The Fishtank Chapter 2

I returned to the asylum the next morning, a new notebook in hand. The old one had been full of leads, your typical small-town stories. Butcher’s wife caught with another man. Priest’s daughter fled from home, probably with her boyfriend. Nothing exciting. Hence the new notebook, a new story. I’d stuck on a thin strip of masking tape, writing on the front Nathan, 14/02/16 – The Fishtank

I pulled up outside the asylum, the white-painted walls and reflective windows painting a tragically medicinal feeling façade. The guard on door that day, Bill, an old local with droopy white whiskers, smiled at me and led me in.

“You the one here for Nathan, hun?”

“That I am. He’s an interesting guy.”

Bill snorted. “You can say that. Boy hasn’t got a crumb of fight in him.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Outside the asylum? Nope. Inside, well. You saw what happened with Ashwin. Poor boy’ll be coughing up dominoes for a month,” Bill trailed off, running his palm down the handle of the white baton strapped to his hip. “Protective measure,” he winked.

Bill left me with Naledi, an African lady with steady hands.

“Morning Ned,” Bill tipped his white cap at her.

Grinning, Naledi nodded back. “Morning, how’s the wife?”

“Very pregnant. Too pregnant.”

Naledi chuckled. Bill tipped his cap at me and headed back to his post.

“He’s a sweet one,” Naledi noted, watching him leave. “Far too old for me, now.”

I frowned. “Don’t you think him being married is a bigger problem than him being a little old?”

Naledi shrugged. “Here to see Nathan again?”

I nod.

“He’s just in the living room. Coffee?” she started toward the coffee machine.

“No,” I pulled the flask from my side and wiggled it. “Thanks. But maybe you could help me with something else.”

“Sure Sue, what can I get you?”

“There any books here? Does Nathan read much?”

Naledi chuckled. “He sure does, loves his books. We had to order in more for him when he was fourteen. Ran through our entire catalogue in ten years, I can show you if you want?”

“That’d be capital.”

Naledi’s hips swayed when she walked, if Bill hadn’t thought about ditching his wife for her already, he’d just have to watch her walk for a second to rethink his life choices. “Nathan’s read most of them I’m sure, sometimes he scribbles in the margins when we aren’t looking, likes leaving behind doodles and messages for the others.”

“He sounds like a good kid, how does someone like that end up with a life in an asylum?”

“You’d need to file an official inquiry to get that kind of information out of me, Sue. Sorry, can’t go giving away private information like that.”

“I understand. These are the books?” I ask, coming to a stop beside Naledi in front of a pair of old bookshelves. They didn’t belong, not being painted white in the white corridor with the white floor and white-outfitted patients and caretakers.

Naledi nodded. “This is all of em. Looking for anything in particular?”

“Not really, just browsing. Trying to see what fuels Nathan’s story.”

“It’s real, you know,” Naledi sniffed. “The story.”

“I’m sure it is,” I chuckled and sat cross-legged at the base of the first set of shelves.

Naledi left wordlessly, gave me room to think.

For a looney-bin, there sure were a lot of psychological horrors on the shelves. I ran my fingers along the spines, picking out the odd book I thought might be relevant, and the ones with the most creases through the spines. I’d had a good look through the first shelf when Leon, the skinhead with the swastika on his temple, stooped over me.

“Hey lovely,” he ran his tongue over his gums.

One of my hands is already on the pepper-spray in my coat pocket and the other is tapping on the top book of my pile. “Hello,” I say, shutting him out by moving to the second shelf, trembling finger running across the books. Most people don’t shake me but watching Leon stuff those dominoes down Ashwin’s throat would make anyone’s spine shiver.

“You’s the lady here for Nathan.”

I nod.

“Cool,” Leon says, wiggling on the balls of his feet. “Cool.”

I’m on the second shelf of five at this point, pulling out the occasional book.

“You only here to talk to him?”

“Sure am.”

He wriggled in his shirt, a white button-up with a short collar, the top three buttons undone. “You couldn’t take a moment out to take care of me, could you lovely?”

I was halfway done with the third shelf, I look over my shoulder, hoping to see Bill striding down the hall, baton in hand, to my rescue. Unfortunately, I wasn’t so lucky. “Busy schedule,” I reply, finishing the third shelf.

“Aw come on lovely. You can’t spare five minutes for me?” Leon groaned the last bit, his right hand squeezing his belt. “Make it ten minutes,” he chuckles wetly.

I’m on the fourth shelf when he puts his hand on my shoulder. I shiver, my chin cringing away from his hand. “Let go of me.”

Leon grins, squeezes my shoulder, and walks away.

I’m breathing through my clenched teeth when he disappears around the corner. “Dammit,” I kick the corner of the shelf, angry with myself. I thought I was braver than that.

I finished the rest of that shelf without interruption, examining the books in my pile. Utopia, funny they kept that in the asylum, I thought. Cujo, Stephen King. The Great Gatsby, apparently looneys like to dream. I swept through a few other books, putting most of them back on the shelves. Once I was done sorting them, I was left with only Utopia and Cujo.

Utopia didn’t have any creases up the spine, but a hefty stream of notes inside. Nathan, I think he was the only one that drew in the books, had doodled fish in the margins of every page. I wondered if one of them was his favourite fish, the orange and white one. At the end of the book, there was a small scribble in the corner that only read: Not me.

I shiver off the butterflies and put Utopia back on the shelf. Cujo has seen far more reads than Utopia, the spine scarred over with a hundred or more criss-crossing creases. I flip through it, not finding too many notes in it. Apparently, Nathan liked this one enough to leave it unmarred by his fish doodles.

I tuck it into the inside pocket of my jacket, ready to bring it up to Nathan if I need to.

I find Nathan in the same spot, staring out of the window with a soda in his hand. The row of dominoes tables is interrupted by one empty table, where Ashwin and Leon had been playing their game yesterday. I flinch at the thought.

When Nathan spots me he chugs bag a big gulp of soda and strides over. “Heya Susan!” He yelps.

“Hey Nathan. How’re you feeling?”

“Good. I didn’t think you’d come back, but then I saw your car in the parking lot and I knew you were here for me.”

I smile at him, and gesture over to his armchair.

“You want some more of my story?” Nathan asks, a drip of soda caught in the corner of his lips.

I nod. “Course I do, that’d be capital.”

Nathan waddles over to his chair, sitting, putting his coke in the cup-holder.

“Where’d I gets to last time?”

I tapped the rubber-end of her pencil against her chin. “You’d just gone to the Fish-tank, after sneaking out.”

“Oh yeah, I remember,” he says, reclining, shutting his eyes.

I accept that this is part of his ritual toward getting into the story, and use the time to get out my notepad, refresh myself on what he’d already said, and get ready to write.

Nathan opens his lips, a pernicious look in his eyes.

Nathan snuck home after an hour at the Fish-tank. Time passed so quickly there. It might feel like five minutes, but it could be an hour by the time he left. His favourite fish was good company.

He retraced his steps, back down the river, toward Grammie’s, turning at the traffic lights next to his primary school.

A low-suspended black car with shaded windows rolled up to the stop light. Whoever was inside was playing their country music so loud Nathan could hardly think. It made his eyes feel like they were rolling back in his head.

The window facing him rolled down slightly, a pair of bronze eyes looking out of a pasty white face. The man had no hair. “What’s he lookin at?” The Guy growled.

The driver, a silhouette in the darkness behind The Guy, looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Kid looks retarded, leave the poor fucker alone.”

“I’ll leave him alone when he stops fuckin look at me,” The Guy muttered.

“What’s it you’s both talking about?” A younger voice called out from the back seat. “Roll down ma window.”

“Shut up,” The Guy growled back. “I’ll roll down yer fucking window if you deserve to see what’s outside.”

The younger voice harrumphed.

“Quit looking at me, kid,” The Guy growled, flashing a penknife out the window, it glowed red in the traffic light’s shade. “Kid I swear to god-“ The blade glowed orange, then green, and the car was gone.

Nathan was sweating badly, a sheen of it coated his forehead. He ran home, not caring if he looked like a mess when he got back. He just wanted to be inside, away from everything.

He reached home barely fifteen minutes later, feeling like his heart was thumping in his throat. The driveway was occupied by a pair of cars, a Toyota, his mum’s. And Paul’s car, some dusty red thing with brown seats. Nathan hated it, it always stank of leather and smoke.

Nathan crept down the drive, shrinking back as the automatic light went off. He waited for it to switch off before hopping between the cars and slinking away into the darkness.

Boxer was sleeping on the other side of the fence, his awfully wet snoring growling out from inside his kennel. His chain was taught, one side tied around the pole stuck in the garden, and the other tied around his neck. Nathan bit his lip and started climbing the fence. Being so small, it was easy to get his feet into all the gaps between the layers.

He felt like a rock-climber, like the man on the TV with the beard. Nathan reached the top of the fence, frowning at the slim line of brickwork in the darkness. It was nearly midnight, and impossible to see his foothold. His window was still open, that much was fortunate. He tentatively put out his foot for the foothold and it slipped. He fell. His leg snapped against the paving stones, and he began to scream.

Boxer darted out of his kennel, wasting a moment to sniff the air, then charging at Nathan full pelt, barking and yapping. Nathan desperately clambered away, unable to stand on his leg. It was white hot pain.

Boxer’s chain snapped taught, his snapping jaw clamping down an inch away from Nathan’s face, spittle flying over his lips and nostrils. Nathan kept screaming, pulling himself as tightly as he could into the corner, so Boxer’ teeth were as far away as possible. The bulldog’s chain was violently taught, the far end, strapped around to a pole, was steadily inching up, barely a foot from coming off and letting the dog loose.

As Nathan clamped himself in, he ran his finger down his leg, feeling something sharp dig out from his leg. It was oddly dry, and then extremely wet.

A light came on in the kitchen, illuminating the garden violently, casting Nathan’s broken leg in full light.

Boxer shied away, whimpering and retreating to his kennel. His chain sank down the pole again.

A figure came to the sliding glass door and popped it open. Paul came out in pyjama trousers, with no shirt on, he was skinny.

“Oh Jesus. Francis!” Paul cried, stooping down to Nathan’s side. “I got you big guy.”

Nathan muttered under his breath about the pain, and then fell asleep.