Sufferer's Song

by Savile, Steve

  Alex had never seen anything move quite so fast. Billy covered the gap between them quicker still than he could suck in a breath, a knife flashing silver in his hand, and ploughed into him with all the force of a careening juggernaut punching him off his feet and into the chair already occupied by Frank.

  Alex shrieked. Both feet snagged. Frank's fly covered arms jerked up to clamp onto him. Suck him in. Billy's hand came up, slammed down into the side of his head.

  - 51 -

  A placid, humourless smile curdled on Devlin's lips.

  “No,” he whispered, far too softly to be heard above the techno pop pounding out through the banks of speakers and the shouted conversations of the Sunday night revellers. “I don't know where you can score, and I don't fancy a fuck either, lady. Now piss off and leave me alone to have a drink will you.”

  The woman, unfazed by his brutal reaction, tossed a withering look his way, fluttered her mascara-clogged eyelashes and curled up dark red painted lips. Todd Devlin saw the lips as a slash of red across a plain of white, where a knife had worked its evil on an otherwise plain face. She picked up her bag and walked away, quickly swallowed by the hungry crowd. No doubt, Devlin thought sadly, she would find exactly what she was looking for somewhere, and without having to look all that hard for it. The Bigg Market had a way of providing for needs like hers; drugs, sex and loud music.

  He was getting drunk on the Happy Hour liquor, and he knew it.

  Too many people were shouting to be heard above the dozens of others pressed up against the bar. Leaning in, Devlin snapped his fingers and gestured for service. The behind-the-bar reaction could have been an out-take from Happy Days, Devlin acting out Henry Winkler's role as “The Fonz”.

  “What'll it be, mister?”

  “Whiskey,” he answered, again hardly raising his voice. The barman, in his bow-tie and sleeveless striped shirt, had no trouble understanding him, even with the whooping, the laughter and the general mayhem on all sides to contend with.

  He took the offered drink, swirling the chunks of ice around the sides of the tumbler so they clittered against the glass, and knocked it back in one mouthful. The liquor was lukewarm going down, despite the ice, but its fire spread a pleasant, soothing warmth through his stomach. And even that did not last.

  For the last hour Devlin had not been able to shift the feeling that every eye in the place was turned on him, watching, seeing and recognizing his self-loathing for what it was. He could not bring himself to look back at those accusing eyes, and somehow trapped himself in a crossfire of disgust, fear and paranoia.

  He had to get out of there, and fast.

  The tumbler slipped through his trembling fingers and smashed on the tiled floor. Some wit started clapping, others whistled, increasing his discomfort and the overall sense of claustrophobia.

  Devlin pushed through the press of people, parting the bodies with his hands where they wouldn't make way for him.

  The early evening was refreshingly cool on his face.

  He was hungry, thought about stopping off for a kebab, but decided against taking the risk when Burger King and McDonalds were only a couple of minutes walk away, and both on the way to the underground Haymarket N.C.P and his car.

  Even this early kids were lining up, queuing to get in to the already packed out pubs along the Bigg Market's cobbled square. the longest queues forming outside Presidents, The Blackie Boy, Bambra's and The Gaslight. Most of the girls lining up at the meat factory doors were so painfully, and so obviously jail-bait Devlin half-seriously thought about putting the fear of God into them by showing his I.D. and hauling one of them off in the direction of the Police Station on Pilgrim Street. It was not overly hard to resist the temptation.

  He kept on walking to the junction, turning right and heading into the centre of the town. Behind him, whooping laughter ran down the street as a clutch of Hen party revellers collided with a pair of unfortunates coming the other way.

  Starlings made perches out of every flat surface around Grey's Monument, their settling down for the night noises sounding like nothing more than a pack of high-rise rats roaming the rooftops unchecked. Devlin stopped walking in front of the huge plate windows of a chain-electrical store, resting his hands flat on the metal roller-shutters.

  The photo-face he saw captured on a dozen television sets was unmistakably his. No words made it out through the window. Devlin jerked away from the glass as if it were electrified, and blundered away up Northumberland Street, weaving from side to side an idiot gawp of shocked panic pasted across his face, the tears fresh from his own televised damnation rolling down his cheeks.

  No matter what he did now, how he reacted, for Todd Devlin it was as good as over.

  No one would listen.

  - 52 -

  “Three. . . Two. . . One. . . And, go Gayle. . .”

  “Good evening, this is Gayle Oldfield with the BBC local news. And the headlines at six-thirty tonight. . .Opposing factions clashed last night on the city's troubled Meadowell Estate. Newcastle's Chief Constable, Sir Bryon Younger, praised the swift reactions of the local police officers who were first to arrive on the scene, successfully diffusing a potentially explosive recurrence of the riots that rocked the North East last year. He has called for the local people to help set up community projects aimed at keeping youths off the streets of this notorious trouble spot, and will be approaching central government with his plans for a Community Youth Project. . .

  “Photo-journalist, Jason Kelso, was this morning found murdered in the High Dependency Unit at Hexham General. Local Police are appealing for witnesses to what is described as a sick, mindless killing of a popular, talented young man.

  “Vandals wreaked havoc this morning, pulling down the overhead power-cables on the Tyneside Metro system between the West Jesmond and Ilford Road stops, causing delays for commuters of up to one and a half hours. . .

  “The government has unveiled plans to sell off and close some unprofitable coal pits. . .

  “And American wonder doctor, Brent Richards, founder of the Havendene Institute is tonight recovering in Hexham General Hospital after a brutal assault which left him blinded. His condition is reported to be critical. Police have yet to issue any descriptions of the assailants. . .”

  “Cut to picture of Richards. . . Great. . .”

  “First, to this afternoon's vicious attack on American Doctor, Brent Richards. We have news just coming in. The word I'm getting is that Richards may well have been in Police custody when the attack happened. Over to our man on the scene, Paul Sheridan. . . Paul what's going on over there. . ?”

  “Cue Paul.”

  “Everything's very tight-lipped here, as you would expect, but there's a buzz going around here that seems to indicate that Brent Richards was attacked while in the custody of the Newcastle C.I.D., for allegedly abusing a minor. . . It's impossible to judge this thing one way or another, but my guess is that an unnamed officer has done what we would all like to think we would do, as parents, brothers and sisters confronted with the same situation, and now the Police are trying to close the stable door after the horse has bolted. . . Hold on. . . Hold on. . . Something's happening up front. . . Two uniformed Police officers are coming down the steps to address the crowd. . .”

  “Can we turn the mic's up so we can get this live. . ?”

  The Policeman's voice came over distant and crackly, then suddenly very loud as the sound balance shifted to compensate for the distance between the boom mic and the policeman.

  “Regrettably, it is my duty to confirm what many of you may have already surmised. Earlier today, Doctor Brent Richards was the victim of a vicious and cold blooded attack which has left him blinded. Dr Richards was, at the time of the assault, in the custody of Detective Superintendent Todd Devlin of the Newcastle Criminal Investigations Division. . .”

  There was more, but they stopped listening. Within the minute, the backroom boys at the television studio had come up with a still of Dev
lin, cropped out the two people with him, and had a blurred reproduction up on the screen in time for him to see it as he shambled up Northumberland Street.

  - 53 -

  Cross-legged and hunched forward on the floor, Billy Rogan stared at his reflection in each of the shiny blades fanned out in front of him.

  His mouth was hanging open.

  It was hard for him to close it with the blisters having crept onto his gums and tongue already. Hunger gnawed at his insides, setting rumbles to gurgle through his stomach like the undercurrents of a rainstorm searching out a guttering to whirlpool away through. It had him feeling dizzy and disorientated. At least he had stopped sweating. It was not so hot in here now that he had pulled all of the curtains closed.

  The smell, at least, had stopped sticking in his throat since he had watered Pops. Though, in truth, it wasn't the three glasses of water poured over the old man's head that had finally doused the reek, only that he had been submerged in it for so long now Billy no longer noticed it. His sense of smell mercifully dead to the bitter cocktail of tangs rising from the body in the armchair.

  Only the thinnest sliver of gradually reddening sunlight made it through the chink in the curtains, throwing its knife-slash 'V' through the center of the living room and its heart of darkness. Caught at the foot of that slash, Alex Slater lay unconscious, bundled and tied with lengths of nylon washing line. Billy had stuffed his mouth with the socks he had had on his feet, and taped them in place with a strip of masking tape.

  Livid purple bruises were coming up on the side of Alex’s head, only half-obscured by his long hair.

  Billy had pulled his runic sword earring out through the flesh of his lobe and was busy twirling it through his bony fingers, mesmerized by the occasional sharp reflection of the dying light.

  He dropped the earring so as it fell into the anonymity of the fan of metal laid out in front of him.

  It clattered onto the blade of a wooden-handled carving knife, and nestled down between the blade and the carpet.

  Billy Rogan made his choice by closing his trembling hand on the wooden-handled knife and raising it to his lips. He kissed it like he had seen someone on the television do, then lurched awkwardly to his feet.

  Billy was holding the knife slackly at his side as he wandered through the house looking for something to shield his eyes from the last flush of daylight outside.

  He found a pair of blue plastic sunglasses with black lenses in his treasure trove upstairs, hooked them into place behind his ears, and stumped back downstairs, muttering to himself and shaking his head every step of the way.

  Pops kept his clapped out old Zephyr in Number Two barn, covered beneath bales of rotten, mulching hay left over from last harvest. The keys were in the drawer under the telephone stand with the other junk the Rogan's collected daily.

  Billy took them, not worrying whether the ancient Zephyr had a full tank of petrol or not, or even if it had enough petrol to get him down the hill and into the village proper. Never having driven a car – new or old – before, Billy was too busy wondering where he was meant to put the key, and what he did after that to make it drive for him just like it did for Pops.

  * * * * *

  Hard graft had never been a problem before, bending his back and getting his hands dirty had always been a part of what kept Billy Rogan alive. But not now.

  White hot spots danced on the backs of his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes now, and across whatever he was looking at when he kept them open.

  Billy wasn't just sweating now, pulling the decayed hay bales off of the old car, he was damned near to burning up and he could not understand why. There was nothing overly strenuous about the lifting and carrying; nothing he hadn't done fifty times over, and then some. But this time it was as if every single bend and lift was sapping some essential reservoir inside of him.

  Dusting his hands off on the legs of his overall, Billy stood back to admire his handiwork, looking out through the velvety darkness forced upon the already shadowed insides of the barn by his toy sunglasses. Bits of straw still clung to the metal here and there, wrapped around the windscreen wipers and jammed in the door seals or just worked loose from a bundle and fallen on the long dipping bonnet, but nowhere near enough to prevent him climbing in behind the wheel.

  The seats were waxed to a red leather shine, big and almost too comfortable, mainly because the springs had long since given up being springy. The big old steering wheel felt good in his hands, though he wasn't so sure about the three prongs sticking out of it like metal horns. He pushed his feet down on the pedals, making grumbling engine sounds.

  Nothing happened. The old Zephyr didn't suddenly roar into life and start taking him out through the barn doors. Not so much as a rumble from under the bonnet.

  Billy sat back, running his calloused hands down the sides of his cheeks while he thought about it, and started looking around the veneered dashboard for a key-shaped hole.

  He found it at the base of the steering column, and slipped the key he'd taken from the telephone stand in, giving it a sharp twist for good luck.

  The engine coughed once, turned over, spluttered worryingly, and died.

  Billy punched the centre of the steering wheel, having to take his sudden fury out on something. The blackness was there again, hovering back there just out of reach, but pushing, always pushing. Caught helplessly in the tides of it, he groaned, hissed, gagged, whimpered, and just once laughed softly in the back of his throat. Hot tears flooded up through his eyes, and as if being drained to make those tears, the saliva dried in his mouth.

  Sweating, being burned alive by the fire seething within him, Billy was nevertheless very, very cold. Icy cold in his heart. He squirmed against the leather seat, needing to curl up and hug himself and rock, but too cramped to do any of them. Snatches of words phased in and out of his head, carrying their own hungers, the appetites driving them desperate to be sated.

  Billy was in no fit state to hold on to any of them for more than a second or two, and those few that he succeeded in snaring were no more words than they were basic, driving instincts. Hunger. The need to feed. That stayed with him; the need.

  He twisted the key again, stamping on one of the pedals as well this time. The Zephyr rocked forward in a juddering bunny-hop. The engine died again.

  “FUCKIN' REE-TARD, CAR!” Billy screeched, pummelling the wheel and stamping on the pedals. Instead of shorting-out this time, the blackness descended in waves, crashing down and sparking the equivalent of mental lightning where his nervous system was slammed into overload.

  Billy thrashed wildly, tearing at his scalp, slapping and clawing at his face, dangerously close to gouging his own eyes out with his fingernails, and this time he did not stop. He kept on clawing at his cheeks, gouging out bloody runnels beneath his eyes so it looked as if he were crying tears of blood, slapping his knuckles raw up against his yielding face. He kept on, and he kept on, arteries pounding furiously in his neck and temples, blood singing in his ears until all heard was suffering.

  And, through it all, he felt nothing.

  * * * * *

  If Billy had been a cartoon caricature steam would have been leaking out through his ears.

  He shook his head, couldn't stop mewling, hot tears at home in his eyes. Patted the long handled cook's knife, looking for reassurance there. When he continued to strain against the black, a more intense, throbbing heat filled his head, rippling from crown to temples in a burning circuit that lanced across the bridge of his nose; round and round. Round and round. He had to grit his teeth, hands pressed firmly against his temples, to endure even two seconds of it.

  The need wouldn't leave him alone.

  With it, hand in glove, came the increasingly potent surge of anger.

  Billy pushed himself back away from the steering wheel, into the leather bucket-seat as a scintillant stab of pain shot across his forehead. For a moment then he was in such horrendous agony he couldn't move, cry out, breathe
or scream as he so desperately needed to scream.

  When at last he sucked in a breath, it whooshed back out of his heaving lungs in a scream; for a moment he was exhilarated, carried along on the ephemeral tide of his turbulent emotions, and then his tattered thoughts shifted to the familiar and he was afraid all over again. A child in a coop of caged up pigeons, neglected and starved eventually to death. And there was Pops with his whip-crack strap stood in the doorway.

  No, he did not want to believe that.

  Not Pops. Pops was in his chair and dead to the world. His birds long gone in their own way, over the trees, over the hills and far, far away. Carried off by the breeze. Tossed and torn and tumbled, but safe now, out of harms’ way.

  The Zephyr started for the fifth time of asking, the engine catching long enough to idle and somehow Billy kept it going, manipulating his feet at random, turning the wheel and twisting, pulling and pushing each and every lever until it stuck somewhere other than neutral. The car bunny-hopped forward again, jerking back abruptly. Billy slammed his right foot down hard and was thrown back bodily as the Zephyr shot forward, smashing the wing mirror off against the side of the door-post in a loud splinter of glass and metal. He turned the wheel sharply, scraping the side of the old car up against the other door-post, and then he was out in the open and veering crazily left and right as he over compensated both ways, yanking the steering wheel around as good as at random.