Passion Play Read online

  Rod sniggered into the carpet.

  “Is this fair?” Bob declaimed. “Is it Right? Is it Justice?”

  I raised one fist dramatically. “Justice is mine; the Lord said so.”

  “He is a God of Wrath,” said Bob. “And surely he will punish you for partaking of iniquitous chemicals.” Rod had slowly subsided, content to lie with his cheek in the cheap carpet. He had won the opening hands, but then the templar took hold and he started trying to shoot on every deal. We whipped him until we didn’t care about it either. Damn the game; it was enough just to sit around, aloft on billows of fellowship.

  Jim shook his head vigorously but took several seconds to form his words. “God’s a credit guy. I mean, the beard is everywhere and he talks too loud, but basically God is love. That’s what separates us right-thinking Christians from even the noblest pagans, the Greeks. The doctrine of Redemption.” He held up an unsteady finger. “Washed in the blood of the Lamb, you know. There is always redemption, always another chance, another way out. Mrs. Ward says so—it must be true!” He hiccupped. “God likes singing and giggles and sex.”

  “Jim!”

  “Diane!” he cried. “God, I love the way your eyes get all squinty when you’re shocked, and your lips sort of squinch together. Are you sure you’re not actually an undercover agent of the Red Youth? Den Madonna Diane!” he giggled, very stoned. The line of his mustache ran down along his chin, down his side, along his hip, around my head, down down down across the long receding length of my legs, vaulting off my toes to catch Bob’s upswung hands. We were all connected. Part of the whole. A mnemometal universe: you could bend it out of shape, but it always came whole again.

  “Even preachers take it where they can get it, if the gettin’s good, eh!” cackled Rod. Bob kicked him, and Rod’s eyes opened in alarm. “Uh, shit. No hard feelings, Jim,” he finished lamely.

  Somehow Rod’s words had pierced a private hurt in Jim Haliday. His fingers traced the line of my bangs for a moment, then lay still. It was as if we were all underwater, and someone had dropped a rock; the scene rippled and a gout of mud sprayed up in slow motion, obscuring everything.

  “Well look,” said Bob awkwardly, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use some munchies. How does a stroll into the great outdoors sound?”

  “Credit,” I said. “Is there a 7-11 out there in that wilderness?” I got up without waiting for an answer, and walked carefully into the bathroom.

  The sharp white light hurt at first. I turned on the cold water, wanting to splash my face and wake up. Too much white, all around. On the back of the toilet was a soothing splash of darker colour—an upturned book. Humanism and Redemptus Mundi. Jim another frustrated student. Too poor to afford university, since the states got out of the education business. So why did life look so god damn funny to him? Hear no evil see no evil: all his jokes just whistling in the dark. Some day maybe he’d find out what a joke would get you, like my father had. That much they had in common: they both took refuge in flippancy.

  I hadn’t taken any of the templar directly—a depressant was the last kind of drug I needed—but I had a double contact high, picking up as much from reading my stoned friends as from breathing the smoky air.

  The face in the mirror stared blankly back. It was tighter, more drawn than I remembered it. The familiar dark pony tail swishing beside my neck. It might almost be a woman’s face, I thought, surprised. A little ashamed. My mother’s eyes, grey blue green, an uncertain colour. A film covered them.

  I didn’t want to look at murder any more. There was a danger hidden there. Something better left unseen.

  I shook my head and splashed my face; the cold water brought me to my senses.

  Someone had killed Jonathan Mask. If the murderer wasn’t found, he might kill again. Or others might feel they could kill with impunity. There was an equilibrium to be maintained, even if it meant a death for a death. Scales are the signs of Justice. Scales held before her eyes.

  The face in the mirror, like a cleverly made mask, crinkled into a mirthless smile. After all, I thought, Justice is blind.

  “Shit! Moldy!” Rod moaned. With a look of disgust he tossed the bag of Tamex chips into the garbage eddied against the back of the 7-11.

  “The good Lord giveth,” I said heartlessly, between chews, “and the good Lord taketh away.” I was starving, and he was too comical to take seriously. Callous bitch that I was, I would keep my beef jerky to myself.

  “Never mind, son,” said Bob philosophically, pausing to wolf down a handful of NiceRice wafers. “This sort of food is bad for the system. Rots your digestion, plugs up vital openings, and cramps the—” “—flow of air to the brain. I wish I could be so healthy!”

  “Thanks a lot, you fat old Son of Sodom.” Rod dug around in his pockets with an anguished hand, looking for some leftover piece of candy he might have forgotten.

  “Here, wait a minute.” Jim slowed down as we passed under the only functional streetlight on the block, and began to fumble through his paper bag of jelly-jubes.

  A chorus of shrill laughter clattered from a corner up ahead, and a few cars hummed down the big street where the convenience stores huddled under the protection of strong lights. The houses here were all sagging single-story bungalows that smelled of old paint and engine oil and weeds. Overgrown hedges straggled through yards of knee-high grass, and splotches of mold clung to crumbling shingles. Away on the right, a dim no-man’s land of deserted industrial park. No lights there, just shadowy old warehouses humped against the skyline. At least the rain had stopped.

  “Give me some green ones,” Rod said anxiously.

  “Don’t get pushy,” Jim said firmly. “I happen to like the green ones myself. So. But as I’m a credit guy, I will let you have two of these limes.”

  “Wow—God bless,” Rod mumbled as we began to walk again. Templar is like that; you get the munchies in a powerful way. The salt taste of the jerky was good; I tore off another chunk, and kept chewing. I liked the feel of my teeth tearing into the meat. We so rarely think about what it feels like to eat. It feels good. I thought about saving some jerky for Queen E to try.

  All the streetlights along the next block had failed or been shot out, leaving it in darkness. Uneasiness began to pool around me. “Hey Diane—speaking of jerking beef,” said Rod, about to make an asshole of himself. Some people can handle their drugs, and some can’t. Dispassionately I watched Bob give him a swift kick on the back of the leg. “Hey! What was that for!” The sound of his voice seemed unnaturally loud. What was missing? The traffic noise had faded…

  What about that laughter? I played it back in my mind. Almost hysterical. Drug-silly; we should still be hearing it. Hysterical group laughter isn’t the sort of thing to vanish into silence.

  When the snigger came out of the darkness I was almost relieved. The tension had keyed me up, and I was spoiling for action. I was calm, like a spring is calm: motionless, waiting to explode.

  “God bless, friends and neighbours.” There were three of them, one in front, speaking, the other two just behind, snickering. The leader was thin and bald, maybe nineteen years old. His eyes were wide and his breathing quick and shallow. The Chill gave his hands a continual tremble, making it so very much more likely that the ancient .38 he was holding would do something nasty and unexpected. “Alms for the poor?”

  “Now. Let’s all be real calm,” Jim whispered. “We don’t want any trouble—”

  “Well FUCK then. You’re just right out of luck, aren’t you?” said the leader, tittering. The gun in his hand swung unsteadily across us like a dowsing rod, lining up on Jim’s chest. “Now why don’t you make a little contribution to the Rising Son Salvation Fund, administered by my faithful deacons here?”

  There was a wicked snap, and a dull glint of moonlight appeared in the right hand of follower #1, a tall long-limbed black. “You heard the Word, didn’t you?” He took a long step forward and whipped the kni
fe in a sudden arc in front of my face.

  The thrill was hard and alive in me; I had to keep from grinning. Instead I whimpered and edged back, wanting him just a little closer. I could feel Jim’s surprise; I hoped he wouldn’t give anything away.

  Number #2 was hanging back, but #1 had scented fear. “Hey, Jiminy, I think we got us a hamburger here!”

  “A hamburger, Rick?” The gun wobbled my way.

  “That’s right,” Rick said, moving a little closer, knife blade twitching between his fingers. “A piece of meat between two buns.”

  “Leave her alone, asshole!” Jim shouted.

  The gun jerked back instantly, and the snap of another blade came from follower #2. The leader’s smile had disappeared. “Shut the fuck up and hand it over if you don’t want your dick blown off!”

  Follower #2’s voice was husky and shaking; he was in the deepest ice. “You want to see my knife, mister?” He laughed hoarsely.

  I could feel Jim’s helpless anger as my own. His muscles were tense with fury, but his resolve disappeared down the yawning black barrel of the .38. “For Christ’s sake, Jim, just do what they say,” I begged, hoping he wasn’t going to try anything on his own. My heart was steady; my nerves were cold and smooth as steel. It was good to be back and alive.

  “That’s the idea,” Rick said. “Listen to your tubesucker and let us have it.”

  My hand slid comfortably around the grip of the taser in my pocket. “Okay,” I whispered.

  A bolt of sudden lightning tossed the leader through the air like a badly-made doll. The charge convulsed Jiminy’s hands, and I felt a splinter of concrete slash my face as the .38 blew a hole in the sidewalk. Before Jiminy had hit the pavement Rick’s knee-cap was splintering like a crab shell beneath my boot. He screamed; through the haze of white light I was using to shield I could feel his agony. I took his knife and whirled on #2. My heart was hammering quick, powerful strokes, and my nerves were alight with energy. I looked at Joey and smiled.

  He backed away in short, jerky steps, and I began to walk after him. Too late to go back and recoil the taser; I would have to take him without it. There was something balletic in the way we moved, hunter and hunted, roles suddenly reversed. “Sssh-sh-shit!” he mumbled.

  Suddenly the dance was broken. “Leave it be,” Jim said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “The guy’s not going to bother us. It isn’t worth the risk!” He gave me what was meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Seeing his chance, Joey turned and sprinted into the darkness. “Play it cool, ok?”

  I shook Jim’s hands off my shoulders. “Christ! You just cost me a make!” I yelled. “Call the cops and go home, but get out of my way. I’m working,” I said savagely, and then I began to run.

  Joey has a head start. He’s Chilled out and I am almost straight, but it’s his territory. When I can’t see him in the pale moonlight I can hear his footsteps, ragged and scared ahead of me. He breaks for the warehouses.

  It is good to be out, running under the moonlight with a knife in my hand. When else am I as truly alive? I wonder briefly how Jim and the others are doing. Surely they can call a patrol and get Jiminy and Rick carted away. My business is with Joey now.

  His footsteps veer, the sound of them changes, no longer a hollow slapping. He has dodged down a gravelled alley, heading for the industrial park at its end. I can see him ahead of me, a grey-shirted shadow flickering through the gloom. His breathing is hoarse and shuddery, mine still smooth. Sweat, or perhaps blood from my cut cheek, trickles along the line of my jaw. I put on speed, trying to close the gap. The alley ends in a field, and he goes twisting through a maze of I-beams and old tractor parts, running like a rabbit. I have to slow down. Unlike Joey I don’t know the position of every nail-studded board. Once I almost fall, springing at the last moment over a rusting iron girder, calf-high and covered with knotted wild grass. The terrain is slick from the afternoon rain.

  Feet crunching ahead again. He has broken through to the island of pavement that surrounds the nearest warehouse. By the time I do the same, he is sliding between the steel doors. They are open maybe a foot and a half, held together by a massive chain. I can make it through, but it will be risky. So much the better.

  I stop outside the gap. I am betting he only has the knife he showed us five minutes ago. If he is waiting on the other side of the door, he’ll stick me as I slide through. Forcing myself to breathe slowly, I turn all my attention to listening. He is stoned and a junky and not too healthy: it’s impossible he can hold his breath long. If he is near, I will hear him gasping.

  Nothing, and no image either. He’s deep inside, waiting. I step through sideways, quickly, crouching under the chain and leading with my knife in case I’m wrong. My shoulder jerks away from a touch, sending a shock of adrenalin through me. The bottom of the padlock, nothing more.

  I squat for a minute in the darkness just inside the door, feeling how perfect it would be to die at this instant, with the acid edge of the hunt pouring through my blood.

  Danger releases a flood of emotions, not only fear. Anger. Exultation. Yes—ruthless exhilaration sings through me, makes me laugh out loud. The sound tears a circle of nothingness around my prey.

  The darkness is almost complete; I can do little more than sense the quality of the night, deeper on the sides than in the middle. Standard warehouse layout, probably, with a long central corridor. There is a warehouse quality to the silence too, echoing and metallic. The place has an overpowering chemical stink, like old disinfectant.

  Somewhere in the darkness, waiting, is Joey-boy, who likes to use his knife. “Well well, Joey. You’ve run yourself to ground, haven’t you?” My voice echoes, big and hollow, bending around the darkness. He is smart enough not to answer. I can hear him breathing, just at the edge of perception, but the sound is too faint to localize. He won’t answer; he has the advantage now and he knows it. As long as I have to keep coming after him, he’ll always be able to wait in the shadows, hearing me approach, waiting for the sure strike. I know my reaction time won’t be fast enough to stop him if he can stay still and quiet. I could hope for a shallow cut so I could turn and take him out, but that would be asking for too much. Joey wants to show me his knife.

  No. He’ll stay put, if he can. Whoever has to move loses the advantage. And he knows this place. The reek is unbearable. I decide to risk a light. After all, he knows where I am anyway. I fumble in my pocket for a match, dig one out, hold it to my side, ready to strike, not looking at it. I can’t afford to be dazzled; I need to make all the use I can out of its brief life. I hesitate one second. What if Joey can throw that knife of his?

  Worth the risk. If he’s smart he won’t—it isn’t balanced right, and if he misses he’s weaponless. Up to now, Joey’s been pretty smart. Maybe he’ll be enough smarter than me, this time. I’ve come close before. I realize, just now, that I have always expected to die hunting.

  A nice crisp flick of the thumb, and a brief wavering light. The warehouse is stuffed with huge white metal barrels: the word “HALTHOL” is written across each of them in fat black letters, squatting on the “flammable” symbol. The concrete floor is dirty and stained with old spills. I try to sweep as much of the place as I can with my eyes, letting the match burn down and singe my fingers before I drop it.

  Might as well try the old soft sell. “Look, why don’t we make this easier on both of us, Joey? Come along quietly and I’ll put in a good word for you.” Silence. Damn right, too. The Red legislation would put him away for ten years without parole for the attempted assault, plus another eight at least for Chill abuse. Doesn’t sound like a hell of a deal to me either, but it couldn’t hurt to try. “The longer this takes, the harder it will go with you, you know.”

  Nothing. The goddamn silence is getting to me. I wish he would say something—shout an obscenity, anything. Anything to give me something to work with.

  Fine then. If he wants to play cat and mouse, I can do that.

  “Kind of a scary s
ituation, isn’t it, Joey-boy? Your heart’s pounding, your mouth is dry, you can’t think straight.” Safe ground, this: those are the Chill effects. My heart is racing. “You’re scared shitless, aren’t you? Funny how seldom you hear your own heartbeat, isn’t it?” He is cornered—he will strike to finish it. I can taste the steel in my mouth. “That’s a scary proposition, isn’t it, Joey?” If he cuts me once, badly, there will still be enough time left before the end for him to make it very unpleasant for me. I’ve seen rape-murder mutilations before. They aren’t pretty. I wonder if he’s done any.

  God damn it. He’s had enough time to catch his breath by now. Maybe he’s been moving while I’ve been talking. Coming closer, yard by yard across the cold cement. Maybe the next sound I’ll hear is the pop of the spring. My hand curls into a fist, almost crushing the box of matches in my jacket. Five or six lie in the pocket, their blue heads rasping on my hypersensitive fingertips.

  “Let’s up the ante a little bit, Joey.” I take out another match, strike it, hold it so the blue and white flame is beside me. I must look like Mask in his costume, shooting flame from my fingertips. “Behold the humble match, Joseph. First called a lucifer match. That’s a devil-match to you.” My pulse is still racing, and the echo of the building seems to have gotten into my ears. “Warehouse full of Halthol. A really popular turn-of-the-century insecticide around here, until people’s babies started being born without legs. Smells like shit, doesn’t it?”

  The match bites down to my fingertips. I drop it, step on the remains. Fuck him. Fuck. Him. Whatever it takes. “You may be wondering why I mention it. Well, probably even you can read well enough to figure out this stuff is explosive. Had you made the jump? Let me help: if you can smell the stink this strong, some of these barrels must be ruptured. It’s an old warehouse, Joey. This stuff has been gathering dust for a while. Did you know that even fumes can catch fire, Joey? If a fire started in here, we would both be burned to death, my friend. Melted into slag.” Silence. “It might be a single horrible explosion,” I say, taking out another match. “Or it might be like being covered in alcohol and burned alive.” I strike it. “Lot of alcohol in insecticide—did you know that, Joey?”