Grim

by Gavin McCallion

  The man who ran Wonderland Talent reported Tom to the police, so he knew who Tom was. The man who ran Wonderland Talent had no issue kidnapping people. Tom shouldn't be making an enemy of him.

  Worse still, if this man knew Tom's name, then he knew his daughter's too.

  He only had to match Tom Quinn with Cora Quinn, and any chance Tom had of ever seeing me again halved.

  ~

  Fortunately, it wasn't David in the reception upstairs, nor was it Judge Rabbit, Mute or anyone physically able to do me any harm.

  It was an ugly man with a broken back, ankle and head, off his tits on painkillers.

  ~

  Forty-One

  Ugly Derek, Feeling Terrific

  Derek was genuinely amused by the wallpaper in the police station's reception.

  It might've been the overdose of anti-anxiety medicine; it wrapped him in cotton wool, all the way round his head, in his mouth and down his throat to his heart, calming every beat.

  It might've been the suspiciously strong painkillers Judge Rabbit fed him; the buzz they gave him didn't feel legal. They numbed his ankle (even though when he last checked, a broken bone sat dangerously close to the surface) as well as his back (even though he still couldn't walk straight).

  Then again, it might've been the booze; after the amount of legwork he had put in, he treated himself to a couple of halves from The Judge’s whisky stash at the Wonderland office, because why not? Friends share whisky. He wasn't helping his employer anymore, he was helping his friend.

  And helping is exactly what he did. He had come up with a plan with which he didn't see a single flaw. Better still, a plan within the confines of the law! As well as helping his friend commit mass murder - totally a-okay by Derek's vanishing standards - he was using the police to help him!

  Daddy would be so proud!

  As Derek watched the patterned wallpaper dance around, he found himself identifying that he felt fucking terrific.

  A little bit sick, mind you, but mostly terrific.

  He stopped himself smiling at the wall. He couldn't be seen to be smiling. He had to be threatening and upset that someone broke into his office, like David would be. If he could convince Inspector Harris he was upset, but not quite upset enough to press charges, he would be alright.

  'Let the man go, we'll settle privately...' he muttered at the dancing wall, but he tried to sound grand like Judge Rabbit. He cleared the cotton wool from his throat. 'Let, the man GO. We'll deal with this ourselves.'

  Great.

  Outside. Punch him. Sling him in the car and drive back to the mansion. Party party party. Murder murder murder. Retirement with Judge Rabbit. They'd be on a beach in no time.

  'Mr Hunter?' Came a voice behind him.

  He spun around, looking grand and imposing in a wet suit and a broken back. 'Yesss? That's me, I'm Mr David.'

  Inspector Harris was another wall to him. A big wall with a beard and sleepy eyes he rubbed beneath his glasses. 'We'll need to take a look at your office. Need to confirm the crime.'

  Derek didn't like that idea.

  'Oh... that won't be necessary, I'm- no.' He coughed. 'JUST let him deal, we'll go ourselves?'

  Inspector Harris' nose twitched. 'He denies it, I'm afraid. We'll need further evidence.'

  'M-more evidence than video footage?'

  'I'm afraid so. Did you say you found blood everywhere?'

  'Why... yes... I did.'

  'Grand, we'll grab a sample to match with him.'

  Derek didn't understand at all. He pawed through the wooliness in his brain, trying to make sense of what was happening. Surely, if he didn't want to press charges, they should be letting him go?

  Whether Tom denied it or not, if there were no charges, he couldn’t be kept.

  'B-but, I don't want to charge him.' Derek reiterated to nobody.

  Inspector Harris had already turned his back on him. He approached the reception desk and told Kim where he would be. He asked that she make sure nobody speaks to their prisoner.

  Returning to Derek, he nodded. 'Right, can we take your car? I'm technically supposed to be off duty, had a drink with dinner, you know how it is.'

  To be off duty? Derek certainly did not. He didn't even appreciate the idea and wanted to voice his objection. He gathered his words too late, however, for Inspector Harris was developing a habit of leaving him before he could put a sentence together. The Inspector fetched his umbrella from the stand by the door, shaking the loose drops off.

  'Let's be off, then.'

  Derek became so distracted by the rainwater falling from the umbrella that he forgot where they were going, and then went to drive a police officer around town in such a state.

  ~

  The journey to Wonderland Talent was interesting, to say the least.

  Derek went for a drive with a policeman in his car, when an hour ago he spent five minutes staring at the lights on his dash. Inspector Harris - whose employment depended on his attention to detail - was also oblivious to Derek's stupor until they got on the road.

  Once they got there, though… oh man did the atmosphere tense up.

  Inspector Harris figured out he wasn't fit. Any time a set of traffic lights came up, he made sure to say so out loud. The Whirl had a lot of traffic lights, and Derek would be lying if he said he had noticed every set before Harris reminded him.

  Additionally, the stop-starting theme of the lights played hell with his guts; nausea kicked in slap-bang in the middle of The Whirl.

  Oh, and the increasingly dangerous winds were intent on tipping the car as it navigated the spiralling nature and dancing grey brickwork of The Whirl. Derek had to rush them into the office at the other end so he could quickly be sick in the bathroom.

  When he finished, he gave the toilet a flush and re-entered the office.

  Inspector Harris was hunched over one of the many trails of blood that patterned the floor. 'You okay?'

  Derek struggled for a lie. 'The blood affects me, you understand.'

  'Ah.' Inspector Harris blatantly rolled his eyes as he stood. 'It's a fair bit of blood. Did he manage to take anything?'

  'I don't believe so.'

  'Right. Just seems like something's disturbed the blood, see?'

  Derek didn't know how he missed it earlier (the drugs). The trails of blood were smeared and pulled out of pattern as though something large had been dragged through them. Something like a filing cabinet, for argument's sake. He never came back up when he humphed it down THE STAIRS and into the boot of his car.

  'I haven't properly examined the place yet. I, er… didn't want to disturb the evidence? He might've gotten... something.'

  Inspector Harris pulled a phone out of his pocket and took pictures of the blood, nodding as he went. 'You got anything in here that size?'

  'I can't really... I'm not sure?'

  Derek couldn't lie at the best of times. Obviously, in this instance, the truth would not do, but that didn't make the act any easier.

  Inspector Harris stroked his beard then pointed to the door at the back of the room. 'Mind if I?'

  'No, no. Go right ahead.'

  He made his way to the back office and Derek aimed to follow him, but he heard a noise. If he wasn't mistaken, it sounded something like the noise a broken boot of a car makes if it's clattering open and shut by the force of violent winds.

  Derek limped over to the window, and he was dead on the money. He had parked the car at a horrible angle, facing the building, and the boot jumped gleefully up and down on its hinges, exposing a filing cabinet filled with crippling evidence to the world.

  'Oh... bother.'

  'You sure nothing's missing?' Inspector Harris called from the office.

  'Sorry?'

  The policeman came back into the room, following the square smearing of blood on the ground, tracking it with a finger. 'I'd say he pulled something from behind the door here, right through the middle of the room and outside.'

  Derek look
ed from Inspector Harris to the car outside and back. 'Oh! There ehm, was an old unit in that office, I think. Is-is... is it gone?'

  'You didn't notice?'

  'It's so old... and useless... I don't know why a thief would want it.'

  'Huh. Well, looks like he got it.' He peered over the top of his glasses. 'You sure you don't want to press charges?'

  'I might have to now... yes.'

  'Wonder what anyone would want with an old filing cabinet, eh?'

  Sweat developed immediately all over Derek's skin. 'I... wonder myself. I'm s-sorry, did I mention it was a filing cabinet?'

  Inspector Harris shrugged and walked back into the office with his camera poised. 'Must've done!'

  ~

  Ten tense minutes passed where Officer Harris also pointed out several hooks in the walls with nothing hanging on them, perhaps like the thief had taken a whole load of pictures from them.

  Derek assured him, in a barely audible slur, he had taken them down himself because he was redecorating.

  'Didn't get very far, did you?' Inspector Harris asked, to which Derek shook his head and edged his way nearer the door.

  Outside, once the Inspector was done, Derek hopped down THE STAIRS with his back straight, careful not to take himself for another tumble but moving fast enough ensure he got to the boot of the car first. The policeman was about three steps behind him. Derek hit the bottom and did his best to jog to the rear of the car without pushing his ankle bone through the last fraction of skin holding it in.

  At the rear of the car, the boot flapped open and shut against the wind, and just when Derek got a hold of it, a mighty upwind caught him and yanked it from his grasp.

  'Hoo!' he yelped, as the slippery lid escaped him.

  Inspector Harris nonchalantly approached the car as that bastard of a wind flashed Judge Rabbit’s dirty knickers all over Wilson's Well.

  He passed the passenger-side door of the car. 'Something wrong with your boot?'

  'Everything's okay!' Derek cried, and pushed the door down with his whole body, slamming it emphatically.

  POP went something in his spine.

  Inspector Harris rounded the corner and joined him.

  Derek, sprawled over the lid, couldn't move. He couldn't be sure his back would ever straighten for him again.

  The policeman stopped, close enough that Derek was granted shelter beneath his umbrella.

  Derek could move his fingers and his head, but nothing else. The rest of him was doomed to be a hood ornament forever.

  'I have some issues with the boot of the car...'

  'Uh-huh...' The Inspector looked around the lot. 'Listen, is there anything you want to tell me?'

  Derek's heart set fire to the cotton wool around it. He was done. If Inspector Harris could move him from the boot of the car, Derek was going to jail.

  'N-n-n-n-' he started, swallowed some sick, nearly fell asleep, and then said, 'no? Why?'

  Inspector Harris sighed. 'I'm off duty, and I don't have the energy to book you, alright? Just tell me, and I can drive us back to the station.'

  Derek fell asleep and slipped off the car.

  He woke up when he hit the ground, fortunately enough, and it seemed the fall corrected the issue with his back. Well, it was still broken, but at least he was able to move.

  Inspector Harris hunched over him. 'Hey buddy, you okay? Speak to me.'

  'Y-yessir, quite. I have adrenaline-induced narcolepsy, I panic and- listen I-'

  'Mate, I don't know what you're on, but you're not driving. Give me your keys.'

  Looking past Inspector Harris, Derek saw the boot was still shut. 'Painkillers.' Derek said, in a moment of blissful clarity. 'I've damaged my back and maybe slipped on my dosage.'

  Inspector Harris stroked his beard and offered him a hand up. 'A bit,' he said.

  ~

  Forty-Two

  The Drummer versus The Cyborg

  The first half of our set was fine.

  I mean, we knew the music back to front. Nerves could only do so much against six hours of practice, every day, for a year.

  We didn't put too much effort into looking like we were having fun. Judge Rabbit had probably sold the band on a huffy aesthetic, so we didn't need to act cheery. Vox was the exception because that girl constantly looked delighted to be singing for people. Bass didn't slip at all; he looked like a corpse, and he would be forgiven for dropping a note here and there (by me, at least) but he didn't.

  It was fine.

  The audience were fine too. They weren't a cool crowd or a party crowd. They were an elegant crowd who knew good music being played well. They danced in little circles down near the front of the stage if they weren't mingling at the back or helping themselves to food. Each of them dressed in fantastic ways, trying to have their look be the life of the party. Whether it was a brightly coloured boa or a powerful, robust red from head to toe, they each tried to be unique. In effect, they turned out to be only fine. Just normal. For all their amazing lives of money and man-servants, they were only people. Some of them were immortal people, sure, but still. Just people.

  Yeah, overall it was fine.

  Sadly, as much as I tried not to, I couldn't help enjoying myself.

  I love drumming, I always have. Yes, being forced to do it six hours a day kicked that out of me, but I hadn't played for a crowd in forever.

  Halfway through Bye Bye Baby I stopped trying. I didn't want to sit there looking depressed. I was playing the drums for the last time in my life.

  So I enjoyed myself. I smiled, I thrashed around, I (poorly) joined in with backing vocals.

  Best part? When Vox saw me, she joined in. She bopped around the stage, dancing and shaking that delightful butt of hers. It travelled to Keys who added a head nod to his repertoire. Even Six cracked a singular smile.

  At the back of the room, Judge Rabbit mingled. I caught him laughing with one of his guests and laughing with someone different later that same song. He travelled the room to ensure everyone had a perfect time. He caught my eye in the middle of Cherry Bomb and lifted an eyebrow. We'd gone off his script, even if we didn't technically do anything wrong.

  Without removing the grin he'd painted on his face, he nodded.

  To the side of the stage stood Mute, his massive arms folded and head tilted. He did not look pleased.

  I didn't care.

  Twist and Shout was the last song before our break. I struggled to do anything but enjoy the song - all the build-ups and AAAAAAHs made it incredibly fun.

  So fun, in fact, I realised I didn't want to die.

  Maybe it was the music, or the drums, or what Vox said to me about taking care of myself, I don't know, but suddenly I had to live. I had to. I wanted to play the drums again. I wanted to drink myself into a blackout again. I still had adventures to have, I still had things to do. I wanted to die in love, collapsing into bed with the girl of my dreams.

  I wanted all this, and I couldn't have it because some ridiculous-looking prick in tartan trousers and his fucking robot said so?

  I was over it.

  Nah, I get to live, I thought.

  As the song drew to a close - building one last time to a mighty blast of cymbals - I saw no way out fighting through the crowd, no way out running over the table (I would definitely fall), no way out backwards. Then there was the dumb-waiter, my old pal.

  Oh man, I hated that idea.

  The song built to its climax and stopped.

  The crowd stopped dancing and started clapping.

  Vox, back in sheepish mode, approached the mic. 'Thanks, guys. We're taking a break...' She turned to me and grinned, melting me. Six took off his guitar and walked by. Bass pushed himself, gingerly, out of his chair.

  I coughed.

  He looked.

  I said, 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'

  His eyes widened. He must've known. 'What?'

  'Run, please just run. Fucking-'

  Mute spotted us. His jaw clamped shut. H
is hands balled into fists. His head shook. Once.

  But I was gone.

  ~

  I flew over the top of the drums and bolted for the edge of the stage.

  I leapt off. As far as I could go.

  The audience gasped.

  I landed and kept going, nearly flooring a man in a light-up blue suit.

  I didn't think of anything but the door to the dumb-waiter. I ignored the distressed wailing of Judge Rabbit. I ignored the sound of Mute's feet at my back.

  WHOMP. WHOMP. WHOMP.

  The noise stopped long enough for him to launch himself off of the stage and land a few paces from me.

  CRACK.

  Like thunder.

  Glassware shook. Plaster fell from the ceiling. More gasps from the guests amongst comments such as, 'oh my!', 'oh my days!' and 'oh, yes, good.'

  I threw myself at the dumb-waiter, hauled the door open and jammed myself inside. My back contorted upwards as I grabbed at familiar wooden slats to my right and left, straining my ribs. In one heave, I pulled myself through and split myself in an X shape across the width of the shaft, planting my feet on the slats below.

  I climbed.

  I climbed in ways that split and tore the dress around my thighs.

  WHOMP. WHOMP. WHOMP.

  I grabbed the strut up and to my left, then my right, then left, as fast as I could.

  In suffocating heat, I hauled my ass high enough so he couldn't reach me.

  I made the mistake of looking down as he burst into the shaft below.

  He was too huge for the gap, and the walls around me pulsed with the extra pressure.

  He thrust an arm up for me and clipped my heel.

  I could see nothing past him. He snarled and heaved at the structure struggling to hold itself together around him.

  Close to pissing my pants, I kept climbing.

  Mute unclogged himself from the gap and left a blackness beneath me in his stead. I heard his footsteps vanish off in a hurry.

  He was taking the stairs.

  My legs were killing me, my arms ached; the climb would’ve been easier were I not playing the drums less than two minutes ago. The Judge's painkillers wore off and left me raw. With every movement, the nerves sent a little spasm across my skeleton to remind me my ribs were still very much cracked.