Throw Away Faces—The Cell of Nostalgia

byres

 

XI

       When I was a child in Glasgow I could see Ben Lomond[1] on a clear day from my father’s office window. It was not often but when he was free he would tell me stories of the Highlanders that lived above the city. He told me tales of the Highland caterans[2] stealing livestock for blackmail and tales of Rob Roy[3] MacGregor’s blood feud against the Duke of Montrose.[4] I would look at the dim outline of the mountain as he recited the long list of events that led to both the Stuart Rebellions.[5] And when he was done with those stories we would look down onto the city and he would tell me about the riots that took place against the Union with England[6] and the Malt Tax Riots.[7]

He said long ago our family were Highlanders, but not anymore, no matter what my grandfather and uncle said. He said that we were outlaws, but at a time when most men were. Back then there was enough lawlessness going around between those abusing their powers and the malnourished, that it was pointless pointing fingers at people from so long ago. Ben Lomond and the city below it held these stories.

When I was a few years older a factory was erected next to my father’s office and blocked our view of the Highlands. Ben Lomond was gone and Glasgow was too for that matter because all we could see out of the window was a wall of stones.

“They brought the Highlands closer to us,” father said, to console me the first time I saw that the view was erased, “all this stone and mortar is from there.”

His words did not console me. I recall it was about that time that I stopped daydreaming about the Highlands, what my ancestors might have looked like, and of Rob Roy. The tall buildings kept my eyes turned inwards, when maybe lang syne the vastness of Scotland’s countryside made men more contemplative of their relationship with the wild. Our summer visits to the Isle of Skye never made me feel that way. I remember my feet always being wet, and shivering in bed with little more than a sheet to keep me warm.

Upon my first break from university I visited our new country home in Bearsden. The white-capped Ben Lomond was framed inside a windowpane rising above my father’s desk in his study. It meant nothing to me, but it did to him and so I smiled and said to him he did the right thing to move mother away from the retched smoke of the city. 20 years had been too long in one place and Bessy, our old castle, had become a prison.

 

[1] Ben Lomond: Mountain north of Glasgow located at the foot of Lock Lomond. It’s doubtful from Enoch’s central Glasgow location on Byre’s Road that he could have seen the mountain, but I made it so.

[2] Highland caterans: A Highland band of marauders, professional thieves, and/or mercenaries.

[3] Rob Roy MacGregor (1671-1734): A Scottish outlaw and folk hero. A traditional Jacobite, MacGregor was pro-Stuart and Catholic. He was also a cattle herder, and engaged in blackmail to protect people’s herds from theft, sometimes from his own theft.

[4] Feud with the Duke of Montrose: After losing his lands he (MacGregor) waged a blood feud against his dispossessor, James Graham, 1st Duke of Montrose. The tales that follow include a series of adventures where Rob Roy escapes capture and execution. Bloody brilliant!

[5] Scottish rebellions of 1715 and 1745: The 45’ explained earlier (Pg. 47, note XXX) both were failed uprisings to reinstall the Catholic Stuarts to the English monarchy.

[6] The Act of Union 1707: At this time, England and Scotland were two separate states, each with their own parliaments, but under one monarch. Following the War of the Three Kingdoms (1639-1651) and the Glorious Revolution (1688), which saw the overthrow of the Scottish Stuart Dynasty from the English throne, the new Protestant English monarchy increased its effort to consolidate power on the isles. Scotland, politically fractured and near economic collapse, was forced into union in order to open England’s colonial markets for trade. The Act of Union expanded English control in Scotland at a time when Scotland was looked at as a threat, and physically speaking, a harbor for England’s continental enemies to exploit, namely the French.

[7] Malt Tax Riots: Began on June 23rd, 1725 in retaliation to the imposition of the English malt tax. As the economic promises of the 1707 Act of Union had yet to materialize, Scottish citizens took to the streets in protest and openly riot. The fiercest riots and anti-English sentiment existed in Glasgow.

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Prologue: A letter, a manuscript, and plenty of murder still to come

Co-Dublin-Dublin-old-image-of-Trinity-College-and-Bank-of-Ireland-c.1910s-with-vintage-tramsPROLOGUE:

Dear Doctor Dooley,

You will not remember me, but you tended to a friend of mine who died many years ago. At the time when we met outside Glasgow I had no idea that we would be linked through a common fate, death following us wherever we settled. Unlike you, I did not choose an occupation waged inside the crypt; I became a lawyer. As I write I am aware of the irony entangled within my words, and I will leave it for you to ponder. I will say, however, that it was not the opacity, rigidity or even the aridity of the law that deadened my heart, but rather its miscarriage, and further still a disturbed individual who waged an ill-conceived crusade against a miscarriage of justice through an evocation of evil.

It is not my intention within this letter to explain the details of my ill-fated journey into the forests of the American frontier. Rather, I tracked you down some years back to find that you had long since departed for Ireland and I let the case rest. It was not until last week that I picked up the newspaper and read about the strange murders taking place in Dublin and their disturbing similarity to the murders I experienced in Seattle when I was a young man.

I have spent the past few days writing furiously to reconstruct the events of June 1889 in Seattle, as I saw them. I know of no one else in Dublin, and I am sure, based on your standing as a doctor, that you have the proper friends to contact if this manuscript moves you and perhaps compels you to inform the Royal Irish Constabulary of the innocence of the girls suspected of murdering their fathers, and also the resurrection of a killer. I leave this manuscript with you in good faith, as I left my friend in your care many years before. Let us pray for a more positive result than the conclusion to our first meeting those many years ago.

 

Your servant,

Enoch Campbell

THROW AWAY FACES — SECTION OF A CHASE SEQUENCE IN OLD SEATTLE

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I jumped over the body of the splintered man and looked up to the roofs above. There, a silhouette stood looking down at his good work. He then ran along the ledge, then turning inward and out of view. There were two ways out of the alley, north or south. I elected to trot south.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” The Chief yelled.

I turned back and saw him standing as only a shadow backlit by his men’s lanterns. “I’m running south, you fly north.” I yelled back. The lanterns boggled then turned and with them the chief. I sprinted in the muck to the mouth of the alley and stopped on Columbia Street, facing the fire station. It stood out as if it were embossed with some twinkle of significance I was yet to understand. I could see it burning in an ironic blaze of sharp flames and blistering wind. Then, looking left, into the dead of the streets, the silhouette of long arms and outstretched legs flew across the street. There he is. I ran up the street and connected with his path and turned south onto 2nd Avenue in pursuit. The streets were nearly empty. Random nightwalkers shivered with the gaslight reflecting off the lines of stagnant puddles collected into the wheel ruts of the street. The killer’s athleticism, his mechanical gate sent the staggering bodies against the walls of the decrepit wooden buildings and I was loosing him. The poison from the booze and cigars from earlier in the night broke from their slumber and injected new violence into my bloodstream and I felt as if I was going to be sick. I had to run faster. I had to concentrate.

He turned right. I passed the St. Charles Hotel and turned with him onto Cherry. Yesler’s Hall stood like an arrogant idiot on Front Street. Without lanterns I couldn’t see the shadow any longer. He had evaporated. I guessed left and pushed south on Front and then he reappeared out of a doorway and stood in the distance looking back at me. He turned and continued, hovering over the softness of the street. But, I was beginning to warm up, I could feel the gears in my legs loosen and I coughed out the needles in my lungs and surged into a sprint down the block to its end. He veered right, the triangle block with the Puget Sound National bank at its apex pointing my direction down west with him, and our trajectories were linked because I was gaining on him now and being pulled closer. Together we shot passed Washington St. and I felt the tug of the rope as he cut off the open street and into the entrance of the Brunswick Hotel.

I pushed though the front doors and the garden pattern of the foyer’s long carpet came alive and the dahlia’s bloomed at my feet and her ivy stocks snaked up my legs as I stopped in a huff of panic. “Where?” I yelled to the gloomy skeleton key shaped concierge. Without a word he pointed to the end of the hallway and grinned. I ripped free from the stalks of ivy tied around my ankles and came to the end of the hall. There, to the right was a pine tar and burned oil scented bar manned by a barkeep building a glass pyramid of snifters on top of the cool slate. Could it be that the concierge and the barkeep were the same man? For, they looked the same and pointed the same and administered the same seditious smirk.

I punched through the back door and into the alley. Facing me was a Chinese laundry. A red lamp hummed blood in a window beside a wooden door dog-eared ajar. I entered and the weight of the darkness inside jolted me. The quiet set in. The smell of detergent and starch mixed with the sweet smell of incense. My heavy breathing shook the walls covered with wool coats and shimmering silk costume. My eyes had trouble adjusting, as if they were not meant to, as if I didn’t belong there. In this house I stuttered ignorant in the dark like a foreigner. Tapestries of kanji script pushed out from the hallway walls that I stumbled between to impress upon me that I was perhaps approaching a final act; that this race was to soon come to a sinister conclusion. I reached another door and back out into the cold nigh–onto a laundry platform subjugated with white sheets hanging from sagging wash lines.

“Here is the moon, finally.” The devil said. “How many days has it been since the last time?”

The soft voice knocked me back on my heels and the door slammed behind me, and then a shadow blazed passed. My blood solidified into mortar. I was bricked in, afraid; I had chased fear into a room of mirrors, of white screens of which echoed the alleyway where this nightmare began. The moon indeed was out, showing through a crack between the smoky clouds overhead. All was nearly still besides the sheets gently rippling with the breeze.

“What brings a Scotsman to such an unfortunate place? Could it be for a love of money? Have the English finally taken your wild spirits and made you theirs?”

I hadn’t the bloodiest of ideas what he was on about. However, my warming blood told me that he was wrong; I wanted his life and nothing more.

“What do you know of it?” I said, the words barely spilling out of my mouth.

“What do we know of wherever we are from?”

The ghost’s silhouette appears three deep amongst the sheeted lines, standing distortedly taller and thin from the projection.

“Possibly this is not the most opportune moment to traverse Smith’s social theory, but do you not see yourself living in another time now that your soul is again housed within the trees?”

“Not all Scotsmen are philosophers.”

“No, but the death of culture is a preoccupation that you carry like a stain on your pressed collars, is it not? But, enough of that!”

The sheet broke, and the man charged thought the rest, landing his shoulder into my chest with such force that I was lifted from my feet and sent back a meter, cracking the back of my head against the ground. But, when I opened my eyes, expecting him to be standing over me to reveal him self before ending me, he instead wasn’t there. I gasped for air, and tried to stand, but staggered and fell back to my seat. Again, he spoke.

“However, I’m happy that you came.” He said. “And, you came right when I had finally figured out my place in this town. Right when I realized where my place was in this miasma of social disunity. I find so much religion in this broken experiment.”

He spoke nonsense, but with such clarity, I could not help but be somewhat captivated by his words; they spun against the washing like American verse, and indeed perhaps he was an artist, I thought. I begun to feel safe, feeling confident in my assumptions that he had no desire to kill me. But, my own relief for life crushed me, for I had wanted nothing else to die, especially by his hammer, and now that I was there, I wanted to live? I deceive myself—instinct over the heart.

“Kill Me!” I shouted. “Kill me.”

“I don’t believe in suicide without principle.” The man’s childish voice stipulated. “Nor should you.”

“I will kill YOU then.”

“A redundancy, truly. Lets not talk in circles. Why not we cultivate our gifts amongst the deaths of others; isn’t that a more constructive mode of expression?”

Then, I heard a crash—what sounded like a door being kicked in—and the warmth of the devil being close withdrew his blade from my body, and I knew he had left. I stood and forced myself to ignore the pain in my chest and at the back of my head, and continued the chase. The connection I still felt—the tug of the rope tied around our respective waists carried me through another Chinese laundry like a weightless spirit. I ended out the other side and onto what must have been 2nd Ave. He stood waiting in the middle of the road adjacent to the Standard Theater. He looked still and black as a stencil, his long coat growing a popped collar into a murderous crown. He looked so magnificent in the street swollen with eroded kanji signage and decaying edifices that I could have loved him. The moon slipped away and the curtain returned. No, I wanted my revenge; there would be no more philosophy tonight.