I finish strumming and lean the guitar against the coffee table. Long forgotten memories return, images of my mother; young, full of vitality and a love of life. I remember her singing in this very room, her clear voice ringing out folk songs with weird melodies and lyrics. Lyrics that I used to join her on, but ones that I now have trouble recalling.

I take another swig of booze, and the ice rattles as my hand shakes. The bourbon’s siren-sweet taste is failing to still my nerves, but I know from experience there’s rarely enough in a single bottle to ever do the job properly. The leatherbound book mocks me from the floor below, the name Crawley shifting color as the evening sun slants through the room.

So much of my past seems shrouded from me. I wonder if this was always the case. Maybe my memories left with that bullet as it exited the chamber. My past buried deep in another man’s chest.. My past is a swirling fog. No wonder I can’t get any work. What good is a detective with a fractured memory?

The sun lowers, slipping below the tops of the trees and eerie shadows reach out across the lawn like the fingers of a malformed hand. Streaks of light radiate upward, kissing the clouds of the evening sky. It’s beautiful, but fills me with foreboding. Sunset in the woods always does this to me. It’s a stain on my mind, the only memory I can rely on from my early childhood.

No one played in the woods after dark. Nobody crossed the stream—even in daylight. As kids we skipped stones, we fished, we splashed in the cool shallow waters. In winter we replayed famous hockey games, but never once did we put foot on the other side. And I can’t remember why. And the moment that yellow sun slipped past the treetops and swelled into an angry orange, all games stopped. No warning. Someone would just say it was time to go and the rest of us would look up to the sky and silently agree.. Anything left behind would have to stay until morning. No going back.

One of the shadows breaks loose and stretches towards the house. I take an involuntary step back and catch my foot in the threadbare carpet. I slip and stumble to the floor, my grip on the cut crystal glass slackens and it drops to the floor, bouncing and coming to rest at the base of the guitar. At least it didn’t break. I get to my knees, my head swirls as alcohol and a troubled mind assert primacy. I haven’t taken my meds today. I wanted this return to my mother’s house with my head unclouded by the fugue of prescription drugs. I’m passed buzzed now. So much for that plan. I kneel at the guitar as if paying worship to the twin gods of music and writing. Why can’t I remember? What is it that eludes me? My hand shakes, and then I think of the calming effect of the tune I tapped out on the box in the attic. A half remembered rhyme skitters about at the edge of my memory. I may have only limited recall, but there’s something in this room that has no such problem.

The journal.

I crawl to the overstuffed chair, glug more bourbon into the glass and slide the journal out from under the shadow of the guitar. The room is much darker now, but the golden scripted Crawley seems to shine with an inner light. I half reach under the chair, pull out the awl and place it by my side. The leather bound journal feels heavier than last time, like the contents have taken on greater importance. I lick my lips, take a breath and pull open the cover. The journal opens to the page I finished on, and I run my fingers over the bumps punched into the thick paper. I concentrate hard and my mind stops spinning, then I continue to read.

Next Chapter: Six