The Swerve

by Athos Kyriakides

He was haunted by something Jack had said earlier: It all looks different at the end. The words lingered like cigarette smoke; a ghostly presence in the shadowy aftermath he’d left behind.

It was the kind of setting that Joe Morgan had often tried to conjure with his pen. Now, he felt like an unwilling participant in one of his own dark creations. The irony wasn’t lost on him, even though everything else might be.

He tried not to fidget in his chair, knowing every shuffle and creak was emphasised by the dead silence that welcomed it, and regarded by the smartly dressed man with predator eyes that sat just an arm’s length away, watching.

The shrill ring of the phone cut through the cold, tight atmosphere. It was the man’s broad shouldered associate who answered it – coming over to deliver the message a few seconds and a hushed conversation later.

Oscar Stone considered Joe as his advisor returned to his post by the front door.

“Jack Stacy is dead.”

Joe met Stone’s gaze briefly before staring back at the floor. He couldn’t hold it too long, because that thing was hot.

“He’s currently slumped in the driver’s seat of his car out in High Beach with a bullet in his head.”

Stone paused, waiting for Joe to fill in the blank.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

“That makes two of us. The caller who delivered that news found this number – your number – scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper in Jack’s pocket.”

Stone leaned forward, prompting Joe to do the same. In a soft voice, he said:

“Mr Morgan, I must confess that what you told me about your dealings with Jack last night is among the strangest things I’ve ever heard, and I’m not an easy man to surprise.”

“Imagine how I felt,” Joe said.

“How much did he tell you? If your story is true, then I’m guessing quite a bit. I mean, if you really were the answer to his problem, I doubt that any stone was left unturned?”

Joe took a deep breath. “He told me the lot.”

“The lot? OK, Mr Morgan, let’s see about that.”

“And then what?”

“And then we’ll see,” Stone sat back, and prepared to probe from a different angle, “I imagine he told you all about me?”

Joe quietly concurred.

“Well, I’ll recognise a lie even before it leaves your lips. Tell me the truth, Joe. At the risk of being abrupt; your life depends on it.”

After a deliberate beat, Stone continued.

“Now, where did you first lay eyes on him?”

“It was at the Moonlight Tavern in the Village Square. Around last call, I looked around the bar and our eyes met for a moment and that was it. Next time I saw him, I was walking home...”

“Alright,” Stone said, settling into his chair. “Go from there.”

Joe took a deep breath, and with it came the scent of burnt rubber clinging to the crisp autumn air, dragging him back to the moment that changed everything...

He’d left the bar, the same way he did the previous two evenings–alone, tipsy, and thankful for  the distraction.

The truth was, he didn’t like the feel of the house anymore–It was hollow, cold, and too quiet for his liking.

 To be alone with one’s thoughts and imagination might sound like a blessing for any writer, but as far as Joe was concerned, he couldn’t think of anything worse.

He had just started down the mile-long country road home when a car came blazing by and screeched to a smoky halt just ahead of him. There it stopped, growling like a wounded animal, waiting for him to approach–something he did with trepidation. When he did, he took note of a crater-sized dent in the fender.

He leant down into the open passenger side window, and saw a face he recognised but couldn’t place right away.

“It’s Joe, isn’t it?” said the man at the wheel.

“It is.”

It was those piercing, bright eyes. Intense and unusual. A second later, it hit him.

“Oh, you were at the bar just now,” Joe said.  

“I was, and I was at Valley High School with you a lifetime before that,” said the smiling driver,

“You don’t remember me, huh?”

“Sorry, I’m not liable to remember my own name after a few beers.” Joe said, a little embarrassed.

      “Jack Stacy. I think I was a year or two below you.”

Jack held out a hand that Joe shook warmly. 

“Where you headed?” asked Jack.

“Home. I live just inside the common.”

“Jump in; I’ll give you a lift,”

“That’s ok, it really isn’t that far–”

He was interrupted by Jack leaning over and popping the passenger door open.

“Come on, get in,” Jack said, “It’s no trouble, really.”

Joe, feeling as though he had been killed with kindness, accepted the invitation.

“Sure, thanks.”

Jack barely waited for the door to close before he spun off into the night.

As Joe fumbled around for the seatbelt, he glanced at a spider web crack in the windshield.

“So, what are you up to these days?”

“This and that. You know, I thought you recognised me in the bar back there – I felt like you gave me a look.” Jack said.

“You look a bit like an old friend. I thought you were him for a moment.”

“Looked like you saw a ghost. Who’s my doppelganger, then?” asked Jack.

“My wife’s lover.”

Jack laughed.

Joe did not.

“Wait, are you serious?” Jack said.

“Yeah. Steve Bamford. College roomie to best man to sleeping with my wife.”

Jack looked at Joe in disbelief.

“Like I said, he’s an old friend.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Joe.”

“You want to know how I feel.”

“I really look like this guy? Dead ringer, or what?” asked Jack.

“At first glance. Something around the eyes,” Joe said. “You can take this right here.”

Jack took the turn and then changed gears.

“So, are you still writing?”

Joe looked at Jack, surprised.

“Yeah, how’d you know that?”

“Are you joking? You think I wouldn’t remember the writer of The Register?”

“The Register?”

It took Joe a moment, but when the penny dropped, it was his turn to wear the look of disbelief.

“I wrote that story when I was fifteen.” Joe said.

“I don’t care how old you were, that thing was killer. The main character, Easy E? He was bang to rights, but then the twist? The crooked copper? Brilliant.”

Joe was speechless. Just this morning he’d received the letter from the publishing house that he’d been eagerly waiting for, putting it down as soon as he saw the word unfortunately. Jack’s affectionate feedback after all these years was a welcome pick-me-up.

He snapped out of his daydream just in time to point his house out. When Jack pulled over, to Joe’s surprise, he turned the engine off.

“Thanks for the ride. It was good to see you again.”

“No problem,” smiled Jack, “...Oh, hey, would you mind if I use your toilet? Those cocktails are going straight through me and I have a trek back to The Ends.”

“Nice place.” Jack said as soon as they were through the door.

“Thanks. Bathroom is through the hall–”

Jack ignored the directions and drifted into the living room instead. Joe found his confidence in doing so a little off-beat and was suddenly very aware that he’d let a complete stranger into his house.

“Jack? You ok?”

 “Yeah,”  Jack turned towards his host, “that story really made an impression on me, Joe. Must have been the only thing at that school not wearing a skirt, that did. How do ya do it?”

“The writing?” asked Joe.

Jack took a step closer.

“The swerve.”

“You mean the twist?”

Jack shrugged his shoulders and waited for the answer.

“Well, you plant seeds and misdirect the reader. It’s like a magic trick, you know? Sleight of hand.”

“No, I don’t know. But I’m in need a swerve of my own. Maybe you can help me,” Jack said, helping himself to a seat.

“What do you mean?” Joe said, feeling progressively uneasy.

“I have a story that needs one hell of a swerve and I’m out of ideas. Maybe you’ve got one.”

Joe didn’t like Jack’s new demeanour, or how he’d made himself at home.

“Look, maybe some other time. It’s getting late and I should get to bed, so.”

“It’s Friday night, what’s your rush?” Jack said, his smile resurfacing too late to make Joe feel any better. “Judith isn’t here, anymore, right?”

Joe was taken aback by Jack’s audacity, and that wasn’t all.

“Did I tell you her name?”

“And your son’s away at University, right? It’s only you here.”

He definitely hadn’t mentioned his son.

“How do you know that?” Joe asked with a voice beginning to tremble.

“How? Same way I know that The Tavern is your regular pit stop, and that’s where I could expect to run into you on a Friday night. Admittedly, I didn’t realise your wife is getting banged by your tennis buddy, I just thought you were on the outs. Listen, I need your help, ok.”

“What...” Joe slumped into the couch opposite Jack “...what are you talking about?”

“The story is about an impulsive guy. A guy who sometimes flies off the handle,”

Jack placed a cigarette to his mouth, and fiddled with his zip lighter.

“He asked permission from his boss – a very powerful man – to do something. His boss said no.”

Joe fell in quickly. “And you did it anyway?”

Jack nodded.

“What do you do? Really?” asked Joe, unsure if he should be digging any deeper.

“I’m part of the Stone faction in End’s Valley.”

Joe felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach.

“That’s like... organised crime, right?”

“I work for Oscar Stone, and as of two nights ago, the contract’s out on me.”

“What contract?” Joe said, sensing he knew the answer, “Is your life in danger?”

“In danger?” Jack said with a smile that faded as quickly as it appeared, “I’m a ghost.”

Joe ran his fingers through his hair, anxiety gently squeezing him.

“I don’t understand, what is it you think I can do, here?”

“What would Easy E do? He’d need a solution right outside the box. That’s what I need. That’s where you come in.”

Joe let out a nervous, involuntary laugh.

“I’m not coming in. Listen, Jack. If you want my advice; pick up the phone, speak to your boss and try and work this thing out–”

“I don’t need your advice, Joe. I need a swerve. I want a way out, and for me to have that I need a mind that can think like yours can. Like his can.”

Joe sighed. “I think it’s time you left.”

Jack let it sink in, before putting his cigarette pack back in his pocket.

“Alright, fine. Look, I’m sorry I asked.”  he said, rising from his chair.

Joe stood up cautiously, relieved that this strange scenario was coming to an end. He turned towards the door, before suddenly sensing something ominous behind him.

He turned around slowly, absolutely certain that what was waiting for him was Jack Stacy and a pointed gun.

He was absolutely right.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have time to waste. I have hours, not days before they find me.” Jack said, the pale moonlight reflecting off the barrel of his cold .45.

Joe put his hands up, slowly.

“I’m not getting involved in this, Jack.”

“You already are involved. You got in my car. Let me inside your house.”

“And? Is that a contract where you come from?”

“It’s a contract where you come from, too, now, believe me. You think he won’t find out that I was here?”

“Who?”

“Stone. Hell, he might know already?”

“What is he, psychic?”

“May as well be. The quicker you figure this out for me, the quicker I’ll be out of here.”

Joe realised it was the best deal he was going to get.

“Alright.” Joe said.

Joe and Jack made a deal regarding their working arrangement. Jack would put the gun away, and Joe wouldn’t try any of what Jack described as Cowboy Business.

Their initial brainstorm didn’t go well. Joe’s suggestions hit Jack’s ears more like friendly advice than a cunning master plan. Around half past midnight, Jack had an idea...

“You got some paper?”

He relocated Joe from the sofa to the dining table with a pen, paper and lamp in front of him.

“You have to think of this like an actual story. Now, write this down.”

“OK...” said Joe, picking up the pen.

“...And then it hit him, the answer was under his nose the entire time”

Joe wrote it down and then looked up at Jack’s expectant face.

“OK. Go from there.”

Joe sat back in his chair and considered Jack a moment.

“What is it?”

“What happened, Jack?”

Jack looked blindsided, which Joe found rich.

“I thought you didn’t want the details?” Jack said, as he took a seat at the table.

“I don’t, really. But if you want a twist, then I need to know the story. The characters. I assume that this Stone guy is the antagonist?”

“What’s that mean?” asked Jack.

“Means he’s the bad guy.”

“No, he’s not a bad guy.”

“No I mean...” started Joe, before changing tact, “you’re our Protagonist. Our good guy, like Easy E, right?”

“Right... “

“So, every protagonist has an antagonist. Someone stopping the good guy from what they want.”

“OK..”

“What is it that you want?”

“I want to not have a bullet in my head and be buried in an unmarked grave.”

It was hard to tell if this was meant as a joke.

“Look, I know this isn’t a swerve or a twist. But, Have you considered just... disappearing?”

“Running? No, it never crossed my mind.”

It wasn’t hard to tell that this was sarcasm.

“I’m just saying. It might be your best option.”

“How’s that? So I can lay low in some dirty dive until I run out of money. Get a job working in a Cineplex somewhere only to get clipped a year from now while I’m buttering the popcorn?”

Jack’s eyes were wide and glowing. Activated. Like a cat on the prowl at night.

“Alright,” said Joe, stretching his arms out, “you said you asked for permission to do something?”

“Yeah.”

“What was it?”

“Sure you wanna know?” Jack said.

Joe swallowed hard.

“Was it to hurt someone?”

Jack began to fiddle with his lighter again. Without looking up, he said.

“Worse. That dent in my car...”

Joe nodded. “You ran someone down?”

Jack quietly considered, before meeting Joe’s gaze.

“You loved, Joe?”

Joe was thrown by the unexpected turn in the conversation.

“What? Yeah, I guess, what’s that got to do–”

“My sister loves me. Tammy. She’s the only one who’s ever cared about what happens to me. You know where she is now?”

Joe shook his head, mesmerised by a vulnerability in Jack’s eyes that he’d never seen before.

“She’s in a dingy hospital in Ends Valley. Cracked cheekbone and hearing damage, the doctor said it might be permanent. I’ll tell you what, when this is over – I’m gonna pay that doctor a visit. Show him some permanent damage.”

“It’s not his fault, Jack. Whose fault is it?”

“Ade Harrison. Her boyfriend.. well, ex boyfriend.”

“So, you asked your boss for permission to kill this man, and he said no?”

“Yeah, Ade’s connected. Off limits,”

Jack lit another cigarette, taking a sharp drag.

“You know, I planned to listen. As much as I wanted to put a knife in Harrison’s eye, I wasn’t going to.”

“What happened?”

“Chance happened. A quiet road in the dead of night.”

Jack’s face was taut with the memory, his voice deep and tense.

“Night before last. He was leaving the casino in Red Forest while I was stopped at the lights. He crossed right in front of me. I admit, I fantasised about going straight through him, but I swear–I wasn’t going to. Until...”

Joe braced himself.

“Until?”

“He saw me... and smiled. I lost it – I just... imagined that evil, smug bastard putting his hands on my sister. That was it–I just floored it. Next thing I knew, there was blood and broken glass, and I was speeding away.”

He studied Joe for a reaction. After a moment, a peculiar smile surfaced on his face. Joe couldn’t place it.

“What?”

“You disapprove, don’t you? I can see it on your face. Like you’ve eaten something bitter and you’re trying to hide it.”

“Oh yeah? You can read my thoughts?”

“Well?” Jack said.

“It’s not something that most people do, alright. It’s not what I would do.”

“Yeah, well. We know that.”

Jack said, a smirk on his face that Joe found instantly infuriating.

“Meaning what?”

“Steve what’s-his-face and your Mrs.”

“Jesus Christ, do I regret telling you that. What should I do? Run him over so you think I’m a real man? Small price to pay for spending my life in jail.”

“Bollocks, Joe. It’s not jail you’re afraid of, you just don’t have the balls. You can’t face the truth–”

“What truth?” Joe fired back, his voice sharp-edged. “She wants him, not me. That’s the truth. What else is there?”

“Your anger, for what that bitch did to you.”

“What do you want?” Joe said through gritted teeth.

“Admit it. Admit your anger. Accept it into your lying heart.”

“I do admit it. I was angry–”

“You are angry.”

“I am angry, ok!”

The words thundered from him. Jack looked satisfied with his work.

“But I also know right from wrong... ”

Jack’s smile dissipated.

“I’m not like you, Jack. And I never will be.”

“Well, congratulations. But I’ll tell you this. You’re a ghost. I might be on the run for my life, but at least I’m not dead already.”

Something hit Joe just then.

“No, you’re not, are you?”

Joe’s eyes were searching. He had the thread of something...

“What is it?”

“You’re not dead already. Why not?”

Joe smiled as it hit him.

The answer was under his nose the entire time.

“Huh?” Jack said, confused as could be.

Joe sat down and picked up his pen with conviction, straightening the blank paper in front of him.

Joe sat with a cup of coffee, tired, drained but anxious to hear Jack’s feedback on the page and a half narrative that he had written. As per Jack’s request, he had laid it out just like a story. Jack finished it and looked up to the writer.

“Well?”

“Well, I think it’s your best work since The Register. What can I say?” Jack said, unscrewing his whisky flask and making it an Irish coffee.

“You’re probably right.”

“Don’t look so surprised.” Jack said, the gleam in his eye was certainly back.

“It’s true.  Nothing is quite how I thought it’d be. You spend your whole life working towards something and by the time you’re close, it evaporates before your eyes. How’s that for a swerve? Now, I’m supposed to start again and I don’t even know how. How I’m supposed to love again.”

“The world doesn’t run on love.” muttered Jack.

“Sorry,” Joe said, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“That’s alright.”

“You have a sweetheart, Jack?”

“Yeah. Her name’s Shelley. If I ever make it back I’m gonna marry her.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I just decided that tonight.”

“Had a change of perspective after all this huh?” asked Joe.

Joe let the final line of his story dissolve into the air. Stone hadn’t moved. His firm expression was a lock without a key.

“I’ve moved Tammy to a private hospital. “ he said, finally,  “I’d have liked him to know that.”

Stone casually reached into his inside pocket and produced a nickel cylinder that Joe correctly recognised as a silencer.

“This is just a precaution. I’m not a man in the habit of taking chances.”

He screwed it on and casually pointed the gun at Joe, who suddenly found it hard to breathe.

“My apprentice, Orson, is going to end your life in a way that leaves less to clean up. Run or resist and I will shoot you–just enough to wound you, and then I’ll have him take his time with what’s left.”

It wasn’t his heartless words but rather the calm articulation in which he delivered them that chilled Joe to the bone.

Joe shuddered: “I told you the truth?”

“I’m sure you know that you’ve been contaminated with far too much information at this point, Mr Morgan. Besides, a man I loved has died today, and it’s put me in a killing kind of mood.”

“You did love him, didn’t you?” asked Joe, making himself hold contact with the cold fire in Stone’s eyes. Resisting the urge to look away. Searching for that shimmer of weakness that he believed lives in every man, even Oscar Stone.

He found it.

“Yes, I did. Very much.”

“That’s why you spared him?” Joe said.

“I didn’t spare him. If I’d have got to him first the result would have been the same.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Orson.”

Orson slithered slowly towards Joe, who never took his eyes off Stone.

“Bullshit.”

Stone threw a sharp hand up to stop Orson in his tracks.

“Excuse me?” he said, a mixture of anger and amusement in his expression.

“It’s just, I’ve been led to believe that you’re the best reader in the business. You see every angle, you sense every trap. You’re more wolf than man from what I’ve been told.”

“Damn right. That’s why I’m sitting in your living room about to watch you die.”

“And yet you couldn’t locate Jack Stacy in a day and a half before that? While he was in your own town? I refer to my original conclusion. Bullshit.”

“I can only imagine you’re trying to get me to end this quickly,” he snapped the gun back, “but there’s no chance of that now...”

A cruel smile formed his lips as a new idea infiltrated his sinister mind.

“You know, I am a little curious to know how that little ditty you wrote turned out. I mean, it concluded with the death of Jack Stacy, but what was the plan? Tell you what; You give me a good story and I’ll end it quickly, how’s that?”

“Funny you should ask. That was the plan.” Joe said.  

“What was?”

Joe reached into his pocket and produced two folded bits of manuscript.

“Give him a good story.” Joe said, as he waved the paper in front of Stone.

“Give me that,” said Stone to Orson, who obliged. “Now hold him.”

Before Joe knew it, Stone’s heavy was at his back with a club of an arm around his throat. Joe clawed at it once and Orson squeezed–a warning never to try it twice.

Stone twirled the paper around in his hand, studying it with a sadistic curiosity.

“You think you can out-think me, huh? This better be a good story, you smug bastard.”

Stone carefully unfolded the manuscript and scanned the page. When he fell upon the final word, a look of confusion washed over him. He turned the pages back to front–and back again, frantically searching for something Joe knew he couldn’t find.

“Where’s the rest?” Stone demanded.

“In my head.” Joe said, “The ending is for your ears only.”

Orson grabbed Joe by the hair, jolting his head back, “Oh yeah?”

“Orson, leave us?” Stone said, who waited for his apprentice to skulk off before addressing Joe.

“I’m about to put this bullet in your head. This is the story you wanted to sell me? You think I’m stupid or what?”

“It’s the opposite. Jack said there was no fooling you. Was he wrong or right?”

“Dead right,” Stone said.

“That’s what I thought. That was my breakthrough idea.”

“What was?”

“That if you wanted to kill him, he’d be dead already...”

Stone seemed to hesitate. Joe pounced,

“He never would have made it this far, would he? He said the world doesn’t run on love, but I disagree. Your love for him kept him alive. There’s no way you couldn’t have found him sooner. Am I right?”

A brief pause before Stone hardened again.

“You think you have this all figured out, don’t you? Jack Stacy was framed, huh? That was your big story? You think there’s a mark out there dumb enough to believe that? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

Stone shot up to his feet, the gun pointed, he drew the hammer back. He had finally lost his cool, and Joe knew he had seconds to save his life.

“They don’t need to believe it. They just need to believe that you believe it.” 

Stone’s eyes narrowed as the gears turned. He sobered up quickly.

“Well, it makes no difference now, what anyone believes. He’s gone.”

His grip tightened around the trigger...

“Says who?” Joe said.  

“Says the man who made the call.”

“Jack is the man who made the call.”

Silence claimed the room. Sudden and untraced. After a moment, Stone lowered the gun. 

“He’s alive?”

“Yes.” Joe said.

Stone calculated, the pieces falling into place.

“The body in High Beach?” he asked, his composure regained.

“There’s a body, alright. It’s in Jack’s car, with the dent from Ade Harrison and all.  He even looks like Jack. Dead ringer–at a glance, anyway.” 

“Who is it?” asked Stone.

“A fella called Steve Bamford.”

Stone turned it over, before asking:

“Will anyone miss him?”

Joe sighed, before meeting his gaze.

“I know I won’t.”

Stone retook his seat, staring a hole through Joe.

“You know the balls it’ll take to pretend I believe this nonsense?”

“Jack said you have balls, too,” Joe said, as Stone’s mind quietly raced, “Look, Jack has an alibi in High Beach. To any passer-by or eye witnesses it’s a case of mistaken identity. Justice has been served. Harrison pays and Jack lives. I think your circle will like a story like that,”

Joe glanced over Stone’s shoulder at Orson. Stone followed his gaze toward the big man, too. After a moment, Orson shrugged his shoulders and nodded his approval.

“As long as you believe it. Why not?” Joe said.

“And you? You just walk away from it, huh? Orson will be disappointed.” Stone said.

The room had been quiet a while. Joe Morgan sat at his desk, with a manuscript in front of him. The house was hollow and cold, but he was getting used to that.

There were still nights where he woke up and thought he’d dreamed the whole thing. He at least had the world’s greatest excuse to skip Steve Bamford’s funeral. He thanked God for small mercies, and then reminded himself that he’s not quite sure where he stands anymore regarding those pearly gates.

He wondered if he could ever have come up with such an idea if he wasn’t so scared, so tired, so heartbroken. He knew that once the words left his lips, the deal with the devil was sealed.

But, back in the waking world, he stretched his arms out and got to work. It was the return of Easy E, and The Register, Part 2. Joe thought the time was right for a comeback. If he could figure out the swerve, he might just pull it off.

Athos Kyriakides writes noir fiction about mistakes, secrets, and the shadows people carry. His work favours sharp dialogue, slow tension, and characters who never fully escape themselves. He is currently expanding his catalogue of short, dark crime tales.

Giggs Kyriakides is an illustrator and storyteller with a strong comic book sensibility. He is the writer and artist of the self-published graphic novel Omiron’s Curse and has contributed concept art and storyboards to independent films. His dynamic, narrative-driven style draws on the visual language of comics to bring characters and worlds vividly to life.