Rest In Peace

As a child I had always protected myself and my stuff - my second-hand toys, my collection of classic comic books, the money I'd hidden in my dresser drawer. I knew all about the injustice of the victim and I steeled myself for personal revenge and its bittersweet satisfactions.

I carried the child into the man. I kept a cocoon of privacy around myself. I resisted lending friends my books for fear that they would not return them or they would reappear ragged and dog-eared. No one ever took the same care with my stuff as I did.

I was a fighter against injustice, wrongs against myself and wrongs against those less fortunate or able to defend themselves against bullies and bigots.

At the age of nine, dressed in strange clothes and clinging to a limy accent, I stepped from the ocean liner that brought me from England to North America. Within days of attending the local school I was rolling around in the dirt of the playground defending my honour and subsequently being labeled an incorrigible behaviour problem. I won most of my battles because of the sheer unbridled intensity of my fury. On those days I felt no pain and gave what I received until my opponent's spirit broke.

My mother never believed in my side of any story when the mothers of my protagonists phoned complaining about my brutality. I was left with the taste of distrust for the law and order of adult society. Quickly I learned to believe in the integrity of my own actions.

Spencer, along with his older brothers was a particularly aggressive opponent who would persecute me from a position of strength and then fall victim to my revenge when he was caught alone. On one occasion, the last Spencer incident actually, I found him on the cinder trail behind his home. I systematically dismantled his bicycle before his very eyes then punched him until he couldn't fight back again.

Although the phone call came later and I was reprimanded by my mother and shown the inside of my father's belt while lying naked over the steamer trunk in the basement, I had my justice served.

Two years later while in line to go for lunch in grade four, a boy behind me stuck a pin into the girl in front of me. Naturally I was blamed by the protesting victim and subsequently by the teacher who took the most expedient route to solving the issue. I received an after-school detention while the real criminal laughed in my face at the end of the day.

I plotted the revenge. The next day being Saturday afforded me the opportunity to systematically spend the entire day destroying an igloo that had taken them days to construct in the criminal's backyard while the family was away. I slashed and kicked and poked and ripped at the snow and ice until it was a heap of frozen chunks. Only as the sun sunk low at five in the afternoon did I leave satisfied that justice had been served.

I was a quiet introspective boy who never backed off even when confronted by adults. I had told the vice-principal of the school to get his greasy paws off me after an incident where a bunch of us were playing wall-ball and had been rudely asked to leave. I had been forceful when I'd questioned the rationale of the after-school hour's enforcement by the vice-principal. It hadn't helped that the vice-principal had taken me across his knee one day for kicking a teacher and hitting her with a stick. My friends were shocked but equally full of admiration for my actions of standing up to the injustice of a tyrant.

At sixteen I'd punched it out with my father; tit for tat, one blow received, one blow given in return which resulted in the cessation of any other paternal physical violence.

As a young adult, if a store owner cheated me as old man Agnew had, I simply returned the favour in kind, destroying his store signs along the road, hitting him where it hurt, in the pocketbook, the wallet, the bank account. The seeds had been sown in all those years for my ultimate confrontation with injustice.

All my life I had been careful with my money and my possessions. I didn't inherently trust people because I knew that they would cheat and steal, use and abuse. So I was careful not to lend my stuff, not to advance my money for work not done or goods not received. I'd been burnt by cousins breaking my toys when they came to visit, by money stolen if I'd leave it lying around, by a young cute-looking female magazine subscription salesperson sweet talking me into five years of magazines that I had no interest in reading. I'd been burnt in little ways, all of which gnawed at me like a cancer eroding the present enjoyment of my life.

But still I worked hard as a writer and a critic, married a beautiful woman, Susan, the daughter of a fairly wealthy financier, and created with Susan two charming well-behaved children upon whom I lavished luxuries galore. I shared my stuff, my wealth with them and we all lived quite adequately on my money and Susan monthly dividends, that is until Spyder Lamm entered our world.

Spyder Lamm owned Lamm Construction and Excavation specializing in building outdoor cedar decks and raising cottages, just north of the city in the Lake District. With the children growing I felt we needed extra space in our summer home, so I scouted around for signs in the area advertising construction specialists. I came across Lamm Construction and jotted down the number on a scrap of paper from the glove box of my jeep. I later called the number and left a message on his answering machine. It took sometime to finally connect but one day he arrived at the summer home to discuss the details. What a talker he was and both of us were impressed by his enthusiasm. He took down the details for raising the cottage and said he'd get the permit and start when we were off on our California trip that summer.

However, one night back in the city, before we left for our trip, he called Susan to ask for two thousand dollars as a deposit for materials, to be held in trust so he could get started. When I came home my gut reaction was to flatly say no. My stomach intuitively churned with discomfort. But Susan on the phone had given her word and he was on his way down from the country to pick up the cheque. I capitulated, got a receipt and rationalized that we were finally getting the renovation underway.

On our return from California we visited the cottage to find nothing changed. We called and called and received no response. We visited the permit office and found that no applications for permits had been submitted and no permits issued.

After further unsuccessful attempts to connect with Spyder Lamm, I decided to find out where he lived and then camp out one night in my jeep and wait for him. I tracked him down through his current girlfriend who worked in the beauty salon in town. He was living with her at the time in an apartment attached to a residential home. So one night I sat alone in my jeep, two houses up the road from the designated house. I waited so long that evening that I fell asleep and was awakened at one-thirty in the morning when his truck pulled into the driveway. Before he could get into the apartment I confronted him beneath the glare of the amber street light; demanded that he either start the project or return my money. He lied to me, telling me that the permit was being processed. I knew then that he was a thief and that my money was probably already spent. I pushed up towards him and confronted his lies, where upon he grew angry, taking the offensive. He was much larger than I and ten years my junior. I knew I was no match, one on one and my citizenship and my sense of self-preservation told me I'd be out of line if I went into attack mode as I would have done in my younger years. We argued and he told me he wouldn't be bothered doing the job now anyway since I'd hassled him and he told me to get lost with two other one syllable words.

I returned to Susan depressed but determined not to let this issue lie dormant. I set about to fight this injustice through the legal system. I went to the police who knew him well, asked to have him arrested for theft, but on hearing my story they said that it was a civil matter. A civil matter! As a further step, I contacted my lawyer and we proceeded to cut our way through the costly red tape of the small claims court. I was successful after six months of processing in getting a claim for two thousand four hundred dollars laid against him. However in the process I discovered I was only one of a cast of hundreds, some with considerably larger claims than mine, which were waiting to be repaid.

Being optimistic I felt I'd for once in my life followed the correct civilized channels rather than resorting to revenge and violence, and was reasonably satisfied that in time the civil law would ensure the repayment of these funds. How wrong I was.

About three months later I was surprised to receive a cheque for seven dollars and fifty-nine cents, the first pro-rated payment from the court garnisheeing his wages. I was jubilant for only a short while because in the following month Spyder Lamm quit his job and declared bankruptcy. The hard fought small claims decision was now worthless, and Spyder Lamm had effectively stolen my money that over a lifetime could earn interest and accumulate into a substantially larger real loss.

After being so easily thwarted I wanted revenge; I wanted what Montressor in Poe's short story wanted - to punish with impunity. But I was much too intelligent for that trap. I knew that the modern-day odds were against me so I decided I'd write a story as a cathartic process and in doing so weave the tale to arrive at some semblance of justice.

The story ate away like a hungry maggot in my brain. A few years passed with the plot incubating in my skull. Then finally one year Susan decided to take the children, now teenagers, off to the West Coast for the summer. I said that I was locked into commitments and stayed back. Once she had left the maggot grew more voracious and the embryonic plot started growing inside me. But I needed verisimilitude, truth, and research to bring the catharsis into action.

Over time Spyder Lamm had inherited his father's farm and lived there now even though he was too lazy to work it. He rented the acreage to surrounding farmers, citizens who could work and make a living from honest sweat and determined struggle.

On paper I would punish him and get away with murder, but I needed details, descriptions, sensations and feelings of the place where I would exact my revenge.

With Susan and the kids safely packed off, I designed my visits to Spyder Lamm's farmhouse. Phase one involved the photographs using my telephoto zoom; frontal shots taken from the jeep window at dusk and after dawn. Then later I parked on the concession road and entered the bush lot on the far side of the farmhouse. I crept to the perimeter of the woods and with a tele-extender to my 210-mm doubled the magnification of the shot. Becoming more daring I circled the place, moving like a commando across the fields, getting closer and closer, bringing more and more detail in through the lens. I developed the rolls in my makeshift darkroom in the bathroom at the city home, blowing up the shots into eight by ten glossies. The film was fast and not too grainy. With the collage of photos I started creating the words, weaving the story together. But external shots, passive surveillance were not good enough; I needed closer more involved elements of detail, I needed passion, anxiety, even fear blended into the narrative of revenge.

Phase two was a series of excursions deep into the heart of enemy territory. There were two barns on the property, one designed for sheltering the animals, pigs and cows belonging to a neighbour, the other for machinery, tools and spare parts. Each had a traditional loft; each over time had succumbed to the weathering and shrinkage of the boards, creating cracks and splits that allowed light to streak in from the outside. I observed from the loft above the barn housing the rusting pieces of machinery. It was the closest to the house where I could determined the precise comings and goings of the occupant and his visitors.

With a backpack of provisions I spent a week in the barn watching and recording every movement on film and in my notebook. Spyder Lamm technically lived alone but he had many visitors, young people in their twenties, decidedly unlikely farm people sporting leather, studded pants and jackets with insignias of death on their backs, riding motorcycles or driving Jeep JY's. They never came as a group but as individuals often late in the afternoon or late at night just before the lights went out. On the weekend and once during the week, a Wednesday, a young female came and stayed all night. I took a lot of pictures of her, as she was so beautiful in a bizarre sort of way. She wore a black laced body suit from her toes to her neck, covered with a very short black skirt and a studded red leather jacket with the collar turned up to meet her short cropped blonde hair, styled more male than female. Her facial features reminded me of Susan, not Hollywood glamorous, but cute and petit.

After the week's vigil I decided to become more daring. Spyder, like clockwork was out of the house by ten in the morning and was always gone until at least three in the afternoon. No one ever visited during that time so I felt safe getting closer and coming out into the open. I was anxious to see the interior to confirm my assumptions about where the rooms were placed. I knew the upper bedroom well since on the weekend and on the Wednesday I'd watched the shadows of the two copulating figures, Spyder and the blonde move together and apart in their sexual rituals that my mind had filled in with erotic details. I must have been missing Susan more than I thought because the mental images of their coupling aroused me and threatened to sidetrack me from the real intent of this operation.

I circled the building and arrived on the veranda at the side door, which I had expected would be locked. It wasn't and I was grateful for the past traditions of trust still harboured by farm people. Spyder Lamm wasn't exactly farm people in my mind but I guessed that he felt he had nothing to fear or lose. I took my time moving from room to room; the large kitchen, the smaller living room and dining room, upstairs to the three small bedrooms - two neatly kept and probably preserved since the death of his father, the other a battleground of strewn clothes, socks and foul smelling underwear. A sweet exotic odour ,though, of past adventures with the blonde gripped my nostrils and attempted to deter me from my research. I mapped the place mentally measuring the distances from room to room, from each piece of furniture to the next so that I could move silently at will even without light. You see I quickly realized that the daytime explorations although perfect for gathering data, didn't hold me in the passionate grip of terror that I needed to feel if I was to accurately narrate my revenge.

The next day shortly after Spyder's truck had pulled out of the driveway; I entered the house again. This time I closed my eyes and keeping them closed moved about the house silently navigating from room to room without bumping into the furniture. I ascended the stairs and crept on all fours into Spyder's bedroom imagining him lying on the bed sleeping, vulnerable as I inched closer and closer to within touching distance. The feelings of terror and anxiety were real and palpable.

However despite all the intrigue and planning to bring me to this point in my research I hadn't really thought about the more grisly details, the actual method for my fictional revenge. Here I was in my self-created darkness lying on the pine floorboards of the villain's bedroom without a plan from which to proceed. Could I leave it up to chance to find a weapon, to find a method of overpowering a man younger and stronger? Poe had used Fortunato's own arrogance, his drunkenness to lure him into the chains hanging on the wall of the inner chamber in the catacombs. I didn't have chains or a means to get Spyder drunk and I needed a plausible way to subdue him so my readers would find this tale believable.

I went down to the kitchen looking for weapons. A cleaver and a butcher's knife were hanging beside the stove. I kept them in mind. Then I went back to the barn to search for other found objects. I'd read enough murder thrillers to know that a killer needed to use untraceable objects. Homicide technology and forensic science could weave miracles in unearthing evidence. Even the slightest literal thread of evidence could be enough to trace an act of murder back to its perpetrator.

I rummaged through the machinery barn and found many possibilities that I could interject into the plot as it developed: a rusty pitchfork, a five foot pry bar likely used to dislodge boulders from the fields before back hoes made life simpler, an axe handle, a jagged-edged pruning claw that was designed to fit onto a long pole, and something more modern, a self-propelling, heavy-duty snowblower. In my imagination I had Spyder impaled, slashed, bludgeoned and finally processed into hamburger, bones and all.

The next day was Wednesday; the blonde would be coming over in the early afternoon. The thought of her tight body squeezed into her clothing made my balls ache with anticipation. I decided to raise the level of suspense for my self by entering the house before she arrived. Then I'd be there all alone with her before he arrived and before I would play out the drama of my story. I entered with three weapons, the axe handle, the pitchfork and the pruning claw and carried them up to the spare bedroom like a player in the game of clue. I left two weapons propped up against the wall and took the axe handle with me into the master bedroom, setting up camp behind a row of silk dresses and blouses behind the louvred- doors of the closet where I could see through the slats down onto the double bed. The plan was perfect. I'd watch them making love, enjoy the voyeur experience while gathering authentic details and then I'd sneak out into the darkness long after nightfall when they were both asleep. Of course in the narrative I'd exact my revenge. I'd slip out from the closet and smack them both unconscious with the axe handle, then tie them to the bed each in separate rooms, tape their mouths and eyes and wait for them to gain consciousness. At first I would torment him by getting it on with his blonde, describing for him from the next room each intimate detail, each kiss, each flick of my tongue, each thrust into her openings. And then I'd whisper into his ear, so she couldn't hear me from the other bedroom. I'd tell him who I was and why he was lying there and what I wanted. Then systematically I'd take the pieces of flesh from his body until the entire principal and all the interest had been repaid. He'd justly understand what bankruptcy really meant.

With the closet prepared, I waited just back from the window where the light couldn't reveal my image from the road. I watched for blondie's long legs to emerge from her Chevette once it came off the country road onto the gravel of the driveway. She arrived at two bouncing a small red ball of a purse from her right hip as those lovely legs trotted forward causing her hips to sway and bring the aching back into my loins.

When her head disappeared below the window and I could hear the high-heels on the wooden veranda, I slipped into the closet to begin my vigil. I listened to the trotting across the pine floors from the hall to the kitchen, running water, a refrigerator door, ice dropping into glasses, liquid flowing, a sip and a sigh followed by the sound of shoes scattering and then softer feet padding up the stairs.

I heard the jiggling of ice and the rustling of her clothing as she entered the bedroom. She came into view and set two amber-coloured drinks down on each end table. I watched horizontal slices of her at different levels as I adjusted my eyes to peer through the different heights of the louvred slats. She held a greater fascination now in the closeness of the room. I smelled her; the aromas of roasting almonds and flowers pungent without names. There was a slice of petal-soft skin across her cheek, a slice of her loose-fitting black sweater that concealed such delightful items of my imagination.

She propped herself up on the bed against the headboard, took a sip and released a sigh.

"C'mon Denny, hurry up," she said impatiently.

Who the fuck was Denny I asked myself. She was Spyder's bimbette? She wriggled around on the bed digging her heels into the mattress and then extending her legs. I saw a flash of something move through the air - her underpants. Then I heard her self-induced passion as she wriggled over the top of the duvet cover. I ached with the anguish of a fifteen year old with a back seat hard-on. I lowered my head slat by slat until I could see the humming vibration of her finger working diligently against her sex. This was too much. I wanted her as I'd wanted Kim Novak when I was thirteen. Then suddenly she stopped. I heard tire sounds on gravel and she sprang up toward the window.

"Oh, Denny, yes, Denny."

I heard the front door open.

"Dari, are you here? questioned Denny.

Who the fuck was Denny?

Denny was a black leather, studded pants, black leather insignia-sewn studded jacket - Ghost Vagrant - Marlon Brando - Wild Ones - leather-capped filterless fag stuck to a lower lip kind of guy. The parts of who he was fell out in slices, like clicks in a shutter as I watched Dari seduce him, all over him like a slurpy puppy, pulling herself up on him by pressing down on his shoulders as he leaned against the wall, riding her moist sex up and down over the buckle of his belt. I moved my eyes lower and higher like changing channels and in time she had him half-naked from the waist down urging him into a stiffer erection with her mouth. Dari removed her sweater so he could touch her breasts and still standing now together she maneuvered him from the wall toward the bed. But he fell back against the louvered doors of my sanctuary and she pressed against him. The doors swung in buckling at the crease and they both tumbled to the floor in front of me. I held my breath, hidden behind the silk dresses, listening to the rapid tattoo beat of my heart and feeling my own sex growing hard.

They both giggled and Dari mounted Denny below me and I watched not in slices but in full screen technicolour confusion, lost and wanting to be there instead pinned beneath her. She moved and moved until they both climaxed, his arms stretched out with his hands groping in pleasurable agony for something to grip among the debris on the floor of the closet around my feet.

"Dari, you're dangerous."

"What Spyder doesn't know for now won't hurt him will it. Did you bring the money?"

"It's in the bike panniers downstairs on the kitchen table, but I brought the jeep. He's only gonna have time to see it, not smell it or even touch it, babe."

They were still on the floor below me when Denny pulled out the gun and waved it in the air.

" Denny, don't you think that's a little bit extreme?"

"We're not talking chicken feed here, this'll be the big one and we're out of here with the cake and with the cash."

" They'll kill us; he'll kill us too if you don't do it first."

" Relax, I've got it figured. Just trust me. C'mon, get off me; he'll be here soon."

Who the fuck was Denny, and for that matter who were "they", and who was Dari who was still continuing to distract me, to come in here and screw up my plot. Poe didn't have any extraneous characters muddying up his revenge. He sent the servants packing to the carnival in such an underhanded way, knowing they'd desert the house and leave him alone to accomplish the deed. I could jump out of the closet now and slaughter both of them before Denny could get his gun out. Then "they" whoever they are would come for Spyder. That's what someone really devious and sinister would do, but I couldn't be sure and my readers wouldn't be sure that Spyder Lamm would be punished with impunity and would rest in peace at the end of the tale.

Part of me told myself that I now had all the data that I needed: I had a variety of endings, twists and turns toward the climax and that I should get the hell out of there, back to my car, back to the city, start writing the cathartic epic and wait for Susan and the kids to return from California so I could get on with my citizenship and our lives. But I'd been hiking through this territory soaking in the sunshine and the scenery and now either by design or by a slippage on the gravel of the ledge, I found myself clinging to the side of a rock wall; a cliffhanger unable to ascend to safety or descend with any sense of control.

They were both dressed now as Dari offered Denny his drink. They clinked their glasses together.

"To us," they said, kissed and walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Fortunately they closed the louvered door in their attempt to rearrange the bedroom to normality. I'd wait for Spyder, wait for their business transaction to conclude, wait if I had to until morning when I could leave unseen and disappear from the pages of this text that was filling up and consuming my soul.

I was snoozing in the closet with night-darkness all around me when I heard the loud voices downstairs.

Spyder's flinty voice ascended to my ears.

" You fucking bitch, you're in this with him. And you, you bastard."

Denny pleaded, letting his voice speed up with his increasing anxiety. " Spyder, let's be reasonable; take the fucking money, it's on the table, we're leaving with the stuff, no hard feelings. Spyder c'mon. You think we were really going to stiff you, we were joking, right Dari, come on, don't do this, Spyder, okay, take the shit and the money, we're outa here, right Dari, Spyder....."

The blast, twelve gauge, imagined at close range, thundered through the house. I smelt the fumes and heard Dari's scream rise to a crescendo in one long mournful note that metamorphosed into an hysterical screech that was cut off abruptly into a gravelled gurgle lasting for half a minute before the tap was finally twisted shut. I heard something heavy, soft and pliable crumple to the floor. Silence. This wasn't my story anymore. I was piss-ass scared and crazy for escape at any cost. To hell with the story; let it write itself.

I emerged from the closet holding the axe handle. I remembered the pitchfork and the pruning claw that I had stored in the other bedroom. I was a dark shadow fleeting across the upper landing to the other room when I heard Spyder's footfall on the lower step of the stairs. In the spare bedroom after grabbing the other weapons, I pressed myself into the darkest corner. Spyder's bulky body loomed in the doorway carrying Dari's body. He laid her on the bed not two feet from me without turning on the lights. He left and I could hear him in his bedroom cursing and throwing objects around.

I had to make my move now while he was occupied, dash down the stairs out the front door into the barn for my camera and backpack and then across the field to my car. That was the plan. But somewhere within the telling of the story, I'd lost control and become a part of it. Dari lying so peacefully on the bed, drew me. I kneeled down in the darkness, extended my had, felt the short soft hair and slid my palm past her tiny ear to the petal smooth right cheek. I leaned closer and kissed her neck below the jawline and slid my lips toward her mouth. Her cool lips moved involuntarily as I touched them with my tongue. She tasted and smelled so exquisite, so pure and erotically innocent in her limp silence. I'd missed my opportunity. Spyder was back; this time a black hulk of menacing confusion leaking light from his bedroom onto Dari and me.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" He moved toward me like a crazed bear. I grabbed the pitchfork and hurled it toward him. The forks caught him on the shoulder and glanced off to the side. It was enough to allow me to drive for the door swing the axe handle to give me clearance from his grasping hands. I rumbled down the stairs, my arches hitting only the corners of the runners as I descended, hearing Spyder behind me. Something diverted me to the light in the kitchen, away from the front door, darkness and salvation.

Across black and white checkered linoleum tile, a dark red pool of congealing blood was slowly spreading from the back of Denny's head. The main wall supporting the white wooden cupboards was a bizarre sculpture of scattered blood, imprinted human hair and lodged bone fragments. Denny's gun, stuffed between his jeans and his tailbone, bulged below his leather jacket. I grabbed it just as Spyder burst through the kitchen door opening leveling the shotgun in my direction. I held the gun at my side behind my leg and faced him. Spyder's face, now that he could see me in the light went through contortions of discovery, searching for a remembrance, confusing my face with associates of other lives, Denny's friends, his own dealings outside the law, inside jails and finally found me with a look of astonished surprise.

"What the fuck?" he exclaimed.

Punish with impunity I thought. I raised the gun, cocked it and fired. I heard the blast of Spyder's shot gun as pieces of the ceiling descended around my ears. He fell back against the cupboards and slid to the floor adding to the previous sculpture he had created.

"Requiescat in pace, " I said aloud standing over him. The story could have ended there, but not being experienced as a violent, vengeful man I couldn't be sure that I would indeed punish with impunity. Technological investigation could certainly undo me and somehow a single bullet in the brain seemed too easy for such a villain. Besides I still needed to gain control of the story. So I took the pruning tool and with a lot of effort sawed Spyder's hand from his wrist, Hammarabi style. I went upstairs to Dari and kissed her on the lips very passionately one more time. She was beautiful and with her arms around me I felt she really cared. I brought her down to the kitchen and laid them all together in a row. The snow blower barely made it through the front door and into the kitchen. With burlap feed sacks tied onto the blower funnel I removed the evidence and punished them with impunity. A little later I warmed myself in the animal barn as the empty sacks burned away in a metal pail while I watched the pigs eagerly feasting on the remains of my story.

No one ever found Spyder, Denny or Dari. I left the money on the kitchen table except for the two thousand and the estimated interest. I left the cocaine too. Spyder's hand, a little dried and wrinkled now, is in a very special place along with the manuscript and no one has disturbed the resting place for at least twenty years.

David Fraser likes to balance his life among a variety of activities in the areas of writing, education and sports. When he is not formally working as an educator, he is either writing and researching or involved in one of the following sports: alpine skiing, ski teaching as a full time professional ski instructor at Mt. Washington, BC http://www.mtwashington.bc.ca/winter/default.cfm , windsurfing, tennis, golf, cycling, hiking. In addition he likes to garden, listen to the blues, and search for his way through Taoism. He has built his second water garden which has become his new daily sanctuary. His is learning and refining his Spanish fluency and will travel back to Central and South America in the near future. He lives among the flora and fauna of the British Columbia West Coast.

Email: David Fraser

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