Marilyn (2 page)

Elwood once again nodded in agreement. 'You can post the keys through the letter box when you're finished. If you hang about a second, I'll go and grab your key deposit. I'll just be a…' he said, turning.

'There's no need to bother, you can keep it, call it a tip for the drink.'

They both laughed. The man raised his hand and waved a thankful goodbye, once again lifting his jacket above his head as he braved the apocalyptic setting of the outdoors. He ran to his room, not looking back. Elwood stood and watched for a second and then closed the door.

The man cursed Elwood under his breath, the door to Number 5 would not budge. 'The stupid loon has given me the wrong keys,' he shouted, to the gods. He got down into an attack position and shoulder-barged the jammed door but it resisted his feeble attempt. Infuriated and dripping wet, he kicked the door in an outburst of temper that surprised him. He paused and charged once more with his shoulder, feeling his bones crush under the pressure. The door, finally giving way to his strength, burst open with a yelp. It slammed against the inside wall and came flying back just as quick. The man stopped it with the palms of his hands, feeling the cold, hard wooden slap through his wrists.

Clinical blandness greeted him, white everywhere, surrounded by bare whitewashed walls, un-creased white cotton bed sheets and a pasty looking carpet free of any stains. He walked in, stamping his feet again, on the blank, bristle mat. Finding the light switch with gratifying ease, he examined his temporary accommodation, the expressionless room comforting him with warm open arms. A fairly decent double bed stood directly ahead of him, empty bedside tables either side.

'How nice,' he exclaimed out loud with genuine gratitude.

A useless television from the dark ages proudly inhabited the corner of the room, placed without care on an ancient, unappreciated stand. The man inspected the plug and moved his eyes across the wall to the socket, the cable wasn't long enough to reach; he shook his head in confused disbelief. There were no windows.
For the best
, he thought. To his left was a rather spongey-looking sofa, particles of foam protruded from the cushions. He cared not for the condition, it was perfect. In the far right corner of the room was a second door, he guessed it was the shower, but he didn't feel like washing right now.

The man slipped his jacket back on, turned, and walked back out into the storm to his car. He carefully pulled the boy towards the open car door by his feet. When he had enough space, he tossed him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift position and carried him inside. He lay the boy down on the sofa, trying his best not to disturb him.

The man took his jacket off and threw it over the arm of the boy's makeshift bed and circled the room with an irritable stride until he sat on the bed, pressing his hands to his face, and running his fingers across the healed scar under his left eye. Remembering the bathroom aggravated his bladder and realising how long it had been, it was best he relieve himself.

The bathroom was full of colour and radiance, passionately decorated with the loving touch of a female. He hated it, it made him feel sick inside. Red and blue walls with yellow tiles along the side of the bath and sink. The colours clashed, it was an abomination. He picked up the toilet seat and did what he needed to do, shivering with satisfaction.

Walking across to the sink, he turned the tap on and let it run, letting the pipes spit and clear before bending over and rudely gulping the unsatisfactory water in disgusting slurps. Hydrated, he turned it off and walked out and over to his jacket. Delving into his pocket, he returned with a plastic, orange tube. He stared at the pills for a long moment, grinning, reading the label over and over, touching the lid with his thumb, and then put them away. The man traipsed to the bed, pulled the covers back, and climbed in, relaxing under the soft touch of the puffy duvet.

He left the boy uncovered, the room was stuffy, his clothes would suffice. Before flicking off the light, he set his watch alarm—8:00am.

FIVE

Marilyn took the corners at a breakneck speed that would make even a rally driver's stomach churn, but she took them well, courageously. The car drifted from side to side, swerving around scattered debris and skidding through the puddles that hid most of the road under their reflective veil. She was beginning to lose control, and she knew in these conditions it was downright suicidal. She was forced to slow down. Her insides were in tense knots, like fingers around a lump of meat, refusing to separate, squeezing as much anguish and hurt into her stomach as possible. She felt physically sick, and it was only her concentration that kept her from throwing up.

Marilyn took deep and desperate breaths as she struggled to put the pieces together. What had happened? They had stopped for food, that was the last thing she could remember.

The gas gauge was below the red line, showing the tank was just under full. She had been driving for hours now, and that hadn't crossed her mind. Had she stopped for gas? SHE HAD. She remembered. It all came together, an extensive mosaic of recollection bombarded her. She rearranged the pieces with the face of a perplexed student fighting for a last minute answer to scrawl on an exam paper, crow’s feet walking around the edges of her eyes.

'COME ON, DAMN IT. REMEMBER, JUST FUCKING REMEMBER,' she screamed, her shrill, agonising plea ricocheting off the black, dreary silence, piercing her ears.

Control of the car shifted from Marilyn to the road, she pressed hard against her seat, straightening up with rickety elbows, fighting the ache that had set in, using all of her strength to keep the steering wheel stable.

'I have a full tank, so we stopped for gas, we stopped for food, there are napkins in the glove box. Jack had chicken nuggets. What did I have?' She interrogated her memory out loud. 'FUCK, Marilyn, what did you have? She slammed both fists against the wheel, her smallest knuckle crunching under the force. 'What do you normally have? Tea, I had tea. Come on, girl. What did you eat?' She rubbed her teeth with her tongue and breathed in her hand, forgetting the pain. 'Tea... tea... and... ' She yelled in excitement. 'Tea and two vegetarian wraps, they were cold, we sat at the back.' Her emotions got the better of her, she broke down but with unexpected happiness. Letting it all go, she even smiled, carrying it with her into the twilight.

SIX

It must have been the longest, uninterrupted sleep he had had in months. Usually, he would wake drenched in sweat, his matted hair glued to whatever he was using as a pillow, smelling of his own lurid fears. Today was different. Today he was almost an entirely different person. He wept.

     'What the f..? What the hell is that?'

The man flew out of the bed in a startled panic, clipping his toes on the bedside table. 'Fuck.' There it was once again, a splitting sound brought in from the belly of the beast. He darted for the door at the other end of the darkness with giant bounds. Opening it, he acquainted himself with the sporadic, pebble-size hailstones being thrown from the sky, a few of which fell and melted around his feet.

'Shit, we better get going, before it wakes that old fool up.'

Looking up at the all-grey sky, the man rubbed at his temple, and ran his index finger across his crumpled forehead, relieving some of the pressure that had formed with his abrupt wakeup.

'mom? Where are we? mom?'

The man, taken off guard, jumped, digging the nails of his rubbing fingers into the skin. He whirled, closing the door, holding it shut with a flat outstretched hand and faced the prone boy.

'Who… who are you? mom! Where are you?'

The boy tried to lift himself, his hands squeezing and pulling at the loose foam, but his weight was unmovable, he was weak and shaky. He began to cry. His chest shook and his quivering throat choked up as he tried to take control of his breathing, all he managed was one tearful gargle. The man reached for a pillow that he had thrown away in the height of his pleasurable nap and tore off the case, rushing over to the boy, he pressed it over his mouth.

'I don't want to hurt you, but I can't have you screaming. Do you understand?'

The boy kicked and punched, flinging sofa foam with each attempt, hitting nothing but air.

'Listen.' The man pressed harder. 'Stop fighting. Stop fighting and I'll take the rag off your mouth, but you have to promise to stop and not scream. OK?'

The boy put up one last ditch effort, but it proved hopeless. He nodded his head.

'OK, remember what I said, not a word, got it?'

The boy nodded.

'Thank you, I don't want to hurt you, just do as I say and you'll be fine, you understand?'

The boy nodded once more.

'Now, not a word.'

The man clutched the boy by the wrist, clasping hard enough to earn a groan and dragged him off his makeshift bed, his small body collapsing from the sudden loss of equilibrium. The man lifted the limp boy into his arms, closed the broken door and headed into the hail towards the car. He stopped on his way to post the keys back through the motel letterbox.

SEVEN

Trees lay strewn in broken fields, branches tangled and stripped bare, ravished. The pundits had spread no lies, the situation was indeed severe. Marilyn cared not for the weather reports on the radio, she left it off. The last thing she needed was the whiny voice of an overzealous news reporter telling her what she could already see.

After the twists and turns of the road were just a dot in the blurry reflection of her mirror, Marilyn picked up the pace, erratically to say the least, storm or no storm, hail or no hail, Jack was the only thing she cared about. Where could the line be drawn? She knew that if she broke down, crashed or plummeted into a ditch, Jack would be forever lost. She considered this and slowed the vehicle down, feeling the weight of defeat in her foot as she eased it down on the brake pedal, the car becoming easier to manage now that it was abiding the laws of the road.

A brilliant blaze of purple stabbed at her through the muted sheet of hail ahead. How had she not seen it? She was fifty feet away, it was readable. Marilyn read it out aloud, her throat clearing and her voice strengthening as she spoke.

'Baileys Motel.'

She had expected a beaten-down whimper drenched in a teary mucus, but she was startled at how firm and controlled her voice was.

Marilyn led the car down the path, staying in the lines of previous tyre treads. The potted lights were scattered amongst the gravel, but still lit a visible track that she could follow. Marilyn couldn't get out of the car fast enough, she didn't even bother to turn the engine off, or even close the door. Sprinting under the protection of the porch, she came across the first stumbling block. A door, locked, with darkness behind it. Marilyn hammered it with both fists and forearms.

'HELLO, HELLO, SOMEBODY, HELP ME, PLEASE, HELP.’

***

Elwood gripped at his chest as his eyes shot open, the beating at his door had returned. He took a breath and held it, his fuzziness subsiding, leaving him with just the pounding in his chest, again. It hurt like hell. 'What the hell does he want?' he asked himself.

'He can't be wanting breakfast, it's too god-damn early.'

Screams reverberated through the dulling pain in his rib cage, immobilising him.

'SOMEBODY, HELP ME.'

'Shit.'

Old or not, Elwood was still speedy on his feet, especially when adrenaline got the better of him. He pursued the cries like a cheetah chasing its prey, turning every corner, avoiding every bump and crack along the way. He unbolted the door and opened it without hesitation. What he saw was something incomprehensible. The beauty the likes of which he had never seen, but it was eroding, fast. Her make-up ran all down her face, her eyes were red and sore, but ever more captivating. The white blouse she wore entertained the notion of going see-through. Who was this desperate, entrancing stranger?

***

'Ma'am, is everything OK?'

'I need to use your phone, please, it's an emergency, please.'

'Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid all the lines are down.' He rubbed the premature morning dew from his eyes. 'I couldn't even tell you when anyone would come around to fix them. God only knows how long this storm is going to last.'

'I need to phone the police, someone has taken my son. Someone has taken Jack,' she spluttered, giving way to emotion.

'Calm down, calm down, what did you just say? He grabbed the back of his head and puffed out his chest. 'Did you say someone has taken your son? Shit, come in, come in. Get yourself out of this weather.'

The old man put his arms around Marilyn and ushered her inside.

'Come, come. Sit down.'

He walked them into the side room, his living room. It was homely and welcoming. Pictures of family and friends cluttered the shelves and walls. But it was lacking a woman's touch. The carpet was a tattered and faded maroon, it had seen better days. Marilyn sat on an almost perfect, unused couch and the old man parked himself on a matching chair, opposite.

Marilyn cradled her shaking hands in her soaking lap and took in her surroundings.

'I'll be right back, you going to be OK for a minute?' the old man asked in a concerned, trustworthy whisper. Marilyn didn't speak, she couldn't. She sat trembling in silence.

The old man pushed himself out of his seat with a few ageing cricks and left the room, his legs uneasy with nerves. He returned moments later, carrying his trusty bottle of single malt, two glasses and a towel under his robed arm, which he handed to Marilyn. He watched sympathetically as she weakly rubbed the towel into her hair and face. She did this in an unwilling trance, wiping away the last particles of make-up. He held the two glasses in the palm of his hand and poured the whiskey, making sure both were equal measures. He checked out the glasses, thought about it, and slung another shot in each.

'Here, take this, it'll warm you up.'

Marilyn looked up with a pallid face, her eyes sunken, red, and puffy.

The old man held the glass out in front of her, coaxingly with a relaxed smile. She accepted the drink and passed the towel back, nodding in appreciation as she cleared her throat. She lifted the glass to her lips, slowly, embracing it with both hands. She drew in a breath and savoured the robust smell that clung to the back of her gooey tonsils. She felt safe, her fear was withdrawing itself, leaving only the panic and shock to keep her company. Her hands shook violently as she took her first sip of her whiskey. It burned her throat, all the way down to her pit of her stomach, but it felt good. She couldn't think of a time that she had needed a drink more than this, not in a long while, not ever. The first mouthful rattled her senses, awakening her. Marilyn did not lower the glass, instead she threw the rest of the single malt down the hatch with a practised flick, swallowing it in one, leaving no time to taste the expensive liquor. She watched the old man as he cautiously fumbled around with his own drink.

The wind bellowed through the building, shaking its foundations, and sending vibrations through the single-paned windows. The whole building seemed to rumble and wobble around them. It fractured the protective bubble that encased the pair, and tore them out of their bewilderment. Marilyn's whole body jolted forward and she dug her nails into the arm of the couch.

'Hey, there's no need to panic. You're safe now, no one’s going to hurt you. OK?' the old man assured, carefully retreating back into his chair. He sat down, positioning himself well, in an affectionate manner, leaning forward with his hand on his knees. He took a closing mouthful of his finest, and put the glass out of sight.

'Ma'am, my name is Elwood, I run this motel here.' He smiled.

Marilyn did not return the pleasantries, instead, she fixed her gaze upon her empty glass.

'I know this is hard, Ma'am. But you're going to have to talk to me if you want me to help,' he continued, gently enforcing the truth.

Elwood waited.

'What's your name?'

'Ma... Marilyn,' she stuttered.

He looked across to where she sat, taken back, his eyes beginning to water.

'Hi, Marilyn. My Name is Elwood. Elwood Bailey. Do you know where you are?

Marilyn didn't respond.

'You're at the Bailey Motel, out here, just off Highway 5. Can you tell me what happened, Marilyn? Are you hurt?'

She looked up and across at him. She could feel him examining her from the other side of the room

'No, I'm not hurt.'

    'That's good, Marilyn, you're doing great. Now, you said about your son. What happened to your son? Is anyone else hurt?'

'Jack,' she gasped, her head dropping.

The glass hurtled toward the carpet, her fingers still mimicking the duty of holding it. It collided with the floor in a soundless thud and rolled in a semi- circle. Colour rushed to her face, and tears attacked her cheeks in a frenzied barrage.

'Someone has taken Jack, I woke up in my car, he was gone, he's gone, Jack's gone. I don't know what's happened to him. I… I.'

‘Hey, hey, calm down, it's OK.' Elwood got to his feet and knelt down beside her. 'We'll find him, OK. We'll find him.' He wrapped a comforting arm around her, she was freezing to the touch and her whole body was shaking.

'It's OK, take your time, try your best. Explain to me what happened. Where's Jack? What happened to your son, Marilyn?'

Elwood shimmied around to face Marilyn, he held her hands in his and encouraged her.

'I… I. I'm not sure. I woke up in my car on the side of the road. I pulled over because I was feeling tired, I was only going to sleep for an hour. I don't know what happened,' she spluttered. 'I shouldn't have pulled over. I should have kept on driving. It's all my fault.'

She pulled her hands away from Elwood and buried her head in her palms between her quavering fingers.

'It's all my fault.'

'You can't blame yourself, Marilyn. It's not your fault. Marilyn, hey, come on. Look at me, everything's going to be OK. We'll find Jack, together. I'll be with you every step of the way.'

Marilyn lifted her head.

'Thank you, thank you so much,' she said with a faint beginnings of a smile.

Elwood dipped his fingers into his robe pocket, drew out a clean but crumpled handkerchief and used it to dry her tears.

'Now, Marilyn. I'm going to need to know exactly what happened. What's the last thing that you can remember?’ he pressed, gingerly.

'We stopped for food at the diner a few hours back, Jack was starving and wouldn't let up. He kept nagging me to find somewhere.'

Marilyn laughed, it was a painful, genuine laugh.

'That's good, Marilyn. What happened then?'

'We ate our food, talked for a little while and then I said we better hit the road. We drove for a bit. I started to feel really tired, it came from nowhere. Jack went to sleep pretty quickly, so I put the radio on to try and keep myself awake. I remember almost falling asleep at the wheel, you know, like when you jump and wake yourself back up, but can't tell if you've actually been sleeping. I thought it would be a good idea to pull over and have a quick hour. I didn't see any harm in it with the weather being so bad and Jack was already asleep, I thought it was a sensible idea. I… I...'

'You're doing fantastic, Marilyn,' he said, reassuringly. 'You really are. Now. Was anything else missing, or anything out of place when you woke up, purse, money, anything strange at all?'

'My phone. My phone was gone. I kept it in my bag on the back seat.’

'Your phone? Nothing else?'

'No, not that I know of.' She questioned, 'Why?'

'Just trying to understand what has happened. I know these questions may seem a bit silly, but anything and everything is important. Can you remember anything suspicious? Anyone that you didn't like the look of? Anything at all, Marilyn?'

     'No. Nothing. I... I can't think. I'm sorry.'

'There's no need to apologise. You're doing brilliantly. How old is Jack?'

'He's eight,' she answered, proudly.

Elwood cleared his throat as non-threateningly as he could.

'I'm sorry to ask you this, but, did you have an argument, do you think Jack could have…..' he trailed off. 'Run away?

'What? NO, of course not. What are you saying..?' she cried, her fists crunched into tight balls.

'Nothing, nothing. I have to ask everything. I need to know what went on. I'm sorry, I'm just trying to help you.'

Elwood got to his feet and turned toward the mantelpiece.

'Do you smoke?'

'Huh?'

'Do you smoke, Marilyn?' he repeated gently.

'I used to, I quit when I found out I was having Jack.'

Elwood advanced across the room to his writing desk, that was a very similar style to the one in his study. He opened the drawer and revealed a dust-covered pack of cigarettes, they had to be at least a year old. He brushed the dust away, removed two, and offered one to Marilyn who reluctantly accepted. He lit hers and then his with a cheap disposable lighter that was equally as old. Clouds of smoke began to fill the room, breaking into twisting, fading swirls before disappearing. It felt good, for both of them. For Marilyn, it was like she'd never quit. What was his next move? He was running out of questions and ideas.

'Marilyn, I want to try something, OK. It might not work, and it may seem a little bit, I don't know, silly, but it's worth a try.'

     He inhaled a deep, rewarding drag of his Marlboro, held it, fought back the familiar tickle and exhaled.

He was reminded of a book he once read about a hard-boiled private investigator. A rich, elderly woman's husband was murdered, she was the key witness but couldn't remember a thing.

The brain is complex and sometimes irrational thing need stimulation to function as needed.

'I need you to lie down and close your eyes, can you do that for me, Marilyn?'

Elwood paced back and forth, and then circled the drab rug in the centre of the floor that covered up some of the careless carpet stains, taking both long and short drags of his cigarette as he did so. Marilyn agreed with a nod of her head. He handed her a glass ashtray and they both extinguished their smokes. She watched the dying amber turn to dead black before she lay back nervously, trying to keep her breathing regulated and steady. Elwood bent down, reached for her hand and gave her some encouraging words smothered in a tender whisper.