Joe Victim

Chapter Fifty-Three

There is blood all over the floor, and there’s some on the wall too. The wall blood is in the form of two handprints, each with lines of blood leading from the palm to the floor, each from a left hand even though I can’t remember either Cole or Kenny touching it. I’m still sitting on the toilet. I don’t want to be, but I have to be. The room smells of blood and shit and Kenny shit himself too and I guess it’s one more thing he’ll be remembered for. Santa Suit Kenny-singer of songs, lover of children, and savior of the Christchurch Carver. I wonder what they will say at his funeral. I wonder who the real Kenny was and I guess nobody will ever know.

Glen and Adam come in. Glen grabs Kenny by his feet and Adam grabs Kenny by his arms, and they don’t even look at me. They just pick him up and he sags in the middle and for a brief moment I think they’re about to fold him in half like a bedsheet, but they don’t, they take him out of the cell. When the police come and ask what happened, they’ll say they rushed him off for treatment. Only there was no rush. They’ve let him bleed out because a guy like Kenny wasn’t worth saving. They just had to make it look like they did something.

Kenny saved my life. I wish I could thank him. Best I can do is imagine I would have bought one of his books if he’d ever written one. At the least I should buy one of his CDs.

I finish up on the toilet and flush it and get my clothes tided back up. I stare at the blood on the floor knowing how easily it could have been mine. There is blood on my shirt that isn’t mine. I take it off. I lie down on my bed. I can still see the look on Kenny’s face, the disbelief of being stabbed, the acceptance that he was in trouble, and the hope that he wasn’t dying. I’ve seen that hope in others before, and I always enjoyed seeing that hope fade away, but not this time. This time was different and I don’t want to think about it anymore, I want to move on-after all, I have a big day ahead of me. Kenny would want me to. He’d hate to think he’d died just for me to mope around my cell feeling sorry for myself.

I pick up the wedding invitation my mother sent me. There will be no support from her during the trial, and I don’t know why that even surprises me. By the end of the day she will be married. I fold the card in half and tuck it into my pocket. My mom won’t be with me today, but having the wedding invite with me goes some way to making me feel less abandoned. Maybe it will bring me some luck. I start to wonder whether I’ll still have to go to trial today, or whether the events of the last few minutes will keep me here.

I have my answer less than a minute later when four guards come back into my cell. One of them throws me a fresh shirt-at least it’s fresh compared to the one I’m wearing. None of them discuss what just happened as I change into it. It’s almost as if the last five minutes just didn’t happen-the only evidence of it is the blood on the floor and walls, which, I imagine, will be gone when I get back. Santa Kenny’s cell will be filled with somebody new, a different kind of Kenny, but one equally bad.

They lead me down to the exit, the other prisoners quiet and staring at me out of the slots in their doors. I can’t walk straight from the shock of what just happened-and I can’t walk straight because of the cramping pains in my stomach. This is, without a doubt, what birth must be like-only worse.

I’m escorted to the front of the prison. It’s just like Saturday. The warden is there and Kent is there and Jack is there and a bunch of other assholes are there and I feel like shit. The warden is wearing the same suit and tie and has the same disdain on his face. I’m given laces and a belt and everybody watches me as I thread them into my outfit. The warden looks annoyed at me. Then I’m chained up.

It’s sunny outside but cold, though not frosty. There are six police cars out front, and in the middle of them is a van. In each car are two armed officers. There are a few in the van too. It looks like they’re ready for a war. I take a step toward the van and somebody puts their hand on my shoulder and tells me to stop. So I stop. The officers get into the van and into the cars and half a minute later they’re all heading away without me and without Jack and Kent and without the same two officers who were with us on Saturday.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Is the trial already over?”

Kent frowns at me. “I can see why people fell for your act, Joe.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Just shut up, okay?”

The stream of cars is leaving and at the same time a van is arriving. It’s similar to the other one, but that one was white and this one is red. It’s dirty and looks a little beaten-up in places and has Whett Paint Services stenciled all over it, along with the name Lenard Whett and his mobile-phone number and a star that says Money-back guarantee. The money-back guarantee on the side of a tradesman van is a dead giveaway that it’s a fake. It comes to a stop next to us.

“Come on, Joe, you know the routine.”

I climb up into the van. I crouch over so they can handcuff me to the eyelet. Like I’m going somewhere. Then it’s all the same as Saturday only we don’t turn off to go past the airport to go for a stroll through the edge of a farm to go body hunting and to take a vote on whether or not they should all open fire on me. Instead we carry straight on toward town. I haven’t seen it in a year and didn’t realize I’d missed it until now.

“Ah, for fuck sake,” the officer opposite me yells as I vomit onto his shoes.

“I’m. .” I say, but I can’t add sorry because then I’m throwing up again, plus I’m not really sorry. My stomach is heaving. I didn’t even feel it coming. I don’t know what the hell is down there-a pancreas, liver, other meaty stuff that was weakened by Saturday’s sandwich and then compressed violently by Caleb Cole’s fist.

Jack starts to pull over.

“Don’t,” Kent says. “Just keep on driving.”

“It stinks back here,” the officer with the messy shoes says.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Kent asks.

“He doesn’t look too good,” the other officer says. “Pretrial jitters, I guess.”

Pretrial jitters mixed in with a bout of pretrial attempted murder, mixed in with a dash of shit sandwich.

“Joe? Hey, Joe, are you okay?” Kent asks and, for the first time in a long time, somebody sounds concerned about me. It’s touching. So touching I start gagging and then something burns my throat on its way out, ruining my second shirt of the day.

“Joe?”

I look up at her. I nod. I’m fine. Super fucking perfect. I wipe my face in my hands and my palms come away wet and there’s vomit on them. I wipe them on the shirt since it’s ruined anyway. There are dark spots in some corners of the van and lights spots in others. Jack seems to be driving in extremely tight circles and quickly too, but when I look through the wire mesh I can see he’s not, that we’re still heading in a straight line. There is a steady stream of people flowing in the direction of the courthouse. There’s something really wrong with me, because I see Jesus and the Easter Bunny and the Lone Ranger. I see men dressed as schoolgirls, girls dressed as fairy-tale characters, fairy-tale characters drinking beer.

I see the Grim Reaper walking alongside another Grim Reaper.

I wonder if they are here for me. If it will take two of them.

I see a man wearing a Tampon of Lamb T-shirt with The Queen and Cuntry Tour stenciled across it, along with a set of dates that all passed by years ago. I close my eyes and I can see Santa Kenny looking up at me with his dying eyes, the sadness in his features. I can see him trying to cling on to a life that was spilling between his fingers.

The view darkens and changes. I think I’m going to pass out. I hold my breath and do my best to hold on as we get closer to the courthouse.