Alex Barclay - The Drowning Child

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Seth, do you know anything about a key that’s missing from Clyde’s keychain? It’s the key to Cabin 8.’

Seth looked at Shannon, then back at Ren. ‘No,’ said Seth. ‘But get him to check again – Clyde’s got a million keys on there.’

Shannon nodded. ‘I think he collects them as he goes, never gets rid of them, even ones he knows he’ll never need again.’

Seth splayed his fingers, wiggled them. ‘He’s probably on an eternal search for the one that will unlock the mystery of Clyde Brimmer.’ He smiled.

I like you, Seth Fuller.

I hope you’re not a killer.

Jimmy Lyle walked the aisles of the strip-mall toy store, and it was his measured walk, the one he practiced in his mirror sometimes, so he could look less noticeable, so he would look calmer than he felt. He took a box down from the shelf, and looked at the picture. The girl in it looked so happy, in the sunshine, her black hair falling around her shoulders. He was hard right away. He looked around, saw a restroom in the corner, and moved quickly toward it. He pushed the door in, kicked off his heels, pulled off the tan pantyhose he was wearing, pushed his dress up around his waist, and took his dick out.

He closed his eyes, wallowed in visions of the girls he was going to see, their hair dark and floating, their skin white, their eyes, wide, alarmed, panicked. Wide. Alarmed. Panicked. Wide. Alarmed. Panicked.

Jimmy didn’t last long. He collapsed against the wall, exploding, sucking in huge breaths, rolling toward the mirror to smile at his bright red face and bulging, streaming eyes. He could smell himself, all his smells, he could feel his heart pounding. He didn’t wash his hands.

The sales assistant behind the counter tilted the box toward her to get a better look at it. Jimmy already had the cash in his hand. He wanted her to hurry the fuck up.

‘A white inflatable swan,’ she said. She beamed as she swiped the scanner across the barcode. ‘These are all the rage.’ She smiled brightly at him.

He knew his scars made people conscious of being extra kind to him. So many of these brief exchanges in his life were filled with effort on the part of other people. Sometimes he could see the little sparks of something else in their eyes.

Jimmy smiled back. ‘It’s for my daughter.’

‘I’m sure she’ll love it,’ said the sales assistant.

Spark, spark, spark.

Jimmy knew it was fear. Sometimes he wanted Inside Jimmy to come out, he wanted to open his mouth wide and let his screams out like a searing blast that would melt away flesh, right down to the bone.

As he left the store, Jimmy Lyle’s cell phone started to ring. He took it out, looked at the screen.

It was DEAD TO ME again.

This time, he picked up.

‘Jimmy? It’s Daddy.’

Jimmy said nothing.

‘Did you get my message? I left you a message.’

Jimmy didn’t reply.

‘I had a visitor... and... it’s not good. That little Mexican girl...’

Still, Jimmy didn’t reply.

‘She’s goddamn loco,’ said his daddy. ‘Loco.’ He chuckled.

There it was again – the reaching out, searching for commonality. Jimmy could feel the blood pounding at his temple.

‘I’m sorry, son,’ said his daddy. ‘I’m sorry for everything.’

A surge of anger shook Jimmy. Inside Jimmy was pushing against his ribcage. He could picture small fissures breaking out across his bones. He was trembling. Inside Jimmy flared up again, vibrated, hurt.

‘No, you’re not,’ said Jimmy. At first, his voice barely made it, and it felt as if the strength inside him was going only to fuel the pounding in his head.

‘What was that, son?’

‘No, you’re not!’ roared Jimmy, Inside Jimmy, out. ‘You’re not sorry! You’re afraid is what you are. You’re a scared old man. You’re weak and you’re terrified and alone. Don’t dress that up like sorry and try to sell it to me. I’m not buying.’

‘Please, Son. I need you to—’

‘Don’t need me, Daddy! Don’t need me! It won’t end well.’

‘Please...’

‘We had a deal,’ said Jimmy, ‘and I’m done.’

His daddy’s voice dropped to a snarl. ‘No, you’re not.’

The line hummed. Jimmy’s heart hummed along with it. Tears welled in his eyes. He wiped them away. His lips trembled.

‘OK, Daddy,’ said Jimmy. Inside Jimmy, in again. ‘What do you need?’ He swiped at his tears. He mouthed the word ‘no’ over and over, so he could try it the next time. Out loud , so he could be strong. He mouthed again. ‘No, Daddy, no. No – this time. This time? No.’

‘What do you need me to do?’ said Jimmy. ‘Tell me, Daddy.’

Jimmy heard sounds; breathing, shuffling.

‘Daddy? Are you still there?’ said Jimmy.

‘I am, Son. I need you to... maybe bring me a few of my things. Something to watch.’

With a lightning-fast reflex, Jimmy’s thumb shot out and ended the call.

Jimmy got to the car, carrying the bag from the store, his heart pounding. He popped the trunk. It was an automatic gesture. It was foolish. He quickly slammed it shut, looked around, as if anyone would be able to see what was inside.

His eye was drawn to the line of dumpsters along the wall. He looked for cameras. There were none. He checked his watch: it was two hours to darkness. He had some ideas how he could spend the time.

Ren got back to the hotel at nine that night. She parked outside, closed her eyes and listened to the rain pounding on the roof, pouring down the windshield. She reached into the back seat and pulled her raincoat toward her. She struggled into it, and pulled the oversized hood up. She took a deep breath, opened the car door, and ran.

The Do Not Disturb sign was still hanging on the door knob of her hotel room where she had left it that morning. She went inside, straight into the bathroom to hang up her coat. She glanced around. Her heart plunged.

Someone’s been in here. It smells different. It smells like man. And it hasn’t been serviced.

She looked at the space around the sink.

I did not leave my soap bag there.

She felt a spike of anxiety.

Paranoia.

No.

Someone was in here.

She went into the bedroom. In the shadows, she could see her suitcase, some notes, her file folders. She had left more notes out on the bed because she was running late. She had left the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

Like that’s a security measure.

Anyone could have been able to look at those notes.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She sat down on the bed and called Reception. She hung up before they answered.

Paranoia.

She was about to call Gary.

No way: he will kill you. She had done it before, and he went ballistic, bawled at her in front of everyone about running a command center out of her hotel room.

She called Reception again. ‘Hi there, it’s Ren Bryce in 310. Was anyone in my room today while I was out?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the receptionist.

Noooooo! How unbefuckinglievably unprofessional.

You’re the one who left your notes out.

It’s a small-town hotel... what did you expect? More! Always!

‘We’ve been having problems with some of the showers on your floor,’ said the receptionist. ‘I know yours has been working OK, but we had our plumber check them all. We just need to make sure everything is OK.’

Oh, thank God. ‘Would you mind letting me know the next time someone needs to access my room?’ said Ren. Because I can’t fucking stand my privacy being invaded. ‘And if you can’t reach me in my room, can you please call my cell phone before allowing anyone to come in?’