Blood & Baltazar

by Liam Inscoe-Jones

  Through all Elisa’ pretentious preaching of death and damnation Josiah hadn’t expected that. He didn’t think she’d kill a man in his hospital bed, but it seemed that she had. It disgusted him and clearly that showed because she looked to him and sniffed as a horrid, lurid grin crossed her scarlet lips.

  “I stole an ID badge from their offices at night, walked straight into the drug cellar, then to the ward and shoved Prolintane down its throat as he slept. He didn’t even struggle, well… he couldn’t I suppose. In minutes the drugs had worked their way into his system and clogged his arteries. I watch him have a stroke and I left as the nurses tried to revive him and failed.”

  Josiah could do nothing but stand silently and watch her gleeful delivery, fearing if he opened to mouth even to breathe the bile and hatred he was containing would all come pouring out. She did nothing as she finished but turn to Edgar expectantly, waiting for his approval.

  “Yes, very good.” He muttered dismissively. “But I have to know: does he realise? Has Josiah Hartt worked out you’re with us?”

  She thought for a moment, before biting her lip and nodding slowly. “Yes, I should think that he does. We know what a mind he has, and with the trail we’ve left, I would hardly be surprised.”

  Edgar Mulligan paused just for a second before breaking the silence, his calm stature suddenly erupting in a frenzy of excited movement. “Okay then, we have to move fast. Thomas Taser, Cedric Baltazar’s advisor, he’s our next target. George and Elisa, prepare yourselves, you leave for his house this evening.” He turned sharply to Josiah, “And you Oscar, you’ve seen what we’re capable of, are you sure you want to join us?”

  Hartt stammered. It was hardly like he had a choice. “Yes,” He nodded obediently, “I want to see the Patriarch put to justice.”

  Edgar offered him a little smile in return and faced back to his allies. “Good, so Josephine, you know what to do and Oscar,” The leader glanced at the newcomer as he returned to his office. “Get on the table.”

  Josiah looked at him with confusion. “What?” He asked, only to be greeted by a door slamming shut in his face.

  He turned inquisitively back to the room, watching as Josephine opened one of the drawers and pulled out a rusting metal rod, with some sort of emblem nailed to the top. She yanked open a second cabinet, this time held shut with a thick steel door and the roar of a crackling fire filled the room. Before Josiah could move to look inside she’d thrown the rod into the furnace and bolted the door shut.

  “Come on then.” She snapped from across the room. “You heard what he said; get yourself on there.”

  Josiah reluctantly walked closer toward the oak frame, aware that he should appear keen but still completely thrown by being, for the first time in a long while, on the back foot.

  “Okay…” He murmured, jumping in one swift move on top of the panelled surface. He held out his flared hands. “Am I going to sing?” He grinned

  “Lie down.” Elisa Smith commanded, seemingly unimpressed, with her hands fixed on her hips. If he wasn’t mistaken she seemed to be enjoying the power. He obeyed once again, the gnarls of the woodwork digging into the small of his back.

  “Come on then George, pin him down!” Josephine grunted, before looking at Josiah’s panicked expression and shrugging. “No offence,” She muttered. “It’s only a precaution. I was fine with it but George - he was a squealer.”

  “What do you mean? Precaution for what?” Hartt was beginning to panic, his skin flushed as all the noise and frenzy occurred some distance away. Josephine didn’t answer; distracted it seemed as George had begun rummaging through the drawers once more. “What are you doing?” She quizzed.

  He explained with a grunt. “I’m looking for the pins; I thought you said we were doing it now?”

  “I told you to pin him down, not put up a tent. For Christ’s sake, nobody used pins for us; you must have heard that expression?”

  “Oh…” The brute of a man sighed, walking around the table and pushing Hartt’s waistcoat into the wood with such force Josiah couldn’t even move to protest. “I thought you meant do it literally...” George murmured.

  Josephine stood at the table beside Josiah. “No! Where on Earth are we going to get pins from?”

  “I thought Elisa used them for her knitting?” George suggested.

  “No…they’re called needles.”

  George paused. “Yeah, but they can be called pins as well can’t they?”

  Josephine stopped, genuinely perplexed. “I don’t know really, I suppose…”

  “Christ!” Josiah Hartt exclaimed sharply, his neck beginning to seize up as he strained to catch a view of what was going on. “Can we do this another time or…?” He was cut off as Elisa Smith noisily stormed around the table and opened the metal furnace. She pulled the end of the rod from the fire and Hartt’s eyes flared open as she took the length of the pointer loosely in her hand. The metal broche at the top was the shape of the same figure of eight burnt into the bases of the member’s necks, and there it was hanging above him, sizzling a wet, scorching red.

  Josiah’s mouth dropped open as steam piped from the scolding metal, “No, really…” He gawped. “...can we do this another time?”

  Elisa handed Josephine the base of the rod, the white iron already pressing a sweltering heat into his flesh, sweating like a steak in the oven. He looked to Josephine’s collar and saw as he feared that shape, repeated on the skin of every member of the group, soon to be imprinted on him. “I’m not sure I need this.” Josiah stammered, no longer requiring his Oscar act. “Infact I could really do without it to be honest; I won’t be sticking around for long. Surely someone’s got a red marker pen or something?”

  “Oh, leave off…” Field Specialist Elisa groaned as Josiah reared away and she came into view. “It’s not like you could look much worse…” She flashed at him a mirror to prove her point. Josiah had forgotten how horrific he looked, with lips and cheeks swollen like puffer fish, the skin around his nose cracked and weeping blood. Even his eyelids were saggy and raw, slumping into droplets like he was crying. Given his current situation Hartt thought he could be excused a tear or two.

  “Please…” He flustered. “I really do not want this.”

  Josephine grunted with frustration. “Crab him George.”

  “Crab him?” Josiah panted. “What does that mean-?” He was cut off as he got his answer; George locked Hartt’s head between his muscular arms and held him there, allowing the base of Josiah’s neck to be pulled and tensed into one flat, pink, sweating sheet.

  Josephine grinned and lowered the pole closer, the scorching end the fieriest orange, glowing like the sun, fizzing in the bitterly cool air. Josiah’s head beat like a drum, the heat on his flesh created such an intense pain, like he was being forced into the dirt by a tonne of boiling bricks. He screamed one final time as Josephine positioned the rod above his collar bone and pushed down.

  Cedric Baltazar cocked the gun. He placed it to his ear, listening to the cogs turn into place, align and caress each bolt and sharpen to form a perfect device for killing a man. The cold grey steel was flat in the dying light. As day was masked by clouds the room which was once bathed in a winter’s sunlight was now devoid of colour and empty of life. The Patriarch slumped his head between his wrists as if he was mourning the day, eyes scouring the skirting board of the room, his eyes occasionally glancing upwards towards the paintings; every vibrant piece now cold and lifeless too.

  It was Christmas Eve, a time for many of late nights and anticipation of jubilation, but for him it was just another day where he could sit and do nothing while events from afar worked against him. The dark days were shortening now, and every day past the one in which he wallowed would be another closer to spring. Somehow he doubted even that would revive him.

  He thought through Michael Prince’s words, the board member now left for Christmas leaving only his snide encouragement ringing like a nasty echo. Could I really stoop s
o low, he thought, could I really stoop so low as to bring a hand to my wife, to take the folder back by force? The voters were in his favour, but if Lucy Baltazar released such a document to the public his career would be over for sure.

  He wasn’t the only breathing entity in the room of course, but the other man in it seemed to only make the hollow hall worse. Thomas Taser, the Patriarch’s Chief Advisor, paced before him, his suit hanging off him as it would off the back of a recovering drug addict - only a drug addict’s face couldn’t possibly look quite as pale as his. Taser’s lips moved like a twitch as he occasionally went to wipe his brow of the sticky grease that oozed from his pores. He continued for the thirtieth minute to prattle off his speech about public image and the voters appeal, as if he himself was the image of perfection. Cedric wondered if sacking the stick insect of a man would help his cause, especially considering the voter wouldn’t have to see him emerging from the building every morning and night.

  “There’s a certain edge about you, Mr Cedric,c,c…Patriarch sir.” The weedy man continued, arms flapping like he was having a seizure. He sharply turned and pointed at him as if trying to appear suave. “And that’s no word of a lie! People like your background. Soldiers and military men all demand respect and that is what we need to harness here. Respect.” Thomas quivered, his lower lip suddenly shaking as he descended into agitation again. “I realise you might think that’s not how the people see you anymore, especially with that unfortunate incident with the old woman and the, err…mangos, but they do, I swear it! You just need to prove that you can still be that man and the public will come to you in flocks.” He walked closer, as if he had Cedric entirely captivated. “And what says respect and sophistication better than a ball?”

  “A ball?” The Patriarch spluttered. “Christ, it’s like I’m in a pantomime.”

  “No, no, no!” The Advisor exclaimed, realising his masterplan hadn’t been as well received as he’d hoped.

  Baltazar just continued to mumble in mock realisation. “What am I talking about?” He muttered. “I am in a pantomime!”

  Thomas Taser sharply emitted the loudest call for attention he could muster, which assembled itself in the sound of an odd, constipated grunt. “Please, sir, you don’t want to be talking to me; it’s Christmas Eve, your mind is somewhere else, but if you just give me a chance, I, I… I can do this.” He paused and breathed out, calming now as he realised he had his leaders attention. “Okay, so think on this sir. You’re a soldier; it’s your greatest asset. Look at John Lee - he’s an excellent candidate, but he was an accountant in the war – what, he can add up the votes at the end, who’s impressed by that? You on the other hand Patriarch, sir, you fought and you won. People feel secure when they know they have a winner as their leader. You pulled the trigger which pushed back the Revolutionist tide and dragged us out of that hElisah place. You have something to flaunt, you were a perpetrator of the Wars End. A W.E Ball, think on that. The glory sir, you… you would be crowned.” Taser breathed awkwardly. “So?”

  Patriarch Baltazar stood from his seat and walked round the table. “Yes, yes okay, absolutely. As long as there are drinks and I don’t have to pay for them.” He placed his hand on Thomas Taser’s back and pushed him away, headed towards the door. His Advisor was about to speak but Cedric briskly silenced him, keen to be alone once more. “Yes, yes…” He nodded keenly. “…a winter’s ball, it will win them over. What could possibly go wrong?” He gave the man one final shove and in an instant he slammed the door shut, the panel trembling the frame.

  Cedric Baltazar walked slowly back to the centre of the room, treading into the carpet as he walked. The hall was suddenly filled with a ghostly silence as the last men and women left the building and headed home for Christmas. Now there were just three people left. Baltazar, his daughter and his wife.

  He slid a drawer open, reaching to the back wooden panel and sliding from within a heavy steel wrench. He slid the drawer shut and stood, sizing the tool up in his hand. The weight of it, the swing, the force. Looking down the expanse of walls and paintings he took a deep breath, hung the wrench from his fist and walked towards the farthest door.

  Chief Detector Marcus Fraun marched down the corridor, grey lights blinking on and off around him. He stormed through a few stray Detectors as he walked; the Force’s main station in the valley excited by the case which had arisen in recent days. As grim as it seemed to outsiders and the press, after years of mopping up graffiti and dusting down the streets, a murder was the happiest of events. With the discovery of a second - they’d almost thrown a party.

  Fraun was headed for the evidence room, a distant pair of dark oak doors which lay typically quiet amongst the bustle which had begun winding down for Christmas. His duties had been disrupted by a call from reception which had alerted him to the presence of an expert prepared to take specialist evidence off their hands now the case in question was closed and the criminal deceased. The evidence itself was lethal and prone to escaping, and so the man named Aled had been alerted as soon as the file was signed.

  As the Officers scuttled around him; Marcus couldn’t help but reflect on how he’d risen so far above them. They had the talent, they had the intellect perhaps even past his own, but strangely, in a job in where he captured criminals and brought them to justice after acts of brutality, it was his own cold heartedness which had earnt him his title and his pay cheque.

  He had signed up for training a few years before the civil war had begun; the day after his sixteenth birthday when, after a few years of anxious waiting, he was finally allowed to apply. Discipline had been a passion of his from an early age; in school he volunteered to take the register each day and his uniform was always pristine. The teachers believed this discipline to be disproportionate to any actual academic promise, but unlike most the others he wasn’t a trouble maker and so they gave him good references and ensured he passed training with flying colours.

  When the Liberalist and Revolutionist armies began drafting their teenagers the Detectors were enlisted to help extract them. This meant they weren’t required to go to war themselves, and so there were riots in the streets of the cities. Mothers and Fathers threw bottles to the ground, buildings were set alight, the Force’s Main Stations ransacked and destroyed - after all, it was hard to convince boys to go to fight when the enforcers were seen to be the cowards.

  It wasn’t like the Detectors all did their job though; many turned their back on the Force in order to protect their families, using what tools they’d been given against the people who had given them. Marcus Fraun was no different. He had two brothers, one of whom was in his mid-twenties and had already been sent off to war and the other barely fifteen. Fraun’s parents were desperate not to lose their last innocent son.

  The young Detector had helped them barricade the doors, used his training to keep his Mother, Father and brother quiet beneath the floorboards. He made sure they were fed, he mopped up their tears and then when each new day came he patrolled the streets with those who remained loyal, making sure they thought he was faithful too.

  Every night he returned to the house he’d been pretending was empty. Yet once he’d checked the patrol was gone he went down to the cellar and he found his family distraught, eyes red, their hands still shaking from the fear of discovery and what that meant. Marcus was a servant to order and discipline, but in them all he saw was chaos. He looked at them and turned his head in shame.

  Eventually, when walking the streets nest day, he found himself beside his parent’s home and instead of quickly ushering the patrollers on as usual he unlocked the door and let the Detectors in.

  His brother was drafted to the Revolutionist army; it was the losing side which meant his death was almost a certainty – Marcus wasn’t sure, he hadn’t checked. The Chief Detectors parents had been sent to a military prison where they still resided on charges of Cowardess to the State. It was regrettable, Marcus did love them after all, but the system had told him that inca
rceration was their fate and he served the rules obediently.

  It was this loyalty to the Force that eventually brought Marcus to the top. When his name appeared on a list his story was beside it and, in a matter of months after the war was over, he was placed as Chief of the valley’s Detectors. Over the years he’d served there he’d enforced the same discipline, but with time running him down he began to realise with great sadness that discipline only worked when there was an absence of it. Everyone in the valley followed the rules, there had barely been a crime in the half decade he’d been there and it had resulted in Marcus Fraun becoming really rather tired. He was just a cog in a working system and, with nothing to fix, his power seemed meaningless. He’d learnt of the new murders with great excitement, with hope that at last he’d have some real discipline to instil upon the killers. It was a hope that Josiah Hartt was quashing each new day.

  The Chief Detector pushed the door aside and walked into the evidence room. It was dark and musty; a dark navy filled the shadows which were tinted with flakes of dust that drifted upon a few dozen metal shelves. Each one of them was nearly bare, and those that were not were only occupied with the odd confiscated bike or can of spray paint. He trotted to the end, the gleaming floorboards crunching under his heel. He reached the final shelf and noticed it too was bare. He turned and ran his hands across the bitter steel. It was with great confusion he realised the evidence was gone. Perhaps they had escaped.

  Or somebody else had got to them first.

  Deputy Detector Rosin Ash sauntered through the forest, fingertips slipping across wood as his hands took hold of the frosted tree trunks and let them slide from his palm. They towered above him, streaks of wood shooting skyward as branches and leaves stemmed off them like fireworks, all too soon disappearing into a shivering jade canopy. The ground beneath him crunched as he placed his boot amongst the dirt. Leaves seeped from the earth, twigs snapped like shattering shards of ice as he left his imprint in the forest floor. Droplets of snow tumbled from the clouds above him. The moon began to rise across the sky, its silver light shooting through the cracks in the stems and glistening in the lingering mist.