The Nothing Man

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  ‘There was another morning, when you came home from work wearing your own clothes, and I wondered if it had happened again. Whatever it was. As soon as you got into the shower I rang the station. Whoever answered didn’t know my voice. I said I was trying to get in touch with a Garda I’d spoken to the night before, and that I thought his name might be Jim something. Jim Doyle? “Can’t be him,” she said. “He was off.”’

  ‘Stop this,’ Jim said. ‘You’re only making a fool of yourself.’

  ‘I was wondering what the hell I was going to do when I saw the news.’ Noreen wasn’t looking at him any more. Her gaze was directed at the floor by his feet. ‘That family, in Passage West. Four dead, they thought at first. And that made me think about the other time, about how I hadn’t had a chance to ask you where you’d been, to work up the courage to confront you, because you’d got a call about the murder in the house on the Maryborough Road – what was it? Westpark? That young couple. The man trapped under his car, his wife dead upstairs. It was all hands on deck and you had to go.’ She paused. ‘And then all the stuff about the Nothing Man came out, and that sketch was everywhere, and you were suddenly obsessed with your weight, doing all this exercise, changing how you looked … But it was the eyes, Jim.’ Noreen lifted her head and looked into them now. ‘I knew those eyes. I’d know them anywhere.’ She struggled into a standing position, swaying slightly before leaning back against the wall for support. ‘I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew in my heart that it was true. I was the wife of a Garda, I knew how it would go if I tried to report you. All your buddies down the station, they’d take your word over mine. I wouldn’t even blame them. Who’d believe the man the Gardaí were looking for was hiding among them? And I knew what you’d do to me afterwards. So …’ Noreen sighed resignedly. ‘I’d nowhere else to go and Katie was nearly here, her arrival was days away. I had only one option: to stay and say nothing. And to protect her. To protect my daughter.’

  ‘Our daughter,’ Jim corrected.

  While Noreen droned on, he’d been considering his options. All she had right now was a blunt-force injury to the back of her head that had happened when she’d impacted the wall. She might have a bit of bruising on her upper arms from where he’d grabbed her but then again she might not. He could pull her by the hair to the top of the stairs and push her down. But the screaming. What if the neighbours had heard it? How would he explain that away?

  And what if she survived the fall?

  Noreen started shaking her head, as if she could read his thoughts.

  ‘There’s a letter,’ she said. ‘With a solicitor. If anything happens to me, he’ll make sure Katie gets it. Then she’ll know the truth. I don’t want that to happen. And I don’t think you want it to either.’

  She straightened up, moved away from the wall, tested her balance.

  ‘I prayed for you to die, Jim. Every morning and every night. May God forgive me, but I did. But here we are, all these years later, and no such luck. And now’ – she pointed at the books, both copies of which were lying discarded on the floor – ‘it’s all in there, in that bloody book, and that book is out there in the world, all over the place, and it’s only a matter of time before there’s a knock on our door and I can’t …’ She took a deep breath. ‘I can’t protect Katie any more, Jim. Only you can. So I’m asking you to. I’m asking you to protect her.’

  Noreen took one wobbly step forward, then another one after that. Towards the hall.

  Jim could only stare after her.

  ‘It’s time for you to end this,’ she said, pausing at the door. ‘Do what needs to be done. Tomorrow night. No later. If anyone comes asking, I’ll swear you were here, with me, all night. But’ – she turned to jab a finger in his direction – ‘that’s it, Jim. That will be the end. We won’t speak of it and you will never do this again. Or I’ll be telling Katie about you myself. Do you understand?’

  After a beat, Jim nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Noreen disappeared into the hall. ‘I’m going back to bed.’ Jim could hear her slippered feet shuffling on the floor out there, then her calling to him as she started up the stairs. ‘Clean up that glass before someone gets hurt.’

  Friday mornings were the busiest at Centrepoint. Normally Jim liked them because they were his last shift of the week and the hours passed quickly, but today it was taking everything he had just to look like a functioning human being. He’d forgotten to set an alarm and so had to skip his shower and shave, and he’d only realised after he’d got to the Centre that he was wearing yesterday’s sweat-stained shirt. A dull ache was gathering at his temples.

  Because Noreen knew.

  Had known, all this time.

  No matter how many times Jim replayed the events of last night, he couldn’t quite believe that they had happened.

  Beep-beep.

  The noise brought Jim back to now, to the display of newspapers and magazines by the start of Grocery. His radio. He pulled it from his belt and pressed the TALK button.

  ‘Go.’

  ‘Jim, come see me. I’m upstairs.’

  Steve.

  ‘Can it wait? I was just about to—’

  ‘I can see you on the cameras, Jimbo. You’re not busy. Get up here. Now.’

  Jim lifted his chin and glared for a long moment into the fish-eye lens on the ceiling a few feet in front of him. Then he set off for the STAFF ONLY doors at the back of the frozen food section, behind which a metal stairs led him to the door of Steve’s office.

  Steve was sitting at his desk eating a breakfast roll. The crumb-filled paper bag it had come in was ripped open and resting on his laptop’s keys. The man’s face was smeared with brown sauce and a tiny piece of what might be fried egg-white was clinging to his lower lip. The room smelled of grease and stale coffee.

  Bile rose in Jim’s throat and for a moment he thought he might gag.

  The dull ache at his temples was ramping up to a thumping pulse.

  ‘Jim,’ Steve said through a mouth full of masticated meat. ‘Have a seat.’

  On the wall to Jim’s right was a bank of TV monitors showing various black-and-white views of the supermarket. He searched for the camera feed that Steve had been watching him on. The view was so zoomed-in that Jim could read the newspaper headlines.

  He sat on one of two empty seats in front of the desk. Steve set down his half-eaten roll and leaned back, looked at Jim. He smiled. His lips were shiny with grease.

  Whatever he was about to say, he was looking forward to saying it.

  ‘We have to let you go, Jim.’

  Steve paused, apparently waiting for a reaction.

  Jim refused to give him one.

  ‘We had a complaint,’ he continued. ‘From a customer. Yesterday afternoon. She said that, twice now, you’ve been staring at her as she moved around the store. Leering at her is how she put it. I’ve checked the cameras, Jim. Seems to me like she’s telling the truth. You’ve already had a warning for insubordination, and another for that thing with the guy you thought had stolen the beer who tried repeatedly to show you his receipt. We have a three-strike rule. As you know. You leave me no choice but—’

  One fluid motion.

  A charge.

  Jim got up and grabbed what was left of the breakfast roll and leaned over the desk and gripped the back of Steve’s neck with one hand and pushed the roll into his mouth with the other.

  Smashed it against his teeth.

  Forced it in, deeper and deeper, until the man started to cough and splutter and choke.

  Jim stopped and stood back to watch as Steve rose from his chair and bent forward, over the desk. He clawed at his throat. His eyes were wide and bulging. His mouth was open but only a wet, wheezing sound was coming out of it. His face was rapidly turning red. The man couldn’t breathe.

  Jim did nothing for ten, fifteen seconds.

  Then he calmly went to the other side of the desk, stood behind Steve’s back and thumped him hard five times. Re
ached around to the man’s front, pressed a fist just above his navel and knocked it in and upwards with his other hand. Steve immediately sprayed bits of bread, sausage and egg out of his mouth and across the desktop. He fell forward, over the desk, coughing and spluttering and gasping for breath.

  ‘You should be more careful,’ Jim said.

  Steve turned to look at him, his eyes wide with fear. He took a step back, away from him. Then he took another.

  He backed up all the way to the opposite wall, his eyes never leaving Jim’s.

  Jim smiled, satisfied.

  Then he turned on his heel and left.

  By the time Jim got back to the house, his headache was so bad it felt like his brain had turned into a hammer and was trying to knock its way out of his skull. He nosed the car slowly into the driveway, relieved he’d managed to get it home without incident despite the pulsing pain behind his eyes.

  Derek was in the driveway next door, unlocking his car. Karen had just stepped out of the house carrying the geriatric shit machine awkwardly in her arms. The dog was whining loudly, as if in pain.

  Karen was also carrying a small, clear plastic bag. Jim couldn’t say for sure at this distance, but it seemed to him as if there were a couple of dog biscuits inside.

  She turned and saw Jim, sitting in the car looking at them.

  He raised a hand in salute.

  She glared at him murderously.

  Jim smiled back. Karen could make all the faces she wanted. They’d never be able to prove it was him.

  He waited for them to drive off before he went into the house.

  He hadn’t even withdrawn the key from the lock in the door when Noreen appeared in the hall, her face pinched in concern.

  But was it concern? After last night, he couldn’t be sure of anything any more.

  Especially not anything to do with Noreen.

  ‘What are you doing home?’ she said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I have a headache.’

  Noreen peered at him as if evaluating the likely truth of this.

  ‘You’re exhausted,’ she said then. ‘Go on up to bed. I’ll bring you some paracetamol. What you need is a good rest.’

  On any other day, Jim might have argued with her. Even when she was right, that’s what he liked to do. But he felt so horrible, the pain in his head so intense, he didn’t say anything. He just trudged his way up the stairs and into their room.

  He kicked off his shoes, drew the curtains and crawled into bed, pulling the blankets up over his head to shut out the light. But in the dark, the pain seemed to grow even stronger.

  It was so bad now he couldn’t think about anything else.

  Noreen came into the room with a glass of water and two white pills. Jim didn’t even pause to check what they were. He knocked them back and then lay down again, burrowing beneath the blankets.

  He was so tired.

  But he had so much to do.

  He needed to plan for tonight.

  To prepare.

  As soon as the distant edges of the pain in his head began to dull, Jim slipped into a dreamless sleep.

  Hours passed.

  When he woke, it was getting dark outside. His headache was gone. He felt rested, refreshed, clear.

  Ready.

  The smell of cooking food was wafting up from downstairs.

  When Jim got to the kitchen, he saw Noreen stirring something on the stove.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Eat.’

  He did as he was told.

  She served him a steaming plate of roast chicken and then sat in the seat opposite, at the other end of the kitchen table. There was nothing in front of her except for a small glass of water.

  A full minute passed where the only sound was the noise of Jim eating.

  Then Noreen said, ‘I don’t want to see you tonight, okay?’

  Jim stopped, a forkful of chicken paused halfway to his mouth, and looked at her questioningly.

  ‘When you’re leaving,’ she clarified. ‘I don’t want to see you when you’re … When you’re ready. When you’re dressed.’ She paused. ‘I don’t want to see him. Do you understand me? I don’t want to … To meet him.’

  Jim said nothing. He resumed eating.

  He found a pair of black sweatpants, a black sweatshirt and a black hooded jacket in the wardrobe. Having double-checked they were free from logos or other identifying marks, he changed into them. He slipped his feet back into his black work boots and tied the laces. He set his mobile phone to silent and put it into the drawer of his bedside table. Then he went downstairs and slipped out the front door, around the side of the house and into the shed. It was nearly midnight.

  The mask, gun and gloves were still sitting on the floor where he’d left them the night before. He stashed them in various pockets along with the other items that formed his kit. He crossed the garden and pressed his back against the rear wall of the house, just beside the patio doors. He stole a quick look inside the living room, being careful to remain out of sight.

  Noreen was sitting on the couch. Her body was facing him but her head was turned away, towards the television.

  He scanned the surrounding houses, checking their windows, making sure each one was either dark or had its curtains drawn. Satisfied, he took out the mask, put it on his head and pulled it down. He pulled on the gloves. He reached inside his jacket and withdrew the gun.

  Then he slid open the patio door and slipped inside.

  Noreen immediately turned towards the noise and let out an aborted scream when she saw him.

  But she didn’t move. She didn’t run.

  She stayed sitting on the couch, her body rigid, wide-eyed with fear.

  ‘Please, Jim,’ she said, her chin trembling. ‘Please don’t …’

  He turned to slide the door closed behind him and paused for a moment to admire his reflection in the glass: a tall, broad-shouldered figure dressed all in black. Covered in it, except for the slit in the mask that revealed his eyes.

  It had always disguised his identity but now, in doing so, it also disguised his age. Unless you were close enough to see the wrinkles around his eyes and the white hairs in his eyebrows, no one would have any idea what age the man behind the mask was. They would only know that it was a man, stronger and taller and bigger than them, and that if they had seen such a sight before, it was in their nightmares.

  The reflection of the living room behind him, a scene of warm domesticity, only seemed to heighten the effect. People were terrified by the idea of masked men appearing at the end of their beds in the dark, but surely seeing one moving silently around your fully lit living room was far more horrifying a prospect.

  He turned back around to face Noreen.

  He moved towards her.

  ‘Please, Jim.’ Her voice was a nervous whisper. ‘I asked you not to do this. I said I didn’t want to see. Please.’

  He stood over her and waited until Noreen lifted her head and looked up into his face.

  Into his eyes.

  The only bit of Jim she could actually see.

  He raised the gun and touched the cold barrel of it to the side of Noreen’s face. Stroked her with it. Gently. A caress.

  ‘Please, Jim.’

  He traced her jawline with the butt of the gun, then pushed it into the fleshy part of her neck.

  She was crying now.

  ‘Think of Katie, Jim.’

  He pushed harder.

  ‘Please, Jim. Don’t. I’m sorry.’

  He leaned down until his mouth was level with her ear and whispered, ‘Who’s Jim?’

  Not in his own voice, but in his.

  The Nothing Man’s.

  Noreen’s whole body began to shake.

  It came back then, crashing over him in a ferocious wave. Soaking into his skin. Filling him.

  Fuelling him.

  The Nothing Man had returned.

  And he was ready to end this once and for all.

 
He straightened up and stepped back. He slipped the gun inside his jacket. He pulled the mask up over his head, folded it up and put it away in a pocket. He pulled off his gloves and stowed them away too.

  Noreen looked up at him, scared and uncertain.

  ‘I’m doing this,’ Jim said, ‘because I was going to do it anyway. You’re not my master. I don’t take orders from you. Now or ever. Do you understand me?’

  Noreen nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Jim moved to go. ‘Don’t wait up.’

  He stuck to back roads and secondary routes, avoiding traffic cameras.

  The house in Passage West wasn’t in the village proper, but down a narrow lane that turned sharply off the main road on the left-hand side before you got that far.

  Jim drove past the turn.

  Two hundred yards further down the road was a derelict pub called The Harbour Master. Fifty yards beyond it was a small, unlit lay-by. Jim pulled in there, turned the car around and headed back in the direction he’d come from. When he got to the lane that led to the house, he used it to turn around and come back once again to the lay-by. He had to repeat this move three times before he reached the Harbour Master just as there was a gap in passing traffic. No one saw him turn in there and once he’d parked behind the derelict building, no one passing could see his car from the road.

  He killed the engine and settled in to wait.

  At 2:00 a.m., he headed towards the Black house on foot, crossing the main road and slipping down the lane. His gun was secured inside his jacket. In the pockets on its outside were his gloves, the mask, the head torch and the shiny new toy he was excited to use.

  There was no traffic at all on the lane, no streetlights, no noise. He’d forgotten how, in the countryside, it got actually dark. He nearly tripped in a pothole and, after a couple of minutes, began to feel his bearings slipping away. Was he in the right place? Had he already passed the house? He didn’t think it was quite this far down the lane …

  But then he saw the familiar gates and the shadowy shape of the house beyond.

  The Black family home looked exactly the same. It stood in the middle of its plot as if it had been absently dropped there, as – to this day – no garden or landscaping had ever shaped the field around it. There was one car parked outside the house, lit by the light over the front door. A small hatchback, grey in colour. Jim presumed it belonged to Eve. All the curtains to the front of the house were drawn but through the glass of the front door he could see a dim glow: the light in the hall was on.