Inconstant Moon - Default Font Edition (40 page)

Elsie glares up at Liz. “And your point?”

Faces inches apart, Liz doesn't flinch, she shakes her head. “You're living in residence. The community is on edge. There will be no more strangers on this floor. Period.”

Folding her arms, defiant, “And what if I say no?”

“Then I get you bounced out of residence quick as I can.”

“I've been here longer than you have.”

“Doesn't change the fact that you're breaking residence rules. Who knows, maybe it could even get you expelled.”

The colour drains from Elsie's face as she stares in horror at this woman who has never even made it to her radar before.

“What have I ever done to you?” Petulant in the face of Liz's implacable calm.

“Nothing, until tonight when your lack of consideration caused harm to my friend.”

Glaring at Amelia, Elsie says, “She looks fine to me.”

“This is not negotiable.”

“I'll think about it.” Elsie retreats to her room, slamming the door. There are snickers and whispers as everyone disperses.

Amelia tells Liz, “That was awesome.”

“I just said what we were all thinking.”

Amelia nods, “That's right. But you said it.”

In the dark, Natasha is pressed up against the head board, clutching a pillow, heart pounding, eyes wide in terror. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fu—

She holds her breath as there is a knock on the door. Then she hears Maggie say, “Natasha? Can I come in?”

Breathing again in relief, Natasha says, “Just a minute.” She tries to get her breathing under control as she crosses to the door and unlocks it to let Maggie in.

Inside her room, Elsie leans against her door. They're all stupid and jealous. She doesn't have time to find an apartment before Christmas. It's gonna be more expensive too. Just because they can't get laid enough, they want to make her conform. Maybe she could cut back a little, but it isn't fair though. She isn't hurting anybody. And it isn't any of their god damned business.

If anybody is hurting anybody it's that loser Amelia. Seems fucking Eric isn't enough for her. Elsie is not giving up sex. No way, no matter what those jealous bitches want. It's her release. It's therapeutic. As necessary as breathing. The physicality and the endorphins make it possible for her to stay on an even keel. With her course load she needs the release, damn it. It's healthy.

Okay, she can understand Natasha probably doesn't . . . damn it anyway.  The problem is, she knows Liz is right.

Until she finds an apartment, sex will have to happen elsewhere. It's so unfair. She hasn't done anything wrong. Given a chance, she'd stake the fucking rapist down on an ant hill for messing up her life.

But getting turfed is not an option.

Wolfrom stares miserably out the passenger window of the unmarked car as Lewis navigates the cul de sacs of the suburbs. Wolfrom shakes his head, “How do people live like this. Everything looks the same.”

Lewis laughs. “Not exactly. The plans are the same, and the streets may be cookie cutter, but if you look closer you'll see signs of individualism.”

“I don't see it.” he stops as Lewis slows the car then turns into a driveway. This bungalow does look different. The lawn is overgrown, the paint is peeling and a general air of decay rests over the lot.

“This one looks like a crack house or something.”

Lewis nods. “Good guess. Maybe a year ago we busted this one. Didn't recognize the address at first.” Lewis winks at Wolfrom, “Crack houses are cheap. They all look alike.”

Wolfrom rolls his eyes. “So what are we doing here?”

Lewis shrugs. “It's gotta have something to do with junior perv 'cause it's the address that woman slipped me.”

As they get out of the car they are assailed by the cacophony of power lawnmowers throughout the neighbourhood. Mowers all through the subdivision are mowing lawns far shorter than the long bedraggled grass that Lewis and Wolfrom have to cross on this lawn in order to to reach the front door.

Lewis knocks.

Immediately the door opens a couple of inches before the chain catches it.

“Yes?” It's a young woman's voice, but it's dark inside so they can't see her.

“Police.” says Lewis, fanning her badge. “We'd like to ask you some questions, Miss Brooks.”

There's no response so she adds, “Routine investigation. Can we come in?”

The voice says, “Can you pass me your badge officer? Waving it around like that it's awfully hard to see.”

Lewis shrugs and passes it through the crack where it disappears. Wolfrom reaches into his breast pocket when the voice tells him, “Not you. Even if your badge looks legitimate you won't be coming inside.”

Wolfrom frowns. “What?”

Lewis's badge is extended through the crack. “I'll allow you in by yourself Detective Lewis.”

Lewis nods as she pockets her badge. “You'll have to wait in the car Wolfie.”

Disconcerted, Wolfrom says, “What did I . . . ?”

The voice says, “It's nothing you did. Just you're a man.”

“But . . .”

Lewis shoots him a look. “Just go.”

Wolfrom stomps back to the car. He watches the front door close then reopen without the chain. The woman glimpsed in the shadows might be pretty if she cleaned herself up. Dressed nicer. Wolfrom wonders if he'll ever understand women. This is ridiculous. This is . . .  this is . . . it's discrimination is what it is.  He watches Lewis disappear inside.

Not for the first time, Wolfrom regrets having quit smoking. He opens his phone to play some Tetris.

The speakers project Pablo Lentini Riv's masterful Bach classical guitar renditions while Adam and Dave work side by side at the workbench in Adam's basement. Bits of metal and wire are scattered everywhere. Dave carefully solders a cellphone sized motherboard while Adam wires yellow LEDs into the metal face of the robot they are building.

The young woman stirs her coffee, looking deep into the mug, as if she'll find her fortune there. It helps avoid eye contact with the cop sitting across the table.

Quietly taking a sip, Lewis waits, patiently. She's seen this before, knows not to push. “This is good, thanks.”

“You're welcome.” the young woman shrugs. “Sorry about your partner. It's just, just . . .”

Lewis nods. “That he's a man.”

“Yes.” Eve Brooks looks at Lewis gratefully. “I can't have any men here. It's just too dangerous in this rape culture. Safer.” She looks at Lewis. “You're here about that pig, Neil, aren't you?”

This time it's Lewis who looks away. “We're conducting an investigation. If there's anything you can tell me, it will be appreciated.”

“You won't do anything.” Miss Brooks shakes her head. “Nobody ever does.”

“Look, I can't help you unless you talk to me.”

Brooks laughs mirthlessly. “Even if I tell you everything you won't be able to help. Not in this world. This culture.”

Lewis says, “I'll do what I can. That's all I can promise.”

Brooks shakes her head again. “People say it's stupid and I'm over reacting. It was in an elevator full of people. He . . . he . . . was rubbing against me . . .”

Lewis is startled as Eve Brooks abruptly pushes her chair back with such force it overturns. Even so the woman barely makes it to the sink in time to heaves up the contents of her stomach. Lewis rights the chair, then returns to her own, carefully looking away, trying to offer what little privacy she can. Eve Brooks finishes, then washes everything down the drain before rinsing her mouth out with the clean running tap water. She remains at the counter, leaning over the sink.

“Sorry.”

“Don't be.” says Lewis, looking at the witness, she sees white knuckles gripping the lip of the sink for support.

“I'd better stay here.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Um. Look, I tell you, and then you go. Okay?”

Detective Lewis nods. “Alright. Can I call you later?”

“If you want. Just you won't want. What happened. Well. We were packed in the elevator like sardines, and I didn't realize. I mean I didn't notice him at first, and I didn't realize what was happening. I thought it was just so crowded. People couldn't really help it we were all so close together. I thought we were just pushed against each other. “But then . . . then I could feel his breath on my neck, hear him grunting.

“And I knew. But . . . but I was trapped in the back. And I could feel him rubbing . . . rubbing his penis against me, and I started having a panic attack but I was trapped. The elevator kept going and he kept pushing into me and . . . and . . . there was no air.”

She stops to throw up some more and Lewis feels a cold chill as she realizes the young woman is right. No prosecutor will ever bring charges over a “she says he says” in an elevator.

Even if they believe her, the bastard will walk because she didn't say anything to stop him at the time.  But the signs are there; Lewis knows.  Eve Brooks was already a rape victim before that pig Neil Molony dry raped her in an elevator full of people.

Tamara comes into the apartment, not sure what horror to expect, especially late on a Saturday night. Just the thought of another night at Barbie's is worse than dealing with Q. She needs resolution.

Unlocking the door, her nose twitches as she reaches for the light. It smells different. No pot anyway. What is that odour? Perfume?

As light floods the living room she is startled to see that everything is in order. Neat. No dead bottles or pizza boxes, or ashtrays. Well. Now that she sees this unnatural sight she can identify the smell— the perfume is Febreze. Maybe he's trying to change . . .

Wait a minute. Why is she giving him credit for this.

She knows Q.

No way. Q does not clean.

It was probably the cunt he was fucking who cleaned the place up for him.

Tamara's moment of happiness is killed by fury that Q fucked another woman in her bed. The man she married wouldn't have done that.

Bastard.

Tamara sets down the cheap empty suitcase she's brought in the doorway. She'd better go see if he's here before packing. Make sure he's not fucking anyone else right now. Although, Saturday night. Great night for partying. Even students who work at their courses are out partying tonight.

Taking a deep breath — Febreze, shit — Tamara goes down the little hall to the bedroom. The bimbo probably bought it. Q would never . . . And she opens the door. The window is open a crack, the bed is made, hell, it looks laundered. Clean sheets. Smells fresher in here. Hiding the evidence no doubt.

She opens her side of the closet. Reaching in she freezes seeing his side only holds empty hangers. Tamara's breath catches in her throat and she sinks down on the bed.

Shit.

He's moved out. Tamara bursts into tears.

Bastard.

Elsie sits in a coffee shop, poring over the browser. There are only a few possible rooms for rent left, and so far nothing has been even close.

All of these rooms are places with families, for god's sakes.

The last thing she wants is a basement apartment with a precocious five year old at home rifling through her things, or the one where the Italian Mama is gonna watch her like a hawk to ensure she doesn't seduce one of the sons. Or worse yet tries to fix her up with one.

Isn't it possible to live privately anymore? She shakes her head and dials the number of the next one.

Ethan and Liz walk along the waterfront, taking pictures of seagulls, boats and each other. It's a beautiful day, great for wandering. A day for getting to know each other.

They end up in his old neighbourhood, or what's left of it, and Ethan shows her around his hometown. He tells her about the street where he grew up. About the house where the local witch lived, the one that cast the spell on him that made him fall out of her apple tree and break his arm. But the witch's house is gone, replaced by a parking lot.

Most of what Ethan shows Liz are the new buildings standing in the places where his personal history was forged. He shows her where the library his Mom used to bring him used to be, before it was torn down to make room for a burger joint. Before she married the jerk. The elementary school Ethan attended has long since been supplanted by the Waterfront Mall.

Liz finds herself warmed by the intimacy of seeing the world through Ethan's eyes as he shares his memories. As the sun is going down, they are walking hand in hand through the park at the water's edge, heading back to catch the bus back to Christie, Liz just has to ask, “Why won't you talk to the cops, Ethan?”

He stares out across the water. He doesn't want to look at her, afraid what he'll see in her eyes.

“I don't like cops.” he says, quietly.

“Well, where were you that afternoon?”

Ethan shrugs. “Recording Professor Mol's lecture for the graduating class.”

“Well, why didn't you just tell them? That's a great alibi. It's fantastic. Don't you see, it proves you're innocent.”

Ethan shrugs. “They can find out themselves.”

Liz stops and flops down on a bench overlooking the water. It takes Ethan a minute to realize she's stopped walking with him, and he turns around and goes back to sit beside her.

“What?”

“The cops are wasting time thinking you're a suspect.”

“Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.”

Liz flushes with anger. “Do you want people to think it was you? The cops aren't going to find the real rapist if they think you're it. They might not even look. It's not a joke, Ethan.”

“I know it's no joke, Liz, but I was in Toronto during the G20 and I will never forget that shit. Reading the articles and seeing interviews after, well, the official line did not match what I saw. So I don't trust cops any more. So I don't talk to them. Ever.”

“But that was a different time and place.”

“Long as cops aren't accountable, they do what they want.”

“But it wasn't even these cops.”

“Doesn't matter, babe. I guess the Toronto cops had their reasons for arresting people who didn't do anything. These cops might have their reasons too. I don't know. I'll bet the school is leaning on them really hard to catch the guy. They might not even care if its the right guy. Well, it's not going to be me. It comes down to it, I'm not going to be the fall guy if they don't catch the real rapist.”