by Alan Baxter
In moments he was standing on a cement step by the Nikolovs’ back door. Before he could second guess himself, he reached out and turned the doorknob. The door popped open with a soft scrape.
Dace jumped, hands up front of his chest as the door stood three inches open. He froze there, amazed it had been unlocked after all. Old school, he thought. Again, no sound but the animals behind him, so he pushed the door open a little wider. Just enough to slip through, then he closed it silently, twisted on his torch again.
He stood in a kitchen. Black and white vinyl flooring. Ancient Formica counters and table, the latter surrounded by three rickety wooden chairs. An electric cooker, shelves of crockery, drawers and cupboards under the counters. A bread bin and several storage jars stood against the wall on the counter beside the cooker, and an old Crosley Shelvador refrigerator filled one corner, all rounded edges and large chromed handle. The chrome had gone matt and grey. It whirred noisily.
But all that paled as his torchlight lit up a wooden rack against the far wall. The rack had dozens of little bodies hung on it. Guinea pigs, skinned and clearly roasted, all four limbs stretched out into a star on small metal braces presumably crafted for the purpose. Dace held his breath in disgust. There was a tub of thick metal wire pieces, a pair of pliers with orange rubber grips, a couple of half-finished frames, the metal twisted expertly together.
On the counter beside the rack was a plastic tub full of guinea pig corpses, pink and raw where they’d been skinned but not yet cooked. Piled beside the tub were twenty or so more dead animals, these still with their fur, half of them looking like they were simply sleeping there. A large plastic bin stood on the other side of the rack, a plastic liner in it and a rank smell rising up as Dace approached. He leaned over and gagged as the sight of animal guts half filling the bin.
“What the fuck?” he whispered. They bred the things to cook and then dry them out? Did they live on nothing but guinea pig meat and jerky? Maybe a few of the vegies they didn’t feed to the animals first? If the number they kept in their garden didn’t seal the eccentric label, this sight certainly did. He thought they had a crazy passion for pets, but this? Dace swallowed, desperate to be out of the place as quickly as possible.
“Okay,” he said under his breath, barely louder than an exhalation. He got right to work, checked every cupboard, drawer and vessel he could find, even looked in the oven and fridge. In the fridge he found some butter and milk, but more disturbing were dozens of small bottles of dark, purplish liquid. Each only about 50ml, every one had a label with a number, dates from the next day onwards. Future doses of something? Did one or other of the old couple need this medicine? There had to be fifty doses crammed onto the top shelf, maybe more.
On the lower shelves were plastic tubs, some containing young octopuses of a strange colour, with purple and yellow markings. He’d never seen any quite like them before. Other tubs contained muddy-coloured, feathery fronds. They appeared fleshy. Dace stared, trying to remember where he’d seen such things before. Then it came to him. The bit of the local Gulpepper Bug people said was poisonous. You had to make sure to remove them before cooking the Bug, but Dace would never know. He’d never eat one. The thought of them always gave him the creeps, but some locals loved them. He shook his head and closed the fridge. It wasn’t money, so it didn’t matter.
He was tempted to fish around under the rodent guts in the bin, but surely that wasn’t necessary. It took a good ten minutes, but he exhausted every possibility and hadn’t found a cent. Not really a surprise, he supposed. Time to move on.
One door led from the kitchen and he approached it cautiously, shining his Maglight ahead. The beam illuminated a room with polished wooden floorboards, a threadbare rug under a coffee table, a TV on a wooden cabinet beside a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks. A window with the curtains closed, a kind of roll-top dresser beside it. That was promising, the kind of place people might stash their money. A long, tatty sofa, black plastic faux-leather back and arms with rough textured orange seat cushions. Dace stepped into the room and shone his light around further. An armchair that matched the sofa, a plate on the wide plastic arm, piled with tiny bones, sucked clean. An old woman sat in the armchair in the dark, staring at him, the whites of her eyes huge in fear.
Dace sucked in a shocked breath as the woman’s mouth fell open, a toothless, wet O in the saggy, wrinkled skin of her emaciated face. Even covered by a blanket, feet raised on a leather ottoman, she was clearly skeletally thin, grey hair in wispy tufts on her pale, patchy head.
For a moment Dace stood frozen, then the woman screamed. Splittingly loud, an ululating wail like an air-raid siren. Dace tensed, danced foot to foot in panic. “No, stop! Quiet! Please, I won’t hurt you!” He realised his face, his mask, would be terrifying to her, the burn-scarred Freddie Kruger visage.
The scream seemed endless. A man’s voice, thick with sleep, from down the hall. “Elena? Dreams again?” He had a heavy accent.
“Stop, please!” Dace said, approaching the woman, one hand palm out, the other causing torchlight to dance hectically over her wailing face.
And the scream went on. She didn’t pause for breath, how could she scream continuously, so loud?
“Elena, enough. I’m coming, I’m coming!”
“Please!” Dace said, almost crying with the horror of it. “Stop it! Stop that noise!”
It got, impossibly, louder.
“No!” Dace shouted and struck out with his free hand to slap her cheek, desperate to stop that scream from drilling into his brain.
The woman’s face whipped to one side and a loud snap stopped the scream dead. She stilled, her head on her shoulder at an angle that made Dace’s stomach clench. No neck should allow that. No unbroken neck. Her wide, white eyes with pale grey irises stared ahead, seeing nothing.
“No no no!” Dace said breathlessly, looking around himself. He’d hardly touched her, it wasn’t a hard slap at all. Barely a tap.
Footsteps behind him. He grabbed the knife from his thigh pocket and spun around. An old man, tall and thin, iron grey hair in disarray, stood there. He wore blue and white striped pyjamas, his face hard, eyes narrowed.
“You hurt her,” he said. Not a question, an accusation.
“I didn’t mean to!”
Dace took a step back, the knife held in front of his chest, pointing at the old man, but he made space. Nikolov approached his wife, crouched before the armchair. Tears rolled over his high cheekbones, into his hollow cheeks.
“Elena,” he said plaintively. “Elena.” He turned, looked up at Dace with haunted eyes. “Why?”
“I’m so sorry! It was an accident!” Dace’s mind raced. He couldn’t be responsible, it would be even more trouble. “A heart attack,” he said, voice desperate. “I surprised her? It must have been a shock!”
Nikolov stared, mouth half open, lips as wet as his cheeks. He shook his head. “I saw you hit her.”
Dace’s heart rushed, hammered in his ears. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He brandished the knife. “Okay, sorry about this, but get up. Get away from her.”
“You want to rob us, yes?” Nikolov said. He rose slowly, grimacing, one hand to his lower back.
These two were ancient, they had to be in their nineties at least. Dace licked his lips, dry-mouthed despite the sweaty confines of the rubber. His breath was hotter than ever. “Over there.” He pointed at the sofa with the knife. “Over there, come on. Sit down.”
Nikolov complied, without taking his eyes from Dace. He sat on the centre cushion of the three, back straight, hands on his knees. Dace moved to the door and turned on the light, put away his torch, then stood staring at the old man. His hand shook holding the knife, his knees knocked. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Think. Think!
The woman was dead, that was done. Couldn’t be changed. He needed Carter’s money, that was still his priority. Old man Nikolov had no idea who Dace was. Get the money, leave the old man to call the police. They never
came to The Gulp quickly, if they ever came at all. He’d be away and gone, he’d burn the Freddie costume, or maybe put it in the bag with a load of rocks and take it out in Carter’s boat, drop it far out to sea where it would never be found. Just get the money and get out. Easy as.
Fuck.
“Yes,” he said, trying to make his voice strong. “I want to rob you.”
“Good luck. We have nothing.”
“Bullshit!” Dace shouted. “Everyone knows you have money. This... this fucking guinea pig bullshit circus, the fuck are you even doing here?” He was ranting, rambling. Panicking. He killed that old woman. Was that murder? It was an accident. But no, he’d hit her. “You’ve got money!” he said again. “Where is it? Give me the money and I’ll be gone. Simple.”
“No money.” Nikolov’s face was hard, expressionless. But his eyes burned. The lower lids were loose, wet and red, but his gaze was iron.
Dace stepped closer, waved the knife under the old man’s wattled chin. “The fucking money!”
Nikolov lifted his chin, exposed his throat, like a dare.
“Don’t fucking move!” Dace said.
He searched the room, starting with the roll-top desk. Every few seconds he glanced back at Nikolov, but the old man sat stock still. Dace rummaged everywhere, found nothing. He saw a jacket hanging on a hook on the door and went to it, found the old man’s wallet. Inside was $240 in fifties and twenties. He pocketed it with a sob of disappointment. Next to nothing compared to the sixty K he needed.
“Where is it?” he yelled, rounding on Nikolov.
The old man sat still, staring.
He would have to tie the bastard up and search the rest of the house. Or could he convince the man to tell him? He might search for hours and find nothing. He might miss it. But this fucker knew where his money was. Dace’s mind flicked back to the kitchen. The guinea pigs on their little metal stretchers. The pile of wire pieces. He was all in now, the old woman’s corpse was proof of that.
“Don’t move!”
He ducked around the door, grabbed the pliers. Nikolov’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of his tool in Dace’s hand.
“We have nothing,” Nikolov said. His voice was steady, but was there a trace of fear under it now? “You should go. Just go now.”
“Can’t do that. I’m in a world of grief and your money is my only way out.”
“No money.”
“Bullshit.”
Dace grimaced. These people were virtually cadavers already, eating roast fucking guinea pigs, living in a house where no single item of décor was less than thirty years old. Maybe the old man was scared because he was telling the truth. Maybe they really had nothing. But he had to be sure. Because he had no other ideas if this one didn’t work.
He sucked in a deep breath, blinked, his eyes gritty with tiredness. Then he moved towards Nikolov. The old man shifted back in alarm. Dace crouched, put the knife on the ground beside him and grabbed one scrawny ankle. The man’s bare foot was long and thin, the bones standing up in ridges to his knobbly toes, the nails thick and yellowed.
“No!” Nikolov said.
“Where’s the money?”
“No money.”
“Bullshit!”
Dace opened the pliers and put the toothed metal grips over and under Nikolov’s pinkie toe. The man struggled, stronger than Dace had expected, but no match for him. Dace squeezed, enough to whiten the skin, and Nikolov stilled. “Where’s the money?”
“No money!”
Dace blew out an exasperated breath. Fuck it. He gripped the plier handles hard. Nikolov howled as his toe burst, the bone crunched, blood spurted from under the nail, then the nail skidded sideways and came away. The pliers slipped off and Nikolov stamped his free foot up and down, gasping and sobbing with pain. Blood sprayed, Dace heard some spatter against the rubber face of his mask. His breath was short and shallow, furnace hot in the confines. It felt tight against the back of his head, thick and heavy around his neck and over his shoulders.
Nikolov stilled, his chest heaving, a huh huh huh of pain and shock punctuating his breath.
Dace sat back on his heels, looked at the old man. Nikolov stared back.
“Just tell me where your money is,” Dace said. “I’ll take it and be gone, and all this will be over.”
“Nema da zemeš ništo od mene,” Nikolov said through clenched teeth.
“What? What the fuck did you say?”
“Kopile!”
Dace frowned. He thought maybe he understood that from the delivery alone. “Speak English, old man. And in English, tell me where the fucking money is! I don’t want to do this.” He swallowed bile, refusing to look at the stark white bone sticking sideways from Nikolov’s rent flesh.
“Then don’t! Just go!”
“I need the money, man! You can’t understand how badly I need the money. My whole family!”
Nikolov stuck out one bony arm, one long finger trembling as it pointed at Elena. “And what about my family?” The strength of his anger was surprising.
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” Dace gestured at Nikolov’s foot. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Any of this. But here we are.”
A surprising amount of blood still pulsed from Nikolov’s little toe. Dace didn’t want to do it again, but he would. He was committed now. If the man truly believed Dace wouldn’t stop until he had the money, Nikolov would tell him where it was. But he couldn’t bear to look at that mangled toe. He grabbed the other foot.
“Ne Ne Ne!” Nikolov said, thrashing harder this time. He leaned forward and rained blows with his bony fists and forearms onto Dace’s head. They were incredibly strong strikes, the mask slipped and shifted on his sweat, the eyeholes moving down, blinding him. Nikolov kicked his leg, hammered at Dace, even kicked at him with his other foot, heedless of his ruined toe.
Dace didn’t let go of the skinny ankle, thrashed blindly above his head with his other hand, still gripping the heavy metal pliers. He struck into something, maybe a hand, and Nikolov yelped. Dace rose onto his knees and swung his arm forward, felt a sudden and jarring impact, a crunch, a grunt from Nikolov, then the old man stopped fighting.
Dace shifted the mask back into place, looked up to see Nikolov sat back on the sofa, eyes swimming a little, blood flooding from his crushed nose. It sluiced over his mouth, stained blackly into his pyjama jacket.
Nikolov blinked, brought his attention back to Dace. Dace gripped the old man’s uninjured pinkie toe in the pliers. “Where’s the money!”
“No... fucking... money...” Nikolov panted. Hate emanated from his gaze like steam.
Dace gripped hard, the toe crunched, blood sprayed.
Nikolov yelled, a formless roar of pain and anger as he sat bolt upright. Dace hoped desperately none of this was loud enough to alert any neighbours. Nikolov leaned forward, gasped quick, short breaths. His eyes widened, he clamped a hand against his chest. His already pale face went grey, his lips blue. He shuddered. His breath hitched, like he had something stuck in his throat. Dace stared. What the fuck?
Nikolov tipped forward and sideways and thumped onto the floor.
Dace jumped up, dropped the pliers and stumbled back. “Oh, fuck, no!”
Nikolov lay on his side, eyes as wide and staring as his wife’s. And equally devoid of life.
Dace turned a slow circle. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” He staggered back further and sat against the roll-top desk, leaned forward, hands on his knees. He gasped for breath, dizzy, like he might pass out at any moment. He’d killed them both. He forced himself to suck in long, deep breaths. His face was slick with sweat, so hot in the damned mask. But they were dead! He grabbed it by the top and pulled it off. It slid away and cool air flooded over his skin. His vision widened to take in all the murder he’d done, but his head cooled and his breath came easier.
“Okay, this is fucked, but it is what it is.” What did that even mean? It meant he had to search the rest of th
e house, that’s what. Simple.
The house was long and narrow. He saw the front door dead ahead, the frosted glass in it glowing orange from a street lamp outside. A short hallway led from the front door to the lounge where he stood, and that led back to the kitchen. Either side of the hallway were four doors, two on each side. Three bedrooms and a bathroom, he presumed. The first stood open, from where the old man had emerged.
Dace walked to it and looked in. He couldn’t see much. He felt around the walls until he found the light switch. The room was simply furnished. A wooden double bed, a dresser with a variety of creams and brushes, a tallboy with six drawers, and an old-fashioned freestanding wardrobe with arched doors, mirrors on each. He went to the dresser and searched it, and the two drawers underneath. No money. He pulled every drawer from the tallboy and upended each one. Nikolov’s clothes fell out, but no money.
The wardrobe was crammed with dresses and coats, he felt in all the pockets. He crouched and moved aside a variety of shoes. There was a shoe box shoved right to the back. His heart fluttered. He pulled it out and sat on the floor, put the box on his lap. He opened it and saw bundles of cash.
“Yes!”
It was all fifties and twenties, little wads held together with pale tan elastic bands. He started counting it. He hadn’t got far before he knew it wasn’t going to be enough. After a couple of minutes he sat staring at the notes on the carpet. Eleven thousand, six hundred bucks. Shit, that was a lot of money, but not even a quarter of what he needed. Though it was something. Would it be enough to buy him more time from Carter? Could he give Carter ten grand and beg for longer to get the rest? Maybe. But was it worth two lives? And did he dare take the risk that Carter would be mollified by less than a quarter of what he was owed?