Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller

by Ray Kingfisher

  The man rubbed the side of his face, the stubble creating a rasping sound. “Do you want to find out?”

  “You know, I’m not so sure I do.”

  “Look,” the man said. “It’s the end of the bad dreams for a while. You get the idea of them anyway. How about if I just get on with the story?”

  Maggie thought for a moment, and brushed some stray sugar off the table onto the floor. “That’s a good idea,” she said, then looked the man in the eye. “So okay, yeah, go on.”

  “Good,” the man said. “I’ll carry on from when Patrick had just been sick.”

  13

  In his bathroom Patrick stood up and wiped the vomit from his mouth.

  If only wiping away memories of his dreams was as easy.

  He stayed close to the toilet bowl, leaning his shoulder against the tiled wall, waiting for the next retch to strain his throat. But no, that was it. The drama was finished for another night. The curtain had come down.

  He brushed his teeth and returned to the bedroom. He gave the bed a frightened stare, then turned around and headed for the living room. Once there, he started pacing up and down the length of the room, occasionally groaning and gasping. This was one of the worst dreams yet. What would he do if they got worse still?

  He opened the fridge, felt physically sick again, so went back to the bedroom. No, the memory was still too raw. Some fresh air, a walk along the lakeshore taking in its cool, whispering breeze would help.

  After signing out at security and a quick half-run through the pedway he was there. He fell onto the first free bench he came across and pulled his feet up onto the seat, wrapping his arms round his shins.

  The most terrifying thing was that the dreams were so realistic – so much so it felt wrong to dismiss them as mere nightmares. It felt more like he’d been transported into some parallel universe, an inverted, perverted world where evil was good, watching the suffering of others passed for pleasure, and guilt was a crime. But no – actually, no. The twisted morality of this new world wasn’t the most terrifying thing, that was reserved for the way Patrick was feeling: he was actually starting to feel at home in this guilt-free zone, to want to stay there once he’d been transported there. In the dreamworld he didn’t feel remorse, he didn’t spend his days struggling to stay awake in the aftermath of nightmares, with remnants of those dark visions scuttling around in his mind like rats trapped in a box.

  And now, back in the real world, was his guilt some sort of penance for the sins of his alter ego committed in the “other” world?

  Patrick stood up and spent an hour or so strolling along the lakeshore, then returned home. There, dulled by whisky on an empty and tender stomach, he caught three hours’ sleep before going into work.

  “Looks like it’s coffee time again,” Paulo said towards the end of the morning, in a fashion Patrick thought unnecessarily cheery.

  “Is it that obvious?” Patrick asked. “Am I that bad?”

  “Mmm… Bad’s not the word – try lucky. I wish I could do whatever it was you quite clearly managed to do all night.”

  “Well—”

  “No, no. Don’t tell me, Patrick. I don’t want to know; you’ll only make me feel even worse.”

  Patrick forced a jaded smile. That was spot on. Paulo really, really didn’t want to know.

  They both heard the footsteps. They both fell silent.

  “You free, Patrick?”

  “Hi, Beth.”

  “We need to talk about the schedule for the Zombie Stomper development project.”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks. My office. Now.” Beth flashed a twinkling of that perfect dentition and left without waiting for Patrick.

  Paulo sent him a mock-grimace, and whispered, “Oh, dear. Dick on chopping board.”

  Thirty seconds later Patrick entered Beth’s office and glanced around. He hadn’t noticed in their familiarisation session just how spartan the place was. A couple of certificates hung on the walls, a calendar and two pens lay on the desk next to her PC. The sole personal effects visible were her attaché case on the floor and her coat on a hook in the corner.

  Patrick sat down on the opposite side of the desk, but Beth pushed her seat round and sat down leaving nothing but a couple of feet of air between them.

  “Right,” she said.

  And that single word was said in the same tone she said everything, the tone that conveyed a message: we’re gonna do what I say, not because you have to obey me, but because I’m right.

  “Look,” Patrick said, “I’m afraid I’ve only had enough time to take a very quick scan at the top level—”

  Beth held a hand up and he stopped speaking. But she seemed to be in no hurry to explain her action. She tilted her head and gave a slim smile. In contrast to her tone it had a little warmth. Perhaps she wasn’t such a ballbreaker after all. High flying businesswomen had the curse of that constant accusation. Perhaps Beth’s career had progressed so well at OrSum because she was a no-nonsense, hard-working, get-on-with-everyone genuine high-flyer.

  Patrick considered butting in on the silence, asking her what she wanted him to say, but on balance thought it better not to take the risk – he didn’t quite know her that well yet.

  She leaned back and straightened the jacket of her grey pinstripe suit, then crossed her legs.

  “I didn’t really ask you here to talk about the Zombie Stomper project,” she said, slowly and deliberately, ensuring every word had due emphasis. “Well, not exactly.” She gave yet another brief smile before continuing. “Tell me, Patrick. How are you feeling? Honestly.”

  “Excuse me?”

  What possible answer could he give to that question without appearing either self-pitying by complaining or arousing suspicion by effusing self-confidence.

  He chose the cautious, if obvious, answer: “Okay.”

  “Just okay?” Beth passed him a concerned frown. “I mean, in yourself. Nothing I should know about?”

  Okay, so maybe “concerned” wasn’t the right word.

  Patrick shook his head. “No.”

  “Nothing, for instance, you’re losing sleep over?”

  And now there was no frown from Beth – friendly, concerned or otherwise. She’d switched from good cop to… well, not so much bad cop as no-nonsense cop. Patrick sensed his breathing getting tighter as they had a minor-league stare-out contest. Patrick blinked first.

  “To be honest I’ve had a bit of trouble sleeping at night.”

  “It has been noted.”

  “Really?” Patrick said. “Who’s noted it?”

  Beth leaned back slightly and cupped her chin in her hand. “Patrick, it doesn’t need 24/7 surveillance to see these things. You’re falling asleep over your keyboard. I’m only asking these sorts of questions for your own benefit.”

  Patrick tried to give a reassuring nod. “It’ll be okay, honestly. I’ll fix it.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let me explain it in simple terms. It’s my job to look after my staff – it’s a dereliction of duty otherwise. Should something happen, should you make some schoolboy error, for instance, it wouldn’t be good enough for me to say ‘Patrick told me he’d fix it’.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now. Are you sure there’s nothing troubling you – nothing we need to talk over?”

  Patrick spent a minute fidgeting, rubbing his hands together then massaging his forehead with his fingertips. “It’s… personal,” he eventually said.

  “Go on.”

  “I can’t really…” He shifted around uncomfortably in his seat, now more conscious than ever how Beth never shifted in her seat, never fidgeted or prevaricated.

  “We’re alone together,” Beth said. “You can trust me.”

  “Like I said, it’s personal.”

  Beth nodded. “Oh, sure, Patrick. I fully understand. It’s personal. So that’s okay.”

 
“Exactly.” Patrick forced a smile and eyed the door.

  “Except, of course, it’s not okay.”

  Patrick narrowed his eyes to slits. “No?”

  “No. Definitely not.” Beth returned to her PC and fired in a few keystrokes. A chart came up on the screen. “You see, the Zombie Stomper project has an aggressive development schedule.” She tapped a hard fingernail onto the screen three times.

  “I heard that,” Patrick said.

  “You heard right. And I guess you’re also aware OrSum’s latest products haven’t delivered into the marketplace so well. And so a lot of eyes are closely watching the progress of Zombie Stomper. It’s not overdramatic to say the success or otherwise of the corporation not so much soars or plummets by the results of this project, but might just live or die by it.”

  Patrick nodded.

  “That’s point one. Point two is that I have a reputation to live up to – a reputation for success that I intend to keep. The teams I lead always exceed expectations – we undershoot on both timescales and budgets. Always. Simple as that.”

  “Yes,” Patrick said. “I already understood this is a crucial project.”

  “So you understand we simply do not have room for passengers.”

  Patrick pursed his lips and nodded. He didn’t even try to speak.

  “You’re falling asleep on the job, Patrick – literally. Now, if you don’t want to talk about it, hey, that’s fine with me.”

  Just then there was a knock at the door, and a face came into view at the window next to it. Without moving her head, Beth drew a single finger up towards the window, and whoever her visitor was moved on.

  “If you want to conduct yourself in this manner without explanation then that’s okay – just so long as you aren’t on my team.”

  “It really is something I can’t talk about, Beth.”

  “And furthermore, if you decide to leave my team it won’t look good, Patrick. You do know I always make sure I’m on the winning side, don’t you?”

  Patrick stalled. What could he say to something like that? Well, nothing. In any case she continued before he had the chance to reply.

  “OrSum prides itself on being a considerate employer, Patrick. I’ve had a good look at our employment records. Your package includes medical benefits, pension and accommodation – that level of remuneration needs to be earned.”

  “You’re threatening to sack me?”

  “I’m telling you we’re not a charity. Now I’m asking you again. Is there anything you’d like to tell me about? It goes without saying that this is in the strictest confidence, nothing you tell me will get written into a report, emailed or discussed in your absence.”

  Patrick folded his arms and looked up to the ceiling.

  Beth checked her watch. “All I need is to satisfy myself that this situation is transient and that you’re taking steps to remedy the situation, that’s all.”

  There was a lengthy pause as Patrick drew breath and aborted a couple of times.

  “I… I do…”

  Beth leaned towards him, facing him square on. She raised one eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “I…”

  And then Patrick felt that stun-gun again, frying his mind, locking his throat up, shutting down his vision.

  But if there was ever a time when he simply had to do it, that time was now. This wasn’t a casual chat with some girl he was trying to pick up in a bar – or even one he’d managed to bed. This was his livelihood – his life, even.

  “I keep having these… nightmares.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  And the panic crushing Patrick’s skull started to subside – was almost replaced by a little hurt. Was that all she could say, “uh-huh”?

  “But these aren’t normal nightmares,” he added.

  “So what kind are they?”

  Patrick’s mouth opened. Then it closed and he rubbed the heel of this palms into his eye sockets. Then he spoke.

  “Well, in one I bombed a hotel, in another I killed a sick old man to get my hands on his money.”

  “Oh.”

  “You get the picture?”

  Beth nodded. “I most certainly do. But they are essentially just nightmares, aren’t they? Is that all that’s worrying you?”

  Christ, what did she want, the full repulsive details of what happened to Carrie Carlini? He could tell her more, he could tell her so much more.

  “Have you talked your problem over with your doctor?”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “I suggest you tell that old male pride thing to take a walk and go see him. He might be able to prescribe something to help you sleep.”

  “I might just do that.”

  “And please, Patrick. Everybody’s got their issues. You need to know you can talk to me about yours at any time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’d like you to keep me informed, Patrick. I need some indication if your situation deteriorates.” Her eyebrows popped upwards. “We understand each other?”

  “Sure.”

  Beth turned to her PC and sighed out a “Right, then”, and Patrick stood up and left.

  As he walked back to his desk he considered his actions.

  Had he done the right thing in telling her? The more his thoughts played around in his mind, the more uncertain he became. Sure, there was that brief surge of relief that at least he’d told someone – even if it was his boss and he’d only told her the most basic element of his troubles. But there was always a danger of the information being used against him, either to simply embarrass him or for some more sinister purpose. And to make him feel worse she’d shown zero sympathy and more concern for his standard of work than his mental state.

  However, the fact remained he had at least told someone, and the sky hadn’t caved in on top of him. And that was progress. His shoulders felt just that little bit lighter, so much so that he decided to go out that evening rather than stay in his apartment turning his head inside out. After the grilling from Beth he’d had enough female company, so instead of one of his usual pick-up haunts he decided to visit a proper bar, with genuine barfly sorts, to get drunk and socialize rather than to add further complication to his life by getting involved with another girl.

  But amongst the uncertainties there was one thing Patrick was sure about after that day. He now understood pretty much what working for Beth was going to entail, and where her reputation came from.

  14

  Patrick was on his fourth beer. He was surrounded by guys he occasionally met in the same bar but didn’t know well enough to call friends (and, in truth, didn’t want to). The conversation was of football and soccer, new movie releases, the trouble with women, and – so it felt to Patrick – the entire history of rock music.

  It was all light-hearted, easy going conversation, a balm to heal Patrick’s mental wounds. It was exactly what he wanted and felt comfortable with at this time.

  And it was in that “relaxed” state that Patrick considered the nuclear option – telling the small group what he’d revealed to Beth. Telling her had helped his nerves – even if he hadn’t gone into the shameful detail. So perhaps if more people knew it would give him more peace of mind. He could steer the conversation round to it somehow:

  – Start with an ostentatious yawn.

  – Are we boring you, Patrick?

  – Hey, I’m sorry, not sleeping too well, lately.

  – Why’s that? Too much action of the horizontal variety last night?

  – No, actually I’ve been having these terrible nightmares.

  But it was much easier thought than said. In your mind’s eye people don’t laugh at your problems; in real life they often do. As Patrick kept in the background of the conversation, the bartender poked fun at Tom the realtor yet again, this time for keeping his CD collection in alphabetical order:

  “I mean, what’s the goddam point? You only listen to the goddam things on your ipod and they’re in aphabeticalized order anyway once the
y’re on that goddam contraption.”

  “Alphabeticalized?” Tom said. “I mean, is that even a word?”

  The bartender hooked a thumb at Tom but stared straight at Patrick. “See what I mean?”

  It was then that Patrick knew he would never do it. There was too much danger, too much chance of being bombarded with advice that might euphemistically be termed “less than wholly constructive”.

  So he listened, and he went to the toilet, and he listened, and he ordered another beer. And he listened.

  And then the conversation stopped, and all eyes looked to a point just above Patrick’s shoulder.

  He turned to see what was so distracting.

  “Deedee?”

  “Patrick isn’t it? I remember you. You’re Joni’s friend.”

  “Yeah. Tell me, how is she?”

  Deedee paused just long enough for some of Patrick’s non-friends to interject.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Ed, the used car salesman, said to Patrick, not taking his eyes off Deedee.

  The bartender snorted. “Why the hell would he want to introduce the likes of you and me to a beautiful girl like Deedee?”

  “Oh, ‘Deedee’ is it?” Calvin, the newspaper sub-editor, said. “So you’re already on first name terms? Some of us wait to be introduced before we dive in all presumptuous like your good creepy self.”

  Patrick stood. “Just ignore them,” he said to Deedee. “Let’s go somewhere else and talk.”

  Deedee frowned. “Talk?”

  Patrick flicked a look to his bar buddies. “Somewhere a bit quieter.”

  Patrick moved away from them, placing a gentle hand on Deedee’s elbow to bring her along with him.

  “Say,” she said. “You’re not trying to…?”

  “To what?”

  “I mean, I’m already with some friends.” She pointed to a small group on the other side of the room.

  “Oh.”

  “I just wanted to say hi. I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you.”

  “No worries. I was going to ask how Joni was, that’s all.”