The Evil Inside (9 page)

I studied Esmeralda's profile as she lurched the Honda into first. Side on with her new bob cut, she did look a little bit like Mia – anyone could see that. Only slighter and more tanned, like Mia had been in Fiji all those years before.

‘Do you know how to cook lobster?' I asked her. ‘Another of your grandma's recipes maybe –
Lobster Mexicana
?'

She was concentrating hard. Her small brown hands were white on the wheel. ‘No special recipe,' she said quickly. ‘The man said just to give him a bath in very hot water.'

‘Sounds good.' I thought I might call Anthony later and ask him which of the local whites in the rack might best complement our still-moving dinner.

Esmeralda turned off the main road and onto the beginning of the long unmade one that would take us back through the Christmas-card scenery to Arcadia. Now that we were out of the local traffic and into the trees, she seemed to relax a little. So I asked her, ‘Esmeralda, do you think Callum's been OK lately?'

‘What do you mean?' She swerved a little to miss an overhanging branch.

‘I mean, have you noticed anything different about him? About the way he behaves?'

She negotiated a narrow curve before answering. ‘I think he's probly a leedle upset cos you and Mia have been … upset, too. Children pick up on these things, you know, Guy? They very smart.'

It wasn't the answer I'd hoped for. ‘But apart from that, do you think he's been acting at all strangely?' I snuck another swig from the bottle.

‘Not really. Like what?'

Now that I thought about it, there probably wasn't any real reason for Esmeralda – or indeed anyone else – to share my worries about Callum.

He seemed to be reserving his strange side for me alone.

‘Shit!' Esmeralda suddenly braked hard. There was a resounding ‘whump' as the car ploughed into something soft. Four splayed spindly legs flew through the air, up and over the windscreen. A deer.

‘Oh, Guy!' Esmeralda wailed, jumping out of the car and kneeling down beside the broken creature in the snow, ‘I think I killed her!' A cotton-tailed rabbit peeked out from under the bushes and then hopped away to spread the sad news. I checked the bull bar. There was a nasty dint in the centre that hadn't been there before. I'd probably have to mention that to Anthony after all.

Esmeralda covered the animal with her parka. It was twitching and foaming at the mouth. Occasionally it shook with a giant spasm and its legs kicked out as if they were electrified. Starting to sob, Esmeralda held her hands above the deer and moved them back and forth, as if she was performing reiki. She seemed scared to actually touch it.

‘Oh, Guy,' she turned to me, ‘this is really bad, really very bad.' She gave a snort. A white gob of snot was dangling off the end of her cute little nose. She brushed it away with the back of her now bare arm. ‘Back home, an animal to die like this is very bad luck. It means cruelty or unkindness is coming. Maybe even worse.'

I nodded sagely at the mad, superstitious thinking.

‘What are we going to do?!' she wailed again.

I couldn't think straight – why was she asking me?

I took a squinty-eyed 360-degree scope around us but there were no answers on offer. A small stream of blood was trickling slowly out of the deer's mouth, through the toothpastey foam that was now beginning to congeal.

‘Guy?' Esmeralda tugged my sleeve. ‘We have to do something!' An owl somewhere hooted agreement.

‘It looks like it's on its last legs,' I said, making it up as I went. ‘I think it would be cruel to try and move it.' She nodded unhappily. ‘Why don't you stay here and I'll go back into town and see if I can track down a vet?' I didn't have the slightest inclination to stay out there in the cold to deliver the last rites. ‘Or else we could both go back into town?'

Esmeralda continued her reiki movements. She didn't look up. ‘It's OK. I'll stay here, Guy. I was the driver. We can't just leave her out here to die all alone.'

The local vet was apparently in Manhattan having prostate surgery.

So the Kingsville chief of police followed me back out and put a bullet right through the poor animal's brain.

On the way home, I drove a weeping Esmeralda down an overgrown track right to the water's edge, where she let the lucky red lobster back into the sea.

*

Midnight. Our last night in Arcadia.

Mia lay next to me breathing deeply.

I touched her back with the palm of my hand. I didn't want to wake her; I just wanted to feel her there. I wanted to be reassured that she was still there with me, my dear wife. I wanted to tell Mia – and myself – that it was all going to be OK.

That life would improve. That we still had each other. And Callum.

I opened my eyes. I needed to check on him. I padded down the hall to his room, making sure not to glance in Esmeralda's room as I passed.

My son lay crookedly in that way small children do, like a puppet with its strings down. His little chest rose and fell infinitesimally. I touched his cheek and pushed his hair back from his forehead.

He opened his eyes, one at a time. I hadn't meant to disturb him. His eyes glowed strangely in the night light. They weren't his normal blue – they looked more greeny, cat-like – edged with black.

He was suddenly wide-awake.

‘It's OK, darling. Daddy's just saying “ni ni”. Go back to sleep.'

I lifted the blanket back over him.

He glared at me.

‘Sorry, darling – go back to sleep.'

‘Bad Daddy,' he said mechanically.

I didn't touch him. I was suddenly afraid to touch him.

Callum's chest started to inflate and deflate rapidly like a blow-up doll's. His fierce, vengeful eyes bored into me. He hissed loudly like a Siamese cat, spitting a big, bright glob of saliva onto my cheek. His chest was pumping up and down as if it was going to burst. I reached out my right hand to keep his thumping heart from suddenly flying out of its cage.

‘
Cunt Daddy
,' he hissed again.

I screamed. ‘Mia! Esmeralda!'

He smiled lopsidedly at my panic, threw his head back and lifted his little Elmo T-shirt to show me his tummy. The wild thumping seemed to have moved down there. His belly was now stretching violently as if it had a steel piston pushing up underneath it.

‘Mia! Esmeralda!' Where the fuck were they? I stepped away from the thing in the bed. This wasn't my son. It was a beast from another world.

He rolled onto his side to face me, still grinning like a mini Jack Nicholson. He looked down at his bare tummy again and – almost as if he was willing it – forced his gut to slowly tear open. I put my hands up and covered my eyes. But I could still hear the sound of his skin, sinews, fibres, vessels, ligaments and nerves being ripped apart.

The stench in the room was diabolical: a mixture of shit, urine and vomit; the extra-cheesy bolognaise sauce Callum had eaten for lunch, and a deeper, older, mysterious smell that I hadn't encountered before. Sickly sweet like old maggot-ridden meat that has been left out in the sun to die a second time.

‘Mia!' I howled. But my voice had been stolen by disbelief. I covered my eyes and made a tentative V opening between two twitching fingers. Because I didn't really want to see.

Callum's bed was now a red sea; spider threads of blood were running down the bedspread onto Susanna's white carpet. I gagged and fell into a wicker chair near the door. Callum fixed me with his baleful eyes, reached down with his hands and pulled the horrendous hole in himself even further apart.

There was something inside him.

Something moving.

I closed the V and then opened it again a knife's edge.

The little rubbery-looking limb rose perpendicularly out of my son, fighting for freedom.

It shook with anger.

Its half-formed index finger pointed towards me as if it wanted to make a soul-destroying accusation.

Mia and Esmeralda burst into the room as one.

I pointed back at Callum, jabbering jibberish.

But he was suddenly asleep, completely intact and smiling like an angel.

Mia led me back down the hall and put me back to bed.

At least that's what she told me the next morning.

Tuesday, 9:15.

‘Welcome back,' Anthony grabbed my shoulder in the Brave Face corridor. ‘How was it?'

I felt like shit.

And I didn't really feel like telling anyone about all the fucked-up things I'd seen and experienced in Arcadia because I was still trying to fathom them myself.

‘It was … quiet. And beautiful. You're very lucky to have a place like that.'

‘I know. I wish we could live there full time,' Anthony grinned. ‘Away from the madding crowd.'

‘Um, we had a bit of a bingle in the Passport I'm afraid. Ran into Bambi's big sister.'

‘Christ! Was anyone hurt?'

‘No, it was just me and Esmeralda in the car. Esmeralda was driving, but it wasn't her fault – the fucking thing ran into us. We were fine. But the chief of police will have turned it into venison pie by now.'

‘Well if you hadn't hit it, some hunter probably would have. They're a local menace.'

‘There was a bit of a dint in the bull bar. So I dropped the car off at a body shop in Queens yesterday. Should be ready by the end of the week. Sorry, mate.'

‘You idiot,' Anthony rolled his eyes. ‘You shouldn't have worried about that. It's already had a few knocks anyway – adds character. Anyway, as long as you guys are back in one piece. How's Mia?'

‘She's … improving,' I lied.

‘And the boy?'

‘Fine,' I lied again. ‘The natural surroundings helped inspire some of his artwork.'

‘Not another bloody creative wanker in the family? Speaking of which,' he looked at his watch. ‘It's only 9.20 so Baldy Bill won't be in yet. But I think he and his mate Jay have come up with some quite nice stuff on coolcams.

‘I didn't want to look at it before you'd seen it, of course, but we weren't exactly sure when you'd be back. And I had to make sure that some progress was being made because the boy wonders in Berkeley have been hassling me for it.'

‘That's OK. I'll get Bill to run me through it. When are we meant to re-present?'

‘Friday. It doesn't leave much time for you to change things if you need to.'

‘Waddya mean? We've got a whole three days.' I feigned light-heartedness. ‘Am I going with you?'

‘See how you're feeling. Probably not. Lucy told them that you'd had an accident in the family so they'll be fine if you're a no-show.'

An accident in the family
. That was one way of putting it.

He clapped me on the shoulder again. ‘You've been through a lot, you and Mia. So if you need any more time off—'

‘Thanks, mate,' I said. ‘But I think some good hard work will be the best medicine for me.'

I meant it. Work meant that I could fill my mind up with stuff I could handle and understand. Work meant I didn't have to think about things that were painful or disturbing. Or terrifying.

By now we were in his office. Anthony nodded at the latest
Advertising Age
lying open on his desk. There was a cheesy photo of him shaking hands with one of the coolcams VCs outside their funky little building – he'd flown back over while we were away in Arcadia to negotiate terms and sign the contracts.

‘Look – we made the big time, Girly!' He indicated the equally cheesy headline:
COOLCAMS: capitalism with a capital ‘see'.

*

‘
So wadidya get up to on your va-ca-tion?'
Bill parodied the nasally voiceover to a recent TV campaign for a chain of travel agents. I supposed it was easier than asking, ‘So how have things been since your wife tried to top herself?'

‘Well, I went drinking with Buzz Lightyear and the Powerpuff Girls a lot.'

‘Ah, my little Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup,' he riffed nostalgically. ‘Do you know what makes the PPG so fucking great?' He was going to tell me whether I wanted him to or not. ‘Well, as well as dealing with standard superhero shit like defending Townsville against villains or monsters, the Powerpuff gals also have to deal with genuine childhood issues like bedwetting and security blankets.'

I just looked at him.

‘The PPG's also got a fantastic fifties futuristic slash minimalist design that makes it look like a gorgeous Hockney painting. Plus the violence is a whole lot more brutal than your average kids 'toon.' He was excited now, and obviously an aficionado. ‘Best ever episode?' he pretended he was being interviewed. ‘The one where the girls have to battle it out against evil cloned versions of themselves called the
Puffpower
Girls. Get it? It's the girls in reverse.'

‘How do you know all this shit?'

‘Lifelong cartoon addiction. Plus a few years back, I did the UCLA Animation Workshop. It was awesome!'

Bill was a bona fide pop culture vulture – and his fascination with ‘the rich, the famous, and the fucked-up' as he called them, extended way beyond cartoons. In fact, when I'd first mentioned to him that we were staying at the Hotel Olcott, Bill claimed that as well as Mark David Chapman having briefly been a guest there, that other world-famous assassin and former resident of the Bronx, Lee Harvey Oswald, used to wash dishes in the Olcott kitchen in the fifties as a teenager.

‘Yep,' Bill had laughed. ‘Then, when he got his weekly pay check, little Lee would hotfoot it out to the gee gees at Belmont and try to win some money for the Communist Party. Trying to turn capitalism against itself even back then, I guess.'

I found the story hard to believe and decided I'd check it out with Michael – our unofficial Olcott historian – at a later date.

But the Oswald story was easier to stomach than Bill's Oswald joke.

‘Hey, did ya know that some very reliable witnesses placed Lee Harvey Oswald in a Dallas cake shop at the exact time of the assassination?'

‘Really?' I'd taken the bait.

‘Yup, which proved beyond doubt that he didn't do it …' Bill paused for comic effect. ‘Oswald was just a
pastry
!'

7.30 p.m.

Lucy gave me a long, hard, meaningful hug in my office after everyone else had gone for the night.

‘I'm so sorry, Guy. Really sorry for you and Mia.'

‘Thanks,' I said. I should have let go of her. But it felt so good holding her.

I felt her nipples stab into me. She must have felt me harden, too. ‘If you need someone to talk to … have a drink …'

‘Thanks,' I said, finally pulling away. ‘I'll let you know.'

The next day, at lunchtime, I found what I'd been looking for on psychquestions.com. It was an article by a Dr Georges LaFargue from the International Institute for Sleep Disorders, Zurich, Switzerland:

 

SLEEP PARALYSIS AND RELATED
HYPNAGOGIC AND HYPNOPOMPIC
CONDITIONS

That didn't sound like me – I had walked right down the hall to Callum's room at Arcadia. I hadn't felt paralyzed at all.

This sounded more like it:

A perfect description of my life in advertising.

Oh, Papa, I suddenly felt a whole lot better!

I was obviously completely normal.

I also read a little about nightmares, night terrors and sleepwalking. Maybe I'd been sleepwalking and sleep-paralyzed at the same time in Arcadia?

And of course, the next day, there was nothing on Callum's tummy that I could see, apart from a strange little rash that looked like a smile. But that was most likely a minor allergic reaction to the calamari he'd had for dinner that last night or to the laundry detergent at North Fuck.

So it had all just been a nasty if incredibly vivid dream; it was as simple and reassuring as that.

If only.

I shook my head violently and clenched my eyes tight shut: but what about the things I'd seen during the
day
at Arcadia, and even before that, too.

The image on the TV?

Callum's drawing?

Those too, I knew could be explained if I put my logical hat on. But the screaming electrical sockets? How could Callum possibly know about something I was unable, or unwilling, to revisit myself?

I'd certainly been fully awake, cogent and alert on those occasions, hadn't I?

Yes. But then I put my logical hat back on: maybe Callum had acquired his own infantile fear of the different, face-like sockets in his new bedroom at the Olcott? Plus my wife had just tried to commit suicide and I was undoubtedly a little stressed about the responsibility of taking on a brand-new job in a brand-new country.

So it was no wonder I'd been a little jumpy and suggestible lately.

The article finished with the fact that Lady Macbeth had been a sleepwalker, too.

*

It felt strange being back at the Olcott.

The same but different somehow.

There was a strong undertow of something missing. Of things unspoken. Of issues unresolved.

Or unresolvable.

The lingering scent of Susanna's tulips was now sour and fetid. As if a small animal had died somewhere in the apartment.

Mia and I both made an effort to be ‘normal' – for Callum's sake, more than for each other. Because despite the resolution I'd made in Arcadia to resurrect our relationship, my emotional fuel tank was running at an all-time low. I just didn't have the energy or inclination to talk about us or what we'd been through.

And if I couldn't talk to her about us, how could I possibly talk to her about Callum?

And by Mia's standoffishness, I could only conclude that she felt the same reluctance to reconnect with me. We went through the motions: ate dinner, traded small talk, did the dishes. But we rarely touched or kissed. And we never went to bed at the same time.

She had also avoided getting dressed or undressed in front of me for months now. Although one day she came out of the bathroom when she didn't realize I was there, wearing only a towel around her head. Under her long-lost breasts, I took in the scar on her belly. It was thin and livid, razor sharp. And although it was shaped like the smile that Callum used to draw there, it now seemed more like a mocking leer.

That week we got back from Arcadia, Mia began apartment-hunting again with Susanna. But then Susanna had to go away on a school skiing trip with Courtney to Vermont for a few days and Mia lost the momentum.

I didn't really know what she got up to during the day. But Esmeralda told me she spent a lot of time flicking through her now dog-eared copy of
Vanity Fair.
Or just looking out the window with a tissue scrunched up in her hand.

I wondered what she looked at: there was no view to speak of; just the side façade of the drab, ugly apartment building next door to the Olcott – a grey, congealed, meaningless mess.

As I'd promised Anthony, my coping mechanism was going to be to throw myself back into work. We took the kernel of Bill and Jay's
Rear Window
idea and refashioned it into something more stylish and self-consciously ‘super-cool'.