Derelict

Part 2 of a set of interconnected short stories, with illustrations from Barney Bodoano.

That first morning drink always charred his gullet with precision malice, but Merle knew it would at least keep his hands steady whilst he endured this long-awaited visit to his father. Quite why he'd been so explicit in his instructions, so emphatic in his demands for a meeting, was unclear, but experience had taught him that when such requests were made they usually spelled trouble. 

Merle placed the half empty vodka bottle back into the toilet cistern, delicately settling the ceramic lid as quietly as possible so that his wife wouldn't hear. Previous attempts at concealing his drinking had thus far gone spectacularly badly, with all manner of cans and hip flasks discovered in hiding places all over the house, and yet still he'd continued with this farce for the past twelve years. She deserved better, no question. In twenty five years of marriage he'd yet to meet a sweeter, more adorable, creature and even at forty seven and as a mother of three she remained the most heartbreakingly beautiful woman he'd ever known. His inadequacies choked him, as if his own decaying hands were wrapped around his throat.

"You OK in there honey?" she called. He cleared the contrition from his larynx and replied with his customary forced joviality,

"I'm fine darlin'! Just making myself look beautiful for you."

He heard her little giggle behind the bathroom door as she moved downstairs. Merle stood in front of the mirror and inspected the reflection, now just a scarred relic. What could his father possibly want so badly from such a train wreck, from a son he'd barely spoken to in God knows how long? 

Though it was more than a little snug these days, Merle decided that his one-and-only navy three piece suit would at least provide him with the best chance of imitating some sort of success story. He stuffed his wallet and car keys into one of the crumpled trouser pockets and made his way to the front door, stopping to kiss Kathleen on the porch as she watered the geraniums.

"Be careful Merle. We don't need his money and we certainly don't need to be caught up in whatever he's got himself into, OK? I love you."

If only she knew, he thought. Over the past few months he'd managed to retrieve all of the red letters before she'd checked the mail box, but the truth was that if there was one thing they truly needed it was a financial lifeline.

Despite feeling like he was driving a derelict coffee grinder, Merle's brown Ford Pinto managed to successfully lurch itself into the parking lot of Hurricane's Boxing Gym. He stepped out onto the tarmac and examined his former domain. How long had it been?

Inside he was greeted by the familiar odour of stagnant sweat and stale blood. Two young men glistened and grunted, every sinew taut as gloved fists swung at each other from inside the ropes. Somewhere on these paint-peeled walls was his picture; lean, powerful and triumphant, with his Detroit Golden Gloves held aloft. Things could have been so different.

Merle approached one of the cornermen.

"Excuse me sir, do you know if Bob is here yet?"

"My God! Merle Patterson, is that you?! Holy hell! Rusty! Hey Rusty, get over here and meet a real champion!" 

Merle winced, shuffling back and forth in his wearied black imitation-leather shoes. He hated these rare moments of adulation. In spite of his impeccable record, undefeated with 19 knockouts from 23 professional bouts, conversation always ended with a sigh and a shake of the head.

"He had it all. Should've been a world champion." The undiluted looks of sympathy, even pity, always made his brain jolt around riotously in his skull. He mumbled a few words of encouragement to the eager young hopeful and his coach, made his excuses, and headed to the office at the back of the gym. 

Inside Bob stood at the window, back turned, sucking voraciously on a cigarette. He was enormous now, the colossal Hawaiian shirt only magnifying his gargantuan frame.

"You drunk?"

It was exactly the greeting Merle had been expecting.

"No sir. Ninety days sober on Monday. I really feel like this is it, Dad. I'm done with it."

Bob snorted mockingly into the glass, smoke billowing from unkempt nostrils. 

"You lost your job two weeks ago, didn't you? I spoke to your foreman."

Merle's stomach wrenched. His heart sank.

"Jesus, Merle. You told Kathleen yet?"

"Dad. Please." Merle clutched at a chair. His legs felt like they were about to shatter. Bob turned, lumbering across the office and reaching into one of the filing cabinets. From it he produced a pristine white envelope and a wrinkled brown paper bag.

"Sounds like we're both in trouble then" whispered Bob, finally levelling his eyes at the paralysed figure which sat before him. Though his tone was composed, each syllable calculated, Merle could see that the twitch in his right eye had returned, a sure sign that Bob's recent act of malevolence could result in far more than a slap on his trunk-like wrist. As he listened on his chest began to palpitate overwhelmingly. Merle could see exactly where this was heading.

"There's her photo and her address." Bob pushed the envelope across the desk and into Merle's tormented grasp.

"You don't need to lay a finger on her, Merle. In and out. You make her understand. She cannot take the stand, OK? She must not testify."

Merle reached for the bag. 

"Her husband won't be back 'til six o clock. I need this done now, Merle. Five thousand for five minutes work."

As he stood up the floor seemed to sway beneath him. He staggered out, clattering through the main doors and out into the sunlight. Fumbling around with his keys, he finally managed to tear the door open, throwing himself into the driver's seat before yanking a large bottle of brandy from out of the glove compartment. He devoured it frantically until a warm haze settled his insides, consoled his thinking and cradled his tremors. 

Don't think about it. In and out. 

The car careered out onto the main road, heading south. By the time he reached Montgomery Avenue Merle could barely focus on the street signs. He parked up some way from his intended target, pulled the pistol from the paper bag and held it tightly in his hand.

Three deep breaths.

Not only was the back door unlocked, it was wide open, cooling the kitchen and living room amidst a sweltering heatwave. The television barked a subsidised Gospel sermon from the garish Jeremiah Rothmore out into the yard. Just twelve monthly payments of twenty bucks for the Lord's love and forgiveness.

In a chair by the bookcase sat Linda Robinson, sunk deep in olive-coloured cushions and flicking through a celebrity gossip magazine. Merle had promised not to allow this woman's face to imprint upon his decommissioned mind but he found himself suspended, transfixed by the quiet civility that he was about to extinguish. She was clearly once a woman of devastating beauty; her long pale limbs folded up into the chair, full rouged lips curled up at the sides and a single blonde ringlet of hair hanging over a freckled cheek.

Merle moved to the living room doorway, slowly pulling the gun out from under his suit jacket and pointing it at his oblivious victim.

She looked up. And froze.

"You.... you're on your own, right?" slurred Merle. Struggling to aim the weapon in even vaguely the right direction, he took four groggy steps towards her.

Something wasn't right. Though she was rooted to the spot Linda's trembling palms had managed to muffle a scream. And her eyes were flitting around the room maniacally, like a jailor's spotlight searching for an escapee.

"Yes." she replied cooly. "Please just take what you want and go. There's money in my purse in the kitchen."

Merle tried to shake the fog from out of his eyes, but all that resulted in was more extreme dizziness. He collided with a small table, sending a chinese vase crashing to the floor.

"Oh God. I'm sorry." bawled Merle. Christ, the whole thing was a sham. He wasn't cut out for this. The gun wasn't even loaded, he'd made sure of it. All Merle wanted to do was get back to Kathleen and leave this poor woman alone. 

The floorboards creaked.

"OK! OK! Now listen!" cried Linda. Her sense of alarm seemed strangely delayed. Suddenly every fibre of her being was concentrated on Merle. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he scanned the scene before him. And then he saw them.

Two half-drunk coffee cups.

This was it. 

He bit his lip. And closed his eyes.