedroom he saw him - Paddy Griffin, naked, his gut hanging out, his arse a sickly white. In one hand he held a bloodied filleting knife, in the other, a switchblade. He was leaning in slightly, talking to someone on the end of the bed that was hidden behind the wall. Callum leapt forward.

Paddy turned. He looked surprised, disoriented. “You? Already—?” Callum was on him before he could finish. Paddy staggered backwards. His arm swung out hard to the side, goring the knife into the neck of a man sitting naked on the bed. There was a throaty gasping sound as the man pitched sideways on top of Mercedes, who lay gagged, arms tied to the bedpost.

Callum froze. God, no! It couldn't be! But one second of eye contact with his sister told him all he needed to know. As the blood spurted from Farley's neck, Callum yanked at the rope tying Mercedes down, but then she began to moan frantically through the cloth in her mouth. Her head jerked toward the foot of the bed.

Callum spun around. Paddy was stumbling towards the door. Callum hurled himself after him. Catching a leg, he pulled. Paddy fell to the floor but quickly wriggled free and hopped up. He was surprisingly agile.

“Had this all figured out.” Paddy spit on the floor. “Now you shows up. Fuck.”

They circled each other, closer to the door one moment, closer to Mercedes the next, Callum always with an eye on the switchblade in Paddy's fist.

“She was some good.” Paddy cackled. “Fucking virgin, tight and bloody like I likes it. All bloody and smeary now.”

Callum assumed Paddy was referring to the blood of first sex, but when he looked past him at Mercedes, he saw that she'd managed to get a hand free and push Farley's body away. Scarlet lines oozed across her stomach. His eyes found Paddy's; they looked inhuman.

“You bastard!” Callum roared. “How could you do that to her?”

Paddy looked over at Mercedes as if to admire his handiwork. Seizing the opportunity, Callum lunged and knocked him to the floor. But Paddy was at least fifty pounds heavier and soon managed to gain the advantage. He knelt on Callum's wrists and pressed the blade to his throat. Callum was afraid to move, yet his mind registered the smell of rotting teeth and stale booze, and the grotesque sight of the man's penis crushed against his chest.

“Three Hanns in one night.” Saliva flew from between Paddy's remaining teeth. “I'll get away with it, too…”

Behind him, Callum watched Mercedes rise from the bed. Terrified that Paddy would become aware of what was happening, Callum deliberately kept eye contact with him, yelling and swearing as loud as he dared.

“…they all thinks I'm gone,” Paddy gloated, “said goodbye days ago…”

Mercedes pulled the gag from her mouth and reached for the knife.

“…and gone I'll be when I gets done with you.” Paddy let out a high-pitched shriek and raised the switchblade.

In one continuous motion, her bloodstained hand yanked the knife from Farley's neck, swung around and swept down to plunge it into Paddy's back.

A look of stupefaction spread over Paddy's blunt, drunk face.

The reverberating impact seemed to stun Mercedes as well. But as Paddy tried to get up, she pulled the knife out and thrust it back in. Her eyes were wild, frenzied. In. And out. Again and again, each stab a visceral charge straight from her gut and her heart and her throat. Even after Paddy lay still on top of Callum, she kept stabbing at his back, her arms weak, her mouth open in a silent cry. The feeble jabs barely made contact anymore but she seemed unable to stop, unable to halt the movement, the deathly rhythm of back and forth.

“Merce, stop!” Callum begged. “Let me up. Please Mercedes, stop it!”

Callum struggled to push Paddy away. The dead weight surprised him. He shoved harder and managed to free himself and grab Mercedes' arms. The knife fell to the floor next to the one Paddy had dropped moments before.

Blood was everywhere - on the walls, the bed, the blankets, the floor. The dim ceiling light shone down on the four of them, two still breathing, two forever still. There was no other sound.

The storm had died too.

Callum held Mercedes to him, her nakedness no longer relevant. The air seemed to convulse in her throat as she shuddered with each breath. He felt as though she was trying to say something but the words were lost in the spasms that rocked her.

Very gently, he helped her up off the floor and into the tiny bathroom. Together they stared, mesmerised, at the crosshatch of lightly bleeding lines. Mercedes' eyes were riveted on her belly, as if their focal point was permanently fixed there. Seeing the horror on his sister's face, Callum swallowed his own revulsion. Without warning, she collapsed against him.

“It's all right, Merce,” he whispered. “Shh, it's all right now,” he said, over and over, smoothing her bloodied tangled hair until at last she stopped shaking.

As her trembling subsided, he felt a peculiar tension come over her. With each deep deliberate breath, she seemed to gain strength. When she finally raised her head, her eyes were crystal hard, and except for the smeared blood, her cheeks were dry.

Callum noticed a small puddle collecting on the floor, then saw the red streaks on her legs. “Merce, you're bleeding…there…”

She looked down. As her hands reached out to cover her nakedness, her face contorted with pain. “It's just…it must be…the monthly…I need a towel.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Suddenly embarrassed, he found some clean towels and a blanket to cover her. “Merce, we got to get the police and go to the hospital.”

She pulled the blanket closer. “No.”

“We need to get these cuts looked at.”

“No hospital. Just help me clean myself up.”

“They could get infected.”

“Infected?” Her voice was tight with fury. “That'd be a blessing, a big old gangrene they could just cut out. Wouldn't that be the ticket?”