The Island of the Day Before Read online

  And then those pious cops. Insisting he hadn’t been drunk. What was the point of a case making the front page if it didn’t even deserve to go to court? Just because the bloke’s smashed up as well doesn’t mean those limp dimwits in uniform get to do my job. I’m the lawyer. I’ll prosecute him. I’ll decide what happened. I’ll decide what the aftermath will be. And I’ll decide whether to put the fool behind the wheel in prison or not – and it would likely have been the former! Sympathy has no place in the courtroom. I administer justice the way it should be administered. That is what I went to law school for, after all.

  I drum my fingers on the wooden table, impatient to have my finger in this pie. I need something – anything – to put to use. But she’d given me nothing, and she’d withheld her usefulness until the very end. Not that I care, of course. The newspaper goes right to the trash, and I lean back in my chair that creaks like my aching bones, staring straight into the clear blue sky. Irritably, I brush away the stray strands of scarlet hair from my arm.

  It’s almost too cloudless. It always was. My temples pound, a bullet in the right side of my head. I grimace and close my eyes. I’m too deep in debt, and I need a client. I try to remember what crisp, green notes slapped against my palm felt like. It used to be so easy: convince them they’ve been wronged, and then say you’ve got what it takes to help put it right. Convince them something was wrong. Convince them. Perhaps I could. I glance at my computer. It still works if you beat it good. I kick it gruffly, but my knees aren’t what they used to be. The screen blinks a sharp white, then goes out. It’d been snuffed like the last of the melted candles in a desolate church.

  I lose patience. Mum used to say I never had any. I shake the computer roughly, and this time it beeps to life. I need it to work. Maybe something in this case can help me insist on a trial. But since it had been night and there had been hardly any people around, it made it harder to verify the facts. Dammit. It’s not something I care about, but you need proof to push the trial forward. Should my reputation have been a little better, my hair a little redder, and my face a little younger, I might have the courage to go into the firm requesting the case file. As it is, I can barely look my so-called colleagues in the eye.

  Hunched in front of the computer, in that small, musty office with its chipping vermillion paint and the single cracked window that barely lets in enough air to dilute the smell of urine, I grit my teeth. After all those years of importance, here I am. Sitting in an office that’s collapsing on itself, so distanced from anything of value that soon I’d be forgotten entirely. Desperation clings to me like sopping wet clothes on a warm body, and I shiver.

  I scroll down faster than I can read. The headlines tell me enough. ‘Woman Killed in Car Crash, Driver Pleads Innocent,’ they declare. Rubbish. All rubbish. Squinting, I click on a link related to the history of the victim. ‘An exceptional student … won scholarships to four colleges,’ an article claims. Yeah, I know she was smart. I first met her in college, after all. She’d always had her brains. Her skill. And her eyes. Those swirling olive eyes I’d recognize anywhere. But then, I think, snorting, look where I am now. Envied red hair speckled with grey, envied dashing smile chipped and crooked, envied wit now a bitter sarcasm. No wonder she didn’t choose me.

  I begin to skim through the headlines again, like a beetle treading water but knowing sooner or later it’s going to sink. ‘Sarah Hoven killed on highway’, ‘Journalism’s new Queen on Red Carpet’, ‘Berlin Film Festival Kicks Off with a Bang,’ I read. I zip downward through New York Times articles. These were too public. Too obvious. Too painful. For a moment, I wonder how quickly she had died; how agonizing it must have been. Then I remember I don’t care any more.

  ‘Sarah Hoven Weds Peter Avery, Chief of Police,’ I mutter, reading out the headline. That isn’t new. I look away. I would go on, but there’s something about that name…

  It must be nothing. Peter Avery was killed years ago by some crackhead with a gun. I attended the case myself. They’d been divorced then, but I still attended. Just to get a kick out of the whole thing.

  There was nothing else. Just some articles on her mother and father. What do I care for those?

  I try another website. I’m losing hope, but I care very little for my cold cup of coffee or any refill the clunky machine in the hallway can provide. That thing is older than me.

  ‘Film Journalist Sarah Hoven Killed on Highway’, ‘Highway Hit-and-Run Case a Warning for Reckless Drivers’, ‘Drainage Pipes Damaged’. That’s all. My eyes flick down to the article: ‘A gruesome hit-and-run case involving beloved journalist Sarah Hoven and a man identifying himself as Mr Avery occurred last week. Though the highway had recently been attended to, a thin layer of frost—’

  Hang on – What?

  Peter Avery is dead!

  I run my hands roughly through thinning hair. Old habit.

  Next article.

  ‘Last Sunday, Sarah Hoven, aged 48, was killed in a car accident. A car skidded …’ Blah, blah … ‘police tell us …’ Ugh … Last line: ‘… that the driver involved, John Avery, was innocent.’

  My heart wedges in my throat. Avery? They had no children. Peter Avery and Sarah Hoven’s marriage had been the most problematic union this town had ever seen. Cold, aggressive, manipulative, even violent, if some reports were to be believed. That was common knowledge. It’s impossible to even begin to imagine that they had … that they had a … child. I begin to zip from article to article.

  The screen flashes white.

  ‘Peter Avery, murdered by a drunk last Sunday, is being represented in court today …’, ‘… though the victim is single, he was earlier married to Miss Sarah Hoven, acclaimed Hollywood journalist. Though married for many years, the couple was unhappy and agitated …’, ‘Generally unpopular with the public … problematic marriage resulting, finally, in divorce …’, ‘Neither of the involved parties or their families offered comment…’

  She has no children, she has no children…

  ‘Not much is known about their marriage, and although the details are murky, they fell apart and stayed apart until—’

  My heart stops.

  ‘—Peter Avery’s brutal murder on 27 August 2013.’

  No. Where was the rest? Desperately looking for a line about a child, a son, my eyes search frantically. Am I making this all up?

  And then it slams into me. Of course I’m making this up. They couldn’t have a child, because of a terribly important little detail I had overlooked: Peter Avery was sterile.

  My breath escapes my rough lips in a long, sharp whistle.

  Until, unbidden by my mind, a sinister, long-neglected memory, shining and clear despite the fog and fumes of booze, a night of heat, of fury, of a clash of drunken hearts, swims before my eyes – and a scrap of twisted paper in the upper right corner of the Sunday News. A gossip article I once treasured as a triumph.

  ‘Sarah Hoven – Unfaithful?’, ‘Enraged husband offers no comment on the …’, ‘What occurred is unclear, though rumours are spreading …’, ‘Find out more! Go to…’

  But … how did those reporters even know? Unless … unless they had found long ago what I am now desperately seeking – proof.

  My heart beats sharply, too sharply, and it hurts. Impossible. The flash that bound me to Sarah Hoven was no more than a flash. Nothing but a storm of rage, a paralytic fuel to bitterness and twisted feelings of loss.

  Yet … a child. Neglected, unloved, born out of wedlock. Probably raised on the streets. And filled with enough hatred to drive a car into the mother he never had.

  I read article after article, thinking of nothing else but finding anything to prove my suspicions false. That I’m wrong. That I can let this go.

  ‘The court case for Peter Avery shall take place at Churchfield Hall. Mr Avery is being represented by Mr Alex Brown … The police refused to comment on the case.’

  No.

  ‘The driver of the car, John Avery, is curren
tly admitted in Town Hospital …’, ‘… nurses hope for a quick recovery … Ms Hoven’s funeral to take place next week…’

  NO!

  I lash out at the computer. To its credit, it remains on, though the screen dims dangerously.

  Trembling, eyes wide, I slowly type in the name.

  Images of the innocent driver flicker across the screen.

  He looks small and scared.

  Can’t be older than nineteen.

  Hands dry and cracked, with a jagged scrape across his cheek.

  His shockingly red, tousled hair falls across his forehead over his wide eyes.

  His wide, murky green eyes.

  I close my own.

  I’m such a fool.

  To Stay Alive

  If I were to stay alive it would only be

  For the way the sun shines on the leaves of ageing trees

  For the way the clouds cast shadows on the sky

  For the way the wind burns as it rubs against my eyes

  For the way the streams gurgle as they run over your feet

  For the way the children giggle as they pass you on the street

  For the way the ocean roars when it’s too restless to play

  For the way the moon shimmers at the end of every day

  For the way the fire crackles when the night is far from end

  For the way that something magic might be waiting ’cross the bend.

  Just an Otter Day

  The salty sea breeze was cool and encouraging, just right for fishing. A pity, really. It’d be much harder to find food with fishermen hanging around. He’d seen them, their withered hats softening tough, fin-shaped heads, talking gruffly and loudly about yesterday’s catch. Their boats swayed slightly, shifting the deep blue water. It was a cloudless, merry day for every fisherman on the wharf, and a troubling, problematic morning for the otter below.

  He glanced up at the fisherman nearest him, whose cheap cigarette was almost finished. His chequered yellow shirt was neatly patched, and the otter could smell food in a faded brown basket next to his metal chair. The otter was a fair way away from their old boat (its speed hobbled by the slight crack in its hull), but the fisherman caught sight of him anyway.

  ‘Hey, Harvey! See de little seal o’er there!’

  ‘That ain’t a seal, Tom, I’d bet me wife.’

  ‘Well, can we catch ’im?’

  ‘Naw, he’s too far. They’re quick, too.’

  The otter huffed angrily, a little insulted to be taken for a seal, but he doubted that they’d noticed. His brown, wet fur glistened like the sun off the water, and his large, wet nose was silky black. His small eyes, light and playful, blinked rapidly, and his long tail swayed lazily, propelling him forward on his back.

  He shot underwater as another boat, its lifebelts swinging against it, came floating out of the dock. His feet, large and webbed, were ready to turn him around at the slightest notice.

  The water was cool and pleasant, swishing past his whiskers. Coral burst out of wet, dark sand far below, and fish swung past him in an arc, each scale shimmering like diamonds in the night. Their school was thinner than usual.

  Fiery red crabs, frozen in their stations at the underwater plants, snapped at purple and yellow fish that got too close. Algae blanketed the deep sand and crawled over spread-out surfaces of the multi-coloured, oddly shaped, blossoming aquatic plants. The otter ducked and swung to avoid lace leaf that got too tall, or orange duckweed that swung too close to his face. A riot of colours erupted in the sunlight. Purple, red, yellow, green, magenta, turquoise, all became a blur as he danced through the ocean.

  With a burst of speed, he threw himself to the ocean floor, snatching up a large, black crab. The crab’s claws clicked angrily, horrified that he’d been discovered.

  When the otter surfaced, the crab wasn’t struggling any more. Floating, once again, on his back, he held his meal between his paws and chewed hungrily. He was glad to have found a decent breakfast, though fish was out of the question this morning.

  The rest of the morning was spent sunbathing on the buoy, and the otter was able to grab a couple of hours of rest before the noise from the clicking of fishing poles and yells as the struggles began forced him out of his slumber.

  He stared straight up into the light blue sky. Were there fish there as well? Was it another ocean of sorts? Did the sky end anywhere? It must, he told himself. Everything has an ending. Then his thoughts took a new turn, insisting that it couldn’t possibly be another ocean because one could float in the ocean, and only birds could float in the sky. Still, it was a nice idea. And his daydreams went on, to what he would find beyond the horizon, and what kind of oceans these other places had. His thoughts unravelled to the pinpricks he saw shining late at night in the black sky, and he wondered if they were other otters, far away, glimmering in the black waters of the night sky. Was that where his parents had gone? To live with these other otters? ‘If so, I must find a way to reach there too,’ he concluded, as he sat staring at the bright, full moon, his claws brushing the surface of the sea.

  ‘Honestly,’ he grumbled as he slipped beneath the black, unmoving waters, ‘I wonder at these humans. Why don’t they spend their time doing something a bit more useful? They rage at everything that isn’t them and disgust at anything that is; all to decide who gets to destroy what first.’

  The sea was quiet as the night; a clear velvet sky was reflected in the silent, slow-moving waves brushing against the shore.

  The salty sea breeze was cool and encouraging, just right for fishing.

  Sometimes

  Sometimes, I wonder if the stars notice us.

  If they gaze at us as we scurry about life like enervated ants,

  Angry at a non-existent prize we didn’t win

  Glaring at one another, suspicious, untrusting

  Ignoring the oncoming meteor above our heads.

  Do the galaxies see us?

  See our machines, our towers, our bombs

  That shatter the blanket of clouds

  Designed to protect us from ourselves

  But of course, we aren’t to know that.

  Does the Sun regard us fondly

  Wondering how his light has helped us today

  Wondering how else we plan to exploit him

  Before that light is extinguished?

  Do the planets guffaw

  At the bits of metal we shoot

  At them

  Only for these missiles to slowly explode in space

  Barely grazing the surface

  Of their life?

  The life out there

  For make no mistake, life there is

  Do they study us

  Like dumb insects?

  Marvel at the way we destroy everything around us

  Families, friendships, environments, countries

  All blown away to nothing by man

  Our feeble hearts

  Twisted and changed by the world we create for it

  The death of the life it was made to fuel…

  Sometimes, I wonder if the stars notice us

  And laugh.

  H.A.U.N.T.E.D.

  The sky was the colour of too-weak coffee. The sun, a helpless smudge of make-up, was doing nothing to help. I hurried on, hearing nothing but my own short panting, the dead headphones to ward off catcallers itching in my ears. My ragged blue file was tucked under my arm. Everything I needed was in there, I had been assured. By myself. Which made me less sure. The pages were threatening to spill across the parking lot any second, but I was determined not to rearrange my arm; I was almost at the door and I knew I could make it.

  Less than one foot away and the pages spilt from my hands like sand. Growling like a rabid wolf into the early morning breeze, I bent down to pick it all up. My nails scratched painfully against the cement. Sure they were fake, but they were a lot of work!

  All at once, a pale white hand snatched up ‘Today’s Schedule’.

  ‘Hey
!’ I began, ready to fight for that damn neatly printed timetable if I had to.

  My determined roving gaze latched onto hers. She was anywhere between twelve and twelve hundred years old. Her eyes were hollow, like the little tin cans we used to yell into as kids, dark grey storm clouds swirling inside them as though that was the blood that ran through her. Her mouth was a dry, cracked line, black like an ink stain against her sickly yellow face. She was drier than a camel’s tongue, shivering in the sun. But her hair, oh her hair – it held all the life in the world. It was a deep red, like a liquidized ruby, twisting and writhing and shimmering as though a soul lay trapped in each strand, now all at war with one another.

  She met my gaze, tilting her head.

  And then she smiled. It was a disgusting smile, her deformed lips crunching together like bones, horrid chipped teeth like disintegrating tombstones staring out at me. Her eyes grew fierce and black, filling with muck drawn out of a grave. Her grave.

  I felt fear shoot through me, tightening every part of me, stopping the beating of my heart lest it pound too loudly, revealing to this thing that I was what it was not – alive.

  Then she handed my paper back to me.

  She turned and stumbled away.

  I swallowed, feeling my throat sting in pain. I didn’t want to touch it, that paper; I didn’t want anything that she’d laid a finger on.

  I hurried through the front doors, the blast of air conditioning ruining whatever hair I’d managed to straighten that morning. I nodded at the corner desk, forgetting it was before eight and the secretary wasn’t there yet.

  Crushing it in my hand as though this could ward off the memory, I shoved my schedule into the first rusty bin I saw. Then I shook out the tremble in my shoulders and went up the lift to work.

  It was a blur. All of it. Of course, that might also be because I was frantically running from department to department, trying to figure out where I had to be when, but I chalk it up to the effect of being scared out of my wits before I had a chance to properly wake up. One moment stands out clear from the rest, though; I had been in the middle of wrapping up a presentation, and had reached for the cup of coffee beside me. As I raised it to my lips, my nose scrunched up. Looking down, I saw something murky and leeched of life mixed in with my drink. Something that looked awfully like a shot of rancid blood.