Free Tales of Sin and Madness by Brett McBean Page A

good night?”
    Jackson didn’t answer as he hurried past. He heard the night watchman mutter “Asshole,” but Jackson didn’t care.
    He arrived at the elevator (commonly referred to as ‘the deathtrap’ by the tenants), hit the ‘up’ button and waited.
    When Jackson heard the rustle of a newspaper and then the watchman sigh, he figured either the old man was saying, Well fuck you , or he was so apathetic towards his work he just didn’t care what was going on in the building.
    Still, Jackson glanced over his shoulder and wondered if the night watchman suspected anything.
    Why would he? He’s an old man who sits on his ass all night.
    Jackson squinted, trying to read the headlines splashed across the front of the newspaper, but he couldn’t quite read them from where he was standing.
    The elevator chimed, signalling its arrival. Jackson turned around and stepped inside. The compartment was bathed in a light the colour of pale urine and the stale vomit and cigarette smell never failed to sicken him.
    ( I can’t believe you. You sicken me. I thought I knew you, but I guess I was wrong… )
    He jabbed the number 6 button with his index finger, saw the old man tip one corner of the newspaper and eye him, then the elevator doors closed.
    Thank God I’ve got a better life than that .
    When the elevator jolted to life and started its rickety ascent to the top floor, Jackson took a long, relaxing breath then leaned back against the grubby brown panelled walls of the elevator. He was safe.
    Nobody had followed him.
    Unless there are a group of policeman waiting for me in my apartment .
    He thought it hardly likely; after all, the old man had said it had been a quiet night. But what if he had been lying? What if he had been covering for the rotten pigs?
    What is the correct term for a group of cops? he wondered. A gaggle? A herd? A flock?
    Jackson was mulling it over, when the elevator stopped at the first floor.
    The doors opened.
    Jackson waited.
    When nobody entered, he straightened, walked to the open doors and looked out. There wasn’t a soul around.
    “Damn eleva…” He stopped when he spotted the baby.
    It was sitting with its legs crossed and was gazing right at him. Jackson smiled. The baby didn’t smile back. “Hey there, fella. What are you doing out here?”
    The baby – he couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a boy – didn’t make a sound. It didn’t laugh or cry or gurgle. Just sat there in the middle of the hallway, rocking back and forth. Staring. Looking sad.
    The doors began to close.
    Jackson stepped back and let them shut.
    W here are the parents?
    He leaned back against the wall and shrugged. It was none of his business. Maybe the kid belonged to a hooker and she didn’t want to take it in with her while she conducted business. Couldn’t find a babysitter, so she had to bring it to work.
    Whatever the reason, Jackson didn’t care. What did play on his mind was how miserable the baby seemed. But did babies get miserable? Could they have those complex emotions at such a young age?
    Jackson wondered what would become of the kid when it grew older.
    I can’t worry about such things. I have my own problems.
    He knew it was silly – he didn’t even do anything tonight – yet he couldn’t quite shake the feeling something wasn’t right. Was Gloria telling him something? Was she telling him not to go up to his room because there were a gaggle of cops waiting?
    What are you trying to tell me, Gloria?
     
    * * *
     
    He was born in the tiny Midwestern hamlet of Belford. He was the second child, his brother Michael was born three years prior, and according to his mom, his had been an especially easy birth.
    They lived in a two-storey house just outside the township. His parent’s owned and ran the local pet store – Sean and Deb’s Friendly Pet Store – where his earliest memory was sitting in the back of the store petting a tiny white kitten, his mum smiling and maybe even crying a