by Gary McMahon
“Of course I fuckin’ knew.” McKenzie spits on the floor, between his feet. “Do yer really think I’d go in there and take quarter of a million fuckin’ quid without even knowing who I was stealin’ it from? I’m not a stupid man. I’ve been doin’ this ma whole life, boy, and I’ve learned a few things.” He raises his head, stretches his neck. “The Order of the Darkened Veil is genuine; those bastards are the real deal. They’re into all kinds of crap to fund their activities. Drug dealin’, gun runnin’, prostitution. Perfect marks for a robbery, I’ve always thought.”
Clarke says nothing; he just waits for the full story.
“The other blokes, the ones I had with me, were all expendable. You were expendable…just the fuckin’ driver. But you had to get cute, and do somethin’ silly. That was when I went back to see Oakes, tried to beat your address out of him. He only gave me it when I told him I knew what was going on and I’d help to save yer…he was terrified. He begged me to save you and your woman—even offered me more cash if I got yer both away from here, out of the reaches of the Order.”
Clarke’s body is tense. He feels like wrecking the man’s body, tearing him apart.
“Of course, I wasn’t going to do that, was I? I wanted my money. That was all. Nothin’ more.”
“Shut up.”
“That’s why I took her. Why I brought her here. Just to get the fuckin’ cash back.”
“Shut up!” Clarke raises the handgun, squeezes the trigger, and lets off a shot.
McKenzie twitches, and then looks shocked that he has not been hit. He checks his body, running his hand across his face, his torso, and his legs. Then, satisfied that he hasn’t taken another bullet, he sits back and he smiles.
Clarke is calm again. He is made of stone. He processes this new information, letting it all slide into place in his mind. Oakes knew all about the Order—he told Clarke to run. He gave up Clarke’s address in a stupid, last-ditch effort to save him. The Order murdered him, carried out some sort of ritual with his corpse—or something did, on their behalf.
And now the Order has sent a demon of some kind, but not to kill them. Oh, no; things aren’t as simple as all that. The creature outside is here on other business…and if McKenzie is right, that business has something to do with Clarke and Martha’s unborn child.
He has no idea of the time, not a clue to how late it might be. He checks his watch but it stopped hours ago, not long after they entered the warehouse building. Things are getting weird now; no, they’ve moved far beyond weird and into the realm of the Fucking Insane.
Clarke feels as if he’s stepped sideways and fallen off the edge of reality, landing somewhere that might just be located somewhere close to hell.
He’s never cultivated any kind of religious beliefs; doesn’t believe in God, never prays or meditates. He has only ever believed in his own skills, and in whatever vehicle he is driving at the time. If he’s honest, he never had faith in anything, even as a child. The only thing that provides him with succor, offering him a sense of spiritual peace, is that single memory of sunlight on leaves and the other kids in the orphanage playing football on the grass. He doesn’t even know if it’s a real memory, or something he’s constructed just to get himself through the dark days—a fictional image, a representation of happier times before the truth of the world landed on him, knocking the wind from his lungs.
Never buy anything you can’t afford to leave behind.
That’s the rule, the motto: the fucking mantra he’s always lived by, a life lesson passed on by his guardian and mentor, the mighty Oakes. But even that single absolute was based on bullshit. Oakes himself told Clarke to forget it, that the rule no longer applies now that he is to be a father. The ground beneath his feet is constantly shifting. The only thing he can do is keep moving and try to outdistance the chaos.
“We need a plan,” says Clarke, walking around the kitchen chair upon which McKenzie is still seated. “And if you’re not going to contribute anything, we’ll tie you up and gag you and leave you here when we get out.”
McKenzie is still smiling, but he says nothing. His face has altered; there’s such a look of intense hatred in his eyes that Clarke begins to think tying the man up might be a good idea. He moves closer to the chair.
“In fact,” he says, glancing at Martha, “that’s exactly what—”
He was stupid to let down his guard. He knows that now; he knew it all along, but convinced himself that everything was fine, that he was in control of a situation that, in reality, was utterly beyond control. Like a car without a driver, it’s careering wildly towards an unknown destination.
McKenzie moves faster than he should be able to. He’s clearly been faking how much pain he was in. He leaps out of the chair like a monkey on steroids, grabbing Clarke around the waist and taking them both down onto the floor.
Clarke tries to grapple with him, but realizes too late that he is outclassed. McKenzie seems to have him in some kind of judo hold that prevents him from moving his arms. The base of his spine starts to ache.
McKenzie goes about his work in silence. He produces a short-bladed knife from somewhere—perhaps it was in one of his pockets, or hidden in his belt—and presses it firmly against the soft flesh under Clarke’s chin. His breathing is heavy but controlled. His breath smells bad, like something has curled up and died in the back of his throat.
“Now,” he says, softly, into Clarke’s ear, “it’s your turn to listen to me. Drop the gun.”
Clarke keeps his body tense, trying to get some wriggle room in the tight hold. He remembers something Oakes once told him about close-contact fighting: if your opponent gets you in any kind of lock, tense your muscles and make your body as big a possible. That way you might be able to grab yourself an inch of space when you relax, and when the time comes, it might help you break the hold.
Great in theory, but in practice it’s almost impossible. McKenzie’s grip is solid. He knows exactly what he is doing.
He lets go of the gun and feels it brush against his crotch as it falls from his hand.
“Right,” says McKenzie. “We’re gonna stand up now. But before we do, I want the shotgun back.”
Clarke flashes a glance at Martha. She’s pointing the gun at McKenzie, but there’s no way she can manage a clear shot. He nods.
Martha lowers the gun.
“Chuck it over here, girl.”
She follows McKenzie’s order. The shotgun lands on the floor next to the two men. Quickly, and without warning, McKenzie reaches out with his free hand and grabs the weapon. He pushes Clarke away from him, slides backwards, and rises rapidly to his feet while still facing Clarke.
“That’s better,” he says. “Balance has been restored.” He steps forward and picks up Clarke’s handgun, stuffs the barrel down the front of his jeans. His muscles are rigid, his skin is covered in a layer of sweat; the protective tattoos glisten like freshly laid-down ink.
Clarke stays where he is on the floor. He sits up, rubbing his neck. His shoulders are throbbing. “I take it you have a plan?”
McKenzie sits back down on the chair, but keeps the shotgun raised. “Of course I have a fuckin’ plan. I’ve had one ever since yer put me in this chair. That thing out there, it’s scared of the wee girl. That’s why it’s keepin’ its distance. I’m gonna use that to get out of here.” He smiles at Martha and blows her a kiss. “You okay with that, Martha?”
She doesn’t reply, but Clarke senses her anger. It’s like a heat haze in the air, radiating from her pores. Given the opportunity, he knows that she won’t hesitate to rip out McKenzie’s throat with her teeth. He’s seen her in action before; she’s quick to violence, when it’s necessary, and only ever questions her actions afterwards.
McKenzie stands. Now that his sudden burst of energy has dissipated, he looks tired. He limps across to Martha and holds the business end of the shotgun a few inches away from her belly. “We don’t want any accidents, do we?” His stare is cold; his eyes ar
e like slivers of slate. The previous humor he put on display is gone. Behind it, there is only the desire to survive.
“Just don’t turn your back on me,” says Martha. “First chance I get, I’ll fucking kill you.”
McKenzie tries to smile but this time it won’t come; the mask has crumbled. So he just bares his teeth instead, his lips peeling slowly back in an animalistic snarl of naked contempt. Now that the act is slipping, Clarke gets a glimpse of the true nature of the man beneath, the dark face that he’s been trying to hide.
“Just think about this,” says Clarke, rising to his feet. “Think about what you’re doing. She’s pregnant…” He holds out his hands in a placatory gesture while trying to think of a way out of this.
McKenzie maneuvers himself so that he’s standing behind Martha. He pushes her forward, towards the door. “We’re goin’. Nice doin’ business with yer. Now give me the car keys. Oh, and tell me where you hid the rest of the money or I’ll shoot her face off.”
Clarke pauses. There’s nothing to be gained from lying. Not now. “I lied,” he says. “It’s all in the bag.”
McKenzie laughs. “Fuckin’ hell, man…yer really are somethin’ special, yer know that? A genuine superstar.”
“I told you I didn’t have much of a plan. I just hoped you wouldn’t stop to count it.” Clarke drops his hands to waist level. “I wasn’t lying about that.”
McKenzie blows out a long breath. He looks tired all of a sudden, as if events are taking their toll on his endurance. He glances down at his wounded leg and then back up again, at Clarke. He purses his lips, as if biting back a spasm of pain.
“Just let her go,” says Clarke. “Seriously. Let her go and we can all just walk away from this. What do you say?”
McKenzie shakes his head. His face is grim, a pallid mask of regret and bitterness and so many other emotions that Clarke is unable to recognize. “No chance. Yer don’t understand. These people won’t stop. If I get out of this, they’ll come for me. I need some kind of collateral. If that thing out there is so scared of this girl, I’m taking her with me. Maybe it’ll be enough to keep them off my back. Don’t worry, I’ll treat her well. She might even get to like me.” When he smiles, his face seems to split in two, as if wounds are opening up across the front of his skull.
“Move,” he says, poking the end of the shotgun barrel into Martha’s back. “Pick up the bag.”
She winces, stops briefly to pick up the money, and then starts walking slowly and stiffly towards the front of the warehouse.
Outside, the creature has returned. It drums its fists against the side of the building, and then, slowly, it begins to scratch at the wall. Clarke can hear it growling softly, but loud enough to be heard from their position inside the building.
Never buy anything you can’t afford to leave behind, he thinks, somberly. Then: I bought something I can’t afford to lose.
He can’t possibly let her go, not now. Not ever. Clarke has known for a long time that he loves Martha, and that when he is with her, something starts to change inside him. He’s never felt anything like it before, and even now he cannot understand what these feelings mean. But he does know one thing: he never wants the feelings to go away.
Martha is a part of him. He doesn’t know how, or why, but their partnership works better than anything else in his life. Better than he deserves. When he thinks of all the bad things he has done, all the terrible people he’s met and worked with, the only shred of salvation he can come up with to counteract all the grimness is her: Martha. And the baby she carries inside her.
He follows them across the warehouse, keeping his distance. He is not going to let them out of his sight; he will follow her to the ends of the earth, and even beyond that if necessary. The cliché has an appealing ring to it: the ends of the earth. That’s what this place has become—the place where the earth will end: his earth; his life; his hopes and dreams. If she disappears with McKenzie, it’s all over. There will be nothing left to live for.
The reality of this thought hits him hard, like a crushing blow to the solar plexus. He catches his breath; his stomach tenses. He remembers all the times he was hit or abused or treated badly as a child in the orphanage, and other memories begin to rise slowly to the surface, as if released from cages located deep within the troubled seas of his subconscious.
The beatings he always tried his best to forget. There was nothing too bad, no torture or sexual abuse: just regular beatings as punishment if he ever stepped out of line or failed to follow a rule.
The other stuff, though, is less clear. The images are fuzzy and ill-defined. It’s all hidden underneath that other image, the one he uses as a mental mantra. The boys playing football on the grass. The veil he’s always drawn across the other memories.
Mental pictures of waking at night to find lit candles arranged in a circle around his bed. Chanting figures, their faces hidden by hoods. A naked woman with blood splashed across her breasts. Someone reading aloud from an old book in a soft, quiet voice and a strange language. Strange dreams, weird half-memories. He never thought they might be real until now and still he struggles to believe it.
What does any of this have to do with him? He’s nobody. He is just the driver: Driver Z. That’s all he’s ever been. The only thing he wanted to be, even then.
Up ahead, McKenzie pushes Martha down the narrow corridor they used to enter the building. Clarke pauses at the entrance and watches in silence, those flickering, sepia-toned pictures overlapping inside his head…black candles, a headless rooster on the bedroom floor, the pills he was forced to take with his bedtime drink on some nights, the voices heard through walls, the glances, the reluctance of certain staff members to maintain eye contact with him the following morning…so many fractured images, the pieces of a jigsaw that he is unable to complete.
McKenzie turns to him, but he keeps the tip of the shotgun pressed against the small of Martha’s back. “We’re going outside now. I don’t care if you follow us, because whatever that is”—he pauses to listen to the drumming sound against the side of the warehouse—“it’ll take care of you.”
Clarke’s lips are dry. He can taste copper at the back of his throat.
If it really wanted to, he thinks, that thing could easily get in. It could tear down the wall and get in here.
So why doesn’t it? Why is it content to make a racket and not even attempt to get inside, where it could rip the three of them apart at will?
“Now, open the door,” says McKenzie, his attention focused back on Martha. “Do it slowly and quietly, or I’ll shoot yer.”
What is it waiting for? thinks Clarke, watching and waiting.
Martha reaches out slowly. Her hand is steady. She unbolts the warehouse door and pushes it open, just a crack. Moonlight silvers the edge of the gap. Clarke can see it from where he is standing, and the sight is oddly beautiful. The cold light kisses Martha’s cheek and for a second he feels like crying.
“Walk out there. Let it see yer.”
She pushes the door open farther and moves towards the doorway.
The drumming sounds have ceased. Clarke strains his ears and he hears the hobbling, pattering sound of what must be misshapen feet on the end of long, thin, tapered legs as they scamper across the hard ground at the side of the warehouse building.
He watches as Martha steps outside, followed closely by McKenzie. The gun remains jammed against her spine. The couple moves slowly, cautiously, yet purposefully. Martha betrays no fear, and he falls in love with her all over again for showing such courage.
Clarke clenches his fists and walks along the corridor. The doorway is now filled with moonlight; it shines like something out of a fairy tale. But this is no children’s story; it’s something altogether darker, more violent. The moonlight starts to dim, fades, and snatches away the images he’s been holding in his mind.
When he draws level with the door, he looks outside. He can see McKenzie’s broad back, the angles of his elbows.
Something prowls around them in the darkness beyond the warehouse boundary, moving in the narrow, shadowy spaces between the blackened shells of caravans. He can’t make out any details. All he can see is a tall, dark figure with tapered legs that bend the wrong way and in two places.
He smells sulphur. He tastes blood and ashes.
The skin of his face seems to shrink back against his skull, as if exposed to great heat.
Clarke steps through the doorway and out into the night.
McKenzie is standing with his legs shoulder-width apart, planted on the ground. He’s facing the shadowy creature. He has one hand on Martha’s neck, gripping her there, and the other holds the shotgun.
Clarke is standing several feet behind them. He isn’t sure if McKenzie is even aware of his presence; the man’s attention is drawn to the thing that’s watching them all.
“Get back!” His voice is loud but it holds more than a trace of fear. “Leave me alone and yer can have her. Let’s make a deal…isn’t that what demons are meant to do?”
So this is his real plan. A trade-off: his life for Martha.
“Or, if you’re afraid, I can kill her for yer. Or maybe just make her harmless?” He forces Martha to the ground, pushing his knees against the back of her legs until she is kneeling in front of him. “Is that what you want?”
The creature makes a strange, low-pitched sound, like whale song. Clarke tries to make it out in the darkness, but all he can see is an unstable outline. He wonders why it sounds so mournful. Then he remembers his theory—that it’s an impermanent devil—and he understands its sorrow. Soon it will be forced to leave.
His thoughts start racing again. Black candles. Blood. Night. Stilted ceremonies carried out in an upstairs bedroom, far away from the rest of the boys. He remembers standing in the trees and looking through the sun-dappled branches as the other orphans played football on the grass. He was never welcome in their games; he was shunned, always left out when they played. He was kept away from them. He had been chosen.