Free The Light at the End by John Skipp, Craig Spector Page B

asked, remembering the squealing taxi brakes that had brought his own career as Ace Bike Messenger to an inglorious end.
    Allan turned quickly, disorientation stamped on his features. “What?” he said, and then the statement registered. He grinned vaguely and shook his head. “No, no. It was… well, nobody got hit, exactly, but… uh, beep Hunter for me, will you?”
    “Joseph?” Jerome didn’t get it “What…”
    “Beep him.” Allan lit the pipe and made every attempt to steady his voice. “His mother just died. I’ve got to tell him.”
     
    Joseph Hunter was standing in a phone booth on the corner of 8 th Avenue and 42 nd Street, the dead receiver still clutched in his hand. He stared out through the glass, seeing nothing. His mind was elsewhere.
    When his beeper had gone off, he’d been cruising up 8 th with a vanload of prints for some European film festival. His mind had been riveted on his environment at that point; like most cities, New York demands that you drive like a ruthless maniac with metal teeth and eyes on all four sides of your head. Joseph was accommodating: cutting people off, swerving madly from lane to lane in an effort to pass everybody on the road, shouting at people when they didn’t get out of his way. Death had been the farthest thing from his mind.
    When his beeper had gone off, he’d suspected that the guys in dispatch had something else for him to pick up.
    He’d had no idea that it would be this heavy.
    She’s dead , said a voice in his head that sounded like it must be somebody else’s. He felt detached from the thought, from the very idea of it. She’s dead . It had to be somebody else’s life that he’d just been listening in on.
    Automatically, his free hand dug into the pocket of his jean jacket for a cigarette; he spent about thirty seconds trying to light the filter before he realized what he was doing.
    “Aarrgh!” he bellowed, tossing the useless smoke to the floor. He looked at the receiver as if it were a pigeon turd that had landed on his sleeve, slammed it down onto the hook, and stormed out of the booth.
    Back on the sidewalk, surrounded by the gaudy sleaze of West 42 nd Street… peep shows on top of live sex acts on top of $1.99 porno triple bills, all flashing their multi-colored marquees to sucker in the scum of the earth… Joseph was overwhelmed by the urge to just reach out and smash something. It didn’t much matter what: a wider selection of eminently smashable things could not have been assembled for love nor money. All he had to do was wait for a little provocation.
    Normally, he wouldn’t have had long to wait. There was something daunting, however, about a gigantic bearded young man who looked like he was about to explode. The danger light went on. Con men who would ordinarily try to sell him bad drugs, pictures of naked harlots, the naked harlots themselves, and other hot items gave him a wide berth, some actually stepping off the curb and into the street to get around him.
    “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, too quietly for anyone to hear. “Back off.” But as he spoke, the tears began to well up in his eyes. The shuddering seemed to start in his chest and radiate outward, like shock waves from a depth charge that somebody just set off in his heart. Before he fully realized it, he was practically doubled over by the force of his own massive sobbing.
    And the same voice in his head came back, speaking like a stranger with a clearer view of the situation than anyone involved. She’s dead , it repeated. But that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted to be free of her. To live your own life. To get the hell out of this grimy insane asylum.
    Isn’t that what you wanted? the voice insisted, point-blank, and suddenly it sounded like some cheap prick D. A. that the State had sent in to break him down. It was the voice of his conscience being a cruel bitch, trying to make him squirm over crimes never even committed.
    Isn’t that what you