by Sam Millar
Buckling over, Charlie spewed out jaundice vomit that faded into pale as it hit the ground, marooning him in its island of bread-like muck.
Whatever the poor bastard did, he didn’t deserve that, thought Charlie, quickly wiping the sour spillage from his mouth, pushing himself away from the scene, covered in his own vomit, wishing he were on the road, frost and snow on his face instead of being in the company of a decapitated corpse.
Chapter Ten
“There’s nothing of so infinite vexation As man’s own thoughts.”
John Webster, The White Devil
ONE OF TWO phones rang in Jack’s studio as he studied a file. A woman, suspecting her husband of infidelity, had asked him to investigate, get some photos of the unfaithful spouse, if possible.
The irony of it, thought Jack.
“You lazy bastard,” accused the voice at the other end, just as the receiver touched his ear. “How long does it take you to answer the fucking phone?”
“Benson?” said Jack, smiling. “You must be in trouble. What’ve you done?”
“Funeee. Not only a private dick, but a dick comedian, as well. Have you forgotten?” asked Harry Benson, Jack’s ex-partner and best friend. Getting no reply from Jack, Benson quickly cut in. “I don’t believe it. He has forgotten. What sacrilege! Our birthright, our annual pilgrimage, our once-in-a-year chance to get the fuck out of this smelly, godforsaken town, and he’s forgotten?”
“How could I forget something as important as fishing? I hate to disappoint you, Harry, but Adrian has a bad cold. He slipped into the lake, a couple of nights ago. Could have had a bad accident.”
“Stop with the drama, Jack. We all know Adrian’s as tough as his godfather. He won’t let a little cold stop him.”
“I’ll relay your sympathy to him. But, to be honest, I’m so backlogged in cases—”
“You’re backlogged? Since you retired, word must have leaked out to every lowlife piece of scum in town. Violent crime has risen by five per cent. I suppose you heard about that corpse discovered in the old Graham building, over near Clifton Street?”
“The abandoned orphanage? No, I haven’t been able to catch up with any news lately. What happened?”
“Some old tramp, looking for free board and breakfast, got more than he bargained for yesterday in the shape of a decapitated corpse with a dildo shoved up its bony arse.”
“Decapitated?” Jack shook his head. The city was paying dearly for its cultivated big-city image: big-city diseases.
“Clean as a whistle, according to Shaw. That area was supposed to have been bulldozed over years ago to make way for a new ring road, but an ownership dispute put everything on hold. Now the fucking place is nothing more than a shantytown for all the dregs of society. They’re a law unto themselves, all those vagrants, and they know the law better than we do, the bastards. If you as much as sneeze at them, they scream blue bloody murder and police brutality.”
Jack could hear the disdain clearly in Benson’s voice. In his ex-partner’s world, everything was black and white, no grey. Them and us.
“I’m sure William Wilson must have been happy with that publicity.” Jack grinned, picturing the face of his ex-boss getting redder as each TV camera was stuck into it.
“The bastard is in denial,” said Benson. “He’s cooking the books to suit his political ambitions—the fucker.”
“Now, now, now. Can’t have dissension in the ranks, Detective Benson,” laughed Jack. “Superintendent Wilson doesn’t tolerate it. And we all know that what Superintendent Courageous doesn’t tolerate, he gets rid of.”
There was silence for a few moments before Benson spoke. “We should never have allowed that cowardly bastard to force you into early retirement.”
“No one forced me into anything. I wanted out. Besides, it was the best thing that ever happened. Look at me now. My own business.”
“Yeah, I noticed you didn’t put the word ‘successful’ in front of that,” laughed Benson.
“Don’t laugh. It takes time. One day you’ll be working for me,” said Jack.
“A pity your name isn’t Hedges. Think of all that free publicity we’d get.”
They both laughed.
Jack heard Benson’s weight shift in the chair. When he spoke, his voice was conspiratorial. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that a certain ex-detective has been seen with a well-to-do gallery owner, quite frequently.”
“No wonder nothing gets solved any more. Headless bodies, and all you can think about is gossip.”
“And how did the likes of you manage to meet such a class bit of ass?” quizzed Benson.
“Sarah saw one of my paintings hanging in Chester’s restaurant, over on the Lisburn Road. Loved it enough to track down the handsome talent behind it,” laughed Jack.
“How is my godson taking it?”
“I haven’t mentioned anything to Adrian. It’s not serious, anyway. It’s all above board and totally professional.”
“All above bed, you mean!” snorted Benson. “Of course it’s professional. Keep telling yourself that; but just make sure you’re ready next Saturday. I’ll pick you and Adrian up at three in the morning. I’ve a great feeling in my piss that this is our year for catching a record number of—”
“You say that every year, and every year all you end up catching is a cold. There’s more chance of Wilson solving the mystery in the orphanage, than us catching anything.”
“Oh ye of little faith. See you next week,” said Benson, ending the conversation.
Jack went back to the file on the alleged adulterous husband. He was a week behind in forwarding some information to his client. But no matter how hard he tried, all he could think about was a headless corpse.
Chapter Eleven
“See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise,
Redeeming the time, because the days are evil.”
Ephesians 5: 15–16
JEREMIAH ENTERED THE barber’s shop, ignoring the puzzled look scribbled on his friend’s face. It was unusual for Jeremiah to be late on a Monday. In fact, Harris could not remember it ever having happened.
Jeremiah looked haggard, like battered furniture showing its age. He mumbled an incoherent apology and immediately turned to a customer.
“Next, please …”
“What happened to you, this morning?” asked Harris, closing the shop’s door for lunch. “You look like you haven’t slept a wink. Bet it’s that flu. Everyone seems to be getting it. You should look after yourself with vitamins. Can’t go wrong with vitamins.” To prove his point, Harris loaded his tongue with small, colourful pills, and then played them to his teeth, crunching on them, irritatingly loudly.
Jeremiah grimaced. “Yes … I think I am coming down with a touch of it.”
Scooping a newspaper from the inside pocket of his coat, Harris opened it and began to scan the pages. A few seconds later, he rested the newspaper on his lap, and looked directly at Jeremiah. “I was just thinking, last night, how the killer could be here, living in our town. Scary, isn’t it?”
Jeremiah sat looking vacantly into space.
“Jeremiah?”
“What?” asked Jeremiah, blinking out of the trance. “Did you say something?”
“I said it’s scary to think that the killer of that little girl is here, in the town. Perhaps only a few streets away, in that boarding house.”
“Why do you keep insisting that she’s dead? And what makes you think that it could be someone in town?”
“I was thinking last night of some of the weirdos we have staying here, since that cheap boarding house opened up. Every lowlife and shady character resides in there. No wonder the streets aren’t safe. Katrina—God rest her soul—must be spinning in her grave, seeing the town end up like this.”
Jeremiah appeared no longer to be listening as he swept nests of hair into tidy neat piles, before scooping them into the plastic bin.
“I oppose the death penalty,
as you well know, Jeremiah, but I would have no qualms about hanging the bastard that murdered that child. The blood knows what it needs. Blood, being blood, doesn’t care if that need is violence.”
“Is this going to be the topic for the rest of the day?” cut in Jeremiah, his voice sounding slightly agitated.
“Do you remember that crazy-looking fellow who came in about two weeks ago?” continued Harris. “The one who barely said a word, even when I accidentally nicked the back of his neck? No? Well, I do. He lives in that boarding house. I noticed how he couldn’t even look in the mirror when I asked him if the haircut was the way he wanted it. That’s a guilty conscience. Yes, sir.”
Jeremiah continued sweeping.
“Let’s change the conversation, Joe. I don’t like to hear stories about dead or missing children. Furthermore, I don’t understand why you would, either. Why are you so concerned?”
“Okay. Have it your way. C’mon, grumpy arse,” said Harris, patting the barber’s chair. “Sit yourself down. I’ll put you in a good mood.”
Reluctantly, Jeremiah rested the brush against the mirror, and eased himself into the chair.
On cue, Harris removed a steaming towel from its hothouse enclosure and wrapped it tightly against his partner’s face. This was a tiny ritual they performed on each other, usually at night after the last customer had been pruned. If done correctly, it was better than a massage.
“I can do it myself, Joe. I don’t want you missing your precious horses. I should have been here, this morning.”
“Give it a rest. Shut your mouth and relax. Anyway, I won’t be in tomorrow. It’s Katrina’s anniversary. I’ll be at the graveyard for most of the day, clearing up any weeds. I haven’t been to her grave lately. It must look like a jungle.”
The towel felt like heaven on Jeremiah’s skin as Joe patted it against the contours, forming a perfect cloth image of the face.
Jeremiah loved this part of the job. Truth be told, it was one of the highlights of his life. He could barely hear Joe’s muffled voice as he felt himself slowly drifting into a semi-slumber.
“When the cops come back, I’m going to tell them my suspicions about that boarding house and all those—”
“Cops? What cops?” asked Jeremiah, his voice slightly muffled against the cloth.
“Oh, cops were here this morning. Just routine. Asking door-to-door questions about the little girl. They said they’d be back, probably during the week, to ask if you remembered anything about her. I told them that you probably couldn’t remember much—if anything. The only thing you ever remember is when someone owes you money,” laughed Joe.
Jeremiah’s hands began to shake. He could feel the blood slipping from his skin. The face-hugging towel was suffocating him as he struggled to remove it. It felt like a snake, squeezing tightly against his neck.
Chapter Twelve
“The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.”
William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
JACK STUDIED THE painting, delighted with the progress he was making on it. Each stroke of the brush brought the mosaic tapestry to life, revealing an exotic nude comprising numerous animal and insect parts. The nude’s butterfly-shaped ears protruded from black, cascading hair; the nose was a tiny field mouse twitching with delight. Even the breasts were capped with elegiac, puppy-dog eyes.
This painting was going to be special. He could see that now. Even though it was a long way from being finished, this was his best work to date.
The doorbell buzzed, interrupting his thoughts.
“Sarah?” he said, opening the front door. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t wet yourself, Jack. The look on your face isn’t exactly welcoming. I came by to let you know that I’ll be out of town for at least a week. Going down to Galway then Dublin to exhibit some paintings from an up-and-coming artist. Oh, and a couple from an ungrateful bastard.”
Feeling slightly uncomfortable, he said, “You should have phoned, saved yourself the journey, all the way over here.”
“You mean, in case Adrian saw me, the woman with horns in her head?” Sarah glared.
“No. Of course not,” he lied.
“Liar. Anyway, you have the phone number for both hotels. I’m sure you still remember them? If you want to talk, just pick up the phone.” She turned to leave.
“Sarah, wait.” Grabbing her arm, Jack mumbled, “Come in. I’ll make some coffee.”
She stared at his hand, then his face, before smiling. “Sure you want me to sully your home?”
Jack nodded. “That so-called smile on your face could cut glass. You’d be good in the interrogation room.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she said, handing him her coat.
As he fumbled with the coffee-maker, Jack was conscious of Adrian upstairs in his room, making him feel like a burglar in his own house.
“Oh, Jack … this is beautiful,” whispered Sarah, staring at the unfinished painting. “It’s amazing.”
“You think so?” asked Jack.
“Think? Know. It’s horrible, but beautiful.”
“I guess that means you hate and love it?” said Jack.
“It’s shocking … almost perverted … I love it, darling … God! Wait until they feast their eyes on this, down at the gallery. It’s absolutely brilliant.”
“I don’t know about that. The greatness of any painting is measured by its ability to keep surprising, revealing something new every time we go back to look at it,” said Jack, chuffed, a smile appearing on his relieved face. “Time will tell if this has any surprises or revelation for—”
“I lied to you,” said Sarah.
“What?” Jack looked puzzled.
“On Saturday, I told you that if our relationship was making you unhappy, then I wouldn’t cause a scene. These last three days, not seeing you, have been like three weeks.” Kissing him hard on the lips, she frantically worked the buttons on his shirt, popping the reluctant ones with force.
“I just bought that shirt,” he laughed, watching her frustration tear the material. A few seconds later, she worked on his belt, cursing the damn thing’s awkwardness.
“Dad, I need some money for …” Adrian stood at the door, startling Jack.
“You know better than to barge in when the red light is on!” shouted Jack, desperately trying to regain his composure.
Adrian stared at his father, and then at Sarah.
“The red light wasn’t on!” screamed Adrian, turning and slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Thirteen
“In the nightmare of the dark …”
W.H. Auden, “In Memory of W.B. Yeats”
JEREMIAH TRIED TO sleep, but the sounds of anguished moaning disturbed him deeply. Easing himself from his bed, he cautiously made his way along the hallway, turning left at Judith’s bedroom.
His heart was thumping in his chest. Should she see him standing there, ‘spying on her’, there would be hell to pay. He still retained the scar of a night-time encounter when she had accused him of spying, not too long ago.
Judith shifted in the bed, tossing, mumbling incoherently. Her face was bathed in beads of sweat.
Despite his fear and weariness, Jeremiah felt his hands move towards her, desperately wanting to rouse her, free her from the nightmares he knew she was enduring.
Judith’s nightmare is always the same: eyes, hundreds of them, laughing, watching, hiding the faces of their owners. She always hears a voice, telling her that tonight will be her best performance yet. The audience is full of expectations.
We do not disappoint the audience, do we?
No … no, sir …
Ever?
No …
Good. Time then! Let this be the performance of your life. And for your own sake, make sure it outshines last night’s. Otherwise …
He reaches for the metal rod.
No! Please, don’t … I was feelin
g sick, last night. I will be a star, tonight—every night. I promise …
Good, and we always keep our promises, don’t we?
Yes … yes, always …
Good, he says again, swiftly bringing the rod down upon her head, smashing it like a bad tomato.
Judith jerked suddenly from her sleep, her breathing heavy, almost as if someone had placed an anvil on her chest. Her eyes darted about in the darkness, searching.
Gradually, relief seeped back on to her face. The nightmare was over for now. She lay listening to the outside noises, her nostrils capturing the residue of Jeremiah’s smell. He had been in here, again, spying.
“Jeremiah?” she asked, easing from the bed.
Outside the room, Jeremiah listened to his heart thumping in his head. Would she hear him, sneaking off down the hallway, if he tried to escape?
“Jeremiah?” hissed Judith, impatiently. “I know you’re out there, listening. Your stench has filled my room. Go and shower. Now.”
Obediently stepping into the shower a minute later, Jeremiah was initially shocked by the coldness. His breathing became jagged while he gritted his teeth, steeling himself as the cold water hit him square in the face and concave chest, pooling between his toes. “Hhhhhssssssss.” He sucked in the tight air, feeling numbness spread throughout his body. Biting down on his lower lip, he tried to prevent his teeth from chattering.
“Cold is good,” said Judith, pulling the shower curtains back, making them snap like a whip. “Kills all the germs and dirty things. Isn’t that right?” In her hand was a broom, the large coarse type favoured by street cleaners, its twigs protruding like lethal porcupine quills.
“Yeessss …” His teeth were chattering loudly now, uncontrollably.
“Turn your face to the wall. I don’t want to look at your pathetic sneaky features.”