Half Blood (21 page)

James woke when he heard a voice calling his name from outside. Rolling off the sofa bed, he shuffled over to the window, pulled the thin curtain back and peered out into the winter night. The ground was white with fresh snow, blanketing the tops of cars and the footpaths. James looked beyond the flakes to see a man down on the footpath standing in front of a basin and mirror.

The guy leaned closer to the mirror like he was getting a better look at something on his face. A glint reflected off something else, catching James’ eye. When he looked down, he saw the man was holding a straight razor in his hand. The man turned on the water, waiting until steam fogged up the mirror before he slid the blade under the stream of hot water. He turned off the tap with a sharp metallic squeak, but the spout was still dripping slowly in time with James’ pulse.

James exhaled—a cold cloud of white breath coming out of his mouth in front of him. When the fog cleared, he looked down. He was standing in a small snowdrift; his bare feet ankle-deep in fresh snow, the bottom of his sweats soaked through. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself to conserve as much heat as he could.

The sound of dripping intensified, mimicking the beat of James’ heart. Licking his dry lips, he looked back down at the tap and his heart kicked in his chest. It wasn’t water coming out of it, but blood. His eyes went back to the shaving man, except he wasn’t shaving at all. His eyes were cast down at the sink, his face clean of soap and beads of blood. James forced his legs to move out of the snow and onto the footpath. He took a few tentative steps until he was standing closer to the man.

The man turned suddenly. James looked into his eyes, recognition flooding him. He knew this man. The guy smiled malevolently at James then looked back down again. A feeling of weightlessness took over James’ body. His head swam with dizziness until finally his whole body jolted violently. He let out a shaky breath and dropped whatever was in his hand. It clanged metallically into the porcelain. Through slitted eyes all he could see was red: blood. There was blood everywhere. Taking in a deep breath through his mouth, he focussed again on the tap and found it dripping clean, clear water again.

He looked at the back of his hands, holding them close to his face before flipping them over. Blood coated his fingers and palms, covering them like a thick blanket of red. Rubbing his fingers together, he inspected his hands carefully, looking for a cut or a nick from the razor. James was afraid to look any higher, afraid to find out where the blood was coming from. He knew there was too much of it to have just come from a scratch. He swallowed down thickly and took a deep breath to steady himself.

Light-headed and shaky, his eyes climbed the final inches up to the three, huge wounds in his forearm. The straight razor that had fallen into the sink was shiny with blood––his blood. He heard laughing, and when he looked up, the reflection in the mirror had an evil smile stretched across his lips.

The reflection’s wide shoulders shrugged, his lips contorting into a malevolent smirk. ‘Because you’re a disgusting, dirty boy,’ he growled in a low voice that sent chills skittering up James’ spine.

James shot up off the sofa bed, gulping for air. Sweat had broken out on his brow and upper lip—the shirt he was wearing damp. A dream. It was only a dream. Relief washed over him in cool waves as his breathing slowed and his heart stopped pounding against his ribs.

Throwing the sheet from his body, James sat on the edge of the sofa bed with his head in his hands. It had felt so real. On an impulse, he looked down at his forearms––as if his eyes needed to catch up with his brain. But when he saw three, deep gouges taken out of not only his right forearm, but his left as well, his heart rate picked up again.

Running his fingers along the wounds, he sucked in a hissing breath; the sting telling him they were barely a few hours old. But where had they come from? Pinching the bridge of his nose, a very fine tremor shook his hand. What the
hell
had he been doing? His blackouts had been getting worse, more frequent––scarier. Out of desperation, he got up and ransacked his apartment for his diary, hoping to God that there were some clues he may have scribbled down at some point.

He’d been seeing a shrink for the last few months for his blackouts. She’d suggested writing things down when he felt like he was spinning out of control. They were her words, not his: s
pinning out of control
. Those words sounded loaded, volatile. But he had done as he was asked and kept a diary.

Knocking over his style-jumbled music collection, he searched behind the stacks and came up empty. He tried the same with his collection of DVDs, but came up with the same result; although he did find a couple of movies he didn’t remember buying. He didn’t remember having so many movies when he’d moved into his apartment six months ago.

Slumping down onto the side of the sofa bed, he rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. Where had he put it? And why did having this diary mean so much to his sanity? It was as if he could truly know he wasn’t losing the plot if he had that book.

Then he remembered the last place he’d seen it. James got up and searched through his black, leather briefcase. He found the diary crammed into one of the pockets. Flattening it out again against his chest, he flipped the diary open to a random page. It was dated from just over a month ago.

I bought the newspaper today. The headlining story was about a girl aged twenty who had been raped in Hell. The police have no leads and hope it’s an isolated case. I hope he’s caught soon …

I think I might have a burger for dinner.

Impatient with the lack of information, James slipped to another page. This entry was dated from just over a week ago.

When I came home last night, I felt … dirty. I don’t know how else to explain it. I’d taken off my shirt when I saw there was some blood on it. I think it was mine, but I’m not sure. I went into the bathroom to check for any scrapes and I had a busted lip. I had no idea how that had happened though. I checked the rest of my body to make sure I hadn’t been beaten, but my lip was my only injury. It reminds me of when I was twelve years old again.

I stripped off the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower. When I looked down, I had lipstick on my penis. I stopped the shower straight away and checked the pockets of my jeans, finding a cocktail napkin with a girl’s number on it. She said her name was Candy. I don’t remember meeting anyone named Candy … I feel like I’m going crazy.

Turning the page, there was another entry dated exactly one week ago.

I read the newspaper this morning. The front page story was about the rapist doing the rounds in Buxton. They’re saying that he’s using a knife in his attacks and they’re scared that he’ll start getting more violent. I worry about my neighbour across the hall. She’s all alone in this apartment block. I’m worried that one night she just won’t come back. I try to help her out when I can. I offered to walk her to work this morning, but like always she said she would be alright. I hope she’s right.

I seem to be losing more and more time. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

James leafed through another couple of blank pages, figuring that that had to have been his last entry. Just as he was about to close the diary, he noticed some heavy handwriting through the page. Turning over the blank page, he opened up the diary so the double page entry was clear. In different handwriting––almost primitive looking––was written: You are not crazy. I am here to help you … to protect you. James’ fingers traced over the letters that had been written in capitals with a black marker. He hadn’t written this, but when he stared at the letters, he remembered being there to see it done. James felt his throat close up a little; tears threatening to choke the sound from his throat. He couldn’t figure out why someone would read his diary, or even
how
they could have read it when he wrote in it and kept it only in his apartment.

He knew the neighbourhood was bad, but it was all he could afford until he started doing better in his job. Maybe someone had broken in, read his journal and left it right where he kept it.

Leaning back into the couch cushion, he thought about just how insane that idea was. Who would break into an apartment just to read a diary that was hidden away? And why wasn’t anything else missing? If anything, he had
more
things than before. No, it couldn’t have been that.

He picked up his diary and took it to the sofa bed, laying it in his lap. He recalled seeing a story about a woman on TV, a psychic, who went into a trance. When she was entranced, she did something called automatic writing where she subconsciously wrote things down. Maybe that was what was happening to him. It might explain the blackouts.

Picking up a pen, James wrote:
Who are you???
He didn’t understand why. He didn’t think there was an answer to that question. He wrote it to stop himself from screaming and breaking everything in his apartment. He didn’t expect an answer either, but when the hand clutching the pen changed its grip, he felt himself slip away for a moment.

When he came back, he looked down at the page. Under his question was written:

IT’S ME. YOUR BUDDY.

‘Are you sure you want to come back so soon after getting out of hospital?’ Jerry asked her for the umpteenth time as they drove to work the next morning.

‘What else would I be doing if I weren’t at work?’

‘I don’t know. Resting?’ Jerry replied, parking his car in the secure parking space behind the café.

She laughed. ‘I can sleep when I’m dead.’ Indi stepped out of the car and shivered. Winter was definitely here now. Jerry slung an arm over her shoulder as they walked around the building to the front of the café.

Indi glanced at Jerry from the corner of her eye. He was still standing there, which was a good sign, but she wasn’t sure if he was still breathing. She turned back to Barb. Begrudgingly, she gave her answer. ‘Yesterday.’ Indi hadn’t wasted good manners on Barb since the clusterfuck with Jerry’s dad.

‘Well then, I can forgive you for not coming to see me.’

Indi bit her tongue, stopping herself from saying she’d rather swallow razorblades than go and visit her. Looking Barb over, she took stock of her injuries. The shadows of bruises on her face and neck didn’t detract from the fact that she looked great for fifty-something. Her left arm was bandaged and held in a crisp, white sling across her chest while a small butterfly clip clung to her hairline unobtrusively.

‘So I guess that answers my question about whether being hit by a car would stop you dressing in the expensive stuff.’ Barb was always dripping in designer-label clothing that managed to highlight her slim waist and big bust. And, apparently––car or not––she always would.

Barb laughed derisively. ‘Oh, Indigo. You were always
so
funny.’

‘Well, I’m not dead yet, Barb,’ Indi said sarcastically.
No matter how much you would like that to happen.
Barb smiled at her, but it didn’t last too long; dripping from her lips like a candle drips wax––slowly yet obviously. Indi was under no illusion that Barb hated her. She could see it in her eyes, but she maintained the charade of cordiality. Good breeding would do that though.

‘I bet you’re wondering why I’m here,’ she simpered. Indi arched an eyebrow in response. Giving her a contemptible smile, Barb explained, ‘I want to invite you out for lunch. Say, today at one?’

‘Not going to happen,’ Indi replied, watching Barb’s mouth rearrange into a snarl as her cruel, dark eyes found Jerry for the first time.

‘Are you sure you won’t reconsider dinner? Jerry, you are invited too of course,’ she said in a purr.

‘Why mother?’ he asked cautiously.

‘I want to make it up to you––to both of you––for my awful behaviour. I haven’t been a very good mother to either of you these past six months, and I would like to start making amends by having a meal with you.’

Indi thought she said ‘dear’ like she wanted to say
dirty, home-wrecking whore
. Her lip curled into a cruel twist of a smile. ‘I said can’t wait.’

‘Great. I’ll see you then.’ Barb smiled at her son as she popped open the door of the black stretch Mercedes she’d been standing next to. ‘Oh and Indi?’