Bloodstorm

by Sam Millar

  “Of course you are …” There was no need to read the rest of the letter. It was a carbon copy of the other twelve smirking in the bottom of his drawer from numerous publishing houses, all rejecting his previous manuscripts.

  Karl’s office had always been a frugal affair with only a few cherished items taking up residency. Directly above his head, a framed and personalised drawing from the much sought-after political cartoonist John Kennedy, gazed down upon the room. It depicted a caricature of Karl, dressed like Sherlock Holmes, magnifying glass in hand, reading the fine print of a publisher’s contract. Three framed photos of his daughter, Katie, were proudly centred on a large mahogany table. But it was an engraved plaque resting on his desk that always gave Karl indigestible food for thought. ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better’. Samuel Beckett.

  “I am failing better, but I can’t help feeling you were an old cynical bastard, Sam.”

  Two more letters were extracted from the tray, both with identical themes: Final Notice. One was from the telephone company stating that his phone line would be cancelled at the end of the week, should no attempt at payment be made on a three-month overdue bill; the other was from the law firm of Richards & Richards, demanding more alimony for Karl’s ex-wife, Lynne.

  “What a start to the week,” mumbled Karl, flinging the letters back into the messed tray.

  “Your secretary told me to go right through. The door was open,” said a man standing between the door’s framework, coat hanging limply over his left arm.

  The man was stocky, with the battered, unshaven face of a failed pugilist. Liver spots ran down the side of his face like rusted tears. His skin was as grey as ashtray crust. Decorating his knuckles were thick patches of red hair, making Karl think of an aging orang-utan – or gorilla. But it was the eyes that reigned supreme over all focus points of the man’s face. Static. Disquieting. Beetle-skin dark.

  “I’m Bill Munday.” The man smiled but his mouth barely moved.

  Karl extended his hand. “I’m Karl Kane, Mister Munday. What can I do for you?”

  Munday shook Karl’s hand – a bit too convincingly for Karl’s liking. To Karl, Munday’s slab of hand felt like the inside of a turkey at Christmas.

  “I’m hoping you can help me with a little piece of information, Mister Kane.”

  “Won’t you sit down? I’m just browsing through some threatening letters sent to one of my clients from two dicks.”

  Pulling up a chair before sitting, Munday said, “I’ve been told you’re one of the best private investigators in Belfast, and very discreet.”

  “I never argue with the truth.” From a crushed carton resting on top of his desk, Karl plucked a cigarette from a quickly depleting stock. He fired up a Zippo, its flame long and thin, and gave life to the cig before releasing a prayer of smoke from his nostrils. He offered a cig to Munday.

  “No thanks. Gave them up a long time ago.”

  “Good for you. Wish I could,” said Karl, sucking again on the cig. “Well, what can I do for you … Mister Munday?”

  Unrolling a newspaper in his massive hands, Munday tapped page four. “Have you read about the body found in Botanic Gardens, not too far from the museum, yesterday?” he said, handing the newspaper to Karl.

  Karl studied the page. “I think I heard something about it, on the radio,” he lied, more concerned about the horse results, twenty pages down, or the obituaries on page thirteen, where he liked to keep tabs on no-show clients. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Munday nodded. “Black, with four sugars.”

  Pressing a button on the phone’s intercom, Karl requested: “Naomi? Two coffees. Black with four sugars, for Mister Munday.”

  “What?” returned the affronted voice of Naomi. “I’m a secretary – unpaid for in the last two weeks – not a waitress. Get off your bloody backside and get it yourself!”

  “Coffee machine seems to be out of order at the moment,” mumbled Karl, releasing the button quickly, directing the cig to his lips again. “The body in Botanic Gardens? What of it?”

  Pulling his chair closer to Karl’s desk, Munday whispered, “I need you to find out as much information as possible. Who it is; how he died. The usual stuff.”

  The cig froze momentarily at the entrance to Karl’s mouth, before continuing its journey. Karl sucked on the cig, releasing a dragon’s breath. “The usual stuff? I don’t usually have people walk into my office every day and ask such matter-of-fact questions, Mister Munday.”

  Munday smiled a forced grin that spread his seven o’clock shadow across his big battered face. From an inside pocket, he teased out an envelope, before placing it on Karl’s desk. The envelope wasn’t bulging, but Karl knew that thinness can sometimes conceal the fattest of rewards.

  “There’s five hundreds in there, Mister Kane. There’ll be another five, once you get me the information – discreetly, of course.” Munday edged the envelope tantalisingly closer to Karl’s itchy, tarantula-like fingers.

  An envelope with some good news? Whatever next? Two – no, one hundred to scumbags Dick and Dick; one for ungrateful Naomi; one for the extortionist phone company, and the rest for the poker game tonight …

  “I swear by discretion,” replied Karl, quickly pocketing the envelope.

  “Good. I’ll be in touch,” said Munday, rising.

  “Do you have a phone number, in case I need to contact you?”

  “I know where to find you,” stated Munday, closing the door gently behind him.

  A few seconds after Munday’s departure, the door reopened. “Well?” asked a beaming Naomi, entering the room, her hand outstretched. “My wages, please, thank you very much.”

  Shaking his head with disgust, Karl said, “I warned you about eavesdropping on my business transactions. You’ll take one hundred, and make me a cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll take two, and you’ll invite me out for a nice lunch at Nick’s Warehouse.”

  “Whatever happened to loyalty?” asked Karl, handing Naomi her overdue wage.

  In return, Naomi gave Karl the kind of kiss that promised a lot more fun to come later. “I’ll get both our coats. I’m starving.”

  Picking up the newspaper again, Karl scanned the article for further details on the corpse. Information on the body was sketchy, at best, speculation being king in print. One crucial detail was missing: gender.

  Karl’s arse began to itch, again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Winter’s Nightmarish Tale, 1966

  ‘No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil of those half-tamed demons that inhabit the human breast, and seeks to wrestle with them, can expect to come through the struggle unscathed.’

  Sigmund Freud, Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria

  THE YOUNG BOY slithered out of bed, pyjamas soaked right through to his bones. For a full ten seconds he stood, awkwardly, legs apart, before ditching the wet garments, a plethora of goose pimples spreading over his naked body.

  The urine stench was becoming sharper in the room as he tried desperately to figure out his next move. The bedclothes? How could he get rid of them without exposing his shameful act to his parents?

  It wasn’t his father he was worried about, but his mother. She’d take no excuses, believing excuses only led to more excuses and further acts of shame. If only his father – his greatest ally – were home, and not at sea for the next two weeks …

  Truth be told, the boy knew he should never have been so greedy last night, with the pilfered lemonade from the fridge. Now God was punishing him for his greed, his thieving. All those poor children in Africa with their fat, swollen bellies belying their starvation. His mother always made him watch those horrible documentaries while he attempted to eat his dinner, twisting his ear verbally and physically. See? See how lucky you are? You keep sinning, and God’ll make you come back as one of those unfortunate children. You mark my words …

  The cupboard in the spare room housed f
resh bedclothes, but it was directly across from his parents’ bedroom, on the next floor. He thought about it, calculating the possibilities and the risk factor. If he could only get away with this terrible sin, he promised God that he would never be greedy anymore, would stop pissing himself like the lazy, filthy boy his mother kept accusing him of being; would begin to love his mother as much as he loved his father. Promise.

  Cautiously, he opened the door of his bedroom. A tiny but loud squeak whispered accusingly from the hinges. He stopped all movement. Nothing. Peering cautiously into the shadowy landing, he became unnerved by its darkened shapes, but stepped out, gallantly, regardless. Proceeding on bare feet, he crept along the wall, all the while holding his breath.

  Outside the house, rain started coming down like nails on tin, muffling any sound he made on the journey up the stairs. God was helping him, he could see that now.

  A few more inches and he’d be within the forbidden area of his parents’ bedroom. To his left, the cupboard waited patiently with its crisp, fresh sheets. The prize was his for the taking. I can do this, he thought. Win one over on her.

  Suddenly, a heart-stopping sound floated in the thick air before resting in his ear. The soft TV sound from his parents’ room? The door from their room was slightly ajar, squeezing out dull light like a slice of margarine.

  Sneak by quickly. Hurry. She won’t hear you. God has put the TV on. Don’t you see? He’s honouring your promise. He’s a good God. Just make sure you keep your part of the bargain and be a good boy. Otherwise …

  In the harsh glare of the retreating light, lightning hit the outside. The boy jumped, his heart skittering erratically in his chest. He moved guardedly but with purpose, passing the door, stifling all breathing as he neared.

  Suddenly, the margarine light touched the side of his face. He could feel it burning his skin, forcing him to turn in its direction like a rabbit caught in headlights.

  Unwillingly, he peered through the door’s open spine. The room was fitfully dark, broken only by the spare glow of the television. His damning eyes could see his mother on the bed, sprawled out on her back, naked, her breasts pooling like sloppy yolks. A swirl of pale smoke was provocatively misting over those breasts. He could see her sprouted nipples, and that most private of areas covered by her hair. He was horrified and ashamed, but his eyes didn’t move, held there by some invisible, demonic force. I’ll go straight to hell for this. I know that, now. So will she.

  The television screen was flickering on her eyes, dancing over the skin of her face like a projection in a dark theatre. Her eyes refused to meet his, as if she had been doing something secretive, something darkly forbidden and wrong.

  Mum? he whispered, but the words were not formed, only imagined.

  Suddenly, in a flash of clarity, all was revealed. Blood. Brown creases where it had dried in the lines of her palms; red on her fingers like overused nail varnish; blood streaming from the slit throat, bright and dangerous.

  His mouth gaped open like a frog’s. His stomach heaved. He staggered back, shivering violently, his teeth clattering like castanets.

  “It’s okay, little boy,” said a soft voice, from the far corner of the room, startling him. The owner of the voice was a big man with a blubbery face and insane eyes. He resembled a very strange baby – one that came out of its mother’s womb too late. The big man was naked, plucking at his bloody dick, removing bodily threads, like he hadn’t a care in the dark, bloody world. “What’s your name, little boy?”

  Suddenly, the boy could feel the burdening darkness all around and within, so welcoming to intruders, so generous to murderers.

  “Come here, little boy. I want to show you something; something magical and full of wondrous mystery.”

  The boy screamed, and ran from the room towards the stairs, seeking shelter. His left foot couldn’t get a purchase on a loose step in the middle of the stairs. The carelessness sent him sprawling forward, headlong, arms wildly grasping for a hold. He barely captured the handrail in time, but he was running again, slightly limping.

  The ironing cupboard invited him in. Quiet. So thick and quiet he could hardly breathe, with nothing but darkness pressing tightly against him. He wished his heart would stop thumping in his head. Naked Man would hear it.

  “Little boy, come out come out, wherever you are … you can run, but you can’t hide …” whispered Naked Man, close. Very close. The voice had its own smell.

  The boy held his breath. He could smell the residue of starching powder clinging to the ironing board. It made him think of his mother; it made him feel terribly alone and afraid.

  Without warning, the Naked Man’s fat leg crashed through the door, barley missing the boy’s face.

  “You’ve made me very, very angry …” hissed Naked Man, struggling to extract his fat leg, and it was that split second of chance that the boy took, hoping to reach the front door.

  The boy reached the door. To his relief, the door gave in easily; pulling away without protest. The lovely cold night air swathed his face, his entire naked body. It made him feel alive. Fields were suddenly in his vision. The fields flew by and were soon overtaken by trees. He felt a strange momentum hurrying him along. If he could only reach the McMullen farmhouse, he’d be safe.

  But he never reached the farmhouse, feeling the filthy knife tearing into him, his mother’s blood mingling with his own.

  And thus began his hell and all things dark.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tuesday, 9 January

  ‘The meaning of a proposition is the method of its verification.’

  Moritz Schlock, Philosophical Review

  MAKING HIS WAY down Bank Street, Joseph Kerr called into his local, one of the oldest pubs in the city.

  Over the bar’s counter, a kaleidoscope of whiskey bottles teemed like a glass skyline. A neon Guinness sign beamed, its reflection glossed in smears of white and black ghostly decals.

  Just to the right of the bar, a cluster of customers warmed themselves by an open fire of peat and sparking wood. A smoky residue tinted the bar’s windows. Conversation hummed pleasantly.

  The barman, Paul, without instructions, uncapped a bottle of Heineken and quickly coupled it with a glass. He didn’t pour, simply stationed it in front of Joseph.

  “It’s ball-freezing, out there,” quipped Joseph to Paul, his eyes directed at the fire-huggers sipping their hot whiskies and brandies. “You’d think that bunch would let some of the heat out, let the rest of us benefit from it.”

  A blonde-haired woman sitting alone in one of three booths smiled shyly, then looked away as Joseph’s eyes caught hers.

  “Paul?” Joseph made a movement with his head.

  “What?”

  “Who’s the lady in the booth?”

  Paul shrugged. “Been in a few times, over the last month or so. Makes quite a few phone calls, sips her Drambuie, and then leaves. No fuss, no hassle. Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Paul grinned. “But I don’t know about her being a lady, though.”

  “What?”

  “I reckon she’s a brasser,” whispered Paul.

  “Bollocks.”

  “I can smell it a mile away. Probably using here as a base. If Frank finds out, he’ll fuck her out on her lovely arse. We can’t have prostitutes giving our fine establishment a bad name. Can we, now?” Paul winked.

  From his peripheral, Joseph spotted her looking his way, once again.

  “Send her over a Drambuie – large.”

  “She’s out of your league, mate.”

  “Just do it. There’s a fiver in it for you.”

  Paul sighed, pouring the thick Drambuie before accompanying it to the booth.

  From a mirror, Joseph watched her reactions. She smiled, but shook her head. Paul returned, Drambuie untouched.

  “I’m not going to say I told you,” smiled Paul, pocketing the fiver before returning to his task of scrubbing the countertop’s whitened wood. “Any time you want to give money to Paul�
��s charity, let me know.”

  Up for the challenge, Joseph scooped the Drambuie from Paul’s tray, and headed for the booth. The woman was standing, ready to leave.

  “Dram buidheach,” said Joseph, faking a Scottish accent, all smiles.

  “Pardon?”

  “Dram buidheach. Gaelic for the drink that satisfies. Drambuie. They say it’s bad luck to refuse an offer of a Drambuie.”

  The slightest smile from her. “Thank you, but I’ve had my quota for the day. Perhaps some other time?” She moved, edging out, her perfume intoxicating, controlling, catching him in the throat.

  “What’s wrong with now?” Joseph’s smile widened.

  “I … I’ve … a business meeting to attend.”

  “Okay. Let’s make it business, then.”

  She hesitated. “You’re cheeky.”

  “Among other things,” replied Joseph, and the words tasted good in his mouth. “What plans do you have?”

  The skin between her eyebrows creased into a small, angry V. “You a cop?”

  Joseph laughed, good and strong. “Fuck, no. I hate the bastards, sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”

  She looked at the Drambuie, then at Joseph. “One. That’s it.”

  “That’s all I ask, …?”

  “Suzy,” she replied.

  * * *

  Joseph awoke, the smell of sex strong in his mouth. He felt drained. Body aching beyond physical recognition. Only his cock seemed alive, semi-hard with piss and the remnants of last night’s cum. Strangely, his cock remained sheathed with the used condom provided by Suzy.

  “Where … where am I? Oh … my head …” He tried moving, but his body remained stationary, hands and legs tied to the bed. His eyes were blurred, feeling like they’d been covered in fish scales. Slowly the blur began to fade; his eyes began focusing.