by Matt Drabble
“Bollocks” Jimmy stated, “You probably got a bit spooked in the dark, you told me a couple of years ago didn’t you, that the fat cow had a drink problem. She was probably passed out, you’re not a doctor Ghost and don’t think that I don’t know what you’re doing either”
“And just what might that be?”
Jimmy threw the crystal drinking glass from his desk shattering it on the wall, the remnants sliding a brown whisky trail slowly to the floor, “Don’t treat me like a fucking child, I won’t have it, you hear me, I won’t fucking have it!” He exploded out of the blue.
Ghost paused and lowered his gaze from Jimmy’s dancing eyes; it was never good to inflame Jimmy when his temper broke loose from its precarious moorings. “I genuinely don’t know what you mean Jimmy”
“The Parkers, that’s what this all about, you want to distract me like a cat with a ball of twine” Jimmy retorted. “But I’m not as stupid as you sometimes think Abraham” he emphasized the point by tapping aggressively at his own forehead with a stiff finger.
Ghost trod carefully, when Jimmy used his first name it was like a scalding from a carnivorous mother. “I’m not saying that the Parkers aren’t a problem that needs dealing with” he said thinking the exact opposite. “I’ll admit that you’ve always been better suited to the more physical exertions of the business, but we’ve come so far and I don’t want it jeopardized now Jimmy” he used a pleading tone that Jimmy would respond to. It was a tone that he only used in emergencies for placation purposes. “The muscle that we use now is almost all new, who’s going to watch my back if we have to go to war?”
“Hey, have I ever let you down, it’ll be like the old days again, you and me Ghost” Jimmy rose from the desk and paced excitedly around the office. “Remember the Raphael’s back in the day, remember when you and me took on their whole fucking crew. We showed them just what being a fucking monster really meant, you remember?”
“I remember Jimmy, you and me against the world right” Ghost smiled.
“Fucking A” Jimmy shouted, “If we have to, we’ll fight every motherfucker all over again. We’ll burn their houses and rape their sheep” he laughed. “Come on let’s have a drink down stairs, there’s a new barmaid I want to get to know better, inside and out” in a flash he was Jimmy again, all smiles and charm, love and warmth, sharks teeth holstered.
“You should have known about the kid’s school Ghost, you must be getting forgetful in your old age” Jimmy teased good-naturedly.
Jimmy plunged down the stairs excitedly into the bar, the noisy sounds of underlings and sycophants greeting his exuberant entrance soon rose as Ghost and Eddie followed.
“Don’t worry Ghost, I forget things all the time” Eddie offered in support, “I write them on my arm just in case” he pulled up his sleeve to illustrate the barely legible scribbling.
“Eddie” Ghost asked politely, looking down and deciphering a name and telephone number, “Whose Jessica?”
Rybeck was concerned by Ghost’s tone, in the three years that he had known the man he was constantly astounded by his seemingly complete knowledge. As far as he could remember he had never brought the man information that he had not already known before hand, and he thought of himself as always a rubber stamp to Ghost’s answers. He had also never heard Ghost contradict Jimmy in front of anyone before. His was a voice heard immediately after Jimmy’s in confirmation, a steel fist of punctuation. If Jimmy had been offended by Ghost’s tone then he was not showing it, and Jimmy’s temper was that of legend. He was a man notorious for hearing disobedience and disrespect everywhere. Rybeck had long thought that their relationship went beyond employer and employee. He’d always thought that Ghost could be the power behind the throne, the whisper in the king’s ear.
In his years on the force, he had met more liars than anyone should have the misfortune to meet. From the drunk addled “Wasn’t me” to the primrose lawyers “My client has no knowledge of that event”. Everyone had a tell, some more obvious than others. Ghost was pleasant to him when he needed it, after the business with the girl; looking back he had played it perfectly. There were no threats, no attempts at intimidation, no gloating, only a calming reassurance that this was only business and his enticements had been perfect. If Ghost had been aggressive and hostile, then Rybeck still had enough balls in the tank to tell him to get fucked and come back swinging. However, he’d heard everything that he wanted to hear, the chance of excitement, the money, the women it was all too alluring. Over the years, Ghost had started out courteous and warming up to friendly after an appropriate amount of time had elapsed. He had an easy manner and a pleasant enough disposition but, there was always something slightly missing. When Ghost was courteous and reserved at the beginning it felt natural, but as they got to know each other over the years the man became difficult to pigeonhole. They were friendly without being friends, and after every conversation he felt that he had divulged more about himself than Ghost ever did. The man’s answers were always the right ones, his tone always pitch perfect and his mannerisms likewise. They had never had a cross word, never a disagreement. The assignments that he was given were always just the right side of the line for him, and he had never felt pressured or under threat. On the rare occasion that they had talked away from business it felt as though he was taking part in a script.
Rybeck had toyed with studying physiology at university when he was younger; on a placement, he had interviewed low threat level subjects at an institution over near Sandy Bay. One of his interviewees had been a woman who had drowned her only daughter in a cold barren bathtub when she wouldn’t stop screaming. He had interviewed her in a bitter white room devoid of stimulation. Her attitude had been friendly, and her answers had been full of teary remorse and broken hearted platitudes. But for all of her distraught wailings as the interview progressed Rybeck found himself watching her eyes. It was as though the connection between her humanity and her eyes had been severed in some way. The extreme emotions that crashed across her face in waves never touched her eyes, and after a while, he felt like he was watching a marvellous actress performing on a grand stage for the galleries. There were times with Ghost, that he almost felt that the man was wearing an almost imperceptible mask. One that was hand carved by artists, and one that was almost perfect, almost.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
April 2012
Ghost was driving too fast and he knew it, normally he would never risk anything as visible as a speeding ticket, but he had no choice. Someone had flung a fistful of the warm brown smelly stuff at the oscillating cooling device.
The phone call had come through that afternoon, and it was only blind luck that he had caught the call. Jimmy was off at a charity auction at Drayhorse Manor parading for the flashbulbs and drowning in the attention. The call had come from Damien at the Regal Casino, and it was not good news, Johnson was missing. The Regal was Johnson’s base of operations; from there he ran the narcotics division as Jimmy liked to call it, with Tank and Wilkes. Apparently Johnson had not shown up this morning, normally if a man was missing for a morning then it was no cause for concern, but this was Johnson. The man was a machine, never a day missed or a penny missing from the accounts. Ghost had sent out his own searching net and had trawled nothing in return, Johnson was gone. His very first thought had been Tank; the big bruiser was not beyond retribution and thoughts of violent ascension up the ranks. As it turned out he had not turned in this morning either, but somehow it did not feel right. He knew that the second Jimmy heard about this he would put the hit out on Tank and wash his hands. But Ghost knew that if Tank had committed the deed then he would be front and centre this morning claiming the credit.
He swung his Audi into the Regal’s parking lot and was out of the door almost before the car had stopped moving, he covered the distance to the large entrance in seconds.
The large imposing building lay dormant in the fading spring daylight, the bright lights were dark in slumber awaiting the appro
aching dusk. He used his universal key card that worked with every one of the firm’s buildings and units. There were only three such cards in existence, he had one as well as Jimmy and Eddie for different reasons. He opened the main doors and passed into the lobby area, the walls were bright and cheery, rich reds and handmade Roman columns adorned the walls. It was an entertaining and welcoming environment meant for enjoyment and pleasure. The floor was always spotless and clean, and the glass gleamed and sparkled in the cashier booths. Everything was carefully maintained and pristine; Ghost had always insisted on the very height of cleanliness in all of their operations. The decorating was carried out meticulously on an annual basis regardless of the need. Ghost could immediately tell that the cleaners had not been through here today, the lack of a fragranced detergent aroma puzzled him. He knelt and put a hand down, on further inspection the carpets had not been cleaned the pile was lower than it should be.
He passed through the lobby area and into the casino, normally it was a space filled with noise and people. The lights would be bright and loud, and the slot machine concerto would sing piercingly enticing the desperate. The tables and wheels were empty and devoid of life and the giant room was a giant graveyard. His presence was only soundtracked by his muffled footsteps on the hardwood floor, drifting towards the high ceilings and dissipating in the expanse. As he headed through the darkened casino floor towards the offices at the rear, he was uncomfortably reminded of the Jenkins house. Regardless of what Rybeck had told him, he was not convinced. He had seen enough dead bodies in his time to know the difference, Jenkins was still missing as far as he was concerned, and his wife was not answering her phone. He was intending to get to the bottom of the affair today when Wilkes’ call had interrupted his plans.
For some instinctive reason, he did not call out; announcing his existence in another dark lifeless building did not seem the wisest course of action. Neither did he turn on any of the lights, no matter how attractive the idea of powerful illumination was right now. The back room that housed Johnson’s private office was protected by a large, solid oak door. Ghost pulled out a bunch of keys and searched for the right one, carefully rotating them so as to not allow the keys to jingle together, broadcasting his attendance. He slid the key into the lock and gently eased the door open, the room unsurprisingly, was pitch black inside. Ghost took a breath and held it, he closed his eyes and felt the room, he could not detect any life inside, and he could hear no breathing nor feel another living presence. He slipped into the darkness and closed the door against his back deciding that he did not want to be surprised from behind. The powerful office desk lamp suddenly exploded into life blinding him with shock as much as light.
Tank sat behind the desk, and the big man did not look good. His face was ivory pale, highlighted more so because of the dark red blood smeared across his cheeks. Ghost was probably more shocked at his inability to sense the man in the room rather than Tank’s appearance.
“Tank?” He ventured cautiously.
Tank sat rock still, his features motionless stone, his eyes, thought Ghost, his eyes used to be a muddy brown, now they were a translucent blue, so pale that they bordered on colourless. The big man’s expensive suit was torn in several places, and his crisp white shirt was darkly stained all down the front. There was something about the man that he could not quite place, he’s not breathing, he suddenly realized. On closer inspection, Tank’s broad heavy chest was still, and there were no signs of life. Ghost, angry with himself for being so spooked, strode towards the body. Before he reached the corpse, it stood and spoke,
“I’ve been waiting for you” Tank rasped with gravel in his voice.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
February 1995
Bennett Drake turned his face up towards the full moon and bathed in his cold illumination, he stretched and yawned for this was his morning. The day’s sunlight had long since retreated to a safe distance and the shadows had lengthened, throwing welcoming arms to embrace the night’s black caress.
The crumbling derelict mill was a million miles away from the lap of luxury in which he had resided in another life. He had been a man who’d submerged himself in the material and his world had been a shallow existence of frivolous excess, stretching upon his kingdom with a cat's purr. He now thought back on his previous life with embarrassment and shame, he had truly believed that he had been a man with power, but in the last couple of months, he had learnt just what real power was. His resurrection and rebirth had been through fire and pain. When the dishevelled bum had dragged him from his watery grave at the point of death, he had fought against his saviour. His memories were vague of the man’s black embrace; he remembered his head pounding and his vision spinning wildly. His body temperature had risen way beyond any normal level, and his blood steamed and boiled in his veins. He had screamed silently against the pain, and just when he thought that he would be burnt alive, he went cold. His body became frozen and frigid and icy fingers caressed his body, and he had become one with the night.
Drake surveyed his surroundings, the mill had been long since abandoned to the elements, and in the three weeks that he had relocated here, he had only seen other tramps. They came noiselessly, emerging from the darkness carrying or pushing their meagre belongings, drifting sightlessly from the rest of the world. They were the underclass, the invisible, the untraceable, and the perfect place to begin to lay his foundations.
When he had moved in, the mill had only one room that offered privacy and discretion. It was on the ground floor at the rear of the building, the front walls had crumbled away exposing the innards to plain view. The roof had caved in leaving only remnants for the birds and occasional bat to nest and home. The rats had stridden confidently amongst the ruins; there was no need for scurrying here, no requirement for shadow hugging, for this was their domain. The squalor would have appalled him only a few short weeks ago, but he was a different man now, he was indeed, no longer a man.
His saviour had been a creature with barely a memory of being human, his mind had been shot and faulty, and his speech came in short sharp bursts with varying clarity. He had taken Drake’s faltering and evolving body to his lair, dragging him effortlessly across the grungy stones at the river’s edge. His lair had been an abandoned maintenance shack in the sewer system, left derelict and deserted by the city’s workers in favour of an above ground abode. For three days, Drake had drifted in and out of consciousness; his dreams were black in nature and blood in colour. He seemed to be always hungry and desperately thirsty, the landscape of his dreams seemed to flow and merge as timelines fluctuated fluidly and with grace. At times, he was himself, at times he was a million others, he witnessed battles through the ages, the weaponry and uniforms changed, but the carnage remained. At times he was hunting and at times he was hunted, he was hated, and he was worshipped, but he was always hungry and his appetite was insatiable. When he finally awoke into the real world, he was aware firstly of the smell as his nose burned with the rank odours. Then his ears screamed with the noise of the cars that thundered above his head on the tarmac road. Every sense was humming with a thousand volts; it was as though he was suddenly jacked into the national grid and the electricity roared through his veins and crippled his thoughts. Slowly, inch by inch, he began to gain some level of control over his rushing senses. He struggled to his feet and wobbled, swaying in slow motion. He grimaced as he grasped a metal table for support and his spinning head clanked against the hard surface. Just then the door swung open, and his saviour entered, the man was short at around five feet four and his face was encased by a full heavy ginger beard that obscured his features save his eyes. His eyes were a translucent blue, piercing and vibrant and Drake found himself staring into them unable to break away. Whilst the iris was pale the pupil began to flame outward, and Drake was lost in the fire.
The man laughed self-indulgently, a low rough rasping noise from a sandpaper throat, abruptly he stopped, the eye fires died and Drake felt himself released
. The man removed a dirty brown cloth cover from a box on the table and reached inside. He brought out a struggling brown snapping rat; it twisted violently against the intruder. The man slit its throat quickly and expertly with a soiled long razor thumbnail, and held it out towards him. Drake recoiled in revulsion away from the spraying rodent. The man shook it angrily towards him, he grunted, once, twice, he gestured with his other hand pinching his fingers together and jabbing it towards his mouth. Drake understood the gesture and recoiled even further despite the betrayal of his rumbling stomach. Suddenly the hunger was undeniable, it was the eater of worlds and the crusher of dreams, it was life and death all rolled into one. The man raised the rat to his mouth and drank in great gulps, finished he threw the rat aside. Next he took another rat from the large container, this time he snapped the rat’s neck between two fingers, and he waited for about ten seconds then slit the rat’s throat. This time he shook his head and placed a palm over his mouth and shook his head. He took a third rat and slit its throat immediately, he held out the meal to Drake again. Drake’s insides twisted and squirmed through desire and revulsion in equal measures. As he was about to discover, the hunger would always win, he snatched the rat and broke it in two, spraying the warm blood into his mouth devouring the nourishment. He sank to his knees as his body surged with power. It was a small rush and did not last long, but his mind felt clearer, and his senses were sharper and more under control. He looked to the man again who nodded his head at the meal and reiterated his shaking head at the second dead rat. Drake understood the warning, for whatever reason the live rats were food but drinking from the dead would be poison. He remembered the man’s voice kneeling over him at the river’s edge; he had been mumbling about dead no good, it had been his first lesson.