ant-slow.
‘Faster.’
Tanya said nothing, but adjusted her pace as I sped up. Zoe trotted beside me, grinning. We rounded the muddy edge of the lagoon then proceeded down the Causeway into the mossy, permanent shade of Stanley Park’s giant cedars.
It was cool in there. Cold, almost. Quiet too. The soft, fabric-like bark of the cedars soaked up sound like a sponge, and in the silence my paranoid thoughts were magnified to operatic levels.
Tanya held Zoe’s hand tight as we threaded our way between abandoned cars, parked bumper to bumper across all three lanes. For five minutes we walked deeper and deeper into the park, the absolute silence occasionally given a hairline fracture by the fading cries of English Bay seagulls.
And then I saw them.
To our left, a pair of men were moving through the bush on a bike trail that paralleled the Causeway. An odd couple—one lanky and fair, the other squat and dark. The tall one was a skater punk, outfitted with a jabbering T-shirt and long, long black shorts tricked out with chains. The shorter one looked like an accountant. Slacks and loafers—a kind of autistic stab at
Mad Men
-style trendiness. Ironic, of course, given that he was now literally insane. But none of the tribal signals indicated by the pair’s clothing mattered, really; they were united by filth, wild eyes, and perfectly matching expressions of intense concentration. They were hunting.
But hunting what? The park’s fat, tourist-fed squirrels? I squinted further ahead, deeper into the woods and saw, toddling obliviously along, their real quarry.
A pair of Sleeper children.
Two small boys, hand in hand, were trundling down the path, a hundred or so feet ahead of their pursuers. You’d have thought they were off to get an ice cream cone from the concession stand at Lumberman’s Arch. But you’d have thought wrong.
Behind them, the Mad Man shushed the Skater, bade him wait, and increased his own pace.
Grabbing Tanya’s arm and pointing at them, I pantomimed instructions that she and Zoe should hide themselves behind a nearby SUV and wait for me. Then, bar in hand, I set off in pursuit.
My stomach churned, but I knew what I had to do. Either I would take out the pursuers or they would take out the children. A simple either/or choice. Or, rather, no choice. And when I realized I had no choice, a weight lifted from my shoulders. It was so odd to realize that choice had been a burden I’d been lugging around all my life—and that choice had only really existed because, until now, nothing particularly important had been at stake.
Ahead of me, the Skater slowed and stopped, his battery running low. Sneaking up behind him was no big deal, and neither, as it turned out, was lifting my dumbbell and bringing it down on his head. The bar sank into his skull, black blood welling up around the wound, and the skater toppled to the ground. Human skulls as easy to smash as watermelons? I’d say that was about right. What did I feel at that moment? I don’t want to understate or overstate the case, but
not that much
. The death, my act of murder, felt TV-remote; the reality of those two little boys overrode any squeamishness or pity I might have been inclined to feel.
And decisiveness was a pretty empowering feeling.
Later that night I’d reflect and feel nauseous at what I’d done, but even then—and even now when the memory occasionally bloats up and floats back to the surface of my mind—animal horror is tinged by pride that I had
acted
, had saved two lives. But WWJD? What would Jesus have done in my position? My money would be on the barbell.
The Mad Man hadn’t heard a thing: he was too far ahead, too intent on his task. I heaved the dripping bar back over my shoulder and carried on, pure and cold in my purpose, like I was made of iron myself. The weapon wasn’t an extension of me, as cliché would have it, but rather I was an extension of the weapon.
The trail ahead was a minefield of twigs and
‘Faster.’
Tanya said nothing, but adjusted her pace as I sped up. Zoe trotted beside me, grinning. We rounded the muddy edge of the lagoon then proceeded down the Causeway into the mossy, permanent shade of Stanley Park’s giant cedars.
It was cool in there. Cold, almost. Quiet too. The soft, fabric-like bark of the cedars soaked up sound like a sponge, and in the silence my paranoid thoughts were magnified to operatic levels.
Tanya held Zoe’s hand tight as we threaded our way between abandoned cars, parked bumper to bumper across all three lanes. For five minutes we walked deeper and deeper into the park, the absolute silence occasionally given a hairline fracture by the fading cries of English Bay seagulls.
And then I saw them.
To our left, a pair of men were moving through the bush on a bike trail that paralleled the Causeway. An odd couple—one lanky and fair, the other squat and dark. The tall one was a skater punk, outfitted with a jabbering T-shirt and long, long black shorts tricked out with chains. The shorter one looked like an accountant. Slacks and loafers—a kind of autistic stab at
Mad Men
-style trendiness. Ironic, of course, given that he was now literally insane. But none of the tribal signals indicated by the pair’s clothing mattered, really; they were united by filth, wild eyes, and perfectly matching expressions of intense concentration. They were hunting.
But hunting what? The park’s fat, tourist-fed squirrels? I squinted further ahead, deeper into the woods and saw, toddling obliviously along, their real quarry.
A pair of Sleeper children.
Two small boys, hand in hand, were trundling down the path, a hundred or so feet ahead of their pursuers. You’d have thought they were off to get an ice cream cone from the concession stand at Lumberman’s Arch. But you’d have thought wrong.
Behind them, the Mad Man shushed the Skater, bade him wait, and increased his own pace.
Grabbing Tanya’s arm and pointing at them, I pantomimed instructions that she and Zoe should hide themselves behind a nearby SUV and wait for me. Then, bar in hand, I set off in pursuit.
My stomach churned, but I knew what I had to do. Either I would take out the pursuers or they would take out the children. A simple either/or choice. Or, rather, no choice. And when I realized I had no choice, a weight lifted from my shoulders. It was so odd to realize that choice had been a burden I’d been lugging around all my life—and that choice had only really existed because, until now, nothing particularly important had been at stake.
Ahead of me, the Skater slowed and stopped, his battery running low. Sneaking up behind him was no big deal, and neither, as it turned out, was lifting my dumbbell and bringing it down on his head. The bar sank into his skull, black blood welling up around the wound, and the skater toppled to the ground. Human skulls as easy to smash as watermelons? I’d say that was about right. What did I feel at that moment? I don’t want to understate or overstate the case, but
not that much
. The death, my act of murder, felt TV-remote; the reality of those two little boys overrode any squeamishness or pity I might have been inclined to feel.
And decisiveness was a pretty empowering feeling.
Later that night I’d reflect and feel nauseous at what I’d done, but even then—and even now when the memory occasionally bloats up and floats back to the surface of my mind—animal horror is tinged by pride that I had
acted
, had saved two lives. But WWJD? What would Jesus have done in my position? My money would be on the barbell.
The Mad Man hadn’t heard a thing: he was too far ahead, too intent on his task. I heaved the dripping bar back over my shoulder and carried on, pure and cold in my purpose, like I was made of iron myself. The weapon wasn’t an extension of me, as cliché would have it, but rather I was an extension of the weapon.
The trail ahead was a minefield of twigs and
Similar Books
