Michael Christie - If I Fall, If I Die

“I’ve always. Done,” gasped Titus. “What you asked.”

“The problem is,” said Butler, still addressing the boys, holding the glass of water. “Now that our trust is broken. I can’t be sure.

“You see, me and Corpsey here are old friends,” the Butler went on. “And I was glad to see him return to Thunder Bay after so long. I promised to keep it under my hat, especially with respect to particular acquaintances of his, if only he’d do me favors now and then. Tell the boys what you do for me, Corpsey?”

“Asked you a question,” said Claymore, dinging Titus’s head with his shovel. Titus buried his face.

“Did you think he pulls those crisp bills he pays you with from the trash? And it’s not just finding me good, unsprouted grain in old Pool Six for my operation or procuring me hoses on the cheap, is it Corpsey?” said the Butler, his eyebrows vaulting suggestively. “No, he loses things for me, too. Don’t you Corpsey? You see, a lot of people down on their luck on this fine harborfront aren’t exactly Jesuits, if you understand. And sometimes, due to their own miscalculations of course, they end up in need of — shall we say — disappearance?”

“Like that guy in the wheelbarrow?” said Will defiantly.

“Sure. I mean, who can blame someone with so few prospects who’d rather remain woefully inebriated for their life’s sad duration than suffer the humiliations of unemployment and dashed expectation,” the Butler said. “Well, I can ensure it’s done safely. For one. And I can ensure it’s done affordably — which is why Neverclear is crucial to Thunder Bay. Especially given how things have turned out.” Then the Butler noticed the glass in his hand. “Speaking of refreshments, you look parched, Corpsey. Stand him up,” the Butler snapped at Claymore, who dragged Titus to his feet.

“You boys know where I got this water?” he said, examining the glass sidelong like a suspect diamond. “I got this water on our very doorstep. Right down where all those beautiful grain boats used to tie up at Pool Six. But old Corpsey here is picky. Yes, unfortunately this beggar is choosy. He says it’s polluted, but you boys know why Corpsey here really doesn’t care for this particular water?” The Butler tapped the glass with his clipped nail. “Well, he and this water have some history together. His pop died right down there, crushed like a chestnut by a ship in its berth. I saw it happen. A tragedy. And then old Corpsey here went and dumped his poor, poor friend in that very same water. But your pop and your best friend aren’t the only secrets sunk in that wharf are they, Corpsey?”

The Butler stepped closer to Titus, glass held high. Titus turned his head away, and from behind him Claymore wrapped the shaft of his shovel around his throat and pressed.

“You see,” the Butler went on, “what Corpsey really excels at is sinking. Always has. And recently there was a certain boy who decided it was a good idea to sneak into one of my storehouses and steal my property, then mocked and disrespected me by offering to sell it back. He was setting a bad example for good, honest, hardworking boys like yourselves. So since they knew each other so well, I asked old Corpsey here to fix our problem, for the good of everyone.”

“I did. What you asked,” Titus said, straining against the shovel. “Leave these. Icaruses. Be.”

“Marcus trusted you!” Will heard himself cry out.

The Butler shook his head. “Thing is, now I’m the one having trouble trusting Corpsey. I’m worried that perhaps he didn’t manage things quite in the manner I would prefer.”

The Butler had the glass close to Titus’s face as Claymore tightened his grip. “Now you’ll show me proof that you did what I asked,” the Butler said, lifting the glass an inch from Titus’s lips, “or else you’re about to take a nice, long drink of history.”

Titus glanced at Will, his face veiny crimson and for a fleeting moment innocent and soft, the same vulnerability Will had found on his mother’s face a thousand times Inside, and even despite what Titus had done, Will couldn’t help but pity him.

Titus turned his eyes to the water and shuddered.

“Show us,” Claymore growled in his ear, “and we’ll leave you all be.”

Slowly, Titus extended his lips and put them on the glass, slurping loud and long. He closed his eyes and gulped, his throat constricting as the Butler tipped it up, spilling water over his cheeks until it was empty.

“Tasty,” Titus said with a stifled shiver.

The Butler threw the glass, smashing it on the wooden floor. “Downstairs,” he said.

They untied the boys, bound them again by the wrists and dragged them back down the stairs.

“All this concrete,” the Butler tutted as they descended the staircase, “not even worth the money it would cost in dynamite to blow them up.”

When they came to the lower level, Claymore pushed Titus to the ground amid the mangle of animal remnants and industrial litter. Then the Butler gave a nod, and Claymore grabbed Jonah roughly and dragged him over to one of the yawning grain chutes. “Okay, Corpsey, since you clearly don’t care much about yourself … perhaps this will persuade you,” he said, crouching over Titus. “How about we drop your precious workers into the bins. Just for old times’ sake. Starting with the Turtle boy?”

Claymore roughly pushed Jonah backwards over the hole then grabbed the belt that held up his baggy work pants, leaning him back on his heels. Somewhere down in the chute came a sick rustling, and Will remembered what Titus had said about rats craving protein.

“Don’t,” Will pleaded, with a painful lurch in his gut.

“Don’t be scared, son,” Claymore hissed at Jonah.

“You should stay off the Neverclear ’cause your breath is like a gallbladder right now,” Jonah said, but it was weak, his words suffused with panic.

Will watched Jonah’s arms swing to recapture his balance and remembered his drawings and his basement tent room and how neat his bookshelf was kept and how fearful he’d been of dying before Will had dragged him down here, and it broke Will with despair. “Your map is in his hand,” Will cried out. “Take it and leave him alone.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter anymore,” the Butler said, sighing as Claymore retracted Jonah and ripped the map from his grip, stuffing it in his own coat. “The merciful thing about my business is one never has to worry about demand, only supply,” the Butler said as Claymore drove Jonah back over the hole. “Luckily, our stills have already caught up.”

“Remember the old days, Corpsey?” the Butler said to Titus. “When men used to line up for the privilege of going down into those bins. You were particularly skilled at it, if I recall. Had a few scrapes with an early burial. This old elevator has been swallowing Thunder Bay’s bravest young men since time began.”

“You hurt. That boy,” said Titus from the floor. “I’ll see you buried. In the ground. Where you stand.”

“In three feet of concrete?” said the Butler, scuffing his shoe on the floor. “Not likely.”

Claymore released Jonah’s belt and grabbed the pelt of his bangs, leaning him farther over the hole. Jonah cried out and grabbed Claymore’s hand to keep his hair from being torn out, shutting his eyes, his foot knocking a rusty bolt down into the hole with a long clatter, and Jonah let out a pitiful screech.

“Oh come on, you’re tough boys. I watched you two fight off my wolf that day at the school. Didn’t realize it till after we ran into you down here,” Claymore said to Jonah, letting out some of his hair. Will had watched his friend withstand skateboard falls that would’ve shattered seasoned gladiators or stunt men, but he knew his friend had never fallen nearly this far.