Graeme Gibson: Communion

Felix climbs back into the truck. He lights a cigarette, his mouth is bruised. Inhaling he stares through the windshield, the cigarette glows, it fades to greyness, then it glows again, miniature forms collapse upon themselves as he exhales. He’d like to hammer on the window with his fists, but he’s afraid: he stares into the dark. When he inhales, the light illuminates his face, he sees himself reflected in the glass. He looks away.

Fripp scrambles noisily into the truck, shouting farewells he slams the door, the great engine catches and they begin to move. Briefly Felix sees figures motionless in the headlights and then the streets are deserted. Something struggles in his cheek, he can feel it bumping on the edge of his cheekbone as they drive, his hands have no strength, he throws his cigarette out the window as Fripp brakes the truck at a red light. They sit in silence. The muscle continues to jump in his cheek. “Hey baby.” The sudden voice, he sniffs his middle finger, he thrusts it under Felix’s nose. “You wanna smell something, you recognize that?” The cab is full of laughter, it’s like stereo. The light has turned green, they don’t move. Fripp’s white teeth in a ferret face, he’s staring at Felix, his face is resting on the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ I’d like to fuck you!” Fripp reaches beside the seat, Felix is sure he did, he throws open the door and leaps to the road, that voice, what is it saying? running beside the gleaming trailer, through the exhaust, he hears noises behind him, he throws himself into an alleyway . . .

He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking, it doesn’t matter, eventually he’ll find the bridge, in the morning he’ll find the bridge. He keeps to the alleys and sidestreets, back alleys, laneways tortuous among foundation walls of factories, warehouses, he moves with unfamiliar grace, his feet make no sound because sometimes there are others, he can hear them, in the rubble of a vacant lot, crumbling houses on the other side, he can see them, beneath a yellow sky, they look like children, they’re running excitedly about some object on the ground, he strains to see, it’s a man, he’s crawling blindly, they’re taunting him, Felix doesn’t know what to do, they’re lighting matches, “Stop it!” He shouts and rushes into the open, they scatter with cries of alarm, one of them falls, a twelve-year-old, Felix grabs it by the shoulder, what are they doing? Felix with both hands at the throat of a struggling child, he stares blankly into its face. He doesn’t understand. The old man crawls whimpering towards a wall, Felix smells the gasoline as he passes, the child is jumping wildly, kicking in his hands: Felix Oswald, the muscle convulsing in his cheek, they were going to burn him, he can smell the gasoline, where are the others? Felix staring violently into the darkness, the old man’s almost to the wall, he can hear the gasping breath, the child has stopped fighting, Felix is hardly aware of him: a yellow sky presses down on the shells of buildings, their boarded windows, it settles on the vacant lot, the small body is limp in his hands, he has to support it, he stares into bulging eyes, the black contorted face, it’s dead! a small body collapsing at his feet, the yellow sky. Standing over it he tries to understand. The swollen tongue, it lolls from between its teeth with blood boiling onto the chin, he doesn’t understand, he falls as he tries to turn away, his knees bang stupidly against his chest, he’s bleeding from the mouth, he doesn’t feel the garbage against his face. He doesn’t see the tentative figures emerging from shadows, they circle closer, cautious, like dogs, they douse his shuddering body from pop bottles, with gasoline, one of them lights a match and Felix Oswald bursts into flame.

Ritson with the gun in one hand, the other lightly on the wall behind him, they almost got him, he crouches in the dark, his hands are sweating, the stink of gasoline has cleared his head, 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 them clearly in the light of flames leaping from the body of a man, he can hear terrible cries, they don’t know he’s here, so close to them, teeth bared, eyes white, he curls his finger around the trigger, he squeezes, the first one doesn’t hear the explosions, he fires methodically as they scatter, he never misses, they’re dead before the impact throws their bodies to the ground.