The Orphan Chapter 1: The Shadow Man

Chapter One: The Shadow Man

The second hand raced around the clock with a steady urgency, yet the boy's movements were deliberately slow, calculated. The wainscotting of the hallway reflected the shine on the floor as his mop travelled in lazy arcs, doing its best to polish floors dulled down by a decade of foot traffic spills, and bodily fluids. The latter is how he ended up with extra chores.

The boy’s eyes flicked from his pathway to the wall clock and back again. His progress scrutinised by the portraits on the wall. Men and women regarded him from their sepia squares wearing their Sunday best. Their expressions tight eyed and unsmiling, locked in the moment while time slipped by. His eyes lingered on those of a woman with close cropped hair that was ten years out of style. Her eyes scrutinised his work from the photograph just as they did when she roamed the halls, checking off boxes and making notes on that damned clip board. The nameplate beneath read Anita Cross. The boy spit on the floor beneath it before his mop swiped it away. 

He made it to the portrait of William Lyon Mackenzie King, and King George. Before he set the mop and bucket aside, doing his best to hide it behind a statue of a long forgotten saint pushed against the wall. He moved swiftly then, sneaking through a door close by. He eased it closed behind him.

Sister Maggie would bloody his knuckles if she caught him, but Joseph Crager would be damned if she was going to take his smokes and make him mop the floor just because little Matty Mudpie couldn’t control himself. Joseph surveyed the room. He’d been in here many times under disciplinary actions. He’d cried real tears and crocodile tears on the small couch set against the wall, swearing he’d never do some such sinful behaviour ever again. He’d organized her small closet so many times he could probably recite an inventory by memory. But it was the big wooden desk that sat against the wall opposite the supply closet that he was interested in. He moved to it and began sliding drawers open, his eyes instinctively flicking to the office wall clock.  

He slid drawers out with maddening deliberateness, panic growing as each drawer he opened held the imagined visage of the stoic sailor staring out from the Player’s Navy Cut package. Though in reality the drawers held nothing save for note pads, lozenges, and errant pens that slid lazily against one another as he slammed the final drawer shut.  

His attention snapped to the door as he heard Sister Maggie’s voice thunder down the hallway. Joseph cursed under his breath. His eyes searched the clockface for a reason she was fifteen minutes early. When it gave up nothing save for the seconds he was losing, Joseph searched the room for somewhere he could hide.

“We’ve a shared office, Anita and I, we can set to our business in there.” Joseph heard her call out. The supply closet was the only place that held space big enough for him, and at just under six feet it would be a tight fit at that, but she couldn’t find him in here, never mind his  knuckles, she would bloody his nose with that damn ruler of hers. 

The footsteps slowed. Joseph flashed across the room and threw open the closet door. Beneath the hanging rain slicker there was enough room if he pushed the rubber boots aside. Joseph crawled in beside them, his pants soaking through from  the puddle pooling at their soles. He left the door cracked just enough so that he could still see. He centered the desk in his line of sight and tried to slow his thundering heartbeat. 

Sister Paulette entered first. Joseph’s heart changed gears, but didn’t slow down. She was the only woman here who looked beautiful in the bulky black and white garb the sisters wore.  Her hair pulled into a tight bun beneath the hood that framed her thin face. She wasn’t using her cane, she never did during visitation meetings. She told Joseph once she didn’t want the message of weakness to be associated with the residents. That meant someone was getting adopted. One of the boys was getting out.

Joseph hoped it was that square headed Sutherland kid. He ran a thumb across his knuckles, idly massaging the joints as they rang with phantom pain from connecting with the kid’s scarred cheek. The Indian hadn’t even flinched when Joseph landed his best right cross.

Sister Paulette leaned against the desk. Her eyes tight as she grit her teeth through a wince. It was a flash. She was practised in masking her condition in public. She grasped the back of a chair opposite sister Maggie's desk and eased herself into it, making room for the older nun. 

Joseph instinctively  retreated into his hiding space as he caught sight of Sister Maggie. He still had bruises from some of her ‘corrections’ as she put it.

A couple trailed her in an echoing staccato of heel clicks. The man cleared his throat. He wore a navy blue suit that looked tailored. His wife had a cream coloured dress on. Her blonde ringlettes spilled out from beneath a matching hat. She was holding one of the boy’s hands. She asked if he’d like to sit with them on the couch, or across from sister Maggie as she took her place behind her desk. 

“There’s not enough room for all of us.” the man cut in. “I’m sure he’d like to be with his people.” 

“Well we won’t be his people much longer after today,” Sister Maggie corrected as she cast a quick glance at the boy struggling into the chair across from her. To his left, Sister Paulette made to help, but was waved off by a small gesture from her superior. 

Joseph’s eyes were locked on the boy making himself comfortable in the presence of all the adults. The one stealing time from Paulette and having doe eyes made at him from a beautiful blonde. His stomach burned in a roiling churn of jealousy and desperation at the fact that little Matty Mudpie was being shipped out, yet Joseph couldn’t get anyone to give him a second look.

Matthew Mulligan was one of the youngest, an easy target for all the other boys at the Sisters of Mercy Transition House for Youth His love of reading and preference for isolation made him an easy target. The others always made him the bank teller who was taken hostage when they played cowboys, roughing him up with their pretend pistols until he gave the money in the safe. Matthew had a condition that to Joseph sounded like ‘crows’. The sisters all would admonish the boys as they stood in a line after a particularly nasty game of cowboys had turned bloody because Matthew had been tied up too long and had one of his incidents ‘Matthew has crows’ they’d say ‘he can’t help himself.’ 

It was strange to Joseph, who couldn’t figure out how a boy out of diapers could still shit himself like that. And that maybe he should be in diapers if he couldn’t control himself. Telling Matthew that much to his face had earned Joseph a particularly harsh correction from Sister Maggie. Joseph was one of the first to let the nickname Matty Mudpie stick, and it stuck alright. 

“Like shit sticks to bedsheets.” Joseph muttered to himself. 

But now Matthew sat, bathed in praise, dressed in the best clothes they could find for him, likely scoured from the church donation bins around the city.  Sister Maggie leaned forward. She laced her big hands in front of her on top of the cheap pine desk.“Matthew here is one of our brightest. Sister Paulette informs me he’s well ahead of other boys with his letter and he excels at–”. 

“He has Crohns.” the man cut in, his voice falling like a gavel giving sentence. “How do I fix him?”  His follow up question did nothing to revive the stale silence that fell on the room. Joseph smiled. He liked the man

Paulette did her best to warm the temperature of the room as she spoke. “There’s no cure for Crohn’s, no magic fix, but through behavioral management Matthew has been able to live a very good life while he’s been with us. He’s very.. popular with the other boys” 

“I would think,” Sister Maggie broke in, "that a man with your own incurable–condition I suppose we’ll call it– wouldn’t be too quick to judge someone with internal distress. Matthew can no more control his episodes than you yours. 

The man’s cheeks flushed. He gaped at the nun across from him before his head slowly swiveled to his wife, who was regarding the scene with the wide eyes of a doe caught in the beam of an oncoming train.  

Joseph’s brow furrowed. He understood the content of what was being talked about was negative, but didn’t understand how Maggie had embarrassed the man. 

“You told them?” the man asked his wife. His fingers digging small pits into the knees of his tailored trousers. His wife couldn’t meet his eyes, she only shook her head. Her mouth tried to make words but she could only muster a few small squeaks. 

“She confessed to the Lord.” Sister Maggie answered. “Information that we can all help stay in confidence, should you teach young Matthew here the secret to maintaining discretion while living with a part of him that, as you put it, needs to be fixed.” 

“I don’t believe this.” the man scoffed. He eyed each person in the room as if waiting for them to reveal what the joke was. “This is extortion.” 

Sister Maggie laughed. It was an ugly sound. “No, Mr. Colter, this is a group of women doing the Lord’s work, ensuring you and your wife get the child you’ve always wanted. No one needs to know the exact method as to how this miracle came to be, certainly not anyone who would oppose you in any kind of political matter. “ 

From his hiding spot Joseph struggled to keep the conversation straight. He’d never heard sister Maggie speak so freely, her voice held an edge of caution beneath the heavy Newfoundland accent. 

The couch creaked beneath him as the man hunched, defeated. His hands dangled between his knees limply. “A nephew.” he said flatly, turning to his wife, who still wore the stunned look of someone who tried to do right and saw it blow up in her face. “We’ll say he’s a nephew from Buffalo, come to stay with us while his parents sort out a divorce. If anyone truly presses you can tell them it’s a long gone half sibling who came out of the woodwork.” He turned to Sister Maggie “how much.” he asked. 

“How much what?” she feigned innocence, her eyes growing wide in a mirror image of his wife’s. 

“How much to keep this entire thing quiet.” 

“We don’t accept bribes Mr. Colter, that’s ungodly. We just ask that you give what you can when the collection plate makes its way to you.” Sister Maggie rose from her seat. The chair scuffing the floor. She held her hand toward Matthew, who hadn’t been able to take his eyes from the blonde woman since he sat down. “Come along. Paulette will help you gather your articles while the administration work is complete.” She nodded to Paulette who moved from her seat, trying to walk through the slight limp she’d developed from sitting too long. The man was the last to rise, trailing the group with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His head low. He didn’t make eye contact with Sister Maggie as she stood at the door smiling. He passed her by and the smile died on her lips, she regarded his back with an almost reptilian malice. 

The second hand moved through three more rotations around the clock face before Joseph emerged from his hiding spot, his long arms brushing chalk dust from his pant legs and seat. He opened the office door slowly, peeking his head out. His mop sat where he left it, and the hallway was empty. He strode from the doorway to the mop and resumed his duty. He puzzled over what he’d just witnessed. Movement caught his eye and he saw Sister Maggie striding his way, her black robes trailing behind her  as she locked her gaze squarely on Joseph. 

“And where have you been?” she asked as she got within earshot. 

“Me?” Joseph jammed a knobby thumb into his chest. “I’ve been mopping Sister. Just like you told me to do, though I think I’ve learned my lesson by now, I’ll never name call again.” 

“Hogwash. Keep your mind to your business until I tell you otherwise, or else I'm liable to have Mr. Faulkner come early tomorrow and you can have longer laundry duties too.” She knelt then, close enough for Joseph to see the large cross swing from around her neck. He stared at her, chest puffed out, trying to hide the wave of fear that gripped him at being within striking distance. 

“Here’s something else. I know you’ve been sneaking out, Joseph Crager. I can make things very easy, or very hard for you here. If you stop now there’ll be no repercussions, I’ll chalk it up to my active imagination. But if you decide to ignore this, you’ll long for this moment when extra chores are the extent of your punishment.” She stood then, regarding him through slit eyes. “You know,” she said, her voice returning to its usual booming resonance. “If you conducted yourself more fitting of a boy your age, you may find more people open enough to invite you into their homes and in their life. No one wants to adopt a miscreant, such as you are. Time’s running out for you, boy. You age out in a few months. Then you’re Anita’s to worry about. She’ll have you working fast, likely the railroad, or she’ll find a mine that needs labour. You’ll pine for the days here, where you don’t have to sing for your supper. Now forget the hallway, I want my office to be in immaculate condition when I return.” She turned without a second glance and marched back the way she came. 

  Joseph moved to the office he’d just vacated, trying desperately to stop the tears her words had conjured. He mopped a few more seconds before throwing the handle down with a clatter and flipping the bird in the direction the bigger woman took off in. He paced the room, admonishing himself for the situation he was in. He spied the small brown couch that Matty had been invited to by his new mother. Joseph lashed out with his foot as his vision doubled, then tripled. He collapsed onto it. His body a mirror image of Mr. Colter’s He wept into his hands. his chest aching as sorrow spasmed it. He bit back sobs that would bring the bite of the ruler if they were overheard by one of the sisters.

He exhaled and took stock of himself. A lanky fifteen year old whose ankles peeked out from the pant legs of his uniform. Hair the colour of wet sand swung into his eyes. He slid his fingers through it and brushed it away before his eyes caught something sticking out from beneath the cock-eyed couch. 

  A slip of paper. One could almost mistake it for an errant scrap of garbage. It was a business card. a simple street address etched in raised lettering scrawled across its surface in serif font. 

By the third read Joe smiled. He wiped his tears fast, his hand moving from his cheeks to dry them on his too-short pant legs. He sniffled, a monstrous snort in the dead quiet of the office. Rain that would eventually wither in the July heat lashed against the windows. 

I’d bet this is the same place Matty Mudpie is going. Mr. Colter must have dropped it. If that little shit thinks he’s getting away from here that easily, he’s more of a sap than I thought. He should be the one to stay back. Maybe I can convince him to make them take me too. If not I can always swipe something. They’ll think it was him and Matty Mudie will be back here by the end of the week. No one wants to adopt a thief. 

He racked his brain trying to remember if the woman was wearing any jewellery, but all he could remember was her eyes. He shook the floating blue orbs from his memory and glanced at the card again. It wasn’t far. Three blocks, maybe four. He could make it there tonight, talk to Matthew, and be back by the time Paulette collected him to do his letters in the morning. 

Joe pushed the couch back, sorrow subsiding. He wanted to find where he belonged, and stay there for a long time, and waiting out a work program at the Sisters of Mercy wasn’t where he belonged. He grabbed the handle of the pale and swung it briskly as he carried the mop back to the janitor's closet, his thoughts working overtime with visions of Christmas mornings and birthday cakes stacked high.

###

He stood in the darkness of his room. The heatwave that had the city in a stranglehold had finally broken and given way to a chill that had no business blowing through July. Joe changed from the institution issued uniform into a set of clothes he’d bought off Faulkner. Donnie was the closest thing Joe had to a friend, but that wasn’t saying much. Faulkner would talk to him, that was basically it, it’s not like they were going to baseball games or anything like that. The guy was at least ten years older than Joseph. He could tell Donnie anything and he would simply listen, not say a whole lot, and give advice enough to show he had been paying attention. Joe didn’t like to spill too many problems. Donnie lost an arm in the Great War. How do you match that when it comes to crying the blues? He came weekly to collect laundry. Joe was assigned to help. Joe told Donnie he was saving to leave. Donnie told him if he had anything worth pawning then Donnie would be the go-between, for a fee. 

By now Joe had a decent wad of cash hidden in a coffee can beneath his bed. When he ran out of things in his own possession to pawn, he started looking for things his bunkmates wouldn't miss. That’s what started the fist fight with the Sutherland kid. He moved his operation outside of the orphanage walls after that. 

Joe had almost been caught by Sister Maggie once, which is why she was on his ass about sneaking out, but since then he’d figured out how to scale the drain pipe to his room without making too much noise. 

He slipped into a pair of corduroy pants, a ratty grey argyle vest, and a black button down with the sleeves rolled up. He parked his billed cap on his head and cocked it slightly. Catching his reflection, he grinned like Mickey Rooney. In two steps he had his light out. Two more led to the window. Without looking back Joseph Crager climbed on his window sill, and out his window. The drain pipe held steady as he shimmied down it. He dropped the last few feet onto the ground littered with birch bark, maple leafs, and cast away garbage that collected in scraps clinging to the underbrush.plunged into the damp, darkening canopy of the forest that the orphanage was shrouded in. 

A half moon hung in the dark. Its yellow-orange glow a pale lantern Joe used to navigate the forest. Although the night’s chill made the sweater vest necessary, he still felt sweat pinning it to his chest as he walked. He retrieved a small pack from where he kept it hidden along the side of the building. He slung it over his shoulder and listened to the contents crash against each other inside. 

Joe relaxed in the cover of night. The darkness robbed his body of tension. He used it to blend in and feel like a normal person, just another soul walking the world searching for completion. 

The closest he felt to that was  when he slipped into the quiet of other people’s homes. It was the smells of food cooked, the warmth of a hearth glowing with embers, or the soft sign of someone snoring asleep on their couch. Joe took pieces of these happy lives. He slipped back into the night wishing for some of that warmth to penetrate his clothing and douse the fear that lived in his heart, but by the time he got back to his room, that keepsake he’d taken to try and feel normal was just a reminder of his incomplete life, and he needed to get rid of it. Which is where Faulkner came in. Joe was prone to calling him Faulky the Fence, though “Faulky” always told him to knock it off. Their arrangement was simple; Joe snaked the items, Faulkner sold them and took thirty percent off the top. The rest he gave to Joseph in cash to sock away in his Folgers can. 

His mind was preoccupied with what he was going to say once he saw how stunned Matty Mudpie was, that he didn’t notice the pathway forking. He only realized where he was heading when he felt the trail dip. He kicked a stone and it bounced ahead. Joseph stopped suddenly. His eyes darted to the shadows cast by the trees around him. His fingers flew into this pocket searching for the folding knife he carried.

Joseph stood before a hulking mass of logs and rocks that had been heaped together and solidified with mud and clay. The entire thing sat on a small outcrop of beaten dirt that ended in a drop to the forest below. He was close to the lake. Joseph could hear the surf crashing against the shore, matching the intensity of his heart crashing against his chest. He scanned the shadows again. Joseph waited to hear the same tinkling voice of the drifter. 

Nothing happened. 

The waves below continued to mark the passage of time as he stood breathing heavily into the night. 

His mind played an unwanted memory  

He used to take this pathway plenty of times. It was faster to get to the bigger, wealthier places that backed onto the lake. 

Though one night a fire crackled in the pit in front of the manmade hideaway. Joseph approached it, curious. There was someone standing in front of the structure. 

Joseph could just make out his scrawny figure smoking. Each drag illuminated more of the man’s face. Joseph saw a patchwork of whiskers dotting the chin and cheeks, a piggish button nose, and finally cheek bones that held his flesh taut, tracing down to the grimace the corn cob pipe was parked in. Joseph never saw his eyes, only two glossy orbs in the dark. They narrowed as the man called out to him. 

“Cold night to be walking on your own. You lost? Why don’t you come on over here and warm your bones.” 

Joseph hadn’t seen a reason not to. He took a step forward, his mind on any liquor the man may share, he was dressed as the type. But it was something in the man’s sing-song way of talking, the way his eyes danced, that spoke of pain and what he could inflict on a boy like Joseph. Behind the man a second fire burned within the fort. A shadow danced across the mud wall. The person stumbled. Joseph heard a cough before a moan carried through the still night air. The man knocked the embers of his pipe into the wind. Three strong taps against his boot heel. He languidly turned his head toward the shadows as they shifted in erratic patterns. 

A figure shambled toward the two of them, greasy hair hanging over the eyes and blood crusted nose. A bare shoulder blazed white as a fish belly in the dim light. A hand with scrapes and raspberry bush lashings clutched a stained sheet across her bare body. The man stood for a few minutes more. The firelight flickering off his eyes. Joseph realized he had somehow closed the distance between them, and was within arm’s length. 

Joseph wasn’t sure if it was the creeping moan that escaped the shambling woman, or the flagrant, greedy need he saw in the man’s eyes that tightened his skin against his skull. Joseph recognized the lecherous crawl of the man's stare. More than one of his foster fathers had looked at him the same way. Joseph was unsafe. Something beyond a simple man camping was going on here, and he should run. Joseph bolted like a spooked fawn. The man cursed after him. The jolly humour leeched from his voice by a cold and malicious demand for him to stop. The man’s true intent revealed. 

Joseph went back the next morning. He brought his knife. There was no sign of the man or his camp, simply a lady's black boot unlaced to the toe box. Its tongue hanging out as if it too was incredulous that its owner cast it off with such reckless abandon. 

Joseph stood in the same gut twisting anxiety the memory always left him with. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, considering the darkness. The drifter became known as the shadow man to Joseph, and he played a starring role in his nightmares before Joseph stopped dreaming all together. 

A bat skittered above him in a zig zag pattern that ended as it roosted in the train bridge that ran parallel to the pathway. Joseph moved on from the cave as if regarding it for too long could conjure the shadow man from whatever hell he’d disappeared into. 

The trail rose uphill. He walked through an overhang of sapling branches as the trees began to thin. The sounds of the sleeping city joined the cricket song. A dog barked in the distance. A cat exploded from the shadows as he emerged from the woods, leaping over trash cans and passing shipping doors. He was standing behind a machinist shop. He’d been inside, but found nothing worth taking that he wouldn’t need a truck for. He walked by the dirty, dark windows, past the old Ford that was being slowly reclaimed by the elements. Creeping vines twisted across the fenders. Grass grew through holes rotted in the floor.

When he found the building that belonged to the address, Joseph ripped the card from his pocket, sure there was some mistake. Fear and disappointment twisted their fingers into his heart, and Joseph felt the bitter sting of a night wasted. He berated himself. How could he be so stupid?

The building was deserted. A gravel path led to a chain-link fence that ran the perimeter of the property. Beside it a blazing white sign shone in the dark like a beacon. Joseph fished a small penlight from his backpack. He drew a breath as the beam illuminated the sign fully, and he was looking into the grinning face of Mr. Colter. The message accompanying the printworks drawing announced the building was to be refinished into affordable housing thanks to Counsellor Colter and the current municipal body. The message ended by reminding the city how important their upcoming vote was. 

Joseph eyed the building with a barely renewed interest. The damn thing didn’t have a solid window in it, but if it was being renovated that might mean new pipes. Faulky could get a premium price on copper. Maybe the night wouldn’t be a bust after all. A lingering, bitter pit sat in his stomach as Joseph realized he may never see Matty Mudpie again. He turned his attention from the thoughts to scaling the fence without ripping his pants.  

The building looked worse up close. Its bricks were holding up, but they needed a wash. Spiders made homes in corners, catching errant flies that couldn't resist the glow of the globes that still shone drilled into the brickwork. 

Three men crowded around each over in an alcove.

Joseph mistook them for junkies before he saw one had a claw hammer.

He raised it high above his head before striking the door handle, sending a dull clang into the night. The three men conferred with each other after each hit. They’d adjust and try again. The man brandishing the hammer became more frantic as each hit produced the same result.

Joseph stuck to the shadows as he moved around them. If they were junkies, he didn’t want to risk them seeing him and snatching his pack and knife. He cut through the grass that needed a mow. Moving to the back of the building. 

Three lines of orange light shone from behind a boarded up window. Joseph moved to it, peering through the crack trying to get a better look inside. He shone his beam on either side of the middle board. Using his knife he fished out the four nails holding it in place. The wood seemed new. It was heavy in his hand. Burs from a fresh cut still clung to the edge.

Joseph got an eyeful of boxes piled high in a basement before the single bulb in the light fixture began to flicker. Before it burned out completely Joseph spotted a table. His heart leapt. “It can’t be.” he breathed into the night air. What was a piece of equipment like that doing in an abandoned tenement? Joseph’s mind conjured several explanations at once. All of them were outshined by the simple, drumming conclusion that was steadily throbbing in his head: He could make a fortune from selling the phone that sat on the table. 

There was a backdoor. It sat set in an alcove where he could picture the residents shielding themselves from an October gust while they smoked. The glass had been broken and the wire mesh behind it twisted and misshapen as if someone had already tried what Joseph was going to attempt. He thought of the three men he saw on the way in, he wondered if they'd made it inside. 

Stop wondering and start working. If they did make it inside that phone is as good as gone. 

He slipped his satchel from his shoulder and rifled around in it until he found the slim round file he kept. Joseph set to work, running its fine teeth back and forth across the twisted metal. Sweat began to roll down his temple as he meticulously avoided the jagged glass. One piece of metal wire separated with a small sprung sound that added the crashing invasion of noise Joseph was polluting the night with. He looked over his shoulder, convincing himself for the second time he wasn’t being as loud as it sounded. The file made short work of the metal mesh sandwiched in the glass of the door. He was drenched in sweat when it was over, his shirt sleeves rolled up and bangs sticky against his forehead. The acrid tinge of adolescent sweat rolled off him in an almost visible cloud of filth. This reminded Joseph that he’d protested the last shower Sister Maggie demanded he take.  

Using the satchel to clear away any errant glass from the hole, Joseph  slipped from the dark of night, to the blacker pitch of the basement shadows. 

He shone his circle of orange light to reveal a stairwell landing. Checkerboard tiles led to stairs that could go up or down. His shoes squeaked as he made his way toward the down stairs. Joseph picked up his feet, his mind returning to the three men. The question of if they were a threat rolling absently around his thoughts. 

Come warm your bones by the fire. 

Joseph shook the thought off. They weren’t going to hurt him, probably just three winos looking for a place to hole up and share a bottle.   

The stairs ended. The floor was concrete. He could hear a drip to his left, it’s meandering urgency keeping time with the night slipping to dawn. There was a leak somewhere, judging from the size of the drip, Joseph confirmed this a few seconds later as he stepped into a puddle, recoiling as water greedily soaked up his sock.

He flashed his light, taking in what he could before dousing it again. One room held a rusty water basin next to a coal furnace. Another room held a bed frame with what used to be a mattress. The mice had had their way with it. The mattress was nothing more than a rusted frame of springs. The last room he saw was almost impassable. Debris and file cabinets blacked the door, leaving little space for him to press through, but if his guess was right, this should be the room with the phone in it. In the silence of the basement he could still hear the thrumming of the wino’s hammer as he made steady progress. 

They’ll likely head for the coal room to make a fire. No one will suspect anything unless you stand here flat footed all night. Make your move Joseph.

The crashing blow of the hammer was suddenly swallowed up by the sound of a door slamming open. Footsteps clamoured above him. It sounded like the three men were right on top of him. Joseph shone his light around in a frantic search, confused for the moment at where they were. 

“Search every room. But remember if that thing starts ringing it’s my call. Any of you chumps picks up that phone and I'll leave you here, you got me?”

The voice was rough. Full of whiskey and cheap cigarettes. 

The gruff voice was answered by a thicker pitched one, definitely fighting a cold. 

“Yeah Yeah Hopper you told us. All i’m saying is my help ain’t free. You want to answer the phone that’s no skin off my nose, but I gotta get paid too, get the picture?” 

“That goes for me too,” a third voice chimed in. 

“Look,” Hopper answered. “No one is getting a god damned dime if we don’t find that phone. Now get moving.” 

Joseph’s beam caught a ragged hole in the ceiling above him. Bits of plaster and flooring hung through. An overhead light dangled from its wiring like a loose tooth waiting to be severed from the nerve. 

The footsteps stopped. 

“What the hell was that?” Hopper barked. 

“Huh?” one of his accomplices answered. 

“Did you not just see that flash of light?” 

Joseph clicked his flashlight off. His heartbeat suddenly filled the silence he stood in. 

“Guys jumping at shadows now.” The third man chuckled.

The footsteps above stomped across the floor, getting closer to the hole Joseph just saw. He was standing in pitch dark, but Joseph could swear he saw a shadow move above him as if someone were gazing down at him. He turned and  put his shoulder into the nearest filing cabinet, moving it a few inches.  It let out a squeaking wail as it dragged across the floor. It was only a moment, barely enough time to register, but he still froze, listening. 

“Shh” Hopper harshly blew air through his teeth. “See what I mean?” 

“So some wino’s sleeping it off in here, you keep dragging ass and maybe I will answer this supposed hotline.” the second man spoke. “I think you’ve been had, personally. Why would anyone rig a phone line to an abandoned building.” 

“That’s the point, you dolt. This ain’t no room service phone, you think the type of work we gotta do is something they want to take out ad space over? If some rummy answers that call it means no dough for any of us. Now help me look, it’s almost midnight.” 

Joseph moved through the labyrinth of cardboard boxes and wooden crates. A red slash of pain flashed across his eyes as his knee set down on a nail, grinding it into his flesh. The clammy smell of mildew invaded his nostrils. The cement floor began to numb his palms. 

The clutter thinned enough that Joseph could stand. He was near the back of the room. He risked an exploratory flash from his light. The window he’d looked through sat just above him. Beneath is a small table held the black phone. Joseph looked over his shoulder toward the door. The men above were moving steadily across the floor. Joseph ran a hand through his hair. Any minute they could find the stairwell that lead down. He fished the knife from his pocket and stepped toward the phone, aiming to cut the wire and stuff the things into his pack. He needed a minute, maybe less. 

The phone blared. 

Joseph jumped out of his skin, the knife almost falling from his hand. 

His ears were still ringing as silence once more overtook the room. 

A second, blasting ring, rang out. 

The men above him were running. 

A third ring. 

Joseph’s hand flashed toward the receiver. It was an automatic, desperate action. He needed the thing to shut up. “Wrong number.” he hissed into the mouthpiece. 

“Huh? You got it all wrong pal, I talk, you listen.” The voice was butter smooth on the other end of the line. Joseph could hear the hum of the connection beneath his words.

“There’s a blade under the table. Nineteen-nineteen Franklin. Red chevy in the driveway, coupe. The car can’t make it to the courthouse in the morning you get me? Come back tomorrow at midnight for the cash. 

Joseph’s mind was reeling. He didn’t know what he was being asked to do, but he did understand getting paid. “How much?” he asked as he heard the three men descend the stairs. Hopper no doubt leading the way as he shouted orders to the other two behind him.

“You do a good job, there’s seventy-five bucks in it for you.” the line went dead. Joseph listened to the silence that lives between calls for a beat before replacing the handset. His mouth was dry. His thoughts raced with what he had just been told. Seventy five bucks was a fortune, and probably way more than he’d get from fencing the phone. Plus, if he cut the line would that queer the deal? Would the person who called know? He shifted from one foot to the other. He eyed the phone. The decision was made for him as a flash of light lit up the doorway.  

“Who the hell is in here?” Hopper barked. The beam of light flew around the room like a guard tower searching for an escaped inmate. 

Joseph dropped to the floor. He searched for a way out. 

The three men started pushing file cabinets and boxes out of the way as they fought for space to enter the room. Panic swirled in his stomach as Joseph realized his exit was cut off. His eyes settled on the boarded up window. It meant exposing his position. One of the file cabinets a few feet away was dragged and hurled into the hallway.   

“Did you take my phone call you little shit “ 

Joseph locked eyes with Hopper. Dark stubble lined his cheeks. Bright red patches beneath told a story of exhaustion as his chest heaved for breath. Joseph was close enough to see sweat slide down his temple before Hopper crouched and swiped for Joseph. 

Joseph was up in a flash. He planted his foot on the desk that held the phone and launched himself at the lowest board. A crack of wood joined the cacophony of chaotic movement. 

A tall man with a black eye and pock marked face swung a flashlight at Joseph from the end of one frail looking hand. Joseph planted his foot again and leapt for the board, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as it connected again. His teeth clacked together and he tasted blood as the board broke in two. It hung on two rusted nails. Joseph glimpsed starlight as he landed two jabs that pushed the wood past the driven in heads of rusted nails. 

An opening lead to the pitch black safety of the night. Joseph leapt for it. 

A hand closed around his ankle. 

He spun his gaze around to see Hopper had a hold of him. He pulled. 

Joseph grabbed the window frame.

Hopper grabbed Joseph’s shin with his other hand. 

Joseph kicked blindly with his free foot. He spared a glance behind him, and landed a blow to Hopper's face. 

Hopper’s nose exploded in a spray of blood and a cracking noise not unlike the board that Joseph had just laid his shoulder into. 

Hopper wailed and both hands flew to his nose trying to staunch the blood that dripped onto the table top and phone. 

Joseph scurried out of the window and lurched to his feet once he was free.  

He ran the opposite way he’d come, trying to make it around the building and stay in the shadows. When he ran by the front of the building the third man was at the door they had broken into. He was fast. His footfalls closed the distance. 

Joe ran into the street. The pavement was illuminated in an eerie orange glow of oncoming headlights. Joseph leapt across the road through the screech of tires sliding on asphalt and the blaring singular note of a car horn. He didn’t look back. A sickening thud was heard seconds later. Joseph picked up speed as he ran through back alleys, jumping fences and doubling back. He didn’t stop until his legs gave out from under him as he leapt from a particularly high privacy fence. He lay on the gravel and dirt yard trying to catch his breath. Cedar trees sat at the edge of his vision as if pointing out constellations. When his lungs stopped burning, Joseph rolled onto his stomach, then all fours, then finally stood up and staggered onward. 

It took two hours for him to find the house with the red chevy. He watched buses zoom by in a flurry of smoke and interior lights, heavy-eyed drivers running their routes with a thermos of coffee at their elbow. He didn’t dare hail one, not because he thought they were connected with the voice on the other end of the phone, but because he simply didn’t have the fare to ride. A certainty that drove home his resentment and reassured that he needed money. With each passing day he was falling further behind, and working a dead end job for people like Anita Cross was getting closer. 

When he found franklin street, he realized he hadn’t taken the knife from the table, but he had his own. Would that still count? Who would know? He was too tired to care. He’d had enough time to mull over what he was doing, and how much he could stand to make. But once again Joseph Crager was being led around by the short and curlies. He wasn’t in control of his own life, and that was the most angering of all. Rage propelled his hand and the knife slid into all four tires with ease. The red coupe shifted and moved in its parking spot, as deflated as Joe's ego. He ran the length of the car, the tip of his knife clawing lines and dents into the candy apple paint. He cut brake lines, smashed the windshield, even jimmied open the hood and slashed what he could find.  He was in a sort of fervour, and didn’t snap out of it until  a dog started barking two doors down and a light snapped on from behind a curtained window. Joseph took in the wreckage he’d inflicted. Satisfied, he skirted back into the night as if it were a shroud that could hide him from everything.  His heart thudded. It was hard to walk. His legs shook with each step. 

The eastern sky moved from black to blue with the coming dawn.

The area became familiar one landmark at a time, and Joseph picked up speed as he raced the sun. His steps began to stumble and he rubbed his eyes a few times trying to fight off sleep. Eventually, the brickwork orphanage peeked out through the trees and wrought iron gates that surrounded it. Joseph hugged one side of the building as he crept to the familiar drain pipe.

He fished the knife from his pocket, and unfolded the blade. The tip still has crusted paint on it which he washed off in a nearby puddle. He looked at the tool in his hand, contemplating if it would become evidence at his trial if he were ever caught. 

Best to let it cool off for a while. He knelt and placed the knife as far back into the eavestrough drain. Satisfied it would stay hidden till he needed it again. Joseph started the gruelling hand over hand climb back to his window. Each new step had him imagine Hopper grabbing his ankles and dragging him down into the roots and leaves surrounding the orphanage, the flash of a club in the moonlight the last thing Joseph saw.

He made it to his window, easing it open as relief swept through him. Behind him the sun painted the morning clouds a light pink and orange. He shouldered his way through noticing too late the twin glass circles that picked up the light of the approaching dawn. 

When she spoke, sister Maggie’s voice was like iron. She was far more terrifying than the shadow man, or Hopper, for that matter.  

She struck a match that illuminated the wrinkled landscape of her face. She brought it to the bowl of her pipe and took a few puffs. She shook it out. The center of the bowl glowed like hellfire. She exhaled, filling the room with the smell of rich tobacco.

Joseph was stunned to silence as a dozen excuses and alibis died on his lips. She had him cold. 

“I knew you were screwing around boy, so I thought I’d pay a visit. Now it’s not that you lied to me, that much I could get over, but it’s that you lied to the Lord. That I can’t abide.” She stood. The metal edge of the ruler glinting in what little light there was from the morning. Joseph recoiled,  his hands instinctively coming up to protect his face. He thought of the switchblade stuffed in the drain pipe as the first blow opened a gash above his eye. He thought about the black phone as Sister Maggie grabbed his wrists and held his hands away from his face.. 

He thought of the money that was promised, and a life away from the orphanage. She rained two more swift smacks, admonishing him for leaving. She reiterated that he was unwanted, and there was nothing for him outside. The pain began to overwhelm him, and Joseph escaped into the thought that tomorrow night he would be paid. He would go back to the black phone. He needed to get out of The Sisters of Mercy.

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