Enter, Night (38 page)

Jeremy double-checked
the address on Martina Street as he
manoeuvred the Chevelle to a parking spot next to the curb. He found
he’d forgotten that even towns like Parr’s Landing had streets like this
one—rows of narrow, rectangular prewar shotgun houses with peeling
paint and small chain-link fenced front yards where nothing beautiful
ever grew, with fenced back yards that housed dogs who were never
allowed to experience the warmth of the indoors. Houses that were
smaller and meaner than even the other small, mean houses in a town
full of them.

Christina grew up on one of these streets
, Jeremy thought.
Her father
died alone in one of these houses while she was in Toronto with Jack, and no
one told her until six months after he was in the ground, probably because they
were too afraid of my mother to find out where she lived. God, what must we
look like to Christina, really, up there in that house, throwing eighteen-karat
gold dishes at each other and stomping across marble floors and slamming
mahogany doors. Good fucking Christ.

To Jeremy, even the light seemed dirtier on Martina Street. It was
as though the generations of men and women who’d offered their youth,
their hopes, their dreams—indeed the entirety of their lives—to the
Parr family gold mines as a sort of terrible, ultimate rent had only their
own despair left to plant in the patchy, ugly side gardens between the
houses. If that was the case, it was a crop that had thrived both in the
heyday of his family’s violent use of the land and its people and later,
when the mines closed, throwing a town full of miners on the mercy of
government welfare, and their own hardscrabble ability to survive. His
own family’s fortune had been long ago secured, of course, which had
allowed his mother to continue to live like royalty, albeit lonely royalty,
in her house on the hill on the other side of Bradley Lake.

Visible even here, from Elliot McKitrick’s front steps, the jagged line
of cliffs loomed in the distance, gathering the town in its brutal fold of
wings. Though not usually given to flights of philosophy, Jeremy suddenly
wondered whether the hills and the honeycomb of mines beneath them
had been consuming the bodies and lives of the townspeople for more
than a hundred years, or whether the townspeople themselves had been
the predators and the once-pristine boreal forest and the earth beneath
it had been the prey.

There were two mansions in Parr’s Landing: Parr’s House, and
the Roman Catholic Church of St. Barthélemy and the Martyrs on
MacPherson Street, arrayed in the self-referential sanctity of its own
history as a shrine to the French priests who had died here attempting to
colonize the people to whom the land actually belonged.

Everywhere else, it seemed, there were variations on the houses on
Martina Street. In one way or another, both Parr House and the church
had consumed the lives and the lifeblood of the townspeople and had
been nourished by it.

This is my inheritance
, Jeremy thought.
This is my legacy. This land and
the people my family has been feeding on for over a hundred years. Whatever
seed was planted in those hills and under that earth, it’s been held for me in
trust all these years. It’s been waiting for me to claim it. Or for its chance to
claim me.

And right now it has me exactly where it wants me.

Jeremy shuddered. He shook his head, then reached out and knocked
on Elliot’s door. When there was no answer, he knocked again. He tried
the doorknob, finding that it turned easily and swung open.

“Elliot?” he called. “Are you there? Elliot? Hello?”

At first there was silence, then out of the silence came a thump, like
someone swinging their legs over the side of a bed and planting both feet
firmly on the floor. In the air was a not-unpleasant scent of sweat and
cigarette smoke, and something else—Jeremy recognized it immediately.
It was Elliot’s own musk, the unique, personal signature of his skin and
hair. And his sex. Jeremy closed his eyes and breathed it in, suddenly
flooded by a rich flush of memories that excited and shamed him in spite
of himself.

“Elliot? Are you in there? It’s me, Jeremy.”

The bedroom door opened, and Elliot stood framed in the doorway.
Behind him the bedroom was dark, the windows closed. In the half-light
of what Jeremy assumed was a bedside lamp, Elliot’s body was etched
carved in shadow. At first, Jeremy thought Elliot was nude, but he was
wearing a pair of white cotton boxer shorts that clung to his legs as
though dried sweat had plastered them to the sinewy curves of his thigh
muscles. Elliot was half-erect. The wiry scrub of black pubic hair crested
the waistband of the white boxers, hanging off his lean hips, and the tip
of his cock was visible through the fly.

Elliot squinted in the dimness. “Jem? Is that you?”

Jeremy’s breath caught in his chest. “Yeah, it’s me. Are you OK?”

His voice was rough with sleep. “What time is it? What are you doing
here?”

“I called the station, they said you weren’t in till later. I . . . I knocked.
I thought we could maybe talk or something.”

“Talk. OK, we’ll talk, sure.” Elliot went to rub his eyes and flinched.
Gingerly he felt the area under his jawline. He explored it with his
fingertips, feeling for something Jeremy couldn’t see. “Where am I? Wait,
what are
you
doing here?”

“You asked me that already, Elliot. You’re in your house. This is
where you live.” Jeremy took a step towards him. “Is everything OK?”

“Bad dreams.
Fuck,
my head hurts. I feel like shit.”

“Do you want me to get you a glass of water?”

“Yeah, please.” Elliot indicated the kitchen with a general sweep of
his arm. “In the kitchen.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “Thanks.”

Jeremy found a clean glass in the midst of the unwashed crockery
in the sink and poured Elliot a glass of water. When he returned to the
living room, Elliot was no longer standing there, though Jeremy saw his
legs over the side of the bed through the doorway of his bedroom. Elliot
was sitting on the bed with his face in his hands. As Jeremy drew closer,
he saw that Elliot was pale—no, more than pale, actually waxen. The
thatch of dark chest hair stood out against the whiteness of his skin. His
thick black crew cut was askew with jagged spikes.

Jeremy handed him the water. Elliot took a sip, then handed the glass back to Jeremy, his mouth puckering in distaste. “Guess I didn’t
need water,” he said. “How did I . . . do you know how I
got
here? How did
you
get here?”

Jeremy sat down next to him on the bed and put his hand lightly
on Elliot’s shoulder. “Hey, are you all right, Elliot? This is where you live.
This is your house. I assume you came home last night and went to bed,
and that’s how you got here. How else would you have gotten here?”

“Dunno,” Elliot muttered. “I don’t remember. I was . . . I was . . . I
think I was at work, then I drove . . .”

“You drove home,” Jeremy said soothingly. “Here. Were you drinking
last night?” Jeremy looked around for empty bottles or glasses, but there
were none around Elliot’s bed, or anywhere in the room, for that matter.
Nor had he smelled alcohol when he entered the house.

“Bad dreams,” Elliot said again. “Donna . . .”

“Donna?”

“From the bar, Donna. That Donna. The . . . the . . . girl. Woman.
Donna. From the bar. That one.”

“Were you at O’Toole’s, Elliot? Were you drinking at O’Toole’s,
maybe? Did you pass out last night?”

“I told you,” Elliot said irritably. “No, I didn’t drink.” He lay back on
the bed and put his hands over his face. When turned his face away from
the light of the bedside lamp, Jeremy saw that there were bruises on the
side of his neck, along the jugular.

Jeremy looked closer. Elliot had obviously cut himself shaving, more
than a week ago, judging by appearance. The abrasions looked almost
healed, the pink skin gleaming through the aureole of surrounding
bruises. While the contusions themselves were dark purple, with no sign
yet of the yellowing that came with healing, the cuts—which now looked
more like punctures to Jeremy’s untrained eye than scratches—seemed
to have already closed up.
Not possible. Not bruises that dark. The skin
underneath should look like roadkill.

“Elliot,” Jeremy said. “What did you do to yourself? What are these
marks?”

Elliot grinned. His eyes were still covered with his hands. It wasn’t a
pleasant smile. “What marks?”

“There, under your jaw. Did you hurt yourself? Did you cut yourself?”

“Feels like . . .” Elliot touched his neck. “Feels like love. Some chick,
maybe? Some hungry chick?” His voice, though tired, was mocking.
“Chicks dig me, and I dig chicks.”

Jeremy drew back from Elliot’s words as though scalded. “Fine,” he
stiffly. “I got it. I was just curious. I wanted to see if you were all right.
You’re obviously all right. I’ll go now and let you get ready for work.”

Elliot took his hands away from his face and smiled again, different
this time. All the malice had vanished and, for a moment, Jeremy doubted
he’d even seen it. “Don’t be like that, Jem,” he said. “Stay awhile. You
wanted to talk. Let’s talk.” He ran his index finger along Jeremy’s upper
arm, caressing it. “Stay for a while.”

“Elliot, what are you doing?”

“Stay for a while.” He voice was warm and insinuating. He reached
over with his other hand and switched off the bedside lamp, bringing the
room to near-darkness. “Isn’t this better? It’s better in the dark, right?
Remember? In my room?”

“Elliot, I don’t think this is a good idea. I think we should stop. You
were right, it was a long time ago.” Even as he said it, Jeremy knew he
was lying.

Elliot propped himself up on one arm and kissed Jeremy full on the
mouth. With the weight of his body, he pressed Jeremy down on the bed
and swung his leg effortlessly over Jeremy’s midsection, pinning him to
the mattress between his thighs. Jeremy felt Elliot’s erection through
the boxer shorts pressing against his own groin. His body responded
immediately. Jeremy’s erection grew until he felt it straining against the
fabric of his jeans.

Elliot leaned down and kissed him on the mouth, full and insistent.
Elliot’s mouth was surprisingly soft—no, not surprisingly. Everything
was familiar, and becoming more so by the minute. All he had to do was
close his eyes and let the encumbrance of years break away from him like
clouds after a violent storm. Elliot was right. Jeremy
did
remember.

He reached around behind Elliot and pulled the waistband of his
boxer shorts off his ass, feeling the smooth, cleft halves of hard muscle covered flesh under his hand. This time it was Jeremy’s turn to groan. He
leaned up to kiss Elliot again. The feeling of Elliot’s teeth beneath his lips
was shockingly erotic. Elliot pressed himself against Jeremy’s body in an
aspect of unquestioned dominance, and Jeremy felt himself yield to it
naturally.

“Take off your shirt,” Elliot whispered. “Come on. No one needs to
know about this. This is just you and me here now—come on. You still
dig my body, right? You want me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jeremy breathed. “Yes, I . . . I still want you.”

“You can have me. I’ve always been yours. Take off your clothes.”

Without moving from underneath Elliot’s weight, Jeremy unfastened
the buttons of his 501s and shrugged them down to his knees. He pulled
his briefs down as well, then kicked them both off his legs. Elliot kissed
him again, on the lips, on the side of his face.

In the darkness of the bedroom, Elliot was a looming, bulky shape
grinding on top of him. Jeremy saw Elliot’s face only blindly, ridges and
bone and hair under his fingers. Elliot’s breathing came more quickly now,
in torturous, jagged hitches that, to Jeremy, could only signal passion.
His kisses grew even more insistent, moving from the side of Jeremy’s
face, along the side of his neck, across his throat, and back again.

“Elliot, hold up,” Jeremy gasped. “Let me take off this turtleneck.
Hold on. Slow down.”

He leaned back to let Jeremy slip the turtleneck off, which he then
tossed to the floor. Their bodies were pressed against each other. Jeremy
scissored his legs around Elliot’s waist, pulling him close, giving himself
joyfully up to what now seemed an inevitable, blissful conclusion.

Elliot reached out with both his arms and grasped both of Jeremy’s
wrists in a crushing grip, kissing him brutally on the mouth. Jeremy
screamed as the pain from Elliot’s grip shot up his arms. On top of him in
the darkness Elliot’s body temperature suddenly rose, spiking to feverish
levels of heat. Jeremy felt the heat from Elliot’s body bake into his own
skin, warming it uncomfortably. Then it plunged hypothermically, as
though some internal thermometer in Elliot’s body had gone haywire. It
rose again sharply, and this time the heat of Elliot’s body felt as though it
could actually burn Jeremy.

“Elliot, get off me! Elliot! What’s wrong with you?”

In the darkness, Elliot’s voice sounded as though it was coming
through a mouth full of sharp nails. His breath was suddenly foul in
Jeremy’s face, and Jeremy gagged.

“Kiss me,” Elliot said hungrily. “Kiss me, Jeremy.”

“Jesus, Elliot,
get off me!
What’s wrong with you?”

Jeremy flailed wildly for the switch to the bedside lamp, terrified of
what he would see straddling him when he turned on the light, but even
more terrified by what was hidden by the dark. He felt Elliot’s lips on his
throat, and something else—he felt Elliot’s teeth. Elliot’s mouth opened
and Jeremy felt his tongue tasting the flesh of the jugular area, and now
there was no question of seduction or desire. Jeremy felt like an animal
being scented as prey. Elliot’s grip was implacable.