Richard House - The Kills

‘The Arab is superstitious.’ Santo shook his head. ‘They ever cut my head off, they even try, I’m telling them they’re cursed. Their family, their neighbours, everything they touch. Fucked up for ten thousand years. Their sperm will have no tails, their children will be retards, their women frigid. Their water poisoned. The wheat will die in the field. Locusts. Fat-assed locusts in their millions. That’s my superpower. Fear and doubt. They even touch my head I’ll curse them, and everything that happens, everything bad, big and small, is down to me. I’m giving them doubt. That’s my superpower. Doubt. ’

Fatboy liked the idea. In all those stories, the ones where you get three wishes, they never work out. Not even once. There’s always some trick. Better to do it like Santo, and live for ever because they can’t fix you, can’t get you straight. Even when you’re gone they don’t know who you are so they have to keep rolling the idea over and over. He liked it. Santo was on to something.

‘Just claim something you haven’t done. Famine. War. Disease. Say it’s yours and they’ll make you a saint.’ Santo pointed at the ovens, he’d promised them rum, proper Cuban rum. No joke. Security from Anaconda could bring you anything. Only if they even got caught thinking about alcohol they’d lose their jobs and entitlements. Better to drink it in his hut.

* * *

The package from Geezler arrived on a Friday. Rem hid it from Cathy and took it with him to the library. He sat at the back by the magazine stacks with a view of the door and the computers beside him.

Geezler had filled in much of the form, and with it came a simple note asking Rem to complete the sections he’d marked and make sure he signed in three places, and to call once it was in the mail. As far as Rem could see it wasn’t much of anything. Geezler had him marked down for manual work in Region 3: Bahrain, Iraq, Jordan, Kuwait, Oman, Saudi, Syria, Turkey, UAE, Yemen. He did exactly as he was asked, dropped the package in the mail on his way home, and called Geezler.

‘So you’ll do this?’

‘It’s on its way.’

‘I need one favour. I need what we’re doing to remain between us. Just us. No one else. If other people find out it won’t work.’

Rem couldn’t see any problem with this.

‘So, we’re agreed. Complete deniability. No one else knows. Not anyone you meet in the interview, none of the candidates, no relatives, no family, not even your wife.’

‘I have to tell my wife.’

‘You can’t. As part of the clearance procedure they’ll want to confirm details, they’ll call you at home — what if she answers?’

‘I’ll tell her.’

‘It’s a risk.’

‘She’ll understand.’

Geezler paused. ‘It’s too much of a risk. If they have any idea we’re sending people to check on them it isn’t going to work. To be honest, you’re no use to me otherwise.’

Rem considered hanging up. He could tell Cathy and not tell Geezler that she knew. ‘OK.’

‘OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Don’t tell her and think it will work out. She can’t know. Are we agreed?’

Rem hesitated and then agreed.

He wanted to know when he would hear, and Geezler assured him that they turned these things around quickly.

After the call, Rem began to wonder what he’d agreed to, and what difference it would make if Cathy did or didn’t know.

Rem walked up Clark and was struck by how solid the street appeared, how this was, he couldn’t think of any other word, except, natural. As if today was how the neighbourhood should always be seen, that every other season the street would be out of perspective. For example: walking now, the budding afternoon, the late-spring air, the buses, the fried meat scent from the taquerias, the split cartons and crates beside the supermercado. All of this seemed right, in place. Ordinary. He couldn’t imagine the same street three months earlier, grey with old snow, rutted with ice, cars shifting forward and sideways, the sidewalk limited to one narrow path, figures disguised under jackets and coats, and hunched under the assault of a brutal wind, the windows at the eateries greased with condensation. He couldn’t imagine himself either with his dog, because this was the route they took from the lake, each morning, each night. He couldn’t picture the dog, and had to work hard to resurrect him. Rem looked about as if to fix the street, the corner, Clark and Lunt, in memory. One day I won’t live here. This will all be lost.

* * *

Just over a week after submitting his application Rem received a package from Headspring Training offering an interview at a choice of venues: the Welcome Inn outside Knoxville, Tennessee, or the Best Western close by O’Hare.

Curious about the pack, Cathy asked what was going on. Was this some agency? Had he registered for work? Did this have anything to do with their loans? Rem shuffled through the papers, which asked for insurance details, health, and next of kin.

‘Is this a job? Induction. That sounds a lot like work?’ Cathy took the papers out of his hands. Sat down as she read, assumed a slow bending stoop, her expression becoming tighter. ‘What is this?’ she asked, serious, confused. ‘I don’t understand. Why do they want details about your health? These are questions about your family, about diseases? I don’t understand. She read on. ‘What’s Headspring? Who are these people?’

Rem said he didn’t know, he’d sent an application to Manpower Recruitment who managed civil-engineering contracts, so he had no idea about these Headspring people.

‘Engineering? So this is work?’ She sounded surprised. Rem didn’t like this reaction. ‘You found work? Where?’

‘It’s a recruitment agency.’

‘I don’t know that I like the idea of you working on construction sites.’ Cathy turned the papers over. ‘It says region three. What does that mean?’

‘Region three means places like Saudi.’

‘Saudi?’

‘Like Saudi.’

‘ Like Saudi? Where else is like Saudi?’ She gave a short laugh. ‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘Like the Middle East. Like Jordan. Syria. Dubai. Like Iraq.’

It took a while to penetrate. Iraq. He could have counted the seconds.

‘Iraq?’ She spoke as if absorbing some mighty concept. ‘Iraq?’ And then she appeared to disassemble, her hands descending to her lap, her shoulders, her face even, taking on weight. When she did speak, her voice came considered and final. ‘I’m not doing this again.’

‘It isn’t the same. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Rem, when I said somewhere else, I meant Iowa or Indiana, or maybe, I don’t know, someplace like California, but Iraq?’ A small pry cut through her voice. ‘Iraq? Rem? You paint rooms. In houses. In hotels.’ She held the papers to her chest and shook her head, and her expression became so sorrowful, so lost. This wasn’t going to happen again. Kuwait had been bad enough. Iraq was out of the question.

After some moments she softly asked if he had signed anything. ‘You have to call. You have to tell them there’s been a mistake.’

Rem leaned forward, set his hands on her knees to reassure her. ‘It’s information,’ he said, ‘that’s all. Something I found. I sent off an application and they sent this back. It’s nothing.’

‘This isn’t nothing.’ Cathy held up the papers. ‘This doesn’t just happen. You’ve already applied. I don’t understand why we’re talking about this.’ She twisted free of his grasp then set the papers carefully on the table. ‘You’ve done this deliberately.’

Cathy left the room and Rem considered how to clarify his arrangement with Geezler without breaking his word. Cathy returned from the bedroom with more papers.