by Adam Cloake
He had already entered this building twice in the previous fortnight, so he knew that Brogan's was the largest flat, occupying the back section of the ground floor. The door lay beyond the base of the stairs. The flat was separated from the one in front by a short hall at a right angle to the main hall, leading to the back door. There was a landing immediately above Brogan’s, at a turn in the stairs. All this meant that there was less chance of any sounds travelling to the other tenants. It would be essential to keep all noise to a minimum.
Using a second imitation key, Ben let himself into the flat at the back, certain that, for now, it would be empty.
His grey rucksack contained a disparate set of items, some of which were quite innocuous. Among these were four lengths of twine and a roll of duct tape, as well as a spool of thick black thread and a set of strong sewing needles, the type used for tough materials like leather.
The heaviest item in the bag was a mini freezer box containing about a hundred large cubes of ice.
Ben had earlier purchased a tiny bottle of chloroform from a doctor who did very lucrative business outside of official channels.
And what looked like the most innocent item in the bag was a small tool made of black and yellow plastic. It appeared like a child’s toy, but it wasn’t.
He had also brought a disguise with him – a fancy dress mask, of a very particular character. For the sake of avoiding suspicion, he had bought this mask for cash three weeks earlier, during a trip to Edinburgh. The shop where he had bought it had been empty of customers, and was too old-fashioned for security cameras. Ben had not handled the mask himself, instead asking the friendly owner to fetch it and place it in a shopping bag for him. Before flying back home, he had hidden the mask in his suitcase, rolled up inside his t-shirts, being careful not to touch it at any point. Apart from the man who had sold it to him, there was no-one in the world who knew he had it.
Now, he pulled this mask over his head, and gave himself a quick check in the bathroom mirror. There had originally been three openings in the face – two eyes and a mouth – but Ben had sewn some dark-dyed gauze to the inside, hiding every trace of his own face. As he looked at his reflection through the cloudiness of this gauze, he felt that Alan would have done a much better job of it.
He removed the mask, and entered Brogan’s bedroom. He carefully closed the curtains, making sure he wasn’t seen from outside. He took the bottle of chloroform from the rucksack, and placed it in the right front pocket of his grey jeans, also making sure that his handkerchief was in the opposite pocket.
Then he sat down on the bed, and prepared himself for a long wait.
It was difficult to keep his fear and excitement in check, so Ben gave his thoughts permission to drift, always mindful that, at any moment, he would hear Brogan’s key – the genuine one – scratching in the lock.
He thought about the women that Brogan regularly brought back here – women that Ben had observed from a distance. Barbara and Shelley were both beautiful. Why would they waste themselves on a thug like Brogan? He thought about the relationships he himself had forged throughout his life, and how badly they had all failed. Chief among these was his wasted marriage to Linda. Because of the size of his emotional investment in the marriage, this was the biggest failure of them all. He had felt this type of emotional connection – this love – for just one person in his life prior to Linda, but that had been a long time ago. And he had destroyed that earlier relationship with his own hands.
A sound from the front! It was the lock in the apartment door. Brogan was back!
Ben stood up. As silently as he could, he pulled on the PVC mask, and stepped into position behind the open bedroom door. He pulled the bottle of chloroform from his trouser pocket, and took the handkerchief from the other. Then he waited, frozen in place.
He could hear Brogan rummage around in the living room. The man was exhaling loudly, as if he had been through a trying day. He was just a few feet from the bedroom, a fact which caused Ben’s mouth to become drier with each second that passed. For an insane moment, he was tempted to rush out and tackle Brogan full-on in the living room, just to get this over with. He held his nerve, however.
Finally, after what seemed like half the night, Ben heard the heavy-set frame approach the bedroom door.
He uncorked the chloroform bottle, and held his thumb fast over the opening.
Suddenly, Brogan stopped walking. The apartment became as silent as a graveyard. Hampered by his inability to see what Brogan was doing, Ben felt panic rise within him, like nausea. He fervently hoped that the other man was just looking around the living room, checking something, or just lost in thought. The only other explanation was that he suspected something was wrong.
The terror continued to rise within Ben. He desperately wanted a drink.
Finally, Brogan moved forward again.
Ben took his thumb off the bottle, and poured all the contents onto the handkerchief.
Brogan entered the bedroom, and switched on the light.
Ben dropped the empty bottle on the floor, and grabbed Brogan’s face from behind. He clamped the cloth as firmly as he could over the man’s mouth. But Brogan was stronger and heavier than Ben, just like he was in the meadow. He bent at the waist, pitching his upper body forward. Ben was lifted off his feet. As the big man thrashed around the room, mumbling furiously into the cloth, Ben was pummelled against the door and the wall. The sweet smell of the vaporous drug filled the air around Ben’s face, making him drowsy. He had been warned to expect this.
The two men’s tussle seemed to last for many long minutes but, in truth, it was over in just eight seconds. Brogan became limp in Ben’s arms. He collapsed onto the bed, face first. Ben held the hankie to Brogan’s mouth for a few seconds longer, fighting off his own drowsiness. When he was certain that Brogan was unconscious, he quickly wrapped the corrupted handkerchief in a small plastic bag which he took from his back pocket, and stuffed it tightly into a pocket of the rucksack. Despite his light-headedness, he reminded himself that the effects of chloroform don’t last long. He had only a few minutes to complete the next step.
He turned off the overhead light, instead switching on a small, dim lamp by the bedside. This he placed on the floor beneath the window.
Laying Brogan on the double bed, Ben undressed him completely. This proved to be quite a struggle, with the heavy body still so inert. Ben proceeded to tie each of Brogan’s arms and legs to the four posters, then took the duct tape from the bag. After throwing all the pillows into the corner of the room, he lifted Brogan's head from the sheeted mattress, and wrapped the tape around his mouth half a dozen times, until the lower part of his face was completely covered. The tape gave off pained little screeches with each tug.
Then he stood up, keeping his eyes fixed on the man on the bed.
It took just two minutes before he heard a moaning sound coming from behind the thick tape. Brogan’s eyes flickered briefly, then snapped open. His confused gaze darted around the room, trying to find an explanation, some reason for the resistance at his hands and ankles, for the stiffness around his mouth, for his cold nakedness. He began to struggle against the bonds, his protests muffled behind the heavy tape. Finally, Ben stepped forward into the dim lamplight. Brogan’s eyes found him – this intruder in his home, dressed entirely in grey – and he stiffened where he lay.
“I know this wasn't what you were expecting tonight,” Ben said, his voice muffled by the gauze. “But I’m here because you've lived a pretty shitty life up until now, and you've created shitty lives for a lot of other people.”
Following his initial shock and confusion, Brogan felt the stranger’s words raise a clammy fear within him. The voice was low and measured, but there was also a note of trepidation in it. The man was trying to sound more confident than he really was.
Nevertheless, there was no mistaking the determination in the voice.
As Brogan's eyes became more focussed in the dimness, he suddenly
realised that he knew the stranger’s face. He had known it since his school days. He recognised the mock white stitching which ran haphazardly around the black sleekness of the cheeks and forehead. On either side was a prickly feline ear, standing alert.
He was looking at the face of Catwoman, the Michelle Pfeiffer version.
The sheer insanity of his predicament overcame Brogan. Without realising he was doing it, he opened his bladder, and urinated, onto himself and onto the bed.
Seeing this, the intruder brought his face close to Brogan's, and hissed, “That's what I like to see. I want your fear! I want your terror! It will make the retribution sweeter.”
Ben stepped back into the corner of the room. He picked up Brogan’s jacket, and placed his hand in a side pocket. Sure enough, the red penknife was there. He threw it on the bed. Brogan’s squirming intensified.
“Don’t worry!” Ben said. “I won’t be using that.”
He picked up the rucksack. It was time to fetch the principal tools of the evening. With his gloved hands, Ben first took out the needle and the thread, followed by the box of ice cubes. Each of these items he placed on the side of the bed, beside the penknife.
He dipped his hand into the bag one last time, then slowly raised it to reveal that he was holding the black and yellow plastic item. It was about nine inches long, and shaped like a small wrench. In its head was a flat metal disc, almost four inches in diameter. Jutting from the tool’s handle was a triangular piece of black plastic, like a trigger. Ben pressed this with his fingers, causing almost an inch of the metal disc to move slightly forward, over the protective lip of the head. It was a rotary cutter. Alan had once told Ben he was saving up for one.
It looked like a pizza cutter, but the blade was thinner.
And much sharper.
“Not your tool of choice, I know,” said Ben. “But just as effective.” He then brushed the penknife off the mattress, and onto the floor.
The sight of the rotary blade made Brogan thrash even harder. His eyes were open wide, blazing with renewed terror. He had no urine left, so instead he forced tears from his eyes.
“Let's begin!” said Ben, removing his jacket, and throwing it on the floor. “The Remarkable Grey Cat is ready!” He unbuttoned his shirt, and kicked off his slip-on shoes. Seconds later, to Brogan's amazement, the stranger stood naked before him, wearing only the Catwoman mask, a pair of rubber gloves on his hands, and medical shoe covers on his feet. His body was completely smooth. Ben had assumed that less body hair meant less chance of leaving genetic clues, so he had shaved his arms and legs, his chest and stomach, and even his pubic area. He had also applied make-up to all his birthmarks, so that even they were masked. He was certain that no part of him was recognisable.
He climbed on to the bed.
A few seconds later, Brogan’s agony began.
And it lasted for most of the night.
Ben tried to conceal his own sense of revulsion at what he was doing to this man, as he drew the sharp edge of the rotary blade along Brogan's skin. As the metal turned around its fulcrum, its edge separated the man’s flesh into ridges. These pushed away from each other, opening long red fissures. Less than an inch of the round blade was exposed, so Ben had to go over each area a few times, every stroke cutting deeper into his victim.
The amount of blood flowing from Brogan’s body was beyond what Ben had expected. Throughout the procedure, he had to stop regularly, to take out small handfuls of the ice cubes, placing them around the gashes he was creating. Ben watched each of these cubes gradually turn red, then pink. The flat itself was cold – a January cold – so he was sure the ice would remain solid for a while. He needed these cubes. He didn’t want the man on the bed to die.
Throughout the procedure, Brogan never ceased howling into the tape – a distressed humming sound – except for the brief moments when he was allowed the luxury of passing out. It seemed as if his entire body was screaming, to compensate for his lack of a voice. Beneath his head, the sheet was becoming soaked, partly from sweat, partly from tears, partly from the saliva which foamed around the edges of the duct tape. Ben wondered when was the last time this man had cried.
And, all the time, he could hear the constant echo of the words which had haunted him for two-thirds of his life, the last words Alan had ever spoken to him.
“Go home, Ben. I’ll be all right on my own.”
But he wasn’t going home. Not this time. He was going to stay here until his apology was complete.
Finally, he was finished with the cutting. He put the blood-soaked rotary blade to one side, and stood up to stretch the aches from his body. Brogan, although bathed in red agony, gradually relaxed into a whimper.
“Sorry, mate,” said Ben, after a few minutes rest. “We're only part of the way through.”
And, with his stained, gloved fingers, he picked up the needle and thread. Brogan's eyes sprang wide again, as he resumed his muffled cry.
During the sewing operation, Ben had to climb onto the bed until he was straddling his “patient”. He could feel his penis and scrotum brush along the fur of Brogan's stomach. He could feel the scratchiness of Brogan’s pubic hair beneath his buttocks, as well as the dampness of this urine-soaked area. By now, the liquid had made Brogan’s crotch and thighs cold and clammy, and the acrid smell of the soiled sheet was growing stronger.
The sewing was made more awkward by Brogan's squirming. However, because of the energy the man had already expended, as well as the two or three pints of blood he had lost, this proved less of a problem than it might have been.
Having completed the sewing in the upper part of Brogan's body, Ben stood up, glad that he was no longer bending forward. Squatting over Brogan had increased the steady, throbbing pain that resided, with such persistence, in his decaying inner organs. Now he could kneel – first on the floor, then on the bed – and finish the work in more comfort.
By this stage, Brogan had all but passed out completely. Despite the immense unpleasantness of the sewing operation he was now undergoing, the repetitive sting of the needle was a small reprieve from the incisive slivering of the rotary blade. The only sound coming from him was a rhythmic muted sob. His eyes, rolling drunkenly around, indicated that his consciousness was being pushed away to another, more tranquil place. Ben had considered bringing a capsule of smelling salts with him, to force Brogan’s full presence at the scene, but had rejected this as being beyond cruelty. He felt enough shame and remorse as it was.
An hour later, he was stepping out of Brogan’s shower, still wearing the Catwoman mask. He hadn’t wanted to leave any reddish-blonde hairs around the flat, and shaving his whole head would have attracted attention from his friends and colleagues.
He was careful to thoroughly wipe the shower stall after him, leaving it clean and bone dry.
Ben had already packed his tools away in the rucksack. He had also untied the four lengths of twine from the corners of the bed, knowing that Brogan would not be going anywhere. Once dressed, he had only to sling the rucksack on his back, say “Goodbye, Brogan” to the closed bedroom door, and let himself out – from the flat, from the house, and from Brogan’s life.
He walked a short, but safe, distance towards the city centre, then used a recently purchased mobile phone to call the emergency services. He told them about a man in distress in a flat on Gardiner Street. He gave them the address, told them that the hall door and the apartment door were both unlocked, and then hung up.
Minutes later, he wiped the mobile phone clean, snapped it in half, and threw the pieces into two separate public dustbins. During his long walk home, he did the same with the other items – the twine, the duct tape, the chloroform bottle; everything except the rotary blade – each washed of prints, and disguised in its own black bag.
He walked a long, indirect path to his flat, binning all the evidence in a zigzag pattern over a wide area.
He had destroyed the dossier earlier in the day.
An hour af
ter leaving Brogan, Ben was at home in Rathgar, sitting on his sofa, with a large whiskey in his hand. The drink contained no ice.
It also gave him no pleasure.
He hadn't expected to feel this unwell over what he had just done, despite what he had seen as the inevitability of the act. He had provided himself with yet another reason for self-loathing to accompany those from his teenage years.
The justification behind the night’s events, however, still felt solid to him. A small act of contrition would not have been enough. He had required something more substantial, more meaningful. Alan deserved that much.
Despite the discomfort it was causing his insides, Ben finished the whiskey and poured himself another. Before sitting down, he unlocked his bureau drawer, and removed a large manila envelope from inside. This envelope had spent many years in a suitcase under his bed in Killora; it had been there since he was 13. Ben had retrieved it during the holidays, and brought it up to Dublin. He had gone home to spend Christmas with his parents – probably for the last time.
Now, sitting back on the sofa, he opened the envelope, and looked at the small fragments of paper inside – about four hundred of them.
He remembered the day he had first seen these pieces, when they were still complete pages. It was a beautiful memory – the sunshine, the smell of cut grass, the hushing sweep of the river. He recalled the enthusiasm in Alan’s voice, and in his deep grey eyes, as he had carefully flicked through these sketches.
After leaving the meadow that day, Ben had stopped, and stood back from the road. Through the trees, he had watched Alan break down in tears, and had almost broken down himself. He had seen him walk away, not able to even pick up the drawings. So, Ben had done it for him, narrowly saving some of the pieces from the river. Of course, he had always intended to tell Alan he had them, just as soon as he had finished repairing them. And as soon as he got over his own shame. But neither of these things had ever happened. He had tried to put the pages back together, but his youthful selfishness had drawn him away to other activities. And the thought of looking into Alan's eyes again had frightened him more than any hard punch ever thrown at him, or any knife blade ever pointed at him.