This Thing of Darkness. Barbara Fradkin
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href="#ulink_fb9043f1-b986-5998-99aa-d964de0e1f29"> Three
Omar Adams rolled over to the wall and pulled his pillow over his head. He still couldn’t block out the incessant natter of his three younger brothers, who were crouched on the floor in the little space between their beds, playing Warcraft II on their Play Station. In the background he could hear his mother and father arguing, his mother in Somali and his father in English. As usual, his mother shrieked like a demented crow, but the scary one was his father, who got quieter the angrier he was. The old man was deadly quiet this morning.
Morning? Omar lifted the pillow to check. No sunlight was poking through the small, narrow window in the corner of the room, and the smell of spices and onions filled the air. Fuck, had he missed half the day? His stomach lurched, and he had to swallow hard to keep the bile down. His head ached, and his mouth tasted of stale puke. When he shifted, pain shot through his arms. He couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t remember a fucking thing about last night, after that last bottle of vodka and the weed they’d passed around. Special weed, Nadif had said, scored from a new source. Some special!
He wondered how the other guys felt. Besides Nadif and Yusuf, his street buddies, he knew there were others, even though he couldn’t remember who. Or how he’d got home, or what time. He remembered them all sitting around drinking in the gazebo in Macdonald Gardens, talking about Nadif ’s court case, about the brothers who were refusing to testify against him and the old man with the lousy eyesight who’d fingered Nadif. He remembered them all walking down Rideau Street, ogling the hookers. Yusuf said he did one once, for fifty bucks behind the construction fence for the new condo, but then Yusuf ’s big brother ran a slew of them himself, so he probably got a family discount.
The thought of drinking brought the bile up again, so Omar tried to make his mind go blank. Blank out the pounding in his chest and the pain in his hands. Blank out the flashes that danced behind his eyelids, the clenched fists, long, glistening ropes of blood, jagged bone, panicked eyes. And the long, thin glint of steel.
It was the last image that forced him out of bed, tripping over his brothers and staggering down the hall to fling himself over the toilet. For five minutes he heaved, resting his head on the bowl, tears and snot mingling with God knows what as he tried to purge last night from his system.
What the hell had they done?
Afterwards, he flopped back against the wall and cradled his head in his hands. That was when he noticed the crusted stains on his hoodie. He must have fallen into bed last night fully dressed. He pulled at the baggy shirt and peered at the stains. Blood. A shiver ran through him. Grabbing the edge of the sink, he hauled himself to his feet and propped himself against the bowl. A freaky sight met him in the mirror—his face, smeared with dirt and crusted with puke. Dark red was caked around his swollen nose. He touched it carefully, swore out loud as the pain shot through his brain.
The bathroom door opened silently, and his father loomed in the mirror beside him. Omar recoiled in shock and gripped the sink. His father fixed him with his pale blue eyes. Those cold, creepy eyes. The only sign of trouble was the vein pulsing under the skin of his neck.“Where were you last night?”
Omar tried a little shrug, but his shoulders screamed in pain. “Just out with the guys.”
“Nadif.” He said the name like it was a cockroach. “What did I tell you?”
“Not Nadif. Just Yusuf.”
The flat eyes never blinked. In a contest with Omar, they never blinked. Omar knew he could see right through the lie. “You got in at three o’clock. That’s unacceptable.”
Omar wanted to ask what he was like when he got home, but he didn’t dare. He just nodded, hung his head, and his father turned away.
“Clean yourself up before your mother and your brothers see you.”
The bathroom door closed. Omar reached for a towel, wetted it and began to dab at his face. Slowly his ebony skin emerged from behind the puke and blood. It was scraped. Raw. What the hell? He tried to think, but his brains felt fried.
He could phone Nadif and try to find out what he knew. But Nadif was already up for attempted murder on that Rideau Centre knifing, and he was going to cover his own ass. No matter what happened, he’d lie or rat out someone else, rather than add to his sheet.
He could phone Yusuf, who at seventeen was still a young offender and under the cops’ radar. Yusuf would tell it straight, and he’d be on Omar’s side if it came to ratting anyone out.
Or he could just lie low. Nurse his hangover. Wait till the fog lifted and the crazy jumble of flashbacks faded away. Maybe then he’d remember what had happened. What was real and what was from a horror flick he’d seen in some freaked-out, wasted state.
Maybe nothing was real at all.
As Green expected, the old synagogue on Chapel Street was locked up tight on a Sunday afternoon, but he had a back-up plan. He had a personal connection with the rabbi who’d served the aging inner city congregation for twenty-five years before being forced to face old age himself. Rabbi Zachary Tolner had not slipped into retirement easily but spent most of his spare time, when he wasn’t training for marathons, badgering the new rabbi and the board to ensure they didn’t forget how things should be done.
When Green’s mother had been dying of breast cancer more than twenty years earlier, Rabbi Tolner had tried to visit her in hospital. Sid had thrown him out in a rage.
“Where is your God!” he’d screamed, in one of the rare moments of animation Green had seen during his mother’s long ordeal. “Where was He in Auschwitz? In Majdanek, where she was a girl—a fifteen-year-old girl who had to sell her soul for...” He’d never said for what, but it was more than Green had ever learned in the years before. Or since. The rabbi had tried to calm him and simply to be with him, but Sid had retreated back into that numbness which had probably served him well in Auschwitz.
At twenty-five, intoxicated with police work and with Hannah’s featherbrained but perfectly-formed mother, Green had been no more receptive to Tolner’s spiritual overtures than his father had been, but that had not dampened Tolner’s belief that he had a personal line of influence in the police department. Green had a stack of letters Tolner had sent him over the years complaining about everything from drug dealers on the synagogue steps to bums sleeping under the tree by the back door.
Green knew where to find the man. Now it was time for a little payback.
Tolner had changed little in the ten years since Green had last seen him. He was bent over the postage stamp-sized garden outside his townhouse, wearing a warped Tilley hat pulled down snug over his bald head and a pair of powder blue jogging pants concealing his spindly legs. His arms stuck out from his T-shirt, sinewy and tanned almost nut brown from a lifetime worshipping the outdoors. As Green approached, he straightened and drew every inch of his five-foot-four-inch frame to attention. His face was a web of wrinkles, but in their midst, his pale blue eyes lit with interest.
“The mountain comes to Isaac!”
Green laughed and extended his hand. “How are you, Zak?”
Tolner peeled off one gardening glove and encased Green’s hand in a powerful grip.“Bored! I hope you brought something interesting.” Worry flickered his gaze. “How’s your father?”
“Fine. Going to live to be a hundred, kvetching all the way. This is another old man. Maybe you’ve heard? Beaten to death just off Rideau Street?”
The ready grin fled. “A Jew?”
Green tilted his palm in uncertainty. “Possibly. We’re trying to identify him. Early seventies, five-ten, a hundred and seventy pounds, thick white hair, used a burled maple cane. Harry Rosen suit, out of date?”
Tolner had been listening intently, his blue eyes flickering with each new description as though