My Voice Is A Knife

Another story in the “Derek Kills People” series.

Each story is meant to be able to stand alone, so don’t panic.

Previously:

1. My Knife Can Cut

2. Strangled Sunlight

3. On The Moon

4. The Hitman's Holiday

5. The Father, The Son, and Something In Between

Part 6…

***

MY VOICE IS A KNIFE

Let me tell you how I became friends with a poet. I’m sitting in the library downtown. Early evening.

A voice says, “Hey, give me five dollars.”

I look up from my book. A scruffy woman, mid-twenties, is standing next to me. Jeans and a jean jacket. I’ve never seen her before. Her hand is outstretched. She’s wearing padded bike gloves.

“Give me five dollars,” she says again. She bounces her hand in my face. Trying to convince me.

“What for?”

“I’m a poet. I write poetry. Support the arts.” She indicates her hand with a nod. “I need financial support. Consider it a small grant. I don’t like dealing with the government. I prefer talking to individual taxpayers.”

“Are you any good?”

She crosses her arms, scowling. “Am I any good? Did you just ask me that? Don’t you know who I am?”

I shake my head.

“I’m Frankie Dee,” she says, triumphantly. “The Frankie Dee! The one and only!”

“Okay.”

“You’ve never heard my name before? I can’t believe it. Everyone knows me. I’m queen of the poets. I won the champion grand slam last year. It made all the papers.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

“I’m the greatest poet this city’s got. Give me five dollars.”

“Tell me a poem,” I suggest. “If it’s good, I’ll give you money.”

“No. No way. I’m not a trained animal. A poem recital is an event. You can’t just ask me to bark one out. Not whenever you want. I’m a poet. I only share poems when I’m good and ready.”

I stare at her for a moment. She stares back.

“It’s funny,” I say. “You coming up to me, like this. Because I kill poets for a living. Poets string lies together. They can’t feed themselves. They live on welfare. They go up to strangers, begging for money. Poets are a nuisance. Vermin. A drain on society. Like rats. So the government pays me. I get a decent salary. And all I have to do is kill poets. I make a commission, too. On top of my salary. Five hundred dollars, for every poet I kill. I’m good at my job. That’s why poets are so rare. You hardly see them nowadays. Like the dodo bird. Or the passenger pigeon. You’re just lucky it’s my day off. Or you’d be dead.”

Frankie continues staring at me. I continue to stare back. Then she bursts out laughing.

“You’re funny,” she says. “That’s really funny. You’re all right. What’s your name?”

“Derek,” I tell her.

“You’re all right, Derek.” And she slaps me on the arm. “I like you. Yeah.”

Then she walks away. I go back to my book. In the distance, I hear her. Talking to her next victim.

“Give me five dollars.”

She makes her way through a dozen patrons. Some even give her money. They smile. Not even sure why they’re giving her cash.

***

Two days later. I’m walking down the street. There’s Frankie, cross-legged on the sidewalk. People streaming past her.

“Spare change please!” she yells. Then she waits five seconds. Yells it again. “Spare some change please!”

Her voice is disturbingly loud. Impossible to ignore. Like a geyser of hot water blasting out of the sidewalk. Comical and terrifying. People smile nervously.

I go to walk by her. I assume she won’t remember me. I am invisible. No one ever notices me.

Frankie sees me. She smiles broadly.

“Derek! Hey! Hey, Derek! Kill any good poets lately?”

I stop. I look down at her.

“A few,” I say slowly. “Met my quota for the day, though. You’re lucky, Frankie.”

“That’s me,” she says. Smiling up at me. “Always lucky.”

I don’t know why I do it. I reach into my pocket. Find five dollars. Give it to her. She didn’t even ask.

“Thanks, Derek,” she says. “You’re a real patron of the arts.” And she gives me a wink.

I nod, confused, and walk off.

***

A few days later. I’m at the library. Cruising the aisles. Looking at random books. Frankie comes around a corner. Sees me, smiles. It feels random. But she was looking for me.

“Derek!” she says. Pointing at me with both hands. “How’s it going, killer?”

“Frankie,” I answer.

“Let me take you out for a coffee,” she says. “Do you drink coffee? Espresso, maybe? Latte?”

“I drink coffee,” I reluctantly admit.

“Let’s go then. Let’s be sociable. Civilized. Have a dialogue. Like Europeans do. We’ll sit down, drink coffee. Maybe have a biscotti or a muffin. Or even a cookie! What do you say?”

I want to say no. But there’s a puppy dog quality to her. It’s both annoying and draws me in. She makes saying “no” feel ugly.

“Sure,” I say.

“It’s decided then,” Frankie says. “I know just the place.”

She leads me to a fancy hotel. A tourist trap. Big and pretentious. It has a history and tries to cram it down your throat. Marble busts. Marble floors. There’s a coffee shop off the lobby. We order coffees. To my surprise, Frankie pays. She ignores the seats in the shop. She leads me out of the store into the hotel. Off the lobby is a faux fireplace and big comfy chairs. We sit down with our coffees.

I wonder, will the hotel staff kick us out? But I lend Frankie an air of respectability. My invisible features tame her wildness. With a start, I realize people might think she’s my daughter.

We sit quietly for a moment. Drinking. Something about Frankie changes. Her bouncy eagerness evaporates. She seems smaller. Younger.

“Do you really kill poets?” Frankie blurts out. Her face is serious, eyes wide.

I pause. Then, “Maybe. Why?”

“Because there’s someone I want dead. I thought maybe you could do it. A poet. Do you really specialize in killing poets?”

I look at her. She’s serious. Frightened, a little.

Is she crazy? Falling for my joke, maybe. Or is she smart? Seeing through the joke. Realizing it’s no joke at all. Because I do kill people.

I think back to when I was a hitman. Before I quit. All the losers I’d killed. People who borrowed money from the mob. People with big, stupid plans. People who bet large. With no money to pay. Dreamers. Utterly impractical human beings. They talked themselves into believing their own lies. All of them dead by my hand. Strangled.

“Yes,” I say. “In a way, my speciality is killing poets.”

“Good,” Frankie says. “I have a poet I want dead. I can give you five hundred. You said that was your price. Your commission. Is that right?”

My going price was seven thousand dollars. Back when I had a job.

“Five hundred is fine,” I say.

She reaches into her jean jacket pocket. Pulls out the lining. There’s a hole. She sticks her finger in the hole. Teases around for a moment. Out comes a tightly wound roll of bills. She removes a rubber band, shows me. Five one hundred dollar bills. She gives me the money. The bills are surprisingly new. I pocket them.

There is a pause. Frankie is uncomfortable, suddenly.

“I suppose you need to hear the whole story?” she asks.

Her face is pale, now. Eyes are crazy. Fury raging in her. Fists squeezed tight. The playful young woman is suddenly a monster. Whatever the story is, it’s bad. Dangerous. I worry for her sanity.

I hesitate. “Do you want to tell me?”

“Not really,” she says through her teeth.

“Give me a name. An address. A description. If you have a photo, give me that.”

Frankie stares at me. Her eyes burn. Then she looks away. Tries to regain control. Her face is twisted up like a rag. Teeth clenched, almost grinding. She’s trying to hold it all in. Whatever story is in her head, it kills her happiness. It’s an explosion she’s holding together. I find myself grateful she’s not telling me.

When Frankie has some control, she straightens up. She reaches into another pocket. Takes out a wallet. Inside is a photo. She pulls it out. Stretches her hand out to me. Her fingers are shaking.

I take the photo. Study it.

A young woman, mid 30s, faking a smile. I’m surprised it’s a woman. A flowery bedroom. She’s wearing a t-shirt. Hair cut short, red. She’s thin. Naïve looking, somehow. Confident, but shouldn’t be. Brazen. Like a drunk about to get behind the wheel.

I flip the picture over. On the back is an address. And a name. Clara.

“Are we good?” Frankie asks me. Her words, clipped.

I slip the picture into my pocket. “We’re good.”

“Okay,” Frankie says. “I have to go.”

And she gets up and leaves. Doesn’t look back. The coffee she bought sits there. Hardly touched.

I’m an idiot, I think to myself. I’m being played. I’m a sucker. I need to know who the target is. I need the story. Who is Frankie Dee to me? Why should I do as she asks? Why should I take her money?

And yet I’m going to do it. I can see that already. I’ve decided. Somehow, Frankie Dee has become important. And I’m going to kill. Just like she asked me to.

***

At home, I study the picture of Clara. The naïve face. The big blue eyes. I decide not to strangle her. Just like that. Without really thinking about it. It’s odd. I always strangle my victims. I have the hands for it. I like to get up close. I like not needing tools.

But I’m tired of that routine. Aren’t I changed man? No longer a hitman for the syndicate. I’m my own person. I can do what I want. And what I want to do is use a knife. I want to try out my knife, again. Something about Clara. Her picture. Her short red hair. It all makes me want to cut. She reminds me of the other time I used my knife.

In my kitchen. A kitchen knife. A gift. I tried to throw it away. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Rescued it from the trash. Hid it at the back of the drawer. Is it time to try the knife, again? It feels like it’s time.

I hold the knife in my hand. I study the photo of Clara.

Maybe the knife feels right because of the questions. It’s not just a killing. Not just a hit. Something more. Why does Frankie want Clara dead? What’s the story? I want to know. I can’t ask Frankie. She’s too sensitive. Instead I’ll ask Clara. My knife will get me answers.

I’m excited. I haven’t been excited about a kill in so long. And I’m doing it for a measly five hundred bucks. Practically charity work, by my rates. Still, it feels good. It feels good to give something back. And to take something away.

***

Clara lives in a small house. Borderline condemned. It’s been divided into three apartments. The other apartments are empty. Bizarre, in this housing market. But the house is that bad. Roof missing shingles. Paint peeling off the outside. A real dive. Who else would live here?

I watch for a few days. Get her routine down. Clara lives alone. No job. Or maybe something part time. She comes and goes. Never very long. Always the same hours. Just like everyone. We all have routines.

She’s not home one early evening. I know she’ll be back soon. I get closer to the house. Find a window. Not even locked. I’m inside, in her bedroom. It’s the room from the photograph. A little girly-girl. Flowery bedspread and pillows. Pictures of flowers on the walls.

I hide in the closet. Lots of clothes. Mostly second hand. You can just tell. The smell of perfume. Almost sickly. I wait there, sitting on the closet floor. Waiting for Clara’s bedtime.

I am patient. I am still. I am invisible. I have my knife.

Clara gets home. She goes into the kitchen. Groceries, maybe. Something goes in the fridge. Pots and pans move around. Making something to eat. TV goes on. She cooks. She sits out there, eats. Watches an old sitcom.

I’ll tie her to the bed, I think. Use these stockings in the closet. No, maybe tie her to a chair. There was a chair in the kitchen. Perfect. Won’t have to be too quiet. House is empty.

I’m excited. Almost sexually aroused. I never get like this. My kills are always emotionless. Business. It’s the knife. It’s Clara, the picture of her. The bedroom. Her perfume. Holding her stockings. My questions. She’ll answer my questions. That’s the most exciting part, somehow. Not just a kill. Another goal.

An hour later. The TV snaps off. The ceiling light in the bedroom snaps on. Clara starts to get undressed. I can see her. Through a crack in the closet door. There’s the short red hair. She looks tired. Slow movements. She takes off a sweatshirt. Drops it. Removes her bra. Let’s it fall on the floor. Pale skin. Thin body. Almost too thin. Still pretty. Not that it matters.

Clara is down to just panties. Her pyjamas are on the bed. She reaches for them. Now, I think. While she’s vulnerable. Mostly naked.

I step out of the closet. She turns, sees me. The knife in my hand. She steps against the wall. At first, she doesn’t believe I’m real. Thinks she’s seeing things.

“Don’t yell,” I say. Stepping to block the doorway. Trapping her in the bedroom.

Her eyes are large. Her hands stay by her side. Not even an attempt to cover her breasts. Shoulders slumped. Face resigned. It’s hard to explain. She’s already given up. I can see it. There’s no fight. It’s not an act. No attempt to lull me so she can escape. I think she gave up before she even saw me. She’d given up weeks ago.

“I won’t yell,” Clara whispers.

And she won’t. It’s like she’s been waiting for me. Or someone like me. Someone to come along and punish her. But for what?

“Move.” I point with the knife. “This way.”

“All right,” she says. Meek little voice. A child’s voice. Even though she has to be thirty, thirty-five.

I lead her into the kitchen. I tie her legs to the chair with stockings. I tie her arms behind her back. Clara doesn’t struggle. Utterly compliant. The artificial light in here is brighter. One small window, with curtains. No one will see.

Only Clara’s eyes are awake. Locked on me. The rest of her is slumped. Asleep. Flaccid.

I point the knife at her face. “Let’s get started. What did you do? Tell me.”

Her body slowly tightens up. The muscles define themselves. Her body wakes up. Her eyes look at the floor.

I ask again, “What did you do?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says.

“You’re lying. You know exactly what I mean.”

And she does. It’s obvious. And it frightens her. More than me and the knife. The memory of whatever she did. It frightens her. She struggles to make eye contact. Clara’s blue eyes are almost white. Her lips, bloodless. Whatever it is, she doesn’t want to tell me.

“Frankie Dee,” I say slowly. “What did you do to Frankie Dee?”

The name means something. Her eyes flicker. She bites her lip, shakes her head.

Clara starts to say, “I don’t know who that is.”

Before she can finish, I cut her. Left arm. Not deep. I drag the knife across the skin. Almost gentle. My knife is sharp. I make a thin red line. Maybe three centimetres long. Clara doesn’t register it, at first. Then she hisses between her teeth. Blood runs down her pale skin. Just a little blood. A tiny wet flag of pain.

She looks at me, struggling. Not to escape. Struggling to speak. But the words don’t come. I put a hand over her mouth. She goes still.

“I don’t torture people,” I tell her. “I kill people. What we’re doing right now… It’s new to me. I’m good at killing people. Usually, I strangle them.”

I take my hand from her mouth. I show her my hands. One a time. My fingers. Clenching and unclenching.

“Strangling is all at once,” I say. “It’s a commitment. A knife is different. It can go slow. It can go fast. Little cuts. Or deep cuts. I’ve never used a knife before. Not like this. It could get very messy. Complicated. Do you understand?”

My breathing is excited. I try to control it.

Clara nods weakly. Tears are running down her cheeks. I find myself loving those tears. In a way I don’t understand. They’re beautiful.

“Okay,” she says. Like she wants to be helpful. Like she’s on my side.

“Okay,” I say.

I give her a moment to compose herself. Then I ask again:

“What did you do?”

Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out. She shakes her head. Struggling. Like someone with a stutter.

“I can’t,” Clara chokes out. Pathetic. Not stubborn. “I can’t.”

“Why?” I ask. “Just tell me. We can finish this quickly. You want to tell me. I can see that. Tell me what you did.”

She shakes her head. Her body so tense, the chair creaks. She’s trembling. Like a seizure.

“I can’t,” she says, half moaning.

I cut her again. And again. Three horizontal lines on her left arm, now. Each three centimetres. Leaking red. Clara hardly seems to notice. The mysterious pain inside her is far worse. Some untouchable, internal agony. Deep in her heart. In her guts.

I look at the knife in my hand. Useless. I could slice her a thousand times. Cut off fingers, nipples. She would never tell me. Some internal torture has her. Sobbing and spasming and moaning. She wants to talk, but can’t. Nothing to be done.

And there’s nothing sexy about all of this. There’s no fight. No excitement. I put down my knife. Disappointed. Again. Always disappointed by the knife.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

I wrap my hands around her throat. She goes still. Silent. A look of relief floods her face. She knows she’ll get what she wants. What she deserves. Punishment, for whatever it is. Whatever crime she committed.

I squeeze. Her lips are red, now. Her eyes open, blue again. She stares into me. Grateful as I squeeze the life out of her.

Am I killing her or saving her?

***

The next few days, I hang out at the library. No sign of Frankie. I try the hotel, the coffee shop. The corner where she was begging. No sign. Seems she’s hiding out. Makes sense. Keep a low profile after your enemy dies. All the same, I want to talk to her. I keep looking. I need to ask her questions. Can’t let my questions go unanswered.

A week later, I step into the library. There’s Frankie, reading. Like nothing happened. I go up to her. Stand there. Wait for her to notice me. She looks up, smiles.

“Derek!” Frankie says. “Long time no see. How are things?”

I nod. “Good. You?”

“I’m great. Awesome.”

The words feel weird coming out of my mouth: “Let me buy you a coffee. Return the favour. I owe you.”

“Sure.”

We go to the pretentious hotel. Sit in the lobby. By the fake fireplace. Coffees in our hands. There’s a silence. Frankie smiles at me, encouraging.

“Why?” I ask her. “Why did I kill Clara? What did she do?”

“She’s dead?” Frankie asks. And her fury is back. But there’s a joy there too, now. A new freedom, taming the rage.

“Clara is dead,” I say flatly.

Frankie takes a sip of her coffee. Sucks on her teeth. Gets her thoughts straight.

“I wrote a poem,” Frankie said. “Clara stole it from me. She tried to pass it off as one of her own.”

I wait for more. Then I realize there’s no more coming. Frankie sees the look of confusion on my face. She smiles grimly.

“I read the poem in a work group,” she says. “Clara stole it, word for word. Read it at another poetry event.”

“Just a poem,” I say.

“Just a poem? Just words?”

Frankie stares at the floor. Words start coming out of her mouth like machine gun bullets:

“You don’t understand. I write a poem, it’s a piece of me. It’s my identity. It’s one of my children. Clara steals a poem from me? It’s like she stole a piece of my soul. And she understood that. When I caught wind of it, I confronted her. At first, she pretended it never happened. But it got to her. I could see that. The crime of it. The guilt. She knew exactly what she’d done. I told her I would kill her. Somehow, I would see her dead. She got all blustery. Laughed it off. But from that moment on, she knew. Her days were numbered. She’d broken the law. Not some law in some lawyer’s office. Something bigger. Something much more meaningful. The laws of nature. She took a soul that didn’t belong to her. And she tried to pass it off as her own. There is no bigger crime. There’s nothing worse that you can do.”

Frankie looks at me, now. She’s smiling like an angel. One that has just ripped the horns off a demon. Righteous fury, satisfied.

“Just words,” she says. “Just stories. Just poems. That’s all we have. The things we say. The thoughts in our heads. All we have are words, stories, poems. Reality is a poem we tell ourselves. A story. Nothing more. If you know how to put words together, you know magic. You can change the world with a story. You can talk to a man. When he says he kills, you know he means it. Because you can hear the truth. The poetry. You can ask that man to kill for you. And he’ll kill for you. Because of the words. Because you can make him hear the truth. The poetry of truth. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I’m not sure I do. But I nod. There is a logic in there. It makes some kind of sense.

“Poetry is all we have,” Frankie says. “We are all poets. Each of us has a voice. We have to be true to that. You’re a poet too, you know.”

It surprises me. But then I think of my knife. Instantly, the memory is there. I’m so reluctant to pick up the blade. Wanting to use it. Scared of it. Yearning to use it. Feeling like I should cut. Afraid. Preferring to strangle. A cop-out, strangling. A giving up. The three horizontal lines I cut into Clara. The letter “I” maybe? I, I, I. My identity. Me. A voice. A kind of writing. A sort of poem. Three bloody flags. Carved into another human being.

“Yes,” I say slowly. “I suppose I am a poet. But I don’t know my voice yet. I’m unsure. I don’t trust it.”

“That’s what we do. Our whole lives. We try to find our voice.”

This makes sense to me.

We sit there in silence for a moment. Drinking coffee. Watching the hotel lobby. The people run around. Luggage moves about. And we are quiet. Thinking. Of our stories. Of our voices.

***

Anyhow, that’s how I became friends with a poet.

Frankie did eventually tell me some of her poems. It took a while. But she told them to me. They are beautiful and angry. Words assembled into something bigger. Magic spells. Poetry. A vicious love.

Obviously, I can’t repeat the poems here. That would be stealing.