Ghosted (27 page)

Mason came fast through the door, right into the mahogany coat rack. He hit it with his face and down they both went, crashing to the floor. Mary, behind the bar, howled with glee. The men banged their fists: an explosion of sound, laughter like shrapnel. “For the houuuuse!” shrieked Mary.

He got up quick, a fresh flash of red across his nose. His clothes were heavy with dirt and sweat, hair stuck in a gash on his head. “Fuck the house!” said Mason. And then he saw Seth.

He was fifty feet away, on the other side of the pool table, a cue in his hands. They looked at each other.

“Where is my notebook?”

Mason shrugged.

“I warned you,” said Seth.

“Oh wait,” said Mason, his heart so fast it made his words feel slow. “What’s this …?” He looked down at his right hand. No one moved.

Then he lifted his middle finger.

In the time it took five men to thump the bar twice, Seth was past the pool table, Mason running straight at him. The men pounded the bar once more—Seth swinging his cue, Mason airborne.

They collided with a breathless crunch, the cue splitting as they tumbled over the corner pocket, into a row of chairs. Seth scrambled to his feet but Mason drilled him down with an elbow to his face, punching and pushing him away at the same time, trying to make enough distance for a cross to the head. And that’s when they grabbed him.

Fucking Finns
, thought Mason, as they pulled him up, an elbow tight across his throat, his arms bent behind him. A cane smacked against his thigh. His ankle twisted. Someone stomped
on it. Through the pain and loss of air he heard Mary squeal with happiness. He wished he’d bought a round for the house.

Then Seth stood up.

Maybe it was because things had been moving at all different speeds, all that galloping, cocaine and adrenaline—or that his collapsing windpipe created the effect of time slowing down—but it seemed Seth wasn’t just standing; he was
rising
before him …

In each hand was a half of the splintered cue. Where once there was pudginess, now there were muscles—veiny arms stretched at his sides, low and taut, as if lifting weight
and
menace. His pale eyes glowed like fluorescence. His hat was on the floor and his scalped head, full of horror, rose like a nightmare forming.

What hair remained was stringy and grey, like the cut of a dishevelled monk. The crown looked nothing like the top of a man’s head: instead of hair, or even skin, there was a shining cap of red-purple flesh, like an organ exposed. The men holding Mason gasped, and he realized they didn’t know Seth from Adam—could have just as easily stayed out of this. Backlit by the aquarium, Seth now stood before him.

As Mason ran out of air, he saw the circle of grey hair shining—a silver halo surrounded by fish, pale blue orbs, a broken cue raised like a flare. Something whistled by his head. He thought of plums. Then, in superslow motion, he saw a red six ball spinning, mirrored, for an instant, in aquarium glass. The tank exploded.

In the moment before he passed out, there was a shining flood—a wall of water, the crystal blue wave rushing towards them, fish flying over the head of Seth, glistening and baffled into the world.

Mason came to, surrounded by pieces of glass, seashell, porcelain figurines and a half-dozen fish flopping—baby birds crashed on a deck. The floor was wet with blood and water. Looking up, he saw a man in a black helmet battling atop a pool table—swinging his cue like a light sabre.
Right on
, thought Mason, then passed out again.

When Mason next awoke, the fish were gone. His face was wet with beer, and Chaz was standing over him, an empty pint glass in his hand. “Let’s go, Dorothy,” he said. “We got to get out of here.”

Mason tried to lift himself, shards of glass, shell and porcelain cutting into his palms. Chaz hauled him up and leaned him against the pool table. There were two unconscious men slumped in a corner. Neither one was Seth. Mason tried to ask his whereabouts, but all that came out was
“Cahhhhhh …”
It felt like his throat had been stomped on. He tried to lie down on the table.

“Now,” said Chaz. “Before the cops get here.” He put Mason’s arm over his shoulders. They staggered across the wet, beach-strewn floor and made it out the door. The streetlights were bright. Chaz’s motorcyle was parked on the sidewalk. Mason got on the back. He tried to ask what had happened to the fish—but all that came out was
“Cahahhhaaahhhhhhh …”
He could hear the sirens as they pulled away.

Mason lay on the floor of the Cave making pitiful scratchy sounds.

“He’s got no head?” said Chaz. “What do you mean he’s got no head?” He held a glass of whisky, salt and lemon juice and poured a bit down Mason’s throat—trying to open up that windpipe.

“The top of it… is gone,”
Mason croaked.
“You didn’t notice?”

“I was kind of busy saving your ass.”

“Thank you.”

“So let me see if I’ve got this right—come on, try to sit up: you quit your job selling hotdogs and started writing suicide letters instead.”

Mason nodded.

“For psychos.”

“I didn’t… know.”

“Of course not—how could you? Only well-adjusted people hire a guy to … Is that even a thing? How do you think of something like that?”

Mason tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“Forget it. I don’t want to hear.” He propped Mason’s back against the bar, then sat in a chair and looked at him.

“So. Since starting this new job of yours, you’ve—let me see … you helped somebody jump off a bridge, you wrecked the Dogmobile, you stole a horse….”

Mason was nodding.

“You stalked a convicted psychopath, took his journal, then attacked him in front of several witnesses who came to his rescue, forcing me to assault pretty much everybody in the place…. But before doing any of this you told him all your secrets, and spelled your last name for him…. Have I got this right?”

“We did quid pro quo.”

“You
what?”

Mason tried again.
“Quid … pro quo. I ask … a question, and then…”

“I know what
quid pro quo is
, you moron …”

“But we had to … aaaach, sink a ball
.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Quid…”

“If you say
pro quo
again I’m going to strangle you too.”

“It’s … moot anyway.”

“Moot? What could possibly be moot?”

Mason tried, but all that came out was
“Caaaaahhhhh …”
He started to mime something. Chaz leaned forward with the glass. Liquid gurgled into Mason’s mouth.

“He read my file.”

“Your what?”

“We had the same therapist.”

“The same what?”

“She’s a doc….”

“So the horse thieving, the psycho assaulting … that started
after
you got professional help?”