The Evil That Men Do Read online

  “What’s that? I … Oh, of course. You’ve been away, haven’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve never been to Vancouver,” she said. “Is it nice?”

  I almost corrected her again.

  “It’s very nice,” I said. “You’d like it.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. I’m having a difficult time remembering things these days.”

  “It’s all right, Mum,” I said, taking her hand, my throat tight and eyes hot.

  “Perhaps you could ask Rocky to bring my breakfast.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Well, no, not really.” Her eyes unfocused for a moment, then she looked at me and said, “I’ve had my breakfast, haven’t I?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Shit,” she said. Her eyes widened. “Oh, dear. Pardon my French.”

  “Rocky may not be a very good cook,” I said,

  covering my surprise. “But I think your breakfast was better than that.” I’d never heard my mother swear.

  We chatted for a while, catching up, playing “remember when,” repeating a lot of what we’d talked about the day before. I’m ashamed to say, it tried my patience.

  “Lloyd,” she said, after a momentary absence, catching me off guard. “Why aren’t you at work?” I couldn’t remember the last time she’d mentioned my father’s name, or even referred to him in passing.

  I barely remember my father. He’d abandoned us when I was nine, three years after Rocky had come to live with us, running off with a woman who’d worked for the same engineering firm and starting another family. I had some half-siblings in Nova Scotia somewhere whom I’d never met and likely never would. He’d died of a heart attack some twelve years before. I’d been in Indonesia at the time, working on the oil rigs, and hadn’t come back for the funeral. My mother hadn’t gone, either, although she had sent a card of condolence to her former husband’s other family.

  Mid-morning she dozed off for a few minutes. When she woke up, she smiled and said, “Atticus, dear, how nice. Is Nina with you?”

  “No, Mum,” I said.

  “How is that nice girl you’ve been dating? Terry, is it? You haven’t brought her around in a while.”

  “She’s fine,” I said. “But it’s been a while since we dated.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I thought she was very pretty.” She paused, blinking, and said, “How is school, dear?”

  I’d once worked as a flunky, otherwise known as a production assistant, on a film shoot in Sydney, Australia. One way or another I’d been involved in the filming of almost every scene, but at the wrap party, if anyone had asked me what the movie was about, I wouldn’t have been able to say with any certainty. Shooting a film is not like writing a novel or staging a play. Scenes are not shot in chronological order. Shooting is carefully planned to make the most efficient use of sets, locations, and actors’ availability, and until the film is edited it’s nothing but a collection of disconnected scenes. My mother’s memory was a bit like that, an unedited jumble of recollections, disjointed and dislocated, a life whose timeline had been chopped into segments and reassembled at random.

  Later, when she fell asleep again, I went downstairs, poured a cup of cold coffee, heated it in the microwave, then went looking for Rocky. Her studio was in the conservatory off the dining room, overlooking the back garden. The door was open, but before going in, I knocked on the doorframe. “Have you got your shirt on?” Rocky frequently worked topless, even nude.

  “I do now.”

  The room was brightly lit and smelled of plaster of Paris, wet paper and wallpaper paste. Rain ticked on the sloped glass roof. Bamboo blinds in tracks covered the overhead windows and the upper halves of the vertical windows, protecting the delicate sensibilities of the neighbours, more than one of whom had filed official complaints with the city about Rocky’s working attire. A pair of potted cannabis plants stood in a corner, lustrous green under grow lights.

  Around the perimeter of the studio stood half a dozen life-sized papier-mâché nudes, male and female, realistically painted and anatomically precise. That is to say, the various elements of their anatomies were faithfully reproduced, but the figures looked as though they’d been disassembled and randomly put back together again.

  “Jesus, Rocky,” I said, looking at a male figure. It had an arm sprouting from the stump of its neck, head growing from its right shoulder, a lower leg in place of its left arm, and the other arm where the right lower leg should be. At least the genitals were in the right place, except they were facing in the wrong direction. The figure next to it was even creepier, a female figure with limbs on backwards, breasts and buttocks interchanged, and genitalia in the middle of the face. I didn’t look for the nose or mouth. The remaining figures were variations on the same theme.

  “I’m calling it my ‘Reassembled Humans’ series,” Rocky said. “Either that or ‘The Hand of a Blind God.’”

  “They give me the willies,” I said.

  “Good. That’s what they’re supposed to do.”

  She gestured toward a pair of figures, male and female, perfectly normal-looking, but not yet painted. They lay stiffly supine on long tables made of plywood laid across sawhorses, as though awaiting autopsy. What looked like a surgical power saw lay on a high stool between the tables.

  “These are the final pieces of the series,” Rocky said.

  “Looks like your blind god finally got it right.”

  “They’re not finished.” She picked up the saw. It spun up with a high-pitched whine. “I’m going to saw them in half and put them back together again, one side male, the other female.”

  “Of course you are,” I said. I wondered how she was going to recombine the genitals; I didn’t ask. “I won’t watch, if you don’t mind.”

  She smiled. “I’ve got to mark the cuts first, though.” She put the saw down and turned on a laser level clamped to a rolling stand, like a hospital IV stand. The level projected a fine line of ruby light on to the male figure’s head, bisecting the brow and nose.

  “How do you know the halves will line up properly?” I asked.

  “Planning,” she said. She began to carefully trace the line projected by the laser with a fine-tipped black marking pen. “And I can wet the mash and mould it a little. I do know what I’m doing, you know.”

  “I know you do, Rocky. Don’t be so prickly.”

  “Sorry. How was your visit with Gracie?”

  “She called me Lloyd,” I said.

  “Uh,” Rocky grunted. The marking pen wavered away from the laser line. “Shit.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  “Am I much like my father?” I asked.

  “Christ, no,” she said.

  I was surprised by the vehemence of her response, the anger in her voice. She also seemed discomfited by the strength of her reaction to the question.

  “Well, yeah,” she said, capping the pen and turning off the laser. “You do look a little like he did, I guess. You sound like him, too.” She looked at me for a few seconds, blue eyes searching my face, as if trying to make up her mind about something. Then she shrugged. “Except for the physical resemblance,” she said, “you aren’t like him at all. You’re a pretty good guy, Ace, all things considered. Your old man, though, was a first-class son of a bitch. He cheated on Gracie right from the fucking start.”

  “I know.” Rocky had told me about my father’s infidelities when I was in high school. I hadn’t wanted to believe her, even though I had despised him for abandoning us.

  “He even … ” She faltered, expression bleak.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  I sipped my coffee. It tasted bitter and burnt.

  “Something else on you
r mind?” she said.

  I took another sip of coffee. It hadn’t improved. I set the cup down.

  “Have you given any thought to, well, the future?”

  “Only when absolutely necessary,” she said.

  “This might be one of those times,” I said.

  “You’re talking about Gracie, aren’t you?”

  “I have a friend in Edinburgh,” I said, “whose father has Alzheimer’s. Jack and his wife tried to take care of Jack’s dad at home, but after a while it became too much for them, and they had to move him into a long-term care facility. There were the two of them, and Sybil’s a bloody doctor, but they still couldn’t cope.”

  “We’re managing.”

  “For now,” I said. “But she’s only going to get worse, isn’t she? You have yourself to think about. Your life. Your art.”

  “I appreciate what you’re saying, Ace. I do. And, trust me, there have been times I came close to putting Gracie in a long-term care facility. I’ve even looked into a couple. But, Christ, do you have any idea how expensive they are?”

  “I can guess,” I said.

  “We’d have to sell the house.” Her voice was a

  whisper.

  “I suppose so.”

  “I can’t afford it on my own, and, well, you don’t live here anymore, do you?”

  “No,” I said, with a twinge of guilt.

  “You’re probably thinking I’m not being very realistic, and you’re probably right. It was never exactly my strong suit, was it? And you’re right about Gracie, too. She will get worse. But I’m just not ready to let go. She took me in when I needed it most. I feel like I’d be abandoning her when she needs me most.”

  “I know how you feel,” I said. I looked at my watch. “I have a meeting this morning. If it goes well there might be a way we can afford a place for Gracie without selling the house. Don’t get your hopes up, though. In the meantime, I think it might be a good idea to start exploring our options.”

  “If you say so,” she said.

  “Anyway, I’ll know more after my meeting. I’m going to need the car, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure,” she said. “After all, what’s mine is yours. By the way, how did Nina’s launch go last night?”

  “It went fine,” I said. “You’ll never guess who was there.”

  Chapter 6

  Half an hour later, I was on my way out to my meeting with Gil Maxwell when the old rotary-dial wall-phone in the kitchen rang. The electromechanical jangle startled me—I hadn’t heard it in years, except as the occasional retro cellphone ring tone. No caller ID, of course. I picked it up. It was Nina.

  “How you doing?” she said.

  “A little tired,” I said. “Last night didn’t help.” We’d stayed up nearly half the night, bringing each other up to speed on what had been going on in our lives. I don’t recommend it as a cure for jet lag. “How about you?”

  “I’m used to late nights,” she said. “Maybe you’re just getting old.”

  “That must be it. Is there something you wanted?”

  “How would you feel about a road trip to Cornwall?” She’d told me the night before that she had a gig in Cornwall, Ontario, about a hundred and twenty kilometres west of Montreal. “Randy”—the band’s roadie/manager—“wrenched his back last night. We might even be able to pay you a couple of bucks.”

  “I’d do it for nothing if I could,” I said. “But I’m

  supposed to meet with Gil Maxwell today.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot. But we won’t be leaving till three or so.”

  “I’ve also got an appointment to talk to a real estate agent at five. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” she said. “It isn’t like we haven’t schlepped our own equipment before. You’re not wasting any time, are you?” We’d talked about Grace’s situation the night before.

  “There’s no point in putting it off. It isn’t going to get any easier.”

  “I suppose not,” she said. “How’s Rocky taking it?”

  “She doesn’t like it any more than I do. But we’re just exploring our options right now. Maybe after my meeting with Gil it won’t be necessary.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” Nina said.

  Maxwell Design and Development was located in a small industrial mall on the north service road of the Trans-Canada Highway. Even though it was Saturday, there was a young woman behind the reception desk, very pretty, with shoulder-length blonde hair, a flawless complexion, and warm brown eyes. She was dressed more casually than I imagined she’d be during the week, knees out of her jeans and a Just for Laughs T-shirt that was a size too small. She had a Bluetooth earpiece in her left ear.

  “Can I help you?” she said, looking up from her keyboard. Her voice was silky and deep, belying her Barbie-doll aspect. She had a small chip at the outside corner of her right front tooth.

  “My name’s Riley,” I said. “Is Gil Maxwell around?”

  “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Riley?”

  “No, but he’s expecting me.”

  “I’ll see if he’s available.” She keyed a two-digit number into her phone and said, “Gil, there’s a Mr. Riley here to see you ….” She listened for a moment, then touched her earpiece. “Please have a seat, Mr. Riley. Mr. Maxwell will be with you shortly.”

  I smiled thanks and waited in a hard moulded plastic chair in the reception area.

  The offices of Maxwell Design and Development were somewhat on the dingy side. The grey industrial carpeting was stained by winter salt, and there were coffee rings on the glass-topped coffee table. The windows needed cleaning, and the plastic plants wanted dusting. I was discouraged by the appearance of the place: it did not reflect a high degree of prosperity.

  Gil Maxwell came into the reception area, a big shambling man, not quite as tall as me, but heavier and even more pear-shaped than the last time I’d seen him. His brown hair was shaggy and he wore black slacks and a white dress shirt, collar open, no tie.

  “Good to see you, man,” he said, as I stood. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into a one-armed bear hug, pounding my back.

  “Good to see you too, Gil,” I said, with as much grace as I could manage. I’m not really a hugger.

  “Christ, look at you. Every time I see you I expect you to have put on a few pounds, but you don’t look like you’ve gained a gram in twenty years. Not like me, eh?” He squeezed my upper arms. “Jesus, what have you been doing? Breaking rocks?” He squinted into my face. “With your head, looks like.”

  “Took a tumble on a mountain a few weeks ago,” I said, which he’d know if he read the emails I sent more or less regularly to family and friends at home and abroad. “How are you doing, Gil?”

  “Oh, you know. Keeping busy.” He turned to the receptionist. “Mindy, this is my good friend Riley. Riley, meet Mindy. Couldn’t run this place without her.” Which, I supposed, was why he had her working on a Saturday.

  “Hello, Mindy,” I said.

  Mindy stood, smiling, eyes crinkling. We shook hands. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  “C’mon back,” Gil said. Taking my arm, he guided me down a hallway toward the back offices. “Too bad you didn’t call first. It slipped my mind you were coming by. Got a couple of meetings I can’t get out of. You know how it is, no rest for the weary.”

  “No problem,” I said, as he led me into a large open area filled with a dozen computer workstations, a mix of iMacs and PCs. Only three were occupied, one by a slender twenty-something East Asian woman with long, pink-streaked hair and dark-rimmed glasses, and two scruffy young Caucasian men. The males had tall cans of something called Blast! beside their keyboards, the

  woman a steaming cup of herbal tea that smelled like steeped wood shavings. Gil took me into his glass-walled office and shut the door.

  “Yo
u were in Ireland, right?” he said, indicating a chair as he went around his desk.

  “Scotland. Fort William.” He raised an eyebrow. “The west coast, north of Glasgow. Near Glencoe.”

  “Sorry. I’m geographically challenged, I guess. What were you doing there, besides falling off mountains?”

  “This and that. For a while I did technical writing and graphic design for a company that made high-end mountain bikes, till the owner died in a hang-gliding accident. Last couple of years I’ve been co-managing an inn and pub at the base of Ben Nevis. I guess you were too busy to read my emails.”

  “I kept meaning to,” he said, with a shamefaced smile. “I just never seemed to find the time. So, what can I do for you?” His eyes narrowed. “Or did you just come by to check up on your investment?”

  “It has been a few years,” I said.

  “Your investment is safe,” he said.

  “Glad to hear it. I may be needing some of it.”

  His mouth twitched. “How much?”

  “I don’t know. My mother’s not doing too well. I think we’re going to have to move her into a long-term care facility, but I’d like to avoid having to sell the house to do it. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem,” he said. “I mean, your investment is safe, like I said. It’s just that we’re having a bit of a

  cash-flow problem at the moment. Nothing to worry about, but our medical-support tablet app is a little behind schedule. It’s just coming out of beta testing now and nothing serious has shown up. Just a few minor bugs and interface issues. As soon as they’re fixed, we’ll be releasing version 1.0. It’s a winner, though. Totally innovative. There’s nothing else like it on the market. Our cash-flow problems will be history.”

  “That’s great, Gil,” I said. “When do you expect to release it?”

  “Couple of months. Three at most. Sooner if I can find the money to hire back the programmers I had to lay off. I’m down to just three, and two of them are working on a job we need to get out the door ASAP. We’ve been stiffed by a couple of our clients, too. I may have to lay off Alice soon.”

  He thrust his chin toward the woman with the streaked hair and glasses, frowning as she stroked the screen of a tablet connected to her iMac.