by Sam Millar
“What do you want with me?”
She placed a finger gently on his lips, bridging them.
“First rule, William: no lies. Lies make you look small; make me look insignificant. Lies are punished; truth rewarded.” From her handbag, she produced a small handheld device, no bigger than a mobile phone. “Japanese technology. Wonderful, don’t you agree? King Zapper, it’s called. A few years ago, these things were the size of bricks. Now look at them. No bigger than a mobile phone. Able to ground a bull in a split second.” To prove her point, she pressed a tiny green button. A bright forked-tongue of cobalt light emerged from the evil-looking device, crackling menacingly along King Zapper’s metal ridge of teeth. Bringing the device to McCully’s face, she hovered it close, as if administering a shave.
“Please …” Instinctively, he pulled his face away from King Zapper.
Undeterred, however, she quickly transferred King Zapper to the boundary of his mouth, allowing it to hover over his lips.
He closed his eyes. Felt King Zapper buzzing close to his lips. Gritted his teeth, waiting for the jolt.
“Eyes open, William.”
Reluctantly, he obeyed.
“Good. Why do you boys always close your eyes? It doesn’t lessen the pain. Trying to prevent the inevitable, perhaps? That’s rule number two: eyes wide open. Close them without permission, and your balls get a kiss. Not from me, of course. King Zapper.”
She brought King Zapper closer. McCully could taste its filthy electricity in his mouth. It tasted like wet copper. His teeth began to rattle. Down his face, sweat trickled, making him think of its salty conductivity, dreading what would happen if King Zapper touched it.
“It’s okay. I know we won’t have to use naughty King again,” she whispered reassuringly, hitting a red button. King slumbered.
“Who … who are you? What do you want with me?” His petrified voice sounded like tin.
“Some information. That’s all. Then I’ll be gone from your life forever. How does that sound, William?”
He tried to nod but his neck was too sore. “What … kind of information?”
“That’s what I want to hear,” she encouraged, while removing a large envelope from a leather attaché case stationed a few feet away on the floor. Flipping the corded lip of the envelope, she extracted a family of black and white photos. Other than a few scuffmarks staining the edges, for their age, the photos looked quite unspoiled.
“I want you to study these, carefully. Think before you speak. I already know the answers. I’m simply testing your truthfulness.”
Outside, the Albert Clock did its roll call, chiming three times. Early morning, and the city was slumbering peacefully.
McCully’s eyes scanned the first photo held in her hands like a storyboard. A group of young men gathered in random positions, some on their hunkers, others standing rigidly in what looked like a patch of darkened ground. The group resembled inquisitive meerkats.
“Recognise anyone?” she asked.
He scrutinized the photo again, baffled at her question. “No … don’t think so …”
She quickly replaced the photo with the next photo in line. Same group of men. Slightly different poses. A zoomed-in close-up. Clearer. Only one of the group was standing now, seemingly staring directly and defiantly in the direction of the lens, a slight puzzlement scribbled upon his face.
“Well?” she prompted.
“No. I’m sorry … I don’t recognise any of them. What’s this … all about …?”
Her hand moved so fast, it was a blur. The King zapped his crotch.
“Ahhhhhhhhh – fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!” A million kicks in the balls. There was a smell of burning cloth in the room.
“Fortunately for you, William, your trousers took most of that voltage, otherwise you would be undergoing an emasculation right in front of my eyes.” She zapped his forehead.
“Arrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Unfortunately, your forehead doesn’t wear pants. I warned you about lying,” she said, withdrawing her hand. A horrific-looking imprint of King’s teeth was horrendously tattooed on the bare space of McCully’s forehead. A small wisp of cathode blue smoke hovered from the ghastly imprint. The stench of burning flesh was everywhere. “Now you have the mark of the beast because of your lying. Don’t lie, William! Lies get fried. Understand?”
“Oh god oh god … please help me … the pain …” he whispered in agony, swooning, fearing a blackout; praying for one.
“Don’t lose consciousness. If you do, I have ways of reviving you, William. Not very fun ways. Do – not – pass – out.” She said the last four words in measured tones, as though she had pronounced the words many times before. “William? Can you hear me, William?”
“Water … a drink … please … the pain …”
“I’ll help your pain later,” she said, producing photo three. “Now, back to our private screening. This time, allow your mind to drift back. Open that door you have kept closed for so long. I am here to help you confront all the monsters from your past.” Her voice was suddenly soothing, bedtime motherly.
Photo three revealed a young man holding up what looked like rags, and even though the photo had been shot in black and white, the darkened area of the rags had the tell-tale design of hardened blood. Darker than the darkest shadow. Two other men appeared to be staring at the rags, smirks on their wild faces.
McCully suddenly jolted, not because of the King, but of voices flooding his head. No stomach, Basil? Feels like she’s still inside – not that you would know what to do with it …
“I …” McCully tried to speak, but his tongue had become unmanageable. “I … oh, god …”
She nodded, kindly. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Take your time, William. There’s no rush now. Everything is going to be just fine.” She eased closer, placing her hand on his swelling chest. Calmed it flat. “There … there … easy … easy … you feel a lot better now. Don’t you?”
He nodded, despite the excruciating pain in head and neck. “Yes …”
“You poor man. Keeping all that poison bottled inside you, all these years, allowing it to ferment. It couldn’t have been easy. How you must have suffered. You’ve had urges all your life to come clean, but never acted on them. I understand the torment, the way it rationalises in your head.”
He nodded again. Her kind words were bringing tears to his eyes.
“The pain … please …”
“You will get help to take away the pain, in a minute. Promise. First, I need you to answer one last question. Okay?”
“Yes … yes … anything …”
“I know the names of all the people in the photos. What I want you to do is confirm the name of the person not in them.”
“I … what do you mean?”
Lifting King from the floor, she sliced Zorro’s Z across his face. His skin sizzled.
“Arrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Shhhhhh. We don’t want to disturb the neighbours. Do we, William?
“Ahhhhhh. The pain. My god the pain … please take it away from me. I beg you. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease …”
“Why don’t you want to listen to me? All this terrible pain can be avoided. If you’re naughty again, William, I’ll disfigure you for life. You must respect my questions.”
“Please … I … I want to help. Really. I just don’t know what you mean.”
“Hmm.” She studied him for a moment. “Okay. I believe you want to help rectify this terrible wrong. So, here we go, one last time. What is the name of the person not in the photos? Not the monkeys, but the big ape, the one you were all answerable to.”
All William wanted to do was close his eyes. So tired. He tried one last appeal.
“He’ll have me killed, if I tell you.”
She looked at him before glancing towards the far window. A few seconds later, her eyes returned to his. “You have my word. I will not allow him to harm a hair on your preciou
s head. That’s a promise. Now, whisper the name in my ear. No one else will hear. Promise.”
With a sigh, he answered, a private murmur fearful of listeners.
She listened intently. Closed her eyes. Sucked in air. Opened her eyes. She had changed. “Despite all you have done, there is a modicum of goodness in you. Never permit anyone to tell you otherwise, William.”
William nodded at her kind words. “Thank you …” The relief on his face was evident. If only all confessions felt this good …
Without a sound, her hands slipped into her handbag, before extracting an item. A handgun. Tiny, yet somehow it looked massive in her petite hand.
“Oh fuck, no …” William tried closing his eyes.
“Unlock your eyes, William. Don’t be a coward. This is the last station. Everyone off the stagecoach.”
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, becoming nauseated at what awaited.
Her left hand was attaching a bulbous silencer, extending the length of the gun. The tiny gun was now truly impressive.
William’s face was quickly losing colour, bleeding itself white as he peered fixedly at the gun and its horrible addition.
Gently, she pressed the gun against his chest. Cold metal on clammy skin. “Time to pay the piper, William.”
“Please … I …”
The sharp attention in her eyes derailed for a second, focusing on something else. “You believe in this?” she asked, the gun capturing the silver relief medal and chain on his neck.
“It’s my … Saint Christopher … a present from my mother, god rest her soul.”
“Do you believe in it, I asked?”
His lips were sandpapery dry and he tried licking them. No saliva.
“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “I believe …”
She pulled it violently from his neck, watching the chain’s links fragment, spilling to the floor.
“Heads or tails?” she asked.
“What?”
“Heads or tails. You call.” She placed the medal on her thumb, balancing it perfectly.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“For such a supposedly intelligent man, you seem easily confused, William,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “If you don’t understand now, you will never understand. Your moment for understanding has turned to dust. I’ll call for you. If your saint lands face up, you live. Simple; nothing complicated.”
“Please …”
“There is no more please.”
She flipped the medal into the air.
He watched it spinning, a silver blur. He sucked in air, just as the medal fell soundlessly on the carpet, inches from his feet. The angle of his face prevented him from seeing which way it landed. His heart kept drumming in his skull. The rich cloying scent of overripe bananas and pungent onions hung in the air: the tangible smell of fear.
Without haste, she inspected the coin’s outcome.
“He’s turned his back on you, William.”
Her words were a blunt blow to his chest. His breathing began to collapse.
“Please. I’m begging you for my life. You don’t have to do this.”
“I do. It’s predestined. You created this moment in time. I’m simply the harbinger of that creation, bringing it to a successful conclusion, for us all.”
With those words, communication of some sort finally passed between them.
He shivered, not because he was cold, but because his body instinctively and finally recognized what he could only imagine but had not fully grasped, minutes ago.
“Please …”
“A word repeated too many times dilutes its taste, William. It becomes meaningless.”
Defeated, his old anger and arrogance quickly returned. “Fuck you, then! Rot in hell!”
“A fitting imprecation – for yourself, William.”
Outside, a farrago roll call of sounds: a prowling taxi beeped its horn at a lone straggler; the soft thunder from a train heading towards Belfast Central vibrated along the carpeted floor of the apartment; a bewildered gull called for directions. Lost. Forever.
“Do your worst, then. You never had any intention of freeing me. Did you? Answer me, you fucking lying whore!”
She said nothing, and in saying nothing she said everything, shooting him where the priest had left his dirty thumb print, just twelve hours earlier.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tuesday, 27 February (Morning)
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.’
Charles Wolfe, The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna
FROM EXPERIENCE, KARLA knew that all funeral burials were sombre affairs, but this was minimalist and dour in the extreme: one indifferent minister reading a brief eulogy of indifference; six onlookers nudging each other as two members of the press snapped their photos for the evening edition. Karl doubted if any of the onlookers were members of Chris’s family. More than likely, morbid ghouls attaching themselves to the death of someone infamous. If a man were judged by the amount of mourners at his funeral …
This sudden epiphany, that forgiveness can be a mean bastard once it finally enumerates, only added to Karl’s depressive mood.
“What a terrible life, you poor bastard.”
Even the length of time – over a week – to have the funeral finally agreed to by the local authorities, had seemed to Karl to be verging on pettiness with just a tinge of revenge. We didn’t have the balls to kick you when you were alive, Chris Brown, but we sure as hell can kick you now …
From a selected spot, Marty Harrington, owner of a chain of funeral parlours – Heavenly Harrington’s – peppered throughout the city, stood watching his gang of gravediggers lowering Chris Brown’s coffin into the open crevasse. He seemed well pleased with their performance. A few minutes later, he nodded for the clay to be shovelled down.
Upon noticing Karl’s feeble attempt at remaining inconspicuous, he made his way across the grassy path, too eagerly for Karl’s taste.
“Going to the card game tomorrow night, Karl?” asked his card-playing adversary.
“Hopefully. I’ll see what happens before I commit myself.”
“Didn’t know you and Chris Brown were friends? Didn’t know he had any,” continued Harrington. “One day he was king of the castle; next he’s nothing but a float in the moat. Can you believe he murdered more people than the number of mourners at this funeral – and two of them are my staff, brought in for the media? At least I’ll get some free publicity out of this. What do you reckon?”
Something in his piss, perhaps, or just the sudden depression brought on by Chris Brown’s funeral, but Karl deliberately ignored the grinning Harrington, and walked away in furious silence. He felt guilty, as if his own apathy had played its part in Chris’s death, and suddenly he realised that today, life was going to take a very serious look at Karl Kane, judge his worth …
* * *
Less than an hour later and two streets away from the intended address, Karl stepped from his car, tightening the collar of his overcoat in a vain attempt to prevent the noose of chilly wind tightening against his neck. Scrums of dead leaves covered the streets like unhealed scabs. His shoes crunched them, the sound reminding him of childhood days, playing with his father in the park.
Quickly expunging the thought, he pushed through a busted gate leading down the tiny front garden of the house adjacent to Chris’s.
He rang the bell once; then once more, but got no response. He knocked on the front door. No answer, even though he could detect movement from inside. Peeping through the letterbox, he was quickly greeted with a howl. “Get away from the fucking door before I set the dogs on your arse, you peeping Tom bastard!”
“I only want to ask you a couple of questions concerning your neighbour,” responded Karl.
“Right! That does it. Don’t say y
ou weren’t warned!”
Quickly backing out of the tiny garden, Karl moved to the next house, and rapped on the door.
To his relief, the door opened.
“Yes?” asked a man, filthy shirt and jeans, newspaper tucked under his arm like a sergeant major’s baton. The smell of boiled sprouts was everywhere. It stank like baby shit.
“I was wondering if you could help me?”
“Depends, doesn’t it? Are you lost?” asked the man, his thick eyebrows curving suspiciously.
“No, I’m not lost. It’s actually about your neighbour, Chris Brown.”
“Chris Brown?” The man’s face screwed into a fleshy knot. “Called himself Jim Cusack, the bastard. No one about here knew he was a fucking police tout. Didn’t know we had a rat infestation. You a friend of his?”
“Er, no. Not exactly.” In his mind, Karl heard a cock crowing three times. “I was wondering if you heard anything unusual on the night of the murder?”
A hearty “fuck off” was shouted into Karl’s face followed by the front door being slammed on it, barely missing his nose.
Similar greetings awaited him, as he tried two more houses, all expressing their anger that a social leper minus his bell had the audacity to hide in their neighbourhood.
“Got what he deserved,” muttered the saintly looking old lady at number eighteen, her grey hair newly permed and looking like candy floss gone mad. “And any friends of his should get the same,” she suggested, sagely, smiling like a sharpened knife. Her false teeth were the only things that looked real.
She watched Karl leave, and he could feel her eyes on his back as he made his way to Chris’s house.
Remnants of police tape remained studded to the front door, warning Do Not Cross. Murder Scene. Karl ripped the plastic tape away.
Fiddling the stolen key into the lock, he whispered a silent prayer that it would fit.
It did.
Once inside, he quickly closed the door and fell against it, releasing trapped air in his lungs. He was visibly shaking. Breaking and entering? What have you got yourself into? Wilson would love catching you here. What if he knows what you’re up to, and is outside watching? Shit. Explain your way out of that, Karl me bucko …