Shelf Monkey (29 page)

“No. Judging from Thomas’ reaction here, surprise might be a better choice. I trust their judgement, but this is something that
they’ll have to see to understand. It’s too dangerous to give them a choice. They might not come otherwise.” Warren left the room to begin phoning the Monkeys.

“What are you planning?” I asked. “Are you holding him for ransom?” I stood up cautiously. With the threat of Warren’s size and violence momentarily gone, I got down to calculating the odds on a safe escape. I couldn’t run far, they’d catch me. “What’s the score, Aubrey? What do we do now?”

“You disappoint me, Thomas,” Aubrey said. “You know what needs to be done.” He began to pace. Munroe tracked him with large eyes. “This man is scum. Retribution is the only option.”

“Meaning?” I took a step closer to him, standing next to Danae. She played her fingers lightly along my shoulder.

“This is our
fatwa
, Thomas,” she said. She kissed me, a passionate slamming of lips that I did my best to avoid being aroused by. Fuck. “Think, honey. What is the inevitable outcome of such a command? What should a man such as this receive for his crimes?” She left my side and grabbed Munroe by the hair. He yelled in pain beneath the tape. “Do you feel pity, Thomas? For
this?”
Munroe’s head rocked back and forth as she yanked. I imagined I could hear his scalp ripping from the strain. “Aw, does Munwoe not wike dat?” she asked him, pretend baby-voiced, as he whimpered with each pull. “Doesn’t he deserve everything he gets?” she whispered in delight.

And as shocked as I was by Danae, completely astonished by her capacity for cruelty, down in my belly, a part of me was turned on by the inner savagery of her nature. I wanted to join her, kiss her all over, and beat the bejesus out of Munroe. Sitting there, mewling, at our mercy. Every tormenter I had ever suffered at the hands of, they were slumped in front of me, sobbing. Every bully. My rage at who he was, what he represented, began to rise. He was the antithesis of what I believed humanity at its best should be, a lumpy mix of gross opportunism and wilfully blind fundamentalism, holding everyone back for believing they ever had a choice in how they lived their lives. I watched Danae, slithering herself over Munroe’s body in a parody of copulation. She was shining, a goddess of malice and spite in a blood-red uniform. At that moment, I would have joined her, willingly. I would have dropped down on my knees and
begged forgiveness for my weakness.

“Look at him, Thomas,” Aubrey hissed in my ear. I hadn’t realized he was so close. “Isn’t he pitiful?”

I nodded yes.

“You can’t wait to tear into him, can you?”

I shook my head no.

“You can taste it, same as us.”

Yes.

“You’re one of us.”

Yes.

“You know what needs to be done, to complete the
fatwa
. The only solution, brother. Death.”

The word sliced itself through the haze.

“Death to the infidel.”

I spun, raising a fist, and launched the first honest-to-God punch I had ever thrown in anger. Caught unawares, Aubrey instinctively took a step back as I turned, subsequently moving the target I had hoped for, causing my fist to collide solidly with his chin. He staggered back, falling over as he slipped on a tattered paperback. “ow!” we both yelled, his yell in surprise as he fell, mine from the shooting pain that shot through my hand. I cradled it over my left forearm. “I think I broke it,” I whined.

“Thomas, what are you doing?” Danae berated. She helped Aubrey up to his feet. “Aubrey, are you okay, hon?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Good punch, brother.”

“My hand is broken over here!”

“Warren, could you get some ice from my freezer?” Aubrey yelled. “Thomas has hurt himself!”

“No prob!” Warren hollered back. “I’ve almost got everyone.”

“Broken hand, hello?” I complained. I didn’t think it was broken, actually; the fingers moved without too much difficulty. But the knuckles were already beginning to swell with bruising.

Warren walked back in. “Everything okay, boss?”

“Fine, Warren,” said Aubrey. “Thomas just had a momentary crisis of faith. He’s okay now. Right, Thomas?”

I shrugged. Warren tossed me a plastic bag loaded with ice cubes. “Hold that on the knuckles, it’ll cut the swelling.” I did as he told me, sighing as the cold numbed my hand.

“I think we’d better get started, now that Thomas has that out of his system,” Danae said. “Warren, you get everyone?”

“Almost, five more to go. Everyone’s coming so far.”

“Good,” said Aubrey. “You finish calling. Danae and I will go move Munroe’s car around back, keep it hidden.” Danae fished the key from Munroe’s pockets, slapping him when he began to moan again. “When we’re done, we’ll head out back, get the fire nice and hot. Thomas, you get to work.”

“Work?” I asked.

“Work, counsellor, work.” Aubrey clapped a hand on my shoulder. “We’re not animals, Thomas, no matter what you think. You’re in this now, all the way. Munroe will get due process, like all our ’tags. If he’s innocent, we’ll let him go. Promise.”

“Innocent? Of what?” Bile formed in my throat.

“That’s for you to figure out, if you haven’t already.” Aubrey gathered up Margarita under his arm, giving me a wink as he followed Danae from the room. “You’re his lawyer, after all.” My mouth remained gaping for a good long time after he exited.

Cue the bombastic John William score for emphasis. Bum, bum, bum! Narrator’s voice: “Tune in for tomorrow’s exciting conclusion,
Death Reads a Book!”

Yours,

Thomas

FILE # 09978

DOCUMENT INSERT:
Journal entry of Thomas Friesen.

From patient files of Dr. Lyle Newhire

It all comes down to this, doesn’t it? All the talk, the group therapy, the crying, the denial, the meds (ah, the blessed meds!). Still need to cover the day that cracked this nut. Otherwise, how will you ever achieve closure? Why did Thomas try to cross the road? What was on the other side? Was it candy? You know, if all attempted suicides knew that homework would be the ultimate outcome of their cries for help, they’d try a little harder to finish the job.

Three months, doc. That’s how long I articled. Not even a year, couldn’t even manage one simple year. Some folks last for decades, their mental illness out for all to see. Me, I go minutes. Couldn’t last long enough to qualify as a failure. Three months of bail hearings, harried public prosecutors, judges who couldn’t care a whit for your clients, and clients who cared for themselves even less. Rapists. Assaults. Eleven-year-old car thieves. Fetal alcohol syndromes by the dozens. Two or three people who couldn’t remember their own names. It’s not that they didn’t deserve representation; competent and committed representation by trained individuals. People said this to me all through law school. “It’s important work. Everyone has the right to legal counsel. It’s in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. It’s what makes our society so gol-dang wonderful. But, really, why would a nice young man such as you ever choose to defend such people? I mean, do the crime, do the time.”

They needed someone, that’s why. And I cared for them all.

Lawyers are cold fish, that’s what people complain. Never listened to our feelings. Treated us like a job, not a person. There’s a reason. Lawyers go nuts otherwise. Getting emotionally involved in the life of someone too dense to realize that breaking into someone’s house to steal a clock radio will probably get them into trouble, that will drive you over the edge, guaranteed. But it’s just a radio, man!

You cannot allow yourself to care, cannot worry about their well-being, must treat them like the work product they are. Crash and burn is the only alternative.

Case in point.

I can’t tell you her name. Can’t describe her face. Was she blonde? I wouldn’t let myself see her, had to keep calm. Had to maintain a professional distance. She was eighteen, still had that new-adult smell. No more youth centres in her future. Remand or worse from here on in.

“Why am I here, I don’t understand.”

Keep head down. Focus on page. “According to the report, they picked you up at three this morning?”

“Yeh, needed cigarettes. That a crime now? Fuckin’ Winnipeg.”

“You’ve been living at Manatonkwa House?”

“Yeah, they make me stay there.”

“You left the centre at three in the morning for cigarettes.”

“Yeah.”

Maintain. “You’re not allowed out after ten.”

“Yeah, but I’d be right back. I needed a smoke, man.”

“You knew you weren’t allowed out. You sneaked out. This violates your agreement with the court.”

“Man, I needed a fuckin’ smoke.” Harder now. Trying to get me to see the reasonableness of her actions.

“You couldn’t wait?”

“Why’d they pick me up, I wasn’t doing nothin’? I was just walking.”

“One of your keepers called the police. You weren’t supposed to leave. You knew this. That’s why they picked you up. They were out looking for you.”

“Yeah, so, get me out. I hate it here.” A quiver in her voice. Don’t look up. Play with my tie instead, study the pattern.

“Honestly, I don’t think I can. You broke the rules of your release.”

“They aren’t hard enough.”

Shit, I looked up. “What?”

“The rules aren’t hard enough, they’re too easy to break.” Thick liquid in her eyes. “I need harder rules, that way I’d follow them.”

Staring at her. She’s serious. “So. You can’t follow the rules they gave you, but
harder
rules now, that would help, that’s what you’re telling me.”

Open tears. “Yeah. These ones are too easy, too easy, more rules would help, I’d follow them then, tell them that.”

“These were the harshest rules of release outside of prison. There are no more.”

“I want out.”

“I can’t get you out. You’ve shown the court no ability to follow the judgements they’ve given you. You’ve had every chance. This is your fifth violation in two months. I have nothing to show the court that you are in any way willing to help yourself.” Start packing up the files, business as usual. Go home, have a beer, watch TV,
Law & Order
maybe, zone out.

“I want to see my kids, c’mon, they’ll never let me see them if I go to jail.”

“Kids? You have kids?”

“Yeah, two. My mom’s got ’em. They’re never gonna let me see them, you gotta get me out.”

“Kids.” Kids. Plural of kid. She’s eighteen. Barely.

“I woulda had more, but I got a couple abortions.” There’s no stopping the crying now. Big, snotty tears gush out. “The last one was a septic abortion, where the womb gets infected, y’know? Really fucked up. So that one hadda go.”

“Septic.”

“Yeah, so you gotta tell the judge, I need to see my kids, so I’ll be better now, I’ve figured it all out see, I’ll be good for my kids. Tell the judge that.”

“But you haven’t been good.”

“But I will now.”

“But you haven’t.”

“But I will now.”

“You tell me then. What can I tell the judge that will prove you’ll follow the rules? What makes this time so different from last time?”

“. . .”

“And the time before?”

“. . .”

Close the briefcase, stand up. Keep voice steady. Look her in the eyes. “I’ll see what I can do, but it doesn’t look good.” Grab the doorknob. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

“No, don’t!” She’s leaned across the table, she’s grabbed my hand. “C’mon, don’t be like that, c’mon, don’t leave, I’ll be good. Promise.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what else we have to say.”

“We don’t have to talk, just . . . don’t leave, okay? Stay?” Her fingers stroke mine, play melodies on my knuckles. “We don’t have to talk, you don’t wanna. We could do, y’know, somethin’ else.”

I’m dense beyond imagination. All I can picture is myself getting out of this room, out of this building, breathing clean, wonderful, automobile-polluted air. “What?” I ask, barely registering her hands now creeping up my arm, pulling me down, closer to the tabletop.

“We could, y’know, I dunno, y’know, fuck?” Her left hand crawls away from me, down her shirt, begins to unzip her jeans. “Wouldn’t you like to fuck me? Hey? Touch me here?” She massages herself, moans in pleasure. I glance up, try to find a guard, anyone, someone to barge in and stop this. No one in sight. Either they don’t care, or this is a common happening. “C’mon,” she says, pulling my hand toward her, rubbing it against her crotch. “C’mon, do this for me, huh? Lawyer-man? Sir? Get me out, we’re gonna have good times. Promise.” She’s let go of my hand, it’s moving on its own now, kneading her, I’m not paying attention, I’m watching her face, her breasts, her eyes, she fumbles at my belt. I can’t breathe. “Promise. Just . . . get me out.”

I wrench myself away. Grab my briefcase, tuck myself back in, pull up my zipper. Try to apologize, say something, can’t talk, nothing to say. Open the door. Walk down the hall. Buzz for the exit.

“Hey.”

Don’t look back.

“Hey, come back.”

Don’t listen. You don’t hear her. You don’t hear anything. You don’t feel anything.

“Fuck you, faggot!”

She’s a case file. A client. Words on a page. Not your fault she’s here. Nope. She’s not even real. You made her up. You just
walk away, out the doors, down the front stairs to the sidewalk. You take it all in, the premature darkness of winter, the tinted highbeams, the sound sound sound sound of horns bleating as you stride into traffic. When the car hits you, you don’t even care. You can’t feel the pain when your head bounces off the curb. When they bundle you up tight on the stretcher and load you into the soothing bay of the ambulance, all you think is, thank Christ, I don’t have to go in to work tomorrow morning.

Dear Eric,

So tired. Pawned the laptop, didn’t even try to haggle. I should have just enough to pay the café for this e-mail. It’s a big one, but I’m finishing this now. Enough fucking foreplay. Chug the coffee, head down, type.