Chapter Text
The Fool
Sometimes I walk mysterious places
Hear voices that talk without a word to say
Sometimes I hear the echoes of laughter
In the twilight of affairs and other tragedies
Sometimes it’s easy to forget only for a moment
But there are nights you regret eternally
Graves
There’s something surreal about leaving prison after ten years.
It’s a bit like travelling to a foreign country you’ve been to as a kid. Technically you know the place, but all your memories are blurred and stretched around the edges. You’ve tried to recall the weirder details so many times they’ve become infused with the madness that inevitably takes you after living in the same tiny fucking room for too long. When they drove me here, we came by this one building, a formless chunk of concrete that was repainted so many times everything just melted into some ugly olive. At least I think it’s olive. Can’t say I know much about colours. Anyways, I could have sworn it was east from the facility, at this T-crossing with the train tracks running by.
I specifically remember turning my head to notice it and thinking how it stared back at me, dark windows gaping up like eyes and mouths. I remember wondering how many morons must have tried digging a tunnel there or some other bullshit. It’s the first thing out of the prison grounds in a couple of miles. Bet it’s part of every second escape plan. Bet they’ve got cameras there.
So I’ve spent my share of sleepless nights thinking about that building. I guess it was an office of sorts at some point, judging from the parking lot in front and the way it’s cut. There were some rough spots where I fantasized about waking there, between pigeon shit and rot, rather than on my bunk. Then there were not so rough spots where I imagined beating his ass from one end of the building to the other and throwing him out of a window facing the facility, facing ten fucking years of-
But it’s not actually there. It’s on the other side of the crossing, so you’re driving between the office and the tracks. Could’ve sworn I saw a train go past it when I got here, but it’s a deserted line, too. Turns out if I ever did go nuts enough to dig myself out with a spoon I wouldn’t even have found the damn thing.
I got moments like that waiting for me everywhere. Stuff I was sure worked a certain way but then it doesn’t, and nobody wonders about it, only me. Some you expect - like walking into a supermarket you could shop blind at once and not finding shit. That I get. Stuff changes. But some things you don’t really think about and then it hits you smack in the face.
The weirdest are the people. I’m on the bus to the city with three other guys. None of them served as long as I did, and still we find it weird that nobody really tells us what to do. Where to sit, how to talk to each other. One calls me faggot, I punch him on the nose and the bus driver just sighs.
Guess he thinks we’ll all wind up on the return trip soon enough, but there’s no shouting, no guards to restrain us. It’s strange how punching a guy feels more liberating than to see open terrain, or people that aren’t in uniform. Kids. I forgot how noisy kids are. How a woman in a dress looks like when she’s not on a television screen. We had an all male facility. Sure gets funny when your papers say you’re married to a dude, but I never expected anyone to get it. Hell, even I don’t get what my papers say.
It comes with being a conman I suppose. You collect so many forged IDs you forget what should be on the real one. I’ve got stories over stories to construct a scheme from. Play a role often enough and it becomes a little bit true. So I guess I’m a little bit married.
There’s two parts about people that are different on the outside. One is crowds. Crowds are an organic thing here, they move and adapt and nobody really gives a damn. In prison, if a crowd is ever allowed to form, it’s so strictly monitored that you feel like it’s one single creature. You look to the guys surrounding you and although you don’t want to, you feel connected to them. You’re all in the same boat and the boat sucks. Outside, crowds are anonymous. All you share is being in the same place at the same time and there’s no reason to pay attention. What’s the worst that could happen?
Two is being alone. Because you actually are alone, and it’s quiet. I had a solitary cell. My whole block was filled with violent offenders, so they wouldn’t risk us sharing. But there’s no such thing as quiet with all the guards and your involuntary flatmates. We were what, sixteen? Sixteen on a corridor and half snored. Plus there’s always someone pissing. Heard in some prisons, they try ‘n be polite about it. Well, we weren’t one of those.
That’s the moment where it really hits me, sitting in my flat, and it’s quiet, and the clock ticks on but nobody comes to fetch me. I’ve got a small television in one corner of the flat. The sofa’s sunken in, but it works. Never had a TV in prison. Guy across the hall had one. Had it running all day and night, too. Then there was the one in the common room, where we’d fight over what to watch with a couple dozen guys. Kinda calming to just flip through the channels now. For ten years, this is how I knew about the world. How phones grew flatter and the economy decided to go screw itself. Fun times. Could’ve made a fortune. Now it’s all reality TV. Why these people even claim to be famous is beyond me. They piss and puke in alleys. Been there, done that, just never seen a camera around. I stumble over a sports channel, but it’s running darts. Who the fuck takes darts seriously? Darts is for a shady bar that reeks of yesterday’s deep-frying fat, for places where the ground is sticky with spilled beer and the air thick with smoke. It’s for when you wait to be drunk enough for the real fun. I was always shit at darts, but I never cared. Darts ain’t for TV. Darts, it’s for my kind of people, and we ain’t made for carin’.
It takes me hours to internalize that there’s no cafeteria, no lunch bell. Starving, I head out again.
When I was younger, I was in jail a few times, but never for more than a couple of months. Never long enough to feel fucking queasy about cars. I walked here all the way from the city centre. Took me what, two, three hours? Had to do it. Had to proof to myself that I can just walk like that. It was strangely agitating to see them shoot past me. Nothing in prison moved that fast.
Now my legs are tired and lazy, so I slump down with the results of my shopping. I end up having to go three times. First I grab what I think I need for now: Frozen pizza, smokes, six pack of cheap beer - which brand was good, I forgot, what did I like? - toilet paper, some soda in case I change my mind about drinking myself into a stupor. Then I remember it’s Saturday, and I go back to grab some canned beans and toast so I have something to eat tomorrow. I end up throwing other stuff that I vaguely remember should be in a kitchen into the basket as well, like a bag of rice and dish soap. Back in the flat I realize I don’t actually own dishes.
So I’m there a third time, and I get those plastic plates and the red stupid cups college kids get wasted from, I get salt, I get pepper, I get a list of little things that took me an hour to compile.
Who forgets salt? It’s the last item on there. I’m a mess and I know it.
I also get a bottle of whiskey. The kid at the counter looks at me with pity.
“Found everything?” he asks, and I can almost hear him adding “this time” in thoughts.
“Go fuck yerself,” I snort. Won’t go shopping here again. Might steal some stuff once I’ve scoped out the place though. The aisles are further apart than what I’m used to, but I’ll manage. My trick’s always been going in the odd hours, and grabbing two or three things that are clearly inconvenient errands. Diapers or tampons always work. Diapers and booze together gets you a weird look, tampons and condoms makes ‘em blush. Then you stuff that in your pocket or under your arm like the good daddy you are and no one’s got a clue about all the crap in your backpack. Bought a lot of tampons for a guy who hasn’t had a girlfriend in two decades.
Not today though. I’m too shaky to not play it proper. Perhaps that’s strategy. Keep ‘em locked up long enough they forget how to steal. Not that stealing’s the only thing they got me for.
And guess what I still don’t have after three fucking runs to the supermarket? A lighter. Good thing the trailer’s got a gas stove and there’s a lonely pack of matches in a cupboard. Getting a cigarette going with a match looks stupid as fuck but ain’t nobody watching. Ain’t nobody watching anything.
Can’t describe that.
How good it feels.
Just me, and the only sound I’m not making is the oven. It’s exciting and captivating. Never been a quiet man, won’t get used to it. I’ve got the house for three months, but if it goes my way, I won’t need it that long. Not much of a settler, me.
Might also be that I spent ten godforfuckingsaken years in the same place, so I’m anxious to move. I’ll have to get some things in order. A few of my old contacts are here in town. If I can get my hands on an ID and a car, I’ll be back in full swing soon enough. Then a gun. Needs a gun, what I’m doing.
The flat’s even smaller than I thought. It’ll do. I lived half my life in cheap motels and on car seats. Kinda nice to have my own bathroom for once. TV and phone’s connected, too. They rent this out to scum like me all the time. Like a transitional period for us to find our own place in society again. I know where mine is. Always been the same. Ain’t gonna change.
It’s an easy life, and a good one at times.
I’ve got two cans of beer down and the pizza still isn’t done. Turns out I should have pre-heated the oven. Some bullshit, that is. I guess this is easier for someone who’s actually cooked their own dinner before they got caught. I’m pretty sure I hadn’t touched a stove in half a year. My culinary talent ends at bacon and eggs, and some sources say my eggs suck.
Can’t say I disagree.
The doorbell sounds so shrill I drop can number three. It sickens me how my body tenses, fingers cramping into fists. I’m not expecting any visitors. Gotta be someone who rang the wrong door. I force my hands to stop shaking and reach for another cigarette. No more. No more wardens or guards or obnoxious gutter rats thinking they can play in my league. I’m out of the hierarchy and if I don’t want to answer the door, I don’t have to.
The realization settles in my gut. When the bell sounds again, it isn’t unsettling, it is thrilling. I don’t have to do it. I don’t have to do anything. Eventually it stops, and I’m almost disappointed. Even this tiny act of rebellion against some unwritten rule of common sense fills me with ecstatic tingles. I’m not a lawful man. No prison can change that.. Now that there’s a knock on the door, I’m growing suspicious. With a quick glance, I take in the layout of the flat. Ain’t no good way out, but I can hold myself in a close brawl. No weapons. All I have is a pocket knife. It would pain me to break it, but my best chance might be the whiskey bottle I got myself on the third run for groceries.
“Mr. Graves?”
A shudder runs down my spine. It’s a child. God knows I’ve got enemies, and I wouldn’t put using kids past some of them. With the bottle in hand, I make for the door. I try and sneak, but I got heavy feet. If someone’s waiting to kick the door in, they’ll know once I’m in range.
“Are you home? Mr. Graves I have to pee…”
I won’t fall for it. Can’t hear anyone between the little girl whining about her bladder and assaulting the door with tiny fists. I wait. She doesn’t leave. Nobody talking to her either. When she threatens to take a leak on my doormat, I can’t help but laugh.
“I just got out of prison kiddo,” I tell her, “I’ve smelled worse.”
She’s almost crying now. I’m still a good two steps away from the door, ready to duck back. The knocking stops.
“This is you, right?” she asks. Takes me a bit to realize she’s showing me something through the spy hole. I used to play these games for hours, but now minutes are wearing me down. Still haven’t eaten, my nerves are raw and maybe, just maybe I want to believe that I get one evening off before I’m swept up in hunting or being hunted again.
I slide towards the door, as silent as I can manage. Nothing happens. Feeling for any sign of pressure behind it, I press my palm against the wood. Again, nothing. My heart is beating so fast I might just faint. I didn’t grind my teeth through years of prison to die in the most blunt set-up ever.
But it’s not like that.
Could be a set up, but it’s not blunt.
Beyond the spyhole, damn, she can’t be older than ten. Dark hair, long and curly, under the ugliest hat I’ve ever seen. It’s pointy, the rim curling up, and looks like it’s seen some shit. I can’t make out her face. She’s holding her tiny arms stretched out to press a photograph towards the spyhole. My stomach doubles over.
“Is this you, Mister? Please, I really need to pee.”
It’s my wedding picture.
She’s cute. Big, round eyes and a button nose. I show her the bathroom and she rushes in. Somehow I snatch the photograph from her. Should keep it. Not the kind of picture for a kid. ‘specially not one like her. The hat’s old and her tights are dirty, but not because either’s cheap. Designer stuff. Rich kids like her, I learned to pickpocket on them.
Ain’t no rich kids in the picture. Though, we did have money at the time. Lots of it. But we look ratched. It’s obvious how wasted we were. I’ve got a bottle of beer in one hand and the other on his ass. Fine ass that is, in the lady pants he’s wearing. He’s wrapped around me, fingers in my hair and under my shirt. We had a photo just before and just after this one as well. In the one before, he’s nibbling on my ear. In the one after, he’s hurling on the floor. I’m the same in all three: Laughing.
Neither of us recalls much of that night, but with a picture like this, ain’t no denying it - we were happy. For once in our lives, and against all odds, we were blissfully happy. No idea who took the photo. We have a copy each. One of the few things I brought to prison. First I wanted to burn it, or cut it, or something. Never did. Kept it as a reminder: His face. The face I’m gonna hunt. I’d stare at it for hours imagining all the things I’ll do to make him pay.
Mine’s stashed somewhere between my pants, folded, torn around the edges and with stains of all sorts. Held it so often. This copy’s clean and straight, nothing like the men it shows.
“You can keep it.”
I look up from the picture to find the kid smiling at me. She’s missing a tooth here and there. It’s fucked up how she both does and doesn’t look like him.
“Nah,” I mutter, turning the photograph around.
The backside is plain, with a faded note down in the corner. Malcolm&Tobias Graves, it reads, with the date - well over ten years ago - scribbled beneath. As I thought then. Been forgotten in a box somewhere. Me, I can’t forget. Never.
“Where’d ya get that?” I ask.
She shrugs.
“Daddy said you look a bit different now,” she tells me, “but it wasn’t hard to find you.”
“Did yer daddy tell you to come here?”
I dread the answer, but she shakes her head.
“He left,” she explains, though it ain’t explaining much to me, “and I don’t like the home.”
He left. Sounds just like the bastard.
She pulls a face.
“I don’t like Miss Kayle.”
“An’ who’s that?”
Before she gets to answer, the oven beeps, and her face lights up. She hops over to the kitchen, leaving muddy footprints on the floor. Do I have cleaning stuff? I probably don’t. Now that the smell of pizza takes over, I realize how little I’ve eaten all day. I’ve gone by on less, but ten years of regular meals leave a mark. ‘nother thing I don’t have, oven mitts. But I got a few towels, so I help myself with that.
“You can have some,” I tell the kid, and she rips the package from my picnic plates. This whole get up looked less pathetic when I was by myself. Now I’m oddly aware of how barren the flat is. There’s the sofa and the TV with fucking darts still on for some reason, a small table with two shaky plastic chairs and that’s it. Bathroom has a little cupboard and the bedroom too, plus a bed of course. To me, it’s a palace. Could’ve fit my cell twice into the open kitchen alone.
Kid’s setting the table. Found the soda too. Good, can’t exactly feed her beer. The pizza is too big for the plates, so I pop it back onto the cardboard it came in. Glamorous. She doesn’t seem to mind. We eat with our hands, and she has tomato smeared across her face in no time. For some reason, she picks the pepperonis off, sets them aside, then eats them all at once. She also eats the crust first. Who the fuck eats the crust first?
His daughter, apparently.
He never did that, did he?
My gut clenches at the thought of him. There goes my appetite. Good thing she’s here, like a little dog for the leftovers.
“You know what’s good?” she asks me between two bites of pepperoni, “when you put pasta on there.”
“Pasta?” I repeat. She nods.
“Or ice cream. Banana ice cream. Right in the middle where the cheese olives meet.”
I run my fingers through my hair.
“The fuck does your father feed you?”
“Daddy won’t let me eat that,” she pouts, “but I make what I want when he’s gone.”
“An’ he’s gone a lot?”
Now she shrugs and tilts her head at me, like she doesn’t understand the question.
“Of course he is. You know him, right?”
It takes me a while to answer.
This is all a bit much for my first day out. For fuck’s sake, I spent ten years of my life in prison because of one guy, who wouldn’t be thrown off by having that asshole’s kid on their kitchen table? The whole concept of him being a father makes me want to puke. It reminds me that she’s not a child, she’s a weapon, and he’s sharpened the blade before aiming it at me. Gotta be careful with what I tell her.
Especially if it’s a ruse - the only proof linking them is the photo. If someone else gave her that, she could be spying on me for god knows whom. And then everything I say about him becomes valuable.
“I knew yer dad ten years ago,” I finally say. Each word rolls slowly off my tongue; I’m still not sure they’re the right ones.
“He’s the same,” she grins, although she’s got no idea what he was like. All she has is the lies someone prepared for her. With a sigh, I open myself another can. That’s what, my fourth beer? Counting the one I dropped.
“What’s he told you about me?” I grumble. She goes on for ten minutes babbling ‘bout pretty much everything from the day we met to the day he sold me. It’s like watching your favorite movie in fast forward: You know all the scenes, and just a glimpse on each is enough to bring the entirety of it back. Moments dash through my tipsy head, chasing each other in a haze of glory and gore. Mine, not exactly a bedtime story.
Seems the kid knows pretty much all there is to know me from his point of view. Glad he left out all the drunk sex we had on the backseat of whatever car we were hijacking at the time. When she’s finished listing all the ups and downs of it all, I just nod.
“Now ain’t that glamorous,” I sigh. “And why’d yer dad spill all the beans ‘bout me?”
She tilts her head as if my question is pointless.
“Because you couldn’t talk to me. You were locked up.”
Damn kid ain’t making much sense. Then again, she’s raised by a nutcase.
Nutcase who apparently wanted her prepared to face me. Ten years and he’s shitting his pants. Good.
I wonder, though. See, I’m a madman, too. Can’t pretend the last decade didn’t mess me up. I still don’t get it. I need to know, but do I want to hear it from her? I guess not. It’s gotta be him.
If he thought he’d get me off his tail by sending a child, then I’m no longer the dumb one between us.
Again, the doorbell rings. I raise an eyebrow.
“You got any siblings I should know about?” I grunt. The kid looks fidgety. When she darts around the corner, I see him in her movement, and I choke on my pizza. It’s the way she presses herself against the wall, how she peaks through the window from what little shadow she can find. He taught her that. Why would a kid need to know?
She goes pale.
“Don’t open,” she pleads, “they don’t even let me keep Pix!”
“Mr. Graves?” asks a female voice from the door. “This is child protective services.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. Not a day and I’m already in trouble with some office again. The kid’s looking at me with wide eyes. So that’s his plan, then. Not quite the feds yet, but I’ve barely got a foot out the door and already someone’s grabbing for my boot. And with the kid, he can track me.
I ain’t buying into that.
“Alright,” I holler, “playtime’s over.”
She’s easy enough to scoop up, small and lightweight. Struggles like a cat in a bag, but she’s missing the claws. Her elbow hits me in the gut a couple times, but it’s not packing any punch. Funny enough, she doesn’t scream. That’s always been my problem - I’ve got a temper, and a loud mouth to match it.
All the impatience the woman’s been harboring, I feel it released once I open the door. She’s a tall, athletic blonde with cold blue eyes, but a face that smiles easily.
“This the one you’re lookin’ for?” I ask as I drop the kid to her feet. She’s well behaved enough not to run back inside, but all my nudging won’t get her to walk over to the woman.
“Please Miss Kayle,” she whines. Tiny fingers curl into my shirt. The child protective service lady - Miss Kayle, apparently - kneels down to meet the kid on eye level.
“You can’t just run away like that,” she explains, her voice soft, the words picked with care. “People worry about you, Lulu. We had no idea where you were.”
I chuckle. No idea my ass.
“If you didn’t,” I remark, “how come you’re here?”
Kayle’s smile cracks a bit as the corners of her lips twitch with disapproval.
“Mr. Graves,” she says. There is an edge to it now, threats weaved into speech. It’s an old pattern to me. Subtle, too, so I ain’t good at replicating it. “I hope you understand that, although we are inclined to keep family together, we have our doubts over acknowledging your custody rights. Lulu has had little stability in her life, and with your recent past, I am not convinced you can provide that for her.”
The kid, Lulu, is clinging to me with tears in her eyes - bright green. Not his, then. She’s shaking like a leaf and I feel sorry for her, I do, but I don’t have the nerve to entertain a grade schooler right now. Even if that grade schooler could lead me to her father so I can put a bullet in his cocky face…
No. I haven’t got the nerve. Kayle talks like the kid isn’t going anywhere for the time being. First I gotta put myself back together. I’ve barely eaten all day, so my stomach is pretty much running on beer right now, and I smell like it. Lately my skin is sickly pale and my eyes are bloodshot from how little sleep I get. I look like a ghost.
“Please, Miss Kayle.”
Seems Lulu isn’t scared of ghosts.
“He’s my Dad.”
I can’t help but stare down at her, and she meets my gaze with question and resolve alike. Her face is turning spotty from all the crying.
“Like hell I am!”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. Ten years of prison, so she’s way too young. I like sex, but I ain’t stupid. You gotta be pretty drunk to forget the condom, to the point where I’m too drunk to do, let alone father anything. Plus for a couple years before they caught me, I had an ass to fuck.
“I don’t know who you are,” I remind the kid. “You just showed up here with a damn picture of me.”
“But you’re my Dad,” she whimpers as if she hasn’t heard me.
If she didn’t sigh right about now, I might have forgotten Kayle’s even there.
“Lulu,” she asks softly, “would you please wait in the car?”
Defeated, the kid strolls away to an unsuspecting van in muddy blue. Kayle watches her all the way to the door. Only when Lulu is inside and out of earshot does she turn back to me.
“I admit the circumstances of Lulu’s adoption were rather… unconventional,” she says. “That is why I was hoping to arrange for a supervised visit, but alas, Lulu tends to make up her own rules.”
By now, she’s starting to annoy me. This isn’t my problem. I don’t even get half of what she’s talking about. My hands are getting twitchy, I need a smoke.
“Let me be honest, Mr. Graves, I don’t believe you are suited to enforce your custody for Lulu right now.”
“Custody?” I repeat. She mentioned that before. Damn my attention span today.
Kayle nods, her lips pursed with disapproval, and I’m pissed. None of this makes sense, and I’ve had it. No idea what this shit is all about, but it’s not my problem.
“I ain’t got the faintest clue who this kid is!” I proclaim, and shouting makes me feel more like the man I once was again. I’m gesturing wildly at the car for a moment, which immediately prompts Kayle to push her hands into her hips and straighten her back. She’s taller than me actually, if only by a bit.
“She is your daughter!” she yells back. We glare at each other for a moment before Kayle looks over her shoulder to check that the sudden volume didn’t scare the kid, and I allow my jaw to drop for a moment.
I ain’t got no fucking daughter.
“It’s been a bit over three years since you adopted her,” Kayle explains, still focussed on the car. Lulu is slumped down on the passenger seat, head hanging and probably still in tears.
“You do realize I was in prison,” I grunt.
“Yes I do realize that,” Kayle says sharply. Her head darts around. Another time, another me would have complimented the fire in her eyes.
“And believe me Mr. Graves, I would never have sanctioned this whole mess, but here we are. I have taken personal interest in this case because apparently my duty in life is to clean up after my sister, and I will not let this charade continue.
Once you’ve sobered up, you can give me a call. Perhaps by then you’ll remember starting the most dysfunctional family I’ve seen in my entire career.”
But I don’t.
First of all, I don’t sober up. The pizza is cold by now and I step on the beer can I dropped earlier. Feels like hours since that. I sit on the couch again, and I crack open the whiskey. The evening drizzles into night as I down half the bottle. It’s me, the booze and another stupid show about unimportant people living less important lives.
Second, I don’t remember.
It didn’t happen, and I know it. Ten fucking years of prison and there’s no way I’ve seen that kid before. Of course child protective services won’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find my handwriting on a bunch of things. We were partners for so long, we knew how to forge each other’s real and fake signatures. He could’ve signed me up for a dozen different things with five or so names, and even I’d have a hard time spotting it. Ten years and I figured he’d have the courtesy to get us a divorce that way.
I drink, I smoke, and at some point I make it over to the kitchen. Kid left the picture here. It looks blurry in the dim light of the TV screen, but I guess that’s just me getting hammered. I’m staring at it with the voice of some sports reporter trying to sound excited in my ears. When did I switch back to the darts channel? How is darts still on?
It’s all a joke, but I can’t bring myself to laugh.
Apparently we’re still married.
And apparently we’re parents, too.
How you know what it's like
When good luck has changed the sides
When your life turns upside down, it breaks your heart
When you get crushed in a house of cards