The Ashes of an Oak

by Bradbury, Chris

  He opened his eyes and gazed across the twilit room. There was a constant shift to his surroundings as his head swam and his heart fought to steady itself to a reasonable pace while his lungs stabilised themselves in the face of overwhelming odds.

  Then he focused upon a picture of Mary. ‘You’re an idiot,’ she said. ‘You’ll be fine after a cigarette and a drink.’

  He could hear her voice as clear as day, that way she had of saying something he wanted to hear in the way he wanted to hear it.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said and poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette. ‘Like you, my love, I am on borrowed time and I’m not gonna waste it on salads.’

  He raised his glass at her picture, then found his copy of Sinatra’s In the Wee Small Hours and sat back in the chair and watched the day close its eyes. The picture frame image of the windows on the opposite wall turned from sunshine yellow to evening blue to the flame of night, fired by the distant dying sun, the lights of town and the street lights outside.

  All the time, with eyes closed, a cigarette in his hand and a whisky balanced on his knee, he heard the soft strings and lazy bass of Sinatra’s band, while the man himself laid bare his soul with that soulful bowlful of fruit he called a voice.

  As he listened, he wondered how he would get by without Mary, how he could possibly listen to Sinatra without her somehow being a part of the mix, how he could read the paper without her rattling stuff around the kitchen, how he could come home to the silent emptiness without expecting the smell of home cooked food or the picture of her asleep in front of the TV.

  How did one exist when the better half has died? And she had been the better half. She had created the potential for greatness in the children she had taught. She had made a difference to their lives so that through her teaching, her patient, kind, tender teaching, had set them on their path through life and helped make them what they would become. She had given birth to knowledge and liberated it on the lips of others, so that the ripples of her goodness would slowly and gently rock the world.

  What did he do? He cleaned up the shit that the assholes of this world left behind. The murderers, the drug-dealers, the paedophiles, the perverts, the corrupt and the insane. Once they reached him, they had nowhere to go. He was the end of the line. After him came only confinement or death. He was not a bringer of good, such as Mary had been; he was a harbinger of doom, one of many who trawled the streets picking up the garbage that the system had thrown out.

  Mary had at least given them a chance, given them hope. He gave them what? A kick and a shove towards oblivion. And they always took a piece of him with them because he believed, in his ebony black heart, that no man was an island, that every man was a piece of the main and that, when one man fell, he took part of another with him. Mary could feed upon her success. He felt that he was crumbling as bits were torn away with each passing day.

  How he had envied her her light and begrudged her his darkness. Next to her, his despair could only grow deeper as time scavenged those remnants of him. Now, without her, even his darkness was gone, for without her light to compare it to, he would become nothing, a black hole, a vacuum through which no light could pass nor sound be heard.

  They had never had children and consoled themselves with an unbounded, unquestioned love for each other. They never tried to find who was at fault, because no one was at fault. This was the way that nature, God, the Devil, whoever, had wanted it. It was their fate to have each other and no more and they accepted that, but at the same time, each felt their pain, the same unspoken pain, that said that once they were gone that was it. There would be no echoes of their love and their lives wandering the earth. There would be no evidence of their existence beyond a weather-pitted memorial in some anonymous cemetery. There was a part of each of them that forever went unused and, in the quietist moments, they had each felt the weight of its existence.

  He fell asleep during I See Your Face Before Me.

  When he woke up at one am, his body knotted from the day, his head heavy and woolly, his eyes unsure in the darkness, the first thing he saw was a man in a sharp, dark grey suit upon his sofa.

  The man sat with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. There was little more to see than his grey silhouette, the crease in his hat, the brim, his shoulders, but it was him, there was no doubt.

  Frank felt his pulse crash through his veins, from his neck to his ankles, in an explosive chain reaction. His ribs shook as his heartbeat filled his chest. Its sound drenched him, a wild kettledrum beat that seemed to push his body to the limits, that wanted to rupture his heart, perforate his blood vessels, burst his ribs, find freedom in his fearful desolation.

  He closed his mouth and breathed through his nose. His nostrils flared as they scooped up the oxygen and strangled it into in a concentrated flow to his lungs.

  All the time he pushed back, back into his chair, as his body, independent of his mind, tried to save itself, to retreat, like a cat caught by dogs in a blind alleyway, his eyes wide, his blue irises dwarfed by the whites.

  The man in the sharp, dark grey suit laughed. His head rolled back and his large mouth opened, his teeth bared, but there was no noise, just the silent image of a laughing man who might have been screaming.

  Then his neck, exposed by the ferocity of his laugh, began to split, as if an invisible knife was being dragged across it, an inch below his jawline, an inch into his neck. Blood fell in a crimson curtain. Through it, Frank could see the white trachea, the taut glistening strings of muscle, the pink froth as air rushed from his lungs and, with nowhere to go, joined with his blood and cascaded down his neck.

  From his severed carotid arteries blood leapt like salmon from the rush and sprayed upon the carpet at his feet, upon the ceiling, where it gathered in sticky drops and began to drip thickly towards the floor. As his heart began to lose power, so the pulses began to diminish, until all that was left was a diminishing gush of blood, an echo of his dying heart.

  At last, the man in the sharp, grey suit lay still. Wetness reflected from him as he lay in an oily slick of blood.

  His hands still rested in his lap. His legs remained crossed, but his head, released of any tension, lay back on the top of the sofa. His neck wound gaped like a toothless smile.

  Frank, his feet up on the chair in front of him, his knees pulled up before his chest, stared fearfully on. He was unable to run and unable to stay. He knew deep inside that none of this was real and yet he also knew that it was as real as it could be.

  He put his legs down, slowly, inch by inch, until his feet felt the carpet beneath them. It was wet, saturated. He could smell the blood and the rotten breath that had steamed from the man’s lungs.

  As he moved to pull himself out of the chair, the man in the sharp, dark grey suit tipped his head forward. He smiled like a clown; a wide, wet, bloody smile.

  Friday

  Chapter 26

  The dead man was found after a 911 call. The caller had stated where the body was and then hung up.

  It was exactly where he had said it would be, on a bench in Lincoln Terrace Park.

  People had passed by thinking it was a sleeping bum. Sure, it was a little late in the day for him to be there, should have been moved on by now, but maybe the paint-stripper they assumed he had consumed the night before had forced him into a deeper sleep than he had planned.

  Either way, they were passing by, so it didn’t matter to them whether he was living or dead.

  He wasn’t in their seat.

  Those were their thoughts.

  The police got there about three minutes before the press. They barricaded the area and posted uniforms around. It didn’t stop the press getting their snaps, but it made it more difficult for them and, since Mary Matto, that gave them some satisfaction.

  The man’s throat had been cut. It had been cut so deeply that it was possible to see the trachea and the muscles.

  His name was…

  ‘…Jake Doyle,’ said Frank. ‘He
’s thirty one, white, unemployed. His throat has been cut and he’s been drained of every last drop of blood. Hung upside down like a pig and bled.’

  Emmet leaned on the desk, his mouth agape. ‘How do you know this, Frank?’ Frank looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his skin waxen and pale. ‘It’s eight in the morning and we only got the call an hour ago. Are you going to offer yourself up as a sacrifice again? Are you going to say that you think you may have killed him? I have to tell you, Frank, this time I might actually have to listen to you.’

  Frank sipped at the hot black coffee that Emmet had poured him. ‘No, Em, I’m not going to say that…’

  ‘You know we found the Hamblett girl’s skin under your nails? There were flecks of her blood on your shirt too.’

  Frank looked stunned. ‘Well, I know now it wasn’t me, Emmet. No matter how it looks, I know it wasn’t me.’

  ‘How? How do you know that, Frank? More to the point, how do I know that? I’ve kept quiet about it, Frank, because of the deaths that occurred while you were in hospital, but now it turns out that they probably have nothing to do with the Token Killer…’

  ‘What?’ Frank straightened up. ‘What are you saying? Are you telling me that Mary was killed by someone else?’

  Emmet could have shot himself. If there was one thing in the world that he did not want to say at that moment in time, that was it.

  ‘Jesus, Frank, I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to hear it like that.’

  ‘How long have you known?’ asked Frank tersely.

  ‘For sure? Twenty-four hours maybe. What would you have me do? Say to you that we think such and such one minute and then something else another? What good would that do you?’

  ‘So who was it? If it wasn’t my guy, who was it?’

  ‘The psych thinks it’s someone trying to cause some sort of diversion.’

  ‘Diversion?’ Frank laughed incredulously. ‘What for? A diversion for what? From what?’

  ‘From the case. He thinks that someone involved in the case is trying to mislead. I don’t know why.’

  ‘So, Mary and this other girl…what’s her name?’

  ‘Charlene Astle,’ said Emmet.

  ‘So Mary and Charlene Astle were killed by someone trying to make it look as if the Token Killer had killed them when, in fact, he hadn’t?’

  ‘That’s about the run of it, Frank.’

  ‘And we don’t know why?’

  ‘No.’ Emmet lit a cigarette.

  Frank could tell that he was holding back. ‘Spit it out, Emmet,’ he demanded. ‘What else?’

  ‘The only thing that occurs to me,’ said Emmet reluctantly, ‘is that they happened while you were in hospital. Up to that time, you were about as good a suspect as we had, and only then because you half insisted it might be you. Then you had the girl’s skin under your nails and her blood on your shirt. If the killings continue while you’re in hospital, then you become discounted as a suspect. That’s the only thought that comes my way. Whether there’s a connection or not…’

  ‘Well,’ said Frank with a spit of bitterness, ‘my alibi’s tight.’

  ‘Jesus, Frank! Don’t have a go at me. That’s not what I was saying. And you know what? Your alibi ain’t so tight, buddy. You knew about the bodies being where they are, every time. You had one of the victim’s skin and blood on you. You were the one found lying next to that particular victim after having some sort of conniption fit. If it hadn’t been you, Frank, we’d have made an arrest by now and you damned well know that.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ said Frank irritably. ‘But that’s a pretty wild thought. No one took me seriously did they? Nobody really thought I killed those people?’ Emmet shook his head. ‘So why would anyone feel the need to cover for me?’

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Emmet. ‘It’s a wild thought, but I have no other. Let me know if you can come up with anything better. So, going back to the reason you’re here and the information that you’ve given me. Would you like to give me some sort of explanation?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank. ‘Yes, I would. Does your wife still dabble?’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘In that ghost stuff? You know? She goes to see that medium…’

  Emmet jumped up and stood behind his chair. ‘Oh, Frank, no. Wait a minute. That’s just a...a…a thing she has. Like the dogs. It’s just a thing. I thought that all that hocus pocus shit would be gone with the surgery, Frank.’

  ‘Well,’ said Frank firmly, ‘it ain’t. Crazy as it sounds, I think I might be haunted.’

  Chapter 27

  Frank headed out the precinct doors and into the bright sunlight. It felt good to have lost the uncomfortable oversensitivity that had come with the tumour, but he still felt exhausted, drained of energy like some spent battery. He put his hat on, glad of the shade, his jacket as crumpled and loose as ever on his bony torso, and set off for the bus station.

  Emmet had phoned his wife, Dolores, and she had in her turn contacted her friend the medium. They had arranged a meeting for tonight. Dolores, apparently, was very excited. Emmet would bring the medium, one Benoît Deniel, round to his apartment at seven-thirty. At this, Dolores was bitterly disappointed. She was, said Emmet, quite proprietorial about her dogs and her medium.

  At ten o’clock Mike Patton had come in. He’d been very happy to see Frank and, after still making sure with Emmet that Frank was persona gratissima, began to talk about the latest murder.

  It was grisly. The victim, Jake Doyle, had been killed around ten pm the night before. He had been drained of his blood in the same way that a pig was drained – hung upside down and his throat slit. The ME could tell this from the direction of the blood flow; he had blood in his nostrils, his eyes were glued together by blood, he had blood in his gums, his teeth, his hair. There was a chance he was alive when it had been done. The post-mortem would say for sure.

  The blood on the body had dried and been covered by an Adidas hooded sports top. Once laid on the bench, the victim’s face was covered and no one would suspect a thing. Such was the pace of life that flowed past him, he could have lain where he was for hours.

  Nothing, as expected, had been stolen.

  He was divorced. His wife had moved to Oklahoma six years ago with their only child. They were trying to contact her. He lived in Brownsville.

  Pinned to the dark blue top he wore was a note written, presumably, in the killer’s hand:

  Idid this one.I did it.

  ‘Well, that confirms it,’ said Emmet. ‘He wants the credit for this one. And he seems a mite pissed off with whoever did the last couple.’

  ‘Did anybody chase up the diabetic lead?’ asked Frank.

  ‘Johnny Tardelli’s on that,’ said Mike. ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘We aren’t even getting close,’ said Frank despondently.

  ‘It’s a process of elimination,’ Emmet reminded him. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Let me come in,’ pleaded Frank. ‘I’ll make phone calls, do the paperwork.’

  ‘And die at your desk,’ said Emmet. ‘No. Go home. Go and watch some crap on the TV. Fill yourself with burgers and shakes and get some meat on you. You’re a bag of bones, Frank. One gust of wind and you’ll be stuck up a tree. Get some rest.’

  ‘I don’t want rest, Em. I want to do something. Do you know what it’s like in the apartment right now? I feel like the only person alive in the whole damned world.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Emmet. ‘But if I let you back at a desk now, less than a week after your brains were breathing fresh air, the Chief would keelhaul me. Rightly too. Go home and I’ll see you later.’

  Frank heard a call and turned round to see James Cowdell twitching his way towards him. Frank smiled. James always walked like he was having bolts of electricity shot through him, his head constantly on the turn to see what was going on where.

  ‘Hey, Frank,’ he called. ‘Frank.’

  Frank raised hand to say that he had seen
him and leaned against a wall.

  ‘Don’t ever do undercover work, James,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t last three seconds.’

  James pulled up next to him. He was dressed in a spot clean wife-beater and blue jeans with white, black-striped sneakers and stood out like a nun at an orgy. He had a sports bag in in hand. It had never been near a sports field.

  ‘I tried to phone you, Frank.’

  ‘I wasn’t in.’

  ‘I know. I realised that after I’d let it ring for a while.’

  ‘You could’ve used the answerphone.’

  ‘I don’t like them, Frank. You don’t know who might hear stuff, you know. Everybody’s spying on everybody these days. Besides, I knew you’d be here. I mean, if you’re not at home, where else would you be?’

  Frank sighed. ‘Yeah, I guess. It’s a sad indictment of me. What can I do for you, James?’

  He started walking and James followed.

  ‘I’ve kind of found something, I think.’

  ‘You kind of and think? Throw a little guesswork into the mix why don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not guesswork, Frank, I promise.’

  Frank patted James on the arm. ‘I’m sorry, James. I’m feeling kind of cranky. I didn’t mean to be snappy. What’ve you got?’

  ‘The lady that died, the prostitute lady?’

  ‘Yeah, so what?’

  James unzipped the sports bag and held it open in front of Frank.

  Frank peered in. ‘Jesus Christ! Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Yes, it is, Frank.’

  ‘Did you touch it?’

  James wobbled his head uncertainly. ‘I held it by the end. By the very end Frank, I swear, between my fingers, that’s all. Can’t say that for the kids who were playing with it. I put it straight in the bag.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘They said they found it under some rubble and shit near the church. It was pure luck, Frank. I was just walking the area and saw them playing with it like a sword.’