The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [65]
Chapter 11
Noel & JJ
Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade was starting as Noel placed a fake log on the fire. Lounging in Mr. Burun’s La-Z-Boy, wearing a burgundy bathrobe that was risibly undersized, JJ observed him while cracking nuts and sipping camomile tea.
“Hey Noel, why did Handel get rid of his chickens? Because they kept saying ‘Bach, Bach, Bach’.”
For the last hour JJ had been trying to laugh, to self-treat with joketherapy, to counteract an urge to cry. He put his sock feet on the ottoman, pointed them towards the fire, wiggled his wet toes.
“I wish I could say, ‘And then the alarm clock rang—it had all been a dream!’ Oh well, that’s the way the mop flops, I guess. No sense being a droopy drawers. Thanks for letting me stay here, Noel. But it’ll just be for one night. Cross my heart. I’ll go back home tomorrow—it’s really not that bad. I’ll have the place shipshape in no time.”
By now JJ’s voice was back to normal inside Noel’s head; the boxy shapes and crayola colours were no longer a train wreck of collapsing rectangles but rather children’s shiny stackable blocks. “JJ, you can stay here as long as you want. Your place is uninhabitable.”
“Really just the one room. Or two.”
Images of the bathroom paraded before Noel’s eyes. All that was left were the exoskeletal remains of the bathtub, hand dryer and urinal. In an inch of water. “There’s smoke and water damage everywhere. And your bedroom window’s smashed, which means the place will be freezing.” He pictured the orange garbage bag that Samira had stapled to the window frame.
JJ cracked another walnut. “I love your nuts, Noel.”
Noel remained silent, wondering if this was more joke therapy.
“I’ve been racking my brains,” JJ continued, scratching his copper hair with the nutcracker. “I still can’t figure out who would’ve done it. Did you hear Nor’s theory?”
“Yeah.”
“He said it was the Head of Women’s Studies, who was out to get him.”
“I think that was a joke.”
“Oh.”
“You’re sure you’ve got no enemies?”
JJ paused to reflect for three or four seconds, which for him was a lot. “Well, the cemetery’s been trying to get rid of me for years. But they’ve got lawyers working on that. Arson’s hardly their style.”
“You don’t think it was bikers?”
JJ slurped his camomile tea. “It’s possible, I guess.”
“Is that why you wouldn’t let us call the police? Or fire department?”
“Well, I’ve got a few electrical … illegalities, and some stuff the cops would hassle me about, even though it’s legal. Which reminds me—I lost some of my best kits in the fire. And flood. Along with my journal for Dr. Vorta.”
Noel’s photographic memory conjured up scores of red magic-marker letters scrawled like hieroglyphs on the boxes. “So what else went up in smoke? What were those flashes and strange smells from the bathroom? What was that from?”
“Cheese.”
“Cheese? You keep cheese in your bathroom?”
“Cheese powder, which explodes in those aluminum packets. I had a carton of Kraft Dinner. Six dozen boxes. E-bay auction. Got a wicked deal. Ten cents a box.”
Noel was trying to hide a smile, but when JJ began to giggle, Noel exploded, laughing for longer than he had in months.
“They should put a flammable warning on that stuff,” said JJ.
“You lose anything else? I mean, more valuable than macaroni and cheese?”
“My journal. Did I mention that? I used to keep it right beside the toilet, where I do my best thinking. Oh well. Thanks again, by the way, for rescuing my letters—and my scrapbook. You’re a hero. I don’t know how you remembered where they were. They would’ve gone up for sure.”
“Could it have been a prank of some sort? I mean, kids are always hanging out there at night. Vandalising, desecrating tombs.”
JJ pointed to an object on the floor. “I doubt it—that thing looks pretty serious. A customised device. What did you say it was?”
“Formulated mercury, at least in one of them.” Noel picked up one of the two arson weapons, a 37 mm Ferret barricade-penetrating