Golden Hour (Final Part 8)
"They called him The Collector," Vincent commented. "You've not really referred to him." There was a rustle of papers as the old editor looked over my manuscript. "Too bad you lost the camera." I had, but it had been returned when I was in hospital, an officer left it at the foot of my bed while I was unconscious. I'd looked at the photos, but they were too horrible to include. Anything after Max had a washed out, faded appearance as though it had damaged the camera's lens or its brilliance had burnt the sensor. "What do you suggest?" "Lose the ending. As it is, it's too much, you build up too much sympathy for the devil. Ruins the mystique." Vincent wanted a different story to the one I'd written, disappointed it didn't back up his theory. I'd written an account of what happened -- with a few minor tweaks. Max became a drug dealer that Joe knew, who had been buying from the vet. A bit far-fetched, but more readily bought than what actually happened. The ice pack I was holding to my chest was melting, cold water dripping onto my jeans. Vincent grumbled and turned the page. I realised that I was watching, reading over his shoulder, looking for mistakes, seeing how it sounded. "Well?" I asked "Well what?" "What did you think?" David peered over the edge of his glasses, from the other side of the room. "He's just pissed because he wanted to keep Joe as the bogey man. Leave it as it is, let people make up their own mind. Don't change anything," he advised. Vincent frowned, "No, we can't use this, too many questions. It's incomplete. Besides, there aren't any pictures." David waited until the editor had left his desk before whispering, "Keep it, put it on Amazon or somewhere. Who knows you might start to get a following." He held out an envelope, "Last pay check. Sure you won’t reconsider? The story’s good.” I shook my head. “Sorry it didn't work out.” Taking the money, I nodded. "Me too." I gathered my belongings, and headed out of the door. I struggled to open my car, box balanced on one knee, while trying not to put any strain on my back, digging for keys that were in the wrong pocket. "Mr Bradly Johnson, may I have a word?" I recognised her. With her hair scraped back hair into a pony tail. Hat tucked under her arm. She seemed nervous. Amanda, the officer who had confronted Joe about her missing niece. "I just wanted to go over a few things that you said," and then quieter, "about Joe." "I appreciate that you've already given a statement, but off-record, how did he know where she was? How did he find her?" Amanda asked. "He had a... gut feeling." I said. A sharp tang of copper and bile rose up the back of my throat, even thinking about the smell made the hairs in my nose recoil. I rubbed it away, getting fresh scent of hand soap, but still I couldn't shake the smell of eviscerated dog. "How is he?" "Still a mess," I said. "Last time I saw him, he said with all his bandages he looked like a burn victim." Amanda chewed her lip even more, a bloodless wedge between her teeth. "You haven't see him?" I said. "Christ that was weeks ago." "I meant to." I let that sink in for a moment. A lot had happened in those weeks, both lucky still to be around. "So, he's not told you?" "Told me what?" I stared at her, wondering how much to say, whether to start with the lump that he'd had torn out of his bicep; his shredded shoulder. He'd broken a couple of ribs, like me, and initially suffered from ataxia. Slurring, talking to someone who wasn't there. Rebecca. Crying, uncontrollably, saying sorry over and over and over again. It was upsetting to watch. A week later, he was back. Scowling at me with the same disdain he had in the pub. "The drugs knocked him off his feet long enough for the doctors to give him a proper check-up. The headaches, the loose screw. Not the problem, it was caused by pressure building up behind the metal plate. Tumours." I watched for a reaction. "He said that they could take out a few, but there was no point. The ones the doctors could get to, weren't going to be the ones that killed him. "He's dying." "How long does he have?" "Depends." She nodded. "Look," she said, "there's an event down at the rotary club, wanting to thank you, and Joe. Can you make it?" I took the card, dropped it onto the top of my stuff. "I'll ask him." "Have you seen Hank?" Another painful memory surfaced, too fresh to be forgotten. I'd seen him alright, sobbing his eyes out on his doorstep. A waterfall of snot and tears crashing down and frothing against the whiskers on his chin, screaming at me Why! Why the fuck did you let him take him?! I'll never, ever fucking forgive you. Ever! I didn't even feel better, after I'd taken an RSPCA rescue puppy around to his house, tied it to his gatepost and rang the doorbell. Not wanting to repeat the last doorstep encounter, I hid. Hank came out, saw the dog and shouted: "I see what you're doing, you're evil! You bastard Joe. Take the fucker back where it came from or I'll crush its skull! I swear to God!"
An hour later the door opened again. Softer, almost apologetic, Hank addressed the dog, "okay, so it's not your fault, the bad man abandoned you. Left you here. Not sure what he was thinking, but you look cold? You cold? See what Hank can find for you, then I'll the bastard to take you back. First thing." That's when I left. "No," I said. "I've not seen him." The celebration was as bad as I thought it would be. I'd recovered enough so that standing for any period of time didn't leave me crippled by pins and needles. I also didn't have to wear the back brace all the time. A leaner Joe stood on the veranda, resting against the balcony. He didn't look ill, despite the scars, not yet anyway. "We should go in and join them." I motioned to family who had organised the event. "No, they don't know me. Gratitude turns to suspicion." "You did that, remember the joy on their faces?" I said. "That was relief, and we did that," Joe corrected, " But I also killed a man's only companion. Face that, face the fury of a man who has lost his best friend, you can't take one without the other - we don't get to pick and choose. I'm faced with walking past his house every day." "We won." I said, a little less sure of myself. "Really, what did we win?" Joe was talking louder now, drawing attention, people wondering why the guests of honour weren't coming in, instead standing outside making a scene. "We stopped a sick fuck, but did we get there in time for Charlotte? Did we? She's going to need years of counselling, years!" The waiter, poised on the threshold about to offer more wine, saw Joe's expression and decided that there were thirstier guests inside. "You want me to paint exactly what we did? It's all a gamble, all about sacrifice, what are you prepared to lose in order to play the game? No guarantees. So, you set out with an ideal, a threshold that you think you won't cross. That's all well and good, until happens the first time that you can't fix something, the first time that it all goes wrong? You've gambled and lost. The bar lowers, you come away bloodied, a little more cynical and worldly wise. You've lost that ideal, stepped over it, done something that you're ashamed of. You move on, but it hurts. So, the next time, when the stakes increase, more and more is put on the line. What happens then? You try and protect yourself, put boundaries in place, but that just gets people's backs up. You're miserable, uncooperative, blah blah. So, the criteria meant to safeguard your decisions; won't do it for anyone who isn't a friend or related, anyone over fifteen just confuses matters. How can you have a conscience and not act? So, these red lines are crossed, again and again." Joe jabbed a finger into my chest, "Would Hank grieve any less, had it been his child, rather than a dog? That dog was his world, and I took that away. I can justify it to you, to ourselves. Sacrifice the animal for the girl. But it was still a sacrifice. What if we couldn't get her back? What then? The dog's still dead? "Sometimes I think that I'm just delaying the inevitable." The streetlight gleamed from the water in his eyes, and a single tear fell to the pavement decking. "I get it." I said, "but is now the time to be going over this?" Joe ignored me, "What if she dies tomorrow? What if she takes her own life because of something the collector did? or something we didn't do. Where the fuck did the worm go, the thing that was leading me to her? What if it found her, and is living inside her now? What if she gets hit by bus tomorrow? Her parents are going to go through the same hell that they went through when she was taken. Hell, we all hope for the mercy of dying before our children, but the world isn't fair. We just kept her flame burning for another day. Doesn't mean that it can't be extinguished tomorrow. Only it won't be our responsibility." "Joe, look..." "Sometimes, being late is better." "Joe!" I protested. "Think about this. What if there wasn't a dog? How far would we have taken it? So, reasoning creatures as we are, we justified it. What we deem as a lesser life, of a pet, a domestic animal, for that of a young girl. Odds are it was a neutered pet, no chance of continuing its lifeline, compared to that of a young girl who may go on to mother her own children. Eventually, a potential for a huge history of ancestors. See where I'm going? "So, what about next time? What about a homeless man? Where is the balance on the scales? And don't fool yourself it's a straight exchange, we gambled the life of a dog for information. Just a chance to save her. Anything could have happened. She could have struggled when she was taken, been killed before we arrived. We could have got her killed. It was too close to call, wasn't good luck. What we did was to gamble the life of a beloved pet for information, for potential to save her. "Max could have double crossed us, still might, I don't feel one hundred percent that drink, so that's in the back of my mind as well. "What next? "Would you exchange the life of a homeless man for information? "What happens when you bring class into it? What value do you put on life, and what right do we have? When does what we're doing become wrong? I'm losing track of where the red lines are. It's a sliding scale that gets pushed and pushed, and I'm having a hard time justifying it to myself. Left to be guided by our own moral compass and good fortune. It doesn't always work out. That's why I don't have friends." I let the echo of his words die, consumed by the conversations spilling from the open door. He was right. In a way, Amanda had known exactly what Joe was capable of. He was her sacrifice. "I'll be your friend," I said. Joe froze; his eyes welling up with tears. "Knowing all you know?" "Yeah, your heart's in the right place. You mean well," I said. He laughed and picked up his glass. "You know what they say about good intentions - hell and all that." "Hell, and all that," I said.
