verisimilitudes

Night time, the quiet time, my time. I drive my rented Ford though periodic pools of sodium, and the streaks of rain on the windshield are painted and repainted as thick shadows on the dash.

Where I’ve come from: New York City. The cacophony of that place – the greed and consumption, the long mercantile history that infects the streets, the fear of disappearing amongst the noise – it makes me anxious and unrested. The maddening roar of midnight, the wail of sirens distant and near, the claustrophobic alleys and byways all add to more than the sum of their parts. It is a frightening place, and an exciting place – a town where even a man innocent in the ways of the world could be easily sucked into a terrible underbelly of unspeakable acts.

I knock back a shot of Bourbon. I keep the speedometer at 55 miles per hour. My driving is smooth and unhurried, I can’t afford the attention. A rabbit suddenly scurries out from the undergrowth on the right hand side of the road. My full-beam reflects brightly on its retina and it stares right into me, transfixed. My fore-brain is quietly satisfied at this cliché coming true, I didn’t truly believe that a creature, even one raised as prey, wouldn’t try to run or defend itself from such an unknowable monster. My hands and feet simply keep to 55, wheels straight in line. The rabbit makes a popping sound as I grind it into the road.

I focus on the dark horizon, a beautiful contrast of deep black silhouette. A more gifted poet than I could wax lyrical about that scene, a more talented artist could still not find the right hue. I’m not a religious person, the regular hours of worship are tricky to keep, and I don’t enjoy lying to good people. How can there be a God, or any gods, I say when pressed, when the arts and sciences dreamt up by the human mind continually push back the limits of understanding, to rationally explain, in cold, leaden numbers and words, all the false facets of belief? There is no God, and I won’t be guided by anyone.

My cell. “It’s done.”. Silence. I hang up, their professionalism suits me, and I don’t like conversation.

I should put some songs on the stereo, keep me company on this desolate tarmac. I feed in an old Johnny Cash album, but the fucking CD player half-mangles the disc and now it sticks out like a middle finger from the back of a schoolbus. Fucking insolent. Fucking rude. I fire two rounds from my Beretta 92 straight into the unit, sparks leaping into the smoke from my barrel. I should probably control my temper.

Where I’m going to: I will not tell you.

The lights peter out as I leave the highway and gravel kicks up at the sides of the car. This next part will take nearly an hour, the terrain is slow going and I must make deviations for farm gates and driveways, it doesn’t pay to be too obvious. I wind down both windows and take lungfuls of cold air. I gave up smoking years ago, used those little patches, and it feels good to have a healthy body that I can depend upon. And people remember me less easily now. Easier to blend into the shadows.

It occurs to me that it’s a long time since I tasted the flesh of a woman. I was never very good with them after the initial rounds of flirting and fucking. Perhaps I can’t relate, perhaps I don’t listen. In any case, they usually leave before I drive them away – like most men I crave novelty, and I attract women with ease – a real bleedin’ Casanova. Perhaps I can find a whore after this, perhaps she can help me sleep.

The road begins to sink slowly down toward a wooded copse. “We’re nearly there, you fucker!” I singsong to the trunk. A muffled kicking reminds me to use more duct tape in future. The gasoline cans jostle in the passenger footwell as we shake our way down the track. I appreciate a client with sufficient money to make my life easy, on previous occasions I’ve had to wear gloves and beware dropped hairs. This time that doesn’t matter. I smile to no-one and pull up in a secluded clearing.

Night time then, the quiet time, my time. I empty one can over the battered seats, the stereo, the floor, the roof. Grasping the other, I pop the trunk and drench it, splashing gas with abandon and I punch those glassy eyes of terror closed with the butt of the can. The match, ripped from a sentimental old book from the Ritz, London, traces a bright arc through the air and lands amongst rapid blue flames on the hood. 

Pupils narrowed, I turn my back, pull up my coat collar, and begin the long walk home.