ONE

I, FRANCIS PETER WRIGHT, being of sound mind …

He stopped typing, looked at the last four words:

… mind – sound – of – being.

Hopeless cliché. Mock legalese bordering on juvenilia. This was not how he wanted to be remembered. Anyway, such a claim would surely be weakened by the action he had resolved to undertake immediately after composing the note.

Reaching for the erase key, he tapped the sixteen characters into oblivion, leaving …

… Wright.

From Old English, a common surname meaning worker. As ordinary as the family that had carried it down through the ages to hang upon an only child, a limp legacy, incapable of opening doors or inspiring the triumphal outrage aroused by more provocative names. Banality hiding behind a silent letter, a combination of right and wrong. Deleted, leaving …

… Peter.

The world’s most popular religion had been built upon that name and a slab of rock. Since the age of four, it had brought him only shame. A fall day, the far corner of a muddy playground enclosed by chain link fence – he could still see the pattern of incarceration made by sunlight poking through the grid – a thick-chested boy named William had announced to a crowd of fellow children that “Peter” meant penis. The recess monitor’s back was turned. Everyone was listening. That morning, everyone had heard William’s mother call him Willy. The class bully, shrieking and twirling like a dervish on asphalt had started the chant: Penis! Willy! Penis! In retaliation, William turned his spite on Peter who, fearing the sight of blood, said nothing.

… Francis

His superfluous name was gentle. He’d considered making it his only name but … too late now.

… I,

He choked. The note crumbled.

He got up from the table, walked over to the refrigerator, reached down for the door handle.

Peter Wright was a tall man, six-foot-ten-and-a-half. On the cusp of thirty, painfully thin, his best features buried under a four-season coat of timidity. Over the years, he had shaved two inches off his most distinguishing physical characteristic by adopting a stoop. Knees bent forward, shoulders hunched, frame collapsed like a folding chair. His neck did most of the work, thrusting the head forward. His gaze was permanently downcast. He had acquired the habit of bending over to talk to people, who mostly spoke in murmurs. Words pitched perpendicular, intended for those of common height. Words rarely meant for him.

The fridge was nearly empty. A ball of bacon wrapped in brown paper. A ripe tomato. A head of iceberg lettuce. Snow had piled up in the tiny freezer box. He reached in, clamped his index finger and thumb around a shred of plastic and pulled out the butt end of a loaf. Whole wheat, three slices, enough for one triple-layer BLT. His last meal.

Another cliché. Crucial at an execution scene, where it increases the level of pathos, gives greedy spectators concrete evidence upon which to hang their horror.

The murderer ordered linguini alfredo, foie gras and fresh strawberries.

Imagination recoils from a heart’s last thump. But who can fail to taste a spoonful of whipped goose liver sliding down the throat of a fellow human being? Surely such a refined palate could not be guilty? It was a meal calculated to deliver an aftertaste of doubt.

But this was not an execution. It was a private act. No third parties involved. No we. No they.

He had resolved to fast, out of consideration for others. Coroners. Cops. Innocent bystanders. The idea of strangers coming upon his corpse with a belly full of undigested food had disgusted him. He’d worried that at the moment of crisis he might puke, or worse.

Now he wondered why he’d worried. The clean-up crew would be well paid for their chosen work. Better than he’d ever been paid in his meagre time spent living.

The decision to step away from the murmur of existence had followed years of observing the heartless self-absorption of humanity. The decision had come upon him slowly. No inciting incident or crisis. Rather, a slow accumulation of data. Life as experienced by Francis Peter Wright was – in a nutshell – not worth the bother. Over a period of winter months, he had decided there was nothing left in his life that would be more interesting, or necessary, or pressing, than a well-planned exit.

He took out the ball of bacon. Lit a flame under the frying pan. Dropped two slices of frozen bread into the toaster and placed the third on top. Selected the sharpest knife and a cutting board to protect the countertop. Carefully peeled away a brownish layer of leaf. Exposed the moist core. Ripped it into shreds.

The toast popped up. He slid the still-frozen slice into an empty slot and pressed the handle down. Placed the other two on top to keep them warm. Turned the bacon strips over. Unscrewed the mayo lid. No reason to be cautious of fat, trans or otherwise.

The tomato was large, firm, field-smelling. More than enough for one sandwich. There would be leftovers. Waste. A familiar wave of worry. He brushed it off, determined to make this last meal an occasion of liberation, free from the judgement of others.

He cut a thick slice and was starting a second when the knife slipped. A gash appeared between the thumb and fingers. Blood spurted onto his T-shirt, bubbled over on the pile of lettuce. He dropped the knife, made a fist, hoping to scotch the outpour. A pool grew on the countertop and burst, sending a rivulet of blood dripping into the cutlery drawer and onto the floor.

He ran to the sink, leaving a trail. Turned on the tap. Stuck his hand under the cold water. When the flow was no longer red, he wrapped a towel around the wound. The stain re-appeared. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. Neither the mess, nor the wound. Less so, the shooting pain. His right hand, the hand of agency, was fine.

Bacon smoke filled the air. The single slice of toast popped up, pushing the other two into the bloody sink. He threw the toast into the frying pan. Shoved it into the fridge. Turned off the stove. Sat down.

His laptop screen was dark. A full minute passed. Watching the wall clock tick off the seconds, it occurred to him that life is really a very long time.

A note would be easier to write if addressed to someone.

No name came to mind.

He reached out, touched a key. The screen lit up. Typing with one finger he wrote: To whom it may concern.

Leaning back, he looked at the words, directed at no one in particular, nevertheless revealing an assumption that someone, an unsuspecting stranger, would be concerned.

Optimistic. Unacceptable. Delete.

Mystery is the best strategy. A mysterious death sheds blame on no one and therefore on everyone: precisely his intention.

He shut down the laptop, slid it into his briefcase. Let the living figure out the password. Other people’s convenience was no longer his problem.

He unwound the bloody cloth. The flow had stopped. The gash was scarcely an inch long and not deep, yet enough to remind him of why he had chosen a mechanical solution. He had no stomach for long, drawn-out bathtub scenes involving sharp implements and blood.

His tiny ground-floor apartment on St. Dominique Street imposed limitations. The ceiling was scarcely seven feet from the floor. If he wore a toque and stood up straight, his head touched the plaster. A centuries-old triplex on a once-elegant street, the ground floor had been divided in half. A cheap pressboard partition separated his three back rooms from the front. His entrance was at the back of the building, through a dingy garage full of junk. High ceilings with solid wood beams, he had noted the potential, but resisted. Young hoodlums from the neighbourhood had acquired a key, and sometimes met there to smoke joints. He didn’t want his body discovered by children. By anyone other than seasoned professionals.

In those early days of planning, his sympathies had remained acute, which is why the whole thing had taken a year. He’d been challenged, stymied, nearly defeated by the wealth of practical details and choices preceding this moment. He had gone as far as purchasing five yards of sturdy hemp from an ecologically friendly garden centre at Marché Centrale. On the same excursion, he picked up a roll of flexible plastic suitable for insulating leaky windows against approaching winter storms. The line between his first flash of excruciating disenchantment with life and this final night had not been a straight one. Rather, a jagged dance of contradiction, manifest by contrary actions, but always practical. Purchasing hanging rope, and insulation. Dropping into the drugstore for a litre of peroxide, and a season’s supply of Echinacea. Taking his best suit to the dry cleaners, after meeting the guy who sold him the gun. Zig Zag. Zig Zag.

The gun waited on the kitchen table. A smooth oak surface, sturdy legs, he’d picked it up on the street, meticulously stripped away layers of paint, revealing a rich natural wood grain. On the table was a candle, welded to a saucer by a pool of wax. This plan was meant for shadows. Impossible under bright lights. Too risky for the dark.

A fleshy stench of pig fat lingered in the air. He was no longer hungry. Still, his stomach rumbled, made him edgy. Otherwise, he was calm. He wanted to remain completely relaxed, focused on the moment.

He looked at the kitchen clock. Eight-forty-five p.m.

He got up, walked over to the phone. He knew the number by heart. A familiar voice took his order: a medium all-dressed, hold the pepperoni.

The twelve-inch beeswax taper was now half its original size. He estimated the flame’s life at forty-five minutes. He had purposely chosen a pizza house promising delivery within the half-hour, or the order was free. Allowing three minutes for the transaction at the door and five to seven during which he would eat one, perhaps two slices, he calculated the light would just hold.

He took down the coin jar, counted out a stack of loonies including tip, placed it on the table by the door and sat down to wait.

Time ticked by. But the clock was quartz. Tracing the sound to the dripping tap, he remedied the intrusion. The kitchen was a mess. He forced himself to turn away. Sit. Wait.

Ten minutes ahead of schedule, the doorbell rang. Whisking the gun out of sight, he leapt up, grabbed the handful of coins and flung open the door. Three police officers crowded the entrance, their stony expressions glowing with anticipation. The middle one stepped forward, and brandishing a badge, spoke in a sonorous tone: “Francis Peter Wright.”

He did not at first recognize a question.

“Yes, oui, oui, c’est moi,” he mumbled, nodding humbly out of habit.

A litany of accusation followed. One word jumped out.

Murder.

His hands went limp. The change fell to the floor.

The female officer snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. With the tall one in the lead, Peter sandwiched between the other two, they walked through the dingy garage and into the alley where a boy stood under a streetlight holding a flat white box. His pizza.

Glancing down at the boy, he wanted to say something. An apology, an explanation. But no words came.

TWO

THE COMMOTION CAUSED by flashing red lights and cops on their cell phones aroused Mrs. Wannamaker from the stupor of prime time drama. She ran out into the street wearing a bathrobe and slippers. A quietly angry woman, she occupied the front half of the apartment. If Peter made the slightest sound, she would beat the thin wall between them with her cane and shout his name. Her son ran a barbershop on Parc Avenue. He was erratic, but inexpensive. Stepping into the van, Peter felt the heat of her gaze on his back.

Doors slammed, the vehicle lurched ahead. The male officer sat to his right. The female took the bench opposite. Force of habit, Peter reached down, expecting a seatbelt. She noticed the gesture, explained that police vans weren’t covered by the same regulations as civilian vehicles.

As they clipped along the bumpy streets, beltless, he was seized by a sickening euphoria. All year he had lived for his plan. Now the grip of a counterfeit destiny had launched him into the unknown. Precisely what he had hoped to avoid, forever.

The van swung around a bend, tossing the three passengers sideways. His stomach lurched. He focused on the lady officer. She was wearing standard navy blue slacks and a long-sleeved, light blue shirt under a thick vest. Bullet-proof, he suspected. Her close-cropped hair was almost completely hidden by a baseball-style cap with the word POLICE stencilled across the crown. He calculated she was a sturdy five-eight, carrying a few extra pounds, but well toned. Her shoulders had a swimmer’s bulk.

It was impossible to see her eyes under the cap’s low brim, but an angular chin suggested a decisive although not-unfeminine cast of mind. Her posture – legs spread apart, feet planted inside clunky black boots – was mannish yet somehow unconvincing. Spotting her holster, he recalled that none of the cops had taken out their weapons, although one or two who’d hung around the van had brandished precautionary batons. This could only mean he was not considered violent.

From time to time, the female cop and her partner glanced at each other blankly, as if they might have a lot to say but were holding back. As the van took a sudden jolt, sending them all hurtling forward, the male blurt out an oath. Something to do with Catholic rituals. The woman laughed, almost a giggle. He caught a flash of white teeth, a generous mouth. Her bullet-proof vest heaved when she sighed.

She sat with both hands gripping her knees, muscles in her forearm taut. A clunky watch hung carelessly on her fine-boned wrist. Her fingers were long and slim. He wished he could see her eyes. The mystery bothered him. As if to stretch, he flung his hands back over his head. Sure enough, she stood up, ready to pounce. He was able to peek beneath the brim of her cap. Her eyes were fierce, dark brown, rimmed with liner. Caterpillar brows had been plucked into thin arcs. She was, he decided, quite attractive in a faux-manly sort of way. Feigning defeat, he lowered his cuffed hands into a space between his legs and hung his head. She said something to her partner he didn’t catch. The partner replied with a bored grunt.

The vehicle stopped. They got out. A small clutch of uniformed guards were waiting. Two police cars pulled up behind the van. While the arresting officer scribbled in a notebook, the others were obliged to stand by limply, murmuring, smoking, kicking loose stones. A surprisingly labour-intensive operation, he thought, considering they were all carrying guns and their catch was not.

He was escorted into the building and led down a nondescript hall into a windowless room full of hard chairs. A few minutes later, he was taken into the chief’s office. In front of a cluttered desk, three places. They sat down. With a meagre expenditure of words, the reason for his arrest was made clear.

A woman had been found dead, somewhere in the north-eastern part of the island.

Formerly an oil refinery, the land was unused, overgrown, accessible only by a neglected road. Confronted by a stack of topographic photographs, Peter was surprised to discover stretches of urban wilderness existed within the city limits. He had imagined the island to be densely populated, if not by triplexes like the one in which he’d lived for several years, or mansions as found in the bourgeois quarters, then by the usual array of bungalows and cookie-cutter suburbs germane to most North American urban centres.

He was about to say he was not a native of the city – had never had occasion to explore remote corners such as appeared in the eight by ten black and white glossies now spread out before him – when the chief produced a colour photo that stopped his breath.

The body of a woman, slim, naked, spread out on a grey tarp. Cold white, with splashes of red. Three more photographs, each from a different angle, were dropped before his eyes. Strands of hair matching his DNA had been found at the site. He stared for a moment, mesmerized. Then he puked.

Curried peas and lamb, the remnants of a late lunch at his favourite Indian buffet on Jean Talon Boulevard, shot forth in a yellow arc that reached as far as the chief investigator’s starched shirt and covered the offending photographs. The lady officer shrieked, leaped out of her seat. Her partner reeled back ungallantly. The chief dove for the photographs as if they were one-of-a-kind, and shouted into the speakerphone for help.

So forceful had the eruption been that not a drop had landed on Peter’s clothes. Loose-fitting tan dress pants, pleated, heavy cotton; a white T-shirt and khaki flight jacket he had inherited from his step-uncle, a bush pilot in Northern Ontario.

Drawing a used tissue from his pocket, he began awkwardly brushing off the photographs. The chief barked at him to stop. He obeyed. Two fresh officers arrived and escorted him into a smaller room across the hall.

Stunned by the ordeal and still woozy, he slumped into a moulded chair and dropped his head into his hands. It was good to be alone. His eyes stung. A large opaque window dominated one side of the room. Suspecting there were people sitting on the other side, watching, he squared his shoulders. The mirror effect was unsettling. For the first time in ages, he saw a complete picture of himself, enlarged, unavoidably close.

First impression: not as bad as he feared. In spite of the night’s events, he looked fresh. Young. Unquestionably innocent. His cheeks were slightly flushed, hiding the usual ghost-like pallor that many people found off-putting. His longish yellowish hair, typically an unruly ball of fuzz, had been dampened by anxiety. A firm jaw-line and high cheekbones projected dignity.

Appearances can be deceiving, he thought. Inside the calm, chiselled, classically earth-tone exterior, Francis Peter Wright was on fire.

He closed his eyes. The image of the wax candle sprang to life. The taper had all but disappeared. The flame, now a millimetre from the saucer, flickered its last gasp and died, plunging his mind into darkness. He shivered, opened his eyes.

A woman was standing beside him.

He stood up, a quick, awkward movement. The chair fell over. The woman stepped back. He bent over to straighten the chair and trod on her foot. She cried out. He apologized, spouting stock sentiments in gruff staccato bleats, replicating the sudden confusion in his mind.

Slipping off her high-heeled shoe, she rubbed the bruised toe, murmuring, and shook her head. The shoe back on, she adjusted her jacket and told him to sit down.

Her words hardly registered. He was standing over her, looking down on her crow-black hair which was parted in the centre, leaving a wide trough of white scalp.

Speaking directly to the waist-level pocket of his jacket, she said she was a lawyer. Possibly, his lawyer, if he agreed. He was under no obligation to answer other than routine questions posed by police.

Contents

ONE

TWO