The Cleaner Read Online Free PDF

kick out of life. On mornings like these, he always likes to say, “Hot, ain’t it?” He wears the uniform all bus drivers wear: dark blue shorts, a light-blue short-sleeved shirt, and black shoes.
    “This one’s on the city this morning, Joe,” he says, still winking, just in case I hadn’t noticed. “Sure is a hot one today, Joe, ain’t it?”
    I figure if I smile back, I’ll get more free bus rides. “Gee. Joe’s thankful, Mr. Stanley.”
    Mr. Stanley smiles at me and I wonder how he would look if I opened my briefcase and showed him what’s inside. Putting the bus ticket into my pocket, I walk down the aisle. The bus is fairly empty—a handful of school kids scattered randomly, a nun in one of those stiffly starched black-and-white outfits, a businessman with an umbrella even though it has to be ninety degrees outside.
    Regular people. Like me.
    I sit near the back behind two sixteen- or seventeen-year-old schoolgirls. I prop my briefcase up on the empty seat next to me. Nobody is sitting behind or opposite me. I thumb the combination on each side of the case. Slide the latches. Open the case. I have my knives stored away carefully inside—three in the lid, and three in the base. They’re held in place by strands of material that loop over them and snap into place with metal domes. The gun is the only thing that floats around free, but it’s in a black leather pouch to protect it, and the knives. The gun has three internal safeties, so I’d have to bethree times unlucky—or stupid—to have any sort of accident. Ahead of me, the schoolgirls are giggling.
    I take out a knife with a blade only two inches long, which cost twenty-five dollars. It takes a lot of stabbing to kill somebody with a knife that short. Once, about eighteen months ago, it took me a good forty or fifty goes. Small cuts. Lots of blood. I was sweating like a pig afterward. My shirt was pasted to me. He deserved it, though.
    Mr. Stanley is a much nicer bus driver.
    I’m absentmindedly running the blade up and down the back of the seat of the girl on the left. I’m thinking about women in general when her friend, the blond girl, turns around at the sound. I hide the knife behind my leg. Smile innocently as if I have no idea where I even am, as if all I’m doing is singing mentally to myself: The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round. She glares at me. Watching her, I can feel the beginnings of a relationship.
    She looks away without comment, and they return to their giggling. I tuck the knife away in my briefcase. I’m not even sure why I got it out. I stare out the window and watch as the bus approaches the central city. More traffic, more smog, more aggravation as people get caught up at traffic lights. We pass a guy sitting on the side of the road next to a mountain bike, the front wheel all buckled up, both of his knees are bleeding. He catches me staring at him and gives me the finger.
    I have the briefcase closed up by the time my stop appears. Mr. Stanley makes a special exception for me, stopping the bus directly outside my work. I give him a smile from the end of the bus. We exchange waves as I step off from the back exit.
    Christchurch. City of Angels this isn’t. New Zealand is known for its tranquility, its sheep, and its hobbits. Christchurch is known for its parks and violence. Throw a bag of glue in the air and a hundred welfare recipients will knock each other over in an effort to sniff from it. Despite the blue skies, Christchurch City is still mostly gray. Many of thebuildings date back a hundred years, some even more, gothic architecture imported from England along with the population back then. Gray buildings, gray roads, lots of office and shop windows reflecting it all. However there is the occasional splash of greenery: trees, shrubs, flowers. You can’t take twenty paces without passing something out of nature. Walk ten minutes to the west, and you’ll find the Botanic Gardens; more than