Blood Fugue Read online

  ‘He sure has,’ said Kerrigan. ‘But why wait all this time?’

  Mr. Jimenez looked embarrassed.

  ‘It is superstition. He believed that any descendents who touched his remains within a generation would be cursed.’

  Kerrigan had never heard of such an elaborate will, or such long lasting paranoia.

  ‘Sounds like he was a little — eccentric,’ he ventured.

  ‘There is no doubt of that, Mr Kerrigan.’

  ‘How will you transport his — remains?’

  ‘Let us first see if we can find them.’

  Another silence bunched up in the small kitchen. Kerrigan had stopped stroking Buster. The cat jumped up onto the table again and then into Carla’s lap. She accepted his advance with more confidence this time and began to stroke him in the same way Kerrigan had.

  Mr. Jimenez placed his mug down on the map.

  ‘What are those?’ he asked.

  He nodded his head towards a mobile that swung idly over the kitchen sink. Each piece was hand crafted from polished pine and withy strands to create a simple X shape within a circle. The handiwork was rough and ready.

  Kerrigan cleared his throat.

  ‘Those are, uh — binders.’

  ‘What are binders?’ asked Mr. Jimenez.

  ‘That’s a good question.’ He groped for an answer and found, as always, that it was difficult to explain. ‘They — well — I always used to notice the shape in the stained glass windows of our church when I was a kid. Round windows with even-armed crosses in them. I’d kind of stare at them and daydream when I was meant to be singing or listening to the preacher. I started carving them out of fallen branches and reeds from the edge of the river. I make a couple of new ones every day. I’ve got a whole drawer full.’

  He laughed, embarrassed by the admission.

  ‘Why do you call them binders?’ asked Maria.

  ‘I don’t know, I just do. Probably it was the name I made up for them when I was a boy.’

  ‘I like them,’ said Carla.

  ‘Me too,’ said Luis.

  The kids looked fascinated. José frowned.

  ‘You fashion these from pine, no?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Kerrigan.

  ‘Why does the wood look so old?’

  Kerrigan’s eyes defocused for a moment. He blinked.

  ‘Uh, that’s typical of Idaho pine. The sap is very dark.’

  Maria wore a look of mild concern.

  ‘They are not occult, are they?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. I mean, the idea came from the church, so . . .’ Kerrigan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I give them to everyone who stops to ask for directions.’

  What credibility this might give them, he didn’t know.

  ‘How much do you charge?’ asked Mr. Jimenez.

  ‘Nothing. I give them away.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘To make the journey through the forest special.’

  Out of nowhere, that was as close to the truth as he had ever come. He watched the binders turning and turning on their nylon threads and began to drift the way he always had when looking at them. An X within a circle, a nought and a cross, a kiss and a hug. Four slices of a pie. Simple. Beautiful—

  ‘Weird,’ said Luis.

  ‘Cool,’ said his sister.

  ‘Can we have one?’ they both asked.

  ‘You can all have one. Like I said, I give them to everyone that passes this way.’

  He stood up to fetch a few from the kitchen cupboard.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Kerrigan,’ said Maria, ‘but I don’t think the children should have such things.’

  ‘They’re for all of you to have, not just the kids.’

  Maria was adamant.

  ‘We do not want them.’

  Mr. Jimenez placed a hand on his wife’s wrist.

  ‘I do not see any harm in it. Mr. Kerrigan is a good man. He has tried only to help us.’

  Kerrigan watched their personal politics play out. Maria was going to give in without a word being spoken. That didn’t mean she was happy about it, of course.

  ‘If it is no trouble,’ said Mr. Jimenez, ‘we would gladly accept your gift. It will give us a way of remembering this journey that we have made together.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all.’

  The binders he made to give to strangers were on thin strips of cowhide so that they could be worn. He took four from the drawer and handed one to each of them. Carla and Luis put theirs on immediately. Maria handed hers straight to her husband who placed them in his coat pocket.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Kerrigan. And now I think it’s time for us make a start. We have a lot of miles to cover.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of hiking now, are you?’

  ‘Of course. The day is almost over and we need to make progress.’

  ‘You won’t get far before dark. Take a look outside.’ They all turned and saw the hazy gloom pressing in at the windows. The electric light in the kitchen was warm and bright next to the bruised purple shades of the early dusk. ‘You ought to be pitching camp right now.’

  ‘We will see.’

  Mr. Jimenez stood and the family followed his lead. Kerrigan knew there was no point trying to dissuade them now. They’d soon wise up to the realities of Hobson’s Valley and Bear Mountain.

  ‘Come through this way,’ said Kerrigan.

  He led them out to the front entrance and held the door open for them. Parked out front was a white Land Cruiser. The damp scent of pine was everywhere and the crickets chirped, much louder now, from their hiding places. José Jimenez turned back and held out his hand.

  ‘Thank you again for your help. Completing this task will mean a great deal to my family.’

  ‘No sweat.’

  Kerrigan took his hand and held it, not wanting them to leave. Maria watched but didn’t speak.

  The children seemed excited and carefree. With their binders around their necks they looked like converts to a strange religion or child soldiers ready to crusade against the unbelievers. Kerrigan let go of José Jimenez’s hand and the family trotted to the car, eager to be on their way.

  The doors of the Land Cruiser slammed shut and the engine started easily. As it moved off up the track into the pines, only Carla looked back, waving a pale hand through the glass before the car disappeared from view.

  Kerrigan sat down in the rocker on the porch and listened to the engine being swallowed the deeper into the trees it went. A minute later and the sound was gone but still he listened for it, hoping to hear one last note or grumble wafted his way on a breeze. He didn’t rock in the chair. Instead, he touched his fingers to the binder that rested against his chest beneath the fabric of his shirt.

  Trees limited the view from his porch but the air was always sweet and that was why he liked to sit there. Now that the car was gone he could hear the forest sounds again and beyond that he could hear the Singing River smoothing the rocks in its currents.

  He didn’t stay out for long. The night’s arrival was swift and cunning, the thought of it enough to calcify his joints. He retreated inside before its blackness paralysed him.

  Chapter 4

  The morning was dry and chilly.

  Kerrigan assessed the sky as he walked, a deep, cloudless blue. It would be warm once the sun rose high enough to shine into the valley. A mile beyond Randall’s store Kerrigan reached Hobson’s Valley’s main road, known simply as The Terrace.

  The wide street was well kept and clean. There were a few souvenir shops, a gas station, post office, hiking shop and small grocery market, all within a few yards of each other. Oak trees lined the sidewalk and beyond the small commercial area, there were houses, mostly wooden, many of them with two floors. Towards the edge of town were a few trailer homes and smaller properties. The road wound along beside the river for several miles before twisting up into the hills, away toward the flatter land on the other side and civilisation. Hobson’s Valley was a
cul de sac and Kerrigan’s stone cabin marked the very end of it.

  In Olsen’s Grocery, there was a better selection of food than in Randall’s store. The trouble was that Kerrigan generally shopped in the afternoon when he’d finished work. He went to Randall’s because, if he was quick, he wouldn’t be outside when twilight came. Seeing all the varieties of cereal on the shelves in Olsen’s he resolved, yet again, to go shopping in the mornings. He bought a box of Lucky Charms; a bag of cookies and a few other items that seemed like treats and went to the checkout.

  He didn’t see her until it was too late.

  ‘Hey, Jimmy K.’

  He tried to keep the startled look from his face.

  ‘Hey, Amy.’

  ‘Why haven’t you called me?’

  ‘I’ve been working.’

  Amy smirked.

  ‘Writing isn’t work, it’s laziness.’

  ‘It’s work. If I don’t write, I don’t get paid.’

  ‘That’s so lame. Are you working all night too?’

  ‘No, but —’

  ‘So call me. A girl could get to thinking you didn’t like her any more.’

  He looked at Amy’s dyed blonde hair, dry and brittle from too much attention. He looked at all the cheap gold rings she wore and her heavy charm bracelet. He looked at the layer of make up she used to hide the generous helping of plainness she’d been dealt at birth and he looked at the bulges where her store uniform clung to her. She ate too much and didn’t get enough exercise. Soon she’d be wearing pantsuits and sneakers for every occasion. Right now, though, there was still a little allure left in her. Mostly it was in her eyes; eyes that promised anything in return for a little company, some good food, a few compliments.

  Beside her was a romance novel, its spine cracked open, its pages curled and splayed. Under the cheap, drip-dry Olsen’s uniform, Amy’s black underwear was just visible. She wasn’t smart, she wasn’t interesting but Kerrigan’s response to the hint of her bra pressed so tightly by her breasts against her clothes reminded him that it wasn’t smart and interesting he needed.

  Dry-mouthed, he said:

  ‘Why don’t you come over on Saturday? I’ll make a picnic and take you on a mystery walk.’

  She pouted.

  ‘Will we have to go far?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Just far enough to work up an appetite and no further. Deal?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Even a dead-end-town chick like Amy couldn’t be seen to say yes too easily. He knew she’d call him later that day.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  She checked to see if anyone was listening but the store was almost empty.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  He took his sack of junk food and strolled the hundred yards or so to number forty-eight, The Terrace.

  His childhood home was falling into the clutches of decay. The battle to keep it young looking with coats of paint, replacement frames for the doors and windows and regular work in the yard was a battle his folks were losing. He shook his head, scolding himself for not coming down more often to keep the place tidy, but he’d made the same gesture a hundred times and his behaviour never changed. He was too busy to look after a second house.

  Occasionally, he paid a boy to mow the lawns and cut back the weeds but not often enough to do any good. The house, with its green roof and bare wooden porch, with its green and white cushioned porch swing, now too mouldy and rusty to use, was quietly dying.

  Kerrigan walked along the cracked paving stones bordered by shin-high grass and clumped up the dry boards of the front steps to the door. The bell hadn’t worked for years. He hammered three times as hard as he could with the edge of his fist on the frame of the door and stood back to wait.

  Now that he was closer he could see how the paint was flaking off. White scales littered the porch. He poked his finger into a bald spot on the doorframe; the wood was soft and rotting. The place was turning into a health hazard.

  He heard shuffling in the passage and saw the grey figure of Burt approaching with his walker. Every time Kerrigan saw him he seemed smaller, thinner and slower. It took the old man a long time to open the locks.

  Once Burt had managed to unlock and open the door he reversed a shuffle at a time to make way. He was still in his pyjamas. Kerrigan closed the door and let his nose adjust to the mustiness and decrepitude that lingered heavy on the trapped air. It wasn’t the smell of the house, it was the smell people make as they waste away.

  Burt grinned and Kerrigan gave him a hug, trapping the walker between them. Despite his eighty-one years, Burt’s grip was wiry and fierce. In his youth, he’d been a natural strong man and some of that force remained, hidden beneath the stained pyjamas and slack, wrinkled skin.

  ‘How’re you doing, Burt?’

  ‘Laughing it up, as ever, I guess.’

  ‘You sleep late this morning?’

  Burt looked confused for a moment, before glancing down at his attire and shrugging.

  ‘I was just about to shave and get dressed when you knocked on the door.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me interrupt you. I’ll see you in the kitchen when you’re done.’

  From the smell of Burt he’d been wearing the same outfit for a month.

  Kerrigan left the old man, taking the paper sack of treats into the kitchen. He was relieved to see Kathleen doing a crossword at the table instead of watching crap on breakfast TV or scaring herself with the news.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart.’

  ‘Hey, Kath, good to see you.’

  He set the shopping down on the table. Kath stood, a little stiffly, and Kerrigan hugged her for a long time, placing a kiss on top of her head.

  ‘You want some coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘You sit down and look at what I brought you. I’ll make the coffee.’

  ‘Burt won’t have any. He’s depressed.’

  ‘Burt’ll do what he’s told.’

  As he filled the kettle to make filter coffee, he heard Kath rustling through the paper bag and crooning over what he’d brought them.

  ‘Chocolate covered cherries flavour ice cream. I don’t think we’ve had that one before.’

  It was one of her favourites. He decided to ignore the comment.

  ‘You seen Maggie this week?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. She brought us a spaghetti Bolognese and salad. Didn’t stay long, though. Said she had an extra visit to make.’

  ‘How was the food?’

  ‘Well, Burt covered his in ketchup and Tabasco just like he does with everything, so I don’t think he noticed. I gave most of mine to Dingbat. He seemed to think it was pretty good.’

  ‘Maybe the church should concentrate on feeding stray dogs instead of you old folks.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the food, as such. But the way Maggie Fredericks cooks it makes it inedible.’

  ‘I feel sorry for her family.’

  ‘She hasn’t got any family, James. That’s why she runs around after the needy. She’s no saint, she’s just bored and lonely.’

  ‘Common problem in these parts,’ he said.

  Kathleen’s response convinced him she’d been kidding about the ice cream. She didn’t miss a trick.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a dope, James,’ she said. ‘You made this life for yourself. You were the one who left us for the big city and then refused to move back in when you came home to the valley.’

  ‘Jesus, Kath, I couldn’t move back in. I was almost thirty. Everyone leaves home. It’s natural. Anyway, I’d never get any writing done if I lived here. You’re like a pair of spoilt teenagers.’

  ‘You’d know about that. You were the most ruined child in this town.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  Burt appeared. A couple of steps, a push on the walker. A couple of steps more.

  ‘I can smell fresh coffee.’

  ‘No you can’t,’ said Kerrigan
, ‘I haven’t made it yet.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have a cup when you do.’

  The old man had on a pair of jeans held up by a belt that Kerrigan had punched extra holes into. He’d put on the Nike trainers Kerrigan had bought him too, but he still wore the smelly pyjama top. Next to the clean blue of the jeans and the almost unworn white of the trainers, it looked truly filthy.

  ‘You won’t have anything until you start acting like a civilised human being. If you don’t change out of those pyjamas you can make your own coffee and you can drink it alone. I’m serious, Burt. What the hell has gotten into you? Where’s your self-respect?’

  Burt said nothing. Maybe the old man knew better than to argue with him. Maybe he was too hurt to reply. Kerrigan watched Burt turn himself around and walk, six-legged, back to the bedroom.

  Maybe he’s had enough.

  He could understand how Burt might feel that way, especially when he thought back to the man Burt had once been, bending iron bars around his neck and lifting giggling ladies over his head like they were made of balsa. As a young lumberjack, he’d split thicker logs than any of the other local men and felled mature pines with an axe in seconds. Everyone had admired him for it. Now he could barely stand up after taking a dump. Kerrigan spooned the coffee into the filter and placed it over the cracked jug they’d used for making coffee since before he’d started drinking it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kath,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be. Someone had to say something and he doesn’t listen to me any more.’

  ‘When was the last time he changed clothes?’

  ‘Four or five days maybe.’

  Kerrigan shook his head.

  ‘If he does this again, you remind him what I said.’

  He poured the boiling water over the rich brown heap of coffee and stirred it as it seeped through the paper into the jug below. He poured until the jug was almost full. While they waited for Burt he put some of the groceries away.

  ‘How’ve you been doing, James?’ asked Kath.

  ‘I like it up there.’

  ‘But you want for company, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes and no. I get a lot of articles written and they pay well. Means I get time to write my stories. It’s good to have no distractions.’