Ken Doyle
The disappearance of a mistress
Ken reaches out his hand shakily aiming to get a grip of the large wooden doors which guard the church interiors. He pulls back and exhales, reaching instead for a small flask in his tote bag. He takes a swig of his drink and looks back over his shoulder. He sees the quiet street before him and whispers to himself Good Riddance you ugly strip of car path and bus traffic.
Ken successfully opens the church doors and gently closes them behind him. He waltzes down the holy aisle confidently and keeps his eyes forward, avoiding being distracted by the gimcrack window finishings and the large cream coloured columns which heighten the space. At the end of the aisle is a raised platform, where bride and groom are wed, where followers become a part of the parish pastoral council, where sins are forgiven, where Eucharist celebrations are held, where babies are doused in holy water and held up like an offering to the invisible man who commands all these actions, where the dead are lain to rest and taken by the man to be transmogrified into angels in the sky.
But Ken isn’t here for any of that. He has no desire to convert from atheist, as he was raised, and knows that no single moment of proselytizing will change his mind.
Ken meets a lanky man in the second pew on the right side of the room, facing the platform and on the far edge of the bench.
“I can smell the rye on your breath, Ken.”
“Yeah and what else is new? I have what you need, do you have what I asked for?”
The man doesn’t reply. He sits there unmovable and closes his eyes gently, fluttering his eyelashes delicately up and down shielding the light from his pupils and moistening his corneas with each movement. The man places his hands on his lap and rubs his jeans full of palmy sweat. As he bows his head collapses and his neck snaps, his hands fall from his thighs and slip limply palm faced onto the dry wood of the pew, his body crumples lifelessly and slumps down into a deflated position half on the pew and half on the floor of the church.
“Look man I didn’t give up my life for any of these games you might be playing. Do you have my ticket or what?“
Ken rises angrily, unfazed by what he has just witnessed he rolls his eyes, sighs, and walks toward the hollow body where a young mans soul used to live. Ken reaches into the pockets of the mans jacket and pulls out a boarding pass from YUL to HNL for March 5th 2019. In the other pocket he finds a note and removes it from the pocket, holding it up to his ageing eyes beginning to walk away from the body.
I know what you did JP. I found the briefs, and at first I had no doubt it my mind that they were Kens, but then I remembered that Ken and I are brothers, he would never screw me over like you did. So now, JP, since you’ve stolen my family from me, and ruined my relationship, I write this note to you as a warning, that if you don’t end this soon, I will come for you, I will find you in the print shop, at the tiny desk Ken and I built for you, hell I’ll find Ken and get him involved too, I will find you and I will end you. So, who will it be JP, me or you?
Ken takes the note and puts it in his mouth, he reaches into his bag to grab his flask and douses his tongue and cheeks full of rye. Chewing quickly on the ink stained paper, pieces disintegrating in his mouth, he swallows and sucks back the pain passing through his esophagus.
On the plane to Hawaii on March 5th Ken sheds a tear while watching the clouds fall over the volcanoes and the sky turn from black to blue. He holds a 2HB in his left hand and writes in a small notebook open on the tray unfolded in front of him.
I’m sorry Martin.