Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller

by Ray Kingfisher

  “Why not? You’ve used a gun before, surely?”

  Patrick’s mouth turned downwards and he gave his head a single strong shake.

  “Seriously?”

  “I don’t think I ever saw a gun before I came to America.”

  She grabbed the gun back. “Don’t come the dumb. This is the safety catch. This is off. After that, it’s pretty much like a camera.”

  “A camera?”

  “Point and shoot.”

  Patrick said nothing, just stared at the gun as it was placed back in his hands.

  “You’ve seen the movies, Patrick. It’s not difficult to operate.”

  “It’s not that,” Patrick said. “We’re talking about killing someone – a complete stranger in this case.”

  Beth held his shoulder tightly. “We’ve been through all of this, Patrick. She’s a stranger who you know is going to kill thirteen innocent children. Do you want that on your conscience?”

  “But…”

  “Patrick. Look at me. Do you want those kids to die or not?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “So do what you need to do. Let’s check out the ice-house together. Then you’re on your own.”

  They hit the lower reaches of the riverbank, where it dipped and they could stay out of view of the school, and ran to the clump of overgrown laurels. Hidden inside it was a greystone dome, a big dirty igloo of a hut. On the side facing the house there was an opening, where Patrick guessed there had originally been a wooden door.

  “You first,” Beth said.

  Patrick stepped inside and stood with leaden feet for a moment, unable to take his eyes off the sleeping bag that lay on top of a waterproof groundsheet. He dropped to his knees and lifted the light blue inner fabric to his face.

  Beth entered behind him and stood alongside the makeshift bed. “What is it?”

  Patrick closed his eyes and inhaled a heaven’s worth of cocoa butter and fine perfume. “It’s her,” he said, almost croaking the words out. “It’s Rozita. I can tell.”

  With a sad smile he dropped the sleeping bag and clasped his hands to his face, rubbing up and down rapidly.

  He looked to Beth and shook his head.

  “Patrick,” she said. “You need to decide. It has to be your decision what to do. You save Rozita or you save those kids. Just imagine if it were your dream, if you could save the lives of those people at the hotel or the little Carlini girl you shot.”

  Patrick’s body stiffened. Then he creased his forehead and threw a glance to Beth. “When did I tell you about shooting a little girl?”

  28

  Beth shrugged as she glanced around the dark interior of the ice-house. “I… I can’t remember. Does it matter?”

  Patrick thought for a moment before confirming his suspicions: “I didn’t tell you about shooting a little girl. I know I didn’t.”

  Beth looked down and seemed to search every square inch of the dirty earthen floor of the ice-house. “But… you must have done.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I did.”

  Beth clicked her fingers. “You told me that day in the office, after you said about bombing the hotel.”

  Patrick felt a searing headache building up, like he was heading for a blackout. Had he told her about Carrie Carlini? Surely he was too ashamed about that one. Then again, if he hadn’t told her then nothing made any sense at all.

  “Think about it,” Beth said. “How else would I know?”

  Patrick didn’t move, and still turned over the events of the past few days and weeks in his mind. Yes, if he didn’t tell her then nothing made any sense, but what did make sense these days?

  “Does it really matter exactly when you told me?” Beth said.

  Patrick slowly looked over to her, then down again. He drew breath to speak, but then shook himself back to the here and now, to the sight of the sleeping bag and the breakfast evidence before him.

  “Come on, Patrick. Do what you want to do about Rozita. Let your heart choose the right thing.”

  Patrick nodded and took a few deep breaths. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “Go and look for a broken storeroom window.”

  “Good man.” Beth winked at him, then offered him the gun, which he slowly took and cradled in his hand.

  They stepped outside the ice-house. There was nobody in sight. They made a dash for a clump of shrubs next to the path that ran along the rear of the building. Once there, they crouched down for a moment, then Beth popped her head above the foliage.

  “I guess that’s the entry point.”

  Patrick looked too. He could see a door – the only one at the back of the building – and next to it a pair of frosted windows. The higher, smaller one, was smashed. He looked to Beth and she nodded back.

  “Good luck,” she said. She held Patrick’s head in her hands and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be waiting for you in the rowing boat.”

  Patrick watched through eyes heavy with fear as Beth crawled back along the line of bushes towards the ice-house, and from there disappeared beyond the brow of the hill and down to the riverbank.

  He took out the gun and caressed it. “This is madness,” he whispered.

  And it was. But what was madder, denying that the dreams had happened or denying life to thirteen children?

  He put the gun in his jacket pocket and took a few deep breaths. Then he stood up to a crouch and raced to the window. He could hear voices but they were all coming from the front of the building – there was nothing from the other side of the broken window. He reached up and through the broken pane, keeping his bare flesh away from the jagged edges, resting his clothed upper arm gently on the fragments of glass that clung to the frame. He strained to reach further in and found the catch to the lower window, which opened with a muted pop. He took another glance along the path, then lifted his feet up onto the windowsill and stepped inside.

  It was exactly how he’d imagined it – no, how Rozita had described it: a storeroom, a polished wooden floor with spare tables and chairs stacked along one side, some small trampolines, rolled-up badminton nets and softball bats strewn along the other side. At the other end of the room were two doors, both with frosted wired glass above and a thickly painted wooden panel below.

  He walked the length of the room like a timid cat, moving silently and checking to the sides for every hiding space as it came into view. Through the window of one of the doors he saw blurred movement and heard the hubbub of discussions and orders. He turned the handle and pulled it gently. Through the crack he could see that yes, it was the main hall with people passing every which way, but no children. Not yet.

  He closed the door then heard the one behind him open.

  He turned round to meet the barrel of a gun.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the woman the other side of the gun said.

  The question didn’t register with Patrick. He was transfixed at the face, the stonewashed jeans, the green shirt – all just as he expected.

  “Are you a cop?” she said with a sneer.

  Why was she looking at him like that – like she was denying their past? Patrick blinked a few times to hold back the tears. “Rozita?” he said. “You… you don’t know who I am?”

  “So you know my name,” she said. “Big deal. What are you doing here?”

  Surely her words were an act? His eyes scanned her face and body. He knew every crease on her warm olive-skinned face, especially the mole – her beauty spot. He knew the exact contours of her hips, and the way she stooped forward just enough for her shoulder blades to flap out a little below the reaches of that wiry black straggle of hair.

  What was the question? Why was he here?

  And the answer? He’d come to kill her.

  But did he really have to? This was the woman he loved, although she wasn’t behaving like it. Perhaps she just needed convincing.

  And at that instant the thought of killing her evapo
rated.

  “Put the gun down, Rozita.”

  Her teeth bared themselves behind a cackle of laughter, and now she put both hands on the gun pointed at Patrick’s face. “Sir! Yes! Sir!” she said, and gave another mocking laugh.

  “Why are you doing this?” Patrick said. “What are you hoping to achieve?”

  She leaned her head back. “As much as I can.”

  “By killing those kids in there?”

  She stood back and gave Patrick a sideways stare. “Say, who the hell are you?” she said. “Did Pedro put you onto me?”

  At that moment the sound of children’s voices and running footsteps flooded their ears and they both flicked a look to the movement behind the door.

  “Tell me,” she said. “How did you know about this?”

  “Please, Rozita. Think of your own kids, if nothing else.”

  “Mister, that’s one part of the story you got wrong. Now, are you gonna tell me who sent you or do I have to feed a bullet into that meathead of yours?”

  Patrick looked into her soulless eyes and realized this wasn’t Rozita – not his Rozita.

  The children’s cries of joy became louder as they dragged their chairs across the floor to sit up to their tables.

  Rozita lunged forward and pressed the barrel of the gun into the side of Patrick’s upper jawbone, forcing his head back.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you.”

  She drew the gun back slightly and relaxed her shoulders.

  A whistle sounded from the hall and Rozita looked over to the door. While the whistle still sounded Patrick’s hand flew up and shoved her gun to point towards the ceiling. He heard a shot above his head and ran forward, grabbing Rozita on the way, forcing both of her arms to one side and shoving her backwards, smashing her slight body into the wall. She grunted as she struggled to hold onto the gun. Patrick could feel her arms pushing back against his, trying to force the barrel of the gun towards him. He held one of her wrists with both hands and pressed the other – the one holding the gun – against the wall, grinding her wrist against it. He heard another shot – so close to his ear he winced at the pain – then he heard the clack of the gun dropping onto the wooden floor.

  He stepped in front of Rozita again, pressing his chest against hers. He drew breath to speak – to say what, he had no idea. To plead again for her to see sense? To tell her he loved her? Instead he felt the hard heel of the palm of her hand strike the side of his face – and it was no slap. Then he felt his jaw crack and saw the flash of an elbow rising up past him. Again, this was a skilled strike – not a desperate one.

  Patrick stepped back and put a hand to his jaw. She took the opportunity to drop to the floor and crawl towards her gun.

  “No!” Patrick shouted.

  But she grabbed the gun.

  As she stood up Patrick pulled his gun out of his jacket pocket.

  As she lifted her gun he shot her in the chest.

  Patrick froze, then dropped the gun and held his head in his hands. He fell to his knees and shuffled over to Rozita’s slumped body. He ran his fingertips along her arm, and touched her face, her hair. A few teardrops tapped onto the floor below him. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and prayed for all of this to go away, but when he opened them the only change was the blood spreading out across Rozita’s tee-shirt.

  Then Patrick became aware of screams and shouts from behind the door, blurs of panic the other side of the frosted glass. He stood up and backed away. He took another few seconds to look at Rozita’s contorted figure.

  Would he ever see her again – in this or any world? And if not, was this the way he would always remember her?

  He snapped his gaze away from her and pounced forward to grab the gun, then ran to the end of the room and squeezed out the window onto the path.

  He ran down towards the riverbank, not sure whether he really cared who saw him.

  29

  In the Lake’s End coffee shop Maggie Dolan widened her eyes as if she was waking up from a long sleep.

  “You know something?” she said. “That sure is a great story.”

  “Oh, no,” the man replied. “That’s still only half the story.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded, then took a cigarette lighter out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of them.

  Maggie shrugged. “So, tell me. Is it a true story?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are Patrick, right?”

  He picked up the lighter and toyed with it for a few seconds, flipping the lid open and closed.

  At that moment the phone back at the counter started ringing. Maggie looked over at it, then back to the man.

  She waved a hand to the phone. “Aah, what the hell,” she said. “We’re closed.”

  The man stopped playing with the lighter and simply stared at Maggie until the phone stopped ringing.

  “Well?” Maggie said.

  “What?”

  “You’re him,” she said. “You’re British, aren’t you? You’re Patrick?”

  “If you want to know the truth,” he said with a slow, almost alcoholic, drawl, “I’m not really sure who I am anymore.”

  “You don’t have problems with microwave ovens?”

  “No. I don’t have problems with microwave ovens.”

  “Oh.” She gave a hint of a lop-sided smile. “But if you’re not Patrick, then where exactly do you fit into this story?”

  He said nothing, but started flipping the lid of the lighter again.

  Maggie looked at her watch. “Hey, could we get a move on here? I’ve got things to do, you know.”

  “No, you haven’t,” the man said. “It’s not like you have children or a husband, is it?”

  Maggie slowly drew her head back and frowned. “Hey, what’s that got to do with you?”

  The man said nothing, gave no facial expression.

  “Say, who are you?” she said. “If you’re not Patrick, that is.”

  The man stared at her for a few seconds, then shut his eyes and rubbed them with his fingertips. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I should think so,” Maggie said. “But I can’t say I’m not intrigued.”

  “I thought you might be. You can’t resist a good story, can you?”

  Maggie picked up both coffee cups, by now cold and empty.

  “Where are you going?” the man said. “I haven’t finished.”

  “Let me get these out of the way.” She stood and approached the counter. She reached over to place the cups on the far side, and on the way back her hand paused to pick up a small fruit-paring knife, which she hid in her hand before turning around.

  “You look a little relieved,” the man said as she sat back down opposite him.

  She froze for a moment, not confirming or denying, then said, “So you say there’s more to this story?”

  “Oh, it’s hardly got interesting yet.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  The man shrugged. “I’m sure you will. Shall I carry on?”

  Underneath the table Maggie gripped the knife handle a little tighter. “Please do,” she said.

  The man clasped down the lid of the cigarette lighter and drew breath.

  30

  When Patrick had got back after shooting Rozita, Beth had been waiting for him as arranged. The journey back to Chicago had been silent and tense, with hardly a word exchanged between them. That was because Patrick had been stunned by his own actions, confused by the events. And those feelings were in no hurry to shift out of his head.

  A few days drifted by – exactly how many, he wasn’t quite sure and didn’t care to dwell on.

  For those few days he went to work, coded all day, came home, sometimes went to a blues club in the evenings, but mostly stayed alone playing video games, reading, or watching football on TV. Once he thought about picking the guitar up again, but dismissed the idea, thinking it would only unne
rve him – he didn’t want that.

  But sure enough, the nightmares that made him want to bang his head on the wall until his ears bled had now stopped – either that or they never woke him. Either way, he remembered nothing each morning.

  But still he wasn’t happy.

  He knew he should have been, but he felt like he’d swapped one version of hell for another. He missed Rozita as much as any man would miss his murdered wife. He wanted to feel her soft brown skin warming him at night, to have the sensuous brush of that mass of hair drawn across his face in the dark, to see and love that beauty spot. He thought he’d never forget those little things and it hurt like a salted wound. He also wished he could make her laugh just one more time to see how the skin above her top lip creased whenever she did. He wanted to take her to their favourite restaurant just to admire how elegant her slim frame looked when slipped into one of her best designer dresses. He wished he could spend the other nights watching a movie together on TV with her head lodged beneath his chin as though that part of his body had been designed for just such a purpose.

  But more than anything else, he wished he hadn’t killed her.

  Damn those thirteen children. God, how he regretted putting that bullet in her chest.

  And then there had been the more pensive, lucid moments, when he stepped back and tried to look at his situation in some impartial capacity. That only led to a brick wall when he realized how damn stupid the whole thing sounded, with a whole set of characters in a dreamworld somehow filtering through to Patrick’s real world like cockroaches squeezing themselves through cracks in the doorframe.

  But Rozita had been in Wichita – he saw her in the flesh even though she didn’t seem to recognize him – he felt the recoil of the pistol crack his wrist back, he smelt the burning powder. And Beth had been with him most of the time and she was no cockroach, so that part, at least, was no product of his imagination.

  So no, although the bad dreams had stopped, he was no less strung-out than before. And, as ever, the only thing holding him together – the very thing that gave him self-worth, even made him feel sane – was the recurring good dream, the one that washed a wave of pleasure over his body, the one where fire raged in the background but his heart slowed to a relaxing cadence as he simply watched and listened to everything burning and cracking and fizzing. Yes, he could spend the rest of his life bathing gloriously in the harmless pleasure of that.