1Helter Skelter
1968
I watched him die, twice. I stuck a tiki torch inside his skull. Mother blew him up with a fucking missile. And yet there’s more of him, always more of him.
Just another daybreak on Mallorca. Bluish light. Air thick as water. I cut through the morning mist to catch the first batch of ensaimadas out of the oven. I got there early; so said the red cerrado sign on the door. I walked the hilltop, watched the dark sea vent its anger before the sun calmed it down and painted it blue. I took in the town’s quaintness before hordes of strangers defaced its narrow cobbled streets.
He looked right at me.
The baker unlocked her door, scolded the dog when she barged out. She waved at me through the window—I’m a part of her routine as much as she’s a part of mine. I petted Blanca for a minute, wiped the hair off my hands, and followed her back in. Soothing heat, more smells than I could distinguish. “Dos ensaimadas para llevar!” she said. “Cuatro, por favor.” I was starving. I paid, rolled the paper bag, and smiled my goodbyes.
I ran into the Tracker just outside the door. Literally. Our bodies collided, like two old friends chest-bumping after a game. But he didn’t step back, or move, or budge. It was like I’d hit a concrete wall. I looked up from chest to face, and there the devil was staring me down.
Slick warmth running down my legs. Mother’s death flashing before my eyes. I dropped the paper bag. The smell of fat and sugar mixed in with the stench of piss.
He raised his hand to my shoulder and nudged me to the side.
—Disculpe.
He didn’t fucking know me. We killed him twice, Mother and I, but he’s never seen us. Not this one. I watched him step into the bakery. I stood there, deer in headlights. I remember thinking about his accent. British, with a hint of something else. Eastern Europe, somewhere. I was stuck in some kind of trance until I heard the sound of children running up the street.
Running.
Run.
I grabbed the paper bag from the ground and dashed home. I made it in four minutes flat; we were out of there in ten. Lola didn’t ask why. She grabbed her best seashell and waited for me by the door. Lots of memories in that house. All of Lola’s. Crawling on the kitchen floor. First steps, first words. I looked around, tried to remember as much as I could before I poured gasoline all over it. Lola spoke only four words as she watched her world burn in the rearview mirror: “Don’t leave a trace.”
But I didn’t. I fucking didn’t. I was a ghost. Different name, different life. No loose ends. Lola and I laid low. We didn’t stand out; I made sure of that. Stick bugs on a branch. Plain. Ordinary. Vanilla. I’ve made mistakes before, but not this time. I couldn’t have found us.
Lola and I ate cold ensaimadas on the boat to Valencia. Lola didn’t cry—or speak, for that matter. She just looked at me from time to time to gauge how scared she should be—she can read me like a picture book. My daughter is unyielding, stubborn as hell, but she’s smart enough to realize her best option now is blind, unqualified trust. We hitchhiked from the port down to Alicante. One more boat to catch. I screamed at them to wait for us as they unmoored the ferry to Algiers.
Here we are now, casting off into the unknown. The light from Spain is getting dimmer and dimmer. What life we had is fading with it. Thirteen hours until we hit shore and begin a new one. This is … limbo, the in-between. We’re still high on adrenaline. None of this has sunk in yet. We were … a family. Now we’re fugitives, refugees, castaways. The wind is strong on the main deck, but we’ll spend the night up here. I keep staring at the sea, waiting for him to spring out like a shark. Stupid, I know. Regardless, confined spaces just aren’t on the menu right now.
—Mom, can we look at the stars?
—Yes, honey. Let’s get ourselves something to drink.
Every night, Lola and I watch the sky together, sharing a Coca-Cola. Tonight will be no different, not if I can help it. I brought her into the world. I made her prey. The least I can do is let her have these moments. Sorting through loose change. The tumble of the bottle in the coin machine. Pop. Fizz. This is our time. Our five minutes before I put the weight of a hundred lives on her tiny shoulders.
—Show me Venus.
—Venus is … over there, Lola. And that smaller dot above it is Jupiter.
She’s six years old and living on borrowed time. It’s horrible, but that’s not what I find tragic. I think, somehow, she knows.
—Show me … Saturn.
—I can’t. It’s on the other side of the sun.
She knows how this story ends, how they all end. I die. She dies. If we’re lucky, her child is born first and the Hundred and Two goes through the motions all over again. We’re the hare at a greyhound race. We can’t win; the best we can do is not lose. It’s not much, but it’s all I have to give. That and a Coca-Cola from the vending machine.
—When can we see all the planets, Mom?
Funny. This is what she wants. Eight dots in the night sky. How I wish I could give her that. She just watched her whole world burn. All her drawings, Roger the stuffed bear. Captain Action. She owns one set of clothes and a fucking seashell, but she wants to see the planets. Yet another thing I have to take away from her.
—I don’t know, honey. Probably never.
Copyright © 2022 by Sylvain Neuvel
