Laird Hunt - The Impossibly

Or at any rate, something like the preceding minus a few emendations appeared on the back of the photograph. But probably you won’t find surprising my interest in maintaining that all of it, emendations included, was true. Could it, after all, have been possible, much less reasonable, that in the midst of our short time together, all those years ago, my love had said, in the presence of several others, myself included, that piece of shit means nothing to me? I don’t think so.

Such are my thoughts on the case and, more generally, on the time I’ve spent since coming here. Now that the case has been, so to speak, closed, without, as it turns out, much real help from dreams or speculation or hunches, I find that I am by no means encouraged by its result. Being aware of the identity of my putative killer in no way renders more tolerable to me the imminent prospect of being killed. Though I’d like to make clear that I never seriously thought it would. I mainly wanted, as we used to say, to buy myself a little time, or at least to keep myself busy. I also wanted, once he / she was found, if not to actually injure my killer — although that would have been nice — to scare him / her a little, and now find myself, however perversely, pleased to register that this desire will be gratified. Is being gratified. It certainly is an exceedingly sharp knife. And it glistens on the table in front of me. As does the blindfold with the multicolored sequins I will soon tie on.

SO THAT, THESE SEVERAL MONTHS OR years or circumstances ago, after a certain interval, I found myself moved to rise, to go into the front room and join my friend, to sit, as it were, in company with him. This laudable ambition notwithstanding, I got no further than the handle of the door — my friend was no longer alone. He was talking to an individual with an orange hat and a cracked tooth.

Yes, he’s in there, and he’s feeling very lonely, my friend said.

So maybe I’ll go in there and give him some company, the individual with the orange hat and the cracked tooth said. And when he stood — the door was slightly ajar — I could see he was holding a gun.

It occurred to me, of course, that I was simply, as so often, drifting again. After all, I had witnessed this scene, or one much like it, several days or weeks previously. Something, though, told me it might be important to attempt to play it safe. So I did what it had lately struck me I could do — I became barely visible.

Or thought I did.

The individual, wearing his orange hat, entered quickly, gun drawn, a smile on his face, finger on the trigger, a burst capillary in his left eye. On registering that I was not at my desk, he performed a series of deftly executed advances and pivots, which, each motion, he repeated several times. When he was satisfied that I wasn’t standing out of the range of his peripheral vision, he took two quick steps over to my desk, simultaneously looking under it and pushing the curtains aside.

Where are you? he said.

He said it in a very casual, almost friendly way, which nearly caused me to become, if I wasn’t already, completely visible again, or at least to attempt to answer. For a moment though, I was drawn all but irresistibly away from this line of hypothetical inertia into a moment’s reverie in which I was hiding in a footlocker in a dark room and someone holding a large knife and a flashlight was looking for me.

Where are you? she said, in a very casual, almost friendly way, so that, as she stood outside the locker, I nearly answered, or began to breathe again.

Suddenly, he was standing right beside me. If I could have felt anything I would have felt his breath on the lobe of my left ear.

This is where you are, he said. He spoke now in a hoarse, half-whisper, so that it was somewhat difficult to hear him.

Yes, this is where you are, he said, tilting his head back and forth. I wonder what you’ve learned so far. I wonder if you have learned anything at all.

Very little, I thought, though I have learned some things. I have learned, for example, that murder was done, most certainly. Great quantities of blood and tissue and several small pieces of bone were found.

By whom? (I thought.)

The authorities.

What authorities?

Those charged with attending to this variety of incident.

And how did you come by this information?

I was part of the clean-up crew.

To clean up the blood and …

Yes. This was following the assessment.

After the scene had been analyzed?

There was no analysis. There was just the assessment, then the cleanup. There were some 1.8 pints of blood, 3 ounces of tissue, and 3 slivers of cranium.

I don’t believe you.

Nevertheless.

Who estimated the amounts of blood and tissue? Who determined that it was cranium?

I did.

You possess the expertise?

I possess the expertise.

This was done under whose orders?

The authorities’.

Whose authorities?

The firm’s.

What firm’s?

I can’t tell you.

What became of the body?

It had been removed.

By whom?

(No answer.)

Isn’t it possible that the body, not dead, removed itself?

No.

Why not?

There were certain indications.

Such as?

The blood had spread around the body and congealed, leaving behind an almost perfect outline.

Almost perfect?

There were bootmarks, a single set, pointing inward. They interrupted several of the edges.

Was this documented?

There was a photograph of the crime scene — a damp alley, much rusted metal and garbage and crumbling brick, to one side of which stood a green door; an alley like the one I had recently visited, having left the dark woods and having, part of me that is, returned. A small man was in the photograph. He was standing off to the side, looking down at the almost perfect outline of a body.

I am small. (I thought.)

Who was the victim?

We have not yet made a positive identification.

I repeat, who was the victim?

We aren’t sure yet.

Who is we?

We of the firm.

What firm?

I can’t tell you.

I know what firm.

Not from me.

No, not from you.

This I had probably learned earlier during those days I spent alone as a teenager in the large farmhouse or out in the surrounding fields. I would lie in bed in the dark and look at the rectangle of light the service lamp projected through the window onto the ceiling above my bed. It seemed to me, as I lay there each night and early morning looking at it, that the world had at last been reduced, that its substance, if substance it could be called, had been sucked away, that all that was left was this poorly formed rectangle, which, in its turn, would surely begin to fizz and fade. In the fields, in the early morning, I would walk and hum and throw stones and think, there where they have fallen, there, quite silent, is where I will lie.

I stared at her astonishingly handsome face. I mean the body’s.

What body?

The body that had been there. The one I had put there. When I had been there earlier, having left the dark woods, having returned to my apartment, then crept down the back stairwell and out into the alley, earlier.

How long have you been dead? I said after a time to the astonishingly handsome face.

I’m not sure I am yet.