When she called him after two weeks of radio silence, he was relieved. Whatever grudge he’d been holding onto after she slapped him was quickly forgotten in the face of her cousin’s death. It was just good to hear her voice. He found her on the couch in fetal position, wine and weed spread all over the coffee table, blaming herself because she wasn’t the one driving the boat. He scooped her into his arms and held her while she cried, and he hasn’t left her side since.
“I’ve lost everything,” she murmurs, her eyes an explosion of pink blood vessels. “My cousin, my livelihood.”
“You haven’t lost everything.”
She’s shaking her head, inconsolable. “I almost lost you.”
“I’m right here,” he says.
“You don’t understand.”
“I do, though,” he says. “My dad had a heart attack while he was out working in the cornfield. I was supposed to have been home visiting that weekend, but I canceled at the last minute to go up north with friends.”
He’s never talked about this with anyone before. He’s always been too ashamed. “If I’d been home,” he says, “if I’d been out in the field with him like I was supposed to be, maybe I could have gotten him help faster. He might have lived.”
He sees something happen in Véronique’s face—a shift, an opening.
“It’s taken me a long time to accept that it wasn’t my fault,” he tells her. “A hell of a long time. But it wasn’t my fault he had a heart attack, V. And it’s not your fault Pierre crashed.”
She reaches for a half-smoked joint in the ashtray, lights it, takes a long steadying inhalation. “It’s Callahan’s fault,” she says, a little wild-eyed.
“The Marlboro Man? What’s he got to do with Pierre?”
“He’s a rapist.”
James sits up and faces her. Puzzle pieces sliding into place. “V?” he says shakily. “Did he rape you? Is that why you slapped me when I touched you?”
“He tried,” she confesses, breaking down. “I was doing a delivery. He had a weird edge that day. We were in his room—”
“Why the hell would you go up to his room?”
“That’s where he kept his cash. I had no reason not to trust him,” she says. “We’d hung out before. I thought he was harmless!”
“What happened?”
“He attacked me. Pushed me against the wall, put his hand up my shirt, pulled my pants down—”
“That fucking bastard.”
“He got his pants down, too, but I managed to knee him in the balls before he could . . .” She shudders, remembering. “He was so high—he wasn’t able to recover. I hit him with a lamp and ran out.”
James wraps his arms around her and touches her hair, trying to keep his anger in check for the moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks her.
“I wanted to,” she says, her sobs muffled by his chest.
“Is that why you quit smuggling?” he asks her, putting it all together now, beginning to understand. She didn’t quit for him, as he’d thought. She quit because she was almost raped.
She nods wordlessly.
“And you haven’t told anyone?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Not even your uncle?”
“Callahan threatened to go to the police about my uncle’s operation. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You could have told me, V. How can you not have known that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how to do this, obviously. I figured you’d say you told me so.”
“What happened with Callahan has nothing to do with Pierre’s death.”
She shakes her head violently, pushing his hands away. “It does, though. If I hadn’t quit—”
“Véronique, if you hadn’t quit, you would also be dead.”
“Not if I had been driving.”
“How do you know it wasn’t the other driver’s fault? Do you hear me? Pierre’s death is not on you.”
“He drove high, he drove too fast. He was so reckless, James. He almost killed us both one time. I knew better. I should have warned my uncle!”
“Stop. Please.” He takes the joint from her fingers and stubs it out. “You need some sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
He reaches into the drawer of her nightstand and pulls out a bottle of sleeping pills. “You will. Take one.”
He goes to the bathroom and pours her a glass of water, places the pill on her tongue, and lies back down beside her. She nestles under his arm, resting her hand on his stomach. He breathes in the smell of her hair and waits for her to fall asleep, still thinking about Callahan.
It’s a straightforward two-hour drive to Ottawa. He left Véronique sleeping soundly this morning at six, and he’s just now pulling into Ottawa, right before the morning rush hour. It’s taken him the entire two hours to calm himself down and rein in his still-smoldering anger. He’s here to meet a former colleague for a story on Somalia, so he’s got to put the situation with Véronique on ice for the moment and act like a professional.
When he shows up at the Elgin Street Diner, Ed is already in a booth reading the paper. James sits down across from him.
“What brings you to the capital, Phénix?”
“You, my friend.”
Ed chuckles. “Right.”
Ed Moody used to be a political columnist for the Citizen when James was working on the Hill. He became a mentor to James, which James desperately needed in his twenties. He’s the dean of journalism at Carleton now, but they’ve stayed in touch.
“I want to pick your brain about Somalia.”
“Can I order breakfast first?”
“My treat.”
They order a round of fried eggs and poutine, a side of sausage, coffee, and juice. James has been up all night with Véronique; he’s wired and starving. They talk about Ed’s job at Carleton, his grown kids, the senators, the usual shit. But James is too tired for small talk and quickly gets to the point.
“What are you hearing about Somalia?” he asks, pulling out his notebook. “You think there’s going to be an inquiry?”
“That’s the word on the Hill,” Ed says. “When a Somali teenager is murdered by a couple of Canadian soldiers, there’s got to be an inquiry.”
“But one of the them was already convicted and the other one hung himself.”
“Those soldiers beat a kid to death. People want to know what happened. That shit doesn’t happen in a vacuum.”
“Is it true their captain offered a case of beer to any of his men who killed a Somali?”
“He’s denying it,” Ed says, dragging his toast through a puddle of oozing yolk. “Claims he was just telling his men to work hard.”
“Will there be more convictions, you think?”
“Nah. The military already has its two lower-rank scapegoats. One’s in jail and the other is in a coma. It’s perfect. More convictions would only expose the rampant racism in our military.”
“There have always been rumors of a white supremacist problem at the base in Petawawa,” James says, flagging down the waitress for more coffee.
“So you’re covering international politics now?” Ed says, letting out a soft burp.
“I’m doing a piece on the captain of the Airborne Regiment. He’s a Quebecker. I’m going to head over to Petawawa later.”
“The Airborne Regiment was trained for combat, not peacekeeping,” Ed says. “They never should have been in Somalia in the first place.”
With the seeds of a good feature planted, James pays for breakfast and gives his old friend a slap on the back. He’s got one more stop before he visits the military base at Petawawa.
He knows where Callahan lives because he accompanied Véronique on one of her tobacco deliveries. Her car had broken down, and he offered to drive her. The stupid shit you do for love. They’d loaded his trunk with cases of cigarettes, and off they’d gone, on a romantic little contraband-smuggling holiday. He remembers Callahan as a smug, orange-haired douchebag. He’d thought so then, even before this happened.
He parks around the corner from the dilapidated semidetached house, pulls his hoodie over his head, and jogs up the three front steps to Callahan’s door. He can see the blue light of the TV in the window. He’s not sure how he’s going to handle the roommates if they’re home, but he takes his chances. Pounds on the door. A few minutes later, Callahan is standing in the doorway, staring at him with glassy eyes and a questioning look. He obviously has no clue who the hell James is. “What’s up, man?” he says.
“You got any weed?”
“Sure, dude. Come on in.”
James follows him inside. The place reeks. Jerry Springer is on TV. “Your roommates home?” he asks.
Callahan turns around, gives him a quizzical look. “No, man. School’s over. They’ve all gone back to Toronto.”
“You’re staying for the summer?”
“Yeah, I’m sticking around another year. I make so much money during the school year, I’m not ready to give it up yet.”
“Even without the contraband smokes?”
“Hell, yeah. Shrooms and hash are always steady, and now I’ve got the CDs.”
“The CDs?”
“My new side business,” he says, opening the closet and pulling out a duffel bag. “How much you need?”
“An ounce.”
“I’ve got some smokes left from my last shipment,” he says. “You want? I’ll give you a good price.”
“Sure. Du Mauriers.”
Callahan hands him a carton. “One seventy-five for all of it,” he says. “You a TA? You look a little old, dude. No offense.”
“None taken, man.”
“Have you bought from me before?” Callahan asks, trying to place him. He’s not very sharp.
“No,” James says. “I haven’t. Actually, I sold you some, though.”
Callahan looks confused. He’s too stoned to remember. James can see him sifting through all the dead brain cells.
“Actually, it was my girlfriend who sold them to you,” James says calmly.
Now he sees the light go on in Callahan’s head. His eyes stretch open, and he takes a step back. “I don’t know what she told you—”
In one swift movement, James drops the carton of cigarettes and grabs Callahan’s flabby neck, pushing him back against the closet door. “She told me you tried to rape her, you son of a bitch.”
“She wanted it, man. I swear. It was mutual. She—”
James’s fist smashes into Callahan’s mouth before he can finish his next sentence. “No, she didn’t want it,” James says, keeping his voice low. “Is this how you had her pinned against the wall?”
“Dude, I swear—”
James punches him again, this time knocking out his tooth. Callahan moans. He’s got no fight in him. It’s almost too easy. He’s stoned and out of shape, no match for James.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” Callahan manages, and James thumps him again, connecting with the bridge of his nose. Blood spurts everywhere, running down Callahan’s face and sweatshirt, seeping between the cracks of James’s fingers. James is going on pure adrenaline now, his mind blank. He’s lost control, can’t stop throwing punches. Even as he feels himself going over the edge, his fists keep flying into Callahan’s bloody face.
“You tried to rape my girlfriend,” James grunts, with a hard punch to Callahan’s gut. His hand sinks into Callahan’s belly, the impact dulled by a padding of fat. He does it again and again until Callahan doubles over, collapsing on the floor, at which point James grabs him by the neck of his Champion sweatshirt. Callahan is on his knees, gasping for breath. “Please stop,” he begs.
James lets go of his collar, and Callahan’s head falls back. James stands over him for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath. He’d like to finish him off with a boot to the nuts, but he’s starting to regain some self-control.
Callahan lets out a couple of pitiful moans, his head lolling to the side. James kneels down and puts his mouth right up against Callahan’s ear. “If you say a word to anyone about their operation, her uncle will kill you. You understand me? You’re lucky I’m the one who came to talk to you. If it had been Camil—if he knew that you tried to rape his niece—he’d murder you. He’s a Hells Angel, dude, and he would fucking murder you.”
He crawls back into bed with Véronique around five in the evening, not even bothering to remove his clothes. She stirs beside him and turns to face him. Without a word, she pulls him on top of her and hurriedly removes his shirt, his pants. She’s already naked beneath him. He’s hard and eager and penetrates right away. She cries out his name when he enters her, arching her back. She feels so good after all this time. He pushes himself deeper inside her, and she lowers her spine, slowly like a strand of pearls, her nails digging into the back of his neck. “Don’t leave me again,” she moans.
When they finish, they collapse next to each other, panting, damp. She looks at him, her eyes glistening with tears. Grief sex, he realizes. He did plenty of it after his father died.
“Where’d you go?”
“Ottawa.”
She props herself up on one elbow.
“I met with Ed about my Somalia piece.”
“Your knuckles are bloody,” she says. “You went to see Callahan.”
“I had to go to Ottawa at some point to visit Ed. I decided to kill two birds with one stone.”
“You didn’t kill him, did you?”
He’s watching her face, and nothing about her expression suggests she isn’t serious. “Of course not.”
She’s quiet for a long time. “I don’t need you to fight my battles.”
“I know. I did it for me.”
She reaches for his hand and examines the dried blood, his bruised knuckles, kissing each one. She rolls against him, straddling her leg over his body. “Thank you,” she says, softening. “I hope you beat the shit out of him.”
“He mentioned you’re selling him stolen CDs now,” James says, unable to stop himself.
She doesn’t say anything.
“Is that true?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“We’re in a relationship,” he says. “Your criminal life is definitely my business.”
“I was just trying to make a little extra cash,” she says. “For our future.”
“Don’t bullshit me. Your income took a hit when cigarette prices went down. A contraband-CD ring was your backup plan, am I right?”
“So? What’s wrong with a backup plan?”
“Have you considered just having your regular job like the rest of us? Taking home an honest paycheck?”
“You mean the shitty minimum wage salary I earn at Stan’s that wouldn’t even cover my rent and utilities if it was my only source of income?”
“I mean any job that’s safe and respectable, that won’t land you in jail.”
“And what? Become an upstanding citizen like you?”
“Your job is being a thief.”
“I’d rather be a thief than a poor sanctimonious cog.”
“I’m hardly a cog. I disseminate information to the public. I’m a truth-seeker.”
Véronique laughs at him. “And I steal from the rich to give to the poor. That doesn’t make you better than me.”
“It makes me honest.”
“I’m honest,” she says. “To the ones who matter.”
“You don’t have to be like your father, you know. You don’t have to live up to his legacy.”
“Please, not another sermon.”
“You should aspire to more.”
“I do aspire to much more,” she says. “For myself, my people, this province.”
“Your people,” he scoffs.
“It’s easy for you,” she says. “With your college education and your English mother and your affluent upbringing.”
“And where has crime gotten you?” he asks her. “Where did it get your cousin Pierre?”
He regrets it the moment the words are out. Véronique falls silent, doesn’t move.
His mother’s words come back to him, and he realizes, locked beneath her long smooth leg, that he has no idea who she really is or how strong her father’s blood runs in her veins.
He also knows she’s in a lot of pain right now, and this wasn’t the time to discuss her career aspirations. Her grief is still so raw. He should never have brought up the CD smuggling. He has no goddamn self-control. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “V? Baby, I’m so sorry.” He pulls her into his arms and holds her, scratching her back.
Her body lies limply against his, but she stays there and eventually falls asleep. As he listens to her jagged breathing late into the night, he vows to keep her safe, whatever he has to do. She needs saving—mostly from herself—and he’s got to be the one to do it.