Jericho by George Fetherling Read Free Book Online Page A

the matter, but Bishop (I detest the way he won’t use his first name) is the one with the conflict of interest. That is how disreputable he is. He is one of the people who has tried to create a fad for his own existence. And Beth, with her abnormally bright eyes, was such a trusting person, you know. Perhaps this is what they saw in each other: a trusting person is simply an inverted paranoiac.
    From the moment I met him I was of the opinion that Bishop was moving towards crime as towards a goal of some sort. At least that was the conclusion I instantly found myself approaching. He appeared to me to be experiencing the sensation that violent crime was some variety of right and that it was the light awaiting him in the darkness; he was progressing towards crime as though is was a destination to be sought. Such a case deserves watching for it is study-worthy, I thought. I could get a book out of him. If not that, then a conference paper. Certainly an article for a juried journal.
    It is important to be able to leave, to check out, like our life was the old Dempster Fireproof Hotel back in Snaketown. Knowledge of the art of disappearance is a kind of insurance. “Always X-ray the dice before the game begins,” as Lonnie used to say. That’s why I live in this dump with the rat squeaking under the bathtub at night. It’s not an apartment, it’s a camp. Fixed fortifications are always susceptible to infiltration and you can grow attached to em, to the investment and the permanence. This can sometimes keep you from abandoning em when they should be abandoned.
    I have these dreams. Hell, I’m a catalogue of bad dreams. Someone in the room. A man, close by. Armed, I’m pretty sure. I wake up with a defensive start. The doctor’s nurse phones to tell me that the tests are in and there’s a problem. I’ve contracted the notice of the cops. She suggests counselling, as is standard in these cases.
    Or this one: My mother is dying but she looks younger than when I knew her, with high colour. I see Lonnie in myself when I assume a position behind his own eyes. Growing up in Snaketown or Babylon with others of a type whose names don’t come to mind, one of whom is now a dealer in those Lost Articles that restaurants always have signs saying they’re not responsible for. We’re all in the Devil’s Rolodex now. Which of us is going to be the first to break the law in an entirely new way? After a certain point it becomes a tactical trophy. Life as a death game, to see how long you last. Easy does it. Overdose. Over does it.
    In my dreams, there is that famous dead local celebrity Boots. He speaks with an RCMP accent. He tells me there’s too much shredded paper mixed with the fuel, it won’t light.We’re at some sort of initiation ceremony. Beth’s there too but at first she refuses to participate, but then she finally comes around. Typical. This is possibly in Snaketown down by the tracks where the old glass factory was. The Mayor’s bald head, I realize later, is part of the crowd. Everything’s unhurried, no tension. Beth’s face all friendly and mellow. First night back at my place. Read-to-death books everywhere. A big red poster of a rat, somewhat deco. Boots calls. He’s cutting throats at the other end of the line, then suddenly he’s there in the room with me, as if he’s travelled through the phone wire. At that point I wake up.
    Or even this one time, it’s truly weird. The wizened old barber where Lonnie used to take me to get my hair cut down in Snaketown—one of Snaketown’s few legitimate businesses, though I think the barber made a little book on the side. “Hey Lonnie,” he says, mistaking me for my grandfather. But it’s no mistake. I am Lonnie. The place still has its battered old tongue-and-groove floor, but the space is now transformed into a kind of Snaketown boutique, selling sin collectibles and dispensing old-fashioned aromas from around the world. The barber’s wife has predeceased him