Light and Dark Read online

  About the author

  Dan Sherven is a 27-year-old writer from Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada. He holds a Bachelor of Philosophy and is completing his Bachelor of Journalism. He worked as a provincial speechwriter and public relations professional.

  Light and Dark is Dan Sherven’s debut novel, and his six-part journalism series on mental illness and justice releases soon. Dan raps under the name Cheeky, often with the band Southsiders - whose musical debut is Voices in My Head.

  When not lost in words, Dan is usually with his seven-year-old daughter.

  Light

  &

  Dark

  by Dan Sherven

  Close To The Bone

  An imprint of Gritfiction Ltd

  Copyright © 2019 by Dan Sherven

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Close To The Bone

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be produced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may use brief quotations in a book review.

  Close To The Bone

  an imprint of Gritfiction Ltd

  Rugby

  Warwickshire

  CV21

  www.close2thebone.co.uk

  The characters and events in this ebook are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Proofread by Carly Rheilan

  Interior Design by Craig Douglas

  Cover by Dan Sherven

  “To everyone who taught me how to write,

  Supported my writing and influenced me

  - especially my daughter.”

  Light

  &

  Dark

  1

  He was sitting at his desk. There was a cup of coffee poured to his right. Inside the office there were numerous people scurrying about. His partner sat cross from him. It had been five years on the force. Most days were just routine – a domestic dispute, kids smoking in an alley, a small theft from a corner store. Today was different. There had been a murder at a restaurant. His ex-wife had left a message on his phone.

  Their marriage only lasted four years. In that time, it was the most beautiful and challenging endeavor he had ever embarked on. There were rose petals that lined the aisle on their wedding day. Inside of him his stomach turned. He had tried desperately for so long to get over that feeling. It didn’t matter how he felt, she was free, and if she was free, he should learn to love himself since she wasn’t there to do that work. He found his lighter. His coffee was strong and bitter.

  Whenever they met to talk about their son, he realized that she wasn’t the abstraction he carried around in his head. Their words didn’t match, she was different, so was he. Yet, the flame could probably be rekindled. No it couldn’t. Besides, he felt like he owed himself a shot at love with himself, then someone else. Maybe in a few years if the stars aligned they could talk about philosophy, literature, and war.

  He had to accept that she was free. Meanwhile, he just kept trudging away at his routine life with no thrills and no love his own. He had a heart condition and wasn’t able to drink more than a couple beers. He always turned down cocaine. He claimed he was too old to smoke marijuana like his friends on the force.

  The coffee was cold. A secretary left him alone with his thoughts and the sinking, despair-ridden, plummeting feeling that was in his stomach. He needed to get out of the office. Outside it was a miserable day, perfect for a cigarette. The message’s red light kept blinking.

  Walking through the office he passed by his colleagues. Everyone was talking about the city’s first homicide of the year. It was already October. Through the window he could see the leaves that were yellow and orange. Many of them were beginning to fall and cover the streets. His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was his partner. He went back towards his desk and met Oliver on his way there.

  “What’s the situation?” The white officer, Eric, asked.

  “Nothing really, look, we’re supposed to keep watch,” Oliver, Eric’s white partner, said.

  Together, Oliver and Eric made their way past the gossiping secretaries and towards the front hall of the police station. They walked past the metal detectors and towards the double doors. Pushing on the glass Oliver held the door open for Eric. In the parking lot the air cut at their skin. Their cruiser was parked in a row with the others. Number 228 was waiting for them. Eric unlocked the doors.

  Inside, Eric turned on the radio while Oliver played with the computer. They listened to the morning show on the rap station. They provided uneducated opinions on location at the Orangeblues merchandise store – the local professional football team. People had to distract themselves from their emotions somehow, the alcohol at the games helped. Eric thought he should have learned from their example. He turned the ignition and made a left turn out of the parking lot.

  They drove in silence like they always did. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was that rare silence that can only be born after years of knowing someone. Oliver was in his late twenties and although he often had a girlfriend on the fly, he was far from married and had no children. They ignored the eyes of the impoverished Indigenous children that lined the streets. Their Elders were also present, looking like they hadn’t showered for a few days. The water must have been out. The police station was in a neighborhood called West Central. A national newscast called it one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the nation. A few blocks later they were sitting at a red light. The restaurant they were destined for was in viewing distance. It was called The Jupiter. Eric made a right turn and pulled over to the curb as the light turned green. On the side of the road he killed the ignition and the two of them stepped out of the cruiser. There was yellow police tape blocking the entrance. Beside them there were journalists’ vans parked. News reporters interviewed the man Eric presumed to be the owner of the establishment. “Was anyone else working with the victim at the time of the murder?” A journalist asked.

  “That’s not what’s important right now,” the owner said.

  Eric and Oliver walked by. The restaurant’s logo hung above the door. Above, the neon blue lights were out. Inside, there were plenty of police officers. Also present was the forensic team. Cameras were shuttering about and people were kneeled down all around. As Eric approached the body he saw the blood pooled around the victim. It was an older Indigenous woman. She had been stabbed multiple times in the stomach. She had cuts on her hands from trying to defend herself. Around her neck was a necklace. He went and stood with Oliver near the reporters.

  ***

  Xavier Megedagik was smoking a cigarette on his balcony. He lived on the third floor of a five story building. The laundry machine was always out of order. The bottom floor of the building was a café and music emporium. On Monday nights he liked to watch the musicians and comedians that performed there. His favorites were the rappers. He thought most of them shouldn’t be on stage, but every once in a while there was someone dedicated to their craft. Even if they never sold a single record, you could tell they did it because they felt they had to. He put the cigarette out in the water-filled coffee can he kept beside his lawn chair.

  Back inside the apartment, there were scraps of paper from the manuscript he had all but abandoned. There were also overdue bills that covered the messy desk. Once a teacher told him he didn’t have talent, but had ambition. The book was about the trials of his people and the loss of their language due to the residential school system. On the television there was a news report about a stabbing that had taken place a few blocks over. The woman’s name had not been released, but she was sixty-four and of Indigenous decent. Missing and murdered Indigenous women were no shock, but this was the first murder of the year in his sleepy town.

  Xavier walked to the door and put his coat on. He grabbed the TV remote and shut off the news broadcast. As he travelled down the stairs, there was an Asian woman carrying a basket of laundry. The machines were on the second floor. They exchanged nods and went on their separate paths. One door led straight onto the street and another went into the café. Xavier didn’t want to be seen by anyone this early, so he chose the street.

  A police cruiser rolled by him as he looked for his bike. It was right where he left it. He had one stolen from him earlier in the year. Whoever took it must have needed it more than him. It was almost time for his shift to start — he was a delivery driver for a custom vehicle wheel shop. He put the combination in the bike lock: 3006. His helmet was still upstairs, on top of the fridge, beside his collection of lighters.

  The rain drizzled ever so slightly as he kicked off the ground and began his journey. The bike lanes in the city were so few and far between that most drivers didn’t even think to respect them. For that reason, Xavier drove on the sidewalks in front of the businesses and government offices. He weaved through the dispersed white men in suits hunting and white women ready to shop, gathering. There was a crowd of men standing outside of the parole office. A little further down the street Xavier arrived at his destination.

  Locking his bike to the bike rack in the back of the shop, Xavier let out a sigh and made his way to the front of the store. The bell rang as he pulled the door open and stepped inside and he saw his clipboard resting on the wall. He grabbed it before returning back to the steps of the building. The truck was parked in its usual spot just a few meters away and he reached into his pocket for the keys before unlocking the door. As he climbed in
side, he plugged his phone into the console and put on some music. Music always made him forget he existed.

  His first stop of the day would be at the warehouse where he would collect the first batch of wheels. Then it was time to drive out of town to one of the company’s biggest customers before making the rounds in the city limits to individual buyers. But first, Xavier was headed to the coffee shop to get some caffeine in his system. He never bought coffee at his building because of the price.

  ***

  Eric’s feet were killing him. He and Oliver had been standing around doing nothing for hours. The special insoles he had bought certainly helped, but they weren’t as amazing as advertised. Oliver was talking on the radio to their supervisor.

  “Any minute now relief should arrive,” the supervisor said.

  “Let’s get a coffee on the way back,” Oliver said to Eric.

  The afternoon radio hosts had taken over and even though they weren’t as annoying as the morning show, they were still the kind of people that just irritate your entire being. Thankfully, it was time for fifty-four minutes of uninterrupted music. Eric really loved rock. He had played in a relatively successful band before his ex-wife became pregnant. That was back when he was in the academy. He played guitar and sang back-up vocals. They never made it big, but their front-man stole the show every time they played. Women flocked to him while Eric was a hit with other guitarists in the crowd. Not many people in an order- directed field like policing had an arts background. It was one of the points that helped him hit it off with Oliver.

  8th Street’s coffee shop was packed with people. It was downtown, where plenty of executive types and political hacks would get their motivation for the day. Eric and Oliver followed a delivery truck into the parking lot and parked beside the Indigenous driver. There was rap music playing from the truck, and Eric and Oliver met eyes.

  “If only I could get paid to talk over music that was made by someone else a long time ago,” Oliver said.

  Inside the café, Eric and Oliver both ordered black coffee. The Indigenous driver was in front of them, wearing a denim jacket, and had ordered the same drink. Racial profiling wasn’t taught in the academy, but it was often adopted on the beat — Eric thought as he nodded at Oliver. But they had bigger fish to fry. Sitting down at the table, they both watched the Indigenous driver exit to his blue-collar work.

  ***

  As Xavier climbed into the cab of his truck his bag of cocaine fell onto the seat. With no one in the parking lot, he grabbed his CD case and poured out a line. He railed the coke into his nostril and wiped off the case. There was a police cruiser right beside him, but given what happened last night, he didn’t exactly have any cares left to give. The remainder of the substance was in a baggie and he put it in the glove box and locked it. He had completed his deliveries for the day, got his reward coffee, and was headed back to the shop. There, he unlocked his bike and rode off into the city. It had finally stopped raining.

  With his denim jacket on the hook, he made his way to the bathroom. Behind the shower curtain was the knife he left there the day before. Most of the blood had come off, but there was still some stained on the blade. Under the counter, he kept his bleach and cleaning supplies. With an old rag, he manically scrubbed the knife. When he was satisfied he washed his hands and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. After his cigarette, he wrapped the knife in a towel and put it in a large garbage bag with the rest of his trash.

  A few hours later, he took the bag outside and got on his bike. People in this city were used to seeing Indigenous men carrying bags of recycling while riding on bikes — although, at night time it was a little unusual. He rode for a few blocks until he got to a condominium complex. They had a few dumpsters out back and he threw the garbage in there. He thought that the Creator wasn’t happy as he rode home.

  Inside his apartment, he poured himself a scotch and sat at the kitchen table. He had to get to sleep for work in the morning, but he was pacing. Her eyes kept flashing in his mind: the look of horror on her face, her wedding ring colliding with the knife. They didn’t know each other before that night. Her necklace, he should have taken her necklace.

  ***

  Oliver was reading the news report of the murder online. It was distracting him from how last night he failed to take protection — with the current woman he had on the go. Now a different article caught his attention.

  Today I attended mass for the first time in years. I am by no means a Catholic. I do not subscribe to the Abrahamic tradition (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam). However, in my opinion, as someone raised in a Christian culture, Jesus is probably the greatest ethicist ever written about. Whether or not the stories of his life are actually true is entirely beside the point.

  Christian ethics taught by the modern Church prescribes pro-life. Being more liberal, I am supposed to be pro-choice to be consistent. I have a ten-year-old son. I am a 30-year-old single father. I have only told my closest friends that upon confirmation of her mother’s pregnancy I wanted her to get an abortion.

  In my opinion, both sides of the abortion debate miss the point. The Christian ethicist’s view that the unborn child is an unborn child assumes what it is trying to prove. Namely, that there is a human consciousness inside the womb at conception. Conversely, the other side of the argument, that the fetus is mere organic matter akin to a plant or non-human animal, also assumes what it is trying to argue; that being, that the fetus is non-human.

  Evidently, both sides use rhetorical circular reasoning. The conclusions are presented as evidence. They both skip the real issue. The real issue is whether human consciousness is present at the time of abortion.

  Unfortunately, we do not yet have a scientific experiment to determine when human consciousness arises out of organic matter. Although surely it arises in the womb and not at the second the baby exits the birth canal.

  The cells will eventually give rise to consciousness (unless there is a miscarriage, etc.). And yes, up to a certain point there are cells without human consciousness. I do not dispute this. But, to pretend that anyone knows at what point the miracle of human consciousness arises is completely ludicrous. We do not know.

  Thus I propose nothing. I must remain agnostic about abortion – until science can test for consciousness in the womb. Then, abortion prior to that moment is as permissible and abortion after that moment is first-degree murder.

  There is the objection that my philosophy is not pragmatic. It cannot be applied politically. That is why I suggest that until science can detect human consciousness, all abortions be dealt with on a case-by-case basis. In my life, we had the support of our families. Many teenage parents do not have that. Many adult parents do not either.

  It may be the tragic reality that some organic matter would be better eliminated before it becomes a human consciousness. The reason for this being that the child/fetus will be born into a kind of hell I can’t say I personally agree that this is a rationale to support abortion. Who are we to decide whether someone’s life is worth living?

  Our laws permit third trimester abortions. Surely those are acts of murder. Surely the child does not magically gain consciousness the moment it exits the birth canal, or is removed via cesarean section — but has no consciousness the second before.

  P.S. To the common objection that a woman can do as she wishes with her body.

  I agree with that statement. That is, until the moment that the organic matter develops human consciousness; at that point, one science cannot presently determine, the little human ought to have all our rights. This is because a third party now exists beside the two conceivers.

  Eric was reading the same article at his desk. He wanted to arrange an abortion when his ex-wife Bridget got pregnant. He was older than this writer, but he was still a kid when the pregnancy test came back positive. Now, at age thirty-two, he was so thankful that he had his son to light up his life. His son’s photo sat on his desk, and it made him realize he was really indebted to Bridget for being so adamant about carrying his son to birth. Sometimes, Bridget was right on the money.