Scenes From the Second Storey

  "What you got for me?" Anto asked as he approached Magee.

  "A wee VW Golf. Five-year-old. Factory standard. Completely unremarkable." Magee frowned. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

  "No, mate. Just a loose end that needs tying up."

  "You don't look fit enough to tie your shoes, Anto. Can this not wait a few weeks? Or maybe I could handle it for you?"

  "It's nothing, Magee. Piece of piss. I'll be fine."

  "You should have let me kill her last week."

  Anto furrowed his brow.

  "Come on, Anto. It wasn't that hard to figure out. You didn't want to admit you were wrong. Typical Anto Morrison shite. As if I'd think any different of you if you admitted a mistake. Nobody's infallible."

  "It wasn't about that. I can admit my mistakes."

  "Yeah, dead on."

  "Seriously. But this is personal. I wanted to take care of it myself."

  "So take care of it yourself. But take me with you. Just in case. You do all the work. I'll just hang about and watch your back. Okay?"

  "I don't need a babysitter."

  "You need a car, though."

  "What are you saying, Magee?"

  "If you're taking my car, you're taking me."

  "So I'll get a different car."

  "Why bother? Look, stop acting the fucking eejit and take me to Shereen's house. We'll get this one last thing done, and you go back into retirement. Work on that woeful golf swing of yours."

  Anto's shoulders sagged. "It's my mess, mate."

  "And what? You've never helped me sort out a mess? Catch yourself on. Wait there 'til I get my piece."

  ****

  Magee mounted the kerb on Jerusalem Street and jarred Anto into painful clarity. He'd dozed a little in the city traffic, grateful of the break from driving. Cottonmouth. Sweaty back. Itchy crotch. He hunted in his pocket for a breath mint and a sneaky scratch.

  "So this is where Shereen ended up?" Magee asked.

  "According to the letter."

  "Not exactly picturesque, is it?"

  "This is student heartland. Wastrel fucks. They've driven this area into the ground."

  An empty cider bottle, caught in a gust of wind, rolled down the redbrick terrace-lined street. Grimy walls, grey sky, dirty windows. Dreary filing cabinets housing the bright future.

  Anto breathed deep, expecting the metallic odour of rain on Belfast streets. He inhaled his father's signature scent. A whisper from behind.

  "It's not too late to call it off, son."

  "It is," Anto said.

  "It is what?" Magee asked.

  "Nothing. Let's get this over with."

  Anto stared dead ahead as he hauled himself out of the car. A voice and a smell, just remnants of a half-doze dream. But he wouldn't be able to dismiss even a glance of his father's dour face. He patted his breast pocket. The heavy metal of the pistol, tangible and reassuring, met his caress.

  "What number?" Magee asked.

  "Fifteen."

  Seconds later they were at Shereen's door.

  Magee snorted. "Think we'll be able to breach the defence system?"

  "Jesus, Shereen. Make a bit of an effort."

  Blue paint-flakes waggled gently in the breeze. A hole in the warped wood that should have housed a night-latch provided a peephole into the house. Anto gave the door a light kick and freed a drizzle of blue gloss. The door creaked open a few inches. Only the friction in the rusty hinges kept it from swinging freely.

  "Jesus, Anto. The bitch is squatting here. That's some comedown. Not a wonder she came looking for your cash."

  "Are you sympathising with her?"

  "Fuck, no. But look at this shithole."

  "Come on. She'll have heard us by now. Better find her before she climbs out a window."

  They slipped in and eased the door shut. Anto pointed up the stairs then tapped Magee's chest. The curly-haired giant smiled and nodded, enjoying himself. He trod gently up the stairs, managing to avoid squeaks and creaks with a hitman's instincts. Anto checked out the ground floor. Three rooms. Reception, living room and kitchen. Bare floorboards, peeling wallpaper, fusty smell, fuck all furniture and no Shereen.

  Then there was a thunderous boom from above. Far too loud to be Magee's 9mm. Fuck!

  Anto charged up the stairs, four at a time. His wounds tugged and screamed as stitches split. Adrenaline helped him ignore them. Then he was on the landing and staring into the barrel of a sawn-off. One huge black eye. Shereen laughed nervously.

  "I took your advice, Anto. No more knives for me. Just a good old-fashioned hand-cannon. Surprisingly cheap, too."

  Anto looked beyond Shereen's emaciated form. Magee lay facedown in a bedroom. Shot in the back.

  "You fucking cunt."

  "I didn't realise it was Magee until I'd pulled the trigger. I mightn't have killed him if I'd known. Was he going to kill me?"

  Her voice was soft. Distant. She watched Anto with dull eyes and a slack jaw.

  "Are you stoned?"

  "Helps the pain." She pointed to her cheek, then her chest, then between her legs.

  "You killed Magee."

  "I know. Fucked up."

  "Jesus."

  Anto realised he hadn't drawn his gun, and that Shereen still held the sawn-off. Her single-barrel sawn-off.

  "Aren't you going to shoot me too, bitch?"

  She aimed and pulled the trigger. The hammer clacked. Nothing. Unloaded. Spent.

  "Out of ammo, Anto. Out of ammo."

  "Are you using heroin?"

  "When I can get it. There's always methadone if I can't."

  "Fuck. Were you stoned last week?"

  "No. Cold turkey's a bitch though. I wasn't sober for long." She half-turned and glanced down at Magee. "I guess this means you'll not be giving me my money? Shooting your friend and all."

  "I didn't come to give you the money."

  "Kill me?"

  Anto nodded.

  "Oh." She slow-blinked. "Why did you make me wait? Why not kill me last week?"

  "I thought you were meant to live."

  Shereen sighed. "Because I've so much to contribute to society?" She looked Anto in the face. "You should have killed me. Then Magee would still be alive."

  Anto's knees buckled. He shot a hand out and slapped the wall and caught himself. Gasping for breath, his hand snaked into his breast pocket. He tugged violently at the gun handle and tore the lining of his jacket as he freed it. His adrenaline levels were sinking away and the pain of his jarred injuries came at him full on. He almost puked.

  "Fucking bitch. Shot Magee."

  "Kill me, Anto. Put one in my head. Do the job properly, now."

  Anto raised the pistol and aimed. Shereen smiled sweetly, a ghost of her old self returning. He lowered the gun. She frowned. Guinness, tobacco, Old Spice. Anto groaned.

  "My da's here."

  Shereen scrunched her face and shook her head. Anto staggered backwards.

  "Kill me, Anto," she said.

  "I can't."

  "You have to."

  Shereen tugged at her blouse. Buttons plinked and scattered. Her tiny breasts jiggled as she struggled out of the sleeves. Anto felt turned on and disgusted at once. She let the blouse fall and turned up her palms.

  "I don't want to fade away," Shereen said. "Let me go with a bang."

  "Leave me alone!"

  "I'll suck your dick, Anto. Shoot me in the head while I suck you. Once in a lifetime deal."

  "Stop it."

  Anto felt warm breath on the back of his neck. "Be strong, son. You can't kill her. Don't damn yourself. Not after you've worked so hard to change. This is your last chance."

  "She killed Magee, da."

  "She thought he was a prowler. A rapist. To her, it was self-defence."

  "Eye for an eye."

  "Bullshit. Leave her be. Walk out of here now."

  "I can't let her away with this."

  "Look at her, son. She's already in hell."
>
  "Go away. I'll make this decision myself."

  "Who are you talking to, Anto?" Shereen asked.

  Anto looked at her. Tried to focus all his concentration on her while his father chattered on about damnation. Her eyes sparked with life for the first time since he'd arrived.

  "Is there somebody else with you, Anto?"

  "No. I'm talking to myself."

  She rubbed her bare arms, then suddenly self-conscious, folded them in front of her breasts. She shivered.

  "I can feel something in here. It's cold."

  "You're topless."

  "Not temperature cold. Something else."

  "You're stoned, Shereen."

  "I think death's here."

  Anto racked the slide of his Ruger. "Yeah, I am."

  "Not you, Anto. A presence. Somebody's here for my soul. What's left of it." She stepped towards him. "Do it now. It's time."

  And then he saw it. What he'd mistaken for a spark in her eyes. Feral insanity. Shereen was gone. Diluted by heroin and heartache. Addiction and depravity. She was an animal that needed putting down. Killing her would be a kindness. He tucked the pistol into his waistband.

  "Do it, Anto." Spittle foamed at the corners of her mouth. "Kill me, you dickless fuck!"

  "Fuck you, bitch. I like you better like this."

  Shereen screamed and scooped up the empty sawn-off. Wielding it as a bludgeon she took a wild swing at his head. Anto skipped backwards. Slipped. Went down. Modesty forgotten, Shereen dove onto him. Straddled him. Clawing and spitting, she attacked with berserker ferocity. Anto did what he could to fend off the wild blows. Tried to grab hold of her. Nothing to grab. She wasn't skin and bone. She was smoke. More punches and swipes got through his defence. Blood ran. He gave up one blocking arm to hunt for the pistol. She shimmied up his body as his hands went to his waistband. While he struggled for the gun she tried to pin his arms with her knees. Tried to imitate his position of power from their last encounter. She didn't have the weight for it. Anto snagged the gun. Rammed it into the base of her spine. She squawked. He roared and thrust his hips up off the floor. Shereen took off. Flew over his head and landed in a tangle of bony limbs.

  Anto rolled onto his stomach, tucked his knees in under himself and struggled onto all fours. He crawled towards a writhing Shereen. She whimpered and keened as she pawed at her lower back. Within touching distance, Anto knelt up then reached out and yanked her hair. He hauled her into a sitting position. As she screamed he shoved the pistol into her mouth. She bit down on it. Almost swallowed the muzzle. Growled something unintelligible. Anto waggled the gun. It clacked off her teeth.

  "What was that, bitch?"

  Anto's father whistled for attention. "That's enough, Anthony. Leave her."

  "If I don't do it now, she'll come for me."

  "After today? No chance. Go home, son."

  Anto gritted his teeth. "I listened to you once, da. Now Magee's dead. Tell me exactly what'll happen if I top this bitch."

  "You won't escape hell."

  Anto considered this. "What about Shereen. Where's she going?"

  "I don't know. I was sent here for you. Didn't check up on her."

  "For all I know, you weren't sent here at all. You're some fucked up hallucination that was set loose after I was attacked, beaten and stabbed."

  "I'm telling you, son. I'm here to protect you."

  "I can look after myself."

  "So I can see."

  "Fuck off!"

  Anto whipped the pistol from Shereen's mouth, turned to face his father and pumped five rounds into him. His father laughed, squashed a smoke under his heel and lit a fresh one.

  "Feel better?"

  Anto turned back and emptied the gun in Shereen's face.

  "I do now."

  He swivelled to face his father again. To gloat. The aul fellah was gone. His scent replaced by gore and cordite. Anto struggled to his feet, puked on his shoes and wiped his lips on his leather sleeve.

  "I'm going to hell." He looked at what was left of Magee, to where his father last stood, and then at Shereen. "Who's coming with me?"

  Seven

  Joseph D'Lacey

  He wakes into darkness, discomfort and thirst. His lips are dry. He tries to moisten them; impossible with the desiccating worm of his tongue. His mouth tastes scorched. He remembers nothing.

  For a while he lies still, his senses discovering only abominations. Everything is wrong. The air is warm, wet and thick. Breathing is like swallowing. A monotonous clicking, too loud and slow to be the ticking of a clock, penetrates the cloying air. Was it this sound that woke him? He listens to it, trying to ignore the inventory of aberrant sensations mounting in his body.

  The clicking is regular but not mechanical. It's too dry and hollow to be water dripping, even though the scant air is rainforest damp. It can't be what it sounds like; two hard-shelled gourds being brought together for the sake of a beat. And yet, the sound is living, fallible; the tempo not always precise. In tandem with what his body is telling him, the clicking is enough to quicken his recently restful heart, sharpen his reluctant mind. The volume of his senses rises incrementally, as if someone is pointing a remote at him.

  Usually he sleeps in loose shorts. He is naked now, causing him to cringe with vulnerability: naked and glazed with slight perspiration; not only through anxiety, but because it's hot in here.

  In here.

  It is only now that this registers. The surface he lies upon is curved. The crown of his head is in contact with something solid. So are the soles of his feet. His knees are bent and he is on his left side. He doesn't dare to try and straighten himself.

  No.

  Not yet.

  He needs to know more. He allows the fingers of his right hand to touch what he's lying on. It's a granular surface and the granules are formed into small bumps. It's not stone but hard, compacted earth, damp beneath the pads of his fingertips. The way the clicking echoes has already hinted at what he discovers next. His fingers follow the curve of the earth up and before his arm is fully extended, he finds the apex of the space he occupies and the curve descends down towards his back. What began as anxiety becomes nausea and his sweat releases as though un-dammed, dripping from his face, leaking from his armpits. A tremor begins in the muscles of his stomach and though he tries to control it, it spreads to every part of his body.

  In here.

  Down here.

  Oh, Jesus God. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

  ****

  The clicking.

  In the darkness it becomes a focus. For a while, he listens to it, really tunes in. It stops him thinking about everything else. He imagines a point of contact between the two undefined objects. This meeting place, where the only sound in his world originates, becomes something he can almost see. A pinpoint of bright impact expanding from a snap to an echo in the darkness, to be followed by another, moments later. How many seconds between each click? A couple? More? He has no idea.

  Concentrating on the space between the clicks has a strange effect on his perception of time. It could be a moment between them, it could be minutes. The harder he listens, the longer the spaces after the echo seem to be. He knows, rationally, that the beat is constant but for its living inaccuracies, but for its mistakes. Sometimes it comes a little early, sometimes a little late. Mostly it is loud but occasionally it is muffled or soft, other times suddenly strident — he begins to think of these anomalies as mis-clicks. And he finds it hard to ignore what they mean.

  They signal fallibility.

  They signal intelligence.

  And then the tattoo stops. The final click's echo fading while his mind chases after it in the darkness. He cannot keep up. He listens, listens hard. But now this place of awakening is silent. He waits. Suddenly he is aware of his own breathing, caught high in his chest, his lungs labouring at the cloying air. He hears, or rather feels, his heartbeat too; a glutinous thump in his neck.

  Another noise, startling in i
ts implication:

  It sounds like someone crawling. Fast. Someone crawling away from his dimple in the earth. There is scratching and bumping as though this person, this escapee perhaps, is dragging behind them equipment which scrapes along the hard packed walls of dirt. He wants to call out to them but something keeps him quiet. The same something that has kept him quiet all this time. He knows what it is; primal, survival instinct from the low-brain, something telling him that he's alive now and that to risk making a sound might be to risk the one simple certainty he still has: his existence.

  The crawler recedes.

  His pulse recedes.

  His breathing levels out.

  ****

  Thinking he's alone emboldens him. The noises he's been hearing have come from somewhere and they were clear enough to suggest that this deep, solid womb he occupies is not completely sealed. If it were, he would probably have suffocated by now but that's something he isn't able to give conscious thought to. Like so many other thoughts right now, only insanity lies on their far side.

  He rolls onto his back and in doing so, his stomach churns. Nausea builds again as he hears the slopping of liquids in his stomach. Strange that with so much fluid on board he still feels thirsty. If anything, the burnt ash flavour in his mouth has worsened. Instead of vomiting, his mouth fills with a deluge of bitter saliva and an escaped teaspoonful of stomach acid. The burning to the inside of his mouth is severe and he swallows the whole cocktail down. It leaves him gasping, his gums and tongue first flaming then going numb. Within a few seconds everything is fat in his mouth, like he's been sucking a novocaine lollipop. Gradually sensation returns and with it the taste of charring.

  He reaches up with both hands and explores the black concavity. Hard, damp, ridged walls curving back towards him. He extends his left hand in the direction of the sounds, where now is silence. His fingers brush something hard and smooth.

  He recoils.

  He stretches out, again making contact with the unknown object. The surface is incomplete. It has an edge. He doesn't put his fingers beyond, only brave enough for the moment to explore the shape itself. It is resistant but not cold. Not like touching metal. Still, he's beginning to think he's been drugged and incarcerated and the smoothness of this new surface, and the fact that it is thin and vertical, makes him think of prison bars. His fingers, more confident now, rove. Not bars but certainly some kind of gate. A crazy, illogical lattice of…well…it feels like plastic but it's as hard as steel. It has an organic feel to it — the welds in the weird angles of it are smooth lumps and ridges, none the same as the next. In his mind's eye he sees a door made of stretched, solidified toffee.