The Killing Circle

was very, very wrong”. If he was still himself afterward, if nothing changed in the world, then he would be right. The prospect “fills him with an excitement he guesses is the same as the other boys in school have felt kissing girls. But this was not what he had in mind at all.”

William leans back in his chair and the light in his eyes is extinguished again. This is as far as his story goes. It’s my turn to respond first, and though I’m usually good at coming up with empty comments, in this case I’m stumped.

“This feels very close to the surface to me,” I manage finally.

“What does that mean?”

“I suppose it means that it feels real.”

“What does real feel like?”

“Like right now.”

“What does he do?” a female voice says, and all of us turn to face Angela. She is peering into the dark where William sits. “The boy. Does he carry out his…experiment?”

That’s when William makes a sound all of us immediately regret ever hearing. He laughs.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he says.

After we finish up, Conrad White suggests all of us go out to “whatever ale house may be nearby” to celebrate our accomplishments. We decide on Grossman’s Tavern, a blues bar on Spadina I haven’t been to since I was an undergrad. Little has changed. The house band working away in the corner, the red streak of streetcars passing the picture window at the front. This is where we push a couple of tables together and order pitchers, all of us a little nervous about speaking of ourselves and not our stories, which despite the similarities in most cases, is still a different matter.

The beer helps. As well as the absence of William, who walked away in the opposite direction outside Conrad White’s apartment. It’s nearly impossible to imagine how he would act in a social setting, whether he would eat the stale popcorn the waitress brings, how he would bring the little draft glasses to find his lips in his beard. Even more difficult to guess is what he might contribute to the first topic we naturally fall upon. The murders.

I’m giving this some consideration when my thoughts are interrupted by Len shouting at me over a note-for- note T-Bone Walker solo.

“Tell them your theory, Patrick.”

“Sorry?”

“The poem. Tell them what you told me. About the Sandman.”

The circle has turned to look at me. And there is Len, bobbing about in his chair like an ape at feeding time.

“That’s a secret, Len.”

“It was. Didn’t you read the paper this morning? I thought you worked there.”

“Not any more.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s too bad. I really liked that Couch Potato thing.”

“I’m touched.”

“That poem? The one they found by the Ulrich woman’s body? They published it today.”

I haven’t looked at the National Star since being given the heave-ho, so I hadn’t noticed Tim Earheart’s triumph. It means two things are quite certain. First, my friend is out there somewhere, getting drunk as a donkey in celebration of his exclusive. Second, the police are no closer to finding the killer than they were when they asked the paper to hold off on running the poem.

“So? What’s your Sandman theory?” Petra asks, looking first to me, then Angela, who has been watching me with an unsettling steadiness.

“It’s nothing.”

“C’mon! It’s good!” Len says.

I continue to refuse. And then Angela leans forward, places an upturned hand on the table as though inviting me to place mine in hers.

“Please, Patrick,” she says. “We’d be very interested.”

So I tell her. Tell them.

My Sandman interpretation sounds even more ridiculous when shouted aloud in a bar, the circle leaning forward to hear, an almost comically incongruous bunch who, if you were to walk in right now, you’d wonder what they could possibly have in common. The absurdity makes it easier to make my case, on account of it’s an argument that knows it has little chance of being right.

Trouble is, the others take it seriously. I can see I’m convincing them even as I try to laugh it off. What is clear in each of their faces is that they have had similar thoughts these past weeks. They came here believing in the Sandman as much as I do.

Once I’m finished, I excuse myself to call Sam and catch him as Emmie is putting him to bed. (I wish him sweet dreams, and he requests pancakes in the morning.) When I return to our table, the conversation has moved on to domestic complaint (Petra unable to believe how much she had to pay a plumber to replace the faucet on her jacuzzi) and sports (Ivan pleading the case for the Leafs to trade that big Russian kid who can’t skate). More pitchers, cigarettes on the sidewalk. Me eventually ordering a round of shots for everyone, and having to down Angela’s and Len’s when she’d pushed hers aside and he’d reminded me he doesn’t drink (I’d remembered, of course, and figured it was an easy way to double up).

Yet even through the increasingly fuzzy proceedings, there are some moments that demand mention.

At one point, there is only myself and Len at one end of the table and Conrad White and Evelyn at the other. The two of them almost cheek to cheek, whispering. Perhaps Len was right after all. Lovers would behave this way after a few drinks, wouldn’t they? And yet there is something grave in the secrets they share, a seriousness that doesn’t match any form of flirtation I’m familiar with. Not that I’m an expert.

I’m pouring myself another, studying the two of them, when Len leans over with a secret whisper of his own.

“I was followed last night. I think it was You Know Who.”

“You saw him?”

“More like I felt him. His…hunger. You know what I mean?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No? Well, let me tell you what I believe. You’re taking my read on that poem too seriously. It’s bullshit. I was just kidding around.”

“No you weren’t. And I know what I felt. It was him.”

“Him?”

“The bogeyman.”

“Look at me, Len. I’m not laughing.”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t like you or me.”

“I take it that you’re talking about William.”

“I might have thought it was William, but only because it can take different shapes. It’s why there haven’t been any witnesses. Think about it. Who knows what the bogeyman looks like? Nobody. Because it’s whatever scares you the most.”

I have to admit this last bit unsettles me enough that I’m not sure I manage to keep it hidden. But it’s what Len says next that makes my calm act fall away completely.

“I’m not the only one.”

“You told the others what you’re telling me?”

“They’ve told me.”

“And?”

“Petra saw someone out in her back yard two nights ago,” he goes on, sliding even closer, so that now Evelyn and Conrad White are watching. “And last week, Ivan was taking his subway train into the yards at the end of the night, all the stations closed. He’s just whizzing through, nobody’s supposed to be there. And at one of the