Last Dance. David Russell W.

it became clear that sleep was going to elude me altogether, I finally abandoned the bedroom and decided to do my weekend’s long run in the middle of a weeknight instead.

      Generally, I tried to run about twenty kilometres on a Sunday afternoon or evening, but I needed something to do that would not only kill the dark hours but also prevent me from purchasing anything late-night television had to offer. For someone who cooks infrequently, I owned a disproportionately large number of devices designed to save me time dicing, slicing, and chopping. I also had a chainsaw, a bit extreme for the kitchen and of no value to an apartment dweller. As with all power tools, I was also terrified of the thing, so it languished in the storage locker in the apartment’s basement.

      It was a few hours before sunrise, but the lights of the downtown core across False Creek seemed determined to turn night into day. I generally avoided running in the West End of downtown Vancouver, because even on Sunday afternoons the amount of traffic made street-based exercises perilous. Still, it was a weeknight, so I threw caution to the wind and headed over the Burrard Street Bridge and into Vancouver’s unique mixed business and urban core. Rather than turning west after crossing the bridge, as I would normally do on those kamikaze occasions when I chose to run along the famed sea wall, I followed Burrard Street north all the way to the opposite shoreline of Coal Harbour and Canada Place. Making a quick loop around the posh Waterfront Centre Hotel and back up to Hastings Street, I headed west until I could turn onto Georgia and into Stanley Park.

      There are those who believed running in Stanley Park in the middle of the night was inviting death, or at least, a severe mugging, but the reality was much gentler. Though it had long been held that the massive urban forest was home to any number of the city’s increasing population of homeless people — especially as the weather got warmer and sleeping out of doors was less unbearable than in the wet winter months — my experience told me that if it were true, the park at night was used primarily as a spot for sleeping. The begging and squeegying normally associated with the city’s downcast was generally reserved for the daylight hours and in the more populated areas. How much success could you have as a panhandler if you hung out in the middle of the forest? Squirrels aren’t known for carrying wads of cash.

      Not unexpectedly, I was not only unaccosted by my fellow man, I ran the entire length of the park through to English Bay without seeing so much as another soul, kindred or otherwise. By the time my feet pounded the Burrard Bridge pavement back to Kitsilano, the late spring rain was pounding in November storm-like fashion. You have to be from Vancouver to understand the subtle differences in the type of rain that falls on you for what seems like fifty of the calendar’s fifty-two weeks.

      By the time I got home, there was still plenty of middle of the night morning remaining before my presence was required at my workplace. After drawing out my shower as long as possible and reading both of the daily papers, I finally made the trip to school, arriving in the staff parking lot moments before six, early even by my standards. It hadn’t really occurred to me that I might not be able to get into the building. I found the doors to the school locked. I couldn’t help but take a little offence that I was willing to give of my own time to come in and prepare a stellar set of lessons for the day and couldn’t even access the school. My sleepless night was already making me cranky.

      The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the spring temperature took the crispness out of the air, leaving it feeling muggy. After one last futile attempt at pulling on the locked door — as though persistence might magically cause it to unlock itself — I turned my back on the building, leaning against the door to stand underneath the roof’s overhang and avoid the misty precipitation. There was little view to take in besides the sopping wet playing field where first period students would soon cover their expensive running shoes in mud. It was odd seeing the school so peaceful, devoid of the pulse had when students were around.

      Scanning across the field, something at the far end caught my eye. The sun, such as it was, was shedding enough light that I could see a large dark mark obscuring the white paint down one side of the soccer goal posts. Curiosity and locked-out boredom got the better of me, and I walked a few steps towards the field. I only needed to narrow the distance a few feet before I could tell that the dark mark was in fact an object rather than a simple smear of a vandal’s paintbrush. I continued to walk onto the gravel running track that circles the field, figuring I could at least report the debris on the field to the school’s administration. After my role in inciting the demonstrations led by Sara, I figured scoring a few brownie points with the principal might not be such a bad idea. Another few feet passed, and the image was becoming clearer. I picked up the pace and stepped off of the track and onto the wet field as the alarm began to sound in my head. I could feel my heart rate accelerate as I broke into a jog then a full run. “Shit,” I said aloud. There was a person slumped forward, tied to the goal post.

      Tim.

      Chapter Seven

      Though the sun was up, the sweeping lights of the police, fire, and ambulance vehicles still danced across the hedges separating the school field from the private properties beyond. A crowd had gathered on the outskirts of the field, where school staff were doing their level best to keep the onlookers as far away from the scene as possible. Already media vehicles were beginning to line the street; having heard of an attack at the very same place they had been only twenty-four hours before, they wasted no time ensuring they were present for the even bigger story.

      My first call had been to Andrea, since she was in effect my own personal 911 service. Tim, as I suspected, did not respond to my pleas for him to hear me. Even had he been awake, both of his eyes were so badly swollen, there was no way he could have opened them to see who was trying to rouse him. Blood oozed from the side of his mouth, dripping onto his left knee. His legs appeared to have given up the job of holding up his body. The only thing stopping him from hitting the ground was the ropes tied in three places: his upper chest, his lower torso, and the lower part of his thighs, just above his bloody knees. The rope around his stomach was tied so tightly, it had already begun to make a groove in his clothing and, I suspected, his stomach underneath. Blessedly, the downward effect gravity was having on Tim’s body had actually caused the rope around his chest to slacken somewhat, alleviating pressure so he could breathe. Had his attackers been better Boy Scouts, their knots would have held, and Tim may well have suffocated. I didn’t carry a pocketknife with me as part of my daily accoutrement, but I clumsily managed to undo the restraints and reasonably gently lower him to the ground.

      Andrea managed to beat even the ambulance and fire department to the scene. She handled the unmarked Crown Victoria in that expert kind of way we’d expect from Mario Andretti. The car skidded sideways to a halt next to the field, and she burst out the door. She tossed me a very quick hostile look.

      The fire department and paramedics were less than a minute behind Andy’s gravel- spurting arrival, which gave me no time to flee my angry detective friend. She held off her scolding long enough for us to determine from the paramedics that Tim, while badly beaten, would likely survive his attack. By the time on-site first aid had been given, a small crowd of students was being reluctantly herded off to the building. The students were no doubt disappointed this violent encounter would not somehow yield an unscheduled day off. As Tim’s stretcher began its bumpy journey across the sopping wet field towards the waiting ambulance, Andrea finally turned to walk towards me to begin what would no doubt be ferocious questioning. Glancing towards the school again, I noticed that one of our school’s administrators was at the front of the building, half shepherding the kids inside, half trying, unsuccessfully, to block the media’s view of the event. That left the remaining two administrators, Vice-principal Bill Owen and Principal Don McFadden, marching on a direct path towards me. I couldn’t decide which conversation was going to be worse, so I headed away at an angle about ninety degrees from both advancing war parties, hoping to evade at least one of them. It was equal parts obvious and childish, but it wasn’t as though my day had been going particularly well. The police and crime scene personnel stayed behind as Andrea broke into a trot to catch me before my supervisors could. “Where are you going?” she finally managed when she came up alongside me.

      “I’m going to go prepare today’s youth for the future,” I replied without breaking stride.