Voices – Page 7
Of all the places he expected to be at four-thirty on a Tuesday morning, walking into a dark subway tunnel marked “No Trespassing” might well have been the last place John would ever have considered.
The screams had continued in his mind for some time, growing in frequency and intensity, and it had taken little time to make his decision. She was suffering, somewhere, and he wanted to help. He didn’t know what he could do, but listening to those screams without doing something about them seemed impossible. John had thrown on a coat and some shoes and bolted from his apartment and into the streets, moving on instinct, following the voice in his head.
The voice had led him here, before the screams had stopped.
In a way, as bad as they were, the screams had at least assured him that she was still alive. Now, John felt cold and frightened, wondering what if anything the abrupt cessation of the noise in his head meant. He thought of Jen being murdered and shuddered. ‘I can take care of myself,’ she had said, and surely this was true, but this was New York, and New York can be very ugly.
John followed the railing for a long way, perhaps a half of a mile, before he reached what seemed to be an entrance to a disused portion of the subway system. Here, his mind told him, and so he turned and went. At first the Zippo lighter he carried his only source of light, but after a few turns in the tunnel, it was no longer necessary. Up ahead there was a fire, and it cast a flickering orange glow on its surroundings.
“Choo doon down here whiteboy?” Asked a voice near his ear, and John flinched back, then turned to face the speaker.
“Looking for a friend,” he said.
The man before him was older, perhaps late fifties, wrapped in a blanket and stinking of bourbon. His grey hair poked out from his head in wild puffs and clusters. The voices swirled around him the way loose snow sometimes does in the winter, billowing on the wind. He looked up and gave John a toothless grin. “No frens round here, boy. Juss people who share a fire.”
“Her name is Jen. She has blue eyes. Have you seen her?”
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Doan matter to me none, prolly ain’t giving you no help either way. How do I know she wants to be found?”
“She may be in trouble. I’m trying to help her.”
The old man gave a wheezing cackle. “Boy if she down here, you too late. Goan now, git up out of here.”
“Not until I find her.” John started toward the fire. The old man grabbed his arm.
“Hold up now. Can’t just walk into the circle with no warning. Motherfuckers knife a man for that shit. They doan know you. Hold up.”
John paused. The man stood, slow and shaky. Weaving, he made his way toward the circle.
“Got an outsider here. Outsider. Someone from topside.” He called.
“Quitcher shouting, ass,” said a voice. “People are trying to sleep.”
“Ah, yo momma’s tits, Milligan. Where’s the blonde girl? Says he’s looking for her.”
“She fucked off two hours ago. Further back. Said she wanted to be alone. Tell loverboy he should go home. That bitch’ll end up sticking him, like she did Pete.”
“Pete try to stick her first, but not with no knife. Got him some stitches, he did. Nuttin more’n what he deserved,” said the old man. He motioned to John, who came forward into the light. Milligan, the only other person in sight, looked up at him for a second, muttered something that John couldn’t hear, and looked back at the fire.
“What?” John asked.
“Said I should cut your throat and take your jacket, loverboy. You want to fuck with that demented broad? She’s down in the old ladies’ room I bet. Still has a lock on the door. She sleeps there sometimes.”
“Thanks.”
“You want to thank me? Get the fuck up out my house, and take her with you.”
John shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Whatever. Jesus, Tyrone, you let anyone come up in here.”
Milligan and the old man began arguing with each other. John left them and followed the edge of the subway path toward what once was a main concourse, roughly a hundred yards away. There were no voices, here, at least none he could hear. The sensation was new to John. In twenty-six years, he’d never been far enough away from other human beings for the voices to disappear completely. It set him on edge.
As he neared the bathrooms, the voices returned, just a few whispers, but enough to know that someone else was near. The sounds he was hearing were like muffled curses. Echoing sobs. John knocked on the women’s room door. The response was immediate.
“Go away!”
“Jen…”
“GO AWAY!” It was a shriek, raw and brutal and piercing. John could now hear real sobs from the other side of the door.
“Jen, it’s John. From the diner. I… I can’t go away. I won’t. Not until I’m sure you’re all right. I’m sorry.”
There was silence for a time, broken only by the occasional hitching breath. John leaned against the door, then slid to a sitting position. He waited for another five minutes, listening as her crying came to a slow halt.
“I don’t know if I can help you, Jen, but I know I have to try,” He said into the darkness, when it seemed she was done. “Will you talk to me?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Storm.” Jen sounded tired and old. The voices, so isolated here, were impossible to tune out completely. They spoke of old hate, old rage, old hurt.
John sighed. “Ain’t that the truth.”
There was another pause, a shuffling noise, and then the click of a deadbolt turning.
“Come in,” she said.
