Hellbound: The Tally Man

by David McCaffrey

  Obadiah found himself left staring at Ellie. She was gazing absentmindedly out the window, playfully twirling her straw around the rim of the glass. He could see now she resembled her mother in many ways, her bone structure, her slender neck, her small nose. And yet, he was amazed to notice that he could see himself in her eyes; emerald green. The shear incredulity of her being his daughter, even if only in this afterlife existence, had Obadiah imagining a million different scenarios simultaneously. Would she hold his hand if he offered it, would she allow him to pick her up, would she ask him to read her stories at bedtime, take her to school, go to the cinema? All the things he had desired so desperately himself as a child that were never offered. He had sought to replace those desires with more inventive pastimes but had never forgotten what it had felt like to want his father to offer a hand to him with any intent behind it other than chastisement.

  “Are you scared?” Obadiah leaned forward slightly as he spoke.

  Ellie looked at him over the rim of her glass. “Scared of what, Daddy?”

  “Scared of me?”

  “You’re silly,” came her reply with a giggle. His thoughts on the charade of giving him a child and the purpose it could serve were broken by Eva’s return to the table. “Okay, we ready?” she said as she placed her purse back in her bag and pulled out Ellie’s chair.

  “I’m ready,” Ellie proclaimed as she jumped up from the table, knocking over the glass in the process. The accident prompted the café’s occupants to stop their conversations and, for a moment, focus all their attention on Obadiah and his companions.

  Eva had already bent down to begin collecting the shattered pieces, Ellie crouching by her side offering apologies. Obadiah made no move to assist them, preferring to stare back at the inquisitive people who had deemed his area of the café their focus of attention. He took a few steps forward towards the nearest table, his physique seemingly growing with each movement.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Though a question, its meaning was apparent, despite the softness of his tone.

  Accompanied with mumbles and nervous twitters, the café’s patrons slowly turned their interest away from Obadiah and began subdued conversations. Susan had arrived with a dustpan and was sweeping the remaining fragments from the floor as Eva stepped besides Obadiah and gently touched his elbow.

  “Come on, you. Let’s go before you upset the natives.”

  Eva ushered Ellie out the door and into the biting air. Obadiah sensed all eyes of the café on him as they moved past the window and onto College Street. The businesses around him hummed with activity, reminding him of ants in a bivouac. The people hurried in and around the pavements and shop fronts, never seeming to spend any significant amount of time digesting what they saw, always seemingly being driven to move on to the next spectacle without any understanding as to why. He found it tedious, as though they were all moving in slow motion and he were moving in real time.

  Obadiah walked slightly apart from Eva, her attention more focused on Ellie’s safety than his proximity. As they moved passed McSorley’s and onto Plunkett Street, he found his memories prickling at some of the sights around him. He hadn’t paid much attention since his arrival here, his focus having been directed towards understanding why he was here. But now, in a more relaxed state, he realised that many of the sights around him were acting as stimuli for childhood memories. The Killarney Art Gallery, the Grand Hotel and St. Mary’s Church on Main Street, they all began to pull at his subconscious like a magician pulling handkerchiefs from a hat. He tried to piece the elicited memories together like a jigsaw. It was so long ago now since he was last here that Obadiah knew he wouldn’t be able to form a complete picture. Oddly, the memories which were the most powerful were the ones of least significance; the smell of the damp pavements, the haze of the lights in the shops windows, the cold sensation of the breeze on his face. And yet, despite their emotive pull at his mind, it all felt different, and not simply because he had returned here in the strangest of circumstances. It was different because he was sharing it all with someone else. Eva was his first, voluntary companion he had had since his friendship with Tom Jacques. And he found himself wanting to share himself with her in a way that wouldn’t result in her death.

  They turned on Cahernane Meadows off Muckcross Road, Obadiah noticing the doctor’s surgery just up ahead. Nothing looked familiar, but then again he had never really been allowed to visit a doctor’s as a child in case they had asked him awkward questions concerning bruises on his body.

  “Dr’s Fiona O’Brien and John Gantly,” he read out loud from the sign.

  “Obi, are you okay?” Eva questioned.

  He began to walk towards the entrance, dismissing her with a curt, “I’m fine.”

  Eva loosened Ellie’s coat before taking her hand. “Is Daddy okay?” The concern in her daughter’s tone pulled at Eva’s heart.

  “Daddy’s fine, sweetie. He’s just anxious, is all.”

  Their presence triggered the surgery’s automated doors and they moved through to stand besides Obadiah at reception.

  * * *

  Obadiah had let Eva do the talking, given that she appeared to know the girl behind the desk personally. He had stood impassively whilst she enquired about any spaces in Dr. O’Brien’s schedule. After a brief phone call, they were told she could see Obadiah briefly in the next ten minutes and would they kindly take a seat in the waiting room. Eva and Ellie decided to do some shopping whilst they waited.

  Sitting down, Obadiah had amused himself by imagining the reactions of the people around him were they to know who he was and what he did. The desire to show them was still there, pulsating beneath his skull but he remained controlled. He was much more interested in what the doctor had to say about his physical condition here, beginning to think it strange that he had no actual symptoms when his name had been called from the reception desk, advising him the doctor would see him now.

  Fiona O’Brien’s office was fairly large, housing the usual medical equipment one would expect; a long, black examination couch, a shelf stacked with medical journals and textbooks, a handwash basin in the corner, a device for measuring your height and a desk with a computer and the obligatory sphygmomanometer where the doctor sat. The only thing incongruous in the room was him.

  Dr. O’Brien was a slight, well dressed, middle aged lady, with greying hair and a pleasant expression. She had welcomed Obadiah into the room as though they were old friends and had motioned towards the chair by her desk whilst she washed her hands.

  “So, what can we do for you today, Obadiah?” Her Irish lilt and warm delivery were oddly relaxing.

  “I want you to tell me what’s wrong with me?”

  Though taken aback by Obadiah’s direct manner, she moved her chair a little closer to him. “Has something happened?”

  Obadiah couldn’t help but smile. “You have no idea, Doc. I just want it explained to me again so I have it clear in my mind.”

  Fiona settled back into her chair clasped her hands together. “Look, I know it can be a great deal of information to process. What specifically would you like me to go over?”

  Obadiah leaned forwards. “Tell me everything.” His emotionless tone surprised her, but then she accepted that people deal with things in many different ways and that perhaps this was Obadiah Stark’s way of coping – compartmentalising his condition.

  With a sigh, she began. “Okay. You were diagnosed with a Glioblastoma multiforme – the most common and aggressive type of brain tumour in humans. Nine months ago you underwent multimodality treatment consisting of an open craniotomy with surgical resection of as much of the tumour as possible, followed by a course of chemo-radiotherapy, anti-angiogenic therapy with bevacizumab, gamma knife radiosurgery. Your symptomatic care is with the corticosteroids. By the way, I see you have kept your hair short since the operation. It suits you.

  “Usual symptoms include nausea, vomiting, headaches and possible hemiparesis. The
main symptom however is progressive memory loss, with personality and neurological deficits due to the tumour’s temporal and frontal lobe involvement. The symptoms of course depend greatly on the location of the tumour, which in your case is in the frontal lobe. This can affect your ability to recognize future consequences resulting from current actions, to choose between good and bad actions…..previous research has identified that some patients find it difficult to suppress unacceptable social responses… all higher mental function involvement. As your frontal lobes also play an important part in retaining longer term memories, memories associated with emotions, symptoms can include finding it difficult to modify emotions that fit socially acceptable norms.

  “Two months ago scans showed your tumour had returned. Other than further chemotherapy, which you refused, our options are limited. Forgive my bluntness Obadiah, but the fact we’re having this conversation again is a little worrying. Is everything okay?”

  Obadiah, ignoring her questions, crossed his arms as he processed what he had just been told. He wasn’t sure if what he had just learnt helped him with understanding what had happened to him. If anything he was slightly more confused. Difficulty recognising consequences, inability to choose between good and bad actions, unacceptable social responses…all aspects of his personality as defined by every psychologist who had ever attempted to get inside his mind. Yet, in life he’d had no tumour. Or had he? No, all the tests carried out on him at Absolom would have picked something up. He had suffered headaches, but didn’t everyone? Nausea and vomiting…generally he had a strong stomach. He had felt nauseated recently but figured it was related to the process of actually dying. Hemiparesis… never that he could recall, but yesterday when he jumped from the cliff he had experienced pain and numbness down one side. He had attributed that to his tattoo supernaturally reappearing.

  In the words of Lewis Carroll, curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice.

  Taking several breaths and pressing his head back against the chair, Obadiah waited a moment before speaking.

  “Prognosis?”

  Fiona O’Brien smiled apologetically. “Three to six months.”

  Obadiah clenched his jaw. “And this surgery was nine months ago?”

  “Yes.” She waited a beat before speaking again. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Silence permeated the room, accentuating the ticking of the clock on the desk. Obadiah stood as this latest piece of the puzzle bounced around his mind, trying to find its logical place. If all he had just been told was true, he could be facing a slow, painful death from a growth potentially the size of a grapefruit in his head. That was if he could even die here. For reasons still beyond his comprehension, he appeared to have jumped from the proverbial frying pan. Maybe this was his actual punishment. Had he been spared death by lethal injection only to face a possible death considered more appropriate to his crimes? Was his mind being rotted away so delicately, that he couldn’t tell what was real or not anymore? Maybe he had always been here and life before was only a dream.

  Returning to Fiona’s question, Obadiah bent forward and placed his hands on either side of the doctor’s chair. His inappropriate closeness forced Fiona to lean back, her expression one of increasing concern for her wellbeing.

  “Obadiah, please sit back.” She failed to hide her anxiety.

  “You medical people are all the same. I had to listen to a pious, sanctimonious arsehole only a few days ago. He was telling me all about death as well. That didn’t turn out exactly as I imagined, so I can’t see how this could be any different. Why would I be spared death only to be placed in an afterlife where I’m dying anyway, albeit slower? You ask if there is anything you can do. Can you turn back time and allow me to die the first time around?”

  Her eyes projected blankness.

  Obadiah leaned in closer and grabbed her by the chin with his right hand. “I didn’t fucking think so.”

  He mused as to whether she would still hold her dumb-arse expression if he crossed the ends of the stethoscope around her neck and pulled them taught. He could just place his knee on her chair to give him leverage and really put all his force behind it. Maybe he could even cut through her neck. Decapitate this stupid bitch who thought she knew everything.

  His heart pounded in his chest as his face hovered over hers. The doctor’s eyes glanced furtively at the door behind him, wondering if someone would hear her if she shouted. Once upon a time, she would have already been dead. Now, with everything else going on he simply couldn’t be bothered. The mystery unfolding before him seemed intent on consuming all that he was and had been.

  Fiona O’Brien swallowed audibly, her anxiety rapidly becoming unbridled fear as she saw in Obadiah’s eyes a darkness that seemed barely contained. He slid his nose along the side of her neck, taking in her scent as though a tiger confirming a kill. Fiona, her eyes shut tight, worked her head franticly from side to side trying to evade the dehumanisation of her person. Tears began to roll freely as she tried to comprehend how a straight forward appointment with one her fondest clients could have so quickly turned in to the most fearful experience of her life.

  “I am going to tell you something important,” he said tonelessly, still holding her face. “On a scale of one to ten, it’s a ten. It’s ‘I just worked out how the fucking universe works’ important. And after I’ve told you, I want you to explain it to me, like I’m a two year old. Do you understand?”

  Fiona nodded quickly.

  Obadiah leaned forwards again and whispered in her ear. “I murdered the owner of Miss Courtney’s Tea Room two days ago. Slit her throat from ear to ear. It was beautiful.”

  The doctor was pale, her eyes wide with fear and shock. She was afraid to call out even if she’d been able to.

  Obadiah let go of her face began to pace around the room. “She wasn’t the only one of course. I murdered quite a few people that day. And then, the strangest thing happened. I woke up the next day and everything was the same. No one was dead. They were all going about their business as though nothing had ever happened. So I killed myself. And guess what…I woke up and found that everything was still exactly the same. This is now the third day I have experienced and everything is the same as it was the day before and the day before that. I can’t seem to die or change anything for the course of twenty four hours. But that isn’t the best part. Four days ago I was executed by lethal injection in ADX Absolom – my reward for being one of the world’s most notorious serial killers. And then I found myself here - Heaven, Hell, who the fuck knows. I have a wife, a child. I live in my old childhood home in the town where I grew up and have just learnt that I have an inoperable brain tumour.

  “By the way, doc, the tumour? Would you, in your medical opinion, consider it evil? I’m guessing you would, seeing as you probably define any defect in the structure of the human body that prevents us from fulfilling our potential as human beings as evil. Of course, if evil is an illness, it’s not only a disease; it is the ultimate disease. Maybe that’s my punishment. The ultimate disease afflicted with the ultimate disease. Poetic, don’t you think? So anyway, doc, you tell me, which part of what I’ve just told you do you want to explain first?”

  Fiona shook her head, an indication that she could neither comprehend what she had just heard nor knew the answer. Obadiah snorted his distain at her pathetic response.

  “That’s the thing about this place. No one has a fucking clue what I’m talking about.”

  He stopped his pacing and paused in front of the doctor, her body almost curled into a fetal position in the chair. “Close your eyes.” She didn’t hesitate, despite the waves of terror crashing over her.

  Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes, as she considered what she had just heard, as she waited for some violent act to take place against her person. And then there was nothing. No sound, no presence, no movement. She slowly opened her eyes, expecting to see Obadiah’s face hovering over her. But she saw no one. The door to her room was open, the muffle
d sounds from the corridor and distant reception assuring her that life was still continuing. There were no screams or cries for help.

  She tentatively rose from her chair and moved slowly towards the open door, wiping snot and tears from her face. A practice nurse walked past the door, paying no attention to Fiona as she moved down the corridor and into the reception area. The waiting area was beginning to fill up now, the majority of the people waiting to be seen elderly, though a few children were present with their parents. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

  Attempting to compose herself by straightening her skirt, Fiona approached the girl behind the glass panel who was just completing a phone call. She smiled at Fiona, but received nothing in return other than a look of distress.

  “Obadiah Stark. Did he just come through here?”

  “Yes, Doctor. About two minutes ago. Is everything okay? You look dreadful.”

  Fiona tried to smile a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Was anyone else with him?”

  “No, not that I could see. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, thank you Kay. I’m just tired. Give me a few minutes before sending in the next patient if you don’t mind?”

  Fiona O’Brien slowly walked back to her office and shut the door, trying to process what had just happened to her.

  As he walked up the road to meet his ‘family’, Obadiah knew he should despise what was happening to him. But he didn’t. He had approached his being here all wrong. His anger at being cheated death had clouded his ability to see the opportunity before him. Whatever had occurred at the moment he was executed, the fact remained he was now somewhere where he could go unnoticed without the pretence. If he desired to kill, so be it. It would all reset the following day, with no consequences resonant. If he chose not to, he would be able to experience life in a way he had never thought possible. Free from recognition and implication. He was actually proud of the self-control he had shown with the doctor. And this tumour he was supposedly dying from. If each day began anew, what was the worst that could happen?