You know the feeling when an old friend whom you haven’t been in touch with for ages, suddenly texts out of the blue? Why now? Where the hell have they been? Do they genuinely want to get back in contact? Do you?
That’s what’s just happened. I just got a text from Cody Erhardt, after a year.
I’ve been sitting alone in my apartment this Saturday evening, scrolling through stuff on my phone, when the message suddenly popped up.
I’m pretty damn surprised at first. It has to be him, though, I don’t know many other Codys (I don’t actually know too many other people, if it comes to that) and it is his old number.
The text simply reads: Hey, Jay. Sending-
I just sit there for a few moments, the phone in my hand.
It’s an odd and unexpected message to say the least but before I set myself to ponder just what it could mean I begin to reminisce, naturally, over the old days. Cody and I had met in our teens, when we had some unfortunate experiences in common. But I hadn’t seen much of him in the last three years, and the last time I had seen him had been at his homecoming, eighteen months ago. His homecoming from prison.
It had all begun with that damn fool writing group. I mean, the counselling or support or whatever you want to call it, that goes around recommending writing therapy to people. People that are supposed to be in need of such a thing. People like Cody Erhardt. And, to a lesser extent, me.
Do you really want me to go into the background of it all? Let me just summarize by saying that we were a classic pair of troubled teens, from broken, unloving (etc, etc) homes. Our stories were no different from a million others. And we didn’t want to attend counselling. But finally, more out of curiosity than anything else, we did. That was where we’d first met.
To everyone’s surprise Cody rather took to the writing suggestion when it came up. Honestly you wouldn’t have thought it to look at him. The saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ seemed particularly apposite in this case. Nothing bookish about him at all, never had been. I would have thought that writing would be about the last thing on earth he would ever want to be involved in. He was too good-looking for one thing. Not that writers can’t be good-looking I suppose. But anyway, I’m drifting off the point. Evidently there was something that had long been hidden in him, a vein of creativity that took off at the slightest encouragement.
At first, I ribbed him a little about the dangers of ending up as a cringy poet or something. But poetry wasn’t his thing. Nor journaling either. Instead the damned group set him afire with the idea of writing stories. Actual stories. And admittedly there was enough material in his life already to set him up. Family dysfunction, substance abuse, dropping out of high school, girlfriend troubles, even a magnificent RTA. Even though we trod similar paths his life had already been crammed with far more significant incident than mine. Whoever heard of a writer with the first name Cody, though? I sure as hell hadn’t. No doubt I’m being too judgemental again but it didn’t seem a literary name to me at all. Maybe he could set a precedent.
As for me, I would be his agent. I wasn’t bitten by the literary bug myself, as such. I just wanted to get involved on the mercenary side of things.
(Yet here I am telling this story – his story, mainly.)
The long and short of it is, I encouraged him to write when no one else did. The writing group fever might have worn off soon enough otherwise, but it was I who kept egging him on.
But before he really got down to it, he said, he had to find even more material. More incident, ever more vivid, dramatic. At least that’s what he believed, but I was of the private opinion that he was in danger of becoming a flat-out bore.
Not long after the counselling sessions, Cody embarked upon a totally wild career. Fights/injuries, a deliberate smash-up this time, and dedicated drug-dealing, not just taking. And only I understood why he was doing these things. Collecting more writing material, to make a sensational novel. Everyone else said, or at least intimated, that it was just the predictable result of his upbringing. I did try to get him to tone things down a bit, but evidently I didn’t try nearly hard enough. I blame myself now for that of course. Before he got too out of control, though, some prison time intervened, as the courts did not look too sympathetically on his writing alibi.
He didn’t seem to mind going to prison, in fact he welcomed it as it gave him the chance to get on with his writing. And of course prison life itself furnished him with more material. The best thing, when he came to write it all properly, would be that all this colorful stuff would have the ring of absolute authenticity. He had literally lived all this shit. There would be genuine conviction in every word.
This was all very well, but secretly I wondered if it really would make such riveting reading. Therefore I suggested, on one of my visits, that he try to write something a bit different, as well. Original.
He grinned. ‘Not possible, dude. Nothing new under the sun. Didn’t some guy say that about 3000 years ago?’
‘Well, it’s something to think about,’ I urged.
There was a faraway look in his eyes. ‘You know, it’s not a bad idea, actually. Something really original. Something to aim for, right?’ He stared into the distance awhile then turned back to me. ‘Thanks man. You know, you’re the only one who’s ever really encouraged me to write, anyways. You’ll be the first to get my manuscript when it’s done.’
It sounded less of a promise than a threat, although no doubt he meant it kindly, in the spirit of our old friendship.
‘Well, thanks,’ I said, trying to make it sound enthusiastic.
‘You’ll see – when I get it all into shape.’
I wondered how many more years that would take, but didn’t say it aloud. Instead, I smiled back. ‘Sure. Look forward to it.’ I added jokingly, ‘Surprise me.’
Like I said, the last time I’d seen him was at his homecoming from prison, arranged by his official girlfriend at the time (a different one to when he’d gone in). Her name was Sophie Redmond and she wasn’t over-friendly, at least to me, but she seemed smitten enough with Cody, and no-one could deny that they made a very attractive couple. During that celebratory meal, I sat on one side of him while she sat on the other, and I tried to gauge mentally where he was at. There was something different about him now. That’s what prison life can do to you, was my first thought, naturally. But actually, as far as I could gather nothing very terrible had happened and he hadn’t been in for the worst kind of offences anyway. It was just that he seemed more distant than formerly. I asked him about the writing of course. That was the one thing that seemed to jolt him out of his reverie.
‘Going good, thanks,’ he replied shortly. I couldn’t help but feel I had hit a nerve.
‘Got any original ideas?’ I more than half-suspected he hadn’t managed to get anything down at all.
‘You’ll see it when it’s time,’ was all he would say.
And that was the last time I’d seen him. For some reason our once-solid friendship didn’t seem so solid after all. Perhaps his current girlfriend was the hawk-type that kept her claws (not to mention her beak) in him, preventing him from seeing his old friends and all, but then he wasn’t the type to be dominated by anyone. There was just … something on his mind. Not really a matter of re-adjusting to life outside of prison, either, he hadn’t been in that long (he’d served less than two years of a four-year stretch).
But the last I heard from him, six months later, he seemed to be doing pretty well. In fact, it sounded like things were coming on by leaps and bounds. He and Sophie had actually moved into a privately rented, old but quite serviceable apartment, where the landlord presumably was of the easy-going kind, and also was no doubt charmed by the sight of Sophie at Cody’s side. As well as being pretty, she held a fairly decent office position, and even Cody had found himself steady work at a garage which took him on in spite of – or perhaps because of – his criminal record. (Not that I’m suggesting that this garage was any more, or any less, shady than a lot of other businesses.) So he seemed to be settling down alright.
But I didn’t find myself in any great hurry to see him again. Mainly, because I regretted ever having encouraged his writing delusions. I’d long ago stopped expecting to make any kind of money out of any kind of literary project, of course, that had only ever been a youthful fantasy. But I regretted ever having encouraged him in his writing when he turned out to be so cliched at it and did all those stupid things just to get his material. Although now, at my initial suggestion he was going to try for something original. Wonder how that would turn out? Anyway, I was happy to give him some space for a while. And more and more time passed, until now a whole year had gone by since we’d even texted. I hadn’t meant to let things drift that long.
And now he was in touch again.
I sit irresolutely for a while, then began typing.
Cody! What’s up my man? Long time!!
Reading it over, my message has the odd effect of seeming both effusive and stilted at the same time. That’s how I feel about Cody’s sudden re-appearance (in a manner of speaking) after so long.
I wait for his reply. Nothing. After several more minutes I send a couple more messages, without result. I try calling, and it goes straight to voicemail.
He’s playing the cryptic game.
The first sense of unease settles on me but I shake it off impatiently. Mainly I just feel rather bamboozled. And I guess I’m being rather slow, because it’s not until I go out into the hall and I see something lying on the mat, that it hits me just what Cody is on about.
‘Sending’ can only mean one thing, from Cody. All this time he’s been working like a real hermit, presumably, shut away in his ivory tower getting his material into shape. And now he’s sent his first manuscript to me! Trust him to do it this way, in so sudden and dramatic a fashion. I don’t know how I feel, being the recipient. Mixed emotions for sure. I’ll have to be honest. But I’m not any kind of literary expert, although he knows that anyway, of course. It’s just because of our old friendship.
But on stooping to the mat, I see that ‘manuscript’ is rather a glorified description. It’s literally just one sheet of paper – rather thick and rough to be sure, almost more like an artist’s canvas actually. Although of course a manuscript could just be one sheet, but still… And is this all he’s come up with after his seclusion?
I did it.
Hell to the yeah
Watch me burn, man. I’m hot.
That’s what it says, and the writing is so forceful it’s practically gone through even that rough, thick material, as if the writer had been in the grip of intense emotion. It sure looks like Cody’s writing, too. Then I notice something else. The paper is spattered with what looked, and smelled, uncommonly like dried blood.
I groan aloud. Was this meant to be some type of artwork! Cryptic messages! And sending his ‘manuscript’ like this in this ominous fashion, so that it arrived late at night. Damn Cody. He just couldn’t stop with the cliches. He’d made sure to set it up like a goddammed stupid fucking horror movie.
The feeling of unease is strong upon me now. I check outside my apartment but all is quiet. Just when had the note arrived? It certainly hadn’t been there the last time I had gone into the hall about an hour ago, just before I’d received Cody’s text. And I hadn’t heard any noise, although of course I had been somewhat preoccupied. So Cody had driven over after texting, to shove it under my door quietly as possible and just left again? Goddamn him.
Shaking my head, I go back to examining the note.
Those stains – are they actually blood? I’m not exactly a forensic expert but they really do seem to be. Well as long as it was his own blood and no-one else’s, I guess. And not a goddamn cat’s or anything, either. But surely he’s never been the type to go around sacrificing cats, or am I being too hopeful?
And what about the amount of blood? True, the paper isn’t soaked in it or anything, and it’s not been used for the actual writing. But the presence of the stuff on any significant level naturally sets alarm bells ringing. Holy shit, what had he cut?
And what does the message mean? What the hell is it all about? Do I even know it to be his hand, for sure? I’m fairly sure, but still not 100%. Because after all it’s some years since I’ve actually seen a sample, and people’s writing can change over time.
I check my phone again. No more messages, of any kind, from anyone.
I just stand for a while, wondering what the hell to do. Maybe I should call the police, or something, or at least a mutual friend to see if they could shed any light on things. But this brings me up short. Do we actually have any mutual friends any more? I’ve lost touch with so many people in recent years, and certainly with the whole scene which included Cody. There’s one guy from that circle, Jack, whom I’ve sort of kept up with but only sporadically, and I don’t really feel like I can call him up point-blank just to inquire if he knows what the hell Cody’s playing at.
Which leaves only one other person, whom I felt even less confident about calling up. Cody’s girlfriend, Sophie. Like I said, she never seemed to like me although we had kept up appearances for Cody’s sake, at least for a while. I do have her number, but the last (indeed only) time I called her was when she was arranging the ‘homecoming’ for Cody. And of course she’s never called me. She might not even have the same number anymore.
I ponder for a minute or so longer, and then my phone starts ringing.
That makes me jump more than anything else could’ve done at that moment. I just stand gazing at it for a few seconds, my heart hammering. Finally I pick it up, and when I see who’s calling, it doesn’t help to calm me down any.
It’s Sophie.
Of course. Something’s happening with Cody, she needs help, somehow no-one else is available and so she’s reached out to me. For a second, I’m tempted not to answer at all, as I feel instinctively that shit’s just going to get crazier from here on in, but then I nerve myself to do so.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Jay?’
Sounds like Sophie, alright.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Sophie. Sophie Redmond? I know it’s been a while, but –‘
‘Yeah.’ I hardly know what to say to her. Like a dumbass, I come out with ‘How are you?’
‘Uhm ..’ I can almost hear her mentally fumbling for the right words.
‘I’m actually calling about Cody,’ she says finally. What a surprise. ‘Have you … uhm … heard from him today, or anything?’
My sense of foreboding kicks up another level at this question. ‘Why?’ I respond automatically.
‘Because … because … well uhm, I’m in my car, outside his apartment. I couldn’t get in.’
‘What?’
‘I mean, he isn’t answering at all, the door, the phone, anything. But I can see the light on in the living room, the curtains aren’t drawn, well not properly. And I can’t get hold of the landlord either, so I just left a message….And there seems to be no-one else around here and when I called his other friends they were either out or something, or they couldn’t tell me anything about where he might be …’
So I was the last resort, as I’d thought. But then her choice of words strike me. His apartment?
‘So you don’t have a key?’ Even as I said this, I feel embarrassed. I had just assumed that she and Cody were still together, but –
She hesitates before replying. ‘I don’t, actually. We, uhm, we had a massive row a couple weeks ago and I just stormed out, and like a complete idiot I even left my key … I was pretty mad, you know. But I do still care, I’m not such a bitch,’ she adds defensively. ‘It wasn’t forever, I just needed some space for a while ….my name’s still on the lease … I’d just like to know he’s alright. Far as I can gather, he’s not been in touch with anyone in the last few days.’
‘What about his work?’ I’m still hedging for time, still not sure how to tell her about the strange messages I’ve received.
‘Well, Andy (his supervisor) told me he’d booked the last few days off.’
‘Oh.’ I take a breath. ‘Actually. I did get a text from him, just tonight - ‘
She pounces immediately. ‘Really? What did he say?’ Even in that moment I can sense her brain whirring, wondering why he had chosen to text a nonentity like me instead of reaching back out to her or to one of his other closer and much cooler friends.
‘Well, to be honest it’s all kind of weird. All he said was “Hey, Jay. Sending.” And even though I texted back and tried calling him and everything, he’s not replied again.’ I glance back over my shoulder nervously to the hall. ‘And that was over an hour ago, around seven.’
She takes this in. ‘’What could he mean?’
‘I don’t know.’ It’s the easiest thing to say.
Silence.
‘Sophie? Are you still there?’
‘Yeah. Just thinking. I mean, well shit. What the fuck is going on with him tonight?’
‘Wish I knew.’ I feel more helpless than ever, especially over the business of that stupid ‘manuscript’ or note, whatever it is. Because of that, I can’t just lightly reassure her – or myself - that he probably had just gone away for a while, without telling anybody because he was needing some space too. And telling her about the note might scare her. God knows I’m pretty damn scared myself by this time. But then maybe I should really mention it. It’s a strange business, and between the two of us, even though we’re just an ex-girlfriend (at least temporarily) and ex-friend, or whatever, we have to try to get the bottom of it. Even if it just turns out to be a stupid prank, or something.
So I walk back to the hall table where I’d left the note, the phone at my ear all the while. ‘Actually, Sophie, there’s something e-’
My words tail off.
‘What?’
I swallowed. ‘What?’ I ask in my turn.
‘What did you just say?’
I tried to pull myself together. ‘Uh…’ I glance down at the table. The paper has vanished.
I don’t mention it to her, after all.
I stay on the line while making a quick search around my small apartment, without success.
She becomes quite confidential.
‘You know, I’ve just had the worst feeling about him today. Like, something really was up. I know, that probably sounds silly. But it’s just…’ She sighs, a long-drawn out sigh. ‘There’s something. I mean, there weren’t any issues with work or anything, far as I know, and there was never any problem with the rent …. I mean, it certainly seemed like he was trying to get his life back together, certainly at first, but … I don’t know.’ It sounds like she was choking back a sob. ‘Lately it was just getting harder. Not drugs or anything, far as I can tell, but, uh … he just seemed so … well, distant.’ I had already noted that a year-and-a-half before. ‘I should never have left my damn key. When was the last time you spoke to him?’
‘It’s been quite a while,’ I admit. ‘About a year, in fact. I’ve not actually seen him, you know, since that dinner ….’
‘Oh.’
Another silence.
‘What do we do?’ she asks, finally.
‘You want me to come up there?’ I offer.
‘Well, no, well, perhaps …’ she replies vaguely. ‘Not much you could do though really, is there?’
She’s probably right. ‘Maybe we should try calling him again?’ I suggest rather feebly.
We do try, to no avail.
‘OK, then maybe we should just wait for the landlord to get back to you.’
‘Do you think we should call the police,’ she says, slowly.
I fidget. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, we’re both concerned, right?’
‘Yea, I guess … ’ I don’t know what I’m feeling by this time, to be honest. Apart from VERY confused.
‘I just know that something’s wrong.’
I believe her, but still I’m not sure that even infallible girlfriend intuition is a sound basis for calling the police out. Besides they’re bound to be busy with other shit on a Saturday night. So I start to look around for my car keys. ‘Sophie, I’m coming up there-‘
‘Wait – wait – I’ve got a call,’ she exclaims suddenly.
My heart contracts.
But it isn’t Cody.
It’s the landlord, returning Sophie’s call.
It’s next morning.
I’m trying to make sense of the last few hours, since the landlord’s call.
As Sophie seemed so concerned, and was, after all still officially one of his tenants, he’d arranged a check for that very night. However, an unforeseen delay prevented anyone from actually arriving at the apartment until nearly five in the morning, by which time Sophie had gone back to the place she was temporarily sharing with two girls from work. It turned out to be just as well, because what they found was – Well, let’s just say it furnished her, and me, with a good excuse not to go into work the next day.
It was the police who told Sophie of course, and then me.
Cody had been in the apartment. Slumped on the couch, in T-shirt and jeans, with a deep vertical gash in one wrist, the blade next to his other hand, his phone not far off and, as it turned out, a not-inconsiderable amount of some dubious substance in his system. It seemed he’d reverted back to his old ways at the last, although to be fair the cutting was kind of new, for him. It was determined that he had died the previous evening, most likely only about half an hour or so after I received his text.
Well, what can you say to something like that?
It’s now a week later.
They’re generally assuming it to be suicide, although there was no suicide note found at the scene, and he had seemed to turned his life around after prison. But maybe things had been building up, after all, and the row with Sophie had helped push him over the edge …. They’ve questioned her, of course, as well as the landlord, but really it seems the police are not looking for anyone else in connection with his demise. The official investigation hasn’t turned up the least sign that anyone else was in the apartment that fatal night, the one or two others in the building had seen or heard nothing, and there’s no hint that anyone was even in touch with him at all over those final few days.
Except me.