Out of Time., J Morris [reading list .TXT] 📗

opened his eyes and looked up at the 2 policemen
standing over him.
“Shit!” he said and looked at his watch. It was 9.20 AM. The sun was blazing down. He tried to
jump to his feet but a boot descended on his shoulder, pinning him.
“You got any ID?”
Simms panicked. This isn’t what he anticipated.
“Yeah, sure officer. Sorry, I must have had a few too many last night. Know what I mean?” He
smiled but the officers didn’t respond.
“Name’s Peter Doherty. My licence is in my back pocket.”
Simms slowly reached behind his back, and then, with lightning-fast action, he snatched the gun
from his waistband, and turned it to the 2 cops, who stepped back and put their hands in the air in
a sign of submission.
“Take off your radios and mics, and throw them over there,” said Simms, pointing to their left.
The cops complied. “This place will be swarming within 60 seconds,” said one. “You’ll go down
for this.”
“Not if I can help it,” he replied. “Take out your handcuffs.”
They took the cuffs from their belts.
“Now cuff your ankles together. And throw the keys over here.”
“I’ll be visiting you in your cell soon,” said the second cop, glaring at Simms. “Real soon.”
Simms grabbed the radios from the ground, and turned to the cops.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to do this.”
He hurried along the path, throwing the radios into the river, and then ran. About a mile along
the bank he came to a bridge; home to about 20 homeless men, most of them still asleep on their
makeshift beds. Empty wine bottles and shopping trolleys littered the area. He looked for a man
around his own size.
“Hey buddy,” said Simms, shaking the hobo’s arm.
The man grunted, and squinted his eyes. “The fuck you want?” he mumbled.
“Here’s 50 bucks,” said Simms. “Give me your clothes; you can have mine.”
The man looked Simms up and down. “What? This some kind of joke?”
“No fucking joke. Do you want it or not?”
The man snatched the $50 note from Simms’s hand.
“Damn right I do,” he said with a chuckle. “Deal!”
The old hobo showed off his new outfit to his companions, strutting back and forth like a
catwalk model, and receiving laughs and applause from the 3 or 4 who cared.
The stale urine stench of Simms’s newly acquired attire made him want to vomit and he
scratched beneath the ragged, flannelette shirt at something moving on his skin, but he considered
it a small price to pay for the lives of 21 young women. He was confident that he could now move
about the city unnoticed.
The distant sound of police sirens filled the air. He pulled his greasy black cap low over his
eyes. Simms felt unusually tired, despite having just slept for most of the night. He sat against the
cold, hard concrete wall, in the shadows, amongst the drunks and the homeless, and closed his
eyes. He figured it would take a few hours before the police search died down. Somewhere in the
gaggle of society’s rejects, he heard a drunk ranting incoherently. The sounds of snoring, and the
dull clanging and rumbling of the cars and trucks on the bridge structure lulled him to sleep.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
In Simms’s dream he strolled through Central Park with Sally Morgan by his side.
“You see that one?” he said, pointing to a spot in the night sky.
“Where?”
Simms moved behind her, and with his face next to hers, almost touching, extended his arm over
her opposite shoulder. Sally looked along his arm, following the direction of his finger.
“That’s Leo,” he said.
“Why do they call it Leo?”
“Leo the lion, of course.”
“Oh yeah, I see it now,’ she giggled. “It does look like a lion, doesn’t it? How do you know these
things?”
“Ahh,” he said, with the tone of a wise man. “I know a great many things. I’d like to teach you.
I’d like to show you things, Sally. There are so many things I want to show you.”
“Show me then,” she said, and turned to face him.
Simms looked into the depths of Sally’s eyes. They were like the sunlit, crystal blue waters of a
tropical island. She closed her eyes as her cool soft lips met his, and he felt her quiver in his arms.
His fingers moved through her soft blonde hair and she pressed her body to his. The scent of her
skin and hair, and the feel of her willing body brought out emotions never before felt by Simms.
She gasped, and he felt her warm breath in his mouth. Their lips separated and, hand in hand, they
strolled along the path to the river. They stood, looking out over the wide expanse of water. Sally
rested her head on Simms’s shoulder. A small boat chugged by, its navigation lights twinkling in
the night. The moonlight danced on the rippling surface of the water .They heard the ferry’s horn
and watched it depart from the dock on the opposite bank.
“I wish it could be like this forever,” said Simms. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“But it can be like this forever,” she said, turning to him. “I don’t have to go. I can stay. We can
be together, Tom. Forever.”
Simms looked at her and his eyes filled with tears. “No,” he cried, “Don’t you see you have to
go away?” He put his face in his hands. “He wants to hurt you, Sally. He wants to hurt you, and I
can’t stop him.”
Sally put her hand behind Simms’s head and drew him to her. He wept on her shoulder.
“Shhhh…” she whispered, as she gently stroked his hair. “Let me stay, Tom. Please…let me
stay.”
Simms woke with a jolt, still weeping, unable to control it. An old bearded man shuffled up
beside him. “Here,” said the man, and offered Simms a bottle. “This’ll help.”
Simms shook his head and pushed the bottle away. He stood and walked out from under the
bridge, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sunlight.
Simms checked his watch. 4.30 PM. He felt weak, even after the sleep he just had. His
muscles ached, and so did his stomach. He needed to eat. He pulled his cap low over his eyes and
headed toward Empire Street. He had a thought, and turned into East 42nd Street. Up ahead he saw
the 1950’s themed ‘Hard Rock Café & Milk Bar’.
As he walked toward it, he noticed he had developed a slight limp; his left-side hamstring muscle
ached, and was weaker than the right. He shrugged it off. Probably the position he slept in under
the bridge, he told himself.
He came to the milk bar and looked through the window. The memories came flooding back.
Some of the booths were cut-down cars; old Chevs and Fords, with the roof and the front and rear
sections cut off, the steering wheel removed, the front seat reversed to face the back seat, and a
small table in between. On the other side of the room were round stools in front of a long bar. The
colour scheme was pink, blue and white. Posters of James Dean, Elvis Presley, Marilyn Munroe
and other icons of the period decorated the walls. A juke box played the old Buddy Holly song
“That’ll be the day.” The waitresses and counter attendants were all female; aged somewhere
between 16 and 30 years old, dressed in short, pink, pleated skirts, white blouses and a white
apron.
Simms entered, and sat in the same booth as he did 18 years before. His dishevelled
appearance and bad odour drew the attention of adjacent customers, some of whom moved away
to another booth. A waitress came over. She was about 19 years old with black hair, pulled back
in a ponytail.
“Would you like to order, Sir?”
Simms looked at her name tag.
“Yeah, I’ll have a cheeseburger and a black coffee, thanks, Cindy. Triple shot.”
She hesitated, and looked over her shoulder toward a man behind the counter, who signalled her
with a hand gesture.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but my manager said you’ll have to pay before we can give you your order.”
“Of course,” said Simms. “I understand.”
He pulled $20 from his wallet and handed it to her. “Keep the tip,” he said.
“Thank you, Sir,” she replied with a nervous smile, and turned to walk away.
“Excuse me miss.”
She turned back.
“Is Sally Morgan here?”
“Sally? She starts her shift in about 15 minutes.”
Simms nodded. “Ok. Thanks.”
The cheeseburger was on his table within 2 minutes. He hadn’t eaten for almost 24 hours and
he wolfed it down. He smelt the aroma of freshly brewed coffee even before the waitress had
reached the table.
“Thanks Cindy,” he said as she placed it on the table. He took a sip and closed his eyes. He
couldn’t remember a coffee ever tasting as good as that ‘triple-shotter’. Strong coffee was one of
the few pleasures he still had in his life.
He noticed the manager constantly looking in his direction, and assumed that he wished Simms
would leave and take the smell with him.
Then he saw her, walking through the door. Seeing Sally alive after all those years sent a
shudder through Simms. He studied the beautiful, clear complexioned face of the teenager, her
slender build, her platinum blonde hair tied in the regulation ponytail, and her straight-cut fringe
resting on her eyebrows. She was dressed in her short, pink and white uniform complete with
apron, and with her nametag pinned above her left breast. This was the way he always tried to
remember her; the innocent naïve, bubbly young woman that she was, not the unrecognisable
bloodied mess that tormented him in his nightmares.
He watched her as she walked behind the counter, greeting her co-workers, and exchanging
smiles. Cindy spoke to her, and they both looked in Simms’s direction. Sally approached Simms.
“You were asking about me. Can I help you?”
“Sally, I came here to warn you. Please don’t work tonight. It’s dangerous. Can you take the night
off?”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why is it dangerous? How do you even know me?”
“Please trust me, Sally. I’m trying to keep you safe, but if it turns to shit, I want you to be as far
away from here tonight as possible.”
The manager approached the booth. “What’s going on? Is everything ok, Sally?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t understand any of what he’s saying.”
“Come on buddy,” said the manager, motioning towards the door. “You’ve had your meal… it’s
time to leave.”
“No. Please listen to me, Sally. Stay home tonight. Please.”
“You better leave before I call the police,” said the manager.
Simms couldn’t risk getting arrested. “Ok, ok,” he said, raising his hands in compliance. He
stood, and felt dizzy, but composed himself and walked to the door. As he stepped to the
sidewalk, his left leg gave way and he collapsed to the ground. Sally ran out the door, and knelt
next to him as pedestrians walked around them, keeping their distance. Ignoring the smell, she
rested a comforting hand on his forehead. Three of her co-workers came to the door.
“Leave him, Sally,” said one. “He’s not your problem. Come back inside.”
Sally ignored them. “Are you alright, Sir? Oh god, I’m so sorry.” She pulled her phone from her
apron pocket. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No! No ambulance!” he said, placing his hand over the phone.
She was stunned at his outburst.
“I’m ok,” said Simms, and struggled to his feet. “I’m ok,” he repeated as he limped down the
street, turning back for a final look at Sally.
Simms limped toward the subway about 80 metres down the street. It was a 35 minute trip on
the train to his old apartment. ‘I need to end this now,’ he said to himself. Simms realised he was
growing weaker. It seemed to him that every muscle in his body had a dull ache, and his skin
appeared loose and flabby, as if he had lost muscle tone. ‘Looks like you were right, professor.’
He reached the subway and, having no Metro Card, followed a commuter through the turnstile,
unnoticed in the dense crowd. He headed to Platform 3and boarded the train that would take him
to Westwood Station. Exhausted, he sat near the door. He saw his reflection in the window
opposite him. He looked older than his 37 years. His facial muscles had wasted away somewhat,
and his cheeks and eyelids drooped, making him unrecognisable as his former self. Within 5
minutes Simms was asleep. He opened his eyes when a conductor walked through the carriage
calling for all passengers to exit the train.
“Where are we?”