DAYS 19–22: Rough Music

A ceremony which takes place after sunset, when performers, to show their indignation against some man or woman who has outraged propriety, assemble before the house and make an appalling din with bells, horns, tin plates, and other noisy instruments.

I’m writing purely to keep myself awake now. I began this journal three or so days ago and have been scribbling constantly when not hunting for water and food for Zoe. And finally I find myself here in the present tense. The action tank is dry, and what follows will be strictly denouement—I hope.

It’s not quite safe to let Zoe go yet, though the pull to sleep is almost overwhelming. A couple of times each day I almost lose it, almost become a complete stranger to myself and drift away once and for all. Then I think of Zoe and slowly ease myself back down into myself, a ghost wiggling back into its former body through a hole in the top of the head, gripping the ears for traction. But it’s getting harder.

Ever since the Rabbit Hunt went south, there’s been a lot of activity around the base of my apartment. Charles and his remaining followers keep trying to burn the building down. It’s kind of funny, actually. In all fairness, though, it’s hard to burn down a concrete building—even when one is in full possession of one’s wits.

Each day at nightfall, Charles crawls up onto a pathetic stage they’ve built and makes some sort of rambling, increasingly incoherent speech about the Ragnarok taking him home, about my evil nature, and about the beast I am supposed to be harbouring up here in my tower of darkness. Then he collapses and twitches like a trout in the belly of a boat. An hour or four pass and then he staggers to his swollen, curled feet and froths some more. After that he and the two or three who still follow him around go and set some half-assed fire in the lobby. I hear giggling, then growling, then sobbing.

Last night, though, their efforts almost came to something. I heard crackling and smelled smoke, but concrete construction foiled them yet again. Still, for a while, it must have been exciting. When they’re not setting fires, they try to untangle the jammed stairwells or worm their way up into the ceilings. But so far, so good.

Earlier this evening, while Zoe played with her bear, I snuck down to the fourth floor. Leaning out of a window directly above the stage, I called Charles’ name. He looked up and smiled faintly, clawing with blind hands in my general direction. Poor Charles. Never sleeping means that he is ceaselessly himself—and the honest-to-Bosch truth is that that has to be a good working definition of Hell. Not just to be Charles all the time, but to be any of us.

‘Paul? Is that you? Come out to play, Paul!’

‘How are you doing, Charles?’

‘I’m a king, Paul! Nod is mine!’

‘Well, you’re welcome to it.’

‘I saw you, you know. Before! I saw you step over some smelly drunk on the sidewalk one day. Was he sleeping? Was he dead? You didn’t care! You didn’t see him, Paul! To see anything you’d have had to stay awake for days, right? But I saw things all the time. There’d be a pretty couple in the park, breaking up. Then the next day I see lover boy and there are bags under his eyes. So I pay attention and watch him making his rounds for the next few days—to work, to Starbucks, to Safeway, and home. Maybe to the bank. I watch the bags under his eyes get deeper. Then I know he’s seeing something. Maybe he even looks at me for a second when he walks past. He starts to see me! But then something scares him, and he scurries away. Then what? A week later I see him reading a newspaper, and he’s been put back together. Magic! He did it with drinks or dope or some fresh pussy, or I don’t know what. Then he doesn’t see me anymore. He doesn’t see anything.’

‘I don’t know what to say, Charles. I’m sorry if your life was hard. But it was hard for a lot of people.’

‘Why don’t you come down here, Paul? Come visit old Charles.’

‘You know I can’t do that. I’ve got to take care of the child.’

Suddenly, he is in a frenzy, writhing on his stage, trying but unable to stand.

‘Protecting the child? Why? Innocence is just torture delayed. And torture delayed is just worse torture!’

And then he was on his knees, weeping. After a few minutes, slowly, agonizingly, he crawled to the edge of his stage, fell to the ground with a thud, and slithered out of sight. No more danger. No more plans. No more followers. No more Nod. That was the last time I ever saw him.