Mulengro, page 18
Gonna kill that fucker too. . . .
He just drove and drove. And sometimes he stopped in the middle of nowhere, killed the engine and laid his head down on the steering wheel, tears burning in his eyes and his head pounding. And sometimes he’d lift his head and stare through the blur of tears at the empty seat beside him and almost think Stan was there. But—
Stan was dead . . . and he was gonna hurt her . . . fucking witch. . . . He was gonna cut her heart out and feed it to the dogs. . . .
Twice he cruised by the cottage and Rideau Ferry, hands trembling on the wheel, but he never pulled in. He was six-one and weighed two-fifteen and not a pound of that was fat. He’d been fighting since he was just knee-high to a nun’s ass and he whupped ‘em a hell of a lot more than he got whupped. It’d take two or three men to bring him down and even then they had to be good. Damned good. But he couldn’t go in that cottage and face the witch, because just thinking about it made his head hurt twice as bad and his bowels go all loose and the terror walk knife-sharp up his spine. But the third time he drove by it was closer to midnight than it was to eleven and he cruised past it real slow, saw the lights were out—
She was hiding there in the dark . . . just waiting for him . . . sitting on Stan’s chest . . . the fucking cat lickin’ up Stan’s blood . . . their eyes’d be glowing . . . cat’s eyes . . . both of them. . . .
He got the shakes so bad he had to pull over or he’d wrap the truck around a tree. He didn’t care—who cared? Who really gave a fuck? He pulled over all the same, tears stinging in his eyes. The pain came clouding up the back of his head and settled like a nest of hornets behind his eyes. He killed the engine and laid his head on the wheel.
He didn’t see that he’d parked the pickup in the same place it’d been parked last night. Didn’t hear the frogs’ chorus die and the night go all still around him. Didn’t hear the door on the passenger’s side open. Didn’t feel a weight settle on the seat and the springs give a little with a creak. Didn’t smell the rank stench of a day-old corpse as it filled the cab with its sickly-sweet smell. He just moaned, holding his head, not understanding what was happening to him. He was falling apart and it didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense anymore. Not Stan dying, not the magic of the witchwhore, not the talking cat. Nothing did.
“I loved you, Stan,” he blubbered. “I swear I did!”
“Well, I know that, brother Bob.”
The voice went through him like a cold blast of wind. He lifted his head and turned slowly to face the darkened passenger’s side of the cab. He smelled it now, over his own reeking excrement, the stink of the grave and the dead. He felt the cold presence at his side. He saw something . . . more an outline than something real. . . and heard . . . heard Stan’s voice . . . more distant, somehow, than the way he knew it. . . a wet sound. . . .
“St-t-stan . . . ?”
“Say-hey, brother Bob. How’s it hangin’?”
“But you . . . you’re dead. . . .”
“Well, there’s dead and there’s dead, little brother. I got half my face hanging in my mouth and the knowledge that my own brother didn’t do dick-all to stop that black whore from ripping it off me, but otherwise things aren’t so bad, you know?”
Bob could see more now. There was a big gap in his brother’s face. The wet sound when he spoke came from the fact that his face was hanging in flaps of skin from his skull. Bob didn’t have anything in his stomach, but a dry heave came acidly up his stomach all the same.
“Now, you don’t act all that happy to see me, brother Bob. I’m not holdin’ nothin’ against you. Just set your little mind at ease on that score. I figure we’ve got ourselves a bit of black tail to finish a bit of business with, you know what I mean?”
Bob nodded. His voice was lost somewhere in the cold terror that gripped him. His head pounded.
“I’ve been hearin’ things, you know,” the apparition continued. “Learnin’ stuff.There’s somethin’ about her bein’ a witch that keeps me from just fadin’ away, you know? And it’s got somethin’ to do with the plain fact that I ain’t lettin’ go neither. It’s not too clear just what’s goin’ on, little brother. But I ain’t complainin’. I figure bein’ half-dead’s better than bein’ all dead.”
Bob lifted his hand slowly and reached out, his mind numb. When his fingers neared the apparition, there was nothing solid to touch. His hand went right into the shape, the fingers going cold and the cold spreading up his arm, tingling, until he drew it back with a sudden movement.
“You . . . you’re not there, Stan,” he said in a small voice. “I can hear you and . . . I can sorta see you, but you’re not there!”
Stan was dead . . . and the witchwhore had killed him . . . and he was gonna kill her. . . .
“I figure she took to the woods,” the apparition said. “I’ll bet she took her black ass into the bush, yessir, and she’s just sittin’ in there like a spider waitin’ for you, brother Bob. Now the thing you’ve gotta do is get her before she gets you. It’s just that simple.”
If Stan was dead, then what was this . . . thing . . . sitting beside him . . . talking like Stan, but with that wet sound in its voice . . . ?
“And I’ll help you, little brother, I surely will. You’re gonna be my hands, you see? We’re together again and we’re gonna make her pay. We’ll make ‘em all pay. Little Jeffy Owen. And that whore waitress in the Zoo that wouldn’t spread ‘em for me. And Constable Finlay.And Jim-suck-my-ass-Rider who wouldn’t give us the time of day, little say a job. We’re gonna show ‘em, brother Bob. We’re gonna eye-for-an-eye ‘em until there won’t be no one left ‘ceptin’ folks that were good to us Gourlays. And you know, little brother, there weren’t many of ‘em, nossir. Weren’t many at all.”
But it didn’t really matter what the thing was, did it? It talked like Stan, like it was Stan, and even if—
Stan was dead. . . .
—nothing really mattered anymore, anyway. Did it? His head throbbed, veins drumming in his temples. There was a burning behind his eyes.
“Now I figure the first thing you do before we go a-huntin’, little brother, is you’ve gotta get you some rest. Now I ‘preciate your mournin’ me an’ all—that’s what a brother should do—but you can see I’m not all dead, so you’ve pretty well done all the mournin’ that’s needed. I figure you oughta go home and get some rest, yessir. And tomorrow night . . . we’ll have us some fun.”
Bob nodded. The hurt in his head was too intense for him to even think straight, little say speak. If Stan wanted to go huntin’, well sure, he was up for that. Just let him get rid of this hurting first and he’d be up for anything. Just like old times.
“You keep it hangin’, little brother. Say-hey!”
The passenger’s door swung open. A weight that wasn’t there lifted from the seat and the springs creaked again. The door shut and the apparition was gone, leaving behind the stink of its rotting flesh. Bob reached out again. There was nothing there. No tingle. No cold. And it was so quiet. So quiet. The hurt in his head eased a little bit and he found he was grinning.
“Say-hey,” he said softly, his voice just a hoarse whisper.
Stan was dead. But it was still going to be just like old times. He didn’t know how or why, and he didn’t care.
twenty
“Are you going to be all right?”
Briggs glanced at his partner and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be okay.”
As he started to get out of the car, Will leaned over and touched his arm. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened, Paddy. You did everything you could.”
“Then how come they’re all dead?”
Will sighed. “I don’t know how, but somehow the killer knew they’d seen him. He was just cleaning up after himself. We’ve seen it before, Paddy. There was nothing you could do.”
“Yeah. Maybe I’m just getting tired of seeing it.”
“You and me both.”
Briggs nodded. “You’d better get back to Sharon. I’ll see you tomorrow, Will.” He stepped out of the car and stayed on the sidewalk until the car turned the corner and was lost from sight. He stood there a few minutes longer, feeling the ghosts gather around him, then turned and entered his building. The first thing he did when he was inside was throw out Francine’s picture. Getting a beer, he went out to sit on his balcony. He set the beer by the foot of his chair and took out his pipe.
I want you, he said to the night. I know you’re out there somewhere, and I want you.
The killer was clearer in his mind now, as though the three deaths tonight had added details to the image he was carrying around in his head. He had a shape that was clearly defined. All he needed was the face. The name. It was like he was standing at the far end of a dark street and the killer was at the other end with his back to him. Any moment now he was going to turn and then Briggs would know him.
He got his pipe lit and picked up his beer. The ghosts were worse than usual tonight. The two hookers. Red-eye Cleary.The two Gypsies. They were at the forefront of all those other ghosts, waiting for him to do something, to avenge them, to bring the killer to justice as though that would somehow make their deaths less meaningless. But dead was dead, Briggs wanted to tell those ghosts. Whether he brought the killer in or not, it still wasn’t going to make any difference to the dead. But the ghosts didn’t want to hear that kind of thing.
He took a swig of his beer and stared out at the night. Tonight he was going to mourn—for Red-eye, for the hookers, for all the dead and the hurt, the victims—because tomorrow it was going to be business as usual. He had a killer to run down and not the Inspector, not his lack of leads, not anything was going to keep him from it. He’d even do it on his own time, if it had to come down to that.
You hear that? he asked the night. I’m after your ass, you miserable fucker, and I don’t care if you’ve got leopard’s claws or two heads. I’m going to nail you to the floor.
Mulengro came up from the river, moving through the brush on the slopes behind Parliament Hill. He avoided the patrolling RCMP on the grounds as he made his way eastward, finally pausing at the War Memorial that lifts proudly from the traffic circle joining Wellington, Rideau and Elgin Streets. It was time to leave this city, he thought. The Rom had already fled it like vermin from a submerged dog and his work here was done. But not over. It would not be over until the last marhime Rom was banished to the land of shadows and the race was pure once more.
Uva. Yes. It was time to go. He felt strong tonight, filled with the pure light of God. All went well. He looked up into the sky where the brightness of the stars was dulled by the glow of the city, just as the Gaje dulled the brightness of the Rom and seduced them from following the old ways. Time had reversed their natural roles. The Rom were the chosen of God—created to be predators in a world of Gaje. Sly and clever as foxes, while the Gaje were dogs. And does a dog tell its master what he may do?
There was lightning in Mulengro’s eyes as he studied the stars—a pent-up storm that needed release, a cleansing fire that was looking for a place to strike. But behind the storm, the eyes of a young boy watched fearfully out of that gaze as well, seeing not the storm nor the spread-out panorama of the stars, but the faces of cruel men and other fires that burned the vurdon of the Rom, that slew father with flame and spread the legs of the mother and filled her with hot Gaje fire of another sort, that marched the Rom one by one into the death camps, that had them dig their own graves before the guns spat and toppled them down into the cold welcoming earth. . . .
The man in black closed his eyes and the memories slowly burned away, the boy he had been once was banished with them.
“There is still work to do,” he said in his cold whisper of a voice.
The horrors that had befallen the Rom at the hands of the Nazis would never have been vented upon a pure race. He had tried to explain that to the doctors, but they had only kept him locked up, away from the world, away from his work, until he had found the way to call the shades of the dead to him. His mule had freed him and set him on this road, this road that led away from this city now as before it had led him to it. Marhime Rom had escaped, but he would track them down. With his draba. With his mule. No one lived now who had seen him about his work, so he was free to go. No one would see him depart.
He could pass unnoticed amongst the Gaje when he so wished. But mostly he walked their world by night, and woe to those who stood between him and his work, or watched him go about his duty. Sometimes, he knew, it was necessary to show the Gaje that they did not rule the world—that there was only God and his servants who ruled. He closed his fists at his side, feeling the fire inside him. The cleansing fire.
“Mulengro,” he said softly.
It was a good name. The old woman had chosen well. Perhaps she had escaped being numbered amongst his mule, but she helped him in this way. For a name was important. Someday the old men would tell swatura of Mulengro around the campfire, of the man in black and his mule who cleansed the Rom that they might be favored once more in the eyes of God. But for now . . .
He gathered his mule about him like a cloak and set off .No one saw him leave the city. By the time the sun rose over Ottawa, he was walking along a highway that led away.southwest of the city, to where he sensed draba rising against him and Rom who were marhime. There was still work to do.
Part Two
mulengi dori
Le Romano shib motol o chachimos ande xoxayimos.
—Romany saying
[The Gypsy tongue tells the truth in lies.]
The old ways are changing, you can nae deny,
the day of the traveller’s over;
there’s nae where tae gang
an’ there’s nae where tae ‘bide,
so farewell tae the life o’ the rover.
Goodbye tae the tent and the old caravan,
tae the tinker, the Gypsy, the travelling man,
and goodbye tae the thirty-foot trailer.
—from “Goodbye to the Thirty-Foot Trailer”
by Ewan MacColl
twenty-one
The ghosts stayed with Briggs all that night. They were still there when he woke up on his balcony and stumbled into his apartment, they stood behind his shoulder while he shaved, they followed him as he walked to work. But like the cursed protagonist in The Monkey’s Paw, he was the only one to see his burden, the only one who knew the ghosts were there, because they were only in his mind. But knowing that didn’t make them any less real for him.
He thought about finally throwing away Francine’s picture last night and knew that so long as he had these ghosts he’d never be able to escape the past. The picture hadn’t been the cause—only the outward manifestation of what was inside him. He thought of that imaginary family he daydreamed about sometimes. This time the daughter had Tracy’s face. He had to wonder if this kind of thing was healthy.
To keep such questions, to keep the ghosts at bay, he threw himself into a regular routine of going through reports and wearing a mask of false jollity that only Will would see through, but he was in court this morning. One small favor, Briggs thought. Not that Will didn’t mean well, but Briggs didn’t really know how he could explain anything to his partner when he didn’t even know what he was going through himself.
“I see they’ve got you working for a change, Paddy.”
Briggs looked up from his desk to see Sam Robertson, also from General Assignment, pulling up a chair. He was a lean, stoop-shouldered man with a hawk’s nose that would have done Caesar proud. He had a couple of coffees in hand and pushed one across the desk to Briggs.
“I’m up to my ass in paperwork,” Sam complained. “If it’s not file six reports on this, it’s seven on that. I’m thinking of hiring myself a secretary and paying her out of my own pocket.”
Briggs managed to find a smile. “Bribes that good this month? Thanks for the coffee.”
“Don’t mention it. Hey, you know someone handing out shut up money? Tell me where I can line up. I got mortgage payments like you wouldn’t believe and the car’s in the shop again—three lousy days after the warranty ran out and isn’t that a pisser? Jimmy’s told me he’s not going to university, the cat shit all over the rug this morning, and then to top it all off I’ve got this fucking fire on Frank Street—arson, plain and simple, you know? Except nobody’s collecting the insurance, mainly because there was no insurance on the place. Can’t even find the fucking owner. Oh, it’s going to look just dandy in the report.”
Briggs shrugged and dug his pipe out of his pocket. “How’d you know it was arson?”
“Concerned citizen stepped forward—after I spent the better part of a day knocking on doors and wearing my butt off—and claims he saw a man torch the place.”
“Let’s hear it for hot detective work,” Briggs said. His smile wasn’t so forced this time. He’d needed something like this—-just to get back into the swing of things and let the ghosts lie.
“Sure. Yuk it up. I might be handing the case over to you if this Owczarek who owned the place doesn’t show up soon.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Hey, go cry to the Inspector. I’ll be real happy to wipe my hands of it. More headaches I don’t need. I’ve got plenty all on my own-some.” He drew his chair up closer to Briggs’ desk so that he could hook his heels on a corner of it and shook out a cigarette from a battered Export package. His narrow face was red from too much sun and the chair creaked as he tipped it back on its legs.
“So what’s the story?” Briggs asked. “This Owczarek owe somebody some money and wasn’t paying up?”
“Damned if I know. Guy makes plenty pumping out Hungarian fiddle music records. Got his bio from his producer yesterday when I was trying to track him down.” He lit his cigarette, took a drag, then balanced it on the end of the desk beside his coffee. “There was this weird thing, though. I got to the fire before the place collapsed, and I saw this symbol painted on the wall—sort of a circle with these squiggly lines going through it, you know? I figured it was supposed to be a message, but unless it meant something to Owczarek, it sure was a waste of time. Meant shit to me.
