Andrew Pyper - The Guardians

Then I'm up and wobbling for the doors.

Outside on Ontario Street I curse my hands. Fluttery as moths, the fingers swimming over the dial pad of my phone. Some hitting the right numbers, others forcing me to start al over again.

After I manage to record a message, I catch myself reflected in the glass of the Queen's picture window. With the spotted brick of the Edwardian storefronts behind me, I appear to be not holding a cel phone but nursing a smal animal cupped in my hands.

And then it comes alive. The Beastie Boys holering "Sabotage" into my palm.

"Helo?"

"Trevor? How you doing?"

"Thanks for caling back."

"My job."

It's immediately clear that Barry Tate is not prepared to be as patient with me as he was the first time around.

"I saw something this morning," I start. "Oh?"

"Gary Pulinger."

"What about him?"

"He was outside the Thurman place."

"What time was this?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe six, six thirty."

"Was he attempting to enter the property?"

"He wasn't on the property, just the sidewalk."

"Walking on the sidewalk?"

"Standing."

"So you want me to arrest him for loitering?"

"I'm not teling you to do anything, Barry. I just thought it was worth reporting. Given he's a suspect in the Tracey Flanagan business."

"Who said that?"

"It's what I heard."

"Oh yeah? Wel, you know what my supervisor heard yesterday? That me and my partner searched private property without a warrant. It wasn't a pleasant meeting, I can tel you."

"Sorry to hear that."

"And I'm sorry to hear you're caling me with more of this 'I saw something' news. What did you see? A kid walking along looking at houses?"

"He wasn't walking. And it wasn't any house, it was—"

"Your dad ever tel you about that kid who cried wolf?"

"Listen, Barry, you can be pissed off at me al you want. But I've got a feeling that Tracey Flanagan was in that place at some point, or maybe she—"

"You know something? You seem to have a lot of feelings about that girl. Now that could be an avenue I'd be wiling to explore if you have something you want to get off your chest."

"This doesn't have anything to do with me."

"So let's not make it have something to do with you. Sound good?"

"Sure."

"Thanks for the cal."

"And sorry about—" I start, but Hairy Barry is already gone.

By the time I'm back inside, the breakfast table is unoccupied and the waitress is clearing the plates. I cal up to each of their rooms, but either they have agreed to ignore my cal or they aren't up there. I leave a note for Randy at the front desk with my cel phone number and make my way outside once more.

It's my legs—kicking and side-swinging worse than at any other point since my arrival in Grimshaw—that seem to know I'm going to Sarah's before I do. I must now appear, as one of my doctors said I would eventualy, as a "top-heavy drunk," leaving my shoe prints on dew-sodden lawns. You'd think, in my condition, presenting myself before a woman I like would be a bad idea. But the thing is, I don't have time to wait for good ideas anymore.

An hour after starting off from the Queen's I reach Sarah's place, thirsty and tingled with sweat. Pass my fingers through my hair. Rub a finger over my teeth.

"Trevor," she announces when she opens the door, as if looking out at the day and declaring "Rain" or "Snow."

"Gosh," I say, moronicaly, for the third time today, "I wasn't realy expecting you to be here."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Figured you'd be at work."

"It's Saturday."

"Of course. Saturday."

She backs into the house, and I step inside and push the door closed behind me. Blink against the muted indoor light until Sarah's details return.

"You don't look wel," she says.

"I'm not."

"Are you sick?"

"No more than usual."

"Then what's going on?"

"It's not something I could explain."

Sarah turns away and settles on the sofa in the living room. I folow her inside and sit next to her. I fight against leaning over and puling her to me. Then I fight against laying my head in her lap.

"Damn" she says, suddenly shaking her head hard. "It's like old times, isn't it?"

"You mean you and me?"

"I mean you thinking you can't trust me."

"Sarah, it's got nothing to do with trust. I just don't want you to get damaged."

"Damaged ? Like china? A box you'd write 'Fragile' on on moving day?"

"I don't see you like that."

"But you don't see me being able to handle anything either."

"It's just what men do."

"How's that?"

"We protect. Even if it means being alone."

"This conversation could have been one we had when we were sixteen."

"Maybe so."

"It makes me think that whatever was troubling you then is the same thing that's troubling you now. Am I right?"

"You're not wrong."

"So if it's been around that long, it's time you took care of it."

"Yes."

"Because you don't have a chance—and I'l tel you this , you don't have a chance with me —if you've got this secret thing floating around for the rest of your life."

She slides closer and kisses me. Then we kiss some more. When we finaly pul apart, Kieran is standing in the doorway.

"I'm hungry," he announces. And then, with a grin my way, "Hey, Trevor."

"Hey."

"Want to come up to my room and check out my PlayStation?"

I look to Sarah, who shrugs. "You guys like griled cheese?" "And bacon, please," Kieran says. "How about you, Trevor?"

"I think everything's better with bacon," I say, which happens to be the truth.

After lunch, and after declining Sarah's offer (seconded by Kieran) to stay for dinner, I ask if I can get a lift back to the McAuliffes'. But once the two of them have driven off and left me looking up at Ben's attic window, the paint of its frame scabby and puke- green in the midday light, I decide I can't go inside. So I start walking again. Working out the kinks , I tel myself, though the truth is, I'm nothing but kinks these days. If I didn't have my body's spasms and jerks, I wouldn't be able to move at al.

The Beastie Boys scream.

"Helo?"

"Hey."

"Randy? Stil here?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"What about Carl?"

"Gone."

"So it's just us."

"The gruesome twosome."

In the sky above, a passenger jet draws a line of smoke at thirty thousand feet. A border that marks Grimshaw apart from the rest of the world.

"What are we going to do, Randy?"

"I've got an idea."

"Yeah?"

"Let's just say I've done a little shopping."

[16]

Randy and I decide to meet for an early dinner at the Old London. He's already there when I lurch in. Sitting at the same circular table we'd occupied only two nights ago, a stretch of time that feels as distant now as the memory of summer camp.

"A cocktail, sir?" the maître d’ asks as I take my seat.

"What're you having?" I ask Randy.

"Soda water. Got to keep the mind clear."

"Right. Orange juice, please. And coffee."

"And a couple of rare prime ribs."

The maître d’ slips away, leaving the two of us facing each other across the ridiculous space of the table (I would have sat next to Randy, but that would have been even weirder).

"I know that keeping us here one more night was my idea," I admit after my drinks are delivered. "But maybe you could help me with something."

"Hit me."

"What the hel are we planning to do?"

Randy looks at me with dead seriousness. "We have to do something to put this place behind us."

"You think that's possible?"

"Who knows? We have to try. I think that's the key. If we do our best, maybe we won't have to think about Grimshaw every other second until we drop dead."