Falling

by Mark Z. Kammell

  Detective Carver shrugs and says “OK, the only think you really need to do is go and see the farmer. Please, go and see the farmer. He doesn’t want to press charges against the horse, i mean against you, but he does want to talk to you. Look, here’s his address.” He drops a card on the table. “Please go and see him.”

  I raise my hands. “OK, I’ll go and see him.”

  He looks relieved and starts to pull himself out of the leather sofa. “Oh”. He stops. “Something I forgot.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well” and he shuffles through his papers. “It seems that, only yards from where you crashed, something else happened. And almost at exactly the same time. A strange coincidence, right?”

  I shrug. “I guess so.” I’m getting bored of him now, and I shift and turn to get closer to Ruth and allow my tongue to find her mouth as she slips her hand into my trousers.

  We both ignore the cough but I do keep vaguely listening to him as he asks “wouldn’t you like to know what else happened?”

  Skilfully I manage to nod whilst carrying on; to my credit I pull back and turn, curiously when he says “murder.” Even Ruth touches her lips, gets up lightly and walks across to the bar. She’s pouring three large drinks, as I raise my head and say “OK, I’m listening.” A flash from outside throws light through the huge windows to the back of the room and yellow light streaks across Elena’s face; she is still lying there, lifeless, I realise, just behind the detective. I do think that’s a bad thing. Ruth returns with the drinks and puts them in front of us. Whisky for each of us; he takes another sip then says “yes, murder.” I notice he’s smoking, I take a cigarette from his pack and light it. He brushes his, admittedly perfect, hair back with his left hand and continues. “just next to where you were, maybe ten yards, we found the body of a woman. Some body” he muses, blowing out smoke, and looks through his file, pulling out, yes, a photo, which he allows to fall on the table between us. There’s no ashtray, I realise, as he taps his cigarette ash onto the photo, waiting for us to absorb the contents.

  “As you can see, this woman has been mutilated, actually, well, it appears, sacrificed.” I am not a moral person, my sense of right and wrong doesn’t go much further than a need to fulfil desire, but I’m still not totally comfortable with what’s there. I glance at Ruth, who’s regarding the photo with a cool detachment. Respect, I guess.

  The woman lies on what seems to be a rough, circular stone table, her arms and legs spread out in a crucifix position. She is naked. Her head lolls to one side, and her face is stained with blood. The weirdest thing, though, is her forehead, which appears to have been pierced with something, something like a horn, embedded deep into it.

  “Shocking isn’t it?” Detective Carver brings me back.

  “And this has got what to do with me?” I ask.

  “As I said, John, this seems to have happened, from time of death and all that, at exactly the same time as you crashed your car, in almost exactly the same spot. So, of course, we...”

  I take a drink of whisky. I’m not nervous. “You, what?”

  “Do you know the woman?” he asks. I know that I’ve seen her before, but I don’t know her. “No”.

  “Never seen her before?”

  “No, never. Who is she?”

  “We have no idea, to be honest. You’re sure you’ve never seen her?” I don’t bother replying, and he nods.

  “What’s in her head?” Ruth asks. He looks at her blankly for a second, then offers her a cigarette, which she accepts. These really are good, I must smoke more. There’s a sudden, scraping noise and we all look over to see Elena, on her feet but unsteady, as she holds onto the doorframe. There’s a trickle of blood coming from her mouth. “I’ll just take a bath, darling” she murmurs and stumbles towards the bathroom. The detective turns back round and winks at me. He sees us both waiting and says, “Oh, in her head? Well, its very strange. It’s a horn, actually, but a very bizarre horn. Actually, it’s gone to our secret laboratory in, well, somewhere secret.” He beckons us towards him and we lean closer. “Don’t tell anyone, but the analysis shows that it doesn’t match the horn of any animal we know, at all. In fact, the only thing it resembles is actually, a unicorn’s horn. But of course that can’t be true, because of course unicorns don’t exist.” He stubs his cigarette out on the photo (I hope it hasn’t left a stain on the marble) and lights another one. “Or maybe they’re extinct. Anyway, it’s very secret, so please don’t say that I told you.”

  Detective Carver leans back expansively, into the sofa, he looks at me intently. “So just a few more questions, John. First, did you murder her?”

  “Erm, no” I say, “I think I was having a crash at the time.”

  “Having a crash, having a crash” he mumbles, “yes, good point. OK, well second question, are you a practitioner of the dark arts, Satanism, paganism, human sacrifice, or anything similar?”

  “Are these normal questions” asks Ruth but he ignores her.

  “No” I say slowly, “why?”

  “No, ok thanks” and he leans forward and scribbles something down on one of his many papers. “OK, well thanks, this is my final question, John, you work for Hart Industries don’t you? Yes, of course you do. What is it, exactly, that they do?”

  “Sorry, that’s confidential." I reply.

  “Of course it is, sorry, of course it is. Now, but what I need to know, is whether, in building and sponsoring machines of terror, Hart Industries have ever resorted to the use of black magic?”

  He stares at my blank face for a few seconds then says “OK, you can’t answer that, I understand, probably not important, but we’ll follow the investigation and I may need to come back to it with you. I do, actually”, and he pulls out a sheet of paper from his file, dropping it on top of the photo, “have one of these”. I glance at it and see it’s an Open Confidentiality Note, Highest Order, which means he can ask anything he likes. But the question that really bugs me is - how did he know?

  He’s getting up, pulling his papers together back into his case and shaking our hands. “Thanks for the cigarettes” I say, as he walks out of the door, smoothing his suit as he goes.

  I get up and light another cigarette. “Must talk to Simon about this” I mutter to myself.

  “Simon already knows” says a voice behind me and of course, when I turn, he’s there. So many people coming and going out of my apartment. I’m supposed to be being protected and I have no privacy. I need to sort this out.

  Chapter 17

  It’s so unbelievably cold. He’s got three blankets wrapped around him, over his clothes and his thick grey coat, but still it gets to him, like it’s hunting him down, him and only him, in this dark room, in this dark flat. He has assembled boxes all around him too, like a cave, so that they won’t see him, but they’re too clever and he can actually hear their strange, alien voices whisper as they circle the room looking for him.

  She was there a few hours ago, even then at that time they sat in the kitchen, at the rotten table, even then he could manage it, it’s like she took the last of the warmth with her as she left. As well as everything else.

  “You bastard” she had whispered. “As if everything else wasn’t enough.”

  And he had just stared at her, gloved hands holding onto his coffee for warmth, his eyes just black holes now.

  “So just tell me, which one was I?” she had spat, “Guilty or innocent?”

  “You’ve always been innocent” he had whispered, looking down.

  And that’s when she had left.

  Chapter 18

  We start the day off with a Mojito, a sugar rush for the morning. Three of these and I can still drive without too much difficulty. The bar’s quiet at this time, and while I wait for her to come back from wherever she’s gone, I ask the barman to turn on the television, it’s paying one of the constant news channels.

  “Bad news, eh, “ he shrugs, motioning over his shoulder to the tele
vision, “always bad news”. I ignore him and watch the footage, the headline scrolling across the bottom reads “Nations beg for stability as fighting spins out of control”. The sound’s off and there’s no point asking for it, it’s just the way. When I used to have friends, one of them actually had a fight with the ancient, infirm man behind the bar, trying to force him to turn the sound up on some football game that was so, so important. They had cleared an area and punched it out, and this man, this man, here, now, whose hands look fragile enough to turn into dust at any moment, whose muscles look withered and dying beneath his torn, dirty t-shirt, had destroyed my friend in two minutes, left him broken and dying on the wooden floor. So I just watch the headlines as they scroll across, underneath graphic images of war and death. Next – “conventional warfare spreads as Chinese hail the invincible army”. Next – “Terrified civilians talk of men that won’t die, that rise from the dead, that bullets pass through without harming”. Next – “the bloody aftermath of day number three sees second city razed to the ground”. Next – “rules of war are ignored as death toll mounts”. Next – “peace convention is called for, but ignored by the aggressors.” Next – “demonstrators shout for war crimes tribunal to start now”. Next – “the bloodbath continues to grow as nuclear retaliation is threatened”.

  Time for another Mojito. The barman shrugs and smiles, I down it quickly as I see my car pulling up outside. Time to get on the road

  ***

  The farmhouse is quite a way off the road, away from the motorway and the incidents, and it takes us quite a while to find it. The road leading up to it is not much more than a dirt path off a tiny, hedge covered road, and as we approach there are, bizarrely, more and more signs that tell people to keep away, hand painted signs with a cow’s skull and crossbones, others that just say “visitors not welcome”, further ones which tell us to beware landmines. I think they are in jest, but just in case, I activate the defence management system.

  The house itself is quite imposing under the dark sky, a little like a haunted mansion from kid’s books. We’re not allowed to leave the car until the tiny light on my watch turns green, which means, I think, that Shaun has had the area reviewed and cleared for potential hostile activity. I knock on the large wooden door, and true to form, there is no answer, but it creaks loudly and then swings, ever so slightly, open.

  He doesn’t acknowledge us as we enter, the floorboards announcing us. The door has led us straight into the main room, which is empty, save for the farmer, sitting on a wooden stool in the centre of the room, and a fire giving some slight warmth in the cold air. Strange, it’s warm outside.

  I approach him slowly and put a hand on his shoulder. I can feel his breath against me. I don’t know why I am whispering as I say “Hello? Mr... err” and I realise I don’t know his name. “I’ve come about the horse.” Still nothing. I turn to look back at her and shrug. “Do you think we should leave?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” she says, “maybe you should leave him a cheque, as compensation.”

  “But he said he didn’t want any compensation, he just wanted to talk. Maybe I should write him a note?” Our voices echo, sound hollow in the large room. I look at him again and now his eyes are on mine, but they’re empty and dull. We watch each other, his face shining in the crackle of the firelight. It seems to go on for hours.

  And then, at last, he speaks. His voice is cracked and broken, but a little of the fire seeps into his eyes so I can see at least that he’s alive and not dead.

  “A year ago my wife left me. Sick of me and my inability to understand her. I never really got her, I just wanted her but that wasn’t enough I guess. She tells me one day, she offered no clue, no hint, nothing that would let me guess until the morning she left. She always got up earlier than me, about 4am, went for a run around the fields, came back panting and sweating with this glow around her face, and would have a shower whilst I was still in bed. The days I used to work the farm, she used to wait for me in the house, doing whatever, cooking the dinner maybe, I don’t know, but it was always good. I used to be so tired in the evenings, fall asleep on the sofa in the living room, watching the news or the show or whatever, I used to crawl into bed at about eight in the evening and she would come up and give me a kiss on the cheek and then go back down and do whatever she did. Sometimes she didn’t come to bed until three, but she’d get up an hour later, just like always, put on her leggings and get out there. A couple of times I would go downstairs late at night and see her, doing some strange stuff I didn’t quite get. But I still never realised how different we were, I never pushed it, I never really got it.” He chuckles to himself, pulls out a crumpled pack from the pocket of his dirty jeans and removes a cigarette slowly, deliberately. He has to smooth it out before putting it in his mouth, and I reach down and light it for him.

  “The morning she left, she came in as normal, she kissed me on the cheek as normal and then she told me, matter of fact, nice as you like, and she was gone. It was a year ago tomorrow. She took everything, she turned up the next day with her two new lovers and they loaded up the truck, all the furniture, all the books, everything, except my clothes and a few other things all loaded into a wooden chest. I sleep on it now, as well. She even kissed me as she left.”

  He starts coughing violently, spitting out phlegm and blood and I have to step back to avoid being covered. “I did find it tough. I know that I carried on as usual, it was like she hadn’t left but I knew she had, I missed the company and I missed the support. But I got on with it. I’m a tough guy, right.” He thumps his chest, and starts coughing again, so I offer him one of my cigarettes which he accepts gratefully.

  “Then my animals started dying. One by one, at first, and then more quickly. I called in the vet with the little money that I had left, and he didn’t understand it at all. There was nothing wrong with the animals, they were fit and healthy, well fed even because we operated a cooperative system with the other farms round here. But it happened. First the cows, then the sheep and then the pigs. Every day I used to go out to see what had happened during the night and sure enough, one or two, two or three more lay there, still, dead and already starting to rot.” He blows out smoke and stares out of the dull window. “I got really suspicious. Thought it was poison. Thought they were out to get me. I got fixated on Al Miner, the guy from down the road, we never got along with each other and I tell you, he liked my wife. He really did. I thought at first it was him went off with my wife, but of course it wasn’t, you know that. But I was convinced that he was poisoning my animals. Really convinced. You know this, but I went to see him. I didn’t mean it to end up the way it did. And I was wrong, he was innocent after all wasn’t he. I didn’t take anything when I set off, I found the hammer on the way, it was like someone had left it there. I think it was her, no, to be honest. To be really frank, I mean. It was her, it must have been. A hammer left there just to mix with my anger. And of course it took me a long time to sort that out. He swore so many times that it wasn’t him. His nose was mush. And his cheeks. He screamed for mercy, the little fucker. I always hated him. At the end I realised it wasn’t him, I knew that but I carried on. He did deserve it. He had always been so smug, so self assured, so sure, it was like he used to look at me and Lizzie and say, how could you end up with someone like him?”

  “I had to carry him home in a sack, that I found in his shed. I cleaned the blood off as much as I could, threw him over my shoulder and walked home. I remember passing two other neighbours who nodded good morning at me, and nothing else. It was deathly cold that day and the sun was just starting to rise. It took me half an hour before I could feel my hands again. I ended up burying him with one of my cows, who had died that night. Daisy the cow.” He paused and chuckled, “though they were all called Daisy.”

  “I’m not sure why no one ever talked to me about him. It’s been a long time now. Maybe no one missed him. He was a sad bastard, he lived on his own and I don’t think anyone liked him,
but still.” His eyes drift off and we wait, wondering if he’s finished, if he’s going to say anything else. His voice is becoming rawer, more bloody, as if he hasn’t used it for such a long time that now it’s starting to suffer and protest. He’s allowed his cigarette to burn out and the ash has made a neat little pile on his lap. His eyes are returning, searching, coming round until again they eventually find me.

  “But of course it wasn’t him. I knew it wasn’t him, I always knew it to be honest, but when they kept dying I couldn’t deny it. I didn’t regret it though.”

  And now he’s putting his hands on the chair and actually trying to lift himself up, his body creaks and shudders like it hasn’t been used for days, months maybe and so he gives up, but his hand does grip my arm and he pulls me, just slightly forward. “You would have done the same, wouldn’t you?” he whispers. “You would. Was it you, or was it her, who left the rope?”

  “The rope?” I ask. I realise that this is the first time in an hour that I’ve spoken, that he hasn’t, and I feel the same cracked, parched feeling in my mouth.

  “The rope.” He shakes his head. “The rope, the coil, the noose. That morning when I woke up. And it was there on the floor by me. Was it you or was it her?”

  I just stare at him, so he carries on. “It was her, then. Took me a while to string it up though, I had to drag my trunk under the beam. My hands – “ he turns them over and studies them, wrinkled, broken, bloody – “I couldn’t tie it there properly, took me a long time. These hands, like the rest of me, they’re broken. Useless and good for nothing. Like me.” Like everything he says this without any self pity, without any emotion.

  “That’s when I saw you. My neck was already in the noose. Last cigarette in my lips, like the condemned man. I was about to step off the trunk, when I heard the noise. The screaming. The girl holding her neck. Your face and your eyes. Like they were next to me, like the window magnified everything. Your eyes. They’re not like that anymore, they’re calm now aren’t they, like you have it under control. But they weren’t calm then, were they, they were like fire and she knew that. But you couldn’t help her, could you. I know you tried. You wouldn’t have tried with me, but you tried with her. Give me a cigarette.”