Tenth Man

by Tamara Sheehan

Chapter 13

[Tenth Man has been withdrawn at the author’s request.]

His hands rested an instant on the drawer pulls before he committed himself. Then, groaning, the drawer slid open revealing a chaos of clothes, of odd socks, of objects with no other home in the house.

He let the pull guide his hands, could have found the watch if he’d been blind. It lay like a kinked silver ribbon at the back of the drawer. He touched it. Cold and smooth, the links brought sharply into focus memories made soft by time.

He gathered up the watch, let the band snake across his palm so that the links clinked gently, amuscially together. Distant sounds infiltrated this quiet space. He recalled receiving it in a little box, evidence of the claim made by the white-coated ASSC incident manager. He clutched it, tried to recall the last time he’d seen it on his dad’s wrist.

It sprang fully formed to his mind’s eye; the old man in his truck, the wrist ringed by the watch resting over the steering wheel. When was that?

He felt so old. The memories of the watch were muddled, fragmented, photographs of moments almost lost. He recalled a birthday at the pool, a moment of frustration and despair so strong its reek filled up his nostrils. That was fresh, that was strong. He followed that.

His dad’s tired expression, late nights at work on the particle-board desk, the yellow lamp with the exposed springs lighting up the whole living room. He remembered watching the light behind the door flick off late, later, later still each night. He touched a memory that was not his own.

USW and a thousand forms to fill out and a thousand votes to take and a thousand people to convince. The old man rubbed his face, looked at his watch, then touched the first finger of his left hand. It was shorter than the others. “And that’s why we need a trade union,” he said to himself, running fingers over the smoothness of the skin, the absence of a nail.

Saul realized with a wrench that he recalled waiting in the hospital with the neighbor, June, for his father. He remembered the wad of bandages and the funny little cast. His father had explained the work was dangerous but necessary, but that had been years ago. They had laughed, called it a mini-finger. The old man would pretend he was picking his nose and Saul would be suitably grossed out.

A chill passed through Saul. Not the first accident at the plant. Almost unwillingly, he reached out toward the event that had mangled the watch.

A rush, the sensation of pressure, of falling. He must have shouted. A blackness hovered above him. He knew it was the inside of the mould, a massive metal parody of a human shape. He saw it rush toward him. Vibrating with fear, scrambling, but something had him. Metal screamed. The massive weight of the stamp floated over head, blocked out the industrial lights like an eclipse and slammed down.

Nick.

His stomach churned. The voice, a whisper, faint, almost lost filled up his head.

...miss you...

He recoiled from the thing he was seeking, wrenched away from it so fast that his breath came out in a sob of fear. His face was hot, his hands were cold.

“Saul.”

This voice, real, outside his mind, made him turn. Both Toven and Howie had come into his room. Toven lingered, pained and uncomfortable at the door. Howie’s hand was on Saul’s arm.

“Hey, you back?”

He swallowed noisily, nodded.

Howie reached out, touched the watch band, Saul heard the links rattling together like a wind chime. The sound made his head ache. He flinched away from the noise, fought to keep the memories away.

“You’re seeking on this?” His voice was soft but he glared at Toven, rightly guessing the source of the idea. “Hell, Saul, your dad’s gone. Let me put this away. You go sit down, all right?”

He became aware of rhythm and noise. Someone was pounding on the door. He blinked, tired to muster words. “Just relax.” Howie told him. “You got a client coming today?”

“Dunno.” Saul answered.

Thump thump thump.

“All right, I’m bloody coming.” Howie snapped.

Wooden, Saul stood by while Howie tucked the watch away and pushed closed the drawer. He took Saul by the shoulders, guiding him back to the living room, settling him on the couch.

Saul stared at the wall between pictures. Something unfamiliar touched him. He looked up. Toven, his face scrunched up with concern had placed his hand on Saul’s shoulder. Saul closed his eyes.

Thump thump

“Yes?” Howie snapped. “Do you have an appointment?”

A familiar voice spoke. “I believe I do.”

Toven jerked away from Saul, pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he crouched. His white face was grey, his hands curled in knots. Saul fought to clear his head. Mbeki. He wondered what time it was, realized with a twist of fear that he did not know how much time Audel was prepared to give him. He was awash with Toven’s terror, his own helpless exhaustion.

“He’s sick today, no psychic readings till tomorrow.”

“Yes?” Mbeki’s voice was coldly amused. “And who are you?”

“His doctor.”

Saul struggled to his feet. With a sudden panic he thought of Mbeki flanked by police. The fear vanished as quick as it came. One voice in the hall, no sirens outside and surely no cop in Verusa would take Howie’s lip in silence. The absence of police meant one thing: Mbeki alone was enough.

He was coming around the corner, heart beating so loud in his ears that it dizzied him, when Howie yelped. Mbeki had shoved him back, Howie staggered back and fell against the wall. Mbeki came into the hall.

He was bigger than Saul remembered, in somber trousers and a dress shirt, his missing jacket the only concession to the heat. Mbeki yanked Howie to his feet, hit him in the stomach and let him drop, doubled up against the bedroom door. He turned and saw Saul.

“Mister Solomon.” He began with a grin. “I’ve come to collect Mister Audel’s ring.”

“I haven’t got it.” He knew only that Mbeki could not go into the living room, could not be allowed to see Toven.

Mbeki was talking, words meaningless and lost under the pounding in Saul’s head. “...not pleased...”

“I understand,” he mouthed like an automaton.

“...want me to show you how serious he is...”

“Yes, of course.”

Mbeki started forward. Saul wanted to stop him but the but Mbeki bowled past him. Rather than strike him, the big man caught his arms and propelled Saul into the sitting room. Saul, sliding on the carpet, followed against his will. Suddenly Mbeki stopped. He was staring past the gorgeous view, past the clutter of mugs and coffee rings. He looked straight at Toven.

Proceed to chapter 14...