The Killing Circle. Andrew Pyper
at first. And then others I’ve never heard before. Strangers. I can’t know this for sure but I have the feeling that all of them are dead.
They come to me before I go to sleep. This is what frightens me. Not that they’re dead, or that I can hear them. But that I’m awake when I do.
Once this passage of luminous prose has been accomplished, I turn my mind to my Couch Potato column for the weekend edition. This week it’s a gloves-off attack on the Canadian franchise of American MegaStar!, a talent show that is the toprated program in this country, as well as the fourteen others it has colonized. An entire, worldwide generation being led to believe they are entitled to be famous. It’s toxic. A lie. It’s wrong. And it’s also how my frustration with Writing What I Know opens the gates to Writing How the World Has Gone to Crap, which has never been much of a problem for me.
Even though I know that Canadian MegaStar! is owned by the same multinational media behemoth that owns the paper I work for, and even though there have been ominous hints from the section editor to “go easy” on “content” which is produced by said behemoth, I let slip the dogs of war on MegaStar! as if it is single-handedly responsible for carrying out a cultural atrocity. In fact, this last phrase makes it into the lede. From this measured opening, the column goes on to be brutal, hyperbolic and libellous, all leading to the kind of hysterical finish where you’re actually a little concerned about the mental health of the column’s author. It’s personal.
I stay at work late (Thursdays keep me at the office at least until midnight copyediting the Best on the Box listings) and walk home wondering if today will prove to be my last in my current position. Or, come to think of it, my last in any position. It’s almost amusing to wonder what else I might be qualified to do. I’ve always rather liked the idea of running my own business. Something very hands off. Automated, preferably. A laundromat. A spray-it-yourself car wash.
I round the corner on to my street speculating over what kind of pay cut, if any, would be involved in delivering newspapers instead of writing for them, when I notice the yellow police tape around the house across from mine. It is the neighbouring family at 147, and not my own family at 146 that the four police cruisers are parked in front of. But I still run the half-block up Euclid, ring the bell at my front door after twice dropping the keys, and confirm my son is safe with Emmie before going back out to ask the cop turning traffic back toward Queen what’s going on.
“Break and enter,” he says, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“What’d they take?”
“Didn’t touch a thing. The kid was the only one who saw him.”
“Joseph. My boy plays with him sometimes.”
“Yeah? Well, when Joseph woke up tonight some son of a bitch was standing over his bed.”
“Was he able to give a description?”
“All he can say is the guy’s a shadow.”
“A shadow?”
“Went downstairs to the living room with the kid following behind him. Just stood at the front window, staring out at the street. Then, after a while, he walked out the front door as if he owned the place. Turn it around, buddy! Yeah, you!”
The cop steps away to have a word with whoever’s behind the wheel of the SUV that refuses to head back to Queen. It gives me a chance to walk up on to the neighbour’s patch of lawn and stand with my back to their front window. The same view the shadow would have had, standing behind the glass.
Staring at my place.
Where Sam is now. Standing next to Emmie on the porch, squinting over at me.
I read the nanny’s lips—Wave to Daddy!—and Sam raises his chubby arm in salute. And as I wave back I wonder if he can see how bad Daddy’s shaking.
The next circle meeting is at Petra’s house. She had kindly offered to host all of us the week before, though as I step out of my cab at her Rosedale address, I see she was being modest to the point of insult when she described her digs as “Nothing too fancy”. The place is a mansion. Copper roof, terraced landscaping that looks expensive even under a couple inches of snow, matching Mercedes coupés (one red, one black) docked in the carport. It makes me wonder how much the husband had before the divorce if this is Petra’s cut.
Inside the door, my coat is taken by a silverhaired man wearing a better suit than any I have ever owned. A man who serves not only a different class, but a different century. My first honestto-God butler.
“The group is assembling in the Rose Room,” he says, and leads me over marble floors to a sunken lounge of leather chairs, each with their own side table, and a snapping fire in the hearth. At the door, the butler discreetly inquires as to whether I would like a drink. He says it in a way that makes it clear real drinks are included in the offer.
“Scotch?” I say, and he nods, as though my choice had confirmed a suspicion he’d had on first sight.
Most of the other members are already here. Conrad White has chosen a chair near the fire, its orange flickers lending him a devilish air which is only enhanced by the smirk he barely manages to conceal as he notes the room’s incoherent collection of Inuit sculptures, garish abstracts and bookshelves lined with leather-bound “classics”. In this context of stage-set wealth, the rest of us look like hired help sneaking a break, holding our crystal goblets with both hands so nothing might spill on the rug.
Len in particular seems out of place. Or perhaps this is because he’s the only one talking.
“You should come. You all should. How about you, Patrick?”
“How about me what?”
“The open mic. There’s a launch party for a new litmag, and then afterwards they open the floor to anyone who wants to read.”
“I don’t know, Len.”
“C’mon. You can check out what’s going on out there.”
“They have a bar?”
“Half-price beer if you buy the zine.”
“Now you’re talking.”
All of us are here now except for William and Petra, the latter clipping back and forth to the kitchen on high heels, touchingly anxious about burning the shrimp skewers. When our hostess finally sits, Conrad White decides to go ahead without William. There’s a subtle easing in all of our postures at this. I would be surprised if any of us didn’t hope that William has moved on to other creative endeavours, if not a different area code altogether.
I’m first, which is something of a relief, as the sooner I can get through the miserable couple of paragraphs I’ve brought along, the sooner I can get to work on the quadruple single malt Jeeves has poured for me.
Besides, I’m only here for one reason anyway.
Angela.
She doesn’t disappoint. I say this even though I’m not really listening. After I click my dictaphone on, I pay less attention to her words than how she speaks them. I have assumed all along that Angela was using a voice distinct from her own in her readings. Now I realize that I have virtually no idea what her “real” voice is like, or whether it would be different from the one I listen to now. She has said so little in the circle (her responses to the other readers little more than a murmured “I liked it a lot”) that it may be the at once innocent and debauched little girl tone she uses is the same as her everyday speech.
When she’s finished, no one says anything for what may be a minute. The fire hissing like a punctured tire. An ice cube cracks in Len’s tumbler of apple juice. And from the moment Angela closes the cover of her journal to the moment Conrad White invites the circle to comment on what we’ve just heard, she looks at me.
More active than staring. A taking in. Every blink marking some new observation. And I do the same. Or try to. To see inside, sort her truth