Fic: LowLives part 6
THIS IS MY 100th POST! is vrry excite. 8D but i've got nothing else to celebrate with, so instead, I'LL DRAW A PICTURE FOR WHOEVER COMMENTS. with a prompt. :D
anyway.
LowLives
Word Count: 4661
in which there is schmoop, angst, fluff, violence, and sap, although not necessarily in that order. also with my weird brand of humour on it, the sap is a bit less like sap and more like...weird. also mutants.
-
This is Tuesday. When I get to the warehouse, Mickey sends me off on a delivery run with Jameson, who looks like a puppy with a bone at getting to go out with me.
It's a little unnerving.
I'm driving one of the cars that seem to just sit around the warehouse, waiting for someone to do something illegal with, while he sits in the passenger seat and bounces.
We've got eight bricks of po in the back seat, hidden under a tarp, and we're heading out to other locations to distribute them to Vincent's various peons of the underworld.
The first five go well. The buyers are sketchy, but their clients are sketchier, so we're not even that bad off in terms of sketchy dealings.
We go into the backs of restaurants, and into alley ways and into night clubs that aren't nearly as impressive without the night and the smoke and the lights.
Then we take the sixth one to a dealer who hangs out on the edge of East Quarter near a housing project.
He's not there - Anthony is his name, Anthony Kendel, and even though we don't have a picture, I know he's not there, because the person who meets us is a man with bloodshot eyes and raw gums and he is carrying a knife.
Jameson is walking back and forth in front of the car while I lean on the open driver side door, watching.
The guy - 30 or older, probably - comes up behind Jameson and before I can even blink in astonishment, he's got him by the neck, long ragged fingernails digging into the kid's pale skin with the knife positioned like an amateur, but directly against his throat, which makes it deadly enough.
I shout out loud, which is a mistake, and throw myself around the car door, approaching the pair with my hands up in surrender, which is not remotely smarter.
"Hey, man, hey, just put the knife down, okay?" I say, watching his eyes and not the blade, because if I look at the blade I won't be able to control myself.
"Gimmie your money!" he says, but that's not what he wants, and I know it.
So I lie.
"We don't have any money, we're just delivering things, we don't carry the money, come on man, just let him go and we can talk about this, okay?" I keep posing them as questions, asking for his opinion, trying to coax him into thinking that the ideas I'm attempting to plant are his idea. I've got no fucking clue if it'll work or not, but it's as good a plan as I have for the moment, and besides - he's fucked out of his mind, it'll be easier to try and convince him than if he were sober.
He's not going for it, and Jameson squeaks as he's manhandled roughly into a more secure grip.
I'm edging closer, and I just start rambling, just speaking whatever, soothing tones, and it doesn't even matter what I'm saying.
"Come on, man, drop the knife, we're not gonna hurt you. You've got the power, we're just here, we're not gonna hurt you, not gonna call the police, not anything, okay? Not anything - you're in control, yeah? Just lower the knife, just put him down, you don't need to do this."
And I'm getting closer and closer with each little movement, going slowly enough to make Jameson even more terrified, but the guy doesn't really register it, so it's all to plan.
And then I'm on them.
Jameson gets nicked by the knife and lets out a surprised shout when I leap, grabbing the guy's arm and wrenching it away, kicking Jameson in the leg to make him drop and then shoving him away with my hip so he's out of immediate danger. I keep my grip on the guy's wrist and twist and twist, until he drops the knife, and until he falls to his knees, arm up behind his back, and then I keep twisting because he's strong and he's crazy, until I dislocate the thing entirely with a wet pop, and he jerks with a howl of pain and stops thrashing to curl around his injured limb.
I throw him to the ground, and step back cautiously, but he's not getting up, not any time soon.
I jog backwards a few steps until I'm standing over Jameson, who's frozen on the ground. He's bleeding freely from an open cut at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, collar ripped and the knees of his jeans grass stained. I kneel in front of him, pulling my shirtsleeve down over my hand and pressing it hard against his neck. Luckily, it's nowhere near his jugular or carotid arteries, so I don't have to worry about him bleeding out.
He makes a choked, pained noise, but I cup my other hand around his neck, lacing my fingers into the hairs at the base of his neck and stroking in soothing motions.
"You'll be fine, kid. Let's get you to a hospital, get this stitched up." I pull him up as I talk, dragging him over to the car, keeping pressure on the wound.
But his eyes widen. "No! No, I can't go to a hospital!"
"What? Why not?"
I stuff him into the car, sitting him down sideways on the passenger seat, and kneel on the gravel beside it, the tiny rocks digging into my knees through my jeans. I strip off my overshirt, wadding it up into a ball to soak up the blood better. Jameson looks down as best as he can with my hands all over his neck, and I'm reminded how young he must be.
"I can't pay for it. Medical bills, I mean, I can't afford them."
"But Vincent's paying you. What do you spend it on?"
"You'll laugh."
"I'm not gonna fucking laugh, Jameson."
"Ty."
"What? Shift your head, no, just tilt it to the side."
"Ow - I said, Ty, my name's Ty. Well, Tyler."
"Yeah? I knew a kid named Tyler when I was like, eight."
"What was he like?"
"He was an asshole. Don't change the subject. What do you spend your money on that means you can't go to the fucking hospital for six stitches?"
"My sister - she's got leukaemia. We spend all the money we have on chemotherapy and her medical bills. She's gotta live in a home, too, 'cause they won't let me take care of her," he says, and I stop everything I'm doing to stare.
"Are you kidding me?" He looks so nonplussed, eyes wide and confused and in pain, that I almost cry. "You're serious. Your sister has cancer, and you deal drugs to pay for the medical bills."
"Well, yeah," he says, now looking at me like I'm some kind of retarded, and also more like he's going to pass out.
"Well, you're just a fucking poster boy for sob stories, aren't you? Jesus Christ, that might be the most cliché tale of woe and desperation I've ever heard, but you're fucking serious. What the hell, man."
At that, he laughs, "Heh, yeah. Every story you ever heard about kids living on the street are about me, you know."
"Apparently so, Tyler Jameson."
"Hey, Arthur? What's your last name?"
I pause, thinking about lying. "Hayes," I say finally. Arthur probably told Vincent anyway, and that other guy. Mickey most definitely knows, because she's fucking scary like that. I wonder if they know he has a brother.
"Okay, Ty. Here's what we're gonna do. I'm sure there's suture stuff in the warehouse, I'm not the best, but if Mickey can't fix you up, I can do it - I've done it before. So we'll go back now, leave the rest of the bricks for someone else to deliver, yeah?"
I take his hand and contour his fingers around my shirt, showing him where to hold it in place. My hand is stained with his blood, seeped through the fabric and I leave smears across his skin.
I get up, wincing at the ache in my knees, and start to move around the car, pulling out my cellphone to call the police about the crazy man lying on the ground, but Jameson reaches out with his other hand and grabs my elbow.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is rough with emotion.
"What? What is it?" I'm about to carry him to a hospital on my back, or beat him over the head into unconsciousness if that's what he needs, but he just gives me a smile that lights up his face.
"Dude, you saved my life. Thank you."
-
Vincent isn't pleased.
I'm not surprised, because we set his operation back several hours, which must be devastating to the drug world, but he grumbles and lets up on the verbal assault when I drag Jameson into the warehouse. I leave him sitting at one of the tables with a new wad of paper towels, even though the bleeding is slowly easing up, and go off digging through the bathroom cabinets for a suture kit.
Mickey's got him nicely drugged up by the time I get back - actual painkillers though, of the medicinal variety - so he's loose and relaxed as I squat beside the chair and begin stitching up the gash on his neck.
The needle driver is clunky and awkward in my hands, but I slip the curved suture needle into the grip and get to work, pulling the skin closed as I move and fixing it up tight with not-quite even, but mostly neat stitches. I examine them as I wipe away the excess blood - they're not pretty, but they don't need to be.
The entire gang's watching over my shoulder by the time I tape a piece of gauze in place, five stitches later. Even O'Rourke, who's on watch by the entrance is leaning in like that'll give him a better view of what's going on.
"What?"
Mickey looks impressed. "That's the first time I've seen you do any sort of first-aid," she says, and her voice is like honeyed smoke, deep and harmonious. "It's new?"
"I got a lot of stitches when I was a kid, figured I might as well learn how to do it myself," I say, shrugging it off. "Didn't think anyone else here would be able to do it."
She laughs, looking human for the first time since I've seen her, her face changing entirely from stone-cold with a smile to reveal large, white teeth. "That's true." and then she's looking at me in an entirely new kind of way - not like she thinks I'm suspicious, not like she thinks I'm not Arthur, and not like she's looking for signs - but like she's finally seeing me for the first time. It's calculating, but also enlightened, in a way.
It's almost as disconcerting as her other looks are, the ones where you can't tell if she's undressing you with her eyes or dissecting you.
Vincent interrupts the moment, and I've never loved that man like I do in that moment. Which isn't much even then, but still. It's almost like affection, when his frowning face interjects into my line of sight, and he barks out, commanding orders to finish the deliveries.
"Carlo, Spencer - you two take the rest of the bricks out to the other drop points, as fast as you fucking can. We don't want to get behind schedule. Ike -" and here he turns to the one of the men that creeps me out the most. "Go see if you can find Anthony fucking Kendel. If he's dead, leave him, if he's not, deal with it."
Ike is always silent, never talks to anyone else - even Carlo and Spencer sit playing cards sometimes, talking about girls and sex - but he just watches us all from the corners. He's tall and thin as a rake, with a narrow, almost gaunt face, and black hair buzzed short.
He gives me chills whenever he looks at me, nothing solid that I can think of that makes him so incredibly freaky, but something in his eyes just - isn't there.
If Anthony Kendel isn't dead. Well, he's about to wish he was.
-
I spend almost an hour in the basement that afternoon with the junkies, all hooked up and all insensate to everything around them. Vincent has dismissed me and Jameson, let us go for the day, but I made something up about wanting to test their abilities or some shit, and he grunted, waving me off.
I look at each one of them, watching their faces as they sleep.
It's not a normal sleep, they don't twitch or murmur like some people I know, and their eyes are fixed, not moving about like REM or anything. It's more like that sleep paralysis thing, where some people, when they fall asleep, essentially go into comas, can't be woken for anything until their bodies have got that full rest. Not that what they're doing is resting.
I take the same route home that night, via Arthur's apartment, but no one's following me. No one pays me any attention, so I just duck into the flat long enough to wrestle the fridge open, mouth and nose covered with my shirt.
It smells vile, and there's something crusted along the magnetic edges of the door, which is what kept it shut. I open the door to the balcony, and the two tiny windows, letting the freezing air in, and leave as quickly as I can, hoping the apartment will air out at least slightly by the next night.
There's nothing for anyone to steal, anyway.
I get home before 5 pm today. I knock, but no one answers. It makes me nervous, because Jack had told me he was going to be in all day in case Arthur needed him, so I snag the spare key off the lintel and unlock the door, pushing it in with excess caution.
I was right to - the place is a fucking mess.
There's stuff all over the place. DVD's scattered, some in their cases some shining and scratched, lying broken on the floor - books are lying everywhere, like someone took the bookcase and ripped it apart, pages torn out and crumpled. The sofa's been flipped over, legs in the air, and there's stuffing spilling from broken seams - the coffee table's split in half, almost cleanly, directly down the middle. There's broken plates from the kitchen, and silverware thrown about the room.
"What the hell -" I hear myself whisper, and then I'm shouting, "Jack? Jack! Arthur?"
There's an enormous bang, like someone dropped something huge, and Jack's voice is calling out frantically, "Yeah! I'm here! Oh thank fucking God you're here!" and then he's stumbling out of the laundry room, shoving open the door and almost collapsing on the ground, hanging off the doorknob like it's all that's holding him up.
"Jack, what the fuck happened?" I ask as I rush over to catch him. He's got a great big bruise on his forehead, purple and swollen, like he slammed his head into the corner of a table or something. "Where's Arthur?"
"Jesus Christ what the fuck is wrong with your brother?" he asks, and I realise for the first time that he's terrified. He's masking it - shock, maybe - but it's there none the less, just behind the relief in his eyes. I can just picture him sitting crouched in the laundry room with his hands over his head, listening to the thumps and bangs as Arthur tears apart the living room.
"What do you mean - where is he?"
He shakes his head. "I don't even know, man," he says, recovering his balance and standing up, clinging to the front of my jacket. Jack's a big guy, though, and it's a little intimidating, with him leaning over me. "I think he ran off - no, but really, what the fuck is wrong with him?"
"What do you mean?" I'm shaking him off, about to run out the door and try to find my fucking brother, but he grabs my arm and yanks me back, desperation written all over his face.
"Something is wrong with him - something's not right, he's the one that did all of this, he just started flipping out, wouldn't take the drugs you gave me, even though I know he was jonesing, and then he just started freaking out - he's fucking insane, you know that, right?"
I leave him to clean himself up, and tear out the door, racing through the streets with my cellphone at my ear, calling and calling and calling, and there's no answer. I end up on Canyon and 13th St, out of breath and panting, staring around at the intersection with no idea where to go.
Somewhere safe, probably - away from other people. So, nowhere public, somewhere out of the way, not his apartment, not anywhere near here. The docks, maybe. South of the East District - we used to go there when we were kids, used to play between the smaller inlets where there were beaches that formed.
I start running, dialling the house this time instead. My jacket is flapping in the wind, flannel overshirt too thin, and I'm freezing down to my bones, but I can't feel it, too numb. Jack answers, and he doesn't sound any calmer.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me. What time did Arthur leave - do you know?"
"Oh, God, fuck. Uh - I dunno, man - might've been ten minutes before you showed up? I think I blacked out for a bit, I got no fucking idea."
I'm stopped at a major intersection, pressing the button for the crosswalk impatiently while watching cars zip past, shouting over the roar of engines and wheels burning on pavement. "Fuck - what the hell happened, Jack?" There's a break in traffic, and I sprint across the street, dodging a Toyota that blares past with a howl of its horn. I can barely hear his response.
"Oh, my God, I don't even know. I hit my head, I mean, I could've been fucking hallucinating for all I know, but I fucking swear to God - he never touched anything."
"I thought you said he did that - to the living room?"
"He did. But he didn't touch anything."
My blood goes cold at that. "Yeah, right. I think you hit your head harder than you thought, dude. Okay, I'll talk to you later. Is Elle coming home soon?"
"Uh, yeah. She should be - I think she said 6:30, but."
"Call her, call Nate, and then get out of the house - go to Chris' house, he can probably put you all up for the night. I'll come clean up after I find Arthur, okay?"
His voice gets crackly as I start heading out of town, out to the docks. I never stop looking around, watching the shadows and the alleys and the darkened spaces between trees.
"I mean, we can clean up, you know."
"No, Jack, it's my problem, I brought it to you, and I'm fucking sorry, I really am, so call Chris, and go to his place, please."
"All right. Okay. Yeah. I'll see you later, then. Be careful, okay?"
I laugh, and start down a street where all the streetlights are blown out and the air smells like gasoline and trash. "I'm always careful, what do you take me for?"
"Fuck you, man."
My phone beeps in my ear, and I close it with a snap.
The smell of salt and dampness starts to permeate the air the farther I get. I'm just walking randomly, not knowing which direction I'm supposed to be heading, just walking and hoping I'm going the right way. Arthur is a sneaky fucking bastard at times, always knew exactly where to hide when we played hide-and-seek as kids - but he's not in his right head now, so while I'm sure I'll be able to find him, I'm just terrified of how I'm going to find him.
I can hear the lap of water soon, low and hushed over the wind and the sounds of city traffic in the background. All the buildings around me are abandoned warehouses, old bars burned out, their bricks blackened with fire and smoke, old apartment buildings boarded up, windows solid and threatening. There are probably people in there - homeless and the like, at least a few, but it's so cold, the air damp and seeping into my bones.
My eyes are watering, and my cheeks are numb.
And then I see him.
He's in one of the old warehouses - right on the waters edge, looking out over the bay. The windows are smashed and broken, and through them I can see the barest flicker of a bare bulb swinging free from the ceiling. It's low and golden, and there are shadows moving, scattering the light through the sharp shards of glass, reflecting.
I run.
There's a large wooden door, seems like the only entrance, and I slam into it, pushing it with all my strength. It's not locked, just swollen with damp, so as soon as it's free is swings open faster than I'm expecting, and I tumble into the warehouse with a shout.
I look up, pulling myself off the ground, and almost pass the fuck out.
It's Arthur, all right, but he's not the one casting the shadows. I can see him, curled up in the corner in a ball, knees tucked up against his chin, hands wrapped around his head, crossed over his face.
And in the air, dust, and glass, and wood, and nails, and chains, and entire planks of plywood, and shattered crates. They're flying through space, whipping around in a great whirlwind, a storm of howling, wailing debris, crashing into the walls and the columns that hold up the roof.
It's like a tornado, a self-contained tornado in this warehouse, but there's no wind to cause it.
There's just Arthur, sitting in the corner, howling with the wind.
I can't get to him - there's too much stuff flying through the air, and I'm afraid I'll get impaled by a spike of re-bar if I try and cross the cyclone.
So I shout, over the wind, trying to make it carry my voice instead of stealing it away.
"Arthur! Arthur!"
When he looks up, it's not because he heard me calling him, but because I can't control a scream of pain when an old crate comes hurling at me like a freight train, slamming into my leg and knocking it out from under me. There are nails and splinters and shards of glass beneath my hands as I try to push myself up, and then all of a sudden -
It all stops. The wood and glass all come crashing to the floor, and I have to cover my head with my coat as some of it rains down on me where I lay pinned.
But then Arthur's there, he's frantic, swearing up a storm as he uses his hands to haul the crate off my leg, and pull my up. He runs his hands, shaking and trembling, over my face, checking for cuts, and then down my chest and sides, smoothing the fabric back and looking to see.
There's nothing too bad - my leg is all torqued out, and is bound to hurt like a bitch tomorrow, and my hands are a bit cut up, but I'm perfectly fine physically other than that.
But that doesn't mean I'm okay.
I must be in fucking shock, because we're outside and back on the street before I even realise we've moved. Arthur's holding my hands in his, fingers clasped over mine gingerly, peering at them through the darkness to see if there's anything that needs immediate attention, or if I'm good to go.
I tug them away, not caring about the indignant look on his face, and stumble back, away from him.
The indignation drops into horror and devastation without a second's pause, but I can't even react to that, despite the hole burning in my gut.
"What the fuck was that?"
"I -"
"No, Arthur. What the fuck was that?"
He looks like he's about to collapse, barely holding himself up under the weight of his own issues. "I told you."
I throw my hands up and turn away, but both actions turn out to be mistakes, when my leg crumples under me and my hands throb with pain. "I fucking know that, you fucking idiot, I mean - fuck, I mean." I close my eyes, take a deep breath, pulling my hands in close to my chest, trying to keep in warmth at the same time. "What happened?"
He still doesn't understand, starts talking about "It's not my fault! I can't help it, I told you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I don't know what it is, I don't know how to stop, and I'm so - I'm just fucking sorry, man, I really am, you know I'd never hurt you -"
And then he stops. Because we both know that's a lie.
"Arthur," I say slowly, "Why did you run?"
"I was asleep - had a nightmare, I guess," he says, his voice shaking, and he rubs his hands over his face, scrunching up his features in distress. "I just - I woke up, and I couldn't. I couldn't figure out what was going on, and then Jack was there - I, fuck, I don't remember. All I know is that all of a sudden he's on the floor, and then there's - there's stuff everywhere, and I'm just out of control, I can feel it, here," he pounds his fist against his forehead, in anger at himself, "I can feel it in my head, and it's just ripping out of me, and then he's screaming, and then he's gone and everything just stops, and - and then I ran. I was afraid you'd -"
I look at him, so changed, and so apparently powerful and out of control, but all I see is my little brother. "You fucking twat. What, did you think I'd - that I'd kill you? That I'd run you off, fuck that, Arthur, you're my fucking brother, you're still fucking you, still human, like everyone else. Fuck you, for thinking that."
He's looking at me like he'd never seen me before this moment. It infuriates me, that he could underestimate me like that, so I punch him once, in the mouth.
It smarts, knocks him back a few steps, but then he's not looking at me like that any more, he's just laughing, cupping his jaw and wincing, but he's laughing because he finally fucking understands.
We walk home together, and he has to help me most of the way, my leg sore and twinging every time I try to step on it. My knee is swollen and purple by the time we get there, but we get to work cleaning up the mess he'd made.
Jack's gone, but there's a note with Chris' number, even though he knows I have it - it means he's waiting for us to contact him, check in with the all-clear.
We sweep all the broken glass and plates and shattered bits of the coffee table into trashbags, hauling them out to the front step to be taken out with the trash, and then Arthur gets me a cold compress and way more Advil than is advisable, but I take it anyway. We pass out together on my bed, still mostly dressed, and I know at least something's going to turn out all right.
-
previous / next
anyway.
LowLives
Word Count: 4661
in which there is schmoop, angst, fluff, violence, and sap, although not necessarily in that order. also with my weird brand of humour on it, the sap is a bit less like sap and more like...weird. also mutants.
-
This is Tuesday. When I get to the warehouse, Mickey sends me off on a delivery run with Jameson, who looks like a puppy with a bone at getting to go out with me.
It's a little unnerving.
I'm driving one of the cars that seem to just sit around the warehouse, waiting for someone to do something illegal with, while he sits in the passenger seat and bounces.
We've got eight bricks of po in the back seat, hidden under a tarp, and we're heading out to other locations to distribute them to Vincent's various peons of the underworld.
The first five go well. The buyers are sketchy, but their clients are sketchier, so we're not even that bad off in terms of sketchy dealings.
We go into the backs of restaurants, and into alley ways and into night clubs that aren't nearly as impressive without the night and the smoke and the lights.
Then we take the sixth one to a dealer who hangs out on the edge of East Quarter near a housing project.
He's not there - Anthony is his name, Anthony Kendel, and even though we don't have a picture, I know he's not there, because the person who meets us is a man with bloodshot eyes and raw gums and he is carrying a knife.
Jameson is walking back and forth in front of the car while I lean on the open driver side door, watching.
The guy - 30 or older, probably - comes up behind Jameson and before I can even blink in astonishment, he's got him by the neck, long ragged fingernails digging into the kid's pale skin with the knife positioned like an amateur, but directly against his throat, which makes it deadly enough.
I shout out loud, which is a mistake, and throw myself around the car door, approaching the pair with my hands up in surrender, which is not remotely smarter.
"Hey, man, hey, just put the knife down, okay?" I say, watching his eyes and not the blade, because if I look at the blade I won't be able to control myself.
"Gimmie your money!" he says, but that's not what he wants, and I know it.
So I lie.
"We don't have any money, we're just delivering things, we don't carry the money, come on man, just let him go and we can talk about this, okay?" I keep posing them as questions, asking for his opinion, trying to coax him into thinking that the ideas I'm attempting to plant are his idea. I've got no fucking clue if it'll work or not, but it's as good a plan as I have for the moment, and besides - he's fucked out of his mind, it'll be easier to try and convince him than if he were sober.
He's not going for it, and Jameson squeaks as he's manhandled roughly into a more secure grip.
I'm edging closer, and I just start rambling, just speaking whatever, soothing tones, and it doesn't even matter what I'm saying.
"Come on, man, drop the knife, we're not gonna hurt you. You've got the power, we're just here, we're not gonna hurt you, not gonna call the police, not anything, okay? Not anything - you're in control, yeah? Just lower the knife, just put him down, you don't need to do this."
And I'm getting closer and closer with each little movement, going slowly enough to make Jameson even more terrified, but the guy doesn't really register it, so it's all to plan.
And then I'm on them.
Jameson gets nicked by the knife and lets out a surprised shout when I leap, grabbing the guy's arm and wrenching it away, kicking Jameson in the leg to make him drop and then shoving him away with my hip so he's out of immediate danger. I keep my grip on the guy's wrist and twist and twist, until he drops the knife, and until he falls to his knees, arm up behind his back, and then I keep twisting because he's strong and he's crazy, until I dislocate the thing entirely with a wet pop, and he jerks with a howl of pain and stops thrashing to curl around his injured limb.
I throw him to the ground, and step back cautiously, but he's not getting up, not any time soon.
I jog backwards a few steps until I'm standing over Jameson, who's frozen on the ground. He's bleeding freely from an open cut at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, collar ripped and the knees of his jeans grass stained. I kneel in front of him, pulling my shirtsleeve down over my hand and pressing it hard against his neck. Luckily, it's nowhere near his jugular or carotid arteries, so I don't have to worry about him bleeding out.
He makes a choked, pained noise, but I cup my other hand around his neck, lacing my fingers into the hairs at the base of his neck and stroking in soothing motions.
"You'll be fine, kid. Let's get you to a hospital, get this stitched up." I pull him up as I talk, dragging him over to the car, keeping pressure on the wound.
But his eyes widen. "No! No, I can't go to a hospital!"
"What? Why not?"
I stuff him into the car, sitting him down sideways on the passenger seat, and kneel on the gravel beside it, the tiny rocks digging into my knees through my jeans. I strip off my overshirt, wadding it up into a ball to soak up the blood better. Jameson looks down as best as he can with my hands all over his neck, and I'm reminded how young he must be.
"I can't pay for it. Medical bills, I mean, I can't afford them."
"But Vincent's paying you. What do you spend it on?"
"You'll laugh."
"I'm not gonna fucking laugh, Jameson."
"Ty."
"What? Shift your head, no, just tilt it to the side."
"Ow - I said, Ty, my name's Ty. Well, Tyler."
"Yeah? I knew a kid named Tyler when I was like, eight."
"What was he like?"
"He was an asshole. Don't change the subject. What do you spend your money on that means you can't go to the fucking hospital for six stitches?"
"My sister - she's got leukaemia. We spend all the money we have on chemotherapy and her medical bills. She's gotta live in a home, too, 'cause they won't let me take care of her," he says, and I stop everything I'm doing to stare.
"Are you kidding me?" He looks so nonplussed, eyes wide and confused and in pain, that I almost cry. "You're serious. Your sister has cancer, and you deal drugs to pay for the medical bills."
"Well, yeah," he says, now looking at me like I'm some kind of retarded, and also more like he's going to pass out.
"Well, you're just a fucking poster boy for sob stories, aren't you? Jesus Christ, that might be the most cliché tale of woe and desperation I've ever heard, but you're fucking serious. What the hell, man."
At that, he laughs, "Heh, yeah. Every story you ever heard about kids living on the street are about me, you know."
"Apparently so, Tyler Jameson."
"Hey, Arthur? What's your last name?"
I pause, thinking about lying. "Hayes," I say finally. Arthur probably told Vincent anyway, and that other guy. Mickey most definitely knows, because she's fucking scary like that. I wonder if they know he has a brother.
"Okay, Ty. Here's what we're gonna do. I'm sure there's suture stuff in the warehouse, I'm not the best, but if Mickey can't fix you up, I can do it - I've done it before. So we'll go back now, leave the rest of the bricks for someone else to deliver, yeah?"
I take his hand and contour his fingers around my shirt, showing him where to hold it in place. My hand is stained with his blood, seeped through the fabric and I leave smears across his skin.
I get up, wincing at the ache in my knees, and start to move around the car, pulling out my cellphone to call the police about the crazy man lying on the ground, but Jameson reaches out with his other hand and grabs my elbow.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is rough with emotion.
"What? What is it?" I'm about to carry him to a hospital on my back, or beat him over the head into unconsciousness if that's what he needs, but he just gives me a smile that lights up his face.
"Dude, you saved my life. Thank you."
-
Vincent isn't pleased.
I'm not surprised, because we set his operation back several hours, which must be devastating to the drug world, but he grumbles and lets up on the verbal assault when I drag Jameson into the warehouse. I leave him sitting at one of the tables with a new wad of paper towels, even though the bleeding is slowly easing up, and go off digging through the bathroom cabinets for a suture kit.
Mickey's got him nicely drugged up by the time I get back - actual painkillers though, of the medicinal variety - so he's loose and relaxed as I squat beside the chair and begin stitching up the gash on his neck.
The needle driver is clunky and awkward in my hands, but I slip the curved suture needle into the grip and get to work, pulling the skin closed as I move and fixing it up tight with not-quite even, but mostly neat stitches. I examine them as I wipe away the excess blood - they're not pretty, but they don't need to be.
The entire gang's watching over my shoulder by the time I tape a piece of gauze in place, five stitches later. Even O'Rourke, who's on watch by the entrance is leaning in like that'll give him a better view of what's going on.
"What?"
Mickey looks impressed. "That's the first time I've seen you do any sort of first-aid," she says, and her voice is like honeyed smoke, deep and harmonious. "It's new?"
"I got a lot of stitches when I was a kid, figured I might as well learn how to do it myself," I say, shrugging it off. "Didn't think anyone else here would be able to do it."
She laughs, looking human for the first time since I've seen her, her face changing entirely from stone-cold with a smile to reveal large, white teeth. "That's true." and then she's looking at me in an entirely new kind of way - not like she thinks I'm suspicious, not like she thinks I'm not Arthur, and not like she's looking for signs - but like she's finally seeing me for the first time. It's calculating, but also enlightened, in a way.
It's almost as disconcerting as her other looks are, the ones where you can't tell if she's undressing you with her eyes or dissecting you.
Vincent interrupts the moment, and I've never loved that man like I do in that moment. Which isn't much even then, but still. It's almost like affection, when his frowning face interjects into my line of sight, and he barks out, commanding orders to finish the deliveries.
"Carlo, Spencer - you two take the rest of the bricks out to the other drop points, as fast as you fucking can. We don't want to get behind schedule. Ike -" and here he turns to the one of the men that creeps me out the most. "Go see if you can find Anthony fucking Kendel. If he's dead, leave him, if he's not, deal with it."
Ike is always silent, never talks to anyone else - even Carlo and Spencer sit playing cards sometimes, talking about girls and sex - but he just watches us all from the corners. He's tall and thin as a rake, with a narrow, almost gaunt face, and black hair buzzed short.
He gives me chills whenever he looks at me, nothing solid that I can think of that makes him so incredibly freaky, but something in his eyes just - isn't there.
If Anthony Kendel isn't dead. Well, he's about to wish he was.
-
I spend almost an hour in the basement that afternoon with the junkies, all hooked up and all insensate to everything around them. Vincent has dismissed me and Jameson, let us go for the day, but I made something up about wanting to test their abilities or some shit, and he grunted, waving me off.
I look at each one of them, watching their faces as they sleep.
It's not a normal sleep, they don't twitch or murmur like some people I know, and their eyes are fixed, not moving about like REM or anything. It's more like that sleep paralysis thing, where some people, when they fall asleep, essentially go into comas, can't be woken for anything until their bodies have got that full rest. Not that what they're doing is resting.
I take the same route home that night, via Arthur's apartment, but no one's following me. No one pays me any attention, so I just duck into the flat long enough to wrestle the fridge open, mouth and nose covered with my shirt.
It smells vile, and there's something crusted along the magnetic edges of the door, which is what kept it shut. I open the door to the balcony, and the two tiny windows, letting the freezing air in, and leave as quickly as I can, hoping the apartment will air out at least slightly by the next night.
There's nothing for anyone to steal, anyway.
I get home before 5 pm today. I knock, but no one answers. It makes me nervous, because Jack had told me he was going to be in all day in case Arthur needed him, so I snag the spare key off the lintel and unlock the door, pushing it in with excess caution.
I was right to - the place is a fucking mess.
There's stuff all over the place. DVD's scattered, some in their cases some shining and scratched, lying broken on the floor - books are lying everywhere, like someone took the bookcase and ripped it apart, pages torn out and crumpled. The sofa's been flipped over, legs in the air, and there's stuffing spilling from broken seams - the coffee table's split in half, almost cleanly, directly down the middle. There's broken plates from the kitchen, and silverware thrown about the room.
"What the hell -" I hear myself whisper, and then I'm shouting, "Jack? Jack! Arthur?"
There's an enormous bang, like someone dropped something huge, and Jack's voice is calling out frantically, "Yeah! I'm here! Oh thank fucking God you're here!" and then he's stumbling out of the laundry room, shoving open the door and almost collapsing on the ground, hanging off the doorknob like it's all that's holding him up.
"Jack, what the fuck happened?" I ask as I rush over to catch him. He's got a great big bruise on his forehead, purple and swollen, like he slammed his head into the corner of a table or something. "Where's Arthur?"
"Jesus Christ what the fuck is wrong with your brother?" he asks, and I realise for the first time that he's terrified. He's masking it - shock, maybe - but it's there none the less, just behind the relief in his eyes. I can just picture him sitting crouched in the laundry room with his hands over his head, listening to the thumps and bangs as Arthur tears apart the living room.
"What do you mean - where is he?"
He shakes his head. "I don't even know, man," he says, recovering his balance and standing up, clinging to the front of my jacket. Jack's a big guy, though, and it's a little intimidating, with him leaning over me. "I think he ran off - no, but really, what the fuck is wrong with him?"
"What do you mean?" I'm shaking him off, about to run out the door and try to find my fucking brother, but he grabs my arm and yanks me back, desperation written all over his face.
"Something is wrong with him - something's not right, he's the one that did all of this, he just started flipping out, wouldn't take the drugs you gave me, even though I know he was jonesing, and then he just started freaking out - he's fucking insane, you know that, right?"
I leave him to clean himself up, and tear out the door, racing through the streets with my cellphone at my ear, calling and calling and calling, and there's no answer. I end up on Canyon and 13th St, out of breath and panting, staring around at the intersection with no idea where to go.
Somewhere safe, probably - away from other people. So, nowhere public, somewhere out of the way, not his apartment, not anywhere near here. The docks, maybe. South of the East District - we used to go there when we were kids, used to play between the smaller inlets where there were beaches that formed.
I start running, dialling the house this time instead. My jacket is flapping in the wind, flannel overshirt too thin, and I'm freezing down to my bones, but I can't feel it, too numb. Jack answers, and he doesn't sound any calmer.
"Hello?"
"Hey, it's me. What time did Arthur leave - do you know?"
"Oh, God, fuck. Uh - I dunno, man - might've been ten minutes before you showed up? I think I blacked out for a bit, I got no fucking idea."
I'm stopped at a major intersection, pressing the button for the crosswalk impatiently while watching cars zip past, shouting over the roar of engines and wheels burning on pavement. "Fuck - what the hell happened, Jack?" There's a break in traffic, and I sprint across the street, dodging a Toyota that blares past with a howl of its horn. I can barely hear his response.
"Oh, my God, I don't even know. I hit my head, I mean, I could've been fucking hallucinating for all I know, but I fucking swear to God - he never touched anything."
"I thought you said he did that - to the living room?"
"He did. But he didn't touch anything."
My blood goes cold at that. "Yeah, right. I think you hit your head harder than you thought, dude. Okay, I'll talk to you later. Is Elle coming home soon?"
"Uh, yeah. She should be - I think she said 6:30, but."
"Call her, call Nate, and then get out of the house - go to Chris' house, he can probably put you all up for the night. I'll come clean up after I find Arthur, okay?"
His voice gets crackly as I start heading out of town, out to the docks. I never stop looking around, watching the shadows and the alleys and the darkened spaces between trees.
"I mean, we can clean up, you know."
"No, Jack, it's my problem, I brought it to you, and I'm fucking sorry, I really am, so call Chris, and go to his place, please."
"All right. Okay. Yeah. I'll see you later, then. Be careful, okay?"
I laugh, and start down a street where all the streetlights are blown out and the air smells like gasoline and trash. "I'm always careful, what do you take me for?"
"Fuck you, man."
My phone beeps in my ear, and I close it with a snap.
The smell of salt and dampness starts to permeate the air the farther I get. I'm just walking randomly, not knowing which direction I'm supposed to be heading, just walking and hoping I'm going the right way. Arthur is a sneaky fucking bastard at times, always knew exactly where to hide when we played hide-and-seek as kids - but he's not in his right head now, so while I'm sure I'll be able to find him, I'm just terrified of how I'm going to find him.
I can hear the lap of water soon, low and hushed over the wind and the sounds of city traffic in the background. All the buildings around me are abandoned warehouses, old bars burned out, their bricks blackened with fire and smoke, old apartment buildings boarded up, windows solid and threatening. There are probably people in there - homeless and the like, at least a few, but it's so cold, the air damp and seeping into my bones.
My eyes are watering, and my cheeks are numb.
And then I see him.
He's in one of the old warehouses - right on the waters edge, looking out over the bay. The windows are smashed and broken, and through them I can see the barest flicker of a bare bulb swinging free from the ceiling. It's low and golden, and there are shadows moving, scattering the light through the sharp shards of glass, reflecting.
I run.
There's a large wooden door, seems like the only entrance, and I slam into it, pushing it with all my strength. It's not locked, just swollen with damp, so as soon as it's free is swings open faster than I'm expecting, and I tumble into the warehouse with a shout.
I look up, pulling myself off the ground, and almost pass the fuck out.
It's Arthur, all right, but he's not the one casting the shadows. I can see him, curled up in the corner in a ball, knees tucked up against his chin, hands wrapped around his head, crossed over his face.
And in the air, dust, and glass, and wood, and nails, and chains, and entire planks of plywood, and shattered crates. They're flying through space, whipping around in a great whirlwind, a storm of howling, wailing debris, crashing into the walls and the columns that hold up the roof.
It's like a tornado, a self-contained tornado in this warehouse, but there's no wind to cause it.
There's just Arthur, sitting in the corner, howling with the wind.
I can't get to him - there's too much stuff flying through the air, and I'm afraid I'll get impaled by a spike of re-bar if I try and cross the cyclone.
So I shout, over the wind, trying to make it carry my voice instead of stealing it away.
"Arthur! Arthur!"
When he looks up, it's not because he heard me calling him, but because I can't control a scream of pain when an old crate comes hurling at me like a freight train, slamming into my leg and knocking it out from under me. There are nails and splinters and shards of glass beneath my hands as I try to push myself up, and then all of a sudden -
It all stops. The wood and glass all come crashing to the floor, and I have to cover my head with my coat as some of it rains down on me where I lay pinned.
But then Arthur's there, he's frantic, swearing up a storm as he uses his hands to haul the crate off my leg, and pull my up. He runs his hands, shaking and trembling, over my face, checking for cuts, and then down my chest and sides, smoothing the fabric back and looking to see.
There's nothing too bad - my leg is all torqued out, and is bound to hurt like a bitch tomorrow, and my hands are a bit cut up, but I'm perfectly fine physically other than that.
But that doesn't mean I'm okay.
I must be in fucking shock, because we're outside and back on the street before I even realise we've moved. Arthur's holding my hands in his, fingers clasped over mine gingerly, peering at them through the darkness to see if there's anything that needs immediate attention, or if I'm good to go.
I tug them away, not caring about the indignant look on his face, and stumble back, away from him.
The indignation drops into horror and devastation without a second's pause, but I can't even react to that, despite the hole burning in my gut.
"What the fuck was that?"
"I -"
"No, Arthur. What the fuck was that?"
He looks like he's about to collapse, barely holding himself up under the weight of his own issues. "I told you."
I throw my hands up and turn away, but both actions turn out to be mistakes, when my leg crumples under me and my hands throb with pain. "I fucking know that, you fucking idiot, I mean - fuck, I mean." I close my eyes, take a deep breath, pulling my hands in close to my chest, trying to keep in warmth at the same time. "What happened?"
He still doesn't understand, starts talking about "It's not my fault! I can't help it, I told you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I don't know what it is, I don't know how to stop, and I'm so - I'm just fucking sorry, man, I really am, you know I'd never hurt you -"
And then he stops. Because we both know that's a lie.
"Arthur," I say slowly, "Why did you run?"
"I was asleep - had a nightmare, I guess," he says, his voice shaking, and he rubs his hands over his face, scrunching up his features in distress. "I just - I woke up, and I couldn't. I couldn't figure out what was going on, and then Jack was there - I, fuck, I don't remember. All I know is that all of a sudden he's on the floor, and then there's - there's stuff everywhere, and I'm just out of control, I can feel it, here," he pounds his fist against his forehead, in anger at himself, "I can feel it in my head, and it's just ripping out of me, and then he's screaming, and then he's gone and everything just stops, and - and then I ran. I was afraid you'd -"
I look at him, so changed, and so apparently powerful and out of control, but all I see is my little brother. "You fucking twat. What, did you think I'd - that I'd kill you? That I'd run you off, fuck that, Arthur, you're my fucking brother, you're still fucking you, still human, like everyone else. Fuck you, for thinking that."
He's looking at me like he'd never seen me before this moment. It infuriates me, that he could underestimate me like that, so I punch him once, in the mouth.
It smarts, knocks him back a few steps, but then he's not looking at me like that any more, he's just laughing, cupping his jaw and wincing, but he's laughing because he finally fucking understands.
We walk home together, and he has to help me most of the way, my leg sore and twinging every time I try to step on it. My knee is swollen and purple by the time we get there, but we get to work cleaning up the mess he'd made.
Jack's gone, but there's a note with Chris' number, even though he knows I have it - it means he's waiting for us to contact him, check in with the all-clear.
We sweep all the broken glass and plates and shattered bits of the coffee table into trashbags, hauling them out to the front step to be taken out with the trash, and then Arthur gets me a cold compress and way more Advil than is advisable, but I take it anyway. We pass out together on my bed, still mostly dressed, and I know at least something's going to turn out all right.
-
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