Charcoal Bones

Chapter 3.

Wednesday, October 28

Another unseasonably warm day. Out of sheer respect for the date, I insisted on wearing fall clothes, which meant I was sweaty from the moment I stepped outside. Roommate 2 was even using the air conditioning last night, for God’s sake.
Still, I wasn’t displeased with being able to feel the sun’s warmth on my face as I walked to work. Even if it did leave said face damp with sweat by the time I reached the office.

Work was uneventful. Only two things of note happened. First, Jane was even more of a bitch than normal. Michael and I agreed this was likely due to a combination of the heat and the fact that this would be her first Halloween without her kids. Good for them.
Second, Boss Matthew announced a last minute costume competition. We’d have until the party on Halloween itself to come up with something. First prize would get $100. Not in cash — Asskisser Matthew made the mistake of asking that, stupid cunt — but store credit. Hoorah. Spent the afternoon fucking around and generally trying to look busy. Succeeded with Boss Matthew, who came over to give me more work but was rebuffed by my aura of concentrated annoyance and vague complaints about people not responding, but failed with Jane, who refused to take the most obvious hints and insisted on bitching about her ex boyfriend for about half an hour. I want to meet this guy so badly. I say refused, and not failed to recognise, because she had that shine in her eye that she gets when she knows she’s getting on your nerves but doesn’t care. Fucking bitch.

Escaped by 5:03, into glorious sunshine. Armpits and back immediately soaked — not sure they had fully dried, actually — but too happy at leaving work in sunshine to care.
Perhaps that’s why I felt whimsical enough to detour to the park on the way home. Me and half the neighbourhood, apparently. The crowds were nice, though. Everyone felt united in their rejection of winter, in their insistence of bathing in the sunshine for as long as it rained down on us.

Even more whimsical — had a smoke. Stupid pen was acting up again, but I managed to get it working enough for a toke or two. Basking in the sun, surrounded by the noise of a city park, feeling the sun’s heat on my eyelids and then watching the skies turn from bright blue to dappled red and orange to deep navy was sublime. Is that a pretentious word? It’s fitting.
When the sunset and weed were finished I headed home. I took the usual route from my usual spot in the central plaza: southwest past the skate ramp, around the shuttered public toilets, down the path that goes past the volleyball courts — packed, as usual, with the local Latino population, some playing but most watching, drinking, or selling food. Avoid the tempting smells and make it to the corner exit. From there, straight shot home.

The streets were as busy as the park. Monday or not, some folks were already in costume. Perhaps they wanted to take advantage of the heat to wear their most revealing costumes. I’m not complaining.

Seeing these reminded me of the office competition. I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired, but it would probably be embarrassing to turn up with nothing. Or, at the very least, detrimental to my career prospects.
At the final corner of my walk, where I turn left to walk the final few dozen yards to home, a voice shouted down from the sky.

“What’re you wearing for Halloween?”
At first, I ignored it. Big city etiquette and all that.
“Hey! You!”
At this point I grew concerned. There were plenty of people around, but some of them were looking up and the voice was still shouting.
“Guy with the bags!”
Phew. I had just one bag — my trusty tote. Very much singular. Still, I slowed and looked up. “What’re you going as for Halloween?”
Eventually I figured it out. The voice belonged to one of three young guys sitting on the roof of the four-storey building on the corner at which I turn. I looked back down and around, for the subject of their questioning.
“A clown,” shouted a bearded man across the road. He indeed had three bags, one in each hand and one backpack. “What about you?”
No response. I looked back up; the guys were whispering to themselves. One laughed.
Was that awkward? The bearded man maybe thought so, as he hesitated before giving up and continuing on.
By this point, I had fully stopped. Embarrassed, I started walking again, fast, eyes locked on the ground until I made it to my door.
The rest of the evening was rote. Made salmon and rice for dinner. Meant to read more of my book, or maybe watch a film, but fucked around on my phone until it was past time to go to bed. Roommate 2 had the air con on again, and I honestly don’t blame him. Was almost tempted myself.

Thursday, October 29

Overslept today. Fucking idiot. Rushed out without eating breakfast. Even leaving just a little bit later, the sun felt that much brighter, and I started sweating that much sooner.
Maybe it was because of the rush, but as I hustled round the corner, I subconsciously found myself looking upward. And there they were. I was already facing forward again by the time my mind processed what it had just seen. Double-take. There they were. The three guys, sitting on the edge of the roof, their legs dangling down. There again. Still there? I wasn’t sure.

That second look killed me. I’m sure they all saw it. But I kept walking, and they didn’t call out after me.
It took the entire train ride to calm myself down. I was rattled, for sure. What were those three assholes doing up there? They didn’t seem to be kids, but admittedly I hadn’t examined them enough to be able to tell. Luckily, the train ride itself was without incident. The car smelled a little, but it would have been weird if it didn’t.

Jane was on top form again today. First thing out of her mouth was a complaint. I hadn’t even said anything when she started. No “good morning,” no “hello,” no “how are you.” Or maybe

there was; I wasn’t really listening. To me, she went straight into the latest egregious insult she had suffered at the hands of my hero, her ex. I nodded along, daydreaming, until she was called away by Kissass Matthew. He’s handy every now and then.
The morning dragged on. It was unbearable. The building wouldn’t turn the aircon back on, so we were all sweating like pigs. Jane refused to take her sweater off, though. At lunch, Michael made a great observation: It was the same jumper as she’d worn the day before. He recognized it because of the burnt umber color (his words) and a little hole in the armpit. I would accuse him of perversion, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t swing that way. Regardless, it made me feel even sorrier for Jane’s ex. At least he was out now.

I considered telling Michael about the three guys on the roof, but held back. It wasn’t that interesting, after all, in the grand scheme of things. I didn’t want to sound dull. Or provincial. Rest of work rote. Got out before Jane, so escaped the end of day episode. 5:02 — best in a while.

Date never confirmed, so I decided to just go straight home and relax. I didn’t bother walking through the park. It was still nice out, as nice as yesterday, and I could hear the bustle echoing out from inside the hedged boundaries, but preferred to keep to the edges, just outside, in the flow of people going past but not through.

Of course, that route still led me to the final corner. I was ready this time. My eyes were angled upwards at least two blocks before the building itself. And they were there alright. Six legs dangling. The one closest to me kept kicking his feet. Could they be teenagers?
“Hey!”

No, that voice was too developed. I couldn’t tell which of the three it belonged to from a block away, but by the time it spoke up again I had crossed the street — it was the figure in the middle. He, like the other two, was dressed in baggy jeans and a baggier t shirt. Unlike the other two, he had a baseball cap as well. And a hint of facial hair, actually.

“Hey! Girl in green!”
A girl on the opposite side of the street paused, looked up. She took out an earbud. Her overalls were a dark forest green. Definitely thrifted. Michael would know, anyway.
“What are you going as for Halloween?”
“Oh my God! One of the thumbs from spy kids!” the lady grinned. It was cute how excited she was to say that. I looked up what she meant, too, later — kind of like a big toe. Weird, but maybe in an attractive way?
It really set the boys off, that’s for sure. The two on the outside were laughing so hard they leaned into the lap of the middle one, who threw his head up, mouth wide, and then collapsed backwards onto to roof. I could see his legs kicking. His friends leaned in further, heads practically touching. It was all rather homoerotic, honestly.
In any case, it took a few seconds for the girl’s smile to turn uncertain. She eventually realised she wasn’t getting anything else and set off again, earbud back in.
I had watched this whole thing from behind a mostly leafless and scrawny city tree. The trees presence in between myself and the boys was like an invisible wall dividing the stage from the seating. I felt safe, that is, to really examine them.
From my perv-sition — really, it was so intimate, the way they were almost holding each other but not quite because it was just that laughter that’s so intense it’s like a seizure — I watched the three boys. The middle was definitely the leader. His two lackeys, I couldn’t quite place.

They all looked too similar. Their similarity resisted categorisation into societal roles. I again thought of Michael, that he would’ve been able to parse them.
After a few minutes, I suddenly became aware that there were other people behind the tree. They might be watching me. Analysing me. The fuck is that weird perv doing, staring up at the building, at those teenage boys...

No. Overthinking, of course, but I started and walked off as if nothing was wrong. In fact, I had almost convinced myself of this fact when a voice broke into and broke apart my delusion. “Hey!”
The sound stilled me instantly, painfully. I didn’t want to believe. My breath caught.

“Yeah, you!”
Fuck.
“Guy with the sweaty back!”
Really? I flinched and turned upward. Hopefully it looked at least a little defiant. It was the middle one talking again. The guy on his right, the one kicking his feet, was snickering. Bastard. The kissass, then.
“What are you going as for Halloween?”
My stomach sank. I looked around, frantic, searching for help. I was on the wrong side of the invisible wall. Some of the audience members were smiling. Expectantly?
“What’s your costume?”
The kissass had stopped giggling. Even he seemed to be waiting for my response. I savaged myself for not thinking about it during work. Why didn’t I think of something clever? Shit. My mind was totally blank. The smiles of some audience members were fading. Shit!
“Angel,” I said. Angel? Where did that come from? Honestly, I have no idea. Regardless, I’d said it, and loudly, too. There was no going back.
“Angel!” That was the other lackey, the one that hadn’t said anything yet. His voice was shockingly deep. It reverberated. To me, then, the entire street fell silent. All the normal sounds of the city faded away, and their absence was so much louder than I thought possible. It rang. I heard nothing but a rushing sound in the inside of my ears.
“Fly up here, angel boy,” the ringleader called down, sing-song. All three burst out laughing. Flustered, I hustled away to safety. Fucking gargoyles.

Friday, October 30

Couldn’t sleep last night. Spent the evening as if in a dream, staring at a rotating cast of screens (including the window and wall) without really seeing anything. Music smudging into the sound of distant surround-sound laughter.
Sleep — actual sleep — came just before my alarm. I rose under the shadow of a boulder on the slope above me. Or, rather, three shadows.

They were there, of course.
“Good morning, angel!” The ringleader called out. I flinched, but only slightly. “Come back up to heaven!”
Part of me wondered if they were actually offering something. Was it really just catcalling, jeering? They hadn’t made the offer to any other passers by.

I kept walking. Didn’t even look up. The three voices let out a chorus of disappointed boos upon realising I wasn’t stopping.
Maybe it was exhaustion, but I felt a faint heat in my chest. Sitting on the train, the morning sun streaming through the window as we passed over the bridge and basking my face in warmth, a part of me wondered if I was blushing.

Strange things happen to the sleep deprived. I drifted on the train. Swayed.
Work was hellish. The high point was too early: walking in, thunderous, and silencing Jane’s vocal assault with a raised palm. Talk to the hand, bitch, because the angel ain’t listening.
Time dragged. It was unbearable. The screen in front of me drifted in and out of focus. My eyes were dry. Every minor inconvenience made tears well.
Michael asked me if I’d slept in my shirt at lunch, in front of half the office, and I turned beet red and choked on my food. Jane — fucking — she was looking down her nose at me. Her brow was furrowed.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. Why was she looking at me like that? Someone laughed awkwardly.
Things only got worse from there. I forgot to reply to messages. Zoned out during a meeting. At one point, about an hour from the end, I sensed a presence behind me and turned around to find Boss Matthew and Jane. That bitch was standing behind him, looking at me like a little sibling. Her face was a perfect mask of concern.
It took me a moment to realise that Boss Matthew’s face looked the same. He was talking to me. He was asking if everything was alright. He suggested I go home early, let him know if I needed help with anything.
I saw myself as if from behind, from inside my hollowed, dry eyes, slouching in my chair, staring at Boss Matthew, not comprehending that he had, in fact, finished his statement, that he and Jane’s furrowed brows had shifted from being displays of concern to actual unsure worry as the silence became undeniably unusual — further and further beyond the acceptable limit for considering how to respond. Especially for someone like myself.
Finally, Jane spoke. She said that herself and some others had noticed I seemed stressed. That she was here if I needed someone to talk to. The notion was so absurd, so ridiculously fake and contrived, that I was brought back into myself and couldn’t contain a laugh.
“Is something funny?” Boss Matthew asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “No— I mean, just, I’m fine. I slept terribly last night, that’s all. Sorry.”
“Oh,” Jane said. Her voice dripped. “I have terrible insomnia. It’s the worst.”
“I don’t have insomnia.”
“Regardless,” Boss Matthew said. “Feel free to take the rest of the day off. Go for a walk or something. Get yourself rested up for the weekend. “
“No,” I said, “I really don’t need to leave early. I promise. I’m OK. I’m fine.”
Boss Matthew wanted to look at Jane. I could sense it.
“It’s not an offer,” he said. His smile was strained. “Get outta here. Enjoy your weekend. See you on Monday.”
He gave me a thumbs up and walked away. Jane gave me a smirk as she followed behind. Fucking bitch. Enjoy your lonely weekend.

Eventually, I realised there really was no choice. If I left, it would be accepting defeat, allowing Jane to undermine me, to portray me as sickly. The weak and injured. But staying may well make me look even crazier. It could even annoy Boss Matthew.
I tried to leave without anyone noticing. Eyes followed me as I walked, with coat and tote, through the office. The elevator was empty. So close — then in the lobby was the lanky figure of Asskisser Matthew.

“Hey!” he said, by the front doors. “Getting out early?” “Yeah,” I said. “You?”
“I wish. Just waiting for a visitor.”
“Who?”

“Some friend of Matthew’s.”
“Oh.”
“A VIP, I guess. Matthew asked me to meet them here.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not supposed to tell anyone their name. Or, I might say, names.” Asskisser Matthew winked. “Names?”
“Yes. Names. Three of them, actually.”
“Three?”
“That’s what Matthew said. He referred to them as a unit, sort of — like they could be considered a group or something. My top theory is that they’re tennis buddies.”
“Three of them?”
“Maybe one is his doubles partner and the other pair their usual opponents. Or they just mix and match when they play.”
“There’s three friends?”
“I mean, I’m just guessing if they’re friends. Don’t take that as fact. And you didn’t hear it from me.”
“But there’s three of them?”
“What?” Matthew’s smile faded.
“What part of that did you not hear?” I said a little too loudly. What was his problem? Besides being a brown nose.
“Woah,” Matthew said, raising his hands. “No need to get angry.”
“I’m not angry,” I said. “I’m just trying to ask you a question.”
“Like I said, Matthew told me to meet a group of three people here. Everything else is just me guessing.”
What assholes wanted to meet on a Friday afternoon?
“I can’t imagine Matthew has three business partners or close friends that he hasn’t met in the office yet. At least, unless I’m completely missing some people.”
Is that connected to why Boss Matthew sent me home?
“Anyway, I’m dying to know who these people are. Sorry, nervous chatter. You’re heading out, right?”
Asshole. I nodded and walked out. The whole office can go to hell.
The streets were less busy than usual. Did an hour make that much difference? It felt like a different world. The sun beat down mercilessly. By the time I got to the train station, I was drenched with sweat. My head pounded. My tongue swelled in my mouth.

The train was also emptier than usual. I got a seat. Somehow, I woke up just before my stop. By this point I was utterly on autopilot. Had it ever been this hot at Halloween? The park seemed unbearable. I didn’t even have the presence of mind, or willpower, perhaps, to stick to the shade.

“Look who it is!”
The voice from above failed to stir me. It barely stilled me. I looked up. The three figures were silhouetted against the light blue sky, legs dangling off the edge of the building, four stories above me. The sun was below the building; still, my eyes narrowed, blinded by the brightness of the sky.
“Our angel has returned!”
The ringleader was calling down to me. Unable to formulate a response, I just stared up at the three of them.
“Come up! We’ve got cold drinks.”
That prompted a shiver. I suddenly became aware of my tongue, the fuzz in my throat, the sweat pouring down the sides of my face. The shirt stuck to my back.
“C’mon,” the ringleader wheedled. “The view’s to die for.”
I looked around. The street was empty. Not figuratively. Literally no one was in sight, at least outside. Who knows what eyes watched from behind blinds or inside bars, but I couldn’t see them; they were on the other side of the invisible wall, which, relievedly one-sided, settled my nerves and seemed to grant me the permission to enter that the ringleader alone couldn’t.
Well, he wasn’t my boss. If I wanted to go see what this whole thing was about, I could. Why not?
The door directly below the trio was nondescript. It swung open with a push. I stepped into a lobby functionally the same as every other in the city. White walls guided me past post boxes, through an internal door, and up to a set of stairs. The door to the downstairs apartment stood off to the right. I started climbing.
At the top floor, the stairs became slightly smaller, a little less stable. These final stairs squealed under my feet. I slowed down, holding the bannister tighter than before.
The door to the roof was squat and heavy. It was propped open by a block of concrete. I heaved it open with my shoulder and stepped out onto the roof.
The light hit me first, then the heat. My arm wasn’t fast enough at covering my eyes to prevent a sharp pain. The exposed skin of my hands, face, and neck prickled under the harsh sunlight, rays directed straight at me — the sun itself being low in the sky. They were aimed at me with intention. Malicious. I was unprotected. I shrunk down.
Slowly I straightened up and pulled my arm back, shading my eyes and squinting to block out as much light as possible while still seeing. The roof was bare. A few cigarette butts lay scattered. In the center was a box-like protrusion, containing a vent or something of the sort. To my left, on the far side, sat the trio. Their backs faced me. They were sitting on the slight wall ringing the edge of the roof. I tried reading the brands of their underpants, the bands visible over sagging jeans.
I walked over to them, past the vent. They seemed to be watching the street in silence. Each was wearing the same combination of shirt and jeans. The ringleader had his hat on. He twisted around as I drew nearer, perhaps hearing my shoes scrape the rough roofing material.

“Oh, I’m in heaven!” The ringleader exclaimed upon seeing me. How he was not burnt — how any of them were able to sit all day up here, exposed as if on a stove top to the sunlight, without burning, baffled me. My neck already had that deep-heat feeling that presaged sunburn.
“We’re in heaven, boys.” The other two had twisted round and were grinning at me. I blinked, sweat stinging my eyes.
“C’mere,” the ringleader said, beckoning me over. “There’s space. You’re actually a little early.” “The view is insane,” said the lackey on the left. The other one grunted in assent.
I stepped up to the trio, unsure which side to take. The leader gestured to my left, and I stepped up onto the ledge.
It was a long way down. My breath caught. Looking was a mistake. Before I could panic, a hand grabbed mine. The lackey was holding my hand, while the ringleader motioned for me to sit. I did, gingerly, leaning on the lackey’s hand to steady myself.
Once I was sat, secure, I allowed myself to look down again. My legs dangled. Below them stretched the wall of the building. Window, wall, window, wall, window, wall... the pattern, continuing downward and downward, farther than had seemed possible from the ground, farther than I imagine the actual length to be, ending on a mass of unforgiving grey concrete. A rat scurried across. I followed it as it darted out from the shadow of the building, past the black bags of trash sagging along the kerb, under a car — would it reappear? — yes, across the road, over the painted line in the middle, into the opposite lane and —
“Bad choice.” At that moment, as the henchman on the other side of the group said in his gravel baritone, an SUV sped past, its right tire flattening the rat in an instant. The rat burst. Blood splattered out on the road. In the blood, and the viscera, and the skin, were left tire marks, jagged lines stamped into the mess.
“Unlucky,” the lackey next to me said.
“No,” the henchman said. “Bad choice.”
“Fair,” the lackey conceded.
The ringleader shushed them. That SUV had appeared out of nowhere. As its noise faded away, the street returned to silence. It hardened again, baking in the heat. The air above the splat shimmered.
“That’s gonna stink,” the lackey next to me said. The ringleader shushed him, again.
By now, the sun was touching the tops of the buildings on the horizon. Its heat was still immense — if anything, the fact it was directly in line with our faces made it all the more threatening.
“Here we go,” the ringleader whispered. “Don’t blink.”
My eyes were too dry to close. They couldn’t focus on anything. The vista was blurred, smudged, as if through frosted glass. As the sun lowered, the sky reddened. Waves of pink and orange pulsed outward from the sun, which was half visible, then just a sliver, then gone.
None of these changes happened in real time. The sun didn’t seem to be moving. But it was all done quite suddenly. The blaze of dark red and orange faded into purple and then a wine dark night sky two months too late for summer.
I blinked. Life had restarted. The street was bustling. Cars and bikes passed. Chatter filled the air, drifting up from below. In the distance, music and shouts from the park.
“Not bad,” the ringleader said.
“My boy Angel loved that shit,” the lackey next to me said.

“Obviously,” the ringleader said, smiling at me. “How you feeling, gorgeous?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but no sound came out. My throat caught, coughed. I cleared it and tried again. Said something complementary. Can’t remember what.
The trio continued conversing for a while. Eventually, at some unseen signal, they stopped and stood. I scrambled to my feet too, stepping down from the ledge onto the roof with some relief. “No, no,” the ringleader said, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Please, sit down. Relax. You’re our guest. We just need to set something up for tonight.”
I let him push me back down onto the ledge. The trio walked along the roof to the door and disappeared inside. I waited for a while, but when it seemed like they weren’t coming back soon, span around to watch the street. My feet dangled in the air.
Below them streamed people. Few individuals. Lines, groups, crowds, all passing one way or another. Cars sped past, stopped, started, honked in lines of traffic. Bicycles, scooters, mopeds, skateboards, even one of those single-wheel electric segway-like gadgets. The man riding that had a thick helmet on.
The night deepened and I found myself zoned out. Time stretched and swayed. A star appeared off to the right. The sky glowed faintly from the light of the city below, stretched out in front of me.
I’m not sure how much time passed before the trio returned, but when they did it was late. The street was once again mostly empty. A food truck off to the left was still running, though only one person sat on the bench near it, finishing something in a plastic container. The shops along the street were all shut, except for those that stayed open late into or throughout the night. The noise of bars drifted along the road and up to the roof from different points up and down the streets.
“Angel!” The ringleader’s voice broke my reverie. I twisted to see him walking toward me. “How you doing?”
I smiled, but before I could respond I noticed the two others behind him, back by the door. They were carrying something between them, a big black bag that sagged in the middle. The lackey in the front, the one that had sat next to me, hoisted his end of the bag onto the vent in the center of the roof, and the henchman followed suit with his end.
Seeing the direction of my gaze, the ringleader turned to look at his boys, then back at me. His smile had widened.
“We’re almost ready. C’mon, come over here. You don’t wanna miss this.”
He proffered a hand, which I accepted, allowing myself to be hoisted up to my feet and off the ledge. We walked over to the vent and joined the other two. The four of us stood around the vent, one on each side. At the front, on the side facing the road, stood the ringleader. I was opposite.
“Alright,” the ringleader said, looking at each of us in turn. “Boys, you know the drill. But let me explain to our guest.” All three turned to me. Their faces were serious. Faintly lit from the street light pollution, they hovered against the dark night sky. I couldn’t see the moon.
“Angel,” the ringleader continued, “you don’t need to know much for tonight. You’ll pick it up as we go.”
“It’s pretty obvious,” the lackey said.

“Let me finish,” the ringleader said. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. Basically, we’re just gonna smoke a little — you smoke, right? — ok, good, so we smoke a little, we maybe drink a little, play a little music, you know, the usual — we have a little bit of fun up here.”
I apparently still looked confused, because after a pause, he continued.

“You’ll see. Isn’t it nice up here?”
“Wait until a breeze comes,” the deep-voiced henchman said.
“Right, the breeze. And it’s so nice and warm. You don’t need a sweater or nothing. We can just chill and party a little all through the night.”
“If you see anyone walking past you think we’d wanna see,” the lackey said, smirking, “shout it out.”
“Don’t be selfish,” the ringleader said to me. “We share up here.”
At that, he pulled out a joint from his jeans, straightened it out, and passed it to the deep-voiced henchman. He then pulled out a lighter from his other pocket. The henchman held up the joint to the ringleader’s lips, and soon it was lit and being passed around.
It didn’t smell like normal weed. At least, not like the weed Michael gave me sometimes. I couldn’t tell what the difference was, and it tasted as bad as always, so I just focused on trying not to cough. The drink I was offered to whet my throat burned instead. While I choked it down, the lackey turned on a speaker and started playing music. I didn’t recognise the language — should have assumed they were some ethnicity — nor the beat. It was a strange, slightly irregular rhythm. As the weed and the drink set in, both warming me from the inside, my head grew hot and heavy, and the strange rhythm began to pull me back and forth, making me sway, though my body stayed perfectly still. Actually, I couldn’t move. My eyes were fixed on the black bag lying on the vent. It was moving. Melting. No, just moving.
The bag was moving.
“Look at that,” the ringleader said. “Let’s go.”
The trio worked to open the bag, pulling the zip all the way around and pulling back the top flap. Whatever was inside was obscured by bubble wrap and newspaper. The packing swayed. There was no wind.
Six hand pulled at the material. It rustled as they threw it aside. Underneath was some kind of — a single item, a figure, a recognisable shape. My brain understood it was looking at a face. A body. A human body that was moving, wriggling lethargically, straining against lengths of rope wrapped around it from head to toe. It was bound up it rope.
As I continued to process this image, this body, the trio finished unpacking it and laid it out flat on the vent. The body was smaller than any of us. Under the rope it wore jeans and a jumper. Its face was covered in a black mask, but it had long hair. A woman.
The woman squirmed against the rope. Her throat pulsed, but no sound made it out of whatever blocked her mouth — or through the mask.
I stood still. Frozen. The bound woman contorted, straining against the rope.
The trio were motionless. They stood, one on each side, staring down at the woman. The two on either side of me had faint smiles on their faces, but the ringleader’s was serious, or blank, anyway. He watched as the woman struggled. At one point, she managed to shuffle over to the edge of the vent, which prompted the lackey nearest her to thump her on the forehead, stilling her. He pushed her body back into the middle of the black platform. Her chest rose and fell irregularly. In the dim light I saw a wet patch grow around her crotch.

The music grew louder. I hadn’t smoked or drank any more since the bag was opened, but their effects kept compounding. I retreated further and further into myself. My body shrank away as I rose up into the sky above the roof. The four of us stood around the body, which lay on the top of the platform-like box hiding the vent. We stood on the roof, high above the street.

Could people passing by not hear the music? It was deafening. Voice ululated. Metallic grinding pierced through the thumping rhythm, which ebbed and flowed, but in a circular, reinforcing, tidal sequence, with the effect of pushing me further and further into myself, raising me higher and higher on a pillar of hot air.

I stretched from the roof to the ceiling. My roots grew hard around the woman’s ankles and wrists. In the sky my eyes beamed down, illuminating her prostrate form. Three shadows fell over her.
A breeze hit my face. I was back. The cool wind caressed my cheeks. Sweat dried. My nose cleared. The chill air rushed down my throat and soothed my stomach. I looked again at the woman. She was still breathing. The music was so loud.

“Almost time,” the ringleader said. I could hear him easily over the deafening music.
I found myself grinning. Would he take out a knife and plunge it into her heart? Was he waiting for the first turn at her, one to be followed three times? I felt a pressure in my groin. My heart beat faster.
In front of me, on the platform, the bound woman began wriggling again. Some sixth sense, an unearthed prey drive, had been triggered. I could smell her fear. She stunk. Did we? Could she smell my eagerness, our excitement? Our intent?
The ringleader was watching me. His face was still angled down, at the woman, but he was looking up past his brow at me, his mouth fixed in a tight smile. I saw in his eyes the woman’s body, naked, burnt from the rope, blood oozing from dozens of deep lacerations, bruised and welted and red and purple and black and still barely breathing under the black mask.
The ringleader shook his head. He looked up at me.
“Easy,” he said. “Just wait.”
I waited. At first, it was unclear what we were waiting for. The woman remained bound, and clothed. She struggled against the ropes occasionally. The music played. I could never tell when one song ended and another began — if that ever occurred. But it must have, because eventually I noticed the sky was no longer black. Gradually, it lightened.
“Here we go,” the ringleader said under his breath.
At this, the music surged, grew frantic. Thousands of voices chanted from every direction — from below, on the street, a chorus of chants rose up around us.
I ran over to the ledge. The street was empty. The first light of dawn broke on the empty street. It glinted on the blood splatter in the road.
Still the voices rang in my ears. The music was impossibly loud. Drums, chants, thundering bass. I turned back to the roof and retook my place.
The pellucid sky lightened further. Soon the sun would breach the horizon. I stared past the ringleader, growing anxious in anticipation. It felt as though we were losing our chance. As if the sun would mark the end of the night, the end of a time when we could do what I was realising had just been fantasy.
The ringleader shook his head again. I looked back down at the woman. In the predawn light, she looked a lot larger. Not fat, but human-sized. Normal-sized.

As the light intensified, the ringleader stretched his arms above his head and reached down toward the woman. My breath caught. The ringleader grasped the mask and began to pull it away from the woman’s face.
The moment he pulled the mask away, the sun appeared behind him, streaming past his now silhouetted figure and blinding me again. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, wiped away tears. When I could see again, the mask was gone. At first, I couldn’t make out the face. It was indistinct. The woman’s eyes were shut tight against the harsh light. Her mouth was open though. She panted. Something about the woman’s face was strange to me. As the sun continued to rise, its light intensifying, I stared at the woman’s face, watching as the shadows moved, shifting her features from one almost-recognisable compilation to another. Sweat beads formed along her upper lip and forehead. Soon, it dripped down the sides of her face. My nose wrinkled; I recalled the wet patch on her groin.

As the sun continued to rise, the woman began to steam. Plumes of steam rose from her face. Each breath shot it out, up into the sky. Her throat convulsed. She rasped in the hot dry air. The breeze had already passed.
Sunlight beat down on her as if focused by glass. I watched, fascinated, as her jumper began to smoke. A small hole began to form where the light was most concentrated. It grew slowly at first, then the jumper burst into flames.

The woman screamed. I stepped back, face fixed on her body. The flames spread quickly. As they consumed her clothes, the woman’s face began to redden. It flushed bright, then began to peel. Skin flaked and curled. It burned. Soon the woman was engulfed in flames. Her clothes burned hot. They turned into smoke and ash, which settled around her body, which was contorted in pain. The woman screamed. Her scream was cut off with a gurgle as her throat bubbled. In the glare of the sunlight the woman’s skin melted, flames flaring up and subsiding in waves as things burned and then became too hot to keep burning.

I stood on the roof of the building, sweating in the morning sunlight, as the woman in front of me melted and burned. The ropes binding her had lasted only a little longer than her clothes. She shrivelled and shrank. Skin, muscles, organs — all melted and shimmering in the heat, sloughing off bone and boiling away into a rising plume of smoke-steam that blocked my view of the ringleader. He was a shadow on the other side of the smoke, backlit by the ball of fire in the sky.

It was only as the woman’s face melted off the skull that I understood who it had been. Jane. The woman had been Jane.
I watched as Jane was subsumed into fire, smoke, ash. Eventually, all that was left was the charred remains of what couldn’t burnt. It wasn’t even skeletal. No aspect of its shape implied a human origin. It was barely biological.

The four of us stood around the blackened bits in silence. Smoke drifted up out of the remains for some time. The sun shifted higher in the sky. I sweated.
At around noon, the ringleader suddenly straightened. Cued, the other two started into action. The henchman used his hands to sweep the charcoal off the platform and onto the roof. He then kicked it, dispersing it. Each kick burst in a blush of ash, much of which dissipated into the air. Bits rolled into the corners of the roof. Some flew off the side. The lackey picked up the now silent speaker, empty bottle of drink, and carried them inside. He was followed by the henchman. The ringleader stayed put, looking at me.

“So, Angel,” he said. “Not bad, right?”
I swallowed.
“You see what I meant? At the start?” The ringleader wasn’t blinking. He was smiling, staring at me.
“I said we like to have a little fun up here. I’m glad you came.” He shifted to look past me, toward the street and the city view. “I guess you need to get going. You should come back tonight. It’ll be even better.”
At that, he turned and walked to the door. He paused in the doorway and looked back at me. “You will come, Angel? You’ll come tonight?”
I nodded. He smiled and walked out of sight. For a while I stood there in silence. I looked around the roof, searching for any bits of the burned woman. The black ash blended into the roof.
Had no one heard? I went to the ledge and leaned over, looking down. People bustled back and forth. No one looked up. No sirens rang. Nothing.
We were all standing in the sunlight — me significantly closer — and continuing as if it had not just burnt away one of our own. Right then, I had seen it, the same sun melting flesh off bone and blackening that bone to dust.
Hadn’t I? The roof looked the same as before. I walked around it in circles, eyes searching the bumpy black surface. Bits lay here and there. Bits of ash, of dust. Of charred bone? Singed fabric?
After some time, I too walked to the door and down the stairs. The street somehow seemed significantly cooler than up on the roof. I felt like I could breathe twice as deep. At first, I didn’t know what to do. Autopilot took me to my home.
I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

Saturday, 31 October

I couldn’t sleep. The day was too bright. Even with the blind closed the sunlight lit up my room and turned my closed eyelids orange.
My room is stuffy and hot. I think I will go back to the roof.