Grabby

According to humans, yesterday happens only once. It is a fixed place in time and space that is pushed out of the existence the second the present shows up. The future outright denies it ever happened, and lives in shades of sparkling, happy pink, like the flesh of a newborn. But humans were wrong in this assumption, he knew, especially with evidence of yesterday laying in a soupy puddle in the trunk of the car and in the earth, and these two desiccated souls slumped at their breakfast table. Yesterday creeps into the present in a slow decay, poisoning the minutes and hours with deliberate enmity. It pushes its blood-soaked hands through the rosy hue of tomorrow and smears it with clotted chunks of reality. Yesterday is bitter and cruel, and it will not deny its own influence.

Clara felt no guilt over having lied to him again, and this time over such a trivial notion. That these people were long dead wasn't of any concern of his, after all he hadn't committed the deed. But the strange secrecy she held close to her concerning them nagged at his consciousness. He scratched the small indentation at the back of his head and gave Clara a quizzical frown.

She rolled her eyes and pulled a cigarette out of her jewelled handbag, which she had tossed on the dusty kitchen counter. She placed it between her thickly painted lips and fished out a matchstick, which she struck against a burner on the stove, bringing it and her cigarette to burning life. "I thought I saw someone moving around in here, and I knew that couldn't be true. So, I had to come in, and yes, I found and dealt with a little problem."

He didn't like the businesslike tone she took in these situations, especially when it usually meant there was yet another corpse he would have to lug around to whatever location she deemed necessary. He glanced at the two silent occupants in the tiny kitchen. A spiral of ants circled their empty plates. "I don't see much movement here," he said.

"It's not like I'm some monster or something," she sneered, and he had to wonder why she would say such a thing when the thought hadn't crossed his mind. "It's a logistics problem, see. This is a great place to hide my little problems when they crop up. Those two old cronies kept poking their big noses in my business and I couldn't have that. They kept upping the price, saying they were going to call the coppers and all kinds of other crazy rot. I couldn't let them get away with that, you understand me."

"I'm not sure I do," he admitted. "You said you paid them."

"You really are dim." She sucked back on her cigarette, plumes of smoke snaking above her head in a Medusa halo. "Are your ears plugged up with potatoes or something? I told you, I saw someone moving around in here, and I knew darn well it wasn't going to be those two." She pointed her cigarette towards the two corpses, the ashes from its tip falling off onto the plank floor. "No witnesses. That's the way I like it."

He sighed, unhappy with this new burden. "So now we have four corpses instead of one."

"Don't be stupid." She tossed the remainder of her cigarette into the open flame of the stove's gas burner. With one graceful reach she pulled the worn curtains at the window over and set them on the flame. The dry cotton instantly went alight, its weak red checker board pattern smouldering into ashen fireflies. Some gathered against the far wall, searing the dried, peeled yellow wallpaper. 'It won't take long to get rid of this place. Shame, though. It was a good, quiet spot to come to once in a while."

As the kitchen quickly caught alight, the fire from the curtains tearing across the walls and searing the cupboards, she motioned for him to follow her onto the back pantry. "I've never met him before. He's probably some hobo, looking for shelter and not one too fussy about the company he has to keep. Imagine, sleeping on a floor when there's a perfectly good bed upstairs. They have a nice bedroom here, real nice four poster bed, too. Comfy pillows, starched white linen, she kept the place real clean, I'll give the snoopy old Gran that one. Of course, everyone out in these parts is like that, all work, work, work for nothing but a scrap of potato out of the earth."

The heat from the kitchen began spreading into the foyer. Behind them, in the now bludgeoning roar of the fire, glass containers shattered and licks of flame roared across the wooden floors, curling up the dried twigs of bone and claiming them for charcoal. Smoke gathered in thick billows that crawled across the roof of the pantry, "He was just some bum, like I said. But he had the mouth of a sailor, so I'm guessing he's some leftover from the war. Look at that patch on his shoulder, there. Looks like an old bullet wound to me. Probably some foreign gent, coming here to America to make a fortune. Poor bastard. He should have gone to a big city. That's where all the money is."

"Perhaps that's where he was heading."

She bit her bottom lip in thought, contemplating this newest corn field acquisition at her feet. "He went down quiet, I'll give him that. If you ask me, he ran in this house to go ahead and get the courage to off himself. Why else would he have no trouble with those two back in the kitchen. It's not like they were lively company."

He could feel the heat from the burning house scorching the back of his neck. He stepped further into the pantry, nearly tripping over the hobo in his path. Clara squatted beside her victim, the glint of her switchblade catching the reflection of flames in the background. With diligent purpose she made her usual mark on his eyelids. Beneath the brow, and over the eyes. One 'x'. A swipe of her blade across the other eye. One 'o'.

"Did the farmers have these as well?" He was curious of this need of hers to mark her murderous territory. He hadn't checked the corpses in the kitchen thoroughly enough to see. There would have been notches on the bone around the eyes. Slices which connected would make an identical pattern to the one she just created.

"He'll flare up with the house," she said, not answering him. She wiped her bloodied switchblade on the lapel of the hobo's frayed coat and folded it shut. With pale hands illuminated by red fire she carefully put it back into her small purse.

It's like a surgical instrument to her, he thought. Another tool she has become an expert at wielding.

"You forgot the lye." He stepped out of the pantry and into the cool night air, a vast contrast to the burning inferno now consuming the entirety of the ramshackle farmhouse. She followed close behind him, a new cigarette already dangling from her bottom lip. "He's still in the trunk of the car. The stink of your friend is unbearable."

"Never mind him," she said. She marched deftly ahead of him, the silken, uneven hem of her dress trailing over the muck. She cursed as she pulled her skirt higher, revealing a scandalous view of her knees. "That car was great for a lark, but it's damned impractical. It's not like we can drive it in the rain, what with the top down all the time. A car for fair weather, just like him. Nah, don't worry about it, I got something better in the works, just follow along with little me. I know there's a good set of wheels just on the other side of that barn. That one, there, up on the right. A good sturdy Chevrolet, perfect for long journeys and quick getaways. Just what we need."

Behind them the house exploded into a brilliant fireball of flames, illuminating their path. It seemed odd that she was so familiar with this place, her steps in tune with every rock and twisted piece of metal that cropped up before them, her tiny, dancing feet neatly stepping over all obstacles. "You've been here often," he said.

"I'd say." She held out her arms, and spun around, the silver silk of her dress following her in wisps. She was like a tendril of smoke that had escaped from the fiery chaos behind them. "You could say I grew up here."

He glanced back at the house. A crackling snap echoed across the farm and the blackened beams of the roof collapsed inward, leaving only the shell of the house behind. "You knew those people."

"Pops and Gran. But you've probably guessed that already."

"No." He frowned, trying to piece together what she was saying to him. "They were your family, but you didn't live with them?"

"Generations move out and start their own lives," she said, shrugging. She cast him a curious glance. "Isn't that how it is with your people? Don't you have a family that you sprang from? Oh I forgot, you were just a weed." She giggled into her palm, dark eyes full of malicious mirth. "Someone threw seeds on the ground, and now here you are. A dandelion mess, that's you."

"That's not how it happens." He followed her into the barn, the light from the burning house behind them significantly dimmed. "We'll have to burn that motor car we came in. We can't leave any evidence."

She journeyed further into the barn, heading for a large, grey mass of tarp. "I suppose that will do well enough. Coppers might think it's weird that there's lye in the trunk of an abandoned car, so it's a good thing I didn't find any. After this we should head into Baxter and gas this baby up, and while we're there we might as well look and see if there's anyone having a party we can go to. " She jostled her hips and swung her pearls, her hands in front of her in a mock Charleston stomp. "I ought to have to waited before we hit the road, we could have had a proper smash up get up before we swung onto Route 66. I could have got Sousa to get more detailed, make her use her cards, too, because they're more accurate…." The pearls she swung hung back at her hips, save for one row, which she brought to her teeth and lightly tapped an incisor. "'Course, you don't get it when I talk about learning the future. For you, every damned thing is about the present."

"Now it is."

"That's not true. I've seen you when you're crawled in a can of motor oil, slicking up that body's insides. Your eyes get all rusty and your face gets strange. It flickers back and forth, like it's moving really fast through something, through a camera lens, all stop, move, stop. It's like you're slightly out of sync with the world. All shadows with some of the frames of your film missing."

She grabbed the corner of the tarp and gave it a gentle tug. It slid off of the motor car with ease, landing in folds of grey at its side. It was an impressive vehicle, one of sturdy black steel and glass, the passenger and driver's seat covered in a case of steel and windows. Clara leaned against the hood of the car, her face reflected back at her in the shining dark green finish. "It's a Chevrolet Coach," she informed him. "I'm going to do the driving in this one for a while. I couldn't believe it when I saw it, Gran and Pops wasting money on a car like this, not when they had that old wagon out back and it still did them just fine. Refused to let me take this one out, told me it was 'unladylike'. They were so old-fashioned. Some people can't stand the rush of progress."

She kicked the tarp out of the way and opened the driver's door. The engine clattered and hummed when she turned the ignition. She turned on the headlights, bathing him in their glow. "You just going to stand there?" she asked, her red mouth smiling. "If you don't move, I'll run you down."

"I thought they were paid." He stood stock still in front of the glaring headlights, his borrowed body rigid. "You told me you paid them so they would look away."

"You said that already, or are you getting forgetful with all that motor oil swilling up your brains. You think this sort of business isn't common?" She rolled her eyes as she opened the passenger seat door and beckoned for him to join her. "Just because they were my Gran and Pops doesn't mean they were nice people. If anything, you should understand they have to be the opposite. I didn't spring from some flower garden like you did, I had my mother's well-used womb."

He reluctantly moved out of the glare of the headlights and made his way to the passenger side, his eyes riveted on Clara as she spoke. There was a new darkness welling within her at this confession, one that had little glee attached to her crimes. "I know my Daddy went on to you about how he and Mummy were 'God fearing' people. It's all rot. Truth is, Mummy abandoned Gran and Pops the first chance she got, and it was through getting pregnant with me. Daddy had to marry her, see. That's what's done, people make mistakes and they have to live with them for the rest of their lives." She pressed the gas with a delicate, bare foot and gently eased the new motor car out of the barn, the wheels squelching dangerously close to sticking in the mud. "Gran and Pops took me in over the summer months. I guess that was nice of them. But Gran liked her drink and Pops, he had grabby hands. It was no picnic for me here, I'll tell you that."

He studied her intently, her bottom lip bit deep as the car lurched over cow patties and the mounds of unknown numbers of former associates. "What do you mean by grabby hands?"

She was silent a long moment, her focus intent on the car they had abandoned, its headlights still on, its trunk still open, exposing the organic mess within. "It was weird, the way things happened. It didn't stop until I turned twelve and started changing, like girls and boys do at that age. He lost interest, just like that. No more of his… I mean, when you think about it, why would it be then, at that point in my life that it would stop? You'd think it should be the opposite, a young girl becoming a woman and all that rot, that's when a man's supposed to find her interesting." She eyed him sideways, her hands tight on the steering wheel. "I left my riding hat in that car. I ought to get out and pick it up."

She left the motor purring as she got out of the coach, the uncovered car in front of her a stylish mess of muck, rendered human remains and foul deeds committed in its back seat. Her steps were careful as she leaned over its edge and picked her riding cap out from where it had fallen underneath the steering wheel. The skirt of her dress was hiked up well above the backs of her knees, revealing the wide black band of her stockings and the garters holding them up. She straightened, the riding cap held in a bunched knot in her grip. "We have to set this on fire," she shouted to him. "There's a can of gas in the trunk of the coach."

"But we might need it for fuel on the road." A full tank didn't last very long, he knew, and even though gas was plentiful it wasn't always easy to find a filling station when one was out in the country. He'd checked the map, there were many miles between Kansas and California, and there was little hope that they would make it on only a couple of gallons.

"Baxter Springs is full of gas stations. We'll fill the coach up and get two more gallons besides. You worry too much. Besides, we can pick up your precious motor oil while we're there, too. Maybe even get word from a local if there's any action going on in town, because there always is, you just have to find it. You do that by asking the right questions and getting the right answers. I'm an expert at that, no question there." She gave him a wide grin, her teeth the colour of her pearls. "I want to be the one to light it up. You can spread the gas over it, and make sure it's good and even, we don't want any coppers coming along thinking this was done on purpose. Burned out car and burned out house–They'll figure it was a robbery gone bad. One bastard killing another here at the car and setting it alight, and then the farmers in the house witness it. He kills them and sets the house on fire, trying to hide his crime, but instead he gets stuck in the house, he's overcome by smoke and passes out. The idiot burns up with it. Death by misadventure, that's what they'll call it."

He wasn't sure if this would be an adequate explanation, but this detail didn't seem to matter. It was unlikely the authorities would care to know anything about the inhabitants, or even if they would investigate the wreckage. Her Gran and Pops had been dead for two years and not a soul seemed to mind their strange, upright grave, not even the hobo who had wandered into their morbid midst. A gutted car and a destroyed house had little to do with the outside world. As always, terrible things continued to happen here in secret.

He drenched the car in gasoline and then went back to the coach before she tossed a lit matchstick onto it. It burst into a furious explosion of gas and oil, only to simmer into a thick, smouldering cloud of black ash and white hot flames. They sat in the coach for a few minutes, watching the white leather seats turn black. Without a word, she pressed the gas with her tiny, bare foot and turned the steering wheel, bringing the coach back onto the open road. They had places to go and there was no point looking back over his shoulder, to see how visible the fiery carnage still was.

But he couldn't help himself, and he cast a glance in the side mirror, seeking out the evidence of what they had done in its small reflective circle. A tiny fleck of orange was all he could see. Clara had obliterated her past, leaving only the future to guide them.