Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Fifty-Five: The Handler

Kate was good to me. And while those halcyon days lasted, they were perfect. I knew I would reflect on them fondly in the years to come.

Packing my life into a suitcase again reawakened a repertoire of repressed memories within me and feelings long forgotten. It felt like dismantling everything I'd achieved and starting over, for the fourth, and what I hoped was final, time. And there was a limit to how much I could cram into one feeble case.

I bothered folding things into meticulous squares in order to squeeze more of my possessions into the limited space. Beside my clothes, I packed my bow and arrows: withering, chipped and gnarly with their age - but still trusty like an old galleon. Pictures were another thing: in the period Kate and I had spent together, we had catalogued the moments and frozen them in time in frames; new and old photos of us alike were deposited in the case. More memories in the form of trinkets and keepsakes were squashed in too: house keys for the apartment, a deck of cards from our poker games and my favourite mug. I suspected this was what a kid going off to college felt like; but bankrupt and on the run from the law, I had no such comfort awaiting me.

My carnival costume went in last, with patches stitched on in places, holes sewn shut and decoration threaded on; all Kate's touch; a dab-hand at something that required such manual finesse. I zipped the case with a satisfying sound and I turned to face my childhood best friend, now on the brink of adulthood. The years had flown fast.

Kate had been quietly sniffling the whole time, watching as I removed all evidence of my presence from her apartment.

There were no words that could give her true consolation or make real reparation. Actions speak louder than words, or so they say. So I hugged her close and let her cry it out on me; and myself, I shed a few tears.

Outside, inclement weather was wracking the building. The window that overlooked the city was being bombarded by a barrage of rain, and torrents of rivulets rolled down the glass; distorting the view until it was a blur of colour and light.

The sound was immense, like a chorus of snare drums being drum-rolled. It was a sound that had been absent for so long and it felt like a caress to the ears. It was a dismal soundtrack, but it was tranquil in its own way.

"I love you, Kate," I told her in no uncertain terms and tried to stifle my sobbing by biting my bottom lip. She was perhaps the one person on the face of the earth I felt comfortable saying that to. But don't get me wrong; what I felt for Kate wasn't romantic, it was fraternal.

"I love you too, Clint," she replied, her words distorted somewhat by her crying.

I held her for an eternity, my chin perched on the top of her head, tucking her to my chest. I wanted to remember that moment, to commit every detail for memory; the sound of the rain, the smell of her Jimmy Choo! Perfume, the silky sensation of her hair as I combed my fingers through it. I wanted to be able to relive it when I was no longer there.

Breaking apart from her felt like losing a part of myself, but she walked me down to the street in silence. She didn't want to guilt trip me, I suppose; it made it easier and for that, I was thankful.

She carried Lucky in her arms, bringing him just to say goodbye.

I was sopping wet the second I stepped out the door into the torrential downpour. I stood at the side of the road in the pouring rain, my sneakers with the gaping soles letting in the water from the puddles that drowned the sidewalk. Drains had already overflowed, like busted river banks.

"Where now?" Kate asked, huddling close to me like a penguin in a snowstorm.

She needn't ask much more, as at that precise moment, a black armoured Chevrolet pulled up at the side of the road; chunky tires carving apart the water on the road with a colossal splash.