by Jon Richter
‘Good, Sigurdsson. There’s hope for you yet, I think.’
The call ended, and Sigurdsson found himself gasping for breath. Thankfully Wells didn’t know about the panic attacks. No one did, except for his doctor.
He spent a while replying to emails while he tried to calm down. He checked the weather forecast and saw that the storm was scheduled to worsen and then break later in the week. On a whim, he looked up the Southern Wrestling Alliance’s web page. It seemed to be quite a large operation, but nothing compared to the GWE that Zheng had mentioned – Global Wrestling Entertainment’s home page was slick and polished, with biographies and highlight reels of each wrestler, interviews and tour dates and even downloadable entrance music. He thought about David Zheng and his aspirations, and wondered how likely he was to ever realise them.
It occurred to him that he hadn’t yet eaten anything, and that he was ravenously hungry, and he resolved to head out to buy some lunch for himself and Mason. But he lingered for a moment on Salvation’s tourist website, to which he’d almost subconsciously navigated as his mind continued to wander. Amongst the generic and poorly laid out sightseers’ material collected beneath a smiling bunny rabbit logo, he found a section entitled ‘Archive’. Here was a list of links to articles about all manner of trivia; UFO sightings, the football team’s FA Cup run in the seventies, a visit by a member of the royal family. He hovered briefly over an entry entitled ‘Local ferryman arrested after brutal killing spree’, but then noticed another link referring to the statue and a series of ‘miracle healings’ that had taken place in the fifties. Sure enough, there was an article about Saint Drogo.
Born of Flemish nobility, the saint had made many pilgrimages to Rome, and on one such journey was afflicted with a terrible skin disorder. So horribly deformed was he that his church built him a special annex in which to live, to protect the villagers from catching a glimpse of his hideous face. Drogo lived there for decades, surviving on a diet of water, barley and the daily Eucharist. He died aged eighty-one in 1186, after a life of penitence. The statue here on Salvation had been built to commemorate the opening of the convalescent home, and apparently its legendary golden foot was indeed said to have magical curative powers, although of course it was actually made of bronze.
There was no mention of any poison gas testing.
Sigurdsson thought again about the claustrophobic, melancholy place in which he found himself. The locals he had met – like the hotel receptionist – seemed trapped, resigned to share the island’s crumbling, decaying fate. He felt the strange hold of the place tightening around him, too. The storm lashing at the windows outside insisted angrily that he never leave.
At that moment, Mitchell pushed open the room’s other door, startling Sigurdsson out of his gloomy preoccupation.. The bulky sergeant glanced around as if expecting Mason to be there, finally deigning to address Sigurdsson only when he realised that she wasn’t.
‘Adams has left his hotel,’ he said, the first words he had uttered to Sigurdsson since they had met. Sigurdsson regarded the sergeant more closely, considering his expressionless and stoic exterior. Mason obviously found him dependable. He noticed for the first time a scar running from the man’s neck along the bottom of his chin and terminating at the slight cleft there.
‘Okay – where has he gone?’
‘That’s my point. After he missed his flight we thought he would check back in to his hotel, but he’s gone somewhere else instead.’
Sigurdsson nodded thoughtfully. They’d dropped a ball there – he had been keen to talk to Adams again, get him to elaborate further on Schultz’s murky past.
‘We’ll need to find where he’s staying. Have you checked the other hotels?’
Mitchell nodded. ‘He hasn’t checked himself into any of them.’
‘Have you tried calling the company he works for?’
Mitchell shook his head once.
‘Try that then. Did we manage to get everyone else lined up for interview tomorrow?’
‘All except Paul Dixon. Can’t get hold of him.’
‘You mean “Tall” Paul?’ Sigurdsson clarified. Mitchell nodded. Mason suddenly appeared behind him, squeezing past her deputy and brandishing a brown paper bag.
‘Lunch!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come on Mitchell, stop looking so miserable, I’ve got you something as well. Sigurdsson, you seem like a ham salad man.’
‘I think that’s probably an insult, but thanks anyway,’ he said, smiling as he accepted the baguette she handed to him. She returned the expression, but Mitchell did not seem in the mood for banter.
‘What happened with Mrs Daniels?’
‘She’ll be all right, I think. I talked to the neighbour and convinced him not to go ahead with the charges. Her social worker is on his way. Now come on, get eating, I’m bloody starving!’
Sigurdsson smiled again, then thought about his earlier conversation with Wells, and his face darkened. She already suspected he was there to spy on her. And now Wells was trying to manipulate him into making her suspicions come true. A test of his loyalty, maybe. But could he really trust this tempestuous policewoman any more than Wells himself?
This place… it was making him feel paranoid, afraid. He thought of the rabbits, hidden outside. A hundred pairs of eyes staring in at them from amongst the trees. He ate a bit of his sandwich, then realised he had lost his appetite.
*
Restless in the hotel room, he had thought about going for another run, but decided instead to set out towards the local gym. He thought a workout might help release some of his nervous tension, but was mainly hoping to bump into one or two of the wrestlers there. Maybe he could even observe them secretly if they didn’t recognise him.
He wore a thick fleece and gloves over his tracksuit pants and T-shirt, but was still chilled to the bone, bloated raindrops soaking him as he walked. By the time he reached the gym, which was housed in a converted warehouse behind a restaurant on Perryn Street, he was drenched. Sadly the place didn’t seem to be heated at all, and the old man occupying the partitioned-off office in one corner of the large space informed him that the hot water supply to the single shower room wasn’t working either.
Like everything he had seen so far on Salvation, the place was threadbare, faded. A sagging boxing ring occupied one corner, surrounded by punching bags and free weights, and the rest of the freezing space was haphazardly crammed with old running machines and other equipment. Resigned to being uncomfortably cold and damp throughout his visit, Sigurdsson paid the man the visitor’s fee and began to warm up on one of the bikes as he surveyed the other attendees. A few other people were using the facilities, all men, and all paid little heed to him as they grunted and strained in front of the grubby mirrors in the weightlifting area.
One of them was Tall Paul.
Despite not wearing his suit and sunglasses, he was clearly identifiable, not just from the long mane of blond hair now tied back into a ponytail, but from his immense and intimidating muscularity. Now wearing baggy shorts and a huge sleeveless vest that looked like it had been adapted from a four-man tent, his massive arms bulged as he heaved huge weights with apparent ease. Sigurdsson noticed that the other men seemed to keep a respectful distance away from him as he lumbered around the equipment.
Swallowing down his apprehension, he approached Dixon as the giant lay down at the bench press.
‘Need someone to spot you?’ Sigurdsson asked with a friendly smile.
‘What are you, gay?’ Dixon asked aggressively, his voice a testosterone-choked rasp with a strong cockney twang.
Unfazed, Sigurdsson replied, ‘I’m not the one that rolls around with half-naked men in the evenings.’
Dixon’s face clouded with rage, and as he sat up, Sigurdsson felt hot fear knife through his guts. But the monstrous man just slowly wiped his face with a sweat towel, and addressed Sigurdsson’s reflection in the mirror in front of them.
‘I know w
ho you are. You’re the copper from last night,’ Dixon spat.
‘That’s right,’ Sigurdsson replied evenly. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you today, because we’re keen to bring you in to the station. We want to ask you a few questions.’
‘Well… here I am.’ Dixon held his arms wide, eyes still smouldering as he glared at Sigurdsson, as though contemplating squashing the detective’s skull between his colossal hands. ‘Ask away.’
Sigurdsson knew that the police had no power to force the muscleman to appear at the station unless he was under arrest, so this was probably his best opportunity to quiz him.
‘We spoke to David Zheng today,’ he said, meeting the other man’s stare. ‘He told us that steroids are in widespread use at the promotion.’
Dixon remained intense, unblinking.
‘Doesn’t surprise me. Some of the lads there want to look the part but can’t be bothered to put the shift in at the gym. Me on the other hand… I’m one hundred per cent organic.’
With that he stood up and walked across to another stack of weights, forcing Sigurdsson to follow him. He selected an enormous pair of dumbbells and began to perform alternate bicep curls.
‘We’re very keen to find out who supplies the drugs,’ Sigurdsson continued. ‘We think they might have something to do with Valiant’s death.’
Dixon switched to lateral raises, lifting the weights outward from his body with straight arms. He answered as he exhaled.
‘Well, good luck with that… I don’t know nothing about it… maybe you should talk to Penman.’
He let the weights drop from his sides to the floor with a loud clang. Sigurdsson jumped, and he saw a nasty grin flicker across Dixon’s face.
‘What exactly is your relationship with Penman?’ Sigurdsson asked, trying to compose himself.
The big man shrugged. ‘He’s the boss,’ he replied simply.
‘How did you end up working for him?’
‘I like the wrestling. It’s more interesting than being a bouncer.’
‘Is that another job you do?’
‘Used to.’
‘What else do you do?’
His malicious grin widened. ‘I’m a jockey.’
He bent to retrieve the weights and began another set of lifts, muscles bunching like knotted wood.
‘You don’t like the police, do you Paul?’ Sigurdsson asked.
‘Oh I dunno, I thought that ginger one was all right,’ he leered. ‘She your boss is she?’
Sigurdsson ignored the remark. ‘How well did you know Valiant?’
‘Not very.’
‘What did he do on Friday night?’
Dixon dropped the weights again, the mirth suddenly disappearing from his face. He tilted his head as he regarded Sigurdsson, eyes suddenly wide and intimidating, looming above the policeman like an ogre.
‘He fucking died mate,’ he intoned. ‘And if you’re going to waste your time pestering me, you aren’t going to figure out how it happened.’
‘What if you did it?’ Sigurdsson retorted, meeting the giant’s stare from over a foot lower down. ‘What if you’re the one selling steroids to the others, and Valiant did something to get your back up… so you killed him?’
Dixon took another step closer, the vast slab of his chest almost touching the smaller man’s nose. He reeked of sweat as he stared down at Sigurdsson.
‘If I wanted to kill someone, detective, I wouldn’t use fucking poison.’
Silence fell. Sigurdsson was aware that the other men in the gym were watching from their machines on the other side of the room. He thought about how easily Dixon could demonstrate this point – how even a big man like Schultz would have had no chance against the monster if they’d come to blows. Abruptly, a smile split Dixon’s face, and he whacked Sigurdsson playfully on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over.
‘Just messin’ with you, detective. I wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
He continued to chuckle as he turned to stride across towards the locker room, calling over his shoulder.
‘Best be off, anyway. If I think of anything I’ll be in touch. Have a good workout.’
Sigurdsson found himself trembling, and took deep breaths to calm himself and the rising panic in his gut as he strode across to the treadmill and began to jog.
Run rabbit run
He saw Dixon depart ten minutes later, now wearing an implausibly large black hoodie. He must have to order his clothes from specialist websites, mused Sigurdsson as he watched the behemoth leave. Dixon did not turn to acknowledge him as he strode to the exit door, and the detective made a mental note to check him out more thoroughly. The whole encounter had been much more acrimonious than he had anticipated, and there must be a reason why.
He completed his routine, working his way around various machines and even trying some of the free weights, before leaving the gym just as the clock turned to nine. The rain had mercifully slackened off as he exited and began the short walk back to the hotel. But then another whim gripped him, and he turned instead to make his way towards the centre of the island.
The storm began to howl around him once again as he ascended the hill, and he tugged his fleece tighter around himself as icy wind scoured the exposed skin of his face. The twisted shapes of the trees were like cadaverous hands thrust upwards in supplication, beseeching the heavens for an end to the punishing conditions. Away from the streetlights, the darkness was absolute, and the light of his torch struggled to penetrate the gloom. Every so often he would catch a frightened-looking rabbit in the glare of the beam, and in the darkness they looked feral and desperate as they skittered away from him.
He was traversing a wide pathway, which seemed to be fairly well-maintained, but every so often an encroaching branch would cause him to stumble, or the crack of a twig underfoot would fray his nerves even further. His mind kept returning to the titanic frame of Paul Dixon, imagining the bodybuilder lurking like a predator amongst the trees, waiting to leap out in ambush, his huge hands encircling Sigurdsson’s neck.
Snap
Another twig broke as if in mockery, sending his heart rate spiralling as he hurried onwards. The rain began to fall heavily once again, thunder rumbling distantly like the cackle of a demon. He had almost decided to abandon the foolish excursion when the path flattened out into a large clearing.
The chapel was about fifty metres away, an ominous suggestion of a building illuminated by the paltry torchlight. He could make out a spire rising from a modest tower, and a gable roof atop a squat structure. The path led towards it through the clearing.
Between him and the silhouetted structure was the statue of Drogo.
The island’s guardian was depicted as a hunched figure, peering morosely out from beneath a cowl while one hand clutched a long staff for support. As Sigurdsson approached, shining his torch beam at the sculpture, he saw that the visible portion of the saint’s face had not been favourably portrayed. Disease or disfigurement caused the lips and gums to peel back much too far from the teeth, and above this savage snarl one eye seemed to burn with vicious intelligence, despite being sunken deep into a scaly face ravaged by lesions. The other eye and most of the rest of his face were mercifully obscured beneath the hood. The gangrenous appearance of the effigy was further accentuated by the oxidisation of the bronze, coating it in a sickly green the colour of river scum. The only part that had not succumbed to the pestilential blight was the saint’s foot, which protruded from beneath his habit and gleamed brightly in the torchlight.
Sigurdsson was gripped by an absurd urge to run screaming from the grotesque object. At that moment, a flash of lightning streaked the sky, a loud roar of thunder following closely behind as the rain intensified its onslaught once again.
He didn’t run. Instead he steeled himself, willed courage into his veins as another crazy compulsion gripped him, and he reached out to rub the statue’s extended foot. As the sky dumped its contents around
him, he wished for a successful conclusion to the case. He wished for peace for Victor Schultz, and to unearth the truth of how the man had died. He wished for freedom from his own fears.
He wished for a different life for his brother, that somewhere in another universe the boy had grown into a happy, healthy man. The rain running down the statue’s face might have been tears.
Excerpt III: Making A Monster
I was born in Tampa, Florida, in 1960, towards the end of the post-war baby boom. My mom died in childbirth, but I don’t think my dad blamed me for her death, or anything like that. To be honest, he didn’t really seem to feel that strongly about it. Or about anything. Maybe Herbie Schultz had been the life and soul of the party before little Victor split his beloved wife in half, but all I ever knew of him was this quiet, miserable construction foreman. He worked long, hard days, and liked to watch TV when he got home, the smell of his sweat and my stepmom’s cooking filling our little house while he vegetated in front of Gunsmoke or The Munsters. He enjoyed a beer and ate her food. Then another beer. Usually he ended up passed out in his armchair every night, the TV tuned to silent static like it was mirroring his brain activity.
My mom and him had no other children before me. A few years after Barb came on the scene they suddenly shot out a few kids in quick succession, my brother and two sisters. But before that, it was just me, and so from my earliest memories up until I was seven I suppose I was the only person around to keep my stepmom company. She was a very unhappy woman, and I think somehow she thought that her relationship with my dad was soured by my presence, like I was this lingering ghost of his dead first wife, constantly reminding him of how much more he had loved my mom than her. Like I was the vehicle of Pamela’s revenge from beyond the grave.
But don’t mistake me for one of those people that’s come to terms with what she did, or forgiven her, or cares about understanding her pain.
She was an evil fucking bitch, and I hope she’s burning in Hell.