Fletcher

by David Horscroft

“K. Closer.”

  I leaned in.

  “Not going to make it.”

  Words escaped me. Something burned in my chest. Valerie tried to speak again.

  “More...morphine.”

  I realised what she wanted me to do. It was poetic, in a way. Valerie really loved her morphine.

  I didn’t know if I could do it.

  “Please, K. This is it.”

  My hands mechanically fed another syrette into her arm. Whispers and gasps issued from the crowd as I did it again. Valerie had stopped twitching entirely. My breathing was forced and jagged and hurt more than it should have.

  “Valerie.”

  “You can. Don’t miss me too much. One more.”

  I pushed another needle in and squeezed the morphine into her system. My hands shook. Deep in my gut, I felt ill.

  Her eyes fluttered and closed. Valerie Gravewood passed away. My friend died.

  A hollow maw opened up beneath me and swallowed me whole.

  A Toast, To Valerie

  Despite the clear magnetism between us on our first encounter, I really discovered Valerie—the Girl behind the Gauze, the Lady behind the Lacerations—in our second meeting. I’d been stabbed in the stomach and collapsed on her doorstep. I woke in a chemical haze with eighteen stitches on the wound.

  For a long time I lulled in a mental limbo. I felt like I was getting too much morphine. With a dry mouth I tried to make noise; I settled for a ghastly gasp (ghasp?). Valerie poked her head around the door.

  “Less morphine,” I hazarded. She stared at me for a while before complying. It felt like a while, at least. Time congealed and dripped around me like tallow. She tilted her head for a second before disappearing into the hallways.

  A few hours later, I tried to get up. I had traded clearer thought for greater pain: movement triggered agony-jolts in my gut. Totally worth it. I slowly moved out of the ward and found myself in her living room. A radiator had been turned on, and I sat down on the couch to rest. Without the drugs I could pick up smaller details. There were no family photographs on the walls; instead they were adorned with medical accolades and certificates dating up to 2008.

  An album on the coffee table caught my attention. No pictures anywhere else meant that the contents were special. I curled up into the leather and flipped to the first sleeve.

  They weren’t photographs. They were death certificates, all from the same hospital. I assumed it was her first. It only took three pages before I noticed the pattern, and what it meant.

  Valerie really loved her morphine.

  I don’t know how long she’d been watching me, but she decided to clear her throat as I got to the centre of the album. I raised my gaze into hers and tapped the open page.

  “Does one of these sleeves have my name on it?”

  She chuckled for a calculated second.

  “No. You’re far too interesting. Far too relatable.”

  “Relatable? I don’t dose sick people up until they die.”

  “But you are a killer.”

  Her candid nature was refreshing. She sat next to me and walked her fingers down my side. I winced as she touched her handiwork.

  “It’s nice to find someone...relatable,” she said.

  I continued to page through the album. It was surprisingly thick. She picked up on my admiration.

  “Thirty-two. Probably nowhere close to your count, but it’s not a competition. I think I need it less than you do.”

  “What makes you think I need it?”

  She thought for a second before responding. Every action was taken with forethought, as if she was mapping out and testing her limits with me.

  “You’re bitter and cynical. You dislike most people intensely, without even knowing them. You have nothing but hatred for feelings of joy. But you’re not miserable. You’re not miserable because you’ve taken what you love, and you’ve made a career out of it. You’ve made a life out of it. Killing is to you what medicine is to me.”

  She gestured through the door, towards her ward.

  “While I have patients, I’m happy. While you have victims, you’re happy. That’s the goal isn’t it? Life, in facilitation of happiness. For the whole bitter misanthrope thing you’ve cultivated into your persona, you’re not unhappy. That’s why you need it. It’s why I don’t need it, for now.”

  Unexpectedly, she kissed my cheek. I stopped browsing her trophies and turned to her. Her words had resonated with me in a way I was not accustomed to.

  “I think we’ll get along like a house on fire, Valerie Gravewood.”

  “There may be no survivors.”

  She lay her head on my lap as I read through the last of her death album. One of the certificates shared her surname. I didn’t bring it up that night.

  #0318

  “There are three steps to making an impact on a party. The first is to arrive late, and fashionably so. The second is to make a memorable entrance. I find that kicking someone through the front door is generally appropriate here.

  “The final step is to remember that an industrial nail gun is always an acceptable accessory.”

  17: L’appel du Vide

  I sat next to the body for a long time. Dante stood behind me for a few hours before attending to the carnage. It wasn’t sadness that I felt; I was at a loss for words. A large part of me was trying to rationalise what had happened. It wasn’t succeeding.

  Valerie was dead. Valerie was dead. Valerie was dead. I rolled the words around in my mind to get a feel for them, but they just sounded strange and alien and wrong, like a thank you after a terrible meal. In the end I wrapped her in white sheets and, with Dante’s help, moved her back to the Helix. No one disturbed us as we carried the body through the streets. If they had, I’d have made daisy chains from their internal organs. Dante left me at the sliding doors and vanished without saying anything.

  I spent the afternoon clearing ash from the furnace. I’d be damned if I was going to burn her with the rest of the filth. She lay on a cleared lab bench, dusting the surface with tiny flakes of dried blood. Her face was strangely peaceful. It didn’t gel with how I felt.

  Eventually I slid her body into the furnace. It wasn’t on, yet. My hand paused over the switch, and I pulled back. Something repelled my fingers from the switch, and I eventually decided to de-stress with Quisling. I poked her head with two rigid fingers.

  “You. Wake up.”

  Quisling thrashed awake, scattering her blankets as she skittered backwards.

  “Oh, good. You were already awake. I’m not bothering you.”

  Her eyes were wide. Confusion filled them as I reclined over the desk and hung my head over the edge. I regarded her from upside down.

  “One of my best friends just died.”

  A strangely cold look passed over her face. “I wonder what that’s like,” she said in deadpan.

  “Tim? The other one? Please, they don’t count.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Pardon?”

  She held my stare. I reached out and cuffed her. There was a tiny yelp and her head lurched back.

  “I’m being nice,” I pointed out, almost incredulously. “I’m not stabbing you.”

  “Thanks, that means a lot.”

  “Your sarcasm doesn’t count in your favour.”

  “I don’t really care.”

  I flipped onto my stomach. Stationery scattered off the desk.

  “I think my main issue is that I killed her. Sure, the bullets had done their job. But ultimately, I was the one who killed her. Just a little difficult to rationalise.”

  She muttered something about how good a friend I was.

  “I’m serious, Quiz. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve killed a lot of people. Hundreds, even. Businessmen, doctors, lawyers, waitrons, homeless bums, kids. I’ve stabbed, poisoned and shot my way through so many unnamed characters. But I’ve never felt confusion afterwards. I don’t feel sorry... But I think I feel sorry that I don’t feel sorry?”


  “You’re feeling remorseful?” she asked. I blinked, a little surprised that she’d actually been listening to me.

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Guilty?”

  I opened my mouth to disagree, but my mind investigated the route further. I had dragged her into my drama with RailTech. And RailTech had attacked the Midnight Hour. Eric had taunted me, ending with “Auf Wiedersehen”–until we meet again. I had no idea how RailTech had found me or tracked me down to the Midnight Hour. Was I guilty of putting Valerie in harm’s way? Probably. Did I feel guilty for doing so?

  I imagined her, spread over her bed as the sheets caught fire. I remembered cutting her choking body down from the rafters—“Ha-ha-ha told you we’d have fun ha-ha”. The incident with the bonesaw. The countless alcohol-induced collapses. Had I killed her? Yes. Was her death premature? I didn’t think so.

  “Not that either. I just feel like I deserved more.”

  “Sure. Make it about you.”

  “Well, it’s not about her anymore. She’s—”

  My throat caught on the word unexpectedly. I tried again. “She’s dead.”

  “I heard that choke.”

  “Careful with the pop psychology. I’m dealing with this in words. I could be doing it with…bonesaws.”

  I disliked the way that bonesaws were on the mind. It was a special thing Valerie and I shared.

  “Why do you deserve better?”

  “I just do, okay?”

  “Did this friend—”

  “Valerie.”

  “Did Valerie interest you?” Quiz was onto something.

  “Yes. Yes she did.”

  “So have you thought that maybe you’re not feeling remorse or sadness, but boredom? I guess it bodes well that you’re talking to me.”

  “Bored… Valerie was many things, but she wasn’t boring.”

  “And now you need to accept that she’s gone. You need to accept this and find another source of sick entertainment.”

  I got to my feet and regarded her from above.

  “For someone who’s been through considerable mental stress, you’re smarter than I thought. Can I get you anything? You’ve earned it.”

  “A key for these shackles?”

  “Nice try.”

  Her mood had strangely turned. Having met me head on and suffered no consequences, she seemed to feel as if she could match me with banter. I spun around, bringing the heel of my foot crashing into her jaw. She let out a cry of surprise.

  “I’m still going to kill you.”

  I left her to bleed and went back to Valerie. I slid the tray out and looked at her in the face.

  “Killing Strauch won’t be boring.”

  I touched her face for the last time, returned the body and started the furnace. I watched the flames devour her.

  ***

  Half an hour later, as I stared out the ground floor windows into the darkness of the gutterage, my pocket buzzed.

  “It’s not that easy to kill me, Eric.”

  “Ever the egotist.”

  “Right. I forgot that RailTech was in the habit of randomly shooting up clubs.”

  “Dens of iniquity—”

  “Little column A, little column B.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re excused.”

  “Your friend was most impressive last night. It is a pity that you killed her.”

  My grip tightened on my phone.

  “RailTech really does have eyes and ears everywhere. Nine fewer now, though.”

  “They underestimated the Midnight Hour.”

  “Sounds like shit planning to me. I thought project four-two-nine was supposed to be slick and well-polished?”

  It was Eric’s turn to tone up the venom. “So you also stole that. Interesting.”

  “I would have taken the paperweights, but you put the squeeze on our time. Pretty fascinating stuff, Eric. Must be extra-special for you to send a prototype out for me. Three prototypes, by my calculations.”

  “Ever the egotist. Are you not curious as to how we found you?”

  “Of course I am. I don’t expect you to monologue it to me, though. What are you, a Bond villain?”

  “No. I am not any kind of villain, K.”

  “I know some who might disagree. And it’s Fletcher, to you. Only my friends get to call me K.”

  “So you had more than one? Before you killed her.”

  I sucked my teeth. “I didn’t kill her. I just sped up the bullets.”

  “You killed her.”

  “How about I kill you, and we can compare scenarios?”

  “I have a counter-offer.”

  I waited to hear it.

  “Humans—this includes you—exhibit a very strange behavioural phenomenon when standing on tall buildings. The closest descriptive phrase we have is from the French: L’appel du vide. In your English, this translates to ‘the appeal of the void’.”

  “How very multicultural of you.”

  “Do not interrupt. This describes a phenomenon we experience when standing in high places—the irrepressible urge to jump. It is a self-destructive pull that occurs when we stand on the precipice of a high fall. It is what you are experiencing right now. Listen when I say this: do not jump. It will be the end of you. You are a survivor, first and foremost, and my offer will help you survive. What else really matters to you? A strange assortment of drunks and addicts?”

  I rapped my fingers impatiently against the desk.

  “You back off. You forget project four-hundred-twenty-nine, you forget John Rourke, you forget Valerie and RailTech and the Midnight Hour and this entire city. You leave, tomorrow. In return, we do not hunt you down. We let you—”

  “If you think you can bribe me with my survival, here’s what I say to your counter-offer. You can fuck right off.”

  Words came out before I had a chance to think about them. Spite overrode my alleged survival instinct.

  “Listen, Strauch. Listen well. I will kill you. You will not know when the hammer falls. There will be neither fanfare nor trumpets. I shall not parade your corpse for the crowds. You will die in utter obscurity, knowing that nothing but suffering awaits your loved ones.”

  Eric coughed. “I guess I have my answer.”

  “I guess you do. ‘Auf Wiedersehen’, Eric. Sleep lightly.”

  I could say that I had a duty to avenge Valerie. I could say that it was my job to expose RailTech to the world. In truth, neither of these facts motivated me. Reality was simpler. Eric had made an enemy of me. For this reason, and this reason alone, he would die.

  #0311

  “I am so unbelievably high right now.

  “I don’t know what this girl gave me. I have no idea what she put into my system. All I know is that she has enough scalpels to carve up an army, and I’m in the mood to do exactly that. My mind-brain is floating. I can’t even feel my gunshot wounds.

  “The client is going to be happy. One dead CEO, coming right up. And as for me? I need to get this doctor on retainer.”

  18: Blood Writes

  The dance with Eric began in earnest. My old city apartment was swallowed in a massive burst of fire. I watched the RailTech squad enter through my sniper-window. Very resourceful—they silently unscrewed the frame and lifted it out of the way. The first trio surrounded my bed, raised their silenced weapons and riddled me with bullets.

  I watched this all through the hidden cameras. After their pre-emptive strike, they stripped back the sheets. Even through the visors, their disappointment was evident.

  My finger was poised above the ‘Send’ button. The message was ready, a sixteen-digit code to a number only I knew. I wanted to see what else they did.

  The captain—I assumed—unlocked the front door. I was glad I’d waited. Two more units entered the house. That made for nine in total. They fanned out and began to meticulously search the place. I’m not even sure I’d have noticed. Everything was checked and returned to its exact positio
n. It was an impressively well-coordinated sweep.

  They didn’t have eyes in the ventilation ducts and the crawl-spaces. Two days ago I’d wormed my way inside and gotten busy. I pressed the button, and my temporary phone started ringing.

  The effect was notable. I’d hidden the phone in the space under my desk. They thought it was coming from the drawers. The noise held them in place until the third ring.

  The picture cut out. The sound reached me, perched on top of the mall, a few seconds later—a dull, meaty boom. I looked at the screen and counted down.

  Ten, nine, eight, seven, si—aha. Early.

  ‘Unknown caller’ wanted to chat.

  “And here I was thinking you’d forgotten about me,” I started gaily.

  “It is not too late to walk away.”

  “You’re such a stiff. Lighten up. Oh, and before you try kill me again, you should know that I’ve put a bunch of insurance archives out there. Auf Wiedersehen, fuckstain.”

  I hung up. I’d disabled the GPS on my phone manually, but there was still the potential for triangulation. I’d made the decision to avoid longer calls. There was nothing to tie me to the Helix, except for Dante. I had thought about killing him, going so far as to break into his home as he slept.

  “I loved her,” he had told me, as I stood in the shadows of his room. “She didn’t love me back, but that’s not important. I won’t sell you out to the thugs who murdered her.”

  I took his word for it. My heart wasn’t really in killing him: he was interesting. He was also a phenomenal bartender. I left, silently. No Dante-killing, then. From the twisting labyrinths of the lab, I laid my plans.

  The goal was to kill Strauch. I could murder him in his office. I could rig explosives below his route to work. I could execute him in his home.

  “You will die in total obscurity,” I had said. Or was it utter obscurity?

  Who remembers?

  I’d murder him in his home, I decided. I would wake him and cut his first word short. He wouldn’t appear on the news until hours later, maybe even days. Afterwards? I’d have to see how, or if, RailTech responded. I’d burn that bridge when I got to it.