I Am the Messenger

Ritchie, I wonder. What message do I deliver to Ritchie?

I'm nearly there now.

The corner of Bridge Street is up ahead.

My pulse goes into spasm and gains momentum.

As I round the bend I see Ritchie's place immediately. A question of shock stands beside me and breathes at my face.

I see the lights in Ritchie's kitchen and in the lounge room, but my path is distracted by one thought. It refuses to leave.

What do I do now? it asks me.

Every other place was relatively easy because I didn't really know the people (excluding Ma--and when I was sitting in that Italian restaurant, I had no idea I was waiting for her), so there wasn't much choice. I just waited for the opportunity to arise. But with Ritchie, Marv, and Audrey, I know them all far too well to loiter around their houses. It's the last thing I would ever do.

Still, I weigh it up for close to a minute and eventually decide to cross the road and sit against an old oak tree to wait.

I'm there nearly an hour, and to be perfectly honest, not a whole lot's happening. I notice that Ritchie's folks are home from their holiday. (I saw his ma doing the dishes.) It's getting late, and soon it's only the kitchen that's lit up. House lights across the whole street are being cut down at the knees, and all that's left are the streetlights.

In the Sanchez house, a lone figure has walked in and sits at the kitchen table.

I know, without question, that it's Ritchie.

For a moment, I consider going in, but before I get a chance to rise to my feet, I hear some people moving in my direction from down the street.

Soon there are two men standing above me.

They're eating pies.

One of them looks down and speaks at me. He looks at me with a kind of familiar, indifferent disdain and says, "We were told we might find you here, Ed." He shakes his head and throws down a pie, obviously bought from a local service station. As it drops to the ground, he says, "You're a dead-set shocker, aren't you?"

I look up, completely lost for words.

"Well, Ed?" It's the other one talking now, and as ludicrous as it sounds, it's actually quite hard to recognize them without their balaclavas.

"Daryl?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Keith?"

"Correct."

Daryl sits down now and gives me the pie. "For old times' sake," he explains.

"Right," I reply, still in shock. "Thanks." Memories of their last visit start to hurry me. Crowded thoughts of blood, words, and the dirty kitchen floor. I have to ask it. "You're not going to..." It's still a little hard to speak.

"What?" says Keith this time, sitting at my other side. "Lean on you a little?"

"Well," I say, "yes."

As an act of good faith, Daryl opens the plastic wrapper of my pie and hands it back to me. "Oh no, Ed. No touch-ups today. Nothing of the sort." He allows a nostalgic laugh to exit his lips. He makes it sound like we're old war buddies or something. "Mind you, if you get smart on us..." He gets comfortable on the ground. He has pale skin and a face infested with fight scars, but he s

omehow still manages to be handsome. Keith, on the other hand, has a face bulleted with old acne, a pointy nose, and a crooked chin.

I look over at him and say, "Jesus, mate, I think I liked you better with the mask on." Daryl lets out a shot of laughter. Keith, by comparison, is not impressed, or at least not to begin with. Soon he calms down, and the feeling among us is good. I guess it really is because we've been through something together, even if from totally different sides.

For a minute or so, we sit and eat.