Two
There’s a brown patch of damp on the ceiling. Its silhouette looks like a nun praying. Lou-Lou lies flat, her eyes stuck on it. She tilts her head to the side, to see if it changes shape. It doesn’t. She wonders if it’s some kind of sign, that things aren’t going to work out well and she should just run for the nearest convent, sign up for the sisterhood, become a wife of Christ. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…
She looks to Leon sitting in the chair by the door. His head hangs but he isn’t sleeping. His hands rest in his lap. The fingers of his right creep along his thigh whenever footsteps pass by outside, ready to snatch the gun atop the cabinet beside him. He remains frozen like a hunt dog ready to bolt across a field to retrieve a fallen bird until the noise outside—the footsteps, the wind, whatever it is—fades and all is silent again. He turns to Lou-Lou, forces a smile, then closes his eyes and lets his head fall. As far as she can tell, he hasn’t slept since they got to the motel.
Lou-Lou’s done nothing but sleep. She’s lost all track of days, doesn’t know how long they’ve been there. The room is kept dark, the threadbare curtains always drawn.
She feels sticky, uncomfortable, still dressed in the clothes they fled in. She’s packed a bag, a small one, but she’ll change once they’re out of town, once they’re safe. What she really wants is a shower, but the head of the one in their bathroom is rusted and looks as liable to spray cold sewage as clean water. The sheets she’s wrapped up in were dirty before she sweated into them.
The guy who checked them in was fat and stoned, his eyes barely open. What was left of his hair was plastered across his balding scalp, moist with sweat. The front of his desk was scrawled with phone numbers that promised a good time and crude drawings of genitalia. On the wall behind him hung a calendar turned to the wrong month, an image of a redhead on her back with her legs over her shoulders, fingers at her shaved pussy, prising it open. She had an angry look on her face, like she was daring the observer to try and fuck her.
Lou-Lou watches Leon. With his eyes closed, with his shoulders perfectly still and his breathing shallow, he looks calm, a Zen monk deep in meditation, but she knows he isn’t. She can almost hear his heart pounding in his ribs, like it’s ready to explode. If they stay at the motel much longer he’s liable to have a coronary.
Lou-Lou whispers. “Hey.”
Leon opens his eyes. He tries to force a smile, struggles with it, fails. “Hey, girl.” His voice is hushed. “You all right?”
“I’m holdin up.” She feels sick with hunger, but doesn’t want to tell him, otherwise he’ll put on his baseball cap, stick the gun in his waistband, and creep out to the vending machine, come back with a handful of candy bars and a couple of soda cans. All the sugar they’ve consumed has probably contributed to her sickly feeling, but it is the jagged nerves she suffers through while he is away, the worry something could happen, that he might not return, that keeps her from saying anything regarding her current appetite. “You should sleep. You look like hell.”
“Soon’s we’re outta here, baby. I’mma sleep for a week, promise.” His smile looks a little less forced now, talking to her.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Can’t help it.”
He nods toward her stomach. “You feel anythin?”
“It’s too soon for anythin like that. He’s only gonna be about this big.” She holds up her thumb and index finger, about an inch apart. “Probably smaller.”
“He?”
She grins. “Mother’s intuition.”
“Well you let me know when you feel somethin.”
“I will. But it’s gonna be a while yet.”
“I’m a patient guy.” He winks. “The sickness is holding off, at least.”
“Yeah. Something’s gotta be on our side, right?”
“You just lay your head down, close your eyes, go back to—” He falls silent, holds up a hand for her to do the same. He turns his head toward the door, alert. Footsteps on the gangway. Leon’s right hand moves to the gun. Lou-Lou can see the muscles in his cheek dance, his jaw clenching hard. The steps are slow, zigzagging. They pass by. A shoulder brushes the door. Leon’s hand shoots out, settles on the gun. He pauses. The body outside keeps moving. A drunk most likely, dragging himself along, looking for his room to sleep it off, or somewhere to continue the party.
Leon breathes, removes his hand from the gun. Lou-Lou notices he’s shaking. He turns back to her, tries to smile again and fails.
“When’s he gonna call?” Lou-Lou says.
“I don’t know. Soon, maybe. I don’t know.”
“He didn’t say when?”
“Said to wait a coupla days, hide out, keep low.”
“We shoulda left town straight away. Just cut loose and got the fuck out.”
“Your dad’s got a lot of friends, he coulda closed down the roads.”
“You overestimate him.”
“You underestimate him. Look, I ain’t takin any chances, okay? This is the best way.”
Lou-Lou thinks about her father. She thinks about Tommy. “I don’t like this. I don’t like the waiting. I don’t like him.”
“Tommy?”
“I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t know him.”
“He could be sellin us out.”
“He was gonna do that, you don’t think he’d’ve done it by now?”
“Why do you trust him?”
“We go back. We’ve done a lot of shit together. We’re tight.”
Lou-Lou bites her lip, unconvinced.
“Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you when he gets in touch.”
“I ain’t tired.”
“You need to rest.”
“I’ve done nothin but rest since we got to this shithole. How do I look?”
“You look beautiful, baby.”
“Am I glowing?”
“Thought you said it was too soon for anythin like that.”
“I’m sweating a lot, that could double for glow. How’s my hair?”
“You want the truth?”
“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
“You got dark bags under your eyes and your hair’s real nappy. Them curls you got? They’re gettin all tangled together. By the time we’re outta here, you’re gonna have a head of dreadlocks.”
“I always wanted dreads. You think they’re gonna suit me?”
“Everything suits you, baby.”
“Then I’ll keep them.”
Leon freezes. His face drops. His left hand goes to his pocket and settles there. Lou-Lou can hear the buzz. His phone. He pulls it out, checks the screen, then answers. “Yeah?” He stands, moves away from the door so he’s not talking next to it. He motions for Lou-Lou to take his place, to listen. She does so, keeps one ear to the door and the other to his conversation.
“Uh-huh. Then what’re you callin for?” Leon takes a deep breath. He peers outside, through the curtain. Harsh light from the streetlamps momentarily spills into the room, then he drops the curtain back into place. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Sure. Okay.” Leon sighs. “Yeah, I get it. But quickly man, a’ight? Fast as you fuckin can. Yeah, yeah. I appreciate it. A’ight.” He hangs up, returns to the door.
Lou-Lou raises her eyebrows.
“That was Tommy.” He takes her gently by the elbow, like she needs assistance getting back to the bed, then resumes his post. “He’s having trouble getting us a car.”
“What kinda trouble?”
“He didn’t specify. Says he’s workin on it. Two more days at the max.”
“Two?” Lou-Lou doesn’t feel relief at the news. When the phone rang she’d hoped that was their call to get up and get out. If anything, a new kind of tension has taken a tight hold in her chest. “This is taking too long,” she says. “Did he say anything else? About the search?”
“Just what I told you. About the car. If there was anythin else to tell, he woulda said.”
Lou-Lou looks to the corner of the room, the two bags stacked there, one for her and one for him. Yet to be unpacked. They sit, ready to go.
“Just close your eyes, baby. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”
“I couldn’t sleep before, I ain’t gonna sleep now.”
Leon stands, crosses the few steps toward her. He puts one big hand on her stomach, the other on her cheek and presses his lips to her forehead. “You gotta rest up and grow that baby big and strong, okay?” He looks at her, the whites of his brown eyes bloodshot. “Okay?”
She smiles at him, puts her hand over the one at her cheek. “Okay.” She lies back and closes her eyes, stays that way until Leon returns to the chair and takes up his position again. She rolls onto her side and stares at the wall. She can see a handprint under the window frame, just one. The left hand. It doesn’t belong to either of them. Some former lodger.
She doesn’t sleep.
Click here to learn more about Guillotine by Paul Heatley.