The Deepest Cut

by Conor Corderoy

I knew when Russell started talking like this that he was leading up to something and taking his sweet time about it. Normally, I would sit and wait. Whatever Russell was rambling about, it was usually worth listening to, but this time I cut in. “I need your advice, Russell, maybe your help, too.”

  He gazed at me from behind his huge, black sunglasses and I realized he was waiting for me to go on.

  I took out my cigarette pack and pulled one free. “Russian Pete’s daughter was murdered the night before last.”

  He didn’t react. He didn’t even look surprised.

  “He’s asked me to find the killer.”

  “How can I help?”

  I described the murder scene to him and my meeting with Mark and Mrs. Edwards. He listened without moving until I’d finished.

  Then he said, “So you think it’s a serial killer.”

  I shrugged. “It could be. It has some of the hallmarks, but then there are things that don’t fit.”

  “So, you want me to introduce you to Eva’s tutor.”

  “Can you?”

  “Juliet Loss. Did you know she was a consultant profiler for the FBI?”

  I watched him for a moment. He was completely expressionless.

  I said, “No. How did you know she was Eva’s tutor?”

  His gaze wandered out toward the mill pond across the road from his house, where the bulrushes were swaying in the warm breeze. He sighed. “It’s not always easy to keep track, you know… Sometimes I flag things, ‘useful’… Has Hook been in touch?”

  He turned to me, smiling as though he’d answered me and now we were moving on to a more interesting subject.

  I said, “No. Can you introduce me?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll have a word. Odd choice, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Makes you wonder why the killer chose her, of all people.”

  I shrugged. “Typically, a serial killer selects his victim at random.”

  “And random results very rarely show any kind of meaning, beyond the fact of being random.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not following you.”

  He scratched the tip of his nose with a long, bony finger. “Two things stand out about this murder, Liam. The first one you noted yourself.”

  “The incongruence between the rose and the knife and the ripped-out abdomen?”

  “Indeed. The other…” He took a deep breath and screwed up his face, as if he wasn’t convinced himself about what he was going to say. “Well, if I wanted you, Liam Murdoch, to investigate a murder and to have that investigation facilitated, of all the people you know, whom would I kill?”

  It sounded ridiculous, but I thought about it because I have learned over the years always to think about what Russell says. In the end, I shook my head. “Okay, I see what you mean. Pete would ask me to find the killer, and he would pull strings to allow me to do that. But why would anyone want me to investigate a murder?”

  He nodded. “Yes, that is the question, isn’t it?

  I shook my head again, feeling oddly uncomfortable. “I don’t see it, Russell. It’s not a credible motive.”

  He sat back, apparently gazing at the blackbird that was still sitting on his chimney. He sipped his lemonade and listened to it sing its long, convoluted song. “Perhaps not,” he said. “Talk to Juliet. That is the obvious next step. See where it leads you.”

  I watched him and, after a moment, I said, “If you’re right, that’s what the killer would expect me to do.”

  He turned to look at me with his large, black glasses, but he didn’t say anything.

  We had a late luncheon and I headed back to London about five, feeling I was more confused than when I‘d come down. What Russell had suggested was absurd, and coming from anybody else, I would have dismissed it without a second thought. But Russell was the smartest guy I had ever met, and it was second nature to me to listen to what he had to say. On the other hand, he was well into his eighties, and the bigger your brain, the more there is to go wrong… Either way, he’d fixed up a meeting for me with Professor Juliet Loss at UCL the next morning and I had a strong hunch that meeting would lead me in the right direction.

  I got home around half seven. Maria wasn’t there. For some reason that made me uneasy. I called her cell. It rang, but she didn’t answer. She’d known I was coming back this evening and it was odd that she hadn’t told me she was going out. After half an hour, I tried again. Still no answer. I sent her a Whatsapp saying “Hey, where are you?” and regretted it after I’d sent it. She’d see she had two missed calls and a Whatsapp. I felt that made me look needy and I was mad at myself for caring.

  At half eight, I went down to Noddy’s Diner for a sandwich and a couple of Martinis. I climbed onto a stool, feeling sour, and ordered a Scotch instead of Martini or Irish. Noddy gave me a weird look and I asked him for a steak sandwich, rare. Then I peeled a new pack of Camels. Technically, it was illegal to smoke in public places, but since the surprise landslide of the Independent Party and the Vaasa Accord of 2020, a lot of EU-based laws were not enforced, especially if you had the right friends in the right places—and Noddy had all the right friends in all the right places. I flipped my Zippo and lit up, blowing smoke at my whiskey. I glanced at my phone. There were no messages. I downed the whiskey and showed Noddy the empty glass. He refilled it then leaned his huge black forearms on the bar.

  “’Sup?”

  I eyed him. “What is that, an order to drink?”

  “No, it’s English for ‘what’s eatin’ you, dude?’”

  I turned my glass around a few times, looking at the deep amber inside it, like I might find some kind of answer in there. I said, “You ever been married, Noddy? Lived with a woman?”

  He grunted. “Fuckin’ heart problems.” He blew through his teeth with genuine sympathy and shook his head. “You know what Freud said.”

  I regarded him curiously. “You read Freud?”

  He raised an eyebrow. Usually Noddy spoke in a dense, impenetrable Cockney that only he understood.

  “A vastly underrated philosopher of our time… He said, ‘We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love.’ So, no, mate. I keep my liaison dangerous on a strictly shag-only basis—no strings, no emotional fahkin’ involvement. Bit of the old how’s yer father, bit of the old”—he gave me an elaborate wink—“Blitzkrieg mit dem fleischgewehr then it’s good mornin’, good day and catcha later.”

  So now, whether through pity or because the occasion had seemed to call for it, he’d slipped into plain English. I swirled my drink and took a pull. He was waiting for me to say something, but there was nothing I wanted to say, so he went on.

  “I mean, look at you. You was always ‘appy-go-lucky, no fahkin’ worries, master of yer own fate.” He shrugged. “Now look atcha! Let me guess. It’s gotta be one of three fings. Either you’ve met another girl and you wanna shag her—”

  I frowned and shook my head. “No way, Noddy!”

  “Don’t interrupt. Yer feelin’ you is no longer master of your own fate.”

  I shrugged.

  He continued, “Or, most likely, you are beginning to suspect she might be gettin’ interested in somebody else.”

  I said, “That’s ridiculous.” But my lack of conviction was as obvious to him as it was to me.

  He gave a huge sigh and made a lame attempt at wiping the bar. “It happens, me old mucker. What can I say? That’s why I never get involved, right? They want your undivided attention, and, if you don’t give it to them, they get bored and their eye starts rovin’. But if you do give it them, you ain’t a bad boy anymore. You’re needy. They get bored and their eye starts rovin’. Can’t win. Women are bad news. I fought you knew that.”

  He wandered away to pull a beer. I didn’t believe any of what he’d said. Not about Maria. I wasn’t cut out for the whole domestic thing. Neither was she, but we were
learning. We were putting it together so it would work. I looked at my phone. Nothing. It was nine o’clock.

  The sandwich came after ten minutes. I ate it slowly, straining to ignore my phone. I had another couple of whiskeys then headed home at ten with still no message but a sick hole in my belly.

  When I got in, the apartment was empty and dark. The heat was humid and oppressive. I stripped off my shirt and went to the fridge for a beer. I stood in the door and uncapped the bottle, feeling the cold air on my skin. I drained half then went and opened the window that overlooked Kensington Church Street. I sat on the windowsill, staring down at the black cabs, the red buses and the night traffic,

  I was on my second beer when the Harley appeared around the corner. I knew it was a Harley by the sound. It was unmistakable. It had high handlebars and the guy driving it was wearing black leather and blue jeans. The girl on the back was petite. She had long black hair under her helmet and she was holding on tight.

  I knew it was her before she dismounted and took the helmet off. I watched her hand it to him. They talked a moment. I saw him beckon to her with his hand. She smacked his arm away and I heard her laugh. He pointed his left finger at her like a pretend gun and revved the engine with his right hand. Her laugh was loud, almost a squeal.

  He drove away and I saw her disappear into the building below me. It was ten past eleven. A couple of minutes passed and I heard the key in the lock. I kept staring at the street. I felt too sick to talk. She came in with quick steps, opened the door and stood looking at me. I didn’t look back. I still felt sick.

  After a moment, she said, “Hi,” like she was greeting an acquaintance she was fond of.

  I turned to face her. “Where were you?”

  She put her hands in the pockets of her jeans and bit her lip. Her eyes seemed mad. She said, “I had nothing to do. I was bored, so I checked into evening classes at Birkbeck College.”

  I could feel my heart racing and I was struggling to keep a hold of my anger. “On a Saturday? Until eleven at night?”

  She walked to a chair then dropped into it, with her hands still in her pockets. “Where were you?”

  “I told you where I was. I went to see Russell. We talked, we had lunch and I came home. Alone. In my own vehicle.”

  She stared at me. She said, “What does that mean?”

  I said, “Who is he?”

  She turned away. Her expression was hard to read. She may have been mad, but she may have been biting back tears. Eventually, she said, “His name is Steve.”

  I watched her awhile but she wouldn’t meet my eye. Finally, I asked her, “What’s going on? Are you involved with him?”

  Now she turned to face me and her eyes were bright with anger, but she didn’t speak.

  I felt sick and lightheaded. I pushed on. “How long has it been going on?”

  Her cheeks flushed red. “Oh, for God’s sake, Liam! I met him today!”

  “And already he’s bringing you home at eleven at night and flirting with you?”

  “What?”

  “Where were you, Maria? Where did you meet this guy and why did he drive you home on his bike?”

  “I told you. I was bored. I went to Birkbeck College to check into evening courses!”

  “Until eleven o’clock at night? How stupid do you think I am?”

  She was on her feet, stabbing her finger at me. “Right now? Very! A group of us got to talking with one of the professors, then we stepped out for a drink at the local pub. Honestly, I was mad at you, so I was not in a hurry to come home. But I got up to leave before half ten. Then Steve said he was leaving, too, and he’d give me a lift. That is it! But, frankly, Liam, I do not owe you a damned explanation. I am not accountable to you.”

  We stared at each other in silence.

  Finally, I said, “Really? Because if I came home at eleven o’clock at night without letting you know where I was and not answering the messages you sent me, there is one person in this world I would feel I owed an explanation to. There is one person in this world I would feel accountable to—you. We are not acquaintances. We are not even friends, Maria. We made a commitment to each other—or doesn’t that mean anything anymore?”

  She came and stood over me. Her anger was changing to sadness. “You tell me.”

  I stood and gripped her shoulders. The knot of fear in my belly was suddenly a hot hunger for her. “I am as committed to you as I was the first day I met you and when I pulled you from the flames at the Abbey of Thelema! I love you, baby, but I don’t know what the hell has got into you.”

  She pushed at my hands, trying to free herself from them. “Then why am I stuck here day after day alone? Why are you always out with Pete or Russell or Noddy or whoever the fuck you hang out with?”

  “Baby, I told you—”

  “What do you think I am?” She thumped me in the chest as she said it. “What the hell did you think I was going to become?” She thumped me again. “Some good little fucking wife sitting at home while you’re out drinking with your fucking criminal fucking friends?”

  She thumped me one last time and stepped back. I could see her chest rising and falling. Her breathing was coming hard.

  I started to say again, “Baby, I told you it would take a little time…”

  She pointed at me and her eyes were bright with anger and tears. “Your time, Liam, not mine!”

  She turned and walked away, into the bedroom, then slammed the door. I stood looking at it. There was a wild pounding in my chest that was probably panic and a burning in my belly that was making me feel sick to my stomach. I went over and pushed the door open. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands between her knees. Her face was wet with tears. I kneeled in front of her and took her hands in mine.

  “Maria, baby, we don’t need to do this. We can talk. You know I’d do anything for you.”

  She said, “I tried talking to you, but you’re so obstinate.” But the anger had gone out of her.

  I took her face in my hands and I kissed her. She seemed suddenly small and tender. Her lips trembled. Then she was holding my face, running her fingers through my hair and pulling me to her. A kind of madness welled up inside me, fogging my brain with heat. I pushed her onto the bed then stood. As I tore off my shirt, she scrambled backward, climbing to her knees, yanking her blouse from her jeans. Her eyes were wild.

  I threw my pants across the room and stood looking into her eyes. I was as hot as a Carolina reaper on a bed of jalapeño peppers and as hard as Chinese declensions in the pluperfect subjunctive. I could feel my heart pounding hard and my breathing was shallow and trembling. I watched her take off her jeans and her lacy pants and we were both naked, staring at each other.

  I whispered her name and she shuffled toward me, clumsily, almost falling on the quilt, smiling up at me. Then she had her left hand on the back of my neck and she was kissing me, long and slow and deep and her right hand, cool and small, was wrapped around me, gently stroking me, back and forth. Then the whole world was her skin under my hands as I caressed her back, feeling the curve of her waist, the fullness of her hips and ass and her small hand holding me, feeling me. I buried my face in her hair and found her delicate neck, bared for me. I bit, too hard, and she moaned and came to me, clawing my back, and pain and pleasure fused into a kind of weird ecstasy.

  We fell and I was on top of her. Her legs opened and I lay between them, feeling the silk of her thighs against my hips. Her fragile smallness was making me crazy. I looked down on her face and knew she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Her breasts, pale and smooth, lay spread beneath me and I was hungry for her. Then our skin was fused, and she was no longer cool and delicate, but warm and moist with perspiration.

  I was biting her ear and, as I slid inside her, I could hear her whispering, “Baby, oh, baby…” and our voices became one.

  Next, we were grappling each other, and I had her beautiful face in my hands, kissing her mouth, searching for her tongue
. We were in a frenzy, like we were going to consume each other whole. Then we were coming, exploding, and I could feel her tightening around me in a crazy spasm, and we roared and screamed with one voice. Every time it seemed to finish, it started again, with another spasm, like electricity surging through us.

  Even after we had collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs, it wasn’t enough. The fear I had felt of losing her had turned into an insatiable hunger, and, as she lay limp with her eyes closed, moaning, sometimes crying out, I licked the sweat from her skin, bit deeply into her white flesh, then moved from her neck, down over the gentle swell of her breasts, over her flat belly to the moist silk between her legs. There I took great mouthfuls of her, owning and possessing her in a passion of madness as she squeezed me between her thighs—as though, if I went deep enough inside her, I would never lose her.

  * * * *

  It was dawn, and the birds were making a riot outside the window. We were still tangled, holding tightly like we never wanted to let each other go. I lay, staring at the shadows around the ceiling, watching them slowly turn to morning. After a while, I became aware that she was awake, too, with her head and her hand resting on my chest. I kissed her hair and sensed her smile.

  She said, “I guess we were a bit stupid.”

  I smiled on one side of my face, though she couldn’t see me. “I guess…” Then, as a lame joke, “But the make-up sex was worth it.”

  She gave a small laugh, but after a moment she shook her head. “No, it wasn’t. Let’s never do that again.”

  I nodded. “Agreed.”

  She shifted around so she could look up at my face. “So, what happens now?”

  I kissed her and stroked her cheek. “You mean after scrambled eggs and coffee?”

  She didn’t answer, just kept watching me, waiting for a real answer.

  Finally, I said, “Baby, you know I will do anything for you. You know I will make the changes in my life and leave these people behind. You know I will do it.”

  She raised an eyebrow, but she was smiling. She wasn’t mad. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  I shook my head. “No but. It isn’t even a promise I’m making you. It’s just a fact.”