After the Horses. Jeffrey Round
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kitchen was dirtiest. The remains of a meal lay in the sink. She put on gloves and soaked the dishes, making sure the water was extra hot. The food was caked on and hardened. Italian? Lasagna, maybe. There was something sticky on the floor and a spray of dried sauce across one of the cupboard doors.
That was the worst of it. The dining room hadn’t been used since her last visit. A little dust only. Once again she wiped down all the surfaces, wringing the rags out, the water left clean in the pail. When she finished, she took the pamphlet from her purse and carried it to the long dining table. She always left one behind for him, but he never said anything. Someday he would read them.
She stopped abruptly. There he was already, the same pamphlet propped against the silver candlestick holders. Jesus with his purple heart staring back at her.
“Make him repent his wickedness!” she hissed, crossing herself.
She stopped for a moment to listen. Irma was used to being in empty houses, but this one gave her the creeps. She wondered if the strange boy was upstairs in his little room. Fortunately, he never asked her to clean it. He was rather neat in that regard, and kept the place spotless. Once, she asked if he would like her to wash the floor. I’m entirely capable, he told her. She wasn’t sure about that, but didn’t bother to contradict him.
A phone rang in another room, echoing through the place until an answering machine picked up. “This is Yuri Malevski,” came her boss’s voice with its distinctive pronunciation before clicking over to record.
Irma listened, thinking he might be trying to reach her. Perhaps he got delayed somewhere because of the snow and wanted to give her special instructions. But it wasn’t him. It was his accountant saying he was still out of town and confirming Saturday’s meeting.
The call ended. Almost immediately, it rang again. This time it was a florist saying he’d attempted a delivery on Tuesday, but hadn’t been able to use the entry code he’d been given. He was unwilling to leave the flowers because of the cold and left a number to reschedule. So it wasn’t just her. Yuri Malevski forgot to give the code to others, too.
She paused with the dust rag to listen for sounds from upstairs. For all she knew, he could still be lying in bed. He expected her to get to his house by eight in the morning, while he idled away the day. He probably hadn’t any idea how horrific the weather was outside. And why would he? When he went out, he simply stepped into his car and zoomed off without feeling a thing. Life was easy for some.
She rinsed out her washcloths and emptied the bucket into the kitchen sink before going back out to the hall. The place was finally beginning to warm up.
It was the flowers that gave her pause.
She’d always thought it a marvel how you could be in the depths of darkness in that mausoleum, and then step through a doorway where all was light and airy, the windows stretching up twenty feet. Now petals lay curled and withered on the conservatory floor. He’d always been fastidious about his plants. Never touch my orchids, he told her when she asked if he wanted her to water them. They’re particular. Just like you, she wanted to say, but held her tongue. They required three ice cubes per pot, once a week, he explained. He preferred to do it himself.
Ice cubes!
They didn’t even grow in soil, just absorbent material that retained water after the ice melted. Now, looking over the petals strewn across the floor, she saw that nearly all the flowers had dropped. How could he not have noticed? Not that she cared. She disliked orchids. They were sinister. The leaves were waxy, the petals cool to touch like the flesh of the dead. One or two had kept their flowers, the blossoms curling around the centres as though shielding a tiny throne. They looked as if they concealed something evil, like in those horror movies where creatures emerged from things when people turned their backs on them.
He’d given her a tour the first day she came to work for him. Some of them cost a great deal of money, he told her. They’d been imported from far-off lands. She wasn’t sure if he said it to impress her or to make her wary of touching them when he wasn’t around. The name comes from the Greek orchis, he’d informed her in his precise English. Why is that? she’d asked in all innocence. He’d smiled his cruel smile and pulled one from its pot. Orchis means testicle, you see. There, dangling before her, were twin tubers looking for all the world like a man’s privates.
Wickedness!
He laughed to see her blush and cross herself. Ah, Irma! You’re so innocent, he told her, then turned back to his flowers.
But here they were now, fallen at her feet. She went to the pantry to retrieve the vacuum, sitting it upright while she trailed the long black cord to the wall and inserted the plug. The whirring noise was comforting. The blossoms were gone inside a minute. She just hoped he wouldn’t blame her for the damage.
She closed the door on the plants and lugged the vacuum to the foot of the stairs. Carrying it up was always a chore. Of course, he was too cheap to get a second one for upstairs. She stopped to rest a moment before continuing. Then she saw the stains. Like the ones in the kitchen, only darker. First on one stair and then another higher up.
“God in heaven!”
She left the vacuum at the foot of the stairs. Her hands shook as she continued upward. Dead flowers and a house in the deep freeze. Yes, there was evil in this place.
She felt it in her bones, and her bones were never wrong.
One
Izakaya
“Just talk to the guy, would you?”
Dan rolled his eyes. “I can’t get involved. This is police business.”
There was a pause followed by the telltale sound of a match being struck on the other end of the phone. Any excuse for nicotine, Dan thought. Where the hell does he get actual matches these days?
Donny was using his Reasoning with a Child voice: “No one’s asking you to get involved. He just wants your candid opinion. I know he would very much appreciate it.”
Dan sighed. It was no good arguing; he was useless at evasion. Drive the truck straight down the freeway, none of this mucking about in back alleyways stuff. That was his style.
“All right,” he conceded. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Thank you.”
“As a favour to you — no other reason.”
“So in other words, I owe you.”
“In other words, you owe me again.”
There was a breathy, pack-a-day chortle. “Let me know when you want to collect.”
“Oh, I will. Don’t worry.”
In any conversation with Donny, the smooth exhale of a well-smoked cigarette was a familiar sound. Being asked to participate in a case that had all the markings of a police-only investigation was not. If anything, Donny was the one to urge caution, advising Dan to keep a low profile on risky undertakings, but here he was encouraging Dan to step directly into the ring.
“So who is he again?”
“You remember Charles?”
“Sort of. Well, no. Not really.”
“He’s the lawyer I dated briefly after Jorge the Argentine soccer player.”
“Jorge I remember. Oh, yeah. The legs.”
“Right. Getting back to Charles.”
“Sorry. No facial here. Remind me.”
“Good looking. White. Square jaw and all that. Probably not exotic enough for you, that’s why you don’t recall him. Anyway, Charles started dating this guy, Lionel. An accountant. Also very good-looking. They’re the perfect couple. They had the most spectacular wedding on their penthouse balcony in Radio City a couple years ago. It was big enough to hold a hundred people. They’re both very successful, lots of