No One Will Hear You

Chapter Twenty-six

The late-night visits from the old man started not long after their mother abandoned them. His sister — only twelve at the time — had been the first made to pleasure the old man.

A year or so later, the boy also would receive the occasional nocturnal visit — the old man stuffing that thing into this place and that. If the boy gagged or protested, beatings followed. For several years, sister and brother took turns keeping the old man happy.

Finally a new awful ritual began — their father using one of them for his pleasure while the other one was made to watch. ‘Cause if you didn’t watch, somebody got slapped. Maybe the watcher, maybe the watched, which somehow was even worse than getting slapped yourself.

This had all happened a long time ago... ...but tonight he was back there again, back in that tiny, musty attic bedroom of his sister’s. He had long since learned a price was paid when he turned his head, so he watched intently in the darkened room, or anyway his eyes went in that direction though privately, secretly, he was making them blur, as the old man towered over his now sixteen-year-old sister.

That one time, she’d had the temerity to appear without panties, ready for him, having been completely cowed by the old man. That had been a mistake. Turned out, the panties were part of the ritual.

That night the old man had beaten her, severely, not to mention shouting at her that she was a slut and a common whore.

Ever since, they both made sure to play the game by the old man’s rules. That way it would be over sooner and with less pain, if no less shame.

So, while the boy sat in a straight-back wooden chair, his eyes blurred on the action, the old man forced his daughter to stand there facing her brother as father stood sideways and unbuttoned daughter’s blouse and moved in close to stroke her smooth, alabaster skin, nearly luminous with only the moonlight filtering through the flimsy curtains lighting their sins.

That was the only bad thing about the boy blurring his vision — it gave the acts a dreamy look, a kind of gauzy prettiness that wasn’t right.

Dreamy look, but nightmare sounds, smells. Even sitting across the room, the boy could smell that fetid breath — liquor, cigarettes, the very odor of the old man’s hollow existence... must be how Hell smelled. The boy’s sister knew not to protest and had learned to make her whimpers and ouches sound like she liked it though her eyes screamed otherwise.

Briefly, the boy thought about having another go at the old man, but fear overwhelmed him. Every time he had tried to stop their father, the boy ended up on his ass, blood running from his mouth or nose. Once, the old man had kicked him so hard in the ribs, the boy puked blood, continued coughing it up for days.

The old man was solid as a house and had a good fifty pounds on his son’s narrow ass. Knowing he couldn’t win the fight, the boy sat on the chair, willing himself not to cry, to try to show strength for his sister, his fists balled if impotent at his sides.

“Pretty,” the old man said in his scratchy voice.

Even in the moonlit room, the boy could see the old man’s paw tremble as he slowly pulled the girl’s panties down her long, white legs. Then the old man helped her out of them, before he sat her on the edge of the bed.

The old man just stood there, towering over her, not quite blocking her from the boy’s view. When she unzipped the fly, the scratchy sound of metal was like an echo of the old man’s terrible voice.

The boy, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood, watched as his sister did what she had to, as he himself had done so many times. He blurred his eyes more, more, more, till he was almost blind, but when he heard the bedsprings and then his sister’s sharp intake of breath, he could see it anyway, in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t blur that. He couldn’t make that go blind.

Looking down, the boy saw the cord for the cheap plastic lamp that was the only light the old man allowed in here.

“What you doin’ there, sonny? Eyes front!”

The boy’s eyes snapped back to his father hunkered over the girl, but as soon as the old man’s attention was back on what he was doing, the boy’s eyes returned to the cord. Just pull the plug and run over there and get the cord around the old man’s neck and then squeeze like a son of a bitch till the old man was dead...

“Boy! You ain’t watchin’, boy!”

“Sorry, sir,” the boy said. “I will, sir.”

When the old man returned to his business, the boy did not hesitate.

He swooped down, grabbed the cord and lamp in his hands and jerked them free from the wall. The old man had just started to back away from his victim, hearing something, when the boy looped the cord around his father’s neck and jumped on his back, pulling the cord taut.

The old man tumbled off the bed, taking his son with him, knocking the wind from the boy, who reflexively loosened his grip on the cord.

Like a wounded animal, the bare-assed old man rolled over, snatched up the cord and wrapped it around his son’s neck, yanking the ends tight, like the old bastard was tying his boots. The boy choked but made no sound.

The naked girl flew at her father, but he backhanded her and she smacked against the door frame with a sick squish and slid to the floor in a human puddle.

The boy tried to scream, but still no sound came out, precious air harder and harder to come by. His mouth just kept working, though nothing happened, no air able to enter, no sound able to emerge. He could feel his eyes bugging and as he clawed at the cord, he could feel himself scratching wounds in his own throat, trying to get one finger under the killing cord.

Sweat streamed down his forehead, into his eyes, burning them. Still, he could see the wild eyes of his killer, his own father, the perverted old bastard pressing down on him as he pulled like a madman on the ends of the cord.

The boy couldn’t inhale, yet still he could smell the old man’s foul breath welcoming him to Hell.

When blackness enveloped him, it would have been a relief if he weren’t also falling, endlessly falling, arms windmilling as he dropped into a bottomless pit...

A man now, he woke up, coughing, choking for breath.

The sweat that had been part of the dream was with him still, as he sat up in his bed — not in the black painted womb of Louis St. James, but his real bedroom, in his own home, where he lived under his real name.

He looked at the clock, cursed the hour, then flopped back down. The perspiration-soaked pillow did not encourage a return to sleep. Maybe that was just as well, since sleep might bring that nightmare back with it. Even in his goddamn dreams, the old man kicked his ass!

As a child, he’d hated his parents. As an adult, he despised them even more — his mother for abandoning them, the old man for every disgusting, obscene damn thing he’d ever done to brother and sister.

Giving up, he clicked on the nightstand lamp and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Sat there. In only his shorts, he reached for the folded towel he kept at his bedside just for nights like this.

After drying off, he sat for perhaps five minutes more, trying to drive away the images in his head. Some dreams disappeared on waking, others seemed to dissolve away, detail at a time.

This dream lingered.

No, more than lingered — persisted, its terrible images lodged in his brain like inoperable tumors.

Despite the hour, he grabbed his cell. Just before it kicked over to voice mail, his sister (thank God!) answered.

“The nightmare?” she asked, sleepy but forcing herself alert.

“Sorry,” he said.

“You know it’s not real.”

“I know. Feels real.”

“Think pleasant thoughts.”

“That never occurred to me.”

“Sarcasm?”

“Sorry.”

“You should be happy. The FBI! That’s the real prime time.”

“I know.”

“Concentrate on that. We have to be on top of our game.”

“I know.”

“The FBI, they’re not stupid.”

“Neither are we.”

Her voice was almost a purr. “I know, dear. I’m just saying... we’re getting close now, to what we want to achieve.”

“What we need to achieve.”

“Right. We can’t get caught too soon, dear. We need to be careful.”

“We’re always careful.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I would so like to make the FBI look like fools.”

Her voice had a smile in it. “Do you have something in mind?”

“... There’s a young woman I’ve had my eye on.”

“Acting-class candidate?”

“No. But she’s right for the part, anyway.”

“That’s good! This’ll take your mind off all the ancient bullshit.”

“... Tell me we’ll be famous.”

“We already are. But right now all we have is our fifteen minutes. We want to live forever.”

“We’re going to live forever.”

“Live forever, and do things the old man never thought we could!”

Their father’s abuse had spoken volumes about how little he regarded them. Never once had he given them credit for being anything more than receptacles.

“We’ll show the old bastard!” he said. “We’ll show him! We’ll show all of them!”

“Tell me about the new candidate.”

“I’ve been watching her for a few weeks. She’s a teller in a small bank in Newport Beach.”

“Not an actress?”

“No.”

“But will she bite for Louis St. James?”

“Oh yeah.”

They always referred to Louis St. James in the third person. Although Louis was a role he played (like Don Juan), he and his sister referred to St. James as another full-fledged member of the team. Or rather... the cast.

“She’s already met Louis,” he said. “She was attracted to him, obviously.”

“But a bank teller? That’s a lowly profession.”

“She dresses well. Designer clothes. I suspected hidden depths.”

“So you e-mailed her.”

“I did. And found hidden depths, all right. Hidden riches.”

“You are so smart, dear.”

“When Louis suggested that she’d make a better actress than most of the so-called actresses he had to contend with, she got very excited.”

“Typical.”

“Turns out she acted in high school, but never considered acting a practical goal. She’s certainly pretty enough. But she comes from a conservative family, you know — business types.”

“How you’re raised can set you on a path, they say.”

He laughed. “Imagine, finding a woman in Los Angeles who isn’t an actress wannabe.”

“It’s like finding a unicorn.”

“Well, this unicorn has money.”

“How much?”

“Those conservative parents I mentioned? They died and left her a small bundle. Accounts I’ve accessed so far? Add up to just shy of a hundred thousand.”

“Oooooh — that would keep us going for a while.”

“She looks at me and sees a bright future. I look at her and see my own personal ATM.”

“You are a riot!... When are we going to bring her into the production?”

“I’ll call her in the morning. See if she’d like to have dinner with Louis. You all right with that? Not too soon, is it?”

“Not at all,” she said. “We should step it up. J.C. Harrow’s all in a tizzy about getting preempted by the FBI. I love it!.. What preparations do we need to make?”

“Usual.”

“I’ll get the flowers after lunch.”

“Cool. I’ll prep the room. Get the camera loaded.”

Her voice took on an ethereal quality. “You know — if we can keep this going, to where we want it to? We’ll be Manson famous.”

“Son of Sam famous.”

“Night Stalker famous.”

“Bundy famous.”

“Gacy famous.”

“Dahmer famous.”

“Jack the Ripper famous.”

“All stars, in their own right,” he admitted. “But we’re taking it to the next level. Something our role models never dreamed of.”

“Hollywood famous,” she said.

They bid each other good night.

His pillow was dry now.

He could try to sleep again.

Before he drifted off, he felt confident the nightmare would not return tonight. He knew the old man couldn’t hurt him anymore.

Still, there was the lingering, bittersweet disappointment that came knowing hard living had killed the old man before son and daughter got the chance.