“Can you help me unscrew my head?” the passenger beside me on the Bluehorse bus said, elbowing me with some force.
We had gotten onto the bus at the Union Station bus terminal in Toronto and were off to New York. It was only about half full. It could have been the heavy snowfall warning that had deterred travellers. I was listening to a song on my iPod and the man had been scribbling in a small black book for the past 40 minutes or so.
We had just made the turn off at the Hamilton-Niagara fork on Highway 403 when he elbowed me. I tried to move closer to the window when he poked me again; this time he had an 8-inch screwdriver in his left hand. “Yes, you will help me…” It was more of an assertion than a request.
“What?” I said. “What do you want?” I was feeling scared now and my heart stepped up its tempo.
The passenger was calm, as if he was just sitting on a park bench on a sunny spring afternoon, watching children whizzing past on roller blades or young mothers with strollers or couples walking hand in hand.
Outside, the snow was whipping up a ruckus, falling thick and fast. The traffic was slowing down to a crawl. Should I shout out to the conductor and move to another seat?
“Don’t panic,” my neighbour whispered. “And don’t get up or change your seat. I might get angry and my head will explode, you know. I could bust your gut and pull out your intestines.”
I dared not look into his eyes. “Look sir, I don’t understand what you are saying. I am a poor clerk at a small bookstore in the city, with no special skills. I have only a mother at home and I am not rich. Please let me move… I’ll go to another seat. Please.”
“Hey, hey,” his voice was soothing. The other passengers might have thought we were having a pleasant conversation. He was almost a foot taller than me and with muscles like a professional wrestler. I slouched deeper into my seat.
”Hey, just listen. I need your help to unscrew my head. That is all I am asking you to do. That is why I have this screwdriver. There are copper screws that go deep into my cranium, through each of my ears.”
I tried to appear calm, so as not to antagonize him.
“Do you understand?” His voice was now a whisper. “Let me make it simpler. Three years ago, I realized that this head on my shoulders is not my head.”
He touched his forehead. “This head that I have been carrying around for 34 years is not mine. Somebody made a terrible mistake. They transposed heads in the hospital where I was born. And I have been searching for my property… My head, for the past three years.”
He inserted the little finger of his right hand into his left ear and wiggled it, enjoying the sensation. His head was turned towards me and it seemed he was snarling at me.
“I have travelled across the country, visiting small fishing ports along the Maritime coasts and the hidden inlets of British Columbia,” he said. “I have gone to lakefront resorts throughout Ontario, to the ski slopes and hot springs in the Rockies, to the beaches, and to mountain parks. I have also travelled on buses, trains and cruise ships in search of my head. Last year, I even roamed around the city of Juneau in Alaska, following a hunch.”
My stomach knotted with fear as I stared at the monster screwdriver he had in his hand, pointing at me. A chill inched up my spine, like a snake uncoiling itself.
“Are you listening?” he asked, elbowing me again.
I winced.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you. I know you will help me. I just know it… You look like a very helpful person. You have such a gentle and foolish face. I won’t bite you.”
He turned towards me, showing me a mouthful of teeth. “A month ago,” he continued, “I saw a man on the Sherbourne subway platform on the Bloor–Danforth line. Right in Toronto.”
He paused and took a deep breath. “I was stunned. He had my head on his shoulders. Can you imagine my delight? Can you? I was ecstatic. The jawline, the curve of the nose, the shape of the ears—yes, it was my head. My three-year search had ended. I followed him onto the road, past the Ethereal Temple of God, turned into Silkweed Lane, and saw him enter one of the apartment buildings. Do you know the place? It’s in the Jamiestown neighbourhood. A pleasant area. I knew then what I had to do.”
He moved back and forth for a few moments and then leaned back. “A week later, I moved into an apartment on the same floor, using a fictitious name and forged documents. His name was Andrew. Yes, Andrew Becker. He had a nice family, a wife and two children, the eldest about five years or so. Yes, a compact and happy little Ontario family.”
“And then… then?” I stuttered.
His reply was brusque. “I hacked the head off. Last evening, his family was away and I invited him into my apartment for a beer. I then took possession of my head. Andrew’s body is in my freezer. I won’t be going there anymore, anyway. Let it rot in there.”
We were approaching the Canada Border Services Agency post on Rainbow Bridge and the bus was slowing down.
“That head, my head, is wrapped in plastic and it’s in the blue gym bag under my seat… It’s a little bloody, as it should be…,” he said. I shuddered and whimpered.
“We will get down now and walk like a loving couple to the washrooms. There you will help me attach my real head to my neck. I have new copper screws and a drill. However, a drill would be noisy… I think this screwdriver would be sufficient. We’ll leave this head behind the cistern or shove it inside. Okay, partner? We’ll then have pleasant conversations about any subject you want—all the way to New York. By the way, my name is Sandro.”
He looked around the bus and put the screwdriver away. He began nodding and whistling a popular dance tune.
The driver manoeuvred the bus to a halt in a parking bay for security and passport clearance. Some passengers were getting off to stretch their legs or go into the duty-free shop. Sandro tugged at my arm, picked up the gym bag, and herded me to the exit.
What followed must have been high-octane drama, the kind that you see only in fast-paced action movies. I don’t remember much about the sequence of events. I dragged and pushed Sandro down the steps of the bus. As he fell forward, I leaped over him, ran, stumbled, fell, got up again and ran screaming towards one of the security booths, waving my hands.
“Murder, murder,” I screamed. “That man is a killer. Help, help.”
Several Canadian border officers rushed out, their pistols drawn, ordering me to drop to my knees and throw my hands above my head. I screamed again, “He’s a killer, he’s a killer.”
Somebody pushed me to the ground—my jaw, chest and elbows crashing on the concrete of the parking bay. I felt a powerful jolt of electricity pass through me and I felt a knee pressed against my back, before I blacked out for a few minutes.
They handcuffed and dragged me away to one of the cabins. Scores of people—passengers from the bus and others from cars waiting for clearance to cross the border—had gathered around in a large circle and were applauding the officers. I could hear some of them shouting, ‘He must be a terrorist,’ ‘Throw the bastard in jail,’ and ‘He looks like a nerd, must be a freak.’
The border officers didn’t believe my story. How could they? Sandro said that his name was Brad Northmore, and he was a designer with a theatre company in New York. His blue gym bag had some costumes and masks. A rubber screwdriver which he had was a prop and couldn’t hurt a fly; and he swore that he had not spoken to me at all and was busy on the bus with his notebook and pencil, sketching various diorama settings for a new stage production.
Toronto police detectives, who were contacted for the investigation, said that they accounted for all residents in the solitary apartment building on Silkweed Lane. They had received no reports of any missing person named Andrew Becker and no headless body had been found in any freezer in any of the rental units.
Three border services agents were near the door of the interrogation room, one of them obviously their superior officer. I heard one of the agents say, “The passenger whom this guy identified as Sandro said he had not spoken a word during the entire trip from Toronto. In fact, he said this character was a surly one and didn’t even return his greetings soon after they got on the bus. The on-board camera also doesn’t show them talking to each other. The other passengers have corroborated the Northmore story. We have checked everybody’s details and documents.”
The second agent, the one who tackled me from behind, said, “This guy’s ID shows his name as John Higgins. Toronto police said he lives alone in a one-room apartment in Scarborough’s Malvern area. He said he had a mother, but the police said his mother passed away many years ago.”
Another agent said, “He has blown negative. There’s no trace of alcohol or any sign of drug intoxication. The medical assistant has drawn blood for further testing. His bruised elbows and chest have been cleaned and dressed.”
“Did you check the duffel bag and bags of other passengers?” the officer asked.
“Northmore’s gym bag had a couple of sketchbooks and some flexible, rubber stage props. We checked him out, he is legit. He works in the theatre, most of the time in New York, but visits Toronto often. TPS said they would keep an eye on him, however. Nothing unusual was found in any other bags on the bus.”
“Our detainee seems docile enough. Finish all the paperwork and get the passengers to sign individual statements. We will hand this guy over to the police. They will know what to do,” the officer said. “We can let the bus and all of them go on their way. Keep me posted about this case,” he said, coming into the room.
“How are you, Mr. Higgins? How are you feeling?” he asked me.
“I want to go,” I yelled. “I have to be at a book show in New York. You are holding the wrong man. Arrest that Sandro.”
The border agents were looking at each other and smirking.
“Sorry, we cannot let you go on the bus,” the officer said. “You assaulted a passenger. You’re lucky he is not pressing charges. There are procedures to follow after your disturbing behaviour.”
“My disturbing behaviour? My behaviour? He is the culprit. He is a killer. You cannot hold me. I have rights, you see. There will be problems for you if you don’t let me go. I will sue you. You don’t know who I am and what clout I have in high places.”
The officer patted me on my back. “Take it easy, Mr. Higgins,” he said, and they all left the room.
I am now at the Niagara Police detention centre, in a room with soft, padded walls and no windows. They took away my glasses, my belt, and even my shoelaces.
What do they think?…That I will flagellate myself with the shoelaces or start eating my belt or drill my nostrils with my broken eyeglass frame? Maybe I will… But it’s my choice, isn’t it? Idiotic cops.
Officers have photographed me from all angles, fingerprinted me, and charged me with creating mischief under $5,000 as per Criminal Code Section 430 (4). An inspector said they would take me to a police division in Toronto ‘for further investigation and processing’, within two days—according to my case note. A psychiatric evaluation has also been recommended. I don’t know why.
Anxiety is eating away at me, and I can feel the bile rising. I feel like retching, and I am restless and afraid. I cannot get rid of the image of Sandro; I am sure that is his real name…When he got up to leave the interrogation room at the border services office, he looked at me and I could read his lips. He said, ‘I will get you,’ and made a slashing gesture across his throat with his forefinger.
I am also having a problem with an intermittent buzzing in my ears. It began a few days before I boarded the bus to New York. Now, I need to find somebody soon to pull out these copper screws digging into my cranium.
This story is from the book “Tiddley Trail Stories” by Bala Menon, published in January this yea by Tamarind Tree Books of Toronto. Bala is the recipient of :• Queen’s Platinum Jubilee Pin and Certificate from the House ofCommons• Peel Regional Police Media Award• Rotary Club of Streetsville Certificate for Community Service.Bala is a member of the Courtneypark Writers’ Group, the Writers and Editors Network (WEN) and the Mississauga Arts Council.
Leave a Reply