Page 5 of Not Quite Dead Yet

Billy stepped closer to Jet, into the line of fire. Well, beer.

‘All of you. Destroy everything you touch!’ Andrew spat.

‘I – I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, huh, Andrew?’ Billy said, raising his hands, palms exposed. ‘That’s OK. How about I get you some water?’

‘Don’t tell me what to do, boy! Always telling me what to do!’

Andrew half charged, half fell into Billy, shoving him backward. Billy didn’t fight back, let himself get pushed.

‘It’s OK, Mr Smith,’ he strained to say, the clown throwing weak drunken punches at his chest.

Why wasn’t Billy doing anything?

‘Hey,’ Jet yelled, doing something, but it was done beforeshe could reach the scuffle. Billy’s dad – shit, old habit, try again –Jackhad appeared out of the thinning crowd, Chief Lou on his heels. Jack grabbed Andrew, wrenched him away from Billy. Andrew tripped over his own feet, into Chief Lou, who held him in a barrel grip.

‘Calm down, sir!’ Lou barked into his ear, the softness gone from his voice. Not super calming.

‘I’ve got this, Chief.’ Jack gripped one of Andrew’s arms. The clown’s head lolled onto Jack’s shoulder. ‘You OK, Billy?’ Jack asked his son, over Andrew’s head.

‘Yeah, fine, Dad,’ Billy answered. ‘Just a misunderstanding. He needs to go home, sleep it off. Please don’t arrest him.’

‘You know this man?’ Chief Lou asked Billy’s dad.

Jack nodded.

‘Know where he lives?’

Jack nodded again. ‘He lives in the apartment next to Billy’s.’

‘All right.’ The chief righted his uniform. ‘Can you escort him home, Sergeant? Make sure he gets a drink of water.’

‘Yes, Chief.’

‘Next time,’ Lou spoke down to the clown, ‘it’ll be a night in the cell and a charge of disorderly conduct.’

‘Come on, Andrew,’ Jack said, leading the man away, toward the road and the streetlamps, holding the clown upright, the man too.

The chief turned to speak to Billy, and Jet slipped away. She was done talking to people and done with this Halloween Fair. Maybe she’d pretend she was sick next year. Actually, it didn’t matter: next year she wouldn’t even be here anymore. She’d be in Boston again, maybe back in law school, or maybe running her new company. There was time for that. She had time.

‘What was that about?’ Dad asked when she finally reached their stall.

‘Andrew Smith.’ Jet dropped her zombie mask on the table. ‘Drunk and sad again.’

‘About his house?’ Mom said, distracted, counting cash into a lockbox, her sharp haircut swinging around her neck.

‘No, probably about his only daughter killing herself last year.’

Dianne hissed, an intake of breath. ‘Jet, I wish you wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t what, Mom? Speak? Exist?’ Her mom gave her a look, those fierce green-brown eyes magnified by her glasses, but not softened.

‘Ah,’ Dad groaned suddenly, bending double, his hand pressed to his side.

‘Bad again?’ Mom turned, a wad of twenties in her hand. ‘Take some painkillers when we get home. And don’t say no, Scott; you’re going in for another checkup.’

Dad could only grunt. He was sweating, his thinning hair stuck down to his temple, new lines etched in his face, pain bracketing the wrinkles.

‘A heating pad and a whole bunch of water,’ Jet said with a sad smile. ‘That works best for me. You can borrow mine.’

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