Now we return a few month's later...
Chapter 7: Threat
Under a blood red safe light, around an austere shop room table, the chemical trays vibrated rhythmically under a pounding stereo system. Industrial rock music cranked up to an ear-splitting volume bounced loudly off the walls of the small darkroom, obliterating any and all other sound.
The perfect little dream
The kind that hurts the most
Forgot how it feels
Well, almost
No one to blame
Always the same
Open my eyes
And wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up
In flames...
It took you to make me realize
It took you to make me realize
It took you to make me realize
It took you to make me see the light...
Smashed up my sanity
Smashed up integrity
Smashed up all I believe in
Smashed up what's left of me
Smashed up my everything
Smashed up all that was true
Gonna smash myself to pieces
I don't know what else to do...
O'Malley scooped up a piece of photo paper from a row of metal trays with a pair of tongs and laid it aside. Sharply defined black-and-white shapes were just beginning to emerge onto the surface of the paper. He thought about his old dark room in the loft above the antiques shop and felt a twinge of nostalgia at its loss-it had been much bigger and much less stuffy than this one. The ventilation system in his current darkroom was so poor that he was probably killing off his brain cells at an ungodly rate, a fact which he would often blithely ignore, working non-stop until fresh air became an overwhelming imperative. Like now. After spending about an hour inside the tiny, enclosed space, he could feel his head starting to swim from the pungent miasma of heavy chemicals. And so he reached out and switched off the music, flipped off the safe lights, and flung open the door to his living room, his eyes squinting, blinking their adjustment to the softer, golden tones cast by the day lamps within his condo.
There was a strange boy sitting on his couch.
O'Malley tried to blink the image away. But no-the boy remained where he was. Maybe the effects of the chemicals were stronger than he thought; maybe he was hallucinating. It was a small hope, and one that was completely obliterated the moment the 'hallucination' started to speak.
"Good afternoon, Mr. O'Malley."
The curly-haired apparition sat comfortably on his couch, in a white-button down shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He allowed one leg to dangle languidly, while the other was bent, heel resting on the edge of the couch. The pose was casual, the outfit was casual, but the boy's air was anything but: there was an aura of authority about him, a strong sense of presence that went well beyond his assumed years, well beyond his simple, disheveled appearance. There was a kind of quiet confidence, a silent seriousness about him. He had an air which said, "I own the room."
O'Malley was rooted to the spot. "And just who the hell are you? And what the hell are you doing in my house?"
The boy ignored both of his questions. Instead, the boy said: "I've been waiting out here for you for quite some time, you know." His tone was clipped, devoid of any kind of emotion. "I should have thought, with such a poor ventilation system, you would have been driven out of your confines well before now. You do know that hydroquinone and borates are both known to have adverse effects on the respiratory system? Especially after such a prolonged exposure-"
"-did you just drop by to give me a lesson on darkroom procedure? Because I don't really need it-"
"-Not to mention the possibility of metol poisoning. To stay in such a small, enclosed area with those kind of chemicals is ludicrous. And dangerous. And very, very stupid."
O'Malley laughed, but it was a laugh tinged with a faint hint of hysteria. "Are you calling me stupid?"
The boy's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "No. I don't think that. You do tend to ignore danger, though. In fact, you seem to purposely invite it on a regular basis-"
"-Oh, like now? I didn't invite you in, granted, but you did manage to slip by me..."
A tiny smile formed on the boy's face. It's effect was not in the least bit pleasant, and it seemed to say: "Ha! I got one over on you!" It was a smile which smacked of conceit. It made O'Malley almost want to punch him in the face. "I assure you, Mr. O'Malley, that I'm not any kind of danger to you..."
...at least not yet, anyway. That seemed to be the unspoken subtext.
"So just what are you doing here then?" O'Malley's eyes narrowed and his words grew frostier, a counterpoint to his heated, rising anger.. He did not like surprises. And he did not like visitors. So surprise visitors were far, far from his liking...
"I'm not here because of you, per se. I'm here because of a certain photo you have in your possession."
O'Malley looked confused. "That's...a strange thing to say."
The boy carried on, undaunted. "And what's more, you were going to publish said photo in a book, and this book...well, let's just say that I can't allow that to happen."
The whole conversation, the whole encounter, was taking on a surreal feeling. "You mean...you mean you're pissed off at me because of a picture and-"
O'Malley abruptly stopped talking then. He thought back to about two days ago, to a conversation he had with his agent over the phone. His rather hysterical agent...
"The whole freakin' warehouse just burned down!"
"What?" O'Malley shouted into his cell. He was, as usual, sitting inside a pub. A rather noisy pub. And he was already deep in his cups...
"Your book, O'Malley! Our book-all ten thousand copies, the whole first print run, up in smoke! God, are you even listening to me? Do you know what I'm saying? We're going to have to reprint..."
O'Malley shook his head, shook the embers of the remembered conversation away. A conversation he had thought little about at the time. But now...
"Hey! Did you-did you have something to do with that fire?"
The small, unpleasant smile returned.
"Ah...I see." With that, O'Malley bowed his head, in a kind of defeated gesture. He stood, unmoving, before the entrance of his darkroom. And then-
-and then, without warning, he smashed the darkroom door back against the wall, back against the armed man who was standing silently behind it. The man cried out once in pained surprised, before O'Malley smacked him hard in the face with the door a second time. Then the Irishman deftly kicked the gun the man had been holding out of his grasp. It arced across the room and spun across the floor.
The boy on the couch didn't move once, didn't react at all. All he said was: "Finally showing your true colors then?"
"His presence was making conversation somewhat difficult," replied O'Malley. He longed to kick the now-unarmed man in the face. It was an urge he resisted-barely.
"Gevanni, could you please leave the room?" the boy addressed the young man in the dark suit with the now-bleeding nose.
"But boss-" said Gevanni, who was eyeing the photographer doubtfully.
"No 'buts.' Leave. Now." The boy's softly issued command left no room for argument. Gevanni cast O'Malley one last disparaging glance before exiting the apartment. O'Malley knew that he wouldn't stray any farther than the outside of his front door...
"Just who the fuck are you people?" asked O'Malley, whirling around to glare at the boy on the couch. His stance screamed lines of tension, his eyes flashed green with a burgeoning threat.
"That doesn't matter-"
"-Doesn't it?"
"I could give you a name-"
"-Yes?"
"But it would be an alias. Much like your own."
And then all the air went out of the room. No, more than that: it was as if some specter, some forgotten ghost, had slipped up behind O'Malley and grabbed him around the throat, effectively choking off his windpipe. For a few seconds, he literally ceased to breathe. And then, after several thudding, heart-pounding moments, he spoke. His voice was little more than a dark whisper:
"And just what do you mean by that?"
"Oh, I believe you know precisely what I mean, Mr M-"
-O'Malley grabbed the curly-haired boy by the throat, shoving him violently back into the couch cushions. His voice was icy clear as he said: "You say that name and I will punch you in the face..."
The boy's face didn't register anything at all: not shock, not fear, not anything. In the calmest, most dulcet tones the boy replied: "Fine then. I won't say it. As I said before, I'm not here because of you-"
-O'Malley abruptly released his hold on the boy and stepped back a pace. He was impressed by the boy's composure, his sense of control. His fearlessness. He appreciated it, but it was more than a bit unnerving-especially since, it seemed, the boy knew far too much about him. That could only bode ill for him...
"As I was saying, Mr. O'Malley," the boy continued, just as if the photographer's violent outburst had never happened. "I'm here because of a specific photo of yours-"
"Which fucking photo?"
The boy cast his rather dead-looking eyes down toward the carpet. "It looks like-" and here he faltered, stumbled. He seemed quite unable to find the words. O'Malley watched as the boy's eyebrows knit together in the subtlest of gestures, revealing only the tiniest little flash of emotion, the tiniest hint of consternation. Then the boy reached up to the breast pocket of his shirt, and pulled out a photo of his own, a small 5X7 that was worn with age. Despite it being several years old, O'Malley recognized the subject of the photo right away.
"Oh. Him."
The boy didn't react to O'Malley's unflattering tone. "I need that photo of him, the negatives, the book, all of it. I need it to disappear-"
"-you're joking?"
"Oh, I'm deadly serious," the boy answered dispassionately. "I'm not joking. I need you to make that happen. Otherwise...things might become rather unpleasant for you."
O'Malley laughed then, but it was a cold, bitter laughter: a laughter hardened, engendered by the remembrance of deeds past, by darkened memories that were tainted by scores of regret. He slowly approached the boy on the couch, leaning in to place both hands on either side of his cherub-like head. "Well, then," he said almost in a whisper, "if it's true that you actually know who I really am-"
-and here O'Malley leaned in close, close enough so that his face and the boy's were almost touching-
"-then you should know better than to come around here threatening me."
The air in the living room crackled with a heady tension; it sizzled like a live wire. The whispered threat was allowed to hang, like a dreaded preamble to impending violence. The boy on the couch remained perfectly still; his eyes never left those of O'Malley's. His round, dark gaze never wavered, never failed, not once. Finally, it was O'Malley who looked away first, who turned away from the boy...
"I knew he was trouble," he said quietly, bitterly. "The moment I laid eyes on him. Like calls to like, you know. Oh, he came along like the perfect kind of penance-"
"-Mr. O'Malley, I understand why it is you might want to do him harm-"
"Do him harm? Do him harm? Ha! Boy, I don't have tears enough to shed over what your little blond friend has done to me. And as for 'harm,' well, I could have done far more to him than mere 'harm' on that night. You've seen the photo. I had ample opportunity-"
"-So why didn't you?"
O'Malley looked down at the floor. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. Things long forgotten, but suddenly remembered, were taking hold in a way that he did not like, in a way he did not care for. Too many feelings of a dark, conflicting nature warred inside him. And then he said:
"I don't know. Maybe God stayed my hand. Maybe..."
It was dark. And it was raining. And there was a broken rosary on the ground. And there was blood everywhere, everywhere...
The Irishman allowed the words to trail off as he remembered that image; he allowed the question to go unanswered. "Does it really matter? I let him walk away that night in one piece, and I haven't seen him since. I put a whole ocean between us-I took a job in London not two days after that picture was taken. And then, when I got back, I moved to the opposite side of town. I've tried so hard to forget all about him-" and here he looked down with angry eyes at the boy on the couch "-but now here you are bringing it all back up again."
"I'm sorry," the boy said, in what might have been actual sincerity. "Really. But harassing you really isn't part of my agenda. The photo-"
"-to hell with the photo!"
The boy's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "Mr. O'Malley. Please. Let's try and make this a civil exchange."
O'Malley glared at the boy on the couch: at his nerve, at his inability to let this thing with the photo go. He personally didn't care anything about the photo; it's inclusion in the book had been a mere accident, a whim on the part of his agent. It had meant absolutely nothing...
But apparently it meant something to the boy on the couch. And apparently it meant something to the blond boy-his model-whom he hadn't seen in six months. It meant something to both of them.
"O'Malley, promise me you won't show this to anybody..."
O'Malley closed his eyes, remembering the moment. The moment when the boy was splayed out on his bar, his eyes covered, helpless, suspecting nothing. And there were two pistols, just lying there, right on the counter. Ready, at hand. And he did nothing. He did absolutely nothing. He could have put an end to it all that night, yet he didn't. He should have felt good about that decision; he should have felt cleansed. But he didn't. He didn't. It merely felt like another kind of defeat-a defeat he just couldn't abide. And in the end, he lifted his head to the curly-haired boy and said:
"Just get the fuck out of my house!"
End Chapter 7.
Song lyrics are from "Gave Up" by Nine Inch Nails.
I'd like to send a special thanks out to J. Piper, for being a faithful reader-and now editor. :)
And to the 7 people who are reading this, my schedule is going to be fairly unpredictable for the next two weeks, so updates may not be as fast or as consistent in coming...
Thanks for reading...