Scars
Part 50 of my story! Holy bingle! Read the index and content warnings here. ...pation. There's fighting and stuff in this.
Harry Avery was no stranger to the horrors of war, and the display in front of him was no less revolting. Never in his life had he seen two men fight as wildly and desperately as the men on the table in front of him were fighting: no decorum, no rules, no limits, one punch landed after another until each fighter's face was downright unrecognizable. The heads of drunken giant patrons bobbed in front of him all the while and cheered with delight at the carnage. The basement they were packed into reeked of cheap beer and their rancid breath. Then the excitement swelled when the tiny fighter to Harry’s right knocked the one to his left over and clambered on top of him, pummeling his opponent’s face repeatedly as Harry waited for a referee that would never come to call the match. There was no tap-out, of course, no ringing of a bell - the fight wasn’t declared a victory until the man on the ground had stopped moving and the victor had shakily risen to his feet, throwing his bare fists up in glory.
This was a tiny fight, a pre-show of sorts to a dog fight that would serve as the main event, Harry had learned.
“Those roaches aren’t gonna come back to that farmhouse.” Danny had said of the snatchers. “They’ll find some new place to infest. Where you WILL find them is at the fights... unless they got locked up or had a sudden change of career.”
In his four months of searching Harry had encountered neither Frankie nor Lessard. Fortunately, he hadn’t encountered Joe either, though he had heard the name Piccoli being bandied about various underground fighting venues with worrying frequency. This was what had kept him coming back to basement after basement and barnhouse after barnhouse, helplessly scanning the fighters in the ring in search of the one face that he would always recognize, no matter how battered or broken it may be. It sickened him to be part of this crowd, and he didn’t know how to feel about the way they had welcomed him in with open arms. His burn scars, his patched clothes, the dark circles around his eyes, all ensured he had an intimidating look about him that allowed him to fit right in.
The organizer plucked the unconscious man who was not Joe from the tabletop and the rest of the crowd grew electric with anticipation for the dogs to come out. This was Harry’s cue to leave.
These things weren’t supposed to happen in Canada, Harry maintained. This was not what he had fought for. As he returned home the pointlessness of the fight weighed heavy on him. He knew all too well how those fighters felt.
-
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Avery. We’ll look into it. In the meantime, try calling the SPCA." Said the officer on the other end of the phone.
Harry, who had already called the SPCA and been told to call the police instead, hung up on the cop without a word and felt no shame in it. Reporting the fights to any halfway-relevant authority had become as much of a ritual as attending them, and every officer promised the same thing: we’ll look into it. Naturally they never did, and he felt as though he were going mad. Tiny fighting, he had learned, had been theoretically outlawed since the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Act of 1892. What was the point of laws, he wondered, if nobody enforced them?
He looked down at his knuckles. Remembering the blood, he felt hollow. He tried to turn his brain off as he ventured up the stairs to ready himself for bed, but the silence lent itself too well to thinking, and right now all Harry could think about was how much noise Joe used to make without Harry realizing it. There had once been the rustling of movement, the flipping of paper, the sound of tiny pencil scratches, subtle reminders that he was not alone. That there was still humanity left in the world.
Harry hardly felt human as he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. The crescent-shaped burn along his jawline had turned shiny then scarred over, leaving him looking not unlike those who had survived the gas attacks during the war. In hindsight he was thankful to Danny for stopping him in the woods and talking him into going home, for in the days after Danny had left his burnt earlobe had turned gangrenous to the point of needing surgical removal. It was a blessing of modern medicine that the infection had not spread, and while he couldn’t be certain, he could hazard a guess that wading through lake water, ripping across a cornfield, and slogging about in the woods had done his injuries no favours.
He wondered what day of the trial Danny was currently on as he brushed his teeth. Maybe he would see the fake Danny at tomorrow’s picture show, gleefully dancing for his masters while the real one was fighting them in court.
Better that than fighting a fellow miniature on a table for the giants' amusement, Harry figured, though only barely.
-
It wasn't the shells or the snipers or even Georgie that had been haunting Harry's nightmares lately. Ever since the fire, it was the threat of gas that plagued his animal mind every night. The smoke, the burning, the helplessness, all of it had been twisted into nightmares that were not about the fire itself, but about gas, to the point even the smell of his own morning cigarette left him queasy.
It was the gas that had been most insidious, after all, not through its presence but its absence. The threat of it had lurked in the back of every soldier's mind and driven even the bravest of them mad with anxiety, to the point that being gassed in itself had brought some odd relief when it finally happened. Every man knew what to do during a gas attack; you donned a mask if you had one, pissed on a rag and covered your face with it if you didn't. What truly eroded the spirit was the perpetual state of uncertainty they lived under in the interim while waiting for the gas to come, that maddening sense of never knowing what they would be dealing with.
How strange it was, Harry thought, that it was these things that weren't there that held the most sway over people.
He put his cigarette out on the porch railing and turned his attention to the paper. He took it inside and sat with it on the parlour couch, appreciating the dullness of the present moment.
Front page news of the latest bank robbery would soon be of great interest to Harry, but for now he flipped past the most recent article in favour of the classifieds section. Joe and Danny weren’t the only ones he was thinking about. Susie was another soul who had gradually disappeared as the months had rolled by, and although she had told him she might be hard to reach, it was still worrisome. He kept on searching for rooms to let all the same and occasionally sent her clippings in the mail to no response. It was possible she was busy, of course, or she didn’t like his offerings, or had made new friends and forgotten all about Toronto. He tried not to think too hard about it.
He turned the page and his chest tightened. Right in the middle of it were a bunch of naked figures falling like ashes from a burning building. This was an ad he ought to have been used to by now, for it was in the paper every day – it featured the image of a painting curated by an out-of-town art gallery, one of many works at a reception that was supposedly COMING SOON. Soon in this case seemed to mean in three months or longer for that was roughly how long the ad had been running, and the image of the painting had gone from sketch to flat colours to shaded in that timeframe.
It was an obvious marketing ploy, and a good one at that - whenever the painting was finished, the gallery would surely open. He could only roll his eyes at the pretentiousness of it all and refuse to pay it any more attention out of spite, yet something about that image haunted him. The scene was too disturbingly familiar for his liking. It felt a little too real.
The clock in the parlour ticked away as Harry’s part time job drew near. It would be work today, then the errands, then, perhaps, he would finally make good on his word to Danny and pay Billy a visit – only after he had drawn a cheque for his mortgage at the bank, of course. Ever since his licence had been suspended Billy had insisted upon helping Harry pay his everyday expenses, and Harry, in turn, had insisted upon politely refusing. Thus, if he was going to talk to Billy, he would have to ensure all his expenses were covered so the man would have no opportunity to pay him any kindness.
Unfortunately for him, his latest job was also the most emotionally harrowing one he had taken to date.
-
The waffle iron slammed down. Danny bared his teeth in agony and clawed at his leg. The other two dancers rushed to his side, tried to pull him out once, twice, three times…
This was the part of the film where Harry inevitably missed a note, and today was no different. His piano playing was stellar otherwise, or so the manager at the picture show had told him. He had seen Taking the Cake so many times now that he could pinpoint the second Danny sustained his life-changing injury. It had reached a point where he could even tell the scenes shot before Danny’s injury apart from the ones shot after - in the later scenes where Danny was dancing injured, he kept wincing through the smile on his face.
Playing piano at the picture show was nothing like playing alone with Joe, that much Harry had anticipated – there was no pride in it, no freedom, no happiness, just duty. The only reason he had agreed to the job was because abject homelessness would be even more shameful in his mind. What he had failed to consider was how surreal it was to watch his fellow giants howl in delight at a friend's pain and suffering. Not only that, but to keep on performing in his own right, adding a jaunty soundtrack to it all the while. It was the same feeling of dread that filled his chest whenever he saw empty jars.
When the show was over, he collected his thirty cents for the day and headed for the bank, making a mental note to find a better gig. The only silver lining was the possibility he would be able to pay his mortgage this month. Maybe the electricity, too, he thought as he shuffled into line at the marble banking hall on Yonge. Coal was another matter – winter was coming, and if he wanted to stay warm he might have to-
“Excuse me, sir.”
Harry jumped as a wrinkled hand tapped his shoulder. He turned and looked behind him to an elderly gentleman in a green suit smiling back at him. The stranger's voice sounded like a warmer version of his father's.
“If it’s not too intrusive, I just wanted to thank you for your service.” The old man continued.
Harry suppressed his nervous laughter and tried his best to smile. Exchanges like these were a regular occurrence now that he had visible scars.
“Oh, there’s no need to thank me, sir, it was the right thing to do – the only thing to do.” Harry stammered.
What had Harry done, he wondered?
“You’re too humble. That mustard gas…” The old man wheezed and Harry, slave to human decency that he was, could only listen patiently as the line to the teller moved at a pace that would put molasses to shame. “…awful stuff that was. You, you’re a real soldier.” The man said, patting Harry on his shoulder for good measure.
“Thank you, sir.” Was all Harry could say to such a thing.
“Not like that lousy nephew of mine. They discharged him for gas anxiety.” The stranger chuckled, then mercifully turned away from Harry, leaving him sickly with guilt in his wake.
Though it had been going on for weeks, Harry still wasn’t used to being scrutinized like this. He had always drawn attention for being tall, but ever since the burn wounds had healed, it was as though people saw his face and then filled in the blanks of who he was on his behalf – and whether they imagined his character to be positive or negative was something out of his control. Where some saw a criminal others saw a soldier, and anything in between. Lately he moved through the world with a strange sense that he had to prove something to these strangers, but he couldn’t figure out what that thing was.
The customer in front of him reached the teller after no less than an eternity had passed, and Harry’s mind wandered back to finances. He likely wouldn’t be able to afford coal, and if he couldn’t, it would mean he would have to sell something. His radio, or perhaps the motorcycle…
Finally another customer left and he neared the teller’s counter with his thirty cents in hand, knowing that selling either item would be equally painful. It would depend on how low his bank balance was, and he approached the counter with trepidation.
He was just about to make his deposit, cut his cheque and leave when the doors flung wide open. Harry looked on in confusion as the dying afternoon light spilled over the marble columns and arched cubicles like something out of a movie scene.
When a bank robber strutted through the doorway with rifle in hand, it became clear to Harry that he was now a part of the cast.
“Everybody get on the ground! Put your hands on your head!” The robber shouted as he pointed the barrel at anything and everything that dared to move. “No sudden movements!”
There were none. The bank-goers sank to the floor as slowly as they had moved when in line and did just as they were told. Everyone except for Harry, who was staring at the robber in disbelief.
Seeing that Harry was the only one still standing, the robber homed in on him and then aimed for the ceiling. Although the robber pulled the trigger three times, only two shots fired, and that was the moment all fear left Harry Avery.
The robber, seemingly unaware of the grave he had just dug for himself, drew closer.
“Get on the ground, you tall bastard!” The robber barked upon his approach and aimed the rifle straight at Harry's chest. “I’m not messin’ around!”
He certainly could have had Harry fooled. With his misshapen hat, his dusty coat, and his sorry excuse for a mask – which Harry was certain the robber had made by dismembering some poor woman’s silk stockings and cutting eye holes into the remains - he looked like something out of a clown act. That wasn’t what Harry was truly interested in, of course. It was the rifle in the boy’s hands that told him everything he needed to know; he may not have been a real soldier according to the fellow in the green suit, but even he could call the robber's bluff based on his choice of weapon alone. He would recognize the thing anywhere.
Harry straightened himself up to his full height of six foot three, and when the boy’s blue eyes widened behind his makeshift mask, Harry knew exactly what he was dealing with. If the comically half-assed get-up hadn’t given the little buffoon away the shivering certainly had. Harry only had thirty cents in his pocket, but he may as well have just won the lottery.
Frankie Van Assen approached Harry with all the bravado he could muster nonetheless, and with his rifle at the ready he said,
“Get on the ground or I’ll blow you to pieces.”
A dreadful silence filled the banking hall, broken only by the sound of tellers and clients shifting nervously as they watched the scene play out with horror. Harry glanced to the side table beside him, which the old man in the green suit had crawled underneath. He was gazing at Harry as if in worship. Somewhere behind the teller’s counter he could hear the sound of a phone receiver lifting from the hook.
Harry crossed his arms, turned his attention back to Frankie, and in the hopes of drowning out the whispers of the terrified bank teller behind him he replied,
“You’re gonna blow yourself to pieces. Don't you know what kind of rifle that is?”
Frankie blinked. His eyes darted down to the rifle, then back to Harry with a scowl.
Harry prodded a finger at Franke's rinky-dink, limp-dicked, pathetic excuse for a weapon and continued.
“That’s an old Ross rifle. We used those in the war. If you’re lucky it’ll fire, if you’re unlucky it’ll jam, and if you’re really unlucky it’ll explode and take you along with it.”
Frankie’s scowl widened into a look of confusion. This clearly wasn't in the script – nobody was supposed to know that the rifle was a bluff, as everything else about the boy was.
“Yeah? Wanna bet?” Frankie stammered.
“I do.” Said Harry.
Frankie’s finger tightened around the trigger. From behind the mask he looked as if he were about to cry.
“I-I’ll show you, then.” He said, his voice wavering.
Harry stood unimpressed as the boy squeezed his eyes shut. Only then did he squeeze the trigger. When nothing happened his eyes snapped open, and he squeezed it again, and again, and again, and he would have squeezed it a fifth time if the sound of a siren in the distance hadn’t broken his concentration.
The bank hall soon echoed with the sound of footsteps as Frankie’s would-be hostages saw their opportunity to escape and took it.
Frankie tried to join them, which was as predictable as his jammed rifle, and Harry, unscathed, snatched him by the coat collar and dragged him back before he could sprint off. The rifle spun out of Frankie’s hands, and when it hit the ground the third shot finally fired, not into Harry’s chest but into the base of a column across the room.
“Where is Joe Piccoli?” Harry growled.
“What!?" Frankie wrestled and fought so intensely that Harry had to hoist him clean off the ground with both hands. "Who the hell is-”
“Joe Piccoli! That tiny you sold last summer. I know it’s you, Frank.” Harry said.
“I-I don’t know anything! I don’t know any Piccolis, I swear!” Frankie insisted.
“Then I’ll hand you over to the police and you can tell them where you took him.”
Frankie dangled in the air as the sirens grew louder and his terror grew along with them. Harry watched with satisfaction as the last of Frankie's defiance turned to resignation.
“Mr. Wilkins has him!” He blurted out.
“Which Mr. Wilkins?” Asked Harry.
Harry knew an entire family of Wilkinses. It didn’t exactly narrow things down.
“Some rich guy!” Frankie cried, which narrowed things down even less. “Listen, I might have his address in my pocket somewhere.” Frankie kept on struggling against Harry’s grip in vain. “Put me down and I’ll try and find it for ya'.”
Harry glowered at him – he couldn’t be certain that Frankie wouldn’t run off again. Scanning the room, he deposited Frankie in the nearest corner and took great care to tower over him in menacing fashion.
Frankie rifled through his pockets as promised, and Harry could only stare in wonder as he carelessly dumped a staggering amount of junk onto the floor: a pile of of old receipts, crumbled dog treats, assorted nuts and bolts, a handful of acorns, a slingshot, a very smooth rock, six different keys in six different sizes, two real nickels and one fake one on a string, a lady's hairpin… everything except for the address of Mr. Wilkins. Harry drew closer and tapped his foot impatiently.
“Okay, maybe I don’t have it on me, but—look, he’s an art dealer or something.” Frankie spoke frantically, as if sensing Harry’s impatience.
This was oddly familiar to Harry – though none of the Wilkinses he had met were in the business of art.
"Why do you care so much, anyways?" Frankie carried on. "It's a tiny, you can just-"
A police whistle cut Frankie off before he could finish, and Harry could only envy how quick the policemen were to protect the now empty bank. The second his eyes were drawn to the officers in the doorway Frankie took off like lightning, and Harry lunged after him in one final, desperate attempt to seize him, snatching him by the shoulder of his oversized coat. Frankie shed it like the skin of a snake and raced deeper into the banking hall with the police in hot pursuit, leaving Harry in the dust with coat in hand.
Harry searched through the rest of the pockets only to find them empty. He tossed the coat aside and then froze at the sight of one of the officers, who was headed in his direction and twirling a baton. His hand crept towards his face before he decided it would be of more use covering up the patch on his jacket's left elbow. He didn’t like the way this grey-haired officer was sneering at him, as though he were some vagabond from the Ward, and he especially didn’t like the way the other two officers in the doorway were pointing at him and talking amongst themselves. Perhaps they saw Harry as a criminal. Maybe even an accomplice, considering he had just been holding Frankie's coat.
He shrank back as the officer marched up to him with all the pomp and import a badge could afford someone. That was when a familiar voice spoke up from beside him.
“See? You’re a real hero.”
It was the old man in the green suit from before, who had picked himself up from the floor and was now dusting himself off.
“Don’t you think, officer?” He continued as the officer stopped in front of them. “He was ready to take a bullet for us back there. Sent that little punk running for his mother!”
Harry couldn’t tell if he was shaking from nerves or sheer embarrassment – maybe it was a combination of both. Nevertheless, he watched the stone-faced officer soften in real time. His baton, once readied, now fell to his side.
"Yes, it was an interesting day, most certainly, officer." Harry said, then locked eyes with the man in the green suit as if in defiance and refused to break eye contact.
What Harry was about to say next filled him with dread, but he felt it must be said, not for his own sake but for the sake of the man's poor nephew.
"...almost as interesting as the day the army discharged me for gas anxiety." Harry added.
The old man's eyes widened in shock, and with that the officer politely took Harry aside to hear his statement.
-
The next morning, Harry was very interested in bank robberies.
FLYING DUTCHMAN FRISKS FINANCIERS: BANK ROBBER STILL AT LARGE, read the headline.
Harry didn’t bother to read any further. He could tell from the headline alone that Frankie was still on the loose, and so far as Harry was concerned, whatever the newspaper had to say about his involvement was cursed information he had no business knowing. Although the rest of the bank had lauded him as a hero he had declined every offer for an interview and made it home with as little fuss as he could get away with.
Now it was back to business as usual, and he turned to the classifieds to look for more rooms to let. To his delight he found one posted by Evelyn Tucker of all people:
Seeking a quiet and responsible tenant for a ground floor unit who would not mind assisting an old lady around the house. Must be fond of miniatures, it read.
Susie certainly fit the bill, and so he went about cutting it out of the paper. When he pulled the ad away a familiar face stared back at him, and his skin prickled at the sight.
He turned the page and once again he was greeted with that obnoxious advertisement for the art gallery, though now something was different. The image of the nude tinies had been replaced by a portrait of a man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a fox-like face. Harry knew that face, and try as he might he could not forget that face.
For the first time, Harry swallowed his pride and willfully acknowledged the advertisement. When he read the blurb above the painting, the whole room went cold.
GRAND OPENING TO-DAY: WILKINS GALLERY OF FINE ART, the caption read, and below that, FEATURING CURIOSITIES THE LIKES OF WHICH YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE!
He thought back to what Frankie had told him yesterday. No wonder the description had been familiar! He did know an art dealer by the name of Wilkins, not personally but subliminally, lurking in the back of his morning newspaper. The page scrunched as his hands tightened into fists.
Maybe Joe had been right there the entire time, speaking to him without speaking the way the author of On the Life and Death of the Miniature had done. Maybe the reason the painting of the burning building felt too real was because it was real. Who else could paint something so viscerally sincere besides Joe Piccoli? He thought back to the circus, the interview, the jars. Deep in his bones he knew that Joe could very well be one of the curiosities mentioned in the advertisement. That was how the sickening world Harry lived in worked, after all.
He grabbed his jacket and raced to the motorcycle.
Not once did he think to call the police.
Read the next part here!
