Bloodstorm

by Sam Millar

  No more movement. No more time.

  Using the house phone, Karl quickly but belatedly called an ambulance, his voice muffled. The address. A shooting. Nothing else. Nothing would be gained by remaining or elaborating. Nothing but implications, and questions without answers.

  Quickly exiting the house, he walked straight ahead, not knowing if straight ahead was where he should be walking. The dark was shifting into morning. The stench of death clung to his nostrils and clothes. He welcomed the cold cutting air battering his face.

  Just beyond the car’s shadow, near the trees, he prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that his beloved car would start. If the car was found at the scene, he was finished. Not that he wasn’t finished, anyhow.

  He held his breath. Turned the key in the ignition. To his utter relief, the engine roared. The wheels spun and spun for an eternity, before finally finding traction. He guided the car slowly backwards, curving to the right, retracing his original path.

  In the distance, he could see the landscape of Belfast Castle illuminated in all its glory like a pop-up book. It made him think of Chris Brown, and only now was he aware of Jenny’s broken fingernails embedded into his hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Sunday, 11 March (Afternoon)

  ‘The secret of the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment of existence is: to live dangerously!’

  Friedrich Nietzsche, The Joyful Wisdom

  KARL OPENED HIS eyes. They stung like hell, seized by a flood of late afternoon light slicing through the window blinds. The exact time was a mystery to him, but of little concern. He was stuck in a moment, trying desperately to piece together the events of last night.

  His body ached, and a migraine was munching the inside of his skull. He could sense it worsening, steadily, by the second. Muscles were limp and unresponsive.

  Rubbing one eye with a knotted fist, he shakily made his way towards the bathroom, barely making it before puking down the toilet. There was very little vomit, just a sour residue from the drink he had imbibed forcefully into the wee hours of this morning.

  Retching twice more, he slowly stood. The spinning room slowly steadied.

  Glancing in the bathroom mirror, he studied the face peering at him.

  Shit … who the fuck is that …?

  “Karl? You okay?” asked Naomi, suddenly appearing at the bathroom door, startling him.

  “I’m fine,” he replied, counterfeiting a smile. “Some coffee and I’ll be right as rain.” Splashing cold water on his face, he winced at the sensation before heading back to the bedroom to negotiate his way into his trousers.

  “You had a very restless night. Kept mumbling about dogs and guns,” said Naomi, following directly behind.

  An abattoir of bloody flashbacks had kept Karl wide-awake throughout most of the night. Each time he closed his eyes, Jenny Lewis was staring at him accusingly, covered in blood. You led them to me, to my mother … god’s curse on you, Karl Kane …

  “Painkillers mixed with brandy are not a great nightcap, but a nice steaming cup of coffee is a great antidote, Naomi. Hint hint.”

  “I still can’t believe you had the intelligence to go to the hospital last night, after that car crash, being as pig-headed as you are,” continued Naomi, tortuously ignoring his request. “Though I have to say, I don’t think those stitches look very professional.”

  Karl thought he could detect suspicion in Naomi’s voice.

  “Some young nurse. Nervous little thing. Hardly blame her. She was petrified at the state of me, covered in blood. Her hand hardly stopped shaking.” Karl tried another smile, but it hurt too much.

  “Thank god you had your seatbelt on. I dread to think …”

  He knew the state he was in last night had shook Naomi up, but he couldn’t allow her to get further involved in his bloody mess. The less she knew, the better it would be.

  “I guess some of your common sense must be penetrating my thick head, after all. The seatbelt prevented me from getting a good walloping.”

  Naomi touched Karl’s head, tenderly, before kissing him on the cheek. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll bring you something to eat, get something into your stomach.”

  Karl shook his head. “Too much to do. Besides, I don’t really feel like eating, right now. Just some c-o-f-f-e-e.”

  “Okay,” replied Naomi, smiling. “But I want you to get your strength back by resting. Don’t forget we have that play tomorrow night, at the Grand Opera House.”

  “Play? What play?”

  “Death of a Salesman. Remember? I kept telling you about an up-and-coming young actor called Connor O’Neill? The critics are saying he’s the next Liam Neeson.”

  “Can’t we just leave it for a week or so?”

  Naomi studied him for a few seconds, before icing her voice. “Do you know how long I queued to get those tickets?”

  “What happened to all that compassion, a few seconds ago?”

  “There was little compassion for my arse getting froze in an hour-long queue,” retorted Naomi. “We’re leaving here tomorrow night at seven-thirty sharp for a meal at the Red Panda, then on to the Opera House. No debate.”

  Without waiting for a response, she headed towards the tiny kitchen area.

  Resigned to his fate, Karl entered the living room, instinctively pressing the television’s remote control. Outside the office/apartment, a group of men were working on telephone lines damaged by last night’s storm. Wires were coiling everywhere, like liquorice snakes. The men appeared cold. The afternoon sun was beginning to look glorious, though, belying the weather report and the men’s faces.

  What do you do now? Sweat it out? Wait for Wilson to come? What the fuck have you let yourself in for?

  The television screen suddenly came to life, interrupting Karl’s thoughts. A news conference was well underway. Journalists and reporters surrounded a table, microphones protruding like medieval weapons.

  “What can you tell us about the victims, Chief Constable?” asked a bearded reporter, his size towering over the seated top cop.

  “Three of the victims were serving police officers. Detective Duncan McKenzie, Detective Jenny Lewis and Detective Peter Cairns,” replied the Chief Constable, sipping on a glass of water before continuing. “As you are all probably aware, Detective McKenzie had a long, distinguished career and was recently awarded the OBE for his integrity and bravery, by the Queen, earlier this year in Buckingham Palace. Peter Cairns was the youngest detective on the force. The future looked very bright for him, before he was callously murdered. Jenny Lewis was a young woman with clear visions. She had recently joined an elite group of detectives. Tragically, her disabled mother was murdered, also.”

  Karl’s stomach tightened, then chilled. He felt it heave. He reached to hit the off button, but Naomi’s voice stopped him.

  “Three police officers killed? When did all this happen?”

  “Don’t really know,” said Karl, the words stumbling from his mouth. “One of them was Duncan McKenzie.”

  “McKenzie? The one they all call Bulldog? Wasn’t he the one Ivana spoke about?”

  Karl nodded. He felt a sourness housing in his throat. He needed to puke, again. There was something about the Chief Constable nagging the back of his head. Where had he seen him before?

  The Chief Constable continued answering questions. He refused to confirm that officers had uncovered some evidence: tyre tracks and possibly fingerprints; empty cartridge rounds from guns.

  The bearded reporter continued his questioning. “There has been some speculation, Chief Constable, that more than one gunman was involved and that before they made good their escape, spent time wiping down the kill scene. Any truth in this?”

  The Chief Constable seemed visibly annoyed at the questions. “You make it sound like you were there. Perhaps you would be so good as to enlighten us as to what happened next?”

  A ripple of quiet laughter broke out from the gathering journalists
and reporters. The bearded reporter seemed to be squirming, but quickly recovered.

  “I believe it’s in the public interest, Chief Constable, that our viewers –”

  “It wouldn’t be in the interest of justice to elaborate on speculations from the press. What I can say is this: I have only been promoted to Chief Constable less than six months, and already the crime rate for the city is down significantly.” The Chief Constable reached for the glass of water again. “If the perpetrators of this evil and cowardly deed are listening, I want them to know that they will not escape; that I will not stop until I have brought them to justice. That is my promise. And Ian Finnegan never breaks his promise.”

  Where have I seen you before?

  “Karl? Karl?” asked Naomi. “What’s wrong with you? I said who’s he, that police big shot?”

  “Not too sure …” Karl tried kick-starting his brain.

  “Isn’t that Wilson, sitting beside him?”

  On cue, Wilson’s voice began. “I can only reiterate what the Chief Constable has said. We will not rest until justice has been served.” Even with the pancake make-up on his face, Wilson was sweating terribly. “Now, I’ll take a few questions before ending this brief news conference.” Wilson began pointing his finger vulgarly like an American president. “Caroline? Your question?”

  “Is it true that you already have a list of three to four suspects?”

  “I can’t give you a specific number. But yes, we do have names. Next question …”

  He’s bluffing. They say that at every news conference. He has nothing but fragile webbing. Spiders of spin.

  Karl wished he could turn the damn thing off.

  The phone rang. Karl dropped the remote as if it suddenly had become a hot coal.

  “I’ll get it,” volunteered Naomi.

  “No! No … it’s okay. I’m closer to it.”

  “Okay okay. No need to bite my head off.”

  “Sorry …” mumbled Karl, too late as Naomi quickly left the room.

  The phone’s shrilling voice continued like fingernails down a blackboard. Wearily, Karl picked it up, his voice a whisper. “Hello …?”

  “Kane?” said the voice at the other end.

  “Who’s this?”

  “You know who it is.”

  “Wilson? What are you calling here for? Looking for another punch in the mouth?” A hot bayonet of the shits began stabbing Karl’s stomach.

  “I think you know why I’m calling.”

  “Really?” replied Karl, feigning a yawn. “Why don’t you humour me?”

  “Where were you last night, and the early hours of this morning?”

  Karl squeezed his buttocks tightly. He needed to take a shit. “Me? Never mind me. Where were you?”

  Karl could picture Wilson’s face at the other end of the phone, purple as a plum, reading for exploding.

  “You think you’re so fly, but let me tell you something. We’ve picked up latent fingerprints from the house. So far the national database has not been able to match them with any suspects. But my belief is that one day this murderer of three cops will break the law, possibly drunk driving. Then there will be a match. And just think about this: the Chief Constable has made these murders his top priority. I’m going to personally take charge of this case. I don’t care how much or how long it takes, but I’m going bring the killers – or killer – to justice.”

  “Just like you brought the killers of Chris Brown to justice.”

  “We’re still investigating that –”

  “Particular case. I know. I could write your script for you, Wilson. A little piece of advice for you: you find the murderer of Chris Brown; you’ll find the murderer of Jenny Lewis.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Now it’s my turn to say you know. Your silence and blind eye turning, caused her death. Had you brought the murderer of Chris Brown to justice, Jenny Lewis would, in all probability, still be alive today.”

  “Your sandglass is almost empty, Kane. The Chief Constable has just refilled mine. Time is on my side.”

  “That’s all you have on your side. Sand. Now, if you don’t mind, you and the Chief Constable can fuck off and have a nice day.”

  Clicking both phone and Wilson’s voice off, Karl slumped down on a seat close to the window. He needed air – lots of it. Opening the window, a lovely chill quickly washed over his face. He shivered, but not from the cold. This is the big league you’re in now, lad. Only got yourself to blame. Simple cases and simple money weren’t good enough for you. You had to get complicated. Now look at your future. Jail, if you’re lucky; a visit in the night, if you’re not. Even the Chief Constable has taken a personal interest in you. If only you had kept that big nose out of things … if only you had … if only … if …

  Then it hit him, so startlingly clear it took his breath away. A flashback to the horrible scene of Jenny, her fingers bloody, scrawling the word ‘if’ on the floor. But what if the bloody word wasn’t the nose of a question, but a name – or at least some sort of initials – that could form a name? I. F.

  Now he remembered where he had seen the Chief Constable, his face looking down from an ancient wall, a few weeks ago from a virtual rogue’s gallery of portraits: Woodbank prison. Ian Finnegan had been one of the ex-governors.

  “This was waiting for you in the hall,” said Naomi, breaking his thoughts, handing him a letter.

  “Another bill?”

  “No … the hospital,” she replied, her voice a concerned whisper.

  “Leave it on the table. I’ll open it later. I don’t feel like opening any letters today.”

  “Karl, love, why don’t we just open it now? If you get –”

  “For fuck sake! Are you totally deaf? Just leave it!”

  A few seconds later, Karl stormed from the room, leaving Naomi staring at the brown envelope.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Monday, 12 March

  ‘In the desert of the heart

  Let the healing foundation start,

  In the prison of his days

  Teach the free man how to praise.’

  W. H. Auden, In Memory of W. B. Yeats

  KARL ENTERED THE nursing home with all the trepidation of a condemned prisoner on the gallows. He waited for the stomach-churning smells to rush him: urine, excrement and boiled unimaginative food, and the most salient of them all, loneliness.

  The man was staring at the wall, when Karl entered the room without knocking. He was a tall, yet desiccated husk of a man, whose only flesh was prominent on the neck in small fleshy accordions of skin. Imprisoned between the vertical creases of his pursed lips was a hardcore, unfiltered, unlit cigarette.

  “Hey, Dad,” said Karl, touching his father’s arm, before placing a large bag of fruit on the table close to the wall.

  Cornelius Kane ignored the touch, but removed the cigarette to speak.

  “So you finally came to visit? Must be over a year, now. If you don’t want to visit, then don’t. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I was here last week,” replied Karl, forcing a smile.

  “Were you? Are you telling the truth this time? The last time you were here, you told nothing but lies.”

  “Of course I’m telling the truth. I’m here each Monday of the week, Dad. You know that. I’m like clockwork.”

  “Does my clock work? What kind of stupid question is that? Of course it works – if I could find it. Someone stole it, yesterday.”

  “No one stole it, Dad. It’s been gone for years. You left that back in the old place.” The place of murder and blood.

  Sucking his lips in, Cornelius made a sound, a warning for Karl not to question any statements of fact.

  “I know who stole it. But don’t worry, I have a plan to get it back.” Cornelius pushed away from Karl, and walked to the only window in the tiny room, his socked feet soundless on the wooden floor.

  Years of shuffling foot traffic had left the floor dull and frayed
, turning it into what appeared to be untreated flooring.

  “Give me a light,” demanded Cornelius, bringing the cigarette to his mouth.

  “You’re not supposed to be smoking, Dad. Anyway, I don’t have a light. I’ve stopped smoking. I brought you lots of fruit. It’s far healthier for you.”

  “Who says I’m not supposed to be smoking? Has your mother been whispering in your ears, again?”

  “The doctors.”

  “Doctors? Pah! What would that bunch of quacks know? Smoking has kept me alive, all these years.” Cornelius pocketed the cigarette into his shirt, and then checked inside the pocket, twice, as if making sure the cigarette was still there. “And stop bringing me fruit. I keep telling you it gives me the shits. My arse is raw with you and your bloody fruit!”

  “Okay. If that’s what you want. No more fruit.”

  “Could you at least take your damn shoes off?” snapped Cornelius, glancing at Karl’s shoes. “I had the floors redone yesterday. Cost me a fortune.”

  Obediently, Karl removed his shoes.

  “They done a good job, by the looks of it,” replied Karl, a statement he had made each Monday for the last five years.

  “You remember Marty Jenkins?” asked Cornelius, suddenly brightening.

  “Your old skipper from your merchant seaman days?”

  “Called me up yesterday. Told me, ‘Con, you are one of the best Chief Officers I know.’ Offered me a job on board his new ship, The Ballygally Head. Sails next week.”

  Karl glanced at the old rotary dialling phone resting in the far corner, void of all working elements.

  “That’s great, Dad. The sea air will do you good.”

  “Not sure if I want to take it, though. Kind of busy right now.”

  “Dad, I found you a place.”

  “A place to do what?”

  “A place to live.”

  “Are you talking through your arse? With all the work I’ve done here? I practically put this place together myself. Do you know I put the floors in?”