Christopher Conlon - Savaging the Dark

I lean back, breathing heavily, looking down at this stranger, this little person who is a stranger to me. The room smells of piss. I’m soaked with my sweat and her pee. I move aside, look away from her as Connor knocks on the bathroom door. “Is one of you in there? Kylie? Mona?”

You called Ms. Straw ‘Mona’!

I feel too weak to stand. I drag myself to the bathroom door, unlock it. After a moment Connor turns the knob and pokes his head in. “What…?”

I drag myself to the wall, lean my back against it, close my eyes, try to catch my breath. For a moment I don’t know what he does, how he looks. Then I hear a high-pitched wailing sound and for a moment I think she’s come back to life, I haven’t killed her, I haven’t set Connor and me free. He pushes through the door, I open my eyes, he steps in and immediately his feet fly out in front of him and he crashes down, a classic Buster Keaton pratfall, right on his bottom on the piss-slick floor. He doesn’t seem to notice me. He stares at Kylie, his eyes saucer-round, his mouth open as hers so often was. The high-pitched sound comes from him again, wavering, not loud. We don’t move for a moment. Then Connor stands, his pants wet now, backs out into the bathroom doorway. Finally he looks at me. I wait for him to say something but he doesn’t, just makes the sound, backs away a little further until he’s out of the bathroom entirely. He’s wringing his hands, literally pacing and wringing his hands like some old woman in a Russian novel. Finally I manage to stand. I splash water on my face, drink a few handfuls, then step out to face Connor.

“We need to make some decisions now,” I say.

He looks at me as if I’m the vilest creature on the planet, something unclean, beyond redemption. I wish he’d close his mouth. I wish he’d stop pacing. He looks silly.

“Connor, there are some things we’ll need to do now,” I say.

He covers his face with his hands for a moment, realizes they’re covered with urine, wipes them on his pants, turns away from me, turns back again.

“I need you to be a man now, Connor.”

His wail begins to form into words. The first word is “I.” It takes him a moment to get out the rest. Finally he screams: “I—I—I— I hate you!”

This sets loose a flood of tears as he paces, paces, slaps meaninglessly at the walls, turns again to the bathroom and then quickly away.

I move to him, wrap my arms around him. “Cry it out, sweetheart. I know this is hard for you.”

“Get away from me!” He backs up, eyes wild. “You’re—you’re crazy!”

“I know you’re upset, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’!”

“Try to calm down, Connor. If you think about it you’ll know why I had to do it.”

He covers his ears, just like a little boy, grits his teeth, turns away. Then he turns to the bathroom again, looks in, as if to convince himself that it’s real. I take that moment to grab his arm, turn him to me.

“Connor, we have things we have to do now.”

“I’m not doing anything with you.”

“We need to take care of this.”

“Take care of what?”

I gesture. “That.”

His expression is perplexed, exasperated. “What are you talking about?”

“We can’t just leave Kylie lying there in the bathroom, Connor.”

He rips away from me, his expression suddenly fierce. “I’m going to call the police.” He looks around. “Where’s the phone?”

“We don’t have one here, baby.”

He looks toward my bag. “You must have a cell phone.”

I take the bag up in my hands hurriedly. “I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Connor.” Oddly enough, I don’t have a cell phone.

“Let me see. Let me look in your bag.”

“Connor, we have more important things to worry about now. We have to deal with—” I gesture again.

“I’m not dealing with anything. I’m getting out of here.” He moves toward the door.

“Do you have any idea where you are, sweetheart?”

“No. But I’ll find somebody. In another cabin. Or I’ll get back down to the main road.”

“In this downpour? With no light? I think you’ll find that difficult.”

“I don’t care!”

“You’re going to stay here with me, Connor. You’re going to stay here with me and help me clean up this mess, just like the responsible young man you are.”

“Why should I help you?”

“Because you’re my accomplice, sweetheart.”

“Me? You did it!”

“With your help. That’s her pee all over you, Connor.”

“I didn’t do it!”

“The police might think that you did. That you helped me.”

“Why would I do it?”

“Because you wanted it to be just you and me,” I say. “The same thing I want.”

“That’s crazy!”

“They’ll have a lot of evidence against you, sweetheart.”

He shakes his head. “I’m leaving.”

I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but so be it. I pull the gun from the bag, aim it at him.

“Connor, you’re going to help me.”

Oddly, he doesn’t look particularly shocked. Perhaps his face’s capacity for expressing emotion has reached its limit. He just scowls at me.

“We’re going to take care of it, Connor. You and me.”

“How?” he says at last, watching me, watching the gun.

“We have some tools at the back of the house. There’s a shovel. We’re going to dig a hole and put her in it.”

He looks at me for a long time. Then he seems to suddenly deflate. He drops onto the sofa and cries. I move to him, sit next to him.

“Connor,” I say, “I need you to be a man now. I don’t need a little boy. I need a man.”

“But I’m not a man,” he says at last, his voice tight.

“Yes, you are. After what we’ve done together? You’re a man, sweetheart. And I need you to act like one. I need your help. Mona needs your help.”

“I hate you,” he says again, quietly.

I stand again, gun at my side. “Come on, Connor,” I say firmly. “I’ll show you the tools.”

The rain becomes a storm. Lightning, thunder, torrential downpours in the dark. We work from the weak glow of the rear porch lamp and a couple of flashlights. I choose a spot some thirty yards from the back of the house, easy to cover with shrubbery once we’re done. No one ever comes here. No one will know. For a while I stand watching him dig with the gun at my side but after a while I see that he’s accepted that he’s part of this, part of me, I needn’t threaten him anymore. I put the gun in my bag and keep the bag over my shoulder. He digs for a while, and then I do. We switch again and again. It’s backbreaking work. I thought with all the rain it would be relatively easy, but mud is heavy. After an hour we finish a hole maybe three feet deep.

“That’s enough,” I say at last. “Go get her, Connor.”

He’s panting, his face covered in rain. “Me? I can’t.”

“I need you to.”

“I can’t, Mona!”

“Oh, Connor.” I move, every muscle crying out in pain, toward the house, bag over my shoulder. It doesn’t cross my mind that Connor might run while I’m gone. He’s part of this now. He knows he is. In the house I step in, tracking mud everywhere, move to the bathroom, take her by both feet and pull. I can hardly believe how heavy this little girl is. I drag her to the rear of the house, her hands up above her head now, as if she were surrendering to the police in an old film noir. I push backwards through the screen door at the back, step into the rain again, drag her out toward the grave.