by Gary Gregor
“Perfectly,” Sam agreed.
“Good. Come back to headquarters with me, I want to write down everything you can remember about Stringer.”
“Okay, I was already headed that way." Sam said. “Paddy O’Reily was supposed to meet me this morning, but I haven’t been able to locate him all day. He’s probably mooching around the station somewhere, nursing a hangover. When I left him last night, he looked set to tie one on.”
“I don’t think he’s at the station,” Foley said as they headed for the exit. “At least he wasn’t when I left there an hour ago.”
19
Paddy O’Reily returned slowly from the dark place. He opened his eyes, and his first conscious thought was that it was still night, wherever he was. He tried to lift his head. A pain, white hot and instant, pierced his temple; a pain on top of the dull throb he recognised as the after effects of his over indulgence the night before. Or was it the night before that? What day was it? What night was it?
He closed his eyes and waited a few seconds for the wave of pain and accompanying nausea to subside. Paddy was no stranger to the effects of a hangover. He had, he figured, experienced more of them than most people. But, this was something more than just another hangover. It was different, somehow; strange and frightening, like no hangover he ever experienced before. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. His arms, for instance, why couldn’t he move his arms?
He tried to raise a hand to his throbbing head. His arm wouldn’t move, couldn’t move. Through the confusing fog that engulfed him, he began to experience the very first pangs of alarm.
Again, he tried to lift his arm, first one, then the other. They would not move. They felt so heavy he could not lift them from where they lay. Then there was the pain. He moaned aloud, a mournful, pitiful sound from somewhere deep in his throat he was unable to recognise as his own. The pain continued unabated. He closed his eyes, willing it away, and then he lapsed again into the blissful, painless world from which he had emerged.
He saw a light, a faint, pinpoint of light. It seemed at first to be far away, just a soft glow way off in the distance. Then the pain returned, stronger this time, more intense. He blinked against it, and the effort sent the pain, like bolts of lightning behind his eyes, shooting through his head.
Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on the light. He steeled himself, determined not to succumb again to the pain he knew would surely follow. Part of him wanted to return to the safe, painless place.
As he watched, the light seemed to come gradually closer. As it approached, a strange metamorphosis took place. A transformation. The light morphed into the shape of a naked light bulb hanging from an electrical cord disappearing into the blackness above where he lay. As he stared at the light, he thought he heard a faint noise. It was not close-by but distant, and he tried to recognise the sound. He listened intently for a few moments, and finally decided the noise was the sound of a motor; like a generator perhaps. He looked again at the light above him, and knew then it was being powered by a generator from somewhere outside this place, whatever it was, wherever it was.
He once again tried to lift his arms, and felt for the first time a firm, tight tugging at his wrists. His arms remained restricted at his sides. He was lying on his back and for the first time, felt the hard surface beneath him.
It was not a bed. Not his bed. Not a bed at all. It was much harder than a bed, rough and unforgiving beneath his back. It felt like concrete; rough, unsmooth concrete. He was lying on a concrete slab, and his arms were fastened to it by the wrists. Now those initial pangs of alarm turned to panic. He groaned, summoned what little strength he could muster, and tugged at the bonds that held him, realising only now his legs too, were restricted.
It had to be a dream. A strange dream. Yes, a dream, that was it. It had to be a dream. A nightmare from which he could not wake. He was trapped, locked between two different dimensions. Not asleep; not awake. He was genuinely afraid.
He slept again. When he woke, slowly, slowly, the fog began to clear. Where was he? Why couldn’t he move his arms or his legs? His mouth was dry, he needed a drink. He needed also to relieve himself. He turned his head to one side, and squinted into the darkness.
He sniffed at the air, and a strange, earthy, and musty smell of damp soil and rotting leaves wafted thick and heavy. Jesus! He needed a piss. Where the hell was he? He tugged at the restraints holding his wrists and ankles. It was not a nightmare! He was awake! Whatever it was, it was really happening!
“Jesus!” he moaned, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”
Weak with pain, he collapsed back, surrendering to the bonds that held him, and the pain that engulfed him. The familiar dampness of perspiration ran from his hairline into his ears, down his neck onto the slab on which he lay. It was crazy! Fucking crazy! What was going on? Shit! His bladder was about to burst.
He tried to remember, tried to cast his mind back to last night; the casino… the whiskey… the singing. It was all a meaningless, jumbled blur. Thinking about it only sent the needles of pain screaming with even greater intensity through his head. Shit! He was going to piss himself.
Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He began to see other things around him. Shapes. Undistinguishable shadows in the eerie light of this strange, block-like place. He deduced he was lying flat on his back on a concrete slab, or maybe it was a bench, against one wall. He was in a small room, and the smell of rotting vegetation wafting to him indicated there was probably no floor here, just moist dirt. He couldn’t turn his head far enough to look over the edge of the slab to tell for sure. He concluded it was an old place, probably abandoned long ago. For a moment, he wondered if anyone ever came here, wherever "here" was. Would anyone find him? Would he just lay here until he pissed himself, and then eventually died of thirst?
A sound attracted him, a scraping, squeaking sound. Like something heavy being half lifted, half dragged across the ground. He turned his head to look in the direction he thought it came. As he watched, another light appeared. Not an artificial light like the one that hung above him, but a more natural light; like sunlight. As he watched and listened, the small shaft of light grew wider. After a while, he recognised it as a door of sorts. The scraping and squeaking sound was the door dragging open on rusty hinges across years of accumulated soil and vegetation.
He stared transfixed at the doorway. Suddenly the light above him went out, and he was plunged into a claustrophobic world of darkness until, slowly, the light filtering through the open doorway gave form once again to the shapes and shadows of before.
Paddy looked beyond the door into the daylight beyond. Tantalisingly close yet so far away. He tugged helplessly at his bindings and groaned with frustration when they would not give.
A shape filled the doorway. He watched it in silence. The shape was still. It did not come inside. It just stood there filling the doorway and blocking out most of the light. Then it occurred to him. It was a human shape. He lifted his head as far as he could from the slab and called weakly to the person who seemed to stand there just staring at him.
“Hey,” he croaked. “Hey! Help me. Help me! I’m in here!”
The shape did not move. He called again. “Hey! You there! Over here! Help me! I’m over here! For Christ sake, get me out of here!”
Nobody responded to his pleas. The stranger stood, with his back to the outside light, presenting Paddy with nothing more than a shadowy silhouette, making any facial features impossible to detect.
Suddenly, Paddy came to the realisation that whoever it was, standing there in the tiny doorway, was not here to help him. His fear grew deeper. “Who are you?” he heard himself ask. His voice sounded weak. There was no answer.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, again straining his eyes against the impossible darkness.
Then the stranger moved. He stepped inside the room and slowly approached.
“What do you want? What is this about?” Paddy asked, his v
oice cracking.
“I’m glad you have finally decided to wake up,” the stranger said. “I thought you were going to die before I have the pleasure of killing you myself.”
The voice was soft, strangely soothing, Paddy thought. Something about it, however, was familiar. He tried to remember, but the pain behind his eyes was too great. He could not concentrate, could not think clearly. Jesus! He needed to piss.
“Kill me? What do you mean kill me? Who are you? What do you want from me?
The stranger moved a step closer. Suddenly, Paddy felt like a sacrificial offering on an altar. Gradually, as he lay staring up at the shadowy face looming above him, and despite the difficult light, the face became frighteningly clear.
Paddy gasped loudly as he recognised the man who stood over him. The face was different now, it was bearded, but even in the shallow half-light he was able to recognise the evil in the eyes staring down at him. These were eyes Paddy would never forget. He had looked into them and seen the madness beyond many times.
“Stringer!” he groaned.
“In the flesh,” Stringer smiled.
“You really are alive, by God!”
“Very much so, Paddy.”
“Sam was right after all,” Paddy said.
“I wondered how long it would take him to figure it out. I even sent him a list to help him along.”
“You’re a dead man, so you are,” Paddy spat, a renewed, stronger wave of pain searing through his head. He closed his eyes and grimaced.
“Now, now,” Stringer smiled that evil smile. “Do I look like a dead man to you?”
“I need a leak,” Paddy said.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you loose.”
“Am I supposed just to lay here and piss myself?”
“Like I give a shit,” Stringer shrugged. “If you have to, you have to.”
“What is this place?” Paddy asked, fighting the pressure in his bladder.
“It’s great isn’t it?” Stringer answered. “There are hundreds of structures like this scattered throughout the bush. It’s an old concrete bunker. They used them for storing all kinds of stuff during the war. We’re on an old, abandoned airstrip, just one of many all over the place. It’s not functional now of course. It’s been slowly breaking up over the years. Vegetation’s growing right up through it.”
“Where are we exactly?” Paddy asked.
“Some way south of Darwin, where no one will find you, at least not until I want them to. As I said, there are hundreds of places just like this dotted all over.”
“How did you get me here?”
“That wasn’t difficult,” Stringer smiled. “Easier than I anticipated. You were kind enough to do most of the work for me. You were so damn drunk it was easy.”
“You gave me something, didn’t you?”
“A helping hand is all, a small dose of a wonderful little chemical to ensure you remained docile while I transported you here. You did give me a bit of a fright though, I must admit. I may have given you a tad too much. Or perhaps it doesn’t mix well with alcohol. I thought, for a while, you were not going to come around. Thought you were going to rob me of the pleasure of watching you die. I’m so pleased you have decided not to disappoint me.”
“Why me?” was all Paddy could say.
Even in the half-light, Paddy saw Stringer’s eyes widen.
“Why you!” he screamed. “Surely you can’t be serious, of course, you, of course, you, you fucking bastard!”
The change in Stringer’s tone renewed Paddy’s fear. This man was mad; insane.
“Why?” Paddy asked again.
“I’ll tell you why, you prick! I’ll fucking-well-tell you why! Because you wrote all that bullshit about me, that’s fucking why! Bullshit, all of it! Lies! Nothing but lies! I let you interview me, hour after hour, day after day. I confided in you my intimate thoughts and feelings, and what did you do with it? What did you do with it?”
“I wrote it as I saw it,” Paddy answered.
“No!” Stringer screamed. He lowered his face closer to Paddy. “No! You wrote lies!” Tiny specks of spittle flew from his mouth and glistened in the semi-darkness. “You said I was crazy! You wrote that I was crazy, you fucking arsehole!”
“You used insanity as a defence in your trial for Christ sake,” Paddy reminded him. “You were happy for the court to consider you crazy.”
“That was not my idea. That was not my fucking idea! That was Thiele. That was his idea. Fucking lawyers! I’m not crazy. I’m not! What the fuck did that useless prick know? Fucking! Nothing! That’s what he knew! Well, that bastard got what was coming to him.”
“If you say so,” Paddy said.
Stringer stood upright, his voice calmer now. “I do say so,” he confirmed.
“Listen, I really do need to take a leak. How about untying me?”
“I told you; you can have a piss right there if you want one that badly.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Kill you, of course.”
“I was that drunk last night you could have killed me then. Why go to all this trouble?”
“With the others it didn’t matter,” Stringer began to explain. “It didn’t matter. They just needed to die. It wasn’t important that they knew who killed them. Although, I think Thiele recognised me at the last second, and that was satisfying. Perhaps even the first one, the fat copper, Richter. I think he might have known too, but by then it was too late, he was already dying. Shit he stank; the fat bastard. But you, you’re different. I want you to know, you and Rose both. You’re the last two, you know. It will be over then. Then I’ll be on my way. But, first you and Rose have to know you are going to die, and who is killing you. Rose will be the last. I’m looking forward to Rose. He’s going to feel everything. I’m going to love hearing him scream for mercy. Do you think you will scream for mercy Paddy?”
“You’ll never get away with it,” Paddy said. “Sam knows you’re the killer.”
“Yes, I will!” Stringer began screaming again. “Yes, I will! I’ve dreamed of nothing else for years! I’ve planned it all to the last detail!”
Suddenly Stringer spun around and crossed back to the open doorway. Paddy watched him bend over and rummage around in a bag on the ground. Paddy had never noticed the bag before. When Stringer stood, he was holding something in his hand that glinted as it caught the light intruding from outside. The sight filled Paddy with fear, and a sense of impending doom overwhelmed him. A whimper escaped his lips.
Stringer was holding a knife. Even in the dim light of the bunker Paddy knew it was sharp, and he also knew it was the instrument about to end his life. He stared wide-eyed. Mesmerised, he could not drag his eyes away it. Slowly Stringer approached and once again stood over him. His tongue darted out between smiling lips in an obscene display of pleasure.
“Go ahead,” Stringer invited. “Scream all you like. No one will hear you way out here. You might just as well lay back and enjoy it, this may take a while.”
Paddy saw the knife hover above him, and as it slowly descended, he thought he heard the sound of laughter from a place far away; maniacal, insane laughter.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God…” Paddy heard himself pray.
As he watched the long, thin blade approach, his bladder involuntarily opened, and he felt the first, hot, needle prick of the knife against his skin. Then his bowels followed suit.
20
The package, delivered by a young man with a monogram on his shirt pocket declaring his name was Bruce, arrived at Sam’s office just after he opened the door at nine a.m. Bruce worked for Darwin Courier Service, and he suffered, Sam noticed, from a bad case of acne, and an attitude in urgent need of adjustment.
“You Sam Rose?” the kid asked.
“Yes.”
“This is my second trip here already.”
“Really? Did you forget something the first time?”
The pockmarked face looked bewilder
ed. “No, I didn't forget anything. The place was all locked up.”
“I try to keep it that way outside business hours,” Sam said, the sarcasm obvious. “It helps keep unwelcome visitors out.”
“Yeah, right,” the kid chuffed. “Sign here.” He shoved a clipboard under Sam’s nose.
“What am I signing for?” Sam asked.
The kid looked down at his one free hand and appeared momentarily confused. “Oh shit! I left it in the van.”
“Good one, Bruce,” Sam smiled. "On a gap year before completing your university degree?"
"What?"
"Nothing. I’ll just wait here shall I? Can you find your way back here?”
“Yeah!” the kid said. “This is the second time today,” he repeated as he hurried from the office.
Bruce returned a few minutes later. He looked flustered, and his attitude had taken a distinct turn for the worse.
“Here,” he growled, shoving a large, plain brown paper bag towards Sam.
“Thank you,” Sam smiled, taking the bag from Bruce and placing it dismissively on the desk behind him.
“You wanna sign here, mate?” Bruce thrust the clipboard once again under Sam’s nose.
Sam searched for his name and signed in the appropriate place. He held the board out to the kid. “So cheerful this early in the morning, I bet you’re a real bundle of laughs by the end of the day.”
Bruce decided this was a remark he was not going to dignify with a response, other than to grunt, snatch the clipboard from Sam, and get out of there as soon as he could.
“You missed your calling,” Sam called to the kid as he hurried away. “You should have been a brain surgeon.” He slammed the door hard, and a long, thin crack snaked across the upper glass portion.
“Oh, that’s great,” he murmured aloud. “Now I’ve broken the fucking door. This is going to be a great day.”