I
On the night that Kevin Raymond showed up at my door, I was cooking dinner for myself and listening to a record. Once upon a time, I would have cooked for the wife too but we’re three months divorced and rarely come into contact these days.
I heard the car engine and thought someone had gotten lost on their way to wherever- it happens from time to time on my street, located just off the main artery of this town. So I didn’t take much notice at first. Heard the car door slam; thought it was the neighbours and continued about my business of flipping burgers and whistling to an INXS tune.
The doorbell rang and I remember glancing over my shoulder and being startled by the sight. From where I stood, you could see through the living room window out onto the street and the front lawn. I instantly recognized Kevin’s land-cruiser parked haphazardly half on the bitumen and noted the mud splashed up along both sides and wondered if he’d been out four-wheel driving.
I took the beer I’d been polishing and crossed to the front door, pausing once to lower the volume on the stereo.
My friend, Kevin Raymond, looked as though he had aged twenty years, not entirely surprising considering what a high rolling shambles his life had become. Bundled under one arm he held a pillow and a folded blanket. In the other hand, he had two small torches. I remember those the most clearly because it struck me as somewhat odd that he had over-prepared by compensating if one failed. I guess it was in that single fleeting moment that I realized something was wrong.
“Kev,” I muttered, eyeing him up and down. “You been out camping or something?”
I had meant it as a joke but his face remained void of expression. In a low, careful voice he said, “Really sorry ’bout this, Terry, but I was wondering if I might be able to crash here the night?”
“Yeah sure,” I said. “You alright?”
He sort of peered over one shoulder, scanning the suburban street instead of answering, and then turned back to me.
I remember feeling a little uneasy about it. Kev and I had been friends as far back as childhood and I certainly wasn’t about to shut the door on his face when it was apparent he needed my help. But on the same token, something about his demeanor gave me chills. I had a feeling that he had gotten himself into trouble and now needed me to bail him out. What did you do if a good friend handed you a gun to hide in your house? What could you do? It was that kind of thing.
“You hungry?” I muttered.
He paused at the couch and stood there, eying the street through the window. Was he expecting someone to turn up?
“Kev? You there?”
He glanced at me with that blank haunted stare. “No thanks, Terry.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just going to sit for a bit and chill.”
“What’s wrong mate?” I asked. His smile was mirthless and dazed.
“I’ll explain everything in a minute,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s a bit long. And crazy.”
“Nothing’s too crazy for me, mate. I dealt with Jan, remember,” I replied, pulling open the fridge door and snatching a couple beers off the shelf. Jan was my ex and I guess the cut was still deep enough so that I tried to make her the butt of all my jokes.
He was still staring out the window. Would a cop come? A hitman? Someone he owed money to? Kevin certainly wasn’t the sort of bloke to get mixed up in anything like that; believe me, he was as down to earth and as much a regular joe as I was. Which made it all the more unsettling. I handed him a stubby and he absent-mindedly took it.
I switched off the stove and took a seat in the single recliner opposite from the lounge. Fierce glowing sunlight bathed my living room walls, threatening to set them ablaze. Twilight was now in full swing and soon another Saturday night was about to begin in the town of Oakley.
We sat there in silence a moment before he muttered, off-handed, “Getting dark out there.”
He made it sound like it was something to be concerned about. I traced his stare and saw that the underbellies of clouds on the horizon were beginning to turn a pinkish blue.
“Was a nice afternoon,” I said softly.
“You mind if I close those, Terry?”
“What?” I said with a startled laugh. “Mate, what’s wrong? Tell me.”
“Can I please close the curtains?”
“Yeah, do what you want.”
He got up, went to the window and drew them shut. After a moment’s hesitation, he went to the front door and ran the bolt home. I watched him, puzzled.
“Jesus, Kevin, who’s after you? The mafia?”
“I wish.”
He tried to grin but it died away. A chill fell down my spine, sending the hairs on my neck to a stand. I no longer wanted to joke around. Something was wrong and I needed to know and yet even then a tiny feeling in the pit of my stomach told me I didn’t want to.
One way or the other, I was about to hear his story, and I wish to god I’d never been home that afternoon. I wish I had gone to the pub like I’d considered doing earlier, or maybe even camping with my brother down by the Murray River as he had invited me to do that day.
He sat back down, finishing half his beer in one gulp, and began to talk.
“Thing’s have gotten weird for me lately, Terry,” Kevin said, running a hand over his stubble.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t really know how to explain it. First bit’s more or less out of the road I suppose. You know, you were at the funeral.”
He was talking about his wife, of course. Linda Raymond was hit by a truck while crossing Conley Street, a suburb over from Kevin’s place here in Oakley. There was still a great deal of mystery shrouded around what she’d been doing wandering around at half past two in the morning. The truck driver’s statement had been troubling; one minute the road had been empty and the next she had appeared right when it was too late to stop. She should have heard the engine from miles away. Conley street was a down-hill slope and well-lit, so he should have seen her. But he hadn’t. And she hadn’t seen him either.
I can picture her now based on the driver’s description in the newspaper: young, blonde, medium build in blue and white striped pajama bottoms and a blue T-shirt despite the frigid cold of that early morning. She’d been wearing her bunny slippers, both of which had been moshed and covered in blood afterward. The truck-driver had described her as “stumbling like a drunk” but the toxicology report had concluded that there had been no alcohol nor drugs in her system.
“She seemed like she knew where she was going but not in any big hurry to get there,” he had told the police, the statement for which had appeared in the Oakley Chronicle the day after. I’ve still got that paper tucked away somewhere and I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t taken it out once or twice afterwards. Maybe just to prove to myself that it had actually happened.
Naturally, her family had turned to Kevin for answers but he’d been as dumbfounded as anyone, if not more. The only thing he could say about any of it was that she had been suffering from some kind of depression which had cropped up in recent months, or so that was what he’d thought. He’d been on the couch (the dog-house for which I was quite familiar with at that point in my own life), fast asleep when it happened and as far as he’d known Linda hadn’t gone anywhere.
I do remember Kevin saying that he had suspected her of cheating on him with another bloke in the final weeks of her life. But I personally doubt it. Linda wasn’t that sort of woman; I know it and I think Kevin does too. Like anyone in his position, his assertion was simply a means by which to make sense of the whole wretched ordeal.
Four days following the accident, Linda was buried and I think the answers to any questions were sealed away with her.
“I wasn’t in the best condition after all that,” he said
“Who could blame you.”
His eyes settled on the carpet.
“They say it can only get better. Right? That’s what they say; once you accept the fact that they’re never going be around anymore you start thinking you’ll live with it. Greif. It never goes away but. You just get used on with it. I was just starting to when all this other stuff started happening.”
“What other stuff?”
He turned back to the curtained windows, rubbing his chin. I got up and returned to the stove to pile the burgers onto a plate and allow him time to adjust his thoughts. I asked again if he was hungry but he didn’t answer. He was struggling. I too had lost my appetite, perhaps at the memory of Linda Raymond and her accident. I pulled some glad-wrap over the plate and sat it in the fridge.
It was dark now, bringing with it the evening choir of crickets which resounded through the kitchen window facing my backyard. Kevin crossed one leg over the other, held it there a moment before uncrossing again. He was still edgy. I sat back down. Silence fell between us. Then he cleared his throat and began his story.
I’m not sure you’ll believe a word of it; I know I hardly could so I wouldn’t blame you. But that all changed later of course, when he showed me a picture on his iPhone that left me... well, wondering.
And then there’s the thing that happened in the spare room later that night and everything else after. The door to that room is not only locked but barricaded with furniture as I write this. I’ve heard the doorknob rattle and twist occasionally since. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if it’s there or if it’s all in my head. I’ll let you be the judge of that.
The doorbell rang and I remember glancing over my shoulder and being startled by the sight. From where I stood, you could see through the living room window out onto the street and the front lawn. I instantly recognized Kevin’s land-cruiser parked haphazardly half on the bitumen and noted the mud splashed up along both sides and wondered if he’d been out four-wheel driving.
I took the beer I’d been polishing and crossed to the front door, pausing once to lower the volume on the stereo.
My friend, Kevin Raymond, looked as though he had aged twenty years, not entirely surprising considering what a high rolling shambles his life had become. Bundled under one arm he held a pillow and a folded blanket. In the other hand, he had two small torches. I remember those the most clearly because it struck me as somewhat odd that he had over-prepared by compensating if one failed. I guess it was in that single fleeting moment that I realized something was wrong.
“Kev,” I muttered, eyeing him up and down. “You been out camping or something?”
I had meant it as a joke but his face remained void of expression. In a low, careful voice he said, “Really sorry ’bout this, Terry, but I was wondering if I might be able to crash here the night?”
“Yeah sure,” I said. “You alright?”
He sort of peered over one shoulder, scanning the suburban street instead of answering, and then turned back to me.
I remember feeling a little uneasy about it. Kev and I had been friends as far back as childhood and I certainly wasn’t about to shut the door on his face when it was apparent he needed my help. But on the same token, something about his demeanor gave me chills. I had a feeling that he had gotten himself into trouble and now needed me to bail him out. What did you do if a good friend handed you a gun to hide in your house? What could you do? It was that kind of thing.
“You hungry?” I muttered.
He paused at the couch and stood there, eying the street through the window. Was he expecting someone to turn up?
“Kev? You there?”
He glanced at me with that blank haunted stare. “No thanks, Terry.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just going to sit for a bit and chill.”
“What’s wrong mate?” I asked. His smile was mirthless and dazed.
“I’ll explain everything in a minute,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s a bit long. And crazy.”
“Nothing’s too crazy for me, mate. I dealt with Jan, remember,” I replied, pulling open the fridge door and snatching a couple beers off the shelf. Jan was my ex and I guess the cut was still deep enough so that I tried to make her the butt of all my jokes.
He was still staring out the window. Would a cop come? A hitman? Someone he owed money to? Kevin certainly wasn’t the sort of bloke to get mixed up in anything like that; believe me, he was as down to earth and as much a regular joe as I was. Which made it all the more unsettling. I handed him a stubby and he absent-mindedly took it.
I switched off the stove and took a seat in the single recliner opposite from the lounge. Fierce glowing sunlight bathed my living room walls, threatening to set them ablaze. Twilight was now in full swing and soon another Saturday night was about to begin in the town of Oakley.
We sat there in silence a moment before he muttered, off-handed, “Getting dark out there.”
He made it sound like it was something to be concerned about. I traced his stare and saw that the underbellies of clouds on the horizon were beginning to turn a pinkish blue.
“Was a nice afternoon,” I said softly.
“You mind if I close those, Terry?”
“What?” I said with a startled laugh. “Mate, what’s wrong? Tell me.”
“Can I please close the curtains?”
“Yeah, do what you want.”
He got up, went to the window and drew them shut. After a moment’s hesitation, he went to the front door and ran the bolt home. I watched him, puzzled.
“Jesus, Kevin, who’s after you? The mafia?”
“I wish.”
He tried to grin but it died away. A chill fell down my spine, sending the hairs on my neck to a stand. I no longer wanted to joke around. Something was wrong and I needed to know and yet even then a tiny feeling in the pit of my stomach told me I didn’t want to.
One way or the other, I was about to hear his story, and I wish to god I’d never been home that afternoon. I wish I had gone to the pub like I’d considered doing earlier, or maybe even camping with my brother down by the Murray River as he had invited me to do that day.
He sat back down, finishing half his beer in one gulp, and began to talk.
“Thing’s have gotten weird for me lately, Terry,” Kevin said, running a hand over his stubble.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t really know how to explain it. First bit’s more or less out of the road I suppose. You know, you were at the funeral.”
He was talking about his wife, of course. Linda Raymond was hit by a truck while crossing Conley Street, a suburb over from Kevin’s place here in Oakley. There was still a great deal of mystery shrouded around what she’d been doing wandering around at half past two in the morning. The truck driver’s statement had been troubling; one minute the road had been empty and the next she had appeared right when it was too late to stop. She should have heard the engine from miles away. Conley street was a down-hill slope and well-lit, so he should have seen her. But he hadn’t. And she hadn’t seen him either.
I can picture her now based on the driver’s description in the newspaper: young, blonde, medium build in blue and white striped pajama bottoms and a blue T-shirt despite the frigid cold of that early morning. She’d been wearing her bunny slippers, both of which had been moshed and covered in blood afterward. The truck-driver had described her as “stumbling like a drunk” but the toxicology report had concluded that there had been no alcohol nor drugs in her system.
“She seemed like she knew where she was going but not in any big hurry to get there,” he had told the police, the statement for which had appeared in the Oakley Chronicle the day after. I’ve still got that paper tucked away somewhere and I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t taken it out once or twice afterwards. Maybe just to prove to myself that it had actually happened.
Naturally, her family had turned to Kevin for answers but he’d been as dumbfounded as anyone, if not more. The only thing he could say about any of it was that she had been suffering from some kind of depression which had cropped up in recent months, or so that was what he’d thought. He’d been on the couch (the dog-house for which I was quite familiar with at that point in my own life), fast asleep when it happened and as far as he’d known Linda hadn’t gone anywhere.
I do remember Kevin saying that he had suspected her of cheating on him with another bloke in the final weeks of her life. But I personally doubt it. Linda wasn’t that sort of woman; I know it and I think Kevin does too. Like anyone in his position, his assertion was simply a means by which to make sense of the whole wretched ordeal.
Four days following the accident, Linda was buried and I think the answers to any questions were sealed away with her.
“I wasn’t in the best condition after all that,” he said
“Who could blame you.”
His eyes settled on the carpet.
“They say it can only get better. Right? That’s what they say; once you accept the fact that they’re never going be around anymore you start thinking you’ll live with it. Greif. It never goes away but. You just get used on with it. I was just starting to when all this other stuff started happening.”
“What other stuff?”
He turned back to the curtained windows, rubbing his chin. I got up and returned to the stove to pile the burgers onto a plate and allow him time to adjust his thoughts. I asked again if he was hungry but he didn’t answer. He was struggling. I too had lost my appetite, perhaps at the memory of Linda Raymond and her accident. I pulled some glad-wrap over the plate and sat it in the fridge.
It was dark now, bringing with it the evening choir of crickets which resounded through the kitchen window facing my backyard. Kevin crossed one leg over the other, held it there a moment before uncrossing again. He was still edgy. I sat back down. Silence fell between us. Then he cleared his throat and began his story.
I’m not sure you’ll believe a word of it; I know I hardly could so I wouldn’t blame you. But that all changed later of course, when he showed me a picture on his iPhone that left me... well, wondering.
And then there’s the thing that happened in the spare room later that night and everything else after. The door to that room is not only locked but barricaded with furniture as I write this. I’ve heard the doorknob rattle and twist occasionally since. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if it’s there or if it’s all in my head. I’ll let you be the judge of that.
At the end of the day, I guess it doesn’t matter. What matters is that nothing can get me where I am now. I’m in a safe place and although Kevin is now dead, I like to think that he got out with his soul still partially intact. And if there’s any reason to finally tell this story, it’s to honour his memory.
