Your Deepest Fear

by David Jackson

  But the only response he gets is more of the same, tears now running down the man’s cheeks.

  The tears of a clown. Humour infused with darkness. Amusement tinged with horror.

  Cody snaps. He runs at the man, grabs him by the throat, slams his head back against the wall.

  ‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’

  ‘You. You are so fucking naïve, so innocent. It’s all bluff. You’re not going to hurt me. You haven’t got it in you.’

  Cody bangs the man’s head against the bricks again. He pulls back his right arm, the baton clutched in his fist.

  ‘You can’t, can you?’ says the man. ‘You can’t do it. You don’t work like that. You may as well let me go now.’

  ‘I’m not letting you go. Not unless you talk. The best you can hope for after I’ve finished with you is a long spell in prison.’

  ‘Really? On what evidence?’

  The words take Cody by surprise. He realises he hasn’t thought this through. He wants to believe that he can be forceful enough to extract either a confession or the goods on Waldo out of this man. Failing that, he would put him under arrest and call in his police colleagues.

  But suddenly there is doubt in his mind.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to admit anything in public, do you? What I’ve said in this room stays in this room. I’m not repeating it. If you think you can convince a judge to lock me up, then good luck with that. What are you going to do, tell him you’ve been given the word of the clown-in-chief?’ He swivels his bulging eyes to indicate the room. ‘And how are you going to explain all this? What will you tell the judge about the reasons for keeping me in your basement – especially if I come out of here with cuts and bruises? Hardly makes you look like the injured party, does it?’

  Cody hates this newly found confidence in the man, who has quickly turned from a snivelling coward into an assured negotiator.

  You’re allowing him to gain the upper hand, Cody tells himself. He’s losing his fear of you. You need to be more intimidating. Where’s your killer instinct? Remember what he did to you. Remember that he’s responsible. He took away your flesh and your bones. Remember what he did to Jeff? Remember how Jeff screamed for his mother? Remember that look on his face before it was separated from his skull?

  Cody tightens his hold on the man’s throat. The man brings up his hands and tries to loosen the grip, but Cody’s strength is fuelled by his anger. He pulls back his baton again . . .

  And then he lets the man go.

  He’s right, thinks Cody. I can’t do this. No matter how much hatred I feel inside, it won’t come out in violence against a man who can’t fight back. That’s not me.

  He turns his back on the man. Starts heading towards the door.

  The attack comes without warning.

  The first Cody knows about it is the arm around his neck and being pulled down to the ground. His knees slam into the concrete, and then the man is on top of him, flattening him on the floor. The arm grip tightens, cutting off Cody’s airways, the blood supply to his brain. He can’t get either of his own arms free to fight back, and it is as though there is a python coiled around his neck, squeezing ever more tightly as Cody’s field of vision begins to fill with sparkles and dots and patches of dark that will soon merge into complete blackness.

  He tries to roll, to the right and then the left. Manages to draw up his right leg enough to push down on the ground and complete the turn. With his opponent under him now, Cody begins punching backwards with his elbow, spearing the man’s abdomen. He hears grunts of pain, but the grip on his neck remains in place. Cody brings his foot up, slams it down into the man’s leg and rakes his shoe down his shin. As the man shrieks, Cody rolls again and this time is able to get his legs beneath him and, with a yell of effort, heaves himself up from the floor, the man still clinging to his back.

  Cody launches himself backwards, slams the man into the wall. Once, twice with his elbow into the man’s gut again, then he throws his head back, hitting the man in the face.

  The grip loosens. Cody tears himself away and whirls on the man.

  And then Cody is gone. He abandons control. Hands himself over to a whirlwind of fists that pummel and batter until his opponent crumples to the ground. And still Cody doesn’t stop. He drops to his knees, grabs the man’s chain, wraps it around his neck. He pulls and pulls, because all he can see now is the hated mask of Waldo, and he so needs it to stop grinning at him, to stop taunting him.

  It takes him too long to realise that Clueless the Clown is not fighting back. There is no longer any resistance. There are no more cries of pain, whimpers of protest. There is just silence.

  Cody scrambles along the floor, away from the prone, inert figure. He looks back at the body, and then at his own blood-coated knuckles.

  And he wonders what he has become.

  44

  Cody sits on the floor in silence, his senses completely focused on the figure just feet away. He watches for the slightest of movements – the rise and fall of the man’s chest or the twitch of a finger. He listens intently for a groan, a murmur, a breath.

  He waits in vain.

  A realisation takes root and grows within him that he has become what he has always battled against. A criminal. A murderer.

  He has taken a life – the thing he swore an oath to protect. He has no excuses. He can hardly claim self defence against someone he was keeping locked up in his cellar. And besides, his response was disproportionate. The man didn’t need to die.

  That should be the worst of it.

  Committing murder should be what he regrets most about this total fuck-up. He feels ashamed that it isn’t. What truly saddens him is that he has just severed his connection to Waldo. With Clueless now gone, he is back to square one.

  What, he wonders, does that say about me? What does it say that my sense of loss is built on such a selfish foundation?

  And what do I do now?

  Give myself in? Should I make a call now to DCI Blunt? Throw myself at her mercy?

  There would be no mercy, of course. Blunt would do her job. She’s a professional. She will hate it, but she will do what must be done.

  But then there’s the alternative. I get rid of the body somehow. Hide it and pretend none of this happened. Is that possible? Am I capable of doing such a thing?

  The options fly around in Cody’s brain – unfamiliar birds he thought could never exist there. He can’t believe he is seriously considering ways to evade justice.

  And then something happens to take the urgency of decision away from him.

  The man coughs.

  It’s a short, sharp exhalation at first, but then it builds. The man clutches at the chain, tugging it away from his neck as he struggles to find air. He coughs again and again, scrambling to his knees in an effort to make it easier to breathe.

  Cody stands, but doesn’t move towards the man. He wants to offer help, but at the same time he needs his opponent to believe that he is a hard-knock, a bad-ass, who really isn’t going to think twice about killing him.

  The fight for breath eventually becomes easier and the coughing fit subsides. Clueless sits with his back to the wall again, rubbing his neck. It’s a while before he seems to notice that Cody is there in the room.

  ‘You could have killed me,’ he says.

  ‘You jumped me,’ Cody answers. ‘You were asking for it. What were you trying to do? Get the key?’

  Clueless doesn’t reply, but it’s the obvious motive.

  ‘And then what?’ Cody asks. ‘Kill me? Finish off what you started in the warehouse? Torture me a little more, maybe? Tie me up and snip off some more toes, a few fingers?’

  The man shakes his head, and winces with pain. ‘I told you. I’m not like that. I just want to get out of here.’

  ‘You really think I should let you go? After what you did to me?’

  ‘I think . . . I think what you’re doing
is wrong.’

  ‘Oh, so now I’m the one in the wrong?’

  ‘Yes, and you know it. You’re doing exactly what Waldo wants you to do.’

  Cody knows that there are stinging barbs of truth in those words. He accepts that he’s on a slippery slope towards committing unspeakable acts.

  He needs time to think, to reflect. He needs some moments of calm and objectivity.

  ‘What I do here is my choice, not your boss’s,’ he says. ‘Don’t underestimate me, and don’t for a second believe that I won’t go much further than I already have.’

  And then he leaves the room, wondering how committed he is to the warning he has just issued.

  *

  The normality of his apartment seems so remote. As he sits in his living room, he tries to absorb his day-to-day life. He scans the vast array of books he has amassed over the years – all that knowledge, that expression, that poetry. He stares at the shapely guitar on its stand and tries to recall the feel of it in his hands, the gentle sound of its strings. But it’s as if he has been tainted so much that he can no longer fully appreciate these wonderful, magical possessions. This environment contrasts so starkly with what he experienced down in Waldo’s ‘fiery hell’.

  He has made a mug of tea, but it sits untouched on the table in front of him, a dark film forming on its surface. He is too lost in thought. He needs someone with whom he can discuss this. Not Waldo, who has his own poisonous agenda, but someone impartial.

  But he already knows what they would say. They would tell him to take his captive into police custody. They would tell him that he if he does that now, he may just avoid getting himself into trouble. And what is more, it is simply the right thing to do. The man in the basement is still a man. He has rights. He has feelings. He has—

  Fuck that.

  He has no rights. He gave those up when he attacked me with his mates. I should have choked the life out of him when I had the chance. But I didn’t. He lives, and that makes him useful to me. I still have a chance of getting to Waldo.

  And so it goes. One ear and then the other whispered into by the tiny angel and devil on his shoulders. He listens carefully to each, and fails to make up his mind.

  And time is running out, he thinks. Soon I will need to get washed and dressed and go to work. The dental practice downstairs will open. The building will fill up with orthodontists and nurses and hygienists and patients. How the hell will I get Clueless out of here before then?

  As if to provide him with an answer, Cody’s phone rings.

  He answers it, in full knowledge of who will be on the other end.

  ‘What now?’ he asks.

  ‘Top of the morning to you, Cody. You do know it’s morning, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Good. And do you have the answers you want from our man Clueless?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘Tick-tock, Cody. I already told you: this is a time-limited offer. You need to get a move on. What has he told you so far? My name? Where I live? How I put the gang together? How we broke the cover of you and your partner?’

  He leaves a pause after each question, and Cody doesn’t fill any of them.

  ‘Oh, Cody. What a disaster. An opportunity like this, and you’re wasting it? Surely you can do better than this?’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like my old schoolteacher. Now, is this call for a reason, or are you just being a nuisance?’

  ‘It’s a courtesy call. A status check, if you like. And it sounds to me like you could do with a little help.’

  ‘If it’s from you, I’ll pass, thanks.’

  ‘Now don’t be like that. I’m being genuine. I can help you.’

  ‘Help me how?’

  ‘Let me speak to him. Our mutual friend in your basement.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? What have you got to lose?’ Waldo pauses. ‘He is still alive, isn’t he? I mean, you haven’t diverted the trolley already, have you?’

  ‘He’s alive. But I don’t think he’ll want to speak to you.’

  ‘See, that’s where you’re going wrong, Cody. Lesson number one: don’t think about what he wants; this is about what you want. Your concerns have to be paramount. You have to regard Clueless as a worm, a bug, a nothing. If he’s not bending to your wishes, you have to step on him, grind him under your heel. Do you understand?’

  ‘Okay, then. I’ll put it another way: I don’t want him to speak to you.’

  ‘Lesson number two: listen to those more experienced than yourself. If I say so myself, I’m an expert in these matters. I can get people to talk, whether they want to or not. I can make Clueless talk to you. All I need to do is have a quiet word in his ear. How can there possibly be a catch in an offer like that?’

  ‘I always prefer to see the Terms and Conditions. Until then, the answer is still no.’

  ‘Your loss, Cody. Or perhaps the loss of our clown friend. I’m trying to make it easier on both of you. At least do me the honour of mulling it over. I’ll tell you what. Go downstairs again, but take your phone with you. Take another long look at your prisoner and think about my offer. I’ll call back in precisely fifteen minutes from now. Whatever decision you make then will be final.’

  And then the line goes dead once more.

  45

  Cody doesn’t know why, but every time he comes into this basement room, he expects more. More than just a pathetic, miserable wretch sitting on the cold white floor.

  Cody doesn’t know what to do with him. Without a wink of sleep, he has no energy, no drive. He would love to retire to his bed for a full ten hours before facing a return to this room. But of course that’s impossible.

  He hates this man. Hates him with a vengeance. But does he have it within himself to use extreme measures to tease out his information? Is he willing to dole out excruciating physical and mental agony to get to the data locked up inside this creature?

  He doesn’t think he can do that.

  Which is why, when the phone in his hand jumps into life, he already has his answer ready.

  ‘Fifteen minutes precisely,’ says Waldo. ‘So what’s it to be?’

  ‘You can talk to him,’ Cody says. ‘I’m passing you over now.’

  Cody approaches the man, who draws away in fear. He holds out his phone.

  ‘W-what?’ says the man.

  ‘Your boss. He wants to speak to you.’

  The man shakes his head.

  ‘Talk to him!’

  The man reaches out, takes the phone, puts it to his ear.

  Cody takes several steps back but keeps his eyes on Clueless.

  ‘Yes,’ says the man. ‘Yes. I understand.’ He listens some more.

  And then his face changes suddenly. It creases up. Tears spring from his eyes. He lets out a low moan. ‘No. Please . . . No. I can’t . . . Noooo!’

  Cody springs across the room, snatches the phone.

  ‘What did you say? ’ he cries. ‘What the hell did you say to him?’

  ‘Ah, hello again, Cody. I simply did what you don’t seem to be able to do. I asked him to give you some information. Why don’t you listen to what he has to tell you?’

  Cody looks again at the man, whose eyes are now wide in terror. His lower lip is trembling, as though under tension from the words it has been ordered to shape.

  Waldo is still buzzing in Cody’s ear. ‘Keep the line open, Cody. I want to confirm he tells you what he knows.’

  Cody slowly lowers the phone, but doesn’t end the call. ‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘What have you got to say to me?’

  The man’s jaw opens and closes a couple of times. And then: ‘They were my ideas.’

  ‘What were?’

  ‘To . . . to use the garden loppers. On your toes. And then to use the knife on your partner’s face. They were . . . they were my ideas.’ Hastily, he adds, ‘But I didn’t do it. I didn’t think anyone would really—’

  But Cody
is no longer listening. He is already storming out of the room, his head filled with a pounding and roaring he has never experienced before. He slams the door closed behind him, races up the wooden stairs, into the hallway, up the next stairs to his apartment door, up the last flight of stairs into his apartment. He takes the steps two – sometimes three – at a time. The effort means nothing to him. He is unaware of his heavy breathing, his accelerating heart rate. He knows only the rush of blood and craziness in his head.

  He goes first to his bedroom, where he picks up his police handcuffs. Then to the kitchen, where he opens up the cupboard beneath his sink. He drags out his toolbox and opens it up. He starts pulling out items, flinging them to one side, until he finds something suitable. He holds it aloft, studies it for several seconds.

  It’s a hacksaw.

  He is not thinking now about consequences, about ramifications. He doesn’t care for such niceties. This is a mission based on blood lust.

  He heads back down all those stairs, still refusing to allow logic to poke its goody-two-shoes head through his baser instincts. He yanks open the door to the basement, thuds heavily down the wooden steps, flings open the last door between him and his intended victim.

  The briefest of glances tells the man that this could be his end. He sees the madness in Cody’s eyes, and he sees the glint of the handcuffs and the weapon held together in Cody’s hand, and it is clear that he expects the worst.

  He tries to run, but there is only so far he can go. He is chained to the bars over the window, restricting his movement within the room.

  Cody closes in, forcing him into a corner. And when the man makes a last-ditch attempt to slip past, Cody grabs the chain and pulls with all his might. The man almost somersaults onto the concrete, and then Cody is on him, and all that Cody can think of is what was done to him, how his toes were snipped from his feet, and how his partner Jeff suffered so horrendously, and now he has one of the people responsible, has him here in this room, with nobody else able to see what happens next. And Cody is intent on exacting his revenge, there is no doubt in his mind that he will do that. And so he sits on the back of the squirming figure and starts to force the man’s hands behind his back, and even though the man has the strength of self-preservation, Cody has the greater strength of a need to dispense justice denied to him for too long. He gets the arms into position, snaps on the handcuffs. And now the man is powerless except for the breath he has left, and he uses that breath in cries and pleas that go unheard, not only because the rest of the building is empty, but because Cody himself is deaf to them. They cannot, will not, be allowed to stop him.