by Martyn Ford
‘Quite possible. But unfortunately . . . I have no idea.’ He believed her. Julius, then.
‘Just . . .’ He held his hand up. If he thought it would have helped, he might well have begged. ‘You need to speak to the police.’
‘I already have.’
She told him that, while he was unconscious, she and Max had given statements. They had been released without charge – they were, after all, relatives of murder victims. Officially, nothing more.
‘Did you tell them about Julius?’
‘No – you spoiled that deal, remember?’
Sam closed his eyes and let out something between a sigh and a whimper.
‘Henry and Gregory were good men,’ Diane said. ‘Henry Junior was a good man. Me, I am a good woman. I have no doubt that we will be reunited in the kingdom of heaven. But Max? We’ve always had trouble with Max. In his youth, he would hurt our neighbours’ pets. He would go for long walks and return with the ears and eyes of cats and horses and cows, sticky and wet in his pocket. Our parents thought he was a psychopath. But Max possesses a great deal of empathy, making him capable of cruelty you could scarcely imagine. And . . .’ she tilted her head and tutted ‘. . . you’ve made him very, very angry.’
Diane stood – Sam checked the radiator, the brackets and bolts. ‘And you’re OK with this?’ he asked. ‘Will you be forgiven?’
‘As you well know, the forces of hell have an advantage the righteous lack,’ she said. ‘Evil does not discriminate. Darkness corrupts darkness with just as much zeal as it corrupts light. As we ask of soldiers, to travel to distant lands and commit the gravest of sins. Why? For all we deem good. To sin, and condemn yourself.’ She turned away. ‘There can be no greater sacrifice than this.’
‘If it helps you sleep . . .’
‘People think, with all the suffering in the world, God must be unwilling, or unable, to intervene,’ she said, walking to the shelves, her hands clasped behind her, the doll gripped at her waist. ‘But it’s so much worse than that, Samuel. The divinity that holds power here isn’t apathetic, or inept, but hostile. That is the truth no one is brave enough to accept. But maybe you are.’ Diane carefully placed the figure on a shelf, then rotated it so the finger was pointing at him. She turned back. ‘Maybe that’s why you chose the Devil. Maybe it seemed like the safest bet . . .’
And then she left, and Sam was alone.
This, Sam realised, was a garage. He turned and saw, behind him, through some shelves and boxes, that the back wall was a tall shutter door. A padlock bolted into the concrete floor kept it sealed shut, and faint, cold air whistled through the gap and crept along the ground. He felt it on his legs.
Opposite that, to his left, an open doorway. When he leaned out, away from the radiator, he could see a short flight of wooden stairs leading up to the main part of the house. It was difficult to judge the time. However, a narrow window high on the wall above the desk was blocked by something black enough to be night. Early morning, perhaps 2 a.m.
Crucially, this wasn’t where he’d come yesterday. That much was obvious. This meant they had moved him while he was unconscious. Like the vague invasion you feel after anaesthesia, he did not like the idea of Max and Diane touching him, lifting him, dragging him into this place.
Sam thought again of Isabelle, and her warnings. She must have realised he’d encountered trouble. But when the remaining Marstons insisted they hadn’t seen him, as he was sure they had, what conclusion would she draw? That he had changed his mind? Impossible to know. At any rate, he found little hope when he considered the world outside these walls.
He had another look at the handcuffs, turning his wrist, pulling on the chain. Then he twisted his body round, placed his feet flat on the bricks and drove back as hard as he could, yanking at the radiator. A deep metal clunk and groan above him – the plumbing aware of his plight as he went limp from exertion and pain.
‘Fuck,’ Sam whispered.
Footsteps. On the stairs. Max came down into the garage carrying a plastic bag – his arm in a sling, his shoulder dressed with better care than Sam’s. At the desk, he spent a few minutes preparing a school-style chemistry set – a Bunsen burner, beakers with blackened bottoms, test tubes and various bottles of transparent liquid and white powder. When he moved, his long, plaited hair danced like a tail. Next, he took a large hunting knife, a wood saw and a hammer from the bag. Then he uncoiled a wire and plugged in a soldering iron. Sam could smell the heat, hear the electric squeal.
‘You ever had a psychedelic experience?’ Max asked, turning from the desk, swirling a small cup. He sniffed it, then shuddered.
Sam didn’t respond.
‘I heard you never lie.’
Again, Sam stayed quiet.
‘What would you do, if I unlocked those cuffs?’ Max reached into his back pocket and pulled out a set of keys.
‘I’d rather not answer.’
‘Something bad I bet.’ Max pointed at him, waiting.
He couldn’t disrespect the truth, not now. ‘I’d probably kill you,’ Sam whispered.
Smiling, Max came towards him, across the flat concrete, under the single, uncovered light bulb. His shadow, shrinking behind, passed beneath his feet, then stretched out long again, over Sam’s lower half. Backlit now, he loomed tall – skeletal eye holes, loose cloth and laughter. There was something in his hand. A brown clump of matted fur.
‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘And if we’re being honest, I should probably explain what all this is. I’m a bit of an amateur chemist and I’ve . . . invented . . . is that the word? I’ve made, mixed, created this . . . stuff. Basically, it starts with LSD – just off the street. Pretty strong. Then there’s some uppers to get your heart rate going, and a sort of mellow punch in the middle to keep you ultra-sensitive. I’ve tried a tiny micro-dose and I can tell you, fuck, it was not very nice. It’s going to be a hell of a ride . . .’ Max squatted and turned into the light. ‘You ever read about witches?’
The object he was clutching, Sam saw, was a dead rat. With a quick slice, he made a hole in its belly fur and poured blood on to his hand. Max then wiped his nose, sniffed and rubbed the liquid into his face, ensuring it went in his mouth and eyes. Alarmed and frowning, Sam stayed silent.
‘The sort of shit they did to people possessed by demons – Diane loves all that,’ he said, waving the limp rodent as he spoke. Heavy raindrops fell on Sam’s trousers – grey innards dangling out like a bundle of newborn worms. ‘It’s fucking weird, right. They drowned them and burned them and shoved things, you know, up them.’ Max lifted his index finger and curled his lip. ‘But there’s some shit they did in Europe in, I don’t know, the past. A long time ago. It’s all based on hooves and claws.’ He shuffled, crouched closer – his cheekbones glistening whenever the yellow bulb caught the rat blood on his skin. Max spoke fast, fidgety, and Sam suspected he was not sober. ‘Works like this,’ he said, flinging the small corpse away. ‘They’d put tourniquets on your legs and arms, then remove your hands and feet. Then, from about here . . .’ he touched his own chin, in the centre of his pointed beard ‘to about here . . .’ and pressed his fingers into the back of his head, near his plait ‘they’d peel all the skin. Chop off the hooves, the claws, then unmask the beast. Symbolic. You get it, right?’
Sam searched around the floor nearby, his heart gaining pace. Nothing in reach.
‘No eyelids at this point, so the eyes would get pretty sore,’ Max went on. ‘But they got rid of them too. Pop. Pop. Ah, oh no. You’re thinking – without eyes, they wouldn’t be able to see. Remember the drugs though – extremely vivid hallucinations. You will see plenty. Then they’d do some old-fashioned stuff – bit of boiling water, funnels, pliers – the usual.’ He reached out, placed his hand on Sam’s knee and sighed. ‘But, after all that, I’m sorry to say . . . it got really, really nasty.’
Max pushed himself upright and wandered over to the organ.
‘Look at all this. Diane actually colle
cts this shit,’ he said, pulling the sheet off. He pressed a key – the note was loud. ‘Any requests?’
Sam ignored him.
After a bit more chemistry, Max took his phone from his pocket and propped it on the desk, ensuring the lens was facing across the garage.
‘Do you mind if I film this?’ he asked. ‘I promise I won’t share it. Private use only.’
Then, turning on his foot, Max strolled back. In his right hand he held the knife and, in his left, a ball of cotton wool. Sam’s attention was on the blade – he considered his range and the odds of success if he tried to snatch it. If that opportunity arose, he’d only have one attempt. But he could barely lift his free arm.
Again, Max squatted next to him and threw his long plait over his shoulder. ‘And I want you to think hard, when you’re here, blind, bleeding, tripping your fucking tits off, about all your regrets . . . Now. Open your mouth.’
When Sam leaned away, Max tutted, pinned Sam’s free hand on the ground with a knee and put the point of the knife against the bridge of his nose, just below his eye.
‘OK, if you—’
He thumbed the wet cotton wool into Sam’s mouth. Although he kept his jaw clamped, Sam tasted the rat, and the salt, as the harsh, cold chemicals rubbed his cheek lining, seeping between his teeth.
‘Ah, ah, there— Jesus, hold still.’
Grunting, Sam tried again to pull away, but felt the metal slide up, now touching his lower eyelashes. He looked down, only the handle was in focus – the rest was a silver blur.
‘There we go, yummy medicine.’
After about thirty seconds, Max released his grip and stood. Choking on the wet fibres, Sam used his tongue to push it to the front of his mouth. It slapped on to the concrete when he spat. But it was obviously too late.
‘Should be feeling something within twenty minutes, half an hour,’ Max said. ‘Then we’ll crack on.’
The drugs were like cleaning fluid – the vapour rough on his throat. Sam swallowed and gagged as something tickled his cheek – he wiped a sticky tear and saw that his fingers were red.
‘Can . . . can I have some water?’ he croaked.
‘This isn’t a hotel.’ Max turned away. ‘Or, yes, maybe not a bad idea.’ He spun back and pointed. ‘Stay hydrated. Good thinking.’
In the corner of the garage, he emptied a glass jar, pouring out nails and screws. Then he filled it with water at a filthy sink. The plumbing clanked again. The jar was dripping when he returned.
‘I’ve always had this ache, here,’ Max said, touching his chest, handing Sam the drink. ‘The only time it ever eased was when I was with my brothers. I . . . well . . .’ And then he began to breathe faster and faster, and finally started to cry, cupping his face – his tears cleaning the blood away. ‘I don’t think I can handle it . . . When you see them, can you . . . tell them I’m sorry? And that I love them.’
‘Doing this won’t make you feel better.’
‘Oh dear . . . Sam.’ He sniffed, composed himself. ‘Oh dear. You don’t know me at all.’
Max left the room, his feet heavy on the wooden stairs.
The jar felt greasy – an old label half torn off, leaving a layer of furred paper and black glue. Sam’s hand was shaking, spilling the murky liquid as he sipped. Somehow, he managed to finish it.
For a few seconds he sat in silence and considered the coming hours of his life. No, he thought, blinking – whatever happened, however this played out, his role would not be passive. He would reclaim control. And there was only one way.
Sam held the jar by the base and tapped it against the concrete. It cracked. A second try shattered it into four big shards and countless hairline splinters. He took the largest triangle of glass, which had a thick, curved rim as a handle, and passed it up to his cuffed fingers. Holding it carefully, he lifted himself to a seated position.
Then he turned his free arm over and exposed his wrist. This was it. The shock and pain and adrenaline leaving him with no other choice but quick, decisive action. Don’t hesitate, he thought – don’t let doubt seep in and trick you. Just stop. Stop falling for it – stop believing that existing is always preferable to not. Fuck these biochemical lies – fuck the disapproving rage of every single one of your billion ancestors who, from microbe to ape, survived to give you this infinitely unlikely gift, this inevitable curse. Grand thoughts for grand decisions.
A few junkie slaps with his trapped hand got the tubes bulging. He found a large blue vein beneath his skin. The large blue vein. No word for worry, he thought, as he pressed the glass into his flesh. He took a deep breath, which juddered at the end.
As he drained, Sam lay on his side, turned his wrist to the floor and saw the pool spread and spread. It was so still – no ripples, just a perfect circle expanding on the concrete. A red mirror. An eye. The uncovered bulb above buzzing in the centre, like an iris made of fire, the reflected glare from some great thing he did not believe in, watching him, judging him.
Now, all he had to do was wait.
Chapter 38
We see the man, lying on the ground, handcuffed and resting. Peaceful now. His eyes are closed. The shard he used to cut himself set at the edge of a large red puddle. Max’s phone films the garage, shows us this bleak picture. And everything is still.
We hear slow footsteps and gentle humming. But then silence.
‘Ah, shit,’ Max says, walking into view. ‘Diane,’ he yells. While he waits, he moves towards the camera – there’s clattering as he leans over the lens and, when he steps away, he’s lighting a cigarette.
Diane appears on the right-hand side of the frame, in the doorway, and sees what we see. She seems genuinely surprised.
‘Gave him some water . . . glass jar. I’m too nice.’
‘I must say, I never had him down as a coward.’
‘I don’t know.’ Max sighs. ‘I probably would have done the same in his shoes.’ He goes to the back of the room, squats next to the man and holds a hand above his mouth. Then, looking over his shoulder, he gestures around the floor. ‘Good few pints here.’ Max stands and kicks the body. The head is limp as it lolls. ‘This fucker’s dead.’
‘Clean it up then,’ Diane says.
Holding the filter tip with his thumb and middle finger, Max takes a final drag from his cigarette, then drops it on to the man’s chest. It burns on his T-shirt.
‘Were you . . . ?’ Diane squints right at the camera. ‘Were you filming this? For goodness’ sake, Max.’
‘Go get some sponges and a bucket,’ he says, as he returns to the desk. Keys jingle in his hand. ‘And bin liners.’
The tobacco ember smoulders – a thin wisp of smoke rising and curling from the man’s sternum, like steam from a winter bullet wound.
Diane’s feet thud on the five wooden steps leading up into the house, and she’s gone.
‘I’m disappointed, Sam,’ Max says, strolling towards the radiator, beneath the uncovered light bulb – his shadow long and short and long again. ‘You just couldn’t resist, could you?’
Avoiding the blood, he kneels and slides the cuffs to one side – they clack along the thick metal. He puts the key in the lock. But, before he turns it, Max hesitates. He throws his long ponytail over his shoulder and moves two fingers on to the man’s throat, to check for a pulse. Better safe, he’s probably thinking, than sorry.
Sam, young and serene aboard the Coriolis. He watched as fire roared in the centre of the deck – distorted groans and agony from the hot steel. But he stood on the bridge and, instead of pain, allowed himself to enjoy the late-night horizon beyond the flames – where lightning flashed stark and vivid across the sudden skyline, orbs of midday sun, diamonds in the sea spray. And out there he saw an island, black rock peaks jutting out of the still water – somewhere unearthly, uncharted land made of stone and mist and hope.
Robin had bled. Whether she was taken, murdered, used as a pawn in a complex scheme to frame an innocent man – the reality was, that
precious liquid had changed fates. Sam was still quite sure Francis was no murderer, and yet – those microscopic specks had convinced the world otherwise. Blood is a powerful thing to see.
The incision he’d made in his wrist was a puncture rather than a slit. It allowed him to drain approximately three pints – however, he’d timed it slightly wrong and cut a little too deep, so guessed it was closer to four. These clocks were ticking. His plan hinged on perception – it had to look like he’d lost a fatal amount of himself. As for the bottom of the jar, the crown of deadly shards, he’d kept that hidden beneath his right knee. Holding his breath like those worriless free-divers was no issue, nor was his tolerance for fire, but if Max decided to check his heart before undoing the cuffs, Sam would have to adapt. He would have to innovate.
‘Are you dead?’ the voice whispered in the darkness, from the horizon, and two warm fingers arrived on his neck.
The flames still burned as Sam returned to the room. And, when he took his first breath, he looked up to see a startled face – the purest shock, eyes wide and white. Always best to be honest.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Then, in one swift motion, he swung his free hand from beneath his knee and smashed that crown of glass hard into Max’s throat. Clawing for the wound, spraying when he coughed, he turned and choked as Sam reached out, grabbed his hair and pulled him back through their blood. Still one-handed, he tried to strike the lodged glass, to finish the job, but Max sprawled and rolled away. Stretching, Sam threw a kick, and fell short, hearing the cuffs clatter on the radiator pipe. The key. It was still in the lock.
Manic, mad, dying, but moving, Max went to his knees, slipped and fell forwards.
Halfway to the desk, to the tools, beneath the light bulb. And rising now, swaying in the corner of Sam’s vision, shouldering against a shelf unit, knocking things off. Fumbling with the key, Sam looked left, right, left, right – to the lock, to Max. At the desk, Max turning back – in one hand he held his neck and in the other a hammer.
The cuffs clicked open and released him. Up and three clumsy strides across the wet concrete as Max swung – forearm lifting to block, cracking and falling. Now on his knees, dizzy – Sam tried to stand, he tilted sideways, his shoulder going through the stack of stained-glass windows. Trying again, he reeled and saw a blur – a shadow disappearing through the doorway.