DAREDEVIL

Christie Crayon lived in a dark grey world where dust had more colour when the moon was full of nothingness. She blinked. Her black tea was cold, yet warmer than her heart. Someone, a female judging by the soft hair on the arms, took the cup from her. A door handle flicked. Christie turned an ear.

‘We can go in now, ma’am,’ said the detective. His voice, deep like an empty grave, echoed sympathy. ‘It’s the one at the end.’

‘Thanks, Detective Hosanna,’ Christie said, hooking out her elbow. A gentle arm slipped around hers. She smelled cigar smoke on his jacket and coffee and dates on his breath. Behind her, the teacup lady closed the door of the Trinity morgue. There was honey in the tea, a taste which would not sweeten the unforgiveness on Christie’s tongue.

# # #

It was on her wedding night when her husband, Anton Bland, a handsome farmer from the Swartland district on the west coast of South Africa, first swiped a backhand across her jaw. Over the years that followed, every drunken punch, every derogatory word, erased more colour from Christie’s copper eyes, until on her birthday, a right hook from the man she once loved took her sight and her dignity. In her blindness, she felt the welcome of her soulless breath warming the wooden floor where her bladder later washed his guilt from her. With her jaw broken, screams were of no use. Tears came. The world had gone tinnitus grey, but her heart could not stop staring at the Polaroid mounted on her dressing table in the corner of the room. Christie Crayon Bland was thirty when God’s wrath settled within her.

Before the beatings, Christie, with her strong and heavenly legs, was a sight to behold on a mountain bike. A natural farmer’s daughter with sun-blazed skin and a soft spirit, she procured many stares from men and women alike, which in turn fuelled Anton’s jealousy. On many a night, Christie tried to escape from the abuse, but her husband would catch the running wife by her curly almond hair and drag her back to the house. Her legs had become her curse.

Back on the floor, Christie blinked. She was blind, but her heart stared at the Polaroid of her favourite super person. She took the hero and stored the picture behind her eyelids for safekeeping. The broken woman smiled into her own blood as God whispered into her ear: ‘Anton Bland would wake tomorrow with an unexplainable phobia of long-legged superheroes.’ Christie closed her eyes.

# # #

On the sanitised black-and-white tiles, a chessboard of death, her white cane tapped with the efficiency of a radar for obstacles and the enemy alike. The guide cane pinged against the metal table. ‘Is this him, detective?’ Christie asked, hiding the excitement in her dull eyes.

‘Ma’am, that’s for you to tell me,’ Detective Hosanna said. ‘You mentioned that even being blind, you will recognise him anywhere.’

‘Indeed, Detective,’ she said. Using her free hand, she felt for the steel slab. The body resting on it didn’t smell. In Christie’s mind, stench was too good a fragrance for the man that rested before her.

‘How would you know?’ he asked. ‘You haven’t seen each other since before your divorce, is that correct?’

‘Give me a minute.’ She sniffed. Bleach. She groaned. The coroner had washed the devil from Anton’s flesh, but not from his soul. Christie’s skew nose twitched. ‘That’s true,’ she said, blowing her nose. ‘Detective Hosanna, for forty years I walked in the desert of his terror, looking over a shoulder I cannot see, until your phone call yesterday. Today, I am here to witness the promised land.’ Not thinking, the elderly woman stored the tissue where the coroner tied the name tag – between the big toe and its neighbour. ‘Hope you don’t mind; I don’t know where to find the bin.’

The detective shrugged. ‘The bin is at the door; we’ll toss it on our way out,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, go ahead.’

‘OK.’ Calmer than a farm animal on a dew-spread morning, she ran her left hand through his short, thinned hair. ‘At least, the coroner rinsed his oily mop.’ Christie sighed. ‘Clean, tin roof hair doesn’t make him any less of a beast.’ Scared to touch his face, she switched to her forefinger for nose, lips and Adam’s apple. Two fingers walked across his naked chest onto his hairy pot belly, where they halted. ‘Tell me, detective’ – with her right hand, she placed the white cane next to the cyanotic body – ‘were there any photos of my son in the farmhouse?’

‘Ahem.’ With his throat cleared, the detective breathed through his nose before he said, ‘No, ma’am.’

‘Good,’ she answered.

‘There were wedding photos of you in the bedroom.’

‘What’s wrong, detective?’

‘In all the photos, he had cut your legs off, Ms Crayon – snipped them with scissors. Mr Bland plastered them all over the dressing table.’

‘Hah, God didn’t lie.’

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Thinking out loud as old people do.’ A quietness hung in the morgue as if Christie waited for the dead to tell her their tales of misery, hoping they were worse than hers. ‘Detective?’

‘Yes, Ms Crayon?’

‘Why are you staring at me?’

‘Sorry, ma’am, I’m actually looking at your t-shirt sticking out from your unzipped jersey.’

‘Oh! Thanks. My son, Matt, made this for me. He’s a comic book artist,’ she said with pride. ‘You like superheroes?’

‘Yep—’

‘The Punisher?’

‘How did you know?’

‘The all-weather jacket, cigar smoke and the noise of your combat boots on the tiled floor.’

‘Impressive,’ he said and paused. ‘Is Anton Bland the father of your son?’

‘Not by choice,’ she said, her eyes narrowed like a serial killer’s on death row peering through the cuff port. ‘He became a dad by force when he more than blinded me, Detective Hosanna.’ With her fingers still standing on his belly, Christie grabbed Anton Bland’s right wrist. Rubbing her free thumb over his knuckles, she found the scar. The old woman opened her mouth and pulled her lip away. ‘You see the missing tooth?’ she asked, slurping saliva with the ease of a dental assistant. ‘That was from my wedding night. You don’t want to know what happened on our first anniversary,’ Christie said, letting go of the scarred hand. ‘Detective, this man didn’t deserve anyone’s love.’

The detective stepped back from the cadaver. ‘I am deeply sorry for what you had to suffer,’ he said, reaching for his neck.

‘Don’t be sorry, only fools apologise. Real men, act.’ Still, her fingers stood on the cadaver’s belly.’ Leaving her cane on the steel slab, Christie felt her way around to the other side. ‘I hope that rosary around your neck makes your soul lighter in the dark world you work in.’

‘It does, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Are you a woman of faith, Ms Crayon??’

‘You will know by the end of our conversation, detective.’

Hosanna let the beads go. ‘Did Matt know Anton Bland was his father?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said with stiff lips. ‘They hunted together in winter on Anton’s farm. But Matt didn’t like Anton.’

‘Then why spend time together?’

‘Matt wanted to make sure he himself wasn’t becoming a monster.’

‘And yet, you haven’t seen your ex-husband in forty years?’

Christie smiled. ‘I am blind, Detective Hosanna.’

The detective’s boots screeched over the tiles. ‘Hah, clever,’ he said. ‘What are you looking for on the left hand?’

‘Wedding ring.’ She sighed. ‘The old fool still wears it,’ Christie said, turning her right brow towards the inspector. ‘You see that long fishhook scar … Your silence means you’ve been around abuse. Anton beat me unconscious with my winner’s trophy on my twenty-ninth birthday after a mountain bike race on the neighbouring horse breeding farm. Bennie and Janine Pew’s place. Then, he took advantage of me as if I were his personal bicycle in front of the fireplace under the gaze of a stuffed animal head.’ She tasted the bile in her throat. ‘That was the day when the beautiful farmhouse turned colourless, odourless and damp with the devil’s breath.’ Christie felt for a pulse at her wrist. ‘Even the birds remained noiseless on that day.’

‘Do you know why Anton did such things to you?’

Christie’s frown hurt. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘How can you ask me that?’

‘I apologise. That was insensitive of me.’

‘You want to know if I can identify Anton Bland’ – unashamed, the abused woman held her shaking hands out – ‘here is your evidence.’

‘You can put down your arms.’

Christie sniffed. ‘Thank you, detective,’ she said, placing the two fingers back onto the pot belly.

‘Why the two walking fingers on the man’s belly?’

‘Let me show you.’ One of her fingers slipped into the cadaver’s belly button; the old woman pressed down, and the cadaver released air. ‘Until fart do us part.’ The blind woman grinned. ‘Anton called his belly button, Daredevil. He would always tickle it before he beat me.’ A calmer hand rubbed the figure on her t-shirt. ‘The pig named his button after my favourite superhero.’

‘The flatulence confirms it,’ he said. ‘Mr Bland was a soulless man, but I have to ask, did Matt go hunting this past weekend with his father?’

‘Yes, he did,’ Christie said. ‘But when he left the farm, Anton was still alive.’

‘Did Matt come home yesterday for your birthday?’

Christie’s grey eyes darkened into the shades of an empty house. ‘Yes, Sunday was Halloween—’

‘It was also the day Anton Bland died.’

‘And how did the monster, who took the colour of life from me, die, if I may ask?’

‘Doesn’t your son give meaning to your life?’

Christie’s head cocked. ‘Matt is a distraction from the pain, the hollowness,’ she said, rubbing the emotionless steel slab. ‘Nothing can give me my canvas back, not even God.’

‘Yet, you pray and read scripture, every morning and every night.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘You have hung Bible verses in the rooms of your eyes,’ the detective said. He gave her a moment to ponder her faith, her blindness. He continued. ‘Mr Bland died of an induced heart attack.’

‘What does that even mean, detective?’

‘He was murdered.’

‘How?’

‘Someone left a life-size poster of a superhero wearing a Halloween mask in his hallway. When he went to the bathroom in the middle of the night, Mr Bland here, walked into the monstrosity and died on the spot,’ the detective said. ‘Apparently, your ex-husband developed a phobia for superheroes after you left him … Friends and family said that it was due to the drinking, but his neighbour—’

‘Bennie or Janine?’

‘Excuse me, Janine,’ he said. ‘She stated one hero in particular drove Anton into a frenzy—’

‘The hero from the hallway.’ Christie stretched her t-shirt from under her jersey. ‘Daredevil.’

‘Correct.’

‘And Matt is a suspect? You think he made the poster?’

‘No, your son is not a person of interest,’ he said. ‘What do you pray for, Christie?’

Detective Hosanna was good at his job. He had caught her in a vulnerable state. Searching for support from her white cane, the mother’s hands crawled along the cold slab. Her face was prison-pale when she said without thinking, ‘Forgiveness.’ Christie gave up the search for her guide cane.

The detective held the cane for her. ‘Forgiveness, Christie?’ he asked. ‘For what you have done?’

‘No!’ she said. Tears were washing her eyes. ‘For having beautiful legs.’ She put her hands over her mouth.

‘That’s OK. Easy, ma’am,’ he said, removing the tissue from between the cadaver’s toes. ‘I am not a threat.’ Holding the snot tissue, the detective raised his hands. ‘Hear me out, Christie.’ His tone was caring. ‘This is all conjecture. If, for argument’s sake, your son made that poster for your birthday, displaying the female Daredevil in the Halloween mask with the long legs, which was the same Daredevil from the Polaroid on the night your husband blinded you, nearly took your life and that of your son. Who else would’ve known about the poster? Do you have any idea?’

‘How can you know about the Polaroid? Did my son tell you?’

The detective shook his head ‘No, he didn’t, but you just did.’

Christie Crayon took the white cane from him. ‘What kind of detective are you?

‘The kind that was there that night.’

The mother’s knees buckled. ‘You were the one who whispered into my ear.’

‘I came at your request.’

‘I called on you?’

‘Forgive him, for he does not know what he is doing,’ the detective said. ‘Those were your words to me about Anton.’

Christie frowned without pain. ‘Anton wanted to kill us that night; he didn’t want to see his spawn become like him.’ She licked her dry lips. Her voice had the crackle of a radio. ‘Why are you really here, Detective Hosanna?’

‘I am here to absolve you from your rage, Christie, just like you forgave Anton’s that night.’

Using the white cane, she searched haphazardly for obstacles around her. Christie stepped away from the cadaver slab. ‘I did no such thing.’

‘Oh, but you did,’ he said. ‘Take the Polaroid from your back pocket.’

Trembling, Christie obeyed. ‘Here.’

‘No, you look at it.’

‘I am blind.’

‘Not in your heart,’ he said.

She lifted the Polaroid to her face. ‘How is this possible?’

‘What do you see, Christie?’

‘Look how young we were here. My sister was my superhero. We both were Daredevils that year. Matt always looked up to her. They shared a love for comic books,’ Christie said, staring at the glass pane in the door. The teacup lady, the honey. Was that Janine? ‘Wait, wait.’ The once-abused woman looked at the detective. ‘I remember. She was supposed to be there that night. Janine was bringing our Halloween costumes and the mask. She was running late; one of the horses was sick. We were going to take photos for her to use in her art studio.’ She tapped the cane on the bleached floor. ‘She was going to make Matt a poster.’

‘Yes, she was. And she did for forty years. A poster for each Halloween.’

‘Did my sister kill, Anton?’ Christie asked. ‘Why would she take that from me?

‘Soon, you will know her truth,’ the detective said. First, you must tell me about that night.’

Confused, Christie uttered, ‘OK.’ At the cadaver, she closed her eyes. Her lips quivered. ‘Anton is crying in the corner. His pants are on his knees. He has a gun in his hands. The weapon is aimed at me. He is broken.’

‘And what are you doing?’

‘Janine hadn’t arrived. No! No! This is not right … My face is swollen. Bloodied, I am on the floor praying for a release from—’

‘From?’

‘Evil,’ she said.

‘What was the prayer, Christie?’

She felt for Anton’s right hand; not touching the limb, she said, ‘So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.’ Christie shook her head. Her heart was in turmoil. ‘I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’

‘The Book of Isaiah.’

‘But it didn’t help,’ she said. ‘The gun was in his right hand.’

‘I know it was, Christie,’ he said.

His answer surprised her. ‘And you did nothing?’

‘What else do you see?’

She looked up from the cadaver and passed the detective. At the door, her sister’s eyes were quiet behind the glass. ‘Janine did come to the house that night.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The mask was rocking on the floor … like it was dropped.’ Christie said, rubbing the hair on her arm. ‘My sister made forty posters.’ She went numb. ‘The blood on the floor wasn’t mine.’

‘What about your unborn boy?’

‘I am trying to protect my stomach with my arms.’ Christie Crayon gasped. ‘Anton rubbed his daredevil twice that night.’ She grabbed her tummy. ‘Oh, God, no,’ she said. ‘You didn’t protect my boy. Why?’

‘I needed your abused strength.’

‘For what?’

‘To beat Evil into purgatory through prayer.’

‘My prayer, it changed Anton. He couldn’t shake your grip after you took us away from him with your righteous hand. The rage of not killing Anton Bland blinded me’ – she slapped the cadaver’s tummy – ‘I became the monster, yet you are here to take me to the promised land.’ Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘You heard my prayers in that colourless, stale and damp home where the birds refused to sing.’

Detective Hosanna smiled. ‘Something like that.’

‘Evil did not have a phobia of superheroes,’ she said. ‘There was no poster in the hallway, or a Polaroid ever taken. Anton lived in fear of you.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Weak men are vassals for evil.’

Pulling the name tag tied onto the big toe, Christie said, ‘Wherever he went, you went. You are the “Daredevil” poster, and you made his heart stop with a different kind of belly button.’

‘And what kind is that?’

‘Love.’

Detective Hosanna smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now, open your eyes.’

# # #

It was sunrise, and the world had colour. Christie Crayon’s knees were pumping, turning the wheels of her mountain bike, as she climbed the hill through the canola fields on her sister’s farm. In the distance, Janine ran her horses in fields of dew. Up in the trees, the birds were alive with songs of celebration; winter had passed, and the greyness of the season had melted away. The finish line was in sight. Detective Jesus Hosanna waited with Matt. Christie was home and free from the devil that dared. ‘Once, I was blind, but now I see.’ She increased her cadence.

The End