by Sam Millar
For a brief, cogent moment, he saw sparks dancing before him. Cathy was removing what little clothing there was attached to her body, her eyes never leaving his.
He could now see, for the first time, that Nature has been careless in its disregard for her anatomy. Her body was misshapen, bent scoliotic. Blue veins mapped the entire expanse of her exposed skin. Yet, despite all the imperfections, there was a repulsive beauty for any eye willing to look.
“You lying bastard! If you’re not a cop, what was this doing in your fucking coat? Eh! Answer, you bastard, before I blow your lying skull off!”
The .357 Colt Python being held tight against his head was wobbling in her trembling hands.
“No! Don’t! Just … just let … just let me explain. P … p … please … C … Cathy …”
Suddenly, everything developed into a still-life framed negative. Cathy’s knuckles became bone-white. Her finger tightened on the trigger. Karl held his breath. He imagined the trigger being pulled, the bullet tearing half his ashen face off.
“I’m listening, but I can’t guarantee for how long,” replied Cathy, breaking the deadly silence. “It better be good, otherwise it’ll be bad – for you.”
Karl tried bringing saliva to his mouth, but it remained dry as cotton. “I … I keep it for protection. I’ve made plenty of enemies, over the years as a private investigator. Just for protection … that’s all …”
“I don’t believe you,” she hissed, adding pressure to the trigger.
She’s going to do it. The mad bastard was going to do it. “Just look at the barrel, for fuck sake! Look … look where the serial number was. It’s been filed off. The gun’s illegal. Think the cops would allow me to carry that about with me? You’ve got to believe me, Cathy.”
“Don’t got to do anything, except pull this trigger! Lay down, face to the floor!”
“Look, Cathy, there’s no need –”
“I won’t tell you again – get on the ground!”
With a free hand, Cathy produced a needle, its syringe filled with polluted brown liquid. Drops fell from the needle’s tip leaving a creeping trail. She made a movement, bringing herself closer to Karl. There was heat, tremendous heat, shifting from her body. She reached and touched his shoulder.
He recoiled.
“Don’t,” she whispered, moving her tongue around the word as she slipped the needle into Karl’s neck.
Initially, he couldn’t feel it, but then came the rush, a cold rush of exhilaration and power invading every pore and blood cell, confusing his senses.
Tiring, Karl closed his eyes to the profane madness. He could feel Cathy pulling him on to his back, sliding on top, her oily skin as slippery as a snake. He tried pushing her off, but his arms had become impotent.
“Don’t fight it,” she whispered. “Easy … that’s right. Nice and easy …” She began removing his clothes, gently at first, then with purpose, ripping them.
“Please … don’t … do this, Cathy …”
He could feel her fingers guiding his penis into her wet darkness.
Then everything went bizarre …
Someone began painting tar over his eyes. Everything was changing from bone-white to night-black. His brain slowed down to an absolute crawl. Wobbly. Rubberisssssssssssed. The table in the corner was moving towards him, its wooden legs now suddenly human flesh, rubbing up against him, panting like a sexual dog. The curtains covering the window formed into giant tongues. They licked his naked skin tenderly. Everyone and everything was his friend. The room was changing colours: a kaleidoscope of pyschedelic rainbows. Naked cherubs went sliding down the rainbows, giggling and waving at him to join in. He waved back in slow motion, watching their shoulder-blades see-sawing with movement, their tiny buttocks grinning with pleasure. Soft music permeated his cranium. The entire place was becoming a petri dish of weirdness.
Cathy was grinning, holding a collection of syringes the size of knitting needles, rubbing them against each other. Klick Klick Klick, they sounded.
“You really think I gave a fuck about some little whore?” asked Cathy, eyes widening, a sinister smirk taking over her entire face. “Oink Oink!”
Karl thought of Les Tricoteuses, of Madame Defarge’s smirk of death. It chilled him to the bone.
“You … you’ve got to help … help them … please, Cathy …”
Suddenly, without warning, the entire scene began speeding right back up to normal. Karl felt his insides pulling tightly together. Something tangible began climbing into the back of his mind, switching his entire world off. Seconds later, he dissolved into a rolling sea of darkness, punctuated by flashes of white light. The darkness seemed endless. The floor opened up, swallowing him. The room went into hiding.
The last thing he saw was the figure of a man, standing beside Cathy, grinning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.”
Voltaire, Epistle to the author of the book, The Three Impostors
“Karl?”
“Huh?”
“Open your eyes, Karl,” said a man’s voice.
Somewhere in Karl’s head, a buzz saw was cutting through his skull as he slowly began opening his eyes. Bleached light stung like acid. He closed them quickly, shielding eyes with an arm.
“Shit!”
“Sorry,” replied the voice. “I keep forgetting about that. Let me dim myself down a tad. There. How’s that?”
Gingerly, Karl willed his reluctant lids open. He was in a room of some sort. All white, washed-out, lacking a focal point of colour for the eye to concentrate on. A stranger was looking in through the windows of Karl’s eyes. The stranger’s skin was almost fluorescent, eerily not unlike the room itself.
Momentarily disorientated, Karl blustered, “Where … where the hell am I?”
“Hell? I hope that was just a slip of the tongue, Karl,” replied the stranger, smiling slightly. “Don’t you remember? You puffing away like a kid behind the bicycle shed in school, before taking the needle? This is my House – or it was.”
The room slowly began morphing into colours and shapes and smells – smells of incense and melting candles quickening the air.
“The old church …? Who … who are you? You’re not the one I saw standing beside Cathy.”
“You can’t guess who I am?”
“Not in the mood for guessing, friend. Just tell.”
“I’m Jesus, Karl.”
“Of course you are. You can tell me who’s going to win the Grand National, then?”
“I never encourage gambling, Karl.”
“Did Cathy tell you my name? Where is the man who was with her? Was that Bob Hannah?”
“Cathy and Bob?” Jesus laughed. “They are not on my team. Sin drips from every curve of Cathy’s seductive body. That’s not the first time Cathy’s done the old apple and needle trick. That goes way back to the Garden. And I mean way back.” The laugh became secretive.
“Who the hell are you?”
“You really shouldn’t use that imprecation in my presence. Good job I have a sense of humour, Karl. So don’t go listening to all those crazy followers of mine telling you different. I can’t stand those born-again Christians, void of all humour.”
For the first time, Karl noticed that the large crucifix dangling from the ceiling was now vacant of its lone occupant. Quickly he began scrutinising the man a bit more closely. Bearded and scraggy-looking, partially clothed in rags and wearing a filthy T-shirt stating: I was an atheist until I realised I was God. To Karl, there was a borderline familiarity about him, a sliding sense of recognition.
Attempting to stand, Karl suddenly felt his knees turning to rubber. “Oh …”
“Steady,” encouraged the soothing voice of Jesus.
Karl could feel burning bile bubble in his throat. Without warning, he collapsed to the ground, vomiting violently. His world began spinning and spinning. He hadn’t felt this sick in years. Wondered if
he was dying – or simply dead?
“Oh God,” he moaned.
“Yes?”
“Don’t. Okay? Don’t be an annoying bastard,” said Karl feebly, trying to sound threatening, wiping sour spillage from his mouth. “I’m not in the mood for any of this shit.”
“Why?”
“Can’t you see? I’m stoned.”
“Where I come from, being stoned takes on an entirely different meaning. A lot more sinister.”
“Hilarious. A real Frank Carson. Just leave me alone … oh … my head …”
“Your features look tired and battered, Karl. What you really need is a faith lift. If you want, I can turn that frown upside down and make your soul all aglow,” replied Jesus. “Here, let me give you a hand up.”
Karl reached for the hand, immediately noticing the drilled wound. It appeared to be damp, the leakage slightly thick. Instinctively, he recoiled slightly.
“What’s … what’s wrong with your hand? It’s bleeding.”
“Stigmata,” responded Jesus, smiling a weird and wonderful smile. “You can’t pretend to ignore it, Karl. It demands your attention.”
“Of course,” replied Karl, sarcastically. “Have to get one, the next time I do party tricks for Naomi.”
From a click of Jesus’s fingers appeared lit cigarettes – two. Jesus eased one towards his mouth while offering the other to Karl.
“No thanks,” said Karl. “Trying to give them up.”
“Lead us not into temptation, eh?” said Jesus, smiling a wonderful, blindingly white smile that any ad man would die for.
“Something like that.”
Sucking gently on the cig, Jesus closed his eyes, seemingly taking in the taste.
“It’s been a very long time since I had one of these. I really needed that – bad. Oops. I guess I shouldn’t really be associating bad with me, should I?”
Karl said nothing, watching the cigarette slowly eat itself, disappearing in a crackling wisp of smoke like a lonely spectre.
“Take my hand, Karl,” commanded Jesus, his voice strong yet gentle. “Don’t be afraid. It won’t bite you.”
Stifling an impulse to ignore the request, Karl reached and reluctantly grabbed the extended hand. Pow! A tactile shudder, quickly followed by a surge of a thousand little jolts shooting through his nervous system began railing and rattling along his spine, before exiting his mouth and ears. He staggered, his feet feeling as if floating inches from the ground.
So real. Sooooo realllll. Surreallllllllllllll.
“Easy, Karl. Don’t rush the rush. There’s no hurry. We have all eternity.”
“Who … who are you … really?” Hesitancy had now entered Karl’s voice. He quickly released his grip on the stranger’s strange hand.
“Really? I’ve already told you who I am: I Am the Great I Am.”
“That must be nice for you. You sound more like the Cat in the Hat. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get going. It was nice meeting you, and all that.”
“I can help you, Karl. Always remember, Jesus saves.”
“Is that so? Where? The Bank of Ireland or Ulster Bank?”
“You really know how to turn the knife, Karl. You’re a bigger doubter than Thomas. We’ve a lot in common, you and I. We’ve both been crucified for one thing or another,” said Jesus, pulling his T-shirt up, turning and revealing an exposed back. It was horribly scarred with hundreds of deep cut lines, raw and damp as sliced bacon.
Karl involuntary grimaced at the scarred back. “Who the hell … who done that?”
“Everyone. Read between the lines, Karl. Don’t allow cynicism and guilt to cloud your judgement.”
“Guilt? What guilt?”
“Your mother.”
Karl could feel the blood draining from his face. His legs were rubberising again. “You keep my mother out of this.”
“You didn’t murder your mother, Karl. You didn’t facilitate it in any shape or form. You were barely nine years old. Don’t you understand that, after all these years?”
“You better stop talking like that, if you know what’s good for you.”
“You were hurt by her, as a child. You witnessed her having affairs with other men, while your father was at sea. You hated her because –”
“You’re a liar! I didn’t hate her! I never hated my mother. I loved her. She never had affairs!”
“You also blamed her for bringing the monster into your house. When she was murdered and you were attacked and left for dead by the same monster, you believed that your thoughts somehow played a part in that brutal slaying. That’s how unjustifiable guilt operates, sitting in a corner like a spider, weaving silently in the dark, making you doubt, questioning your conscience, your faith.”
“Liar! I don’t have any so-called faith. I stopped believing in God’s falsehood a long time ago. God’s all smoke and mirrors. I even spell his name in lower case when I’m typing.”
“Oh, that hurt, Karl,” replied Jesus, a small smile on his face. “Believe in me. I can help. Allow me to oil your rusted faith. Perhaps I should introduce you to Jude? Now there’s an optimist for you. He’s in charge of all lost and hopeless causes.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ll figure it all out. I always do.”
“It must be terrible, being so perfect. Next you’ll be trying to walk on water when you have all that Hennessy in you.”
“Leave me alone! I need no one! I’ve no doubts about that!” Karl squeezed his hands tight against his ears, but the voice still penetrated.
Suddenly, a crackling black and white film began playing, flickering ghostly on the far wall.
“What … what are you doing?”
“Thought you might like to watch an old silent movie with me, for old time’s sake.”
Creepy piano keys began playing Stormy Weather. The hairs on Karl’s neck began to prickle.
The screen came suddenly to life with bursts of interrogating flashes dancing on the darkness of the ceiling, revealing a large country kitchen of some sort. A man, sitting at a table. Karl could only see his back, but it sent shivers down his spine. The man was staring down along the dark paradise of a gun’s barrel, pressed tight against his head. The gun was held by a stocky gunman of brawny beef, a skin-peeling smirk pencilling his leering face.
Lightning was flashing through windows. Everything was in monochrome except a pool of blood oozing from a girl’s body on the floor. The blood was the reddest red Karl had ever seen. It resembled Superman’s cape. Another gunman stood over the body, throwing his head back with laughter, like a hyena on two legs.
“What the …?” Karl attempted to kick his brain into gear, but everything was in slow motion.
The hyena was now semi-naked, its hairy penis stiff while mounting the body. Saliva began pooling round the hyena’s mouth.
The gunman at the table was talking but no words were forming. He placed the gun tighter against the man’s head, and slowly pulled back the hammer. He grinned.
Weirdly, parts of the tabletop splintered outwards, leaving a newly formed deadeye in the centre of the table. The gunman’s head suddenly jerked back violently, his chin immediately developing a tiny cavity, not unlike Kirk Douglas’s famous dimple. A track-line of smooth blood inked from the cavity, causing a miniature bib of dark red to form on his chest. He didn’t move. He didn’t utter a single word. His eyes resembled glass.
A thumb of lazy smoke oozed from the table’s deadeye.
The man at the table now stood, pointing his concealed weapon at the hyena on the floor, firing twice, killing it.
“Turn that damn thing off!” screamed Karl. “Turn it off!”
The screen suddenly evaporated.
“You had no qualms about killing Bulldog. Or Detective Cairns,” stated Jesus.
“They … they deserved it. Bulldog and Cairns both murdered … many people … murdered Jenny Lewis … her mother. I was … I was only … was … defending myself …”
“Yes, I know you were. But it tasted real good when you shot them, didn’t it?”
“They were thugs … bullies, picking … always picking on the weak.” Karl cupped his hands against his ears. He wanted this accusing voice to stop tormenting him. “They murdered … anyone standing in their murderous way.”
“All very true,” acknowledged Jesus. “But you brought yourself down to their level, Karl, didn’t you? You love scratching at the outer skin of Darkness. The relief is tremendous. Isn’t it?”
“Leave me alone!” His hands squeezed tighter. His skull felt ready to explode. “You’re not real!”
“If you don’t believe in me, I can’t help you.” Jesus reached out his bloody hands. “Ask and you shall receive, Karl. I can help.”
“Don’t touch me with your creepy hands! I don’t need you!” Karl’s head began spinning. “Don’t need you. Don’t … need you … need you …”
“Okay. If that’s your final word?” said Jesus, glancing towards the heavens. “Let’s give a round of applause to Karl for his stubborn unbelief. Let’s give him Jericho!”
Despite the annoying voice penetrating his head, Karl could detect other sounds, ripping and scratching sounds, sounds like ribs violently expanding, tearing through their encasements. Without warning, the walls of the old church began crumbling. The naked cherubs immediately flew to the safety of the ceiling. The large crucifix dangling from the ceiling began melting at an incredible pace, pooling on to the floor in a Daliesque bloody puddle before shaping into a question mark.
From Jesus’s wounds, blood came flooding out in a great deluge.
The colour red was everywhere. Wine. Blood. Candles. Eyes. Karl needed to escape, get away from all the madness. He tried staggering out, just as he heard the sound from above. A part of the ceiling caught him, smack dead centre in the forehead.
Everything suddenly became dark as concrete rained down from the heavens, and immediately all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE