The Detainee Page 3

  I shook my head.

  “You do!” Jimmy insisted. “Look. Keep walking. Past the deli, the Italian guy that used to make shoes . . . the laundry, right? . . . there it is!”

  I knew he was one street over from where he thought he was, but only cuz it used to be my patch. Not that I could be bothered to correct him. We were starting to forget all the time now, almost as if we’d handled our memories so often that holes were starting to appear.

  “Best jazz you ever heard. And the best Chinese food. What was the owner’s name? Wing or Wang or something? Face like someone hit him with a shovel. When I was working for the department we used to go there every Christmas. They hated us because the boss insisted we used chopsticks and tied up the table all night.”

  “I ain’t that fond of Chinese,” I told him. “Nor jazz,” I added, though, actually, it had been called Blue China and I’d gone there once a month to collect protection money for Mr. Meltoni.

  Jimmy groaned, frustrated not so much by my errant memory as my lack of participation.

  “He’s younger than you, don’t forget,” Delilah reminded him.

  “Couple of years.” Jimmy shrugged dismissively, though, in fact, he told me a while back he’s turned seventy, which makes it at least seven.

  Reminiscing is a bit like scratching an itch: pleasant at first, but after a while it can start to hurt. But just then we needed some ready camaraderie, some ritualized laughter to raise our spirits, and all of us knew why. They were coming. Darkness and its shadow were on their way. Bridging the rocks, consuming the garbage, slithering up the rows of lean-tos toward us.

  Delilah refused to be cowed. And maybe as a measure of defiance, took a deep breath and, without so much as a by-your-leave, started out singing.

  Never in your life have you heard a voice like that woman’s. Some people might say the sound comes from deep inside her, but I think it’s more like there’s a door deep inside her, which she occasionally opens and that’s where it comes from. Sometimes it’s a happy song and her face splits open with a big peachy smile; and sometimes it’s a sad one and tears well up from deep within her dryness to course haphazardly down her rough cheeks. She’s known a lot, that woman, and most of it hurt, and I respect her just about as much as anyone I’ve ever known.

  It was the drums that made her stop. They always begin the same way, with a slow insistent rhythm, gradually building, reverberating up the hill like ripples through the fog.

  “Aw, shit,” she groaned.

  At least we knew. There was that much to it. They don’t always come. Some nights you can wait and wait and they never arrive. As if they’re just increasing the tension for the next time. But not tonight. They were down there, whooping and dancing around, getting out of their heads, summoning a dark beast for them all to ride upon.

  I haven’t ever seen it up close myself, I been far too worried about keeping out of the way, but I know they dress up. Weird stuff they’ve found in the garbage. Women’s things, wigs, hats, any crazy costume they can get their hands on. Makeup, too; slashes of bright crimson lipstick gouged across their cheeks, mascaraed holes they drop their wild eyes into. Sometimes they even shave their bodies and paint themselves to look like wild animals; filing their teeth into points, letting their nails grow long like claws. They’re insane by any definition I’ve ever known.

  Sure enough, the tempo of the drums began to increase and I felt my heartbeat go with it. There was a distant high-pitched shriek. Then another. They were almost there; the gateway to insanity creaking open bit by bit. Another scream followed, wilder, slightly nearer, and we knew they were on their way.

  “I’d better go,” I said.

  “Stay if you like,” Delilah offered.

  “Yes! Stay, Big Guy,” Jimmy instantly chimed in.

  “Gotta look out for my stuff,” I told them.

  “Clancy!” Delilah persisted. “We’ll throw his junk out. Make you comfortable.”

  She calls me Clancy cuz that’s my real name, though she’s the only one who ever took the trouble to find out.

  I stared momentarily at their pale and haunted faces, in danger of breaking the unspoken agreement that none of us ever acknowledged the fear we were feeling.

  “It’ll be all right. I’m only a few yards away. We can still look out for each other.” And feeling kind of lost, like I wanted to reassure them but didn’t want to make a big thing of it, I awkwardly patted them both on the shoulder and left.

  When I got outside the fog was so thick I couldn’t see more than four or five lean-tos away. Not a soul was around. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve imagined the whole place was deserted.

  From a couple of rows away came a long and tormented scream, and I realized they were a lot closer than I’d thought. I hastily squeezed into my lean-to, lowered the plastic and dragged some bricks across the doorway to weight it down. There ain’t much else you can do. Just sit there and wait. Or maybe pray to your God that it won’t be you they drag out this time.

  It wasn’t me they came for that night. Nor was it Jimmy or Delilah. But they came for others. Screaming up and down the rows, pushing lean-tos over, hauling people out, torturing and killing them.

  A lot of really weird stuff went on. Ritualistic slaughter, figures dancing around their victims while singing songs, then hacking them down as if it was part of some macabre theatrical performance. A whole row of lean-tos got torched. In the doorway of one, like some gruesome decoration, they left the impaled heads of the couple who used to live there. I mean, what can you say? Where in God’s name does it come from?

  Me and Jimmy and, to be fair, a few of the other Villagers, cleaned it all up. Eight mutilated corpses dragged over to the corrosives pool and thrown in. As usual, not one of us said a word. I swear, sometimes it’s like we’re trying to pretend it ain’t happening. That it’s just so obscene, the human condition so undermined, no one’s prepared to admit to it.

  Later, the weather started to change. The wind got up, clouds started blowing in, and it began to rain. You could almost hear a collective sigh issuing up over the Village. Each and every one of us had become an expert on the weather and knew that, for the moment at least, there would be no more fogs, and they’d be forced to leave us alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was late in the afternoon when we finally finished patching the wounds on the Village’s scarred old collective body. Afterward I had an urge to get out on my own, to rid myself of the stain I felt inside, but with winter still leaning so heavy on the day there wasn’t enough time. Instead I decided to go to bed early, get up at dawn, and spend the day in the Old City.

  However, those nights, the tension of not knowing if it’s going to be you they next drag out, really take it out of you. When you finally do get a chance to sleep it’s like you’re tranquilized by security and I didn’t stumble out of my lean-to till well after nine. Even then I was one of the first up and about.

  It was one of those very still metallic mornings, with fingers of smoke from last night’s fires trailing straight up into the sky, as if they were wires bearing up the landscape. I cut myself a slice of the salted beef I’d been eking out through the winter and a hunk of that blackened, chalky mix of flour and milk powder that some like to call bread, stuffed them into the pockets of my overcoat, clipped my tool belt on, and set off in the direction of the Old City.

  There ain’t a great deal to see over there; like a good many cities, most of it was destroyed in the Good Behavior Riots. Just acres and acres of broken-backed buildings, crumbling walls and scorched rubble. And yet I still get a sense of anticipation whenever I go over there. Maybe cuz of what I found that time.

  The thing with scavenging is: you gotta try to think differently, to look for possibilities that others might not see. The Old City must’ve been searched thousands of times. Every day there are dozens of people over there, scratching and picking away, but that didn’t stop me finding what I did. Though I guess the tr
uth was, it was more down to luck than anything.

  I was combing through this residential area and noticed a crumbling finger of wall that had recently twisted and keeled over, gouging out an opening at its base. I scrambled up a pile of brownstone, managed to squeeze in through this hole, and found myself in what must’ve once been someone’s kitchen.

  One look was enough to see that it had been stripped long ago, and I was just about to squeeze back out, to move on, when I noticed these bricks that looked a bit loose in the cement.

  I didn’t expect there to be anything. Not after all this time. But I still scratched and pried away till I managed to get one out. There was a cavity behind it, with something hidden in the gap. A few bricks later and I could make out this old leather case, covered in dust, with a rope tied around it. Can you imagine? I was that excited I damn near tore the handle off trying to wrench it out.

  Turned out to be full of twentieth-century relics: clothes, shoes, a woman’s personal items, and, most interesting of all, a diary. Scrawled ornately across its faded red cover, as if the writing had been labored over, were the words “My Diary—Ethel Weiss—1987.”

  ’Course I read it. Wouldn’t you?

  At the time, she’d been in her late thirties, married, mistreated by her much older husband but in love with the guy who used to call around every month to pick up the life insurance installments. The case was packed and waiting for the right moment for them to go free; her secret in the dark, a tiny glowing candle of comfort, hidden only feet away from what had been a pretty miserable existence.

  Lord knows why, but plainly she never made it. Ethel had to be long gone, but the case remained. Whatever happened, it must’ve been unexpected, cuz there were no clues in her diary. It just suddenly stopped:

  August 14th, 1987

  Another day gone. It’s wrong to wish your life away but how I wish I could forgo this part. Next time I pick up this pen, I’ll be a day closer to you. Then another, and another, till we can be together forever.

  What happened? I don’t know. Maybe her old man found out and went crazy on her? Maybe her lover had been collecting installments all over? Or maybe the life insurance had been part of a plan and she’d killed her husband, been found out, and spent the rest of her life as walled-up as her suitcase? Either way, it seems kind of sad that the symbol of her freedom should’ve ended up that way: lost in the dark and decay of Garbage Island.

  In the end, I gave it to one of the guys who sneaks over from the garbage boats. They ain’t supposed to, and they’re taking their lives in their hands, but they’ll trade almost anything with you if they think they can sell it. He gave me some new winter boots (well, new to me), some fishing line, and a whole lot of smoked meat, so I guess he thought it was worth something. Still made me feel kind of guilty. It seemed wrong—making gain out of someone else’s personal life. But it wasn’t any good to her and it wasn’t any good to me, either. And like I said, when it comes to survival, you gotta do what you can.

  Ever since then, whenever I go scavenging in the Old City, I always start at Ethel’s place. Just in case she left me another surprise. But if she did, it’s an even greater tragedy than the first one—cuz it don’t look like I’m ever going to find it.

  I tapped my hammer around the walls for a while, listening for anything that might sound hollow, and scraped at some bricks, but eventually gave up and wandered on.

  One other thing I gotta say about the Old City (and I left it till last cuz I know you’re not going to believe me. In fact, I’m not even sure I believe it myself), some days, when I’m up here on my own, seeking out a little solitude, I don’t know what it is but . . . I hear footsteps. Honestly! I swear it! I mean, my old ears might not be what they used to be, but I can hear them all right. Kind of faint and echoey, like they’ve escaped from somewhere. One day it damn near drove me insane—I started running all over the place, even calling out a couple of times, but I didn’t find anyone.

  Maybe they’re echoes from the past? From the million or so feet that used to walk this place? Or maybe, even after the human race is gone, ghosts will still wander the Earth. Lost and lonely, like elderly parents abandoned by their children.

  I slowly worked my way over toward the old jetty where, years ago, fishermen used to unload their catch as part of a thriving industry. One or two other Villagers were out doing the same as me: skulking from one pile of rubble to another, picking at this, prodding at that, stopping whatever they were doing whenever someone got too near.

  I scraped up some aluminum clips—get enough and you can sell them on to be melted down—and a handful of nails I could trade with someone building back in the Village, but nothing of any real value.

  Despite a real chill slicer coming off the ocean, I ambled out onto what remains of the old jetty; its sodden, dank green timbers buckle more with each passing year. Sometimes, in the summer, you can spot stuff that’s been missed in the water, but at this time of year, it’s too murky.

  I turned back toward the shore, about to give up and make my way over toward one of the newer landfills we’re allowed on, when suddenly something struck me. All the times I’ve been down there, I can’t believe I never thought of it before.

  It must’ve been over thirty years since the jetty was last used (when the fishing industry collapsed it had briefly been taken over by pleasure craft—the arrival of the garbage boats soon put an end to that), but surely at some point it would’ve needed lighting? The nearest remains of a building were eighty-odd yards away. Was it possible they once ran an underground cable out to the jetty, and that maybe, just maybe, no one had ever dug it up? If there was a cable, it would probably be made of copper, which would mean it was worth a bit.

  It was one helluva long shot, but you get that way after a while. You need a project, something to believe in, no matter how foolish it might be.

  I turned and walked to the land end of the jetty, chose a line from there to the remains of the most likely-looking building, unclipped my collapsible shovel, and started to dig.

  I couldn’t believe it. I only went down about eighteen inches or so and damned if I didn’t hit right on it: half an inch thick, brown, plastic-coated copper wire. Not exactly buried treasure, but to an Island Detainee, something very close to it.

  For several moments I just stood there, my heart going at a canter, looking all around to make sure no one was watching. Jesus. I knew I had a problem immediately: how the hell was I going to dig up eighty yards of cable without being seen?

  It had to be done in one go. If I did a part, cut it, and came back another time, someone was bound to notice the ground had been disturbed, no matter how well I disguised it. I had another good hard look around to make sure I was alone. On the other hand, no way could I leave it, not what it was worth. Then it came to me. Mind you, just the thought made my stomach feel like a frozen pebble had been dropped into it. I could refill the hole, hope no one spotted it during the rest of the day, and come back later. At night. That would give me plenty of time.

  Again I glanced all around. Was I serious? Villagers didn’t go out at night, not for any reason. And yet, with what was on offer, did I have any other choice?

  I carefully refilled the hole, patted down the soil and brushed it over, and got away from there as fast as I could. Not going back through the Old City, but following the rocky shore around to enter the Village from that direction.

  No sooner had I got into my lean-to, than Jimmy came over to see if I’d had any luck. I’d already decided I wasn’t going to tell him anything. I knew he’d go crazy when he heard what I was planning to do, and I didn’t want to hear it. Especially as I was aware that everything he’d say would probably make perfect sense.

  The little guy let out a long and discontented sigh as I laid out my two paltry finds of the day: the nails and aluminum clips.

  “You know what we gotta do, don’t you?” he told me.

  I nodded, not in agreement, but just to acknowledge
that I knew what he was about to say.

  “We gotta find a way of getting onto the new garbage.”

  “Jimmy.” I sighed wearily. “You know as well as I do, it ain’t possible.”

  He went quiet for a moment, then started to play with the nails I’d thrown on the wooden crate before him. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Candles?”

  “That’s cool.”

  He went straight over to his lean-to and returned a few minutes later with five candles. It was a good exchange, and if it wasn’t him endlessly hammering, it would be someone else.

  “Have you any idea,” he said, unable to resist returning to his favorite subject, “what there is in the new garbage?”

  I sighed and shook my head. I really didn’t need this. “No. And I didn’t think you did either.”

  “I been told!” he snapped, slightly irritated by my attitude.

  “Jimmy! Mainlanders don’t throw anything worthwhile away. That’s how they get to stay Mainlanders.”

  “It don’t have to be of value to them,” he told me. “But give it to me . . . I could change the world.”

  “How?” I demanded, a little harsher than I intended.

  Jimmy shrugged, finally giving way to my opposition. “I don’t know, I’d have to see it, wouldn’t I?”

  I grunted dismissively. I didn’t want to be hard on the little guy, but I had other things on my mind.

  For a while we both sat in silence, the only sound the occasional creaking of the plastic packing I used as a seat.

  “How about a game of chess?” he eventually suggested.

  Jimmy and I play chess a lot, though I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it just gives us an excuse to sit together without having to think up conversation. Sure as hell it ain’t for my pleasure. All the times we’ve played, I’ve never beaten him once. It just ain’t my sort of thing. All that thinking and planning, trying to work out what your opponent’s going to do next, and the time after that, and the time after that. He’s got a real gift for it though: analyzing, breaking things down, working out all the possibilities, and then holding it all together in his head.