Prologue
He relaxed on the soft green bed of bracken and shaded his eyes against the sun dappling through the cedar and fir canopy. After all these years, it was sweet to be back on the shore without city stink and noise. Tonight was hot for the island, nearly 25C and humid for a change, so he’d left his shelter under the bridge for the freedom of the open air. Old Bill was tight-assed about his friggin’ rules, strong for his age, too. He rubbed his bristly jaw, still sore from exchanging blows. Why not take another shot before he left, cold-cock the bastard from behind? He laughed deep in his throat, then coughed up mucus. Damn allergies. If butts weren’t free, he’d have trashed the fucking coffin nails. Time in the can had probably prolonged his life by twenty years. Now that was funny.
Low tide during the day again, common in summer. He had nearly forgotten how briny the ocean smelled, its seaweed heaped in snakelike coils along the beaches. Sand stretches to the horizon were his preference, not these rock shelves and cobble which twisted the foot. The wild coasts of British Columbia weren’t the gleaming white strands of Malibu.
He took a last drag from his rollie and dropped it with a hiss into a beer can. The rainforest was sere, the moss beginning to fade and curl in the short dry season, but bug free, thanks to the salt air. If there was one place the homeless could survive the winters, it was here. Never too hot, never too cold. The perfect porridge. Wasn’t that what dear old Mom always said? He took a swig from a mickey of cheap Alberta rye, chased it with water and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Tasted like turpentine, but it got the blood moving. The sandwiches the Sally Ann guy brought from down the road and the bottled juice had filled him up. Breakfast in bed in Canada’s Caribbean. Come the rainy season, buy a snorkel.
Urban life offered opportunities for gain but too many hassles. Here you had only to find the angles. More people, more drugs, better selection. A whispered question and a wink to the teens lounging at the logger’s pole in Sooke, a trip behind some bushes, and a tiny bag of wonders. A bald eagle screed in the blue sky, circling for a mouse, vole, or squirrel. Try a poodle, he thought, recalling that stupid animal that had snapped at him down at the Inner Harbour. Home sweet home, though, thanks to the wallet he lifted from that idiot in the crush getting off the ferry. Three hundred in fifties and a cash advance. Too risky to use the credit cards with his shabby clothes and grizzled chin. He had sold the Visa card to a young kid at Cormorant and Blanchard for forty dollars. Got clean clothes at the Goodwill and a backpack and camping gear. The Canadian Tire card he’d keep for a week or so. The guy might not miss it right away.
Then he had hitched a ride west on 14 with a Sleep Country trucker going to Port Renfew, the end of the road. First stop, Sooke. The sleepy fishing village had changed in over thirty years, now had a McDonalds and an A and W. Funny seeing Sharon there when he bought a burger. An ugly scene about the kid, too. Some kid. Making big bucks in the diamond mines near Yellowknife. Maybe they’d have had a chance if... Screw it. She’d gained thirty pounds. Looked like a grandmother. Probably fucked like one, too. He’d thumbed on down to Fossil Bay.
When he’d seen that story in the Toronto Sun, he knew the man upstairs was looking out for him. Then the visit and some ready cash, but he couldn’t stay at the house. The grief wasn’t worth it. Until the big score in a week or two, for now he had the perfect hiding place for a piece of insurance. Tight and dry coffee can in a black garbage bag. He couldn’t read it so well without reading glasses, which were for wimps, but he suspected its importance. He’d moved it under a nearby rotting log. What kind of weird game was this anyway? Kiddie junk and a dumb-ass list of names and dates. His grimy hands were starting to shake. Unable to prolong the moment, he took out his joy kit. Mixed the happy dust with water on the spoon. Held the lighter beneath until the crystals disappeared. No boiling. Don’t want to lose any part of the pretty little ticket to heaven. Across the bay, from a cabin cruiser came the sonar beat of a boombox: “I feel the earth move.” Whatever happened to the Seventies? Everyone was bald, fat, both, or dead, including Elvis.
He snugged the rubber tubing around his arm, laughing as his body cooperated with a bulging vein. Born to shoot. A crust from a sore on one elbow was still pink, but he read no warning of infection. Soft beds and softer women on the way. The skags he’d met on the road were all bones and dry. Then he filled the syringe, tipped up and tapped to get the air out, plunged into the vein and pulled back with blood. Then back again until gone. Warm fire, like being in a hot tub. Cold water the first time taught a rough lesson. He breathed deeply. As he closed his eyes, he could still hear that stupid song: “Stronger than Spain and France.” Talk about a brain fart. What did it all mean, anyways, and who the hell gave a shit? He gasped, dimly aware that he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. His nostrils were stuffed from the humidity. He tried short, shallow breaths. But everything was slowing down, like a wind-up clock. He dropped the syringe and clutched at his throat. Before he could telegraph his brain one last time, the bellows in his skinny chest hung limp, and his head lolled. An adventurous ant climbed aboard his hand and headed for a tasty piece of dried skin.
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