The Arrival

Trigger warning: domestic violence

There was a delicate clink as Marty Strathmore placed his wine glass back on the sleek wooden table, pursing his lips and turning the page of his novel. A soft white light shone behind him, casting strict, long shadows on the modern architecture of his living room. A vinyl player was broadcasting some soft jazz around the room which touched lightly on his ears, never too bold yet still confident enough for a little crescendo or piano riff to catch his intrigue. Yes, he was indeed aware of his own cliche. Here he sat, an author, in his well maintained abode on the outskirts of Los Angeles, reading an obscure American book with a glass of red wine. But Marty was beyond caring. His life had been so hectic up until now, with book tours, press, publishing… the whole nine yards. This moment to himself was all he wanted. 

A jump in tempo coupled with a turn in the dialogue made him arch his eyebrows as he took another sip. Apparently the main character was choosing to stay behind with a borderline abusive family rather than escape with his brother. He was wondering in the back of his mind how his brother would take the decision when Marty’s doorbell rang, making him start despite its subtlety. 

He crossed the room and glanced at his watch. 9:30 in the evening. Who could be calling then? Fortunately, he had a doorbell with a little camera on it. Unfortunately, whoever it was appeared to be blocking it somehow. Frustrated, he tried the peephole, only to see, to his surprise, an old and familiar face. 

“Marty, thank God,” said the man as Marty opened the door. 

“Bill, what… what’re you doing here?” Marty gestured for his old friend to come in, and after a moment of tension where Bill’s face constricted, he took the offer and entered the house. “Here, let me get some lights on-”

“No!” Bill’s eyes were wide, his stance almost bowed. “Sorry… I don’t want to impose.”

Marty’s steely eyebrows had disappeared into his graying blond hairline, which was not unlike his friend’s in its curliness, though Bill had black hair just graying at the sides. “It’s no imposition,” he said, “Not for old friends, anyway. But, if you want the lights off that’s totally fine. Can I… get you something to drink, at least?”

Bill chewed his words. “Scotch?”

Marty grinned. “Still looking for that kick, huh? Like usual, or-”

“I’ll take it neat, please.”

“Oh, uh… okay,” Marty frowned. Bill’s customary drink was a scotch on the rocks, perhaps with a hit of vermouth and some orange blossom water. He shook his head, remembering that he was on his third glass of wine for the night. “Sorry, I completely forgot to take your coat-”

“It’s fine, really. I’m a little… cold, anyway.” Bill tried to manage a small smile, but it looked pained and stretched on his face. 

“Alright, well… take a seat in the living room, and I’ll get your drink. The whiskey’s in the kitchen.” Marty gestured behind Bill to the living room, where his friend promptly took the seat furthest from the light source. He went to the kitchen, turning on one light as he reached his liquor cabinet. There were a few kinds of scotch in there, but Marty chose the 20 year old bottle for his friend. After a generous pour, he brought the glass and the bottle back to the living room, where Bill was waiting anxiously. He handed him the drink and sat in his old armchair in the corner, taking another sip of wine. 

“You’re allowed to sit closer, y’know,” said Marty with a chuckle. From here, the shadows on Bill’s face stretched and shifted, giving him a haunted appearance which matched his chilling blue eyes. “So, uh… how’s Melinda? The kids?” Bill took a heavy swig of scotch and did not answer. Marty continued, his eyes narrow, “Alright, man… what’re you doing here? It’s 9:30 at night-”

“My family’s dead,” said Bill in a hollow voice. 

Marty nearly dropped his glass on the floor. “What? Are you-”

“They were killed… Marty,” Bill’s eyes welled up, the tears glinting even in the soft light. “Their bodies… their bodies are back at my place.”

“Holy… Oh my God,” said Marty, his mind reeling. His low tolerance left him far more drunk than he should’ve been. He blinked several times, only able to say, “I… I’m sorry. What happened?”

“I… I don’t know, but-”

“Did you tell the police yet?”

Bill took another swig of scotch. “No,” he whispered. 

The jazz music crescendoed lightly. “Why the hell not?” asked Marty, “Bill, you gotta tell the cops! The longer you wait, the more-”

“I just needed some time,” said Bill, his hand shaking. “When I saw the bodies… I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I dropped everything and drove here. I can’t… I can’t face them.”

“Jesus, man,” said Marty, running a hand through his hair, “This is… this is really messed up. How were they… y’know?”

Bill looked straight at his old friend with a tear stained face and empty blue eyes. “Brutally. I saw my… my wife’s face, and…” He broke off with a small sob.

“My God… I’m so… I’m sorry, Bill. I have no idea what you’re going through right now.” Marty wanted to get up and sit next to his friend, but something stopped him. Be it awkwardness or the large gap between the two… he stayed in his seat, leaning forwards. 

“I know I should call the cops, but I can’t… I just can’t right now. I needed someone to talk to… so I came here.” Billy polished off the scotch with a third large swig, refilling it himself. 

Marty didn’t say anything, unaware of what to say or how to say it. What did normal people say to their friends when their friends’ family was murdered? Stupid question… this stuff didn’t happen to normal people with normal friends. This always happened to… someone else. The someone else Marty saw on TV, or read in books, or even wrote about. Never him, and never someone he loved. They sat in silence for some time, the jazz still flowing in and out of earshot, though now Marty found it annoying; the music had the audacity to maintain its optimism despite their current situation. He debated on turning it off, but the prospect of silence scared him. If the music went, all he was left with was a broken friend begging for the support he didn’t know how to give. 

“Hey, Bill. Let’s go for a drive.” Marty stood up and smiled, hoping it wasn’t too tacky. 

“A… drive?” 

“Yeah, c’mon. It’ll clear your mind. Besides, driving on the hills gives you a great view of the city.” What was he saying? Why would his friend want a view of the city right now? Marty continued, “It’s also easier to talk about stuff in the car… at least, or so I’ve found.”

Bill looked hesitant but said, “Okay…”

“Excellent. Don’t worry about me getting drunk - I know you know I have a low tolerance. I just got this Tesla, and the car basically drives itself. Y’know the cool thing about it is-” Marty broke off and nearly punched himself. Why on Earth would Bill want to hear about his Tesla’s autopilot right now? “Let’s go,” he added lamely, grabbing his keys and heading to the garage. 

Bill followed him with the scotch in his hands. If Marty counted correctly, that was his third generously poured glass in about five minutes… A hiccup from Bill told Marty he was right to assume his friend was intoxicated. They got in the car silently, with the vehicle pulling out of the garage itself, and turning around to face the road. Once Marty entered a destination - an old gas station with a surprisingly great view of the city, the car began to move for itself, calmly telling Marty to keep his hand on the wheel. 

“Bill,” said Marty quietly, “I just wanna say… I really am sorry. When my mom passed, I hated hearing that word. ‘Sorry’. The condolences were nice, but they were so… hollow, almost pitiful in nature. I want you to know that when I say it… it’s because I don’t know what else to say, if I’m honest.”

“I… And I really appreciate it.” Bill took a drink straight from the bottle. “I know I should’ve called the cops. I know I should’ve stayed back there when I found them.”

“It’s like you’re fleeing the scene!” blurted Marty, immediately cringing. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” Bill’s voice was hard, a shift from the broken down grief he’d been exhibiting thus far. 

They drove in silence for some time, Marty’s heart pounding. His brain was trying to come up with reassurance, but what reassurance do you give to the man whose family was just brutally murdered? “So, Bill,” he said, clearing his throat, “D’you… d’you wanna talk about it? I don’t know, I’m sorry,” he shook his head, “Of course you don’t wanna talk about it, Christ… What am I-”

“It’s okay,” said Bill, staring out of his window. “I think I might be ready to talk about it.”

“Oh, uh… that’s great.”

However, Bill did not begin talking. Rather, he took a few swigs of scotch and gazed at the web of yellow and white lights of Los Angeles sprawled out in the valley. Marty and Bill had spent several years living together in the city, struggling to make ends meet. Bill was an engineer trying to claw his way up from a mere technician to a full fledged manager. Marty was an unpublished, unknown author with no credentials and no degree, working a job at a coffee company to pay the rent. A few years ago, Marty had been picked up by an agent and Bill had gotten married around the same time as getting the promotion he’d always wanted. Though the two more or less parted ways after Bill’s wedding, they remained close. And now Bill sat in Marty’s car, drinking whiskey and looking back at the city which had bonded them. 

“Marty… I killed them.”

If the car had not been in autopilot, Marty would’ve crashed it. His heart panged in his throat as he said, “Huh?”

Bill looked at his old friend with his usual cold blue eyes, though now they appeared almost sinister in the dim cabin light of Marty’s car. “I killed Melinda… and the kids. I did it just now, before coming to your place.”

“Bill,” said Marty, choking on his words, “I can’t… Why?”

“I’m not the same man you knew, Marty,” Bill now looked dead ahead as the car followed a guardrail. “Being married, it… it changed me, and not for the better.” He paused, but continued after another hit of whiskey. “Remember Amber? The girl I dated for about six months when you first moved in?”

“She cheated on you, I remember - Oh!” Marty’s jaw dropped. “Was Melinda-”

“When Amber cheated on me,” said Bill, all but ignoring his friend’s words, “I was devastated, but I knew it wasn’t the end of the world. There were other girls, other dates… it wasn’t meant to be. But then I met Melinda like a year later, remember that?”

“You loved her right away,” whispered Marty. 

“Yeah… she was so bright… so pretty, and she had a protective attitude that I was obsessed with. I looked at her when we were dating and I knew I wanted her to be the mother of my kids. I wanted her to be there for me when I was old because… I wanted to be there for her.” Bill wiped his eyes and sniffed. “So when… when I found out…”

“Melinda was cheating on you?” Marty asked quietly. “I’m… I’m sorry-”

“Not just that, but she lied about it. I found out three months ago… I saw her texts with the guy… total scumbag - some club bouncer she’d met a long time ago. Even after she knew I knew she didn’t admit it or anything. Just tried to go about life the normal way. Send the kids to school, go to church on Sunday but never pray outside.”

“You didn’t mention any of this when I came around for dinner a few weeks ago.”

Another swig of scotch down the hatch. “I… I didn’t wanna believe it myself, Marty. My parents were divorced growing up, I know yours were too… I didn’t want that kinda life for my kids. Torn between two houses. I thought if I could just swallow it until our children were at least 16… then we’d face the problem. That gave me at least eight years to cope. But then she… then she did something that I… I couldn’t get past.”

“Another guy?”

Bill shook his head. “No. She accused me of cheating! Imagine that. I have not been anything but loyal since we got married, and now she thinks I’m the unfaithful one?”

They turned away from the city, the Tesla entering a cul de sac of large mansions. But Marty’s focus was as far from the homes as possible. “So what happened?”

“Well, we got into it… I know, it was stupid. And I know I should’ve just left her when I caught her. But I got so angry… I’d had a long day at work, and I just… One hit, that’s all it took. One hit.” He fingered something heavy in his coat, causing Marty’s blood to run cold. Bill continued, “Once I hit her, I knew there was no going back. Plus I was still so mad, I… I hit her again, and again, and I hit her in all sorts of places. Her back, her shoulder, her leg… I just wanted to crush her.”

“Bill,” said Marty softly. 

“And then,” Bill sobbed, ignoring Marty. “And then I saw the kids - their faces peeking from around the corner. Layla looks so much like Melinda, I just… I went after them. And I know it was horrible, and I know I should’ve called the cops, but I just felt so bad after that. I laid down on the floor next to Melinda for an hour just crying. I saw the broken bodies of my kids and I just… I didn’t know what to do or how to process it. A part of me wanted to bring them back, but a sick, deranged part of me was worried about what they’d say if they came back. The worst part is… I think… I think Carl could’ve lived.”

“How?”

Bill pushed his eyes in with his knuckles, gritting his teeth. “I looked at his tiny body and I think I saw his chest move a little. If I’d called for help, done CPR… maybe-”

“Jesus Christ, Bill,” said Marty, his mouth completely dry all of a sudden. 

“I know… Don’t you think I know?” His tone turned sharp, almost crazed. He calmed down from some more whiskey and said, “Right after I realized that I left for your place… I don’t wanna call the cops. It’s… it is my fault, but it’s not my fault, y’know?”

Marty shook his head. “Bill, this is insane. How the… Why’d you bring me into this? I can’t help you anymore! Maybe a few months ago when you were struggling through your relationship, but now…”

“A few months ago you were signing books in Singapore. You only stopped by for one dinner on your way to Boston.” Bill’s voice was bitter. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” said Marty immediately, “I am. But you have to make things right. You gotta… turn yourself in.”

There was a tense silence after Marty’s words, where Marty didn’t dare look at Bill and Bill contemplated the depth of his friend’s advice. “I… I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Bill,” said Marty seriously, seeing his house again down the street, “There’s nothing I can do for you. And there’s nothing you can do for you.”

“Don’t you know how to clean a crime scene?” asked Bill almost desperately, like a wicked child, “You’ve written a crime novel.”

Marty shook his head. “That stuff only works on the pages, Bill… or on screen.”

“I know… I’m sorry, I don’t wanna run.”

Marty risked grabbing his old friend’s arm, causing him to jump but give a small smile in return. “Of course you don’t. Just… turn yourself in… get some help.”

“My job,” whispered Bill, “I was supposed to get promoted soon.”

“That’s… not important right now. There’s no way you can or should hide this stuff from the cops. They’ll be lenient with you, they’ll be reasonable. You just gotta take that first step.” Marty didn’t know where this confidence was coming from - perhaps in the aging lines of Bill’s face he recognized one of his own kin, and so the admonishment came more naturally to his lips. His car parked in front of his house, directly looking at Bill’s Ford truck. “Please, Bill,” implored Marty, “Do it.”

There was a tender moment where Bill’s eyes softened and he looked like an orphaned fawn. But it passed as he whispered simply, “Okay.” He handed the scotch back to Marty and got out of the car, giving him a somber wave as he got in his truck and drove away. He walked gingerly back into his house, entering the living room and collapsing into the armchair, his wine still in the glass, and the jazz music still playing that upbeat melody. He picked up the novel he was reading and threw it hard across the room, putting his head in his hands and dreading the future. How did it come to this? he asked himself, the music decrescendoing.