SHORT-STORY: BESTSELLERS FROM HELL

 By Elisha Oluyemi

            

     Image by Blogger Priest

BESTSELLERS FROM HELL

There are tales, and there are tales. 

The greatest ones are lent by

 imaginations baked in darkness

and a bit of light.

—Anonymous

Karim thought it crazy when I told him the best way to solve a problem is to create another.

     "Writing too many mystery fictions seems to have drained your sanity," he had replied, lips parted as if reacting to a smear of poop. He doesn't think, that jerk. He even guffawed when I suggested that he hit his older son to serve as warning to the younger. But it's this simple and pragmatic, just as the rest of the world would see it:

     Your son's committed an offence and you gotta punish him. First, you barge into his room with the younger one behind you. You can lock the door to show them there's no way out. The boy slowly rises from the bed or desk or piano and you rush at him and whack his face a couple times. At that point, you flit back an angry glance to the cowering one behind you. They've both been bothersome, but this would teach them a lesson. And it would ease you the burden of always having to raise your voice or fist. Your rushing at him initially creates a problem in his heart, flushing his face so hard that it sends a signal that triggers fear in the mind of his siblings. The fear you've created is a problem. But it has solved the problem of you having to be stressed always. 

     It's that simple. It's that pragmatic. And all sane parents do that. Except Karim. 

     He stares at me as I sit legs crossed on a sofa in his living room. His athletic legs are crossed as well. We both took a week off from work—he to spend more time with his family and I to embark on a writing retreat. But I've now taken a day off the retreat to experience the entire goings-on in his apartment. It's an effective therapy for my writer's block. For in Karim's apartment, there are many story ideas. Great, riveting ideas for any thriller. 

     "Nothing will happen today, Jims," he says, shaking his head and waving a finger.

     I got the idea for my short family thriller published last year by The Paris Review. The story portrays a father—Karim, in fact—who locks out his only daughter to protect himself and his sons from an irate mob who are struggling to break into his house. When the frenzy dies down, he pulls at the door, only to find his daughter's dead weight pushing the door against him. Her last breath was a jagged and bloody gasp loud enough to echo in the deathly silence. I was hiding behind one of Karim's sofa at that time, my heart between my teeth. But this terror won me the Editor's Choice. Even the great Faine Thriller Fiction Award.

     "You won't take a thing, will you? Some booze?" Karim says, hoisting a wine glass.

     "I'm satisfied, man. I need to be clear-headed enough to capture all that's coming."

     "That is if they ever comes, you piss!"

     "'If' means probability. Probability means hope."

     "Shit yourself, man! Go on. Hope all you can." He grabs a scatter-cushion and hurls it at me, cursing. "You'll never get into my house after today."

     I laugh, catching the pillow and hurling it back at him. "Today is enough for me. As long as eleven fifty-nine still pends, huh."

     A yelp struck through the living room. Karim shoots a glance into the corridor and shouts. "Timi, Shola! What's going on?"

     No response from the children's room.

     The glance flits back, his palm pressing the air against me. "Stay where you are." 

     But do I just sit here and rue my chances of scoring another thriller trophy? "Oh, Karim, you don't know if I'll be able to help."

     "I don't need your help!" He clenches his fist. "Just stay where you are."

     "Then quickly go— It might be urgent."

     He scuttles behind a settee, towards the corridor. But the sight he wants to keep from me seems to crave the sensation my story is bound to trigger. For the children's room door pushes open and a young boy staggers out, a palm clamped to the side of his head, bloody drizzles dampening his yellow polo. Another boy—the older one,  Timi—stands by the door, athletic like his dad, owl-eyed, jaws slacked, eyes bulging, lips quivering, probably meaning, Oh no, Dad. I never meant to break my little brother's head. I never meant to… 

     The wounded little brother staggers as though his legs were noodles. He crashes into Karim's arms—instead of the hard ceramic floor—his head sputtering blood against Karim's shirt. One would think father and son have been scourged by this psychopath of a eldest son.

     And the psychopath? He doesn't move an inch. He looks terrified—with the slacked jaws and shaky lips and bulgy eyes. And maybe he doesn't believe it—the fact that he has spilled the blood of his little brother. His eyes are brimming against the bloody duo, feasting on them—the father now tearing his shirt to wrap around his wounded son's head. But the victim is now immobile, like the calm before a storm. 

     And the killer's probably thinking, Would little brother die? He's lost so much blood already. Wouldn't that be great? Daddy killed Lola last year to protect us. Today I killed little brother because he was too bothersome. Only little brother has lost out. He's not as lucky as us. He never killed anyone. 

     Till now I didn't notice the hammer he latches onto. 

     "Motherfucker!" Karim growls at me, stressing the syllables. "Will you just stay there without lending a hand. You're worse than Ted Bundy!"      

     "You should be saying that to your goddamn son standing there like a vulture. And speaking of Bundy—"

     "Oh, shut it and get me some iodine."

     "And where do I find it?"

     "First aid box hanging by the main door."

     "You got a great place to hide a saviour."

     I hurry to retrieve the kit. Hurry to meet the bloody duo. I frown at the grisly fracture bleeding blood and life and crouch beside them and stick out two fingers across the son's neck to check his pulse. Karim did this last year when Lola's dead weight pushed back the door. 

     He repeats what I just did, his eyes digging into mine, his lips parted as if to mutter a curse. Or a scream. He sits on the ground, the boy across his thighs. He jerks him, calling, "Shola, Shola!" Shola doesn't answer. He has been stopped from answering right from the time the hammer smashed his temple. Karim only took time to figure it out. 

    "Is he dead?" he says, looking back at me, his eyes white as death. "Oh Jims"–his voice quivers–"he can't be, right?" He shakes his head so hard that tears spatter against my lower lip. 

     "Bundy," I say. "What are you going to do about Bundy? Your son."

     "Shut up, Jims… Shut up!"

     I scowl at him. "He killed your son, man. Won't you say anything about it?"

     "So that you can have enough to write about, right?" 

     "Hey, it's not all about that."

     He tosses the dead weight off his thighs and springs up, eyes now dark as the night last year. "Am I a joke to you, Jims? Am I that pathetic to you? Do I mean nothing to you than a book of thriller prompts?" He raises his hands as if beckoning on terrestrial audiences to hear him out.

     "Errm, Ka—"

     "You make my home your hub of inspiration. Childhood's made me tolerate your shit this far, man. But shouldn't you know when to stop?" He pulls a snigger. "Do you have to eventually force me?"

     "Hey, man, shouldn't you—"

     "No more word from you."

     "Your son—"

     "I said shut it!" He stamps his foot and stays still, gazing at the door, his voice a shiver down my spine. "When my wife died on giving birth to Shola, she begged me to treat them well no matter what they do. She wanted me to treat them as I would treat her... She was my life." He covers his teary eyes for a second. "And the moment she passed away, my sons became my wife, they became me. They became us, Jims!"

     "Didn't she beg you to take care of Lola as well? How would she feel when she knows—"

     "I was following her will even at that time. Opening the door for Lola that day would mean the death of us all, including you who were trembling at a corner that night. You would have died. She had to die for the rest of us to live!" He inches towards me. "And you jerk, if she didn't die would you have been able to get into Paris Review? My family's dark story built your writing career, didn't it?"

      Huh. Pathetic. It seems he's going to let the psycho son get away with this after all. No wonder he scorned me when I advised him to hit his children for peace sake. 

     I glance at the boy killer: the reason why we are quarreling. His lips are no more shaky, his eyes are relaxed now, and his jaws are clenched. He crosses his arms, a little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. I return it with a frown. Son of a jerk! "Hey, don't look at me that way… I'll just take my leave." At least I've seen enough to create a story that editors won't dare reject. I turn towards the main door.

     "And where do you think you're going?"

     "Home, I need to rest." And begin a new manuscript. I point at his son's dead body. "Hope you're not expecting me to help you take care of that." 

     "Well, the thing is"–he edges towards me, slow as a creeper, his voice baked with ice–"you shouldn't have come here today. You should have stayed back. You shouldn't have predicted a predicament in my house. It all began with you, Jims. You!"

     I take a step back, a chill slinkering down my legs. "So what do you suggest?"

     He crinkles his nose so that a scorn squeezes through his nostrils. "I suggest you remain as quiet as my dead boy."

     "Well, that's no big deal. I'll just leave as if nothing's happened."

     "We both know nothing good will come out of your leaving here alive."

     "What do you—"

     "You're a threat!" He turns to Bundy. "Timi, get the remote."

     Remote?

     Bundy scuttles towards the centre table and snatches a device. He stretches it towards the door. Maybe he presses something too, for a sound bleeps and creaking sounds grate through my ears. Seems the doors are being locked automatically. "Hey, what are you trying to do?"

     "What I should have done last year." Karim moves away and seizes a stool from a corner. The chill scrapes my legs again. Will he do it for real? On me? 

     I glance at Ted Bundy. A blunt object is in his grip; and he's edging close. Slow, precise steps, so that my eyes rattle. My eyes flit back at Karim. He also nears me. Slow and determined. I see it in his eyes: my end. Oh no, he's trying to solve his problem with a goddamn problem. 

     "You really ain't gonna do this, Karim," I protest, pulling backwards. Oh shit! "We can sort it out, okay?"

     But the violent smell of both father and son soon fills my nostrils. And my back is now sliding down the big pillar that has stopped my retreat. Blood is trickling down my face—hot blood—dribbling through my parted lips. But I don't see it. For my eyes are hazy. 

     Whack! What...ck! Whack!

                                                                                 

Elisha Oluyemi is the EIC at Fiery Scribe Review. He has stories in Brittle Paper, Kalahari, Shuzia, Shallow Tales, African Writer Mag, Arts Lounge, and PROFWIC Crime Anthology Vol 1.