The Devil His Due. Chapter Three: Hungry Ghosts.

Killing didn’t bother Wheeler. Not this late in the day. Maybe in the war he felt something; regret, shame, sadness, but he couldn’t be sure. He only remembered the fact of it; that he had picked up his rifle and kept himself alive at the expense of others.

His head was always clear. Clear before, clear after. It wasn’t coldness as such. Once a woman had called him a fatalist, and he clung onto that. He didn’t think they had a name for it, but sure, fatalist was just about a perfect way to say it. When they put names, addresses and money in an envelope for him, he pocketed it. So long as he could kill someone, then it was their time to die.

It fit how he saw the world, before the war even. He had seen that man, trapped at the road’s edge by the weight of an upturned car. The people who had given up hope for him and stayed hoping for themselves when fire started, running away while he called out and cried. There were minutes between them all knowing it was too late and them all actually seeing it. Wheeler had sat on his bike and heard that man ask ‘Why?’ with a despair he’d heard a hundred times since. Back then he knew there was no such question as why. Not for dying.

But his body was never as clear on these things as his mind. It seemed to burn up more of him that he liked when he killed and he always felt spent and a little sick afterwards. Even if he’d done as little as line up one shot, just as soon as the man at the other end expired, Wheeler’s insides would go to smoke. He felt like bottled vapour and he never got used to it. Other men he’d seen at work sometimes got shakes, and Wheeler knew he was lucky not to get those. They cost men dearly, he’d seen that much. But all the same, he would have done anything to turn to solid rock when he felt ghosts inside.

Which is why he was lucky to sit across from the runaway.

Wheeler had driven north for about an hour and then stopped at a place to eat. He knew he had to eat, but there was nothing inside him but sickness and smoke and finding an appetite for grease or meat or salt sweat tastes was a trick and a half. He sat at the counter with the menu propped in front of him, not really reading, just making busy until he’d talked himself into ordering. It was then he saw the boy. A scruffy, skinny kid who had the collar of a shirt and two jackets turned up. He came with a kit back and rolled up blankets and it was Wheeler’s guess that he had run away from home. Maybe he wanted to join the Army or maybe he didn’t. The kid looked healthy enough, he can’t have been on the road all that long. Wheeler watched him, but the boy never noticed. The boy was too confident to care and Wheeler was too good to be caught. Wheeler knew the boy wasn’t trouble, but he seized him up like he was. The kid probably carried a switchblade, had a good reach and was likely quick and fierce. He had been in fights before and might even have won some of them. He was too thin to take any long punishment, and he was handsome, which meant he would back away if he could. Wheeler had no intention to fight him, these were checks he ran on anyone, the same way he knew the waitress would kick better than most men, and if the short order chef had a knife, Wheeler had better have a gun.

If Wheeler did have to fight, if this kid wanted cash, or the cops drew up outside, Wheeler wouldn’t be fit. Not with the ghosts.

The runaway ordered a Chocolate Malt. Wheeler found himself talking. Just into open air at first.
“Chocolate Malt?”
“What’s that pops?” the kid came back. Something dry about his voice.
“Nah, nothing.” Wheeler said. “Just haven’t had one of them since I was in short pants.”
“You looking to have some of mine?”
“No, son. I’m not looking for trouble either. Just talking.”
“Talking a whole lot about Chocolate Malt.”
“Guess I am. That all you’re having?”
“I got a lot of walking.” By now the shake had been set in front of him, and he took a long, indulgent slug of it and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “And not much cash. These things put the hunger back, you know what I mean? Feels like a meal, and tastes a damn sight better than some slop and cheese.”
“Smart.”
“Not enough not to be where I am. But maybe more than most.”
“Maybe.”
Something about it fit with Wheeler and he turned to the waitress, who was sizing them both up, and ordered. “I’ll have what the kids having.”
“You gonna pay for mine?”
“If I did, kid, you’d think something about me that just aint true.”
“Guess so.”
“And you’d do well do go without that kind of help, whether offered or asked for.”
The waitress smirked at this, which was something Wheeler didn’t like. The kid didn’t like it either and drank up in silence before leaving. Wheeler had wanted to say good luck, but whatever happened to the kid now was nothing to do with him. Instead he watched the waitress until she understood.

Wheeler took it all as an omen. The milkshake was his talisman. The thing had gone down thick and smooth and had dowsed fires and filled up everywhere he was empty. It was like a meal, and more. The ghosts disappeared and Wheeler was back on the road, repaired.