Читать книгу They - SLMN - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe knock on the door woke Melissa. Bleary-eyed, she stared at the clock. It was 8:00 a.m. The knocking came again, so she dragged herself from the bed.
“Just a minute!” she called.
She wrapped a hotel robe around her and winced at the pain in her arm. The pills had long since worn off and her bruises were agony. She shuffled over to the door and opened it to find a porter with two suitcases.
“Good morning, Madam, I believe these belong to you?”
It was her luggage. It could only have been here thanks to Saint Jasmine.
“Thank you,” she said. She picked up her purse and scrabbled for a generous tip as the porter brought her suitcases into the room.
She closed the door behind him after he left. She stared at them, hardly daring to believe they were real. What a relief! She hadn’t looked forward to returning to the police station this morning to get them.
Images and memories crashed into her mind like baseball bats striking her. She dropped to her knees. The cell. The interview room. The officers. The demonstration. The traffic stop. The gunfire. Her boyfriend, his body twisting with the impact of the bullets.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think of anything else.
Howie was dead. He wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t going to knock on her hotel door and surprise her. She would never again feel his body against her skin. She would never hold his hand or kiss his mouth. She would never talk to him, laugh with him, be with him.
He was gone.
Murdered by those fucks!
Anger replaced the suffocation of loss. Hot, burning anger that gripped her stomach and clenched her teeth. She seethed, tears forming a puddle at her feet, fists pounding the floor. She screamed, raged at the injustice. She yelled at God for taking him from her. She roared at the universe for being so cruel.
She had never felt so helpless.
She lay on the floor sobbing for some time. Even when there were no tears left, she couldn’t bring herself to move. Her breathing was ragged and her dry sobs came in heaves.
Eventually, all that was left was numbness.
She dragged herself to her feet and went to the washroom. She showered and dressed in clean clothes, then picked up her phone to find dozens of new texts waiting for her. She flicked through them dispassionately, sentiment after sentiment having no effect on the deadness of her soul.
One caught her eye and she stopped. She stared at it for a minute, trying to process what it said. It was from Howie’s brother, Wilson.
Meet me at Tremelos at 9 a.m.
Well that was kind of forward. What if she didn’t want to? What if she just wanted to get the hell out of this fucked up country and go home right now? What if seeing her dead boyfriend’s brother was just too painful a concept for her to cope with? What if the noisy protestors outside had kept her awake half the night and she wanted to crawl back under the covers and go back to sleep?
She could answer all of these questions positively, but she knew full well that Howie would want her to go see his brother. He had spoken of Wilson often, even in the short time she’d known him. It was clear that Howie loved his brother and would do anything for him. Wilson must be hurting just as much as she was, and it was totally fair for him to want answers from the woman who was there when Howie died.
She decided, for Howie, she would go.
The streets were quiet that morning. The rush to get to work was over, and there was a host of city workers clearing up the debris after last night’s protest. No storefronts were damaged, but litter was everywhere and there were numerous broken signs abandoned in the gutter.
Justice For Howie!
Put Hagley Away!
And of course, Black Lives Matter!
She’d heard of the movement, of course. Toronto had its own chapter, though police violence against black people in Canada was generally rarer than in the States. Still there were disproportionate numbers of traffic stops, minor drug convictions and stop and searches in Toronto, or carding as it was known. Melissa loved Canada, loved the opportunities presented to her and the social safety net of healthcare and welfare, but the country was not without its racial divide and its ugly underbelly of bigotry.
She entered the café expecting to have to look around for Wilson, but she spotted him straight away. He was so like Howie, yet different in some ways. His nose was a little narrower, his forehead a little broader, his chin a little rounder, yet he was so obviously Howie’s brother that Melissa found herself moving towards him with her hand outstretched before he’d even noticed her approaching.
He put down his coffee and shook her hand, smiling with sad eyes. He invited her to sit. Neither needed to introduce themselves.
“How you holding up?” Wilson asked, his voice filled with compassion and empathy.
Melissa sighed. “I’m doing okay. It hasn’t hit me fully yet, you know?”
“Yeah I know. I got the same thing. I woke up this morning thinking, I should call Howie today. Not spoken to him in a week and that’s a long time for us. Guess you kept him busy.”
The words weren’t accusatory or tinged with jealousy. There was a glint of amusement in his eye that reminded Melissa so starkly of Howie that for a moment she struggled to breathe.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah I’m okay. You look a lot like him.”
Wilson patted the table awkwardly. “Oh yeah, I didn’t think of that. Sorry. Must be hard for you.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s not your fault you look like your brother.”
“Shit no it ain’t!” he said in mock protest.
Melissa smiled slightly, then let it fade. “I keep thinking I’ll get a text from him any moment, you know? I think he’ll call soon, and then I remember. I guess I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
“It sucks, man. Fucking sucks. I figured losing my brother to cancer, or in a flood, or some act of God shit, well that’s one thing. Can’t control that. But this bullshit? Motherfucking cops looking for someone to shoot. Fuck.”
Melissa sat in awkward silence following his outburst. She felt the same way, but he’d raised his voice and there were people with kids too young to be in school nearby. Wilson followed her glance and took in the family that sat nearby, the mother glaring at him and the father trying to distract their toddler from the bad black man and his nasty words.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said, without any trace of anger. “Cop shot my brother. Not having the best day.”
The couple looked abashed at this, almost guilty. Like so many white folk when confronted with violence perpetrated on black people by “their” people, they retreated into awkward reverence.
Wilson turned back to Melissa with a mischievous grin. Despite all that had happened, Melissa found herself happy to be in his company. Even at such a shitty time, Wilson displayed so much of Howie’s easy-going it-don’t-bother-me attitude that she couldn’t help but feel comfortable with him.
His expression turned serious. “Listen, I guess you’re wondering why I asked you to be here.”
“Sure,” said Melissa. “I’m just gonna get a coffee, okay? Didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Oh shit, where are my manners? You stay here, let me get you something.”
“That’s nice of you, Wilson. I’ll have a latte with sugar.”
“Coming right up.”
Wilson walked over to the counter and joined a short line up to place the order. Melissa didn’t know how to feel. She had to remind herself that she didn’t know Wilson – it was far too easy to believe he was exactly like his brother and therefore worthy of her trust. He could be here to find out if she planned to make a claim on Howie’s estate. He might even be here to find out if Melissa had planned for the cops to ambush them and kill Howie to get out of the relationship. Okay, her imagination was running away with itself there. The point was, she didn’t know him. All she had to go on was the character and word of his brother. Surely that was enough? It was hard not to be paranoid and suspicious after what happened yesterday.
Her thoughts had gotten stuck on Howie and a rising tide of crushing sadness threatened to overwhelm her. Thankfully at that moment Wilson returned, bringing her back to the present.
He placed two coffees on the table and sat down opposite her.
“I expect you want to know what happened to your brother,” Melissa said to him after a moment. She dreaded having to recount the awful story to anybody, wondering if she could hold it together long enough to finish, but she felt Wilson deserved to know the truth.
“I wouldn’t make you do that. I saw the video. I know what happened.”
“Oh.” Melissa was secretly grateful she wouldn’t have to return to that moment.
“I’m here to recruit you.”
Visions of weird cults and their loony leaders appeared in her mind.
“Er, recruit me for what?”
“Yesterday I got a promotion. Black Lives Matter made me an official spokesperson.”
“Because of Howie?”
“Because of Howie. I spoke at the rally after the protest march last night. Did you see me?”
Melissa shook her head. “I saw the march from my window, but I didn’t join it. I was too tired. I was probably asleep by the time you spoke.”
“I was pretty good, if I do say so myself.” He smiled at his mock arrogance. His humor was infectious. Melissa found herself admiring his spirit in the face of tragedy.
“I’m sure you were amazing.”
“You know what would be more amazing?”
“No.”
“If you marched with us tonight. If you spoke to the protestors. If you did interviews on behalf of BLM. I’ve seen your channel, Melissa, and you’re damn convincing. You have millions of followers and a voice that needs to be heard.”
“Oh no, I have to catch my flight this–”
“That piece-of-shit policeman needs to go to jail, and he’ll get off if we don’t keep the pressure on. We need to march and protest and shout from the fucking rooftops until justice is served…”
“Really, I’ve got to go home–”
“Tell Howie’s story. Tell them all how he they gunned him down even though he was unarmed. Tell them what the cops did to my brother! Please!”
Melissa stood up so fast her chair fell over. People were already staring at them as Wilson grew louder, but now everyone in the café was quiet.
“I think I’d better go,” she said, picking up her chair.
Wilson stared into his coffee. In a flat voice he said, “You owe it to Howie.”
Melissa leaned forward with her fists on the table. She didn’t care that everyone was staring. Rage and frustration and grief built in her chest and her eyes were now wet with tears.
“I don’t appreciate you telling me what I owe my dead boyfriend,” she said. “Of course I want justice for Howie, but I’m not in a place right now where I can parade in front of the fucking cameras and tell everyone all about the shitty thing that happened yesterday so I can be a trending topic for half an hour and boost my public image. I’m not looking for ways to exploit Howie’s death for my own personal gain, never mind yours. It was nice to meet you and thanks for the coffee.”
She grabbed her bag, wincing as she swung it over her shoulder and it bounced against her bruised arm. She apologized to the open-mouthed couple with the kid for her language, and stormed out of the café.
She headed for her hotel. She planned on packing and heading out to the airport early. Her flight didn’t leave for six hours but she didn’t care. She would sit at the gate and wait. She didn’t want to spend another moment in this city if she could avoid it. What right did that asshole have to lecture her on her obligations? Who was he to tell her how she should be acting? There was no wrong way to deal with what happened. There was no checklist to follow or textbook on the subject that she was aware of. She was out of bed, she was dressed and she had plans to leave the country – surely this was an achievement when the alternative was curling up on the floor in a ball and crying so hard and so long she would eventually be nothing but a pile of dust on the carpet.
Maybe she shouldn’t have stormed out on him. He was going through trauma too; this was his way of coping. Throwing himself into a movement, with a clear goal and a mouthpiece to spread the word, was a worthy use of his rage – better than violence surely. She could understand why he believed she should follow the same path. But she refused to feel guilty for telling him where to go. She had a right to deal with this tragedy in her own way, and no obligation to follow a course laid out by someone she barely knew.
A black SUV suddenly screeched to a halt in front of her, mounting the pavement. She jumped back in shock, thinking that the driver must have made a mistake. When the doors opened and two masked men jumped out, she realized this was no accident. She screamed and turned to run, but it was already too late. The men were upon her, grabbing her arms and pulling her towards the vehicle. Passers-by stopped and gaped at what was happening. She cried out to them to help her, but then she was inside the vehicle and the driver reversed back out onto the road, then zoomed off at high speed.
Something sharp stabbed her neck and she cried out, struggling to get away. Very quickly she felt drowsy. As consciousness slipped away she heard someone tell her, “… told you not to talk to anyone…”
