Pontypool Changes Everything by Tony Burgess Page A

is left there?”
    Helen lifts her hands from what she’s doing and slides another packet into the area of her operation. She opens it without lifting it from the shelf.
    “Two big grams.”
    She looks over her shoulder at Les. She feels she deserves her answer now.
    “Three-quarters. Second drawer. In the purple box. Pull it out.”
    Les puts a flint of power in his mouth and it only allows him to use short sentences. When Helen puts the larger bindle on the table in front of Les, he covers it with one hand, watching her back while she loads two syringes.
    “Here darling.”
    They silently administer the heroin and listen, in the seconds that follow, for more comfortable breathing in each other. Helen smiles at Les and he returns the gesture. Her smile twists apologetically and she returns to the shelf.
The Girl again. Christ. Helen, you’re not in control of what you’re doing.
Les says nothing as he spins the packet towards himself and opens it.
    “What the fuck is this?”
    Helen jumps, dropping a new syringe into the sink.
    “Fuck Les, fuck!”
    “No. No. Really, Helen, what the fuck is this? There’s only a couple of Tees here.”
    “No! Oh
no
! Fuck! Fuck! Are you sure? Lemme see!”
    “There was almost a gram in here this morning! Where the fuck is it?”
    “I don’t know, Les! I don’t fucking know. Oh God!”
    Helen is screaming now. Crying and angry, she reaches across the table for the packet. Les makes quick fists, striking distance; to protect her he stomps his feet.
    “Ernie! Fucking Ernie! He’s selling at school! The fucker!”
    Helen whips open the top drawer and pulls out a handgun.
    “ OK you little fuck! I can’t fuckin’ believe him! I’ll kill him.”
    “No you won’t.”
    Helen looks up, confused, still crying, the rims of her eyes are flicking around her sockets.
    “But keep the fucking gun out anyway.”
    Helen places the gun on the table and with a gluey pull at her nose she returns to the shelf. Les stares at her back. She is struggling with the cocaine, messing up her fix and saying “Fuck!” every six or seven seconds. Les picks up the gun, checks the chamber for rounds, and lays it flat against the inside of his thigh.
    “I can’t fucking take this. I need some music.”

24
Yet Another Life for Him And Em: Part 2
    Les looks down at his son before stepping out onto the highway. He takes the word Ernie away from his boy. He leaves the baby to scratch, nameless and alone, at the red patches that have risen on his wrists. The OPP officer and Les stare at each other. Neither of them has a clear idea of what happens next. They are both expecting to die, though they have probably never been in safer company. In fact, they are both pretty much willing to die for each other. The officer makes the first move. Gracefully and delicately, he floats his right hand out and down.
Down. Lie down.
The gesture is so compelling that a shrub nearby bends several of its tiny white flowers toward the ditch it overhangs. It encourages Les to crouch against the road, to block out a place there. On his stomach, Les breathes out the weight of his back onto his lungs, blowing clear a patch of asphalt by his cheek.
    This is the end of the line.
    At the station house Les is put into custody. He is asked quietly for his rare possessions. The arresting officer is agreeable and polite. The superficial pleasure of the procedure baffles Les. It reminds him of a Latin exercise from school. He is a noun in declension — all the handcuffs, the five coils of smoke on his fingertips, the secretive case, the ablative justice of the peace and an entire world that will, except for him, run on a series of sentences that begin with the letter O.
    Les is sitting in just such a circle. He has given his son up to the law. He has surrendered his illegal firearm. The controlled substance he shared with the baby. The stolen vehicle and its violent history. Murder. He has given the OPP a murder.
    Les sits in a chair