As he walked down Shaw Street, past the rotting wooden structures and ramshackle cars, Rufus was in turmoil. Something had opened within him; some connection made.
What the hell is this? he shouted inwardly.
Each and every step was punctuated by a flash of memory; behind every blink another question.
Mac’s schizophrenia.
Michael Ridenour’s eyes.
Danni twirling in the candle-light.
The kid on the corner.
The old guy at The Folded Corner: go on.
Watching.
The music in the ground, in his palms.
Watched.
The freak-show mask of the distorted deputy.
Watching.
A shadow behind the house up on the right. Leaning around the corner.
Rufus snapped his eyes in that direction and the shadow, which he’d sensed more than seen, darted backwards into the alleyway between the houses.
His feet were moving before he knew it.
“Wait!”
Rufus thundered towards the houses, heard something knocked over by the fleeing shadow, wood clattering against wood.
He turned the corner, glimpsed the shadow turn the far corner into the back yard.
“Wait!”
Sprinting down the alleyway, leaping over a small tumble of two-by-fours. Beyond, he could see the yard was fenced in; some small chance of an end to this chase.
Rufus sprinted around the corner, breathing heavy, eyes wide with the night; adrenalized.
And wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing.
He skidded to a halt.
The air in the middle of the yard was shimmering, moving and flexing as if clear plastic rippled across its surface; the fence and scrub grass behind blurred and blurring, somewhere between heat haze and river bed.
As he tried to focus on the wavering air, Rufus felt nausea wash across him and, for a moment, he was back in the police station, pressing the buzzer and hearing that far off, whining static, tuned to some frequency that made his stomach roil. He breathed heavily, forcing air into his lungs.
And watched in amazement as the shimmering began to contract, decreasing from outer edge to its center, a circle shrinking from car tyre to frisbee to dime until, with a faint popping sound, it disappeared.
The nausea abated immediately.
And the yard was still.
It took a moment for Rufus to snap back to himself, and he looked all around the yard.
There was no sign of the shadow.
He walked forward, hesitantly, unsure of the air above the scrub grass. He half expected to walk into something solid as he reached the epicenter.
But he walked right through.
There was nothing there.
Neither shadow, nor shimmering.
Nothing
* * *
If he’d been unsettled before, Rufus was close to paranoia as he walked back into town. After the back-yard on Shaw Street, he’d seriously considered turning back to return to Danni’s place. He didn’t know whether that was attraction, consideration that she already had some insight or just simply the desire to avoid being alone.
Yet he hadn’t, instead finding his feet pulling him through the town. He let himself be led, drifting along roads and paths, unaware of where he was or where he was going.
His only companion was his confusion.
What the hell’s going on here? he thought, feeling that he might walk forever before finding anything resembling an answer.
* * *
The Loaded Barrel loomed into his awareness as much as it would if he’d approached through fog banks. Rufus looked up and there it was; neon glowing now, car park filling. From inside, the muffled beat of music.
He put his endless questions on hold and entered the bar, surprised to find that it was reasonably brightly lit. He’d imagined it as a typical live venue: black walls, dark corners, transient tables to rest beer while watching the bands. While The Loaded Barrel did have its fair share of corners, the main room was reasonably lit, with booths and tables where couples, work parties and even families sat in easy relaxation.
More than the lighting, however, Rufus was most aware of the smell of fried food.
And realized just how hungry he was.
He walked up to the bar and claimed one of the stools. While he waited for the bartender to finish with another customer, he scanned the room; still feeling his questions pushing at him.
I should just leave, he thought, it’s just too weird.
He was back in the candle-light with Danni; dancing, dancing, dancing.
“A what that sucks,” Mac whispered from memory, “that feeds.”
The goosebumps that had rippled across the old man’s arms when he’d talked about his illness, about the doctors, the treatment.
Melting faces.
The endless gray corridor in the police station, its closed doors, its eerie silence and the final arrival at the interrogation room.
The rapture of performing for Jesse at The Folded Corner and how she’d just abruptly upped and walked away as soon as the old man had arrived.
The distorted deputy.
The back-yard on Shaw Street.
A freak-show mask.
The shimmering air and that sound; tuned static like a taste of insanity.
Mac’s panic.
The boy on the corner.
A what that steals.
Michael Ridenour.
The truck driver’s assertion that he couldn’t change anything here. And Danni’s challenge that he needed to change himself first.
“You can’t just close your eyes and ignore it,” she’d said.
A shadow running into a back-yard that was melting.
A shadow he was sure would have a melting face.
The kid on the stoop, sitting alone, until his mother called him in protectively.
Is that what I’m doing, he thought, closing my eyes?
“Hi. What’ll it be?”
He turned to face the bartender who smiled at him. She was all-American, this one, blonde hair, blue eyes, enough make-up but not too much.
And her face matches.
The thought bounced into his head without fanfare, bringing an anxious feeling which was only just masked by the smile he forced to his face.
“I’ll take a coffee,” he said, “and a menu.”
“Cream and sugar?”
He shook his head. “Black.”
“Sure,” she smiled, “I’ll be right back.”
Rufus closed his eyes and wished he’d never walked into Anywhereville.
RUFUS – A NOVEL is a novel-in-progress by Vincent Tuckwood, a Brit author living and working in Waterford, Connecticut, USA. Read more by Vincent Tuckwood.
