It was some sort of housing or pod, and close-up a fairly flimsy one, made of plywood or chipboard, with runs of matt black paint frozen into dribbles at various places. There was a small door on the side. It opened with a metallic click and Patrick leaned inside. On the ground was a low-slung funky version of an armchair – again all in black – and in front of it were five flat-screen TV screens; one straight ahead and four top, bottom, left and right. When sitting in the chair the occupant would see little apart from the screens. And that was it. Almost. In the dimness Patrick had to squint to see the wires that trailed from behind the array of screens. Each wire ended in a small tab about the size of a coin. Patrick reached down to check more closely. The tabs were sticky.
Just then a noise made him step back away from the black pod.
The noise came from behind the blue door.
Then he took up position, standing tall and thin next to the hinges of the door.
But there were no more noises.
One loping stride later Patrick peeked through the crack in the door. His eyes lingered for a few seconds but he saw and heard nothing.
He opened it as quickly as he dared.
He found himself in a small utility room – with a washing machine, a tumble dryer and a small sink. Above these was a shelf, on which various cleaning products were neatly lined up. At the far end was another door. He stepped over to it and reached out for the handle.
Just then the door swung away from him. He drew back a little in fear, and then, when nothing happened, he stepped inside, keeping his hands at the ready. It was a kitchen for fashion victims – black granite and shiny stainless steel as far as the eye could see.
Then, to his left, Patrick spotted a man leaning casually against a worktop. A mound of silvery hair formed a horseshoe around his tanned head. He wore only a pair of shorts.
“Good evening,” the man said.
“Are you the Sandman?” Patrick asked.
The man nodded.
“I’m Patrick. Patrick Leary.”
“Yes, I know,” the Sandman said. There was no inflexion in his voice, and just a stony expression on his face. Patrick took a moment to check him out. He looked a couple of inches short of six feet tall, was slim but looked sinewy strong, and had small, sagging breasts half-hidden beneath an undergrowth of more of that silvery hair. A tiny pot-belly pulled itself in as he noticed Patrick assessing him.
“You’ve been expecting me?” Patrick said.
“Let’s just say I’d heard you were in the neighbourhood.”
“So you know why I’m here?”
“Oh, I know all about you.”
Patrick took a step forward. “So you must know about my brother too.”
“You mean… Declan?” The man’s shoulders grew a little as he drew a breath and started laughing. Now his face had some animation it showed more wrinkles, most spreading out from the corners of his eyes like a ship’s wake. His skin was middle aged – and that was being generous – but the teeth were perfectly formed and a shade of white that was unlikely given his age.
However old this man was, Patrick wasn’t going to show any mercy. “You think that’s funny?” he said.
The man stopped laughing and tilted his head to one side. “Only from where I stand, I guess.”
“So where the fuck is he?”
“Dear, oh dear.” The man folded his arms. “Let me tell you one thing about me – just one thing. I don’t approve of foul language.”
“Well I don’t give a shit, Sandman.”
The Sandman’s face dropped a fraction and his nostrils flared.
“Listen to me,” Patrick said. “One way or another you’re going to tell me what you’ve done with my brother. So don’t give me shit about using foul language. That’s the least of your problems, old timer.”
“In my experience crude language is the product of a lazy mind.”
Patrick now stepped closer, their faces almost touching. “I don’t want to go into your fucking—”
And then Patrick stopped talking as he felt a bony hand strike him on the cheek – at least he thought it was a hand, he didn’t see anything coming or leaving.
“I won’t tell you again,” the Sandman said. “Please curb your language.”
Patrick rubbed the stinging area of his face. “Do that again and even though you’re an old man half my size I’ll beat you to a fucking pulp.”
The Sandman’s face now reverted to a grey flatness after its brief flirtation with expressing emotion. “Perhaps it was a mistake letting you come here,” he said.
“Letting me come here?”
“I did have plans – but I’ve half a mind to make you leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Patrick said. He grasped the Sandman by the throat, pressing the hardness of his Adam’s apple back into the flesh of his neck. “I’m staying here until you tell me what you’ve done with my brother, and why you’ve been messing with my head.”
The Sandman’s body dipped a little then with a sharp shout both arms came up and over and crashed down onto the arm Patrick held him with.
Patrick felt his elbow move in a direction it was never designed to move in and instinctively pulled back. He smashed his fist into the Sandman’s face, knocking him down. The Sandman got up immediately and slammed the point of his elbow into Patrick’s solar plexus, forcing him back into the utility room where he fell down onto his back. He went to drag himself up but saw the outside edge of a bare foot coming towards him and curled into a ball with his hands in front of his face. The blow to his wrist was painful – it had more force than it had any right to coming from a slender middle-aged man. The foot came down again and Patrick grabbed it and convulsed, whipping his body over in the cramped floorspace. The Sandman cried out but managed to retrieve his foot, and brought the heel down twice in quick succession onto Patrick’s chest, winding him. Patrick scrabbled off the ground and fell back through the doorway into the games room.
That was better. In this spacious arena Patrick’s advantage in height, weight and age would tell. As the Sandman followed him into the room Patrick grabbed him, pulled him to one side and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, squeezing tightly, making him groan. He grabbed Patrick’s forearm with both hands, but Patrick didn’t budge.
“Tell me!” Patrick shouted out close to the man’s ear. “Where’s my fucking brother?” Patrick felt the man struggle, but could easily contain the flexing and wriggling of his torso. Patrick brought his other hand around to make the hold more solid. The Sandman slapped a hand on top of Patrick’s, loosened a little finger from the bunch, and wrenched it backwards. Patrick felt a searing pain and let go; adrenaline could only cover up so much pain. Patrick shook the pain from his hand, straightening his damaged finger, and when he looked across there was just enough light to see the Sandman wielding one of the pool cues in both hands. Patrick stepped forward, grabbed the cue, and aimed a kick straight ahead at the Sandman. During the next few seconds the cue was twisted sharply, shoving Patrick off balance, and he felt three cracks of the hard wood on his head.
That was when Patrick’s world changed from dark to black.
45
*
A biting evening breeze streaking towards Patrick shocked him awake. The view in front of him crackled once or twice before flickering into focus; it was a damp and dreary city street with a continuous high wall of buildings on either side.
He shivered and quickened his pace past the storefronts. The extra effort made him weak and breathless. He lifted a hand to his face; his cheeks felt thinner than he remembered, and seemed greasy as well as rough with stubble. As he rubbed he felt a whole jawful of teeth that pulsed with a dull ache.
He shivered once more, thrust his hands into his pockets and pulled his arms tightly to his torso.
His gait stuttered as he realized what was in one of the pockets, but he carried on.
He passed a laundrette locking up for the day, and a club boa
sting half-naked dancers getting ready to open. He passed Goldie’s convenience store and stopped. Something compelled him to turn and step inside.
The store was clean and well-ordered, while still managing to have not a single inch of free space on the shelves. The homely aroma of fresh bread mingled with the mustiness of earthy root vegetables. There were three customers, two at the checkout and one idly squeezing loaves of bread. Patrick stood still for a moment, not knowing what to do, then took a wire basket and approached the middle aisle.
There he waited.
And waited.
He kept glancing towards the door. Nobody entered, which made him feel good. The first of the shoppers at the checkout paid and left, the second paid then held the hand of the woman serving – a petite lady who cracked a bittersweet smile when the customer called her “Mrs Goldberg” in a sad, almost patronising tone. They hugged and then the customer left. Nobody else came in. There was now only one other customer in the shop. Patrick’s ears and eyes suddenly became hypersensitive.
The other customer, a young man in a ski jacket, chose a bottle of red wine to accompany the loaf and round of cheese resting in his basket before sauntering up to the checkout. Patrick dropped a four-pack of beer in his basket and followed. He stood behind the young man and kept his eyes fixed on the till on the other side of the counter.
“Irene,” the young man said. “What’s the news of Ethan?”
Irene replaced her smile with a sickly expression, like she was either going to sneeze or cry. She did neither, instead giving her head a little shake.
“Oh,” the man said, his face turning pale. “Oh my God, Irene. That’s terrible. I’m… I’m really sorry.”
Irene nodded and thanked him for his concern.
Patrick felt his teeth grinding from side to side.
“Look,” the man said. “If there’s anything I can do…”
Yeah, Patrick thought. Leave. And quickly.
“Thank you,” Irene said, her lips half-smiling but also half-trembling. “But there’s not much anyone can do.”
The man collected his change and put his shopping in his bag. “I’m so sorry. How… how long?”
“Three months, perhaps four if we’re lucky.”
The man flicked an awkward glance to Patrick, then back to Irene, before saying, “Take care,” and leaving.
Irene switched the business smile back on and turned to Patrick. He placed the basket on the counter. Then his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he ran a finger over the cold steel in his pocket.
“Is that all you want, sir?”
Patrick nodded, then gripped the pistol and started to lift it up.
At that moment a woman entered the store and rushed to Irene. The two women together were very alike facially, but Irene was smaller, a little slimmer, a whole lot more stressed out.
“Oh, God,” the woman gasped. “I just heard… I…” She gulped and nodded to Patrick. “I’m sorry, serve the man first.”
Patrick chewed on his words for a second before saying, “No, really. You carry on; I’ve forgotten something.” The woman thanked him and he backed away and stood at the end of the aisle, doing nothing more than pretending to browse the groceries, and listening. He glanced to the door again.
Yeah, you carry on, he thought, then get the fuck out of the store.
The woman skipped behind the counter and softened her voice. “Do Jake and Sarah know?”
Irene gazed blankly before shaking her head. “I haven’t decided what to say yet. Ethan only got his results this morning.”
“Why don’t I take them off your hands?”
“Well…”
“Just for the weekend. To give the two of you a break.”
“Thanks,” Irene said. “But no. Ethan wants to spend as much time as he can with the children. But it would be a help if you could collect them from school. Ethan’s not up to looking after the shop, so if I go I have to shut it up.”
“The shop? I… I know it’s none of my business, Irene, but does the shop really matter at a time like this?”
Irene bowed her head. “The medical bills are starting to mount up; we need to stay open.”
The woman dropped her handbag on the counter and put a hand to her head. “I just… I’m…” Her shoulders hunched and started to quiver. Her hand rooted around in her handbag and pulled out a tissue, which was quickly clamped to her eyes. She grabbed Irene and hugged her tightly.
“Please don’t,” Irene said. “You’ll start me off and I won’t be able to stop.”
Patrick’s eyes had now set upon something else: the woman’s handbag, left on the counter, close to the door. He walked the length of the aisle to stand at the end of the counter, a couple of paces away from the handbag. But what were the odds? An easy handbag which looked cheap and might not have much in it, versus whatever was in the till, which was presumably a day’s takings, but more risky.
As he deliberated, the woman stepped back and her hand instinctively fell onto her handbag.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Irene. “It’s not right for me to feel so lousy when you’re…” She blew her nose and took a breath. “Just promise you’ll let me know how I can help. Anytime. Okay?”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“No, it isn’t. You deserve it. That’s what sisters are for. Now I have to go before I upset myself again.” The woman stepped back, almost bumping into Patrick. “And you have a customer to serve,” she added.
She left, and Irene and Patrick faced each other, alone and in silence apart from the hubbub of street noise. They stared at each other for a full five seconds, as though Patrick couldn’t summon up the courage to do what he wanted to do, and almost as if Irene knew what was coming, was waiting for him to make the first move.
Patrick jumped over to the door and locked the latch, then pulled his pistol out.
Irene’s already small frame shrank down even more as she lifted her hands up to her face and shrieked. “Please. Please don’t hurt me.”
Patrick leaned over the counter and pointed the pistol at her. “Do exactly as I say and I won’t kill you. Do anything else and I will. Understand?”
She nodded.
“All the takings. Get one of your bags and put everything from the till into it.”
“Okay, okay. Take anything but don’t hurt me.”
Patrick vaulted the counter and pointed the pistol at her forehead. “Don’t talk. Don’t look at me. And don’t fucking cry.”
Her trembling fingers needed three attempts to open the till. She grabbed a bag and started scooping the till contents into it.
“Card receipts too?”
Patrick pressed the pistol to her head, giving it a push which made her head flick away.
“I said everything!” Patrick shouted. “And don’t stop!”
Irene wiped her arm across her face and carried on filling the bag. She scrabbled at the back for coins.
“That’ll do it,” Patrick said. He kept his pistol pointed at her as she dropped the bag onto the counter.
“Please leave me alone,” Irene said, sniffling and almost coughing the words out. “You have what you want.”
“But… you know who I am,” Patrick said.
Irene looked straight at him for a second then dropped her head back down. “I won’t remember. I promise. Please. Please don’t shoot.”
Patrick threw a glance back to the door then stepped forward and pressed the gun onto her head. “Are you telling me what to do? I don’t like people telling me what to do.”
Her head jolted then shook as she spluttered a few times and her cries turned to an uncontrollable sob. “Please. Just leave. I… I did everything you asked.”
“No you didn’t.”
She looked up and Patrick saw the glistening red rims of her eyes.
“But I did!” she said. “You have it all.” She pointed to the bag and collapsed, bawling.
“You see, I told you not to cry.
And now you’re crying. That means I have to kill you.”
Irene pulled her hands over her head and hunched herself into a ball. “No. Please!”
“Bye bye, Irene.”
Now her whole body convulsed as she cried like a hungry baby. She tried to speak but the words made no sense. She pulled herself together enough to hold her hands up to Patrick and say, “Please! Anything!”
Patrick lowered the pistol a few inches and gave her a sideways grin. “Anything?”
“Just don’t kill me,” she said between gulps.
Patrick looked to the street outside and back to Irene. “Take your top off,” he said.
“What?”
Patrick raised the gun again and shouted, “I said, Take your fucking top off!”
The woman’s flow of tears was halted and she stilled herself for a few seconds. Then she slowly pulled her large pullover over her head, her tee-shirt coming with it.
He flicked the gun to her bra. “And the rest.”
“No, please.”
Then the pistol touched her forehead, and she reached behind to unclasp her bra. It slid down her arms and settled on the floor. She gave a sniffle, but otherwise had stopped sobbing, stopped begging.
Patrick looked more closely at her breasts. Both of them sagged, one lower than the other.
“Nice,” he said. Then he lifted the pistol back to her head and shouted out, “NOT!”
Irene closed her eyes and started mumbling prayers, but then, just as Patrick’s finger tightened on the trigger – just as there was that no-going-back click – she stopped and opened her eyes.
As the gun recoiled the display of cigarettes behind her head turned crimson and her body, with eyes still open but now glazed, dropped to the floor.
Patrick’s shoulders started to quiver as a cackle of laughter dragged itself from his lungs and developed into a proud guffaw. He grabbed a handful of chewing gum from the counter display, picked up the bag of cash and his pack of beer, and sauntered out of the store.
Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 23