David Jackson - Pariah

He can feel dozens of eyes burning into the back of his neck, waiting for him to rise to the bait. Many of them have already demonstrated their sympathy for Schneider’s view. A few, or so he hopes, will want him to cut Schneider down at the knees.

Doyle still doesn’t turn. Instead, he beckons Terry the bartender over and asks for a whiskey.

‘Irish?’

‘Scotch. On the rocks.’

Terry gives him a look of faint surprise, but nods and fetches a tumbler.

‘’Course,’ Schneider is saying, still on his soapbox, ‘the ideal situation would be if our hypothetical individual with the extreme social disease decided to do something about it himself. Him being somebody regards himself as a responsible public servant, he’d probably choose to do the right thing without pressure from anybody else. Not wanting to be a danger to the people he calls his colleagues and his friends, he’d probably choose to stay away from the places those people are known to frequent.’

From the back room, Paddy puts in an appearance. It’s the first time that Doyle has seen him wearing an expression of annoyance. It’s a look so dark that Doyle feels he’s on the verge of closing down the whole bar.

Paddy glances at Doyle. He’s looking for confirmation. Doyle shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Paddy’s eyes question this.

Doyle slips from his chair and takes hold of the glass of Scotch. He turns slowly, his legs not as steady as usual, his eyes not as focused. He takes in the sight of all those faces turned toward him. The sense of expectation is almost a force, drawing him into making some kind of response. They want a word, a gesture, an act. It’s a fight-or-flight moment. What will he do now?

Blinking, squinting, Doyle makes out the big ugly mug of Schneider through the crowd. He’s seated at a window table with some pals. He is grinning and chewing. Even when he drinks, he chews.

Doyle starts toward him. He knows he’s drunk, but he tries to keep his path straight as he pushes onwards. The other customers move aside, letting him tunnel through. Many of them will have seen him pull his gun earlier; some will be afraid that this time he’ll use it.

The three other men at Schneider’s table are cops too, but not from the Eighth Precinct. Doyle recognizes their faces, but doesn’t know their names. They watch him intently as he gets closer to them, and Doyle suspects that if he were more sober he would be able to feel their tension. Right now he doesn’t give a shit. He just wants Schneider.

Schneider doesn’t move from his chair. He takes a sip of his beer, tries to appear nonchalant. When Doyle stops just a couple of paces away, Schneider stares up at him.

‘What’s up, Doyle? You got something you want to share? Maybe add your two cents to the little debate we got going on here?’ He laughs. His drinking buddies laugh along with him.

Doyle laughs a little too. ‘Nah. I just want to show you something. A little trick I learned a long time ago.’

This throws Schneider. He doesn’t appear so confident now. He looks to his pals, who just shrug.

‘I got no time for tricks, Doyle. Especially with you. You got something to say, say it.’

‘Come on. What are you, chicken? Look. .’ He holds the glass high, showing it to everyone around, then sets it down in front of Schneider. ‘Scotch on the rocks. Your favorite tipple, right? It’s yours. Win or lose this little contest I got in mind, the drink’s yours.’

Schneider looks again to his comrades, who are signaling for him to go for it.

‘A contest? What kind of contest?’

‘Kind of like a strength contest. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna hurt you. I’m sure your pals will see to that.’

Schneider barks another laugh. ‘ You hurt me ? Ha! Anyone gets hurt here, Doyle, it’s gonna be you.’ He gets up from his wooden chair. ‘All right, magic man. What do we do?’

Doyle puts his hand out. ‘First of all, you gotta take my hand.’

Schneider looks with uncertainty at the proffered hand. He wipes his own palm down the side of his pants, then folds his meaty fingers around Doyle’s.

‘That’s a good grip you got there, Schneider. You been working out with it, maybe? On your own, with some skin mags?’

This gets a laugh from the crowd, and Doyle can see how it irritates Schneider.

‘Just get on with the stupid contest.’

‘All right. When I say go, you pull me toward you, and I’ll pull you in the opposite direction. Ready?’

‘I end up on my ass, I am so gonna slug you, Doyle.’

‘Stop whining. You ready or not?’

Schneider shifts his stance, plants his feet to prevent him being shoved off balance.

‘Ready.’

‘All right. . Go!’

Schneider yanks hard on Doyle’s arm, but instead of resisting, Doyle allows himself to be hauled in. As he collides with Schneider’s chest he loops his left arm around the man’s neck, holding him securely in position.

Taken by complete surprise, Schneider doesn’t know how to react. ‘What the fuck. .’

‘Just hold it like that. A couple more seconds. .’

‘Doyle, get the fuck off me. .’

And then Doyle releases him. Without another word, he turns and starts to walk away. He can see the bemused expressions of the onlookers, and can only imagine the bewilderment on Schneider’s face.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Schneider calls, but Doyle keeps on walking.

‘Doyle! Hey, Doyle! I’m talking to you!’

As he reaches the door, Doyle stops and turns. Schneider is looking at him, his palms out, trying to make sense of it all.

‘Think about it,’ Doyle says. ‘There’s somebody out there hurting people I know and like. People I get close to. He always seems to know where I am, who I speak to. Maybe he’s watching me tonight, through that window behind you. What’s he just seen? Me buying you a drink, shaking your hand, giving you a big hug like you’re my best buddy. Enjoy the rest of your night, Schneider.’

As the bar erupts, Doyle takes the last couple of steps toward the door. Just before he leaves he gets a grinning Paddy Gilligan in his sights, returns the mischievous Irish wink he received earlier.

And then he’s gone.

In his dream, the door isn’t moving.

He’s standing there, staring at that cream door with the crack in its panel. He’s willing it to move, but it doesn’t. He looks for lines on the blue patterned carpet — any kind of marker by which to measure the progress of the door closing. It doesn’t help. That slab of wood is in exactly the same position it was when he entered the room.

He moves to the door and pushes on it, but it won’t budge. He leans on it, drives his shoulder into it with all his might. Gradually, inch by inch, the door opens up. He gets an arm through the gap, then a leg. Straining and squeezing, he eventually gets the rest of his body into the room beyond.

That’s when he sees what was preventing the door from opening.

Body parts. Hundreds of them. Legs, arms, torsos, all piled on top of each other in a grotesque hill of lifeless flesh and bone.

He finds himself desperate to know who they belong to, and so he steps up to the mountain and begins to pull at its sides. Cold sticky cobs of gore come away in his hand. He flicks them away, tries again. Gradually he bores inside, but all he can see is wet redness and shiny gristle.

And then something drops into his man-made tunnel. Something round and heavy. It plops onto the bed of human meat and rolls toward him. As it gathers speed, a similar-sized sphere drops from above and chases after the first. Then comes another, and another. Doyle feels like a lone pin at the end of a bowling alley, about to be struck down by any one of these balls heading his way.