Graeme Gibson - Communion

“A buddy of mine beat me to one outside Kingston. Shit.” It seems so small, a toy car scooting along the highway, he finds it hard to keep his arm still in the swaying truck, he curls his finger around the trigger. “Shit. I saw her as I was coming into the restaurant there, a big blond cunt with her thumb stuck out, just like that! before I had a chance this buddy of mine stopped for her, he was just pulling out, the lucky bastard.” Felix, his arm extended from the shoulder, he braces himself, squinting he aims at the toy car with his finger on the trigger. “I saw him later, I said ah, how far’d that blond cunt go? all the way, he said, all the fucken way.” He’s driving with both hands on the wheel, he turns to Felix, his voice is like stereo. “Maybe she wouldn’t of done it for me. Some women are funny that way, you know what I mean? they’ll do it for some guys but not for others . . . ”

Felix sits with the automatic pistol, it’s got a wooden handle: he raises his arm, extends it from the shoulder, he’s aiming at a car in front of them, his index finger along the trigger guard, it seems so small, a toy scooting along the highway, he finds it hard to keep his arm still in the swaying truck, he curls his finger around the trigger, this is the way it’s done, you squeeze the whole hand like this, very gently . . . Fripp is watching him, Felix returns his gaze and smiles, he lowers his arm until the gun is resting on his thigh and the man begins to laugh. His hands are delicate on the steering wheel, he’s watching Felix with sharp white eyes and laughing richly. “Baby you should of seen your face.” He reaches to take the gun, his hand is cool, Felix sees it on his own. “You should try it some time, you know what I mean?” They’re driving fast in light traffic; the fields on either side are flat and green. He’s sure there are insects, bugs, he feels them scuttling inside his clothes. “You should try it.”

“No, I . . . couldn’t.”

“Baby you should of seen your face.”

As confident as a blind man, he crawls to the wooden chair by the door, he puts both hands on the seat and climbs to his feet. After asserting his balance he leans against the wall for support, he reaches with his arms, he stretches his body towards the ceiling with muscles and sinews protesting, he gulps air vigorously into his lungs, he holds it as long as he can and then exhales; he repeats the process until he’s trembling and dizzy. When his head clears he sits on the chair, he slips his feet into his boots, laces them to the top and ties them with a double bow.

As confident as a blind man, Ritson steps into the narrow hall, it’s only a passageway, his shoulders brush each side as he shuffles past the stairs, he turns right and then left, into the toilet. He’s surrounded by rooms, cubicles in the dark. Standing in the noise of his piss, feeling it flow through the flesh in his hand, he responds predictably and for the first time today, he accepts that it has begun again: he’ll climb from his basement to the ground floor, he’ll eat a certain amount of food and when it’s undeniably night, he’ll go out into the streets. He’ll keep to the alleys and sidestreets, he prefers back alleys, laneways tortuous among foundation walls of factories, warehouses, he walks slowly and with difficulty and despite the pain, he’s learned to make no noise, he misses nothing even though his face, whenever possible, is turned inward to the wall, his fingers trail reassuringly along their uneven surfaces, he listens defensively, he hears others, the feral strangers, he crouches motionless in the dark, it’s as if he’s invisible, he can see the struggling shapes, he hears the scuffling feet, the brutal gasping breath, the sudden blows and kicks, then moans in the dark and sometimes cries: Ritson crouching with the gun in one hand, the other lightly on the wall behind him, he waits until it’s over, until they’ve risen from the body and, brushing at their clothes, return into the shadows.

It’s not clear in what way he knows this, but Ritson believes there was a time when he could venture out of his house during the daylight hours, there must have been. Memories are like bad dreams. Leaning into the stink of his urine, he flushes the toilet and leaves the room. He can’t imagine that he came to this city at night, he hasn’t always lived in the basement, there was a time, there must have been. “Memories are like bad dreams.” Ritson’s voice, it doesn’t sound like a voice, he hears it in the dark. “They torment me so. That’s why I live in a cellar, it must be: I am lonely, but I am away from it all. That must be the reason. I have had to get used to it, it has not come easily. How could it? It is not man’s nature to live like an animal.” Perhaps he has said this before. Does he remember or does he dream? Cedar boughs, he knows what they smell like; a child, children of different ages. It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing happens for the first time. He urinates, flushes the toilet, comes to the stairs and climbs out of the basement; it’s like the beating of his heart, for example, or the alternate expansion and contraction of the lungs inside his chest.

Ritson with the gun in one hand, the other lightly on the wall behind him, he sees others, the feral strangers, he crouches unmoving in the dark, his hands are sweating, he raises his arm, extends it from the shoulder, his index finger along the trigger guard, it’s as if he’s invisible, he can see the struggling shapes, he can hear them, they don’t know he’s here, so close to them, teeth white, eyes staring, he could almost reach out and touch them, he curls his finger around the trigger, he squeezes, the first one doesn’t hear the explosions, he fires methodically, he never misses, they’re dead before the impact throws their bodies to the ground.

As confident as a blind man, Ritson steps into the narrow hall, it’s only a passageway, his shoulders brush each side as he shuffles past the stairs. He’s surrounded by rooms, cubicles in the dark. Standing in the noise of his piss, feeling it flow through the flesh in his hand, he accepts that it has begun again: he’ll climb from his basement to the ground floor, he’ll eat a certain amount of food and when it’s undeniably night, he’ll go out into the streets. He’ll keep to the alleys and sidestreets, he prefers back alleys, laneways tortuous among foundation walls. He’s able to cross narrow streets, resting his hands lightly on the wall behind him, making certain he’s unobserved he closes his eyes, he launches himself into a desperate run, he knows how vulnerable he is, what if they see him? reaching for the wall on the other side, he makes it if it’s not too far, he clutches at the buildings, the substance of the city, he’s terrified of open spaces, the sky: occasionally he loses his nerve, perhaps he’s confused and changes direction, it can happen, the wall isn’t there, he panics, lurching with closed eyes, stretching his arms, searching, he hears his voice, he falls to his knees, he presses his hands, his face against the earth, he doesn’t know how it happens, he doesn’t know what to do, he crawls blindly . . .

Felix returns his gaze and smiles, he lowers his arm until the gun is resting on his thigh and the man begins to laugh. His hands are delicate on the steering wheel, he’s watching Felix with sharp brown eyes and laughing richly. “Baby you should of seen your face.” He reaches to take the gun, his hand is cool, Felix sees it on his own. “You should try it some time, you know what I mean?” They’re driving fast in light traffic; the fields on either side are flat and green. He’s sure there are insects, bugs, he feels them scuttling inside his clothes. “You should try it.”