The Devil's Dust by C.B. Forrest

attempted to comprehend how it was that he ended up spending over a hundred dollars at Filmores on Dundas Street East at quarter after one. The strip joint was a twenty-minute walk from Garrity’s. It reminded him of the days of his police work, piecing together the movements of a suspect or a victim through their purchases and the corresponding time stamps. In terms of memory there was nothing to go on, simply blackness. It was terrifying to think he had been walking about like some automaton. It was a recipe for disaster.
    He clenched his teeth through a week of withdrawal, hardly venturing outside, and he felt empowered, newly born to the world. But always he had the pills. He lined up his doctor’s appointments with the fastidiousness of a hypochondriac.
    â€œYou’ve had a rough ride the last few years,” the always sympathetic Dr. Shannon assured him. And it was true, after all. His boy Gavin was dead, his wife was gone, he’d been shot, for God’s sake, and what was a man to do but seek some solace? “Take some time off the sauce and see how things go. I wouldn’t worry about you being a drunk though. Being Irish, I’ve seen my share, Charlie. There’s a fine line between heavy drinking and full-blown alcoholism. But watch out for those pills, they can kick you in the arse …”
    Then one evening for no apparent reason he overshot the mark with too many pills, found himself stoned to the point of blunt incomprehension, fingers tripping on numbers as he attempted to dial everyone and anyone in his address book, leaving messages and perhaps on occasion babbling or crying into the mouthpiece. Hattie called back as he sat in a stupor on the couch, CNN cycling eerie night-vision footage of the bombing of Baghdad.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing, Charlie?”
    â€œSome baking,” he managed, still capable of making her laugh.
    â€œYou’ve got to pull your shit together. You’re a grandfather . Don’t you ever think of that? You’ve got people who depend on you, Charlie, people who care about you.” She sighed. And then, softer, she said, “Listen, I’m not going to call you again. And I don’t want you to call me. Okay? I mean it this time. You know how I feel about you. But I can’t do this anymore. Jesus H., I’m working seventy hours a week these days. We’ve got two kids shot in the head up at Jane and Finch and nobody’s talking. I put in for a transfer, too …”
    This last piece of information was thrown in quickly, like pulling a bandage from the flesh. His addled mind clicked and groaned, attempting to decipher the meaning.
    â€œTransfer. To where?”
    â€œBack to Halifax.” It was almost a whisper.
    I love you so much , he thought. But he could only sit there and listen to the dial tone.
    Dut-dut-dut-dut-dut-dut.

Seven

    C onstable Ed Nolan is back at work three days after being released from the hospital in Timmins. He has suffered a concussion — or MTBI (mild traumatic brain injury), as his file states — and his lacerated scalp is closed with eighteen staple stitches. He lies when the doctor asks if he feels dizzy upon standing, if he experiences double vision, a general feeling of being “out of it.” Of course his head spins when he stands — he was hit with a shovel, for God’s sake — but he holds his ground. He remembers those days he stood for early morning parade back when he was a soldier in basic training. Out all night with the boys in the platoon, having literally crawled back to barracks as the sun was rising, it was a monumental achievement to stand at attention and try not to breathe as the platoon sergeant screamed into your face.
    Nolan wears his toque all day now, even as he sits at his desk in the station, because it hides the bandages wrapped about his skull like a mummy. The Chief has ordered him to a week of administrative duty, which