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Karl Kane is a private investigator with a dark past. As a child, he witnessed the brutal rape and murder of his mother. The same man sexually molested Karl, leaving him for dead with horrific knife wounds covering his body. Years later, Karl has a chance to avenge his mother`s murder by killing the man responsible. The opportunity arises on one unforgettable Good Friday night. For reasons he later regards as cowardice, Karl allows the opportunity to slip through his hands, only to be shattered when, two days later, two young girls are sexually molested and then brutally murdered by the killer on Easter Sunday morning. Karl now holds himself responsible for their deaths.
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I dedicate this book to the McConnell clan: Sean, Tracey, James, Brandon and the twins, Tiernan and Shane
May the gods watch over you eternally.
Contents
PROLOGUE
Bloody Summer, 1978
‘No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly longed for death.’
Tennyson, The Two Voices
SMALL IN THE sweep of fattened, grassy terrain, the woman’s body stretched lifelessly unnoticed. Scarcely breathing, she tried opening her eyelids. They refused to budge, resistance encouraged by hardened blood.
Do not panic. You’re alive. That’s all that counts, for now.
Gingerly guiding a swollen tongue along the roof of her mouth, she grimaced with pain. Her worst nightmare was confirmed: most teeth gone, others mere stumps. If she possessed the strength, she would laugh. Here she was, dying in the Devil’s Punchbowl – a putrid disused quarry on Belfast’s outer edge – and all she could think about were her once-beautiful teeth, destroyed forever. She dreaded to think what the rest of her face looked like …
Mentally, she made a quick note of her body, the parts that form and supposedly function. Every single bone felt broken; every inch of skin torn. Blood was pounding her insides, looking for ways to escape.
Whatever has held me together this long, seems to be seeping out.
Struggling to unite a small gathering of patchy thoughts, she forced her brain to function. Fragments began forming.
There had been four assailants, possibly five. The force-feeding of alcohol and drugs had imbued uncertainty about numbers. What she was certain of was what they did, raping and sodomizing her, taking turns.
With little strength left, tired fingers sawed through the crusted shudders of her eyelids, slowly allowing the eyes to breathe again. The revelation terrified her. A large piece of bone was sticking out of her left leg like a bleached periscope; right knee jutting at a strange angle. Her partially naked body, covered in jagged rips and dried blood, stank of vomit and piss. Theirs?
Voices began ricocheting in her mind, bouncing off the inside of her skull.
Make sure she’s dead.
You’ve got to be kidding. She died a long time ago! We’ve been fucking a fucking corpse!
Maniacal laughter. Hyenas.
Cut her throat. Just in case.
One of the attackers approached. She halted all breathing. He placed his face against hers. She could smell dead whiskey and other smells competing with sour body odour; could smell her own fear as the coldness of the blade was brought tight to her neck.
Do it quickly, she prayed. Get it over with.
Unexpectedly, headlights interrupted the darkness, washing all the attackers with its chalky touch.
C’mon the fuck! We’re going to be spotted. Anyway, she’s fucking dead.
Dead … dead … dead …
The annoying thrum of insects brought her quickly back to reality. Like an out-of-body nightmare, she watched a congregation of large ants feasting industriously upon her open wounds. The ants were fending off flies and other sickening pests from their newly claimed territory.
“Get away from me,” she hissed through gummy mouth, too weak to even swat the ants away. “Get away …” She had always loathed insects, now she feared them, watching morbidly their feasting on her flesh, munching and tunnelling bone and skin.
For the next few minutes her entire world was suspended, seemingly waiting for the next thing to happen. Above, almost touching her head, the punishing sun was transforming into a massive blood-clotted orb of orange and red.
Yet despite the sun’s intense heat, chills were seeping through her. An inky darkness kept rushing back into her head, telling her to succumb to it, get it over with, and allow the ants to complete the would-be murderers’ job.
We’ve been fucking a fucking corpse!
Maniacal laughter. Hyenas.
It was the sickening laughter in her head that did it, filling her with a single-minded purpose.
Ignoring the shredding pain, she willed her comatose fingers to stir. C’mon. You can do itttttttttttttttt! Tears greased her eyes. Stop the crying. Just do itttttttttttttttt!
Lethargically, the fingers moved, capturing a protesting ant. Her hand shifted crane-like, manoeuvring the ant tight against a gaping wound just below her left breast. The insect suddenly bit down on the skin with poker-hot ferocity, forcing a grimace on her devastated face.
Using broken fingernails, she expertly decapitated the ant, and its struggling ceased immediately. Seconds later, another insect suffered the same fate.
We’ve been fucking a fucking corpse …
A stream of bloody sweat ran down her forehead, pooling in the hollows of her neck. Forty minutes gone, the exhausting task was complete, revealing a rosary of severed ant heads hanging ghoulishly on her skin, lined like macabre sutures.
She wanted to laugh at the irony. A rosary. Was god sadistically throwing a lifeline after watching her being tortured and raped, left for dead?
Dead … dead … dead …
Oiled by determination, her parched lips worked feverishly, sucking greedily on the ants’ carcasses, draining their fluid. The fluid was divine and sweetly repulsive, like wine laced with sugar.
Just as she finished the banquet of the dead, pebbles craftily tumbled down from above, peppering her head. Sounds echoed near: muffled, not-wanting-to-be-heard sounds. Sounds sly in their own concealment.
Freezing all movement, she listened intently. Her mind crowded with thoughts. A slice of her brain heard what it did not want to hear.
It’s them. They’ve come back to make sure you’re dead.
Her heart began beating wildly, physically hurting as she captured all breathing in her mouth. A buzzing tension slipped beneath her skin.
Play dead to stay alive.
Carefully trapping a rock inside her battered hand, she willed herself to shrink, become invisible between spines of snaking moss-covered boulders.
I’ll kill one of you bastards first, smash your skull. It’ll be worth dying, just to take one of you with me, see your startled, ugly face. She wished for a knife just to cut their smelly cocks off, shove them in their mouths, and force them to taste the filthy, saggy meat, just like they had forced her.
The sneaky sounds neared, becoming terrifying in their clarity: growls.
Suddenly, her frantic mind flashed back to headline news, two weeks ago: Wild dogs escape from Bellevue Zoo. One person killed, two badly mauled. Three of the dogs have been cornered and killed. Six more remain at large. Police have warned the public to be vigilant. Do not approach. Remain indoors, when possible. These animals are extremely dangerous …
Wild dogs … no … not like this … please don’t let me die like this …
The filthy pack came into view, just over the hill. Hesitantly at first, they moved more daringly as the gap between them and the woman narrowed, her exposed blood tormenting their nostrils and empty stomachs. In perfect unison, fangs unsheathed. The filthy pack moved in for the kill …
* * *
The van’s wheels spat up pieces of dirt as they screeched to a dust-causing halt, spewing out a group of men almost simultaneously.
“Are you sure you fucking killed her?” asked the tallest of the four, Billy, his eyes squinting against the intimidating sun.
The others glanced nervously at each other. It was left to another member of the group, Joe-Joe, to answer.
“Perhaps this is the wrong spot, Billy? The entire Cave Hill looks the same, at this time of year.”
Two of the gang, Basil and Wesley, nodded in unison at the plausibility of the explanation.
“You’re beginning to melt my head, Joe-Joe. You never want to look beyond that nose of yours.” Billy kicked an empty beer can. “And as for you two nodding bastards …”
“She must be here, somewhere, Billy,” suggested Wesley.
“She must be here somewhere, Billy,” mimicked Billy in a high-pitched feminine voice. “You’re sure you did her, the way I told you?”
Wesley nodded, a bit too quickly. “Yes … yes. I left her throat flapping like clothes on a line.”
Someone giggled.
“You find that funny, Basil?” asked Billy. “Think this is a funny situation we’re in?”
The ridiculous smile melted from Basil’s face. “I was just –” His words froze in mid-speech when he saw the gun in Billy’s hand.
“C’mere, Basil,” commanded Billy. “Let me show you something really funny.”
“I’m sorry, Billy. I didn’t mean –”
Holding the weapon at arm’s length, Billy aimed it directly at Basil’s face, saying, “As the lord is my witness, I’ll shoot you where you stand if you don’t come over here – now!”
The last word made the other members of the gang wince slightly.
“Go on, Basil,” whispered Wesley from the side of his mouth. “You heard Billy. You’re annoying the shit out of him.”
Joe-Joe nodded in agreement.
Reluctantly, Basil walked to where Billy stood.
“Please, Billy. I was just –”
“Open your mouth,” commanded Billy, calmly but with just a hint of menace on the edge of the sentence.
Basil willed his reluctant mouth to open.
The gun’s charcoal barrel glistened along the rim. Billy’s eyes darkened. “You need a couple of fillings there,” claimed Billy, tapping the tip of the barrel against Basil’s back teeth. “Perhaps I should oblige?”
Basil made a gurgling sound as the gun eased further into his mouth. Fear lit up his eyes, widening at the sound of the gun cocking inside his mouth.
For six horrible seconds, not a sound could be heard.
Billy pulled the trigger – Kalocc! – sending Basil flying backwards onto his arse, his hands paddling him to safety as he scurried quickly away. Perspiration waxed Basil’s dazed face.
“The next time, Basil, there won’t be a next fucking time. The chamber won’t be empty,” hissed Billy. “Now, all of you, spread out, find that whore – or her body. Get me results! Or if you would rather tell Ian, face to face …?”
The grassy terrain was overpowering, scarred only by the occasional worn tread of hikers and cyclists. A family of plum-black boulders played contrast to the eye-straining greenery. In less than an hour, the sun would be at its hottest, making it impossible to search further. They would have to return tonight – something Billy was reluctant to do. Cops could have heard something. For all he knew, they could be on their way right now, catching them all by the balls.
Just as he was about to end the search, a gunshot filled the air, then the voice of Joe-Joe letting out a wild whoop of joy.
“I’ve found the bitch – what’s left of her!” screamed Joe-Joe, gleefully.
Quickly, the others ran to Joe-Joe’s voice. Billy got there first, just in time to see a fox hightailing it, strings of meat dangling from its grinning mouth. A family of opportunist crows hobbled away, beaks reddened by pilfered snatches.
“It’s her, isn’t it, Billy? I remember that pretty dress she wore, exposing her titties,” claimed Joe-Joe, flushed, excited eyes dancing strangely in their sockets.
Bones and meat were scattered here and there, leaving a collage of hardened blood blackening the surface of squashed grassland. Clothing was shredded. Remnants of a nightmare. Insects feasted, undisturbed.
Basil vomited violently.
“No stomach, Basil?” goaded Joe-Joe, lifting ripped and bloodied panties before flinging them at Basil, hitting him square in the face. “Feels like she’s still inside – not that you would know what to do with it!”
“You bastard!” screamed Basil, lunging powerlessly at the grinning Joe-Joe. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
“C’mon, then! Just try it. I’d love to see –”
“Shut up, both of you!” commanded Billy. “Kill yourselves some other time. For now, get shovels and the pickaxes from the van. There’s a lot of digging to be done. Cover up all of this mess. Those shots could have been heard. Some bastard could be on the phone to the cops, as we speak.”
While his companions dug, Billy scanned his eyes over the grassy surface, at the scattered pieces of bloody meat. The possibility of her survival was quickly considered, then eliminated. But the whole thing had become a disaster. The drink done that, fucked up his thinking. Getting careless.
A large crow flew overhead, interrupting Billy’s thoughts, guiding his eyes towards McArt’s Fort atop the nearby hills. For a split second, something looked out of place. A dull flash entered his vision. Metal? Glass? Sun playing tricks? Tourist taking photos of the ruin?
The hairs on Billy’s neck moved. He shivered.
“Hurry up, you bastards! Dig faster. I want away from here. This place’ll soon be crawling with people.”
CHAPTER ONE
Monday, 24 January
‘Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean … a common man and yet an unusual man. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque …’
Raymond Chandler, The Simple Art of Murder
THIN AS A line but commandingly tall, Karl Kane squeezed the blob of cream from the fat tube and for such a tall man applied it rather daintily to his tense rear end.
Swearing under his breath, he grimaced as the cream’s coldness reached its target. A few seconds later, his clammy face eased as the cream settled.
Wiping the guiding finger on underwear pooling at his ankles, Karl noticed the tiny red smudge mingling with the residue cream.
“Give me a break …”
Just as he bent to retrieve the battered underwear, the door of his office was flung open.
“Now that’s what I call an early morning smile,” said a grinning young woman wearing ripped Levi’s and a T-shirt bearing the legend: I Don’t Have A Dick, So I Make The Rules. Extremely attractive and lissom, she was dark-skinned with large hazel eyes, and wild black hair normally found cascading in every direction. This morning, however, the hair was firmly reined in by a tiny red ribbon. Despite the Northern cadence in her voice, there remained just a slight trace of the South. When jokers mention her size (5’4”), her eyes quickly became skin-strippers, as did her whiplash tongue: “Dynamite comes in a small package, also …”
“For god’s sake, Naomi! I told you not to disturb me for the next twenty minutes,” growled Karl, hastily pulling up his pants. “Can’t I have a second of privacy in my own office?”
“Temper, temper. You don’t want your blood pressure going up again. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen that sexy smile before.”
“What the hell’s so urgent?” asked Karl, gritting teeth, docking his large frame cautiously onto a rubber doughnut stationed on a chair behind his desk. Suddenly, his arse felt like forks were embedded up it. Tears stained his cinder-grey eyes.
“A Mister Munday, with a ‘u’, needs to see you immediately.”
“Munday on a Monday? Please, no puns. It’s too early in the day. Has he an appointment?”
“No. Should I tell him to make one, come back some other time, when you’re less busy?” Naomi smiled smugly.
“You’re hilarious. Give me five minute before showing Mister Munday with a ‘u’ in – and close that bloody door behind you.”
From a messed tray, Karl extracted a letter. It made his heart beat slightly. Burrger & Goldsmith, International Publishers was stamped proudly on the paleness of the envelope. With nervous anticipation, his index finger slit the top of the envelope before two more fingers gingerly extracted the single page held within.
Slowly flowering out the page, he read the words individually, trying to ease the impact of any negativity. He got as far as the third line, before the three dreaded words appeared: Sorry to disappoint …
“Of course you are …” There was no need to read the rest of the letter. It was a carbon copy of the other twelve smirking in the bottom of his drawer from numerous publishing houses, all rejecting his previous manuscripts.
Karl’s office had always been a frugal affair with only a few cherished items taking up residency. Directly above his head, a framed and personalised drawing from the much sought-after political cartoonist John Kennedy, gazed down upon the room. It depicted a caricature of Karl, dressed like Sherlock Holmes, magnifying glass in hand, reading the fine print of a publisher’s contract. Three framed photos of his daughter, Katie, were proudly centred on a large mahogany table. But it was an engraved plaque resting on his desk that always gave Karl indigestible food for thought. ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better’. Samuel Beckett.
“I am failing better, but I can’t help feeling you were an old cynical bastard, Sam.”
Two more letters were extracted from the tray, both with identical themes: Final Notice. One was from the telephone company stating that his phone line would be cancelled at the end of the week, should no attempt at payment be made on a three-month overdue bill; the other was from the law firm of Richards & Richards, demanding more alimony for Karl’s ex-wife, Lynne.
“What a start to the week,” mumbled Karl, flinging the letters back into the messed tray.
“Your secretary told me to go right through. The door was open,” said a man standing between the door’s framework, coat hanging limply over his left arm.
The man was stocky, with the battered, unshaven face of a failed pugilist. Liver spots ran down the side of his face like rusted tears. His skin was as grey as ashtray crust. Decorating his knuckles were thick patches of red hair, making Karl think of an aging orang-utan – or gorilla. But it was the eyes that reigned supreme over all focus points of the man’s face. Static. Disquieting. Beetle-skin dark.
“I’m Bill Munday.” The man smiled but his mouth barely moved.
Karl extended his hand. “I’m Karl Kane, Mister Munday. What can I do for you?”
Munday shook Karl’s hand – a bit too convincingly for Karl’s liking. To Karl, Munday’s slab of hand felt like the inside of a turkey at Christmas.
“I’m hoping you can help me with a little piece of information, Mister Kane.”
“Won’t you sit down? I’m just browsing through some threatening letters sent to one of my clients from two dicks.”
Pulling up a chair before sitting, Munday said, “I’ve been told you’re one of the best private investigators in Belfast, and very discreet.”
“I never argue with the truth.” From a crushed carton resting on top of his desk, Karl plucked a cigarette from a quickly depleting stock. He fired up a Zippo, its flame long and thin, and gave life to the cig before releasing a prayer of smoke from his nostrils. He offered a cig to Munday.
“No thanks. Gave them up a long time ago.”
“Good for you. Wish I could,” said Karl, sucking again on the cig. “Well, what can I do for you … Mister Munday?”
Unrolling a newspaper in his massive hands, Munday tapped page four. “Have you read about the body found in Botanic Gardens, not too far from the museum, yesterday?” he said, handing the newspaper to Karl.
Karl studied the page. “I think I heard something about it, on the radio,” he lied, more concerned about the horse results, twenty pages down, or the obituaries on page thirteen, where he liked to keep tabs on no-show clients. “Would you like some coffee?”
Munday nodded. “Black, with four sugars.”
Pressing a button on the phone’s intercom, Karl requested: “Naomi? Two coffees. Black with four sugars, for Mister Munday.”
“What?” returned the affronted voice of Naomi. “I’m a secretary – unpaid for in the last two weeks – not a waitress. Get off your bloody backside and get it yourself!”
“Coffee machine seems to be out of order at the moment,” mumbled Karl, releasing the button quickly, directing the cig to his lips again. “The body in Botanic Gardens? What of it?”
Pulling his chair closer to Karl’s desk, Munday whispered, “I need you to find out as much information as possible. Who it is; how he died. The usual stuff.”
The cig froze momentarily at the entrance to Karl’s mouth, before continuing its journey. Karl sucked on the cig, releasing a dragon’s breath. “The usual stuff? I don’t usually have people walk into my office every day and ask such matter-of-fact questions, Mister Munday.”
Munday smiled a forced grin that spread his seven o’clock shadow across his big battered face. From an inside pocket, he teased out an envelope, before placing it on Karl’s desk. The envelope wasn’t bulging, but Karl knew that thinness can sometimes conceal the fattest of rewards.
“There’s five hundreds in there, Mister Kane. There’ll be another five, once you get me the information – discreetly, of course.” Munday edged the envelope tantalisingly closer to Karl’s itchy, tarantula-like fingers.
An envelope with some good news? Whatever next? Two – no, one hundred to scumbags Dick and Dick; one for ungrateful Naomi; one for the extortionist phone company, and the rest for the poker game tonight …
“I swear by discretion,” replied Karl, quickly pocketing the envelope.
“Good. I’ll be in touch,” said Munday, rising.
“Do you have a phone number, in case I need to contact you?”
“I know where to find you,” stated Munday, closing the door gently behind him.
A few seconds after Munday’s departure, the door reopened. “Well?” asked a beaming Naomi, entering the room, her hand outstretched. “My wages, please, thank you very much.”
Shaking his head with disgust, Karl said, “I warned you about eavesdropping on my business transactions. You’ll take one hundred, and make me a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll take two, and you’ll invite me out for a nice lunch at Nick’s Warehouse.”
“Whatever happened to loyalty?” asked Karl, handing Naomi her overdue wage.
In return, Naomi gave Karl the kind of kiss that promised a lot more fun to come later. “I’ll get both our coats. I’m starving.”
Picking up the newspaper again, Karl scanned the article for further details on the corpse. Information on the body was sketchy, at best, speculation being king in print. One crucial detail was missing: gender.
Karl’s arse began to itch, again.
CHAPTER TWO
A Winter’s Nightmarish Tale, 1966
‘No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil of those half-tamed demons that inhabit the human breast, and seeks to wrestle with them, can expect to come through the struggle unscathed.’
Sigmund Freud, Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria
THE YOUNG BOYslithered out of bed, pyjamas soaked right through to his bones. For a full ten seconds he stood, awkwardly, legs apart, before ditching the wet garments, a plethora of goose pimples spreading over his naked body.
The urine stench was becoming sharper in the room as he tried desperately to figure out his next move. The bedclothes? How could he get rid of them without exposing his shameful act to his parents?
It wasn’t his father he was worried about, but his mother. She’d take no excuses, believing excuses only led to more excuses and further acts of shame. If only his father – his greatest ally – were home, and not at sea for the next two weeks …
Truth be told, the boy knew he should never have been so greedy last night, with the pilfered lemonade from the fridge. Now God was punishing him for his greed, his thieving. All those poor children in Africa with their fat, swollen bellies belying their starvation. His mother always made him watch those horrible documentaries while he attempted to eat his dinner, twisting his ear verbally and physically. See? See how lucky you are? You keep sinning, and God’ll make you come back as one of those unfortunate children. You mark my words …
The cupboard in the spare room housed fresh bedclothes, but it was directly across from his parents’ bedroom, on the next floor. He thought about it, calculating the possibilities and the risk factor. If he could only get away with this terrible sin, he promised God that he would never be greedy anymore, would stop pissing himself like the lazy, filthy boy his mother kept accusing him of being; would begin to love his mother as much as he loved his father. Promise.
Cautiously, he opened the door of his bedroom. A tiny but loud squeak whispered accusingly from the hinges. He stopped all movement. Nothing. Peering cautiously into the shadowy landing, he became unnerved by its darkened shapes, but stepped out, gallantly, regardless. Proceeding on bare feet, he crept along the wall, all the while holding his breath.
Outside the house, rain started coming down like nails on tin, muffling any sound he made on the journey up the stairs. God was helping him, he could see that now.
A few more inches and he’d be within the forbidden area of his parents’ bedroom. To his left, the cupboard waited patiently with its crisp, fresh sheets. The prize was his for the taking. I can do this, he thought. Win one over on her.
Suddenly, a heart-stopping sound floated in the thick air before resting in his ear. The soft TV sound from his parents’ room? The door from their room was slightly ajar, squeezing out dull light like a slice of margarine.
Sneak by quickly. Hurry. She won’t hear you. God has put the TV on. Don’t you see? He’s honouring your promise. He’s a good God. Just make sure you keep your part of the bargain and be a good boy. Otherwise …
In the harsh glare of the retreating light, lightning hit the outside. Theboy jumped, his heart skittering erratically in his chest. He moved guardedly but with purpose, passing the door, stifling all breathing as he neared.
Suddenly, the margarine light touched the side of his face. He could feel it burning his skin, forcing him to turn in its direction like a rabbit caught in headlights.
Unwillingly, he peered through the door’s open spine. The room was fitfully dark, broken only by the spare glow of the television. His damning eyes could see his mother on the bed, sprawled out on her back, naked, her breasts pooling like sloppy yolks. A swirl of pale smoke was provocatively misting over those breasts. He could see her sprouted nipples, and that most private of areas covered by her hair. He was horrified and ashamed, but his eyes didn’t move, held there by some invisible, demonic force. I’ll go straight to hell for this. I know that, now. So will she.
The television screen was flickering on her eyes, dancing over the skin of her face like a projection in a dark theatre. Her eyes refused to meet his, as if she had been doing something secretive, something darkly forbidden and wrong.
Mum? he whispered, but the words were not formed, only imagined.
Suddenly, in a flash of clarity, all was revealed. Blood. Brown creases where it had dried in the lines of her palms; red on her fingers like overused nail varnish; blood streaming from the slit throat, bright and dangerous.
His mouth gaped open like a frog’s. His stomach heaved. He staggered back, shivering violently, his teeth clattering like castanets.
“It’s okay, little boy,” said a soft voice, from the far corner of the room, startling him. The owner of the voice was a big man with a blubbery face and insane eyes. He resembled a very strange baby – one that came out of its mother’s womb too late. The big man was naked, plucking at his bloody dick, removing bodily threads, like he hadn’t a care in the dark, bloody world. “What’s your name, little boy?”
Suddenly, the boy could feel the burdening darkness all around and within, so welcoming to intruders, so generous to murderers.
“Come here, little boy. I want to show you something; something magical and full of wondrous mystery.”
The boy screamed, and ran from the room towards the stairs, seeking shelter. His left foot couldn’t get a purchase on a loose step in the middle of the stairs. The carelessness sent him sprawling forward, headlong, armswildly grasping for a hold. He barely captured the handrail in time, but he was running again, slightly limping.
The ironing cupboard invited him in. Quiet. So thick and quiet he could hardly breathe, with nothing but darkness pressing tightly against him. He wished his heart would stop thumping in his head. Naked Man would hear it.
“Little boy, come out come out, wherever you are … you can run, but you can’t hide …” whispered Naked Man, close. Very close. The voice had its own smell.
The boy held his breath. He could smell the residue of starching powder clinging to the ironing board. It made him think of his mother; it made him feel terribly alone and afraid.
Without warning, the Naked Man’s fat leg crashed through the door, barley missing the boy’s face.
“You’ve made me very, very angry …” hissed Naked Man, struggling to extract his fat leg, and it was that split second of chance that the boy took, hoping to reach the front door.
The boy reached the door. To his relief, the door gave in easily; pulling away without protest. The lovely cold night air swathed his face, his entire naked body. It made him feel alive. Fields were suddenly in his vision. The fields flew by and were soon overtaken by trees. He felt a strange momentum hurrying him along. If he could only reach the McMullen farmhouse, he’d be safe.
But he never reached the farmhouse, feeling the filthy knife tearing into him, his mother’s blood mingling with his own.
And thus began his hell and all things dark.
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday, 9 January
‘The meaning of a proposition is the method of its verification.’
Moritz Schlock, Philosophical Review
MAKING HIS WAY down Bank Street, Joseph Kerr called into his local, one of the oldest pubs in the city.
Over the bar’s counter, a kaleidoscope of whiskey bottles teemed like a glass skyline. A neon Guinness sign beamed, its reflection glossed in smears of white and black ghostly decals.
Just to the right of the bar, a cluster of customers warmed themselves by an open fire of peat and sparking wood. A smoky residue tinted the bar’s windows. Conversation hummed pleasantly.
The barman, Paul, without instructions, uncapped a bottle of Heineken and quickly coupled it with a glass. He didn’t pour, simply stationed it in front of Joseph.
“It’s ball-freezing, out there,” quipped Joseph to Paul, his eyes directed at the fire-huggers sipping their hot whiskies and brandies. “You’d think that bunch would let some of the heat out, let the rest of us benefit from it.”
A blonde-haired woman sitting alone in one of three booths smiled shyly, then looked away as Joseph’s eyes caught hers.
“Paul?” Joseph made a movement with his head.
“What?”
“Who’s the lady in the booth?”
Paul shrugged. “Been in a few times, over the last month or so. Makes quite a few phone calls, sips her Drambuie, and then leaves. No fuss, no hassle. Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Paul grinned. “But I don’t know about her being a lady, though.”
“What?”
“I reckon she’s a brasser,” whispered Paul.
“Bollocks.”
“I can smell it a mile away. Probably using here as a base. If Frank finds out, he’ll fuck her out on her lovely arse. We can’t have prostitutes giving our fine establishment a bad name. Can we, now?” Paul winked.
From his peripheral, Joseph spotted her looking his way, once again.
“Send her over a Drambuie – large.”
“She’s out of your league, mate.”
“Just do it. There’s a fiver in it for you.”
Paul sighed, pouring the thick Drambuie before accompanying it to the booth.
From a mirror, Joseph watched her reactions. She smiled, but shook her head. Paul returned, Drambuie untouched.
“I’m not going to say I told you,” smiled Paul, pocketing the fiver before returning to his task of scrubbing the countertop’s whitened wood. “Any time you want to give money to Paul’s charity, let me know.”
Up for the challenge, Joseph scooped the Drambuie from Paul’s tray, and headed for the booth. The woman was standing, ready to leave.
“Dram buidheach,” said Joseph, faking a Scottish accent, all smiles.
“Pardon?”
“Dram buidheach. Gaelic for the drink that satisfies. Drambuie. They say it’s bad luck to refuse an offer of a Drambuie.”
The slightest smile from her. “Thank you, but I’ve had my quota for the day. Perhaps some other time?” She moved, edging out, her perfume intoxicating, controlling, catching him in the throat.
“What’s wrong with now?” Joseph’s smile widened.
“I … I’ve … a business meeting to attend.”
“Okay. Let’s make it business, then.”
She hesitated. “You’re cheeky.”
“Among other things,” replied Joseph, and the words tasted good in his mouth. “What plans do you have?”
The skin between her eyebrows creased into a small, angry V. “You a cop?”
Joseph laughed, good and strong. “Fuck, no. I hate the bastards, sticking their noses where they don’t belong.”
She looked at the Drambuie, then at Joseph. “One. That’s it.”
“That’s all I ask, …?”
“Suzy,” she replied.
* * *
Joseph awoke, the smell of sex strong in his mouth. He felt drained. Body aching beyond physical recognition. Only his cock seemed alive, semi-hard with piss and the remnants of last night’s cum. Strangely, his cock remained sheathed with the used condom provided by Suzy.
“Where … where am I? Oh … my head …” He tried moving, but his body remained stationary, hands and legs tied to the bed. His eyes were blurred, feeling like they’d been covered in fish scales. Slowly the blur began to fade; his eyes began focusing.
“Suzy …?”
Joseph’s breath sounded hard in his throat at seeing Suzy sitting on the far chair, nude, watching him. His tomcat, Mac, was nestling in the soft bush of Suzy’s pubic hairs. She stroked the cat gently, lovingly.
A million puns ran through Joseph’s head. But instead of being turned on, a slight shiver ran up his spine. He instantly felt like a bird being watched by a hungry cat – two hungry cats. His rubbery cock quickly deflated, retreating inside itself.
“Was I that bad – or good?” he smiled, forced and feeble. His eyes traced over the thin, snake-like ligature on each of his wrists. “Shit, we must have had the time of our lives, last night?”
She did not respond.
It had become very cold in the room, and Joseph became lucidly aware of the extreme oddness of his situation. “A bit tight, Suzy. Can you untie me, now? I’ve work to go to. Plenty of time for more fun and games later. Okay?”
Still she didn’t respond, simply staring a rather eerie stare. Behind her, photos of Joseph’s children peered down at the bedroom scene. They seemed to be judging him, making him feel even more uncomfortable. He looked away.
“What’s this all about?” he asked. Then suddenly, the realisation hit home. He wanted to laugh. He of all people being caught by the oldest trick in the book. “Okay. You got me, Suzy. You really did catch me with my pants down, didn’t you?” He tried smiling again. “Look, there’s not much in the house. I’ve just gone through a bitter divorce with my wife. She’s taken everything worthwhile.”
Suzy stroked Mac and the cat purred like an asthmatic. Its eyes went lazy. Sleep preparation.
“Suzy, love, take any money you see. There’s still a few quid in my pocket from last night. Take it, but for fuck sake, untie at least one of these ropes before you go. I’m late for work as it is.”
“You go to your local pub, twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. You drink Heineken in a glass. You like to pour it yourself.”
