Blood From A Shadow (2012)

by Gerard Cappa

  There were no curtains over the windows, so I got up to turn the oil lamp down, didn’t want a light in an empty house to give us away. I stood up ok, but then stumbled, knocked the lamp over, it went out and I felt myself swaying into the blackness. Didar jumped up and turned her little torch on, I saw it fine, at first, then it started to quiver and float, then it was spinning and whirling all around my head. She was calling me, “Gavur! Gavur!” then her voice started to whirl as well. I tried to connect with my brain, insist it take control, steady the gyroscope, but the whirlpool accelerated, the axis shifted, my body stalled and I collapsed into a deep black hole.

  I lay immobile, paralysed, only blackness, but I could hear her voice in the distance, as if she was down on the deserted street below. There was no pain, but my soul leaked out, released, seeped away to some other place.

  Then it started again, the same as always, but more vivid, more real than anything I had tasted before, than I had related to Conroy in our many sessions.

  I was in that line of blue again, marching through smoke and powder, shots whistling, cannonballs pounding, men screaming before being emptied into the soil. But still we kept up that hill, not looking left or right as brothers fell, and bellowed or hissed their death, just kept going forward, never asking why, singing “Marching thru Georgia” while we still had breath in our lungs. Small bore muskets still out of range, the rifled Rebs whoop yelled their frenzy. The flag fell beside me, McErlane holed between the eyes, left behind, but he lifted the green again, another unmarked Ferdia, until that one was spent, then another, and another. Each new Ferdia resurrected and perfect, bearing the gold harp on the green flag above our heads, that’s why we marched that treadmill, never closing the gap.

  A man swept forward on his own, Arab ceremonial sword in hand, their shot passed him by. He turned and waved me to him, come to him, hide under his cloak. It was my father, now in Viet Nam jungle green, laughing and cheering me, waving a big .45, as I trampled another dead Ferdia under my feet.

  Now I was over their defences, my dream musket with bayonet, my right boot planted on a Gray chest in the smoke, plunging deep into his cavity, again and again, the suck and tear of heart and lungs another bog to sink my spade. The smoke wisped clear and I saw his face, my young father was under my foot beaming his pride as I gored and sliced him. Then he was the woodworker in his workshop, his head hanging by spinal string as his daughter whimpered and I hacked through throat and neck. The smoke whirled and cleared, it was my father again, growing younger with each thrust. Now I was in the Abe Lincoln Brigade, stabbing the old man through the heart, choking his Spanish disillusion, mercy killing his disappointment. My father again, hacked to a splashing quagmire, getting younger, until the cannon smoke cleared finally, and I was stabbing and cutting my son, Young Con.

  That was the sequence, I knew I would wake up now, shaking, wet with sweat, heart thumping, gulping air. But it didn’t end there this time, just paced on, at the double, out of control. I was on my back in the red soil, the ceremonial sword sharpened to butcher me, al-Zarqawi singing “Up to our necks in Fenian blood”, the regimental band playing “Marching thru Georgia”. The sword sliced through my right arm, took it below the elbow, a little Iraqi girl squealed with joy and spat in my face. The woodworker dragged his two handed saw across my knees, grinding them away. Then I was back on that hill above Belfast, my father forcing my face into the black liquid bog, filling my mouth with the festering warm filth. He pushed my whole body under, just my eyes above, and a woman’s face mirrored beside his. Sarah McErlane, her soft voice, “I understand you, Cornelius, you don’t need to explain anything”, whispered so that my father wouldn’t hear. The thick oil bubbled in my lungs, my father laughed, and young Con pressed the sole of his shoe to my forehead. I was banished underground, exiled from their world.

  Then it would loop start again, but all out of sequence, snatches of faces and voices and blood and terror, all mixed up, so bizarre I knew it was a nightmare, but I couldn’t escape, couldn’t wake, paralysed in this other world. Every time my father and my son killed me, the red cycle would ignite afresh, the blood and horror more real each time, even though I knew it was a dream vision that must pass.

  When I did wake, I was exhausted, the emotional turmoil had left me empty and spent. It must have been daytime, fractals of random gray light percolated through the bedcover, now strung across the window. My mouth and throat were clotted with acrid chemical tar, my head was throbbing and I couldn’t move my limbs on the bed. My eyes started to function, there was a veil of smoke lurking over the bed, there was dark movement, cigarettes sucked red in the gloom. I coughed, but couldn’t move below my neck. Smelt the caustic tobacco, heard their low drone. I tried to rise, couldn’t move, strained my neck to see. Six men keeping a vigil by my bed, six men with cigarettes. Doctors? Undertakers? No, these were Mafya.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Four hard slaps to my face confirmed I was awake, and one nightmare had ended. They were animated now, buzzed in their own language, I wasn’t even sure it was Turkish.

  “You Americans are all the same,” he said, a handsome young face, neat black goatee beard, good English. “Drunk on your inflated sense of power. You think you are invincible, that’s your weakness, you think you can impose your power on everyone and no-one will dare resist you. You expect everyone to acknowledge your authority and follow your lead. Don’t you realise a prostitute is just a person who can be bought? Did you think she owed some special loyalty to you?”

  They were all around me, my ankles and wrists were wired to the bed, I couldn’t see Didar in the room. My head sank back to the mattress, but he leant over me, not letting me escape his stare, pressed my Rami to my temple.

  “Now you realise you have no power, American, we decide what happens to you. We might kill you, plant your body in one of our fantastic new building sites, no-one will ever know you have been here,” he said.

  He was a bit younger than me, about thirty years old, his face was close enough for me to notice he was wearing make-up, covering little blemishes on his chin. A brilliant white shirt and neat necktie. I detected a slight English accent, more than just good education, in his speech. He wasn’t expecting me to answer.

  “Or you might be worth something to us. Perhaps someone will buy you from us, like a whore. We will see, but, until we decide, you will stay here. Do not try to escape, you have nowhere to go, no friends in Istanbul. We will certainly kill you if you try that, believe me. You are not in Aksaray now.”

  He withdrew his face, gave an order, someone inhaled deeply on a cigarette and held the red orb between my eyes, so close I couldn’t focus properly and it looked like there were two glowing cigarette ends in my face. He pulled my sweater down and slowly dabbed the burn into my neck, on top of my old scars. I gripped my breath to stifle any cry, but the next one repeated the treatment, slipping the burning end into my left ear, holding it there, a millimetre from the skin. I jerked my head to the right, he slapped me across the face and jabbed the cigarette into my ear as far as it would go. They all laughed, as if I had slipped on a banana skin. I still stifled my pain.

  The next one was younger, maybe 18 or 19, he puffed on his weed, then started to undo my trousers, I writhed against the wires that fixed me to the bed. This was even funnier, they joked him on, but the Beard put his hand out to stop.

  “Not yet, Dogu, leave that as something for our friend to look forward to,” he said, for me, then said something to Dogu. They stopped laughing, but Dogu looked deflated, his face said I would pay for it later, then he stepped back to my side and walloped me across the face as hard as he could. That was funny too. The Beard spoke, two of them left with him, leaving me in the care of Dogu and the two that had burnt me.

  The pain had jolted me further into consciousness, but my head still sponged with the residue of whatever poison they had fed me. Fragments of the dream reverberated too, echoes just fading in the distance. I looked agai
n, confirming there was no Didar, no sign of her clothes, just the bag she had carried. The liquor bottle was on the table, maybe two cupfuls missing. They didn’t like me looking, and Dogu punched me in the stomach, shouted something at me, pushed my face towards the wall. I think he called me a Gavur.

  I lay still, better not to antagonise them. The older two sat on the floor, resting their backs against the wall opposite the bed, chatting and joking as if they were sitting in a coffee shop outside the market. I could feel Dogu’s resentment throbbing from the doorway, where he stood and smoked on his own. The two on the floor were ribbing him, the way assholes always do to younger guys, I could tell that in any language. He didn’t like it, and I knew he could only exorcise his anger on me. We stayed like that for an hour or so, until they had smoked their lungs out and needed coffee. Then they sent Dogu off like a message boy, and that didn’t help his temper either. They cackled from their smoke rasped chests, shouted more taunts to him as he stamped down the stairs.

  We could hear the front door slam far below, they laughed, then started to speak in lower voices, not bantering now. I knew they were talking about me, nodding their opinions of what should be done with me, they sounded like the two bus drivers at Belfast airport. Maybe the Beard should never have been promoted above them. I almost laughed myself, at these two speaking so I wouldn’t hear, as if I would understand their fucking Muj language.

  Anyway, I knew what was happening. Beard was out to market me, clinch the highest bidder. That could mean handing me over to some other crew, or it could mean killing me for them. It all depended on whether anyone thought I knew anything of value, or needed me shut up. Whoever had taken Conroy couldn’t be sure what she had told me before I fled the scene. And McErlane’s contacts must have heard I was in town, looking to resurrect their deal. These guys were merchants, when all is said and done, profit before people every time, that’s what I needed to hang on to. Or maybe the Aksaray crowd just wanted revenge. All I could do for now was wait. I knew how to wait, but it’s easier when you have some reference point. In here, the light through the bedcover didn’t change, I couldn’t tell what time of day it was, but it had been a long night, and my bladder was screaming now. I called out to the guys, “Toilet! Toilet! Piss! Piss!” They knew what I meant ok, but just pissed themselves laughing at me.

  It took about twenty minutes for Dogu to return, that confirmed my impression that Didar had brought me to a wasteland. He tramped up the stairs behind the waft of strong coffee, melted cheese and hot chocolate. He must have brought fresh cigarettes also, they lit up straight away while Dogu split the pastries. I hadn’t heard an engine, wondered if he had a car outside. The guys must have told him about me needing a piss, because Dogu took great delight in pouring the aniseed liquor over my crotch then slapping me in the balls with the base of the bottle. They laughed, but the other two must have known the cruel little prick would just as soon do the same thing to one of them. He was young and dangerous, they might get the order to stiff him some day before he got out of control, cost them money, they should watch their own backs in the meantime.

  I needed a toilet, but I also craved some of their coffee, to dissolve the liquid poison crystals that coated my mouth and plugged my throat. One of the seniors stood up to stretch, I caught his eye and nodded at the coffee. He said something to Dogu, sounded like he had some humanity in him, and rolled out his hand towards me. Dogu stepped up, dribbled the remnants of his coffee over my face and eyes, then stubbed his cigarette on my forehead. The other two laughed, but uneasily, like they didn’t approve but he hadn’t transgressed just enough for them to do anything about it. Like McErlane roughing up civilians along Route Irish. He finished by punching me in the kidney. I couldn’t hold it any longer, and pissed myself. That was really funny, kept them amused for ages. At least the pain did something, that was the tipping point for me, when the effects of the drug started to fade quickly, and my jumbled brain started to reform. I would wait my chance, I knew it would come, and then I would rid this little prick of his teenage angst.

  I lay there for a couple of hours, warped by the pain and soaking cold, feeling the darkness advance over Tarlabasai. The three of them took turns to go out from time to time, never less than two left to guard me. I bided my time, kept my wrists and ankles moving as much as I could, although the binding wires bit my flesh. My senses were fully recovered now, the brain twisting poison degraded, and I listened for movement outside like a cobra tracking its prey.

  And I heard something in the dark far below, a floorboard, long before the three of them realised the Beard and a minder were on the stairs. I breathed in preparation, but not the therapy breathing Conroy had taught me, just the natural anticipation of battle.

  “You are a very interesting man, you have attracted several offers,” the Beard said. “Unfortunately, I cannot yet tell you the outcome. I hope to make further progress tonight, and be in a position to finalise the matter by tomorrow morning. It is a matter of business, you understand, and I hope you will not harbor any ill feelings towards us if you are set free.”

  Dogu and the other two shifted, their brows creased, not comfortable with his tone of voice to me, as if I was important, might yet be free and dangerous, might demand their heads.

  “Please do not get your hopes up, just yet. It is still very possible that the outcome will not be good for you, I do not wish to create unrealistic expectations for you.”

  His English was even better than Kaffa’s, but shared the slight “V” sound on his “wish”.

  “In the meantime, Dogu will bring you food and drink, whatever you require. I’m afraid you must stay here for now, but, if possible, we will move you to one of our good hotels where you will be comfortable. I will return within the hour to let you know.”

  There were a lot of v’s now, the sound starting to irritate me. I said nothing, just kept looking at the ceiling, working out who would want me the most, be prepared to outbid the rest. I hoped Duffin and Artie had been generous. Anyway, I knew my chance was coming soon, just wait a little longer. The Beard dished out some orders, the soldiers deferred, Dogu was getting worried. And they were all so far up their own asses they didn’t hear that fucking floorboard down below. Like all the losers that bellyache about the United States, these lowlifes were more guilty of what they accused us of than we were ourselves. Because it wouldn’t matter how much firepower I was carrying, I would never have been so drunk on it that I didn’t hear this coming.

  There were at least three of them, I could feel their movement coming closer, and she was there, I caught her cheap beautiful perfume. I knew who was coming to save me now, couldn’t believe it, but just knew it was true.

  She called my name from the turn in the stairs, they stopped their babble for a second, then burst out to the landing to scream their offense at such an affront to his dignity. Then it erupted, a fucking death blossom that sliced them in half where they stood. Only Dogu jumped back inside, went down on his knees in front of me with his hands up, crying some sorry shit that he hoped would save his prick neck.

  They were in the door, three men and Didar. The kid grovelled at her feet, grabbing her ankles, begging for his life, crying like the baby he was. She extracted her ankles, stepped over him to me, two of the guys were already cutting the wires from my hands and feet. The third guy dropped his H&K MP7 to the kid’s neck, blew the head off his shoulders, before stepping over with his arms open, and lifting me off the bed to kiss and hug me, crying and shaking with a lost brother’s joy.

  I think I really knew it all along. None of these mother fuckers could ever have really killed Ferdia McErlane.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Two BMW sevens swept up to the house. Two shooters in the first one, then me, Ferdy and Didar in the second. We just sat with our arms entwined around each other, not really saying too much, just stupid things, like how much older he looked, how much weight I had put on, had I seen any of the guys lately, heard Reitner
had got married, that sort of crap. Not “Why did you let everyone think you were dead?” or “What the fuck is going on here?” Just normal buddy chatter, the rest would come later, for now we just breezed along as if we were cruising down to Yankee Stadium to catch Posada’s last game. No firefight high, no arousal to savor before it dissolved, just two guys and a girl going home after a night out, but I kept touching him, running my hand over his head and shoulders, making sure he was real, I wasn’t back in my dream trance. He ignored my piss stench and stroked my head, squeezed my hands, almost purring. Didar sat apart, watching, but saying nothing.

  We raced through the streets, back towards the Bosphorus Bridge and Orkatoy, past the Kahverengi Boga club. We all looked down towards it when we passed that street, but didn’t sound our thoughts. Another ten minutes and our driver took the message on his cellphone, the car in front slowed down, let us pass, then did a sweeping U turn and headed back to the city. We paused while security gates admitted us into a driveway, then pulled up at steps leading to a grand house. Pale blue wood, three floors, ornate bay windows on each side of a sea blue mosaic door. Built by an Ottoman Pasha to enjoy the Bosphorus, now a sanctuary for two Gavur killers and a fugitive Kurd whore. A guard held the door open for us, the car whisked around the back, before taking off out the security gate into the night.

  The guard led Didar to the kitchen. Ferdy took my arm and led me into a lounge at the back, deep cushioned sofas lined the wall, soft lights permitted a view of the Asian shore through the wall length windows. We hugged, sobbed, rocked in each other’s arms, still no need for words. We hung there for about a minute, before one of us broke off, we both wiped our eyes, then laughed, a mixture of embarrassment and emotion. He had a First Aid box, pulled out a tube of antibiotic cream and dabbed my burns. They stung like hell now, I took some painkillers, needed a drink to wash them down. Ferdia pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels from the corner cocktail bar, spun ice into two glasses and poured in way too much. I followed him through the french windows on to a paved terrace. We sipped our drinks in the frosty air, looking across to Asia.