{"id":350,"date":"2009-04-05T10:39:48","date_gmt":"2009-04-05T15:39:48","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.greatsociety.org\/?p=350"},"modified":"2018-10-31T08:46:24","modified_gmt":"2018-10-31T12:46:24","slug":"sunday-archive-death-and-honor-part-one","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/?p=350","title":{"rendered":"Sunday Archive: Death and Honor, part one"},"content":{"rendered":"

The date I last touched this is 2002, but I think it dates back to around 1999.\u00a0 With many of my short stories, I was clumsily trying to connect them to The Very<\/a>, with the idea of ultimately folding them into a novel.<\/p>\n

Not the case here, though.\u00a0 This is tied into my on-again, off-again unfinished sci-fi novel that haunts my hard drive.\u00a0 I think it’s very important for me to have some complicated maze of related stories that only one person — me — will ever read.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Death and Honor<\/strong><\/p>\n

The knocking seemed to be part of a dream.\u00a0 One of those vivid morning dreams you sometimes have when you fall asleep after the alarm goes off.\u00a0 Jacob opened his eyes and stared out at the hazy, pre-dawn sky; gunmetal grey and ready for rain, reason enough to stay in bed.\u00a0 Waking, itself, felt like a dream.<\/p>\n

Coming out of sleep, he seemed to travel through the house, round the hall, into the kitchen, and up to the side door leading onto the porch.\u00a0 In the waking dream, the knocker was a shadow upon shadows.\u00a0 Then he was fully awake, the knocking an incessant and tireless pounding against the doorframe.\u00a0 His left arm was asleep.\u00a0 It felt like a dead animal.\u00a0 His back was out.\u00a0 There was a pain, a small nuisance, behind both his eyes.<\/p>\n

He sat up and paused, feeling more exhausted now than he had the night before.\u00a0 It was a bad thing to wake up tired.\u00a0 A sign of decay, and not at all unique.\u00a0 Thousands of millions rose every morning and felt the worse for it.\u00a0 A world gone awry, a society crooked in the back and slightly hung-over.\u00a0\u00a0 Was that what dad and granddad and everyone else had fought for?\u00a0 The right to grow fat and tired and never have to get your hands dirty?<\/p>\n

The knocking.\u00a0 The goddamned knocking.\u00a0 No human being could knock like that.\u00a0 It was mechanical, it was evil, and it was growing in intensity.\u00a0 Jacob lurched to his feet, his hand reaching out and pressing against the wall as the world spun for a few heartbeats.\u00a0 Then he turned and worked his way into the kitchen to see the shape of a man behind the curtains of the side door.\u00a0 When Jacob pulled the curtains aside, he saw a middle-aged, balding man in a cheap suit.<\/p>\n

The stranger seemed surprised for a moment, wide eyes staring at Jacob and arm in mid-knock.\u00a0 His pudgy fist was red, as was his face.\u00a0 Jacob fumbled with the lock and pulled open the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cDearest God,\u201d he hissed, \u201cit\u2019s 7am on a Saturday.\u201d<\/p>\n

The stranger\u2019s eyes narrowed.\u00a0 \u201cJacob Mariner?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

The stranger reached a hand into his pocket and Jacob flinched, but the only danger here was a business card.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m Richard Davisson.\u00a0 I\u2019m a private investigator.\u00a0 Does the name Suzanne Phipps ring a bell?\u201d<\/p>\n

The knocking was back.\u00a0 This time it joined the other demons crouched right behind Jacob\u2019s eyes.\u00a0 Of course the name rang a bell.\u00a0 His number one fan.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Jacob lied because it felt like it was his role, like the line had been written for him.\u00a0 That\u2019s never the end of the scene, though.\u00a0 It\u2019s here where PI Davisson smiles knowingly, and he did.\u00a0 It\u2019s here where PI Davisson says that he knows more about Jacob than any normal person should know.<\/p>\n

\u201cSeventeen years old.\u00a0 A lovely young lady.\u00a0 Pregnant, you know?\u201d<\/p>\n

Pregnant.<\/p>\n

\u201cA rape.\u00a0 Took her innocence, everything.\u00a0 She wasn\u2019t like most 17 year olds I know.\u00a0 A clean girl.\u00a0 A nice girl.\u00a0 Went to church.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is this?\u201d Jacob\u2019s throat was closing, his heart was pounding, his vision was all Richard Davisson and nothing else.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe police aren\u2019t much help in these cases, but Pastor Phipps \u2013 that\u2019s the young lady\u2019s father \u2013 well, he\u2019s a respected man of the community.\u201d\u00a0 Davisson shrugged, looked up at Jacob and smiled weakly, apologetically.\u00a0 \u201cNormally, this wouldn\u2019t even be a case.\u00a0 Girl cries rape but won\u2019t say who it was \u2013 come on.\u00a0 Happens all the time, right?\u201d\u00a0 he paused.\u00a0 \u201cAre you a religious man, Mr. Mariner?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot really,\u201d Jacob replied.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, a shame.\u00a0 I\u2019ve always thought religion helped focus the mind.\u00a0 Gives a purpose to things, helps guide our actions when we are in doubt \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n

Why was he putting up with this?\u00a0 \u201cMr. Davisson, please.\u201d<\/p>\n

Davisson raised his hand, \u201cOf course, of course.\u00a0 It\u2019s 7am on a Saturday, as you say, not quite a decent hour.\u00a0 I\u2019ve taken this case, against my better judgment, because I believe in \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYoung Miss Phipps is quite a big fan of yours.\u00a0 Odd for a girl her age, yes?\u00a0 I thought it was all pop music and movie stars.\u00a0 Yet, she seems to be quite taken with your little corner of the media world.\u201d\u00a0 Davisson peered around Jacob and into the house.\u00a0 \u201cI must say, I\u2019m pleased to see that you practice what you preach.\u00a0 Living like an ordinary man, unpolluted by fame\u2026\u00a0 Might be harder after Tuesday night, though, yes?\u00a0 An exclusive interview with Robert Webb, I say\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

Jacob set his jaw.\u00a0 This man had nothing but a handful of names and random guesses.\u00a0 \u201cMr. Davisson, please.\u00a0 I\u2019m sorry to hear about the Phipps girl, but I don\u2019t appreciate your \u2013 \u201c<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere were you on May 13th?\u201d<\/p>\n

Everything inside Jacob stopped.\u00a0 He couldn\u2019t catch his breath, he couldn\u2019t think, he couldn\u2019t blink.\u00a0 All he could hear was his heartbeat.\u00a0 Knocking\u2026again.<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Mariner?\u201d Davisson leaned forward, looking concerned.\u00a0 \u201cIs all okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes\u2026 I was\u2026 I don\u2019t remember.\u00a0 Here, I suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAlone?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you recall going to town?\u00a0 Perhaps stopping by the parking lot of the old brewery?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were seen there.\u00a0 A couple of adventurers were looking for a way into the buildings.\u00a0 Pretty easy to get in there, actually.\u00a0 Every window broken out these days.\u00a0 You scared them off.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, Davisson,\u201d Jacob stepped back and put a hand on the door.\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t even know this girl; I want no part of this.\u00a0 If you don\u2019t get off my property now, I\u2019ll call the police.\u201d<\/p>\n

Davisson nodded, made a small sound and stepped back.\u00a0 \u201cGood day, Mr. Mariner.\u00a0 Good luck on Tuesday.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jacob slammed the door and, immediately, sunk to the floor.\u00a0 It felt as if his legs had slowly dissolved.\u00a0 His body had tensed at the first mention of her name.\u00a0 Suzanne Phipps.\u00a0 Jesus Christ\u2026<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re weak.\u201d\u00a0 He hissed to himself.\u00a0 He put his face in his hands and cried.\u00a0 Remember her whispers in his ear, the smell of her hair, the feel of her young body against his.\u00a0 She was so pure, so intoxicating\u2026and he was used up, empty.\u00a0 She was 17.\u00a0 Old enough.\u00a0 Old enough.<\/p>\n

He lay there for most of the morning, unable to move or think or even catch his breath properly.\u00a0 \u201cWhat have I done?\u201d\u00a0 Those words were meant for the mirror\u2026meant to be said to his face.\u00a0 He pushed himself up and stumbled into the bathroom, then glared at himself.\u00a0 Too old at 32.\u00a0 What a shame.\u00a0 What an empty, foolish shame.\u00a0 There were women his age; there were plenty of options\u2026 But she had caught his eye.\u00a0 She had teased him, followed him around, kissed him behind the trucks in the mall.\u00a0 You don\u2019t have to be over 18 to be a temptress.\u00a0 Not these days.<\/p>\n

He turned as soon as the sound hit him.\u00a0 The door to the basement opening slowly, drifting as if a breeze were blowing it open, or the house had suddenly tilted at an angle, which is how things felt at that moment.\u00a0 He was spooked and, for a moment, there was nothing but pure, seething panic.<\/p>\n

The door stopped before it hit the wall and he stood there, in the washroom, staring down the hall at the gaping, black maw that lead to the basement.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The date I last touched this is 2002, but I think it dates back to around 1999.\u00a0 With many of my short stories, I was clumsily trying to connect them to The Very, with the idea of ultimately folding them …<\/p>\n

Sunday Archive: Death and Honor, part one<\/span> Read More »<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[53],"tags":[137,76],"class_list":["post-350","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-sunday-archive","tag-archives","tag-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/350","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=350"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/350\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":933,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/350\/revisions\/933"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=350"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=350"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/greatsociety.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=350"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}