A Time For Monsters

by Gareth Worthington

  “You wanna take a seat there, Huus?” he said, finally.

  Huus sat, but still rubbed his hands together. “We got her, Huakaas. She’s on that plane. And when we pull her off, the print and the hair will ID her. Liquor store guy will confirm she’s the one who bought the akevitt. We got her nailed.”

  The file in Huakaas’s hand crumpled as he clutched it just a little tighter.

  “Ready, Huakaas?”

  Arne glanced at his captain, Aksel Birkland, who had wandered over. A tall, stocky man, clean-shaven and a good ten years younger than Huakaas, he was known to follow the letter of the law as if it had been handed down by God Himself. More annoyingly, they had been at the academy together. Aksel had just been the better cop.

  “Sure,” Arne said.

  “The connection between the hospital assault and the boys in Tøyen was a leap, Huakaas, but the fingerprint tied it all up. Just in time, too. With that Hansen guy outing us to the press for withholding information, we were about to get roasted. This will vindicate the Kripos. That’s some damn good police work.”

  Arne’s gaze flicked to Huus and back to the captain. Now wasn't the time to confess he’d put the woman in the hospital in the first place. Once they had her. Once he saw her marched down the stairs of the plane and he could breathe. Huakaas nodded once.

  “You know, you should stop smoking those things,” Aksel said. “Didn’t you just have a heart attack?”

  “That’s what I keep telling him,” Huus said.

  Huakaas glared at them both then stubbed out the cigarette.

  Silence filled the room until another officer interrupted.

  “Plane’s on the ground,” the officer said.

  Huakaas, Huus, and Birkland turned to the small monitor.

  On the screen, a commercial plane taxied to the open space a good mile from the airport, surrounded by at least fifteen patrol vehicles, and a team of Groupe d’intervention de la Gendarmerie.

  Boarding stairs were driven up to the plane and aligned with the hatch. A few of the GIGN team gathered at the base, assault rifles at the ready, while the rest held back along the perimeter.

  The door to the airplane popped and was pushed open by an air steward. The camera zoomed in on the opening. A blur of men filtered into the plane one by one. Arne imagined them shouting but the feed was silent, making the whole experience even more nauseating.

  Arne bit his thumbnail, his foot tapping rapidly.

  The first officer emerged from the plane, and then a second. Then two more struggled from the exit, a woman with her arms cuffed behind her back jerking and fighting against them. The wind whipped her long hair about her face.

  Huakaas stepped closer to the monitor, hoping for better resolution. “Can we zoom in?”

  The officer maintaining the monitor shook her head. “No, we’re just being fed the signal. They’re controlling it.”

  Huakaas pawed at the screen, leaving a greasy finger smudge on the glass. “I can’t fucking see.”

  This wasn’t good enough. Yes, he could wait until she was extradited to Norway and handed over to Kripos, but that could take days, weeks even.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, watching the breeze mock him by continually covering her face in a mess of hair as she was marched down the boarding stairs. “Can we talk to them?” Huakaas asked, looking up and searching the face of anyone in the room who’d make eye contact.

  Huus shrugged.

  “We can call the tactical lead,” the female officer at the monitor said.

  “Do it. I need to talk to him. Quickly, dammit.”

  The woman dialed and offered Arne the phone.

  He snatched it from her and held it to his ear, the dialing tone humming away. He didn’t remove his stare from the video feed.

  “Yes, hello? This is Detective Arne Huakaas from Kripos in Oslo. Yes. I need you to pull her wig off,” he said in his best English.

  “Quel?” came the reply.

  Aksel stepped in between Arne and the monitor. “Huakaas, we are not in the business of assaulting suspects. What the hell are you doing?”

  “She’s bald. Sick or something. Cancer. She’d lost all her hair. If that’s her, she’ll be bald.”

  Aksel glared at him. “There’s nothing in her file about cancer. How do you know this?”

  Huus stepped in, his eyes wide. “There were a few other clues from the hospital. Not quite sure if they added up, sir,” he said. “But, Huakaas got us this far. You need to trust him.”

  The captain balked. “I am not asking the French authorities to yank on a woman’s head. It could screw us later.”

  Huakaas pushed his boss aside and yelled into the phone. “It’s a damn wig. Take it off!”

  On screen, Georgina Thompson was almost out of shot.

  “Now, just fucking do it!”

  “Have Detective Huakaas removed,” the captain ordered.

  Arne held his breath as two sets of hands gripped his arms and began pulling.

  And then, almost off camera, one of the GIGN officers yanked on Georgina’s hair. Arne couldn’t hear it, but he saw a painful yelp. Her head was pulled down with the force the officer used. There was no wig. This wasn’t who he’d hit with the car.

  A stone sank in Arne’s stomach and the world around closed in. He dropped the phone and went limp, allowing two officers to drag him from the ops room. It was over. She’d fucked him. Fucked everyone. A setup. Whoever this poor woman was, it wasn’t the King Kubb Killer. Arne knew the print from Leif’s house would match the prisoner now being hauled away by the GIGN. She’d be flown back to Oslo, tried and convicted, even though she was innocent. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do.

  All fight left Arne. The King Kubb Killer, whoever she was, had screwed him. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t killed him. The satisfaction of fucking up what was left of his pathetic life was much more satisfying than bludgeoning him to death. Now his demise would be slow and painful. Maybe she hoped he’d kill himself. Maybe he should. Arne’s withered gaze locked on Huus. The two never broke eye contact until the door to the ops room swung shut.

  London, England, 2014

  Rey sipped on a glass of cheap champagne. Helium-filled balloons decorated with Disney characters bounced untethered against the ceiling. The music on the Sonos system alternated between Ed Sheeran and Sam Smith, neither of which Rey cared for much, but the party wasn’t for her—it was for Ethan. Those two soft-voiced artists often played in the background as Rey lay in the dark on the floor, her arm through the bars of the crib, holding Ethan’s little hand until he slept.

  It seemed a love for music ran in the family.

  Through the kitchen door of her Notting Hill apartment, Rey watched her helpless infant crawl across the carpet. Ethan Blackburn was a carbon copy of Rey, just in male form. From his big brown eyes to his little turned-up nose, there was not a single person who did not recognize the similarity. It was the first thing anyone and everyone said when meeting her little man on their walks in the park or to the local bookstore.

  “He’s gorgeous,” Jiji beamed.

  “He is, right?” Rey replied before she took another sip of the bubbly alcohol. The word gorgeous did seem that bit more full of love when said with Jiji’s janner accent. Rey couldn’t figure out if it was too sickly sweet or endearing.

  “And you didn’t do bad with the dad, either.” Jiji nodded to the man in his early thirties rolling around alongside his son.

  “Yeah, I did okay.”

  “Okay? That guy came at just the right time, right out of your suici—I mean ya know. When ya were in a bad place.” Jiji slurped her champagne sheepishly. “He stuck wiv you through everyfing. Never left ya side. I should get me an accountant.”

  Rey laughed. He had been most unexpected. She hadn’t wanted a relationship at all. But Connor, her accountant, had come around one day to talk over something Rey didn’t care about, and somehow he’d known not to leave. Rey had been aware he wanted more t
han friendship, but for a long time she kept him at arm’s length. She had been no good at relationships and had no family to speak of anymore. After her mom’s death, her brother and sister had simply stopped talking to her. Getting close to someone just wasn’t worth it.

  Jiji had hung around too and actively encouraged Connor to be part of their lives. She’d invite him over to hang out with them, then leave earlier so he could be alone with Rey. Or organize picnics for the three of them and then not turn up herself. You name the cheesy tactic, Jiji had employed it. For the most part, Rey had entertained the charade for Jiji as it made her friend feel special—important—and that was enough for Rey.

  And then Connor had made the book.

  It was a Christmas present, handmade, chronicling all their months together. Every movie stub, every dinner receipt, even flowers he’d bought were pressed into the pages, and at the end, a series of photographs, re-enacting a scene from one of her favorite movies—a guilty pleasure almost no one knew about. Rey adored Love Actually. In a late scene, one of the characters, hopelessly in love with his best friend’s wife, turns up at their apartment and confesses his love through a series of boards, pictures, and words. The character then leaves, satisfied that he at least got to say it, even if he couldn’t have her.

  Connor had done the same. Photos of him, holding boards with the exact same words, confessing his love even though he believed it wouldn’t be returned, stuck into the final pages of the gift.

  Perhaps it had been because she was so lonely, or maybe Connor had managed to dig out that last shred of hope in true love. Either way, Rey had caved and agreed to date him—provisionally. Three months later she had been offered a job at the Met forensics lab in London. She’d tried to convince him she should go alone, but Connor quit his job, left everything he knew in Manchester, and moved to be with Rey.

  Three months later they were married. No big ceremony, just Jiji and one of her friends as witnesses. Rey’s whole take on passionate, movie-style love had been replaced with what she considered to be a more mature view—love out of friendship. Fireworks were fine, but they always ended, and after only darkness, smoke, and burned out carcasses were left. Connor had stuck with her and been by her side when she’d lost everything else. Marrying him was just the right decision.

  Connor had said he was content without children. Rey had been adamant about the fact that children were just not in the cards. But while on vacation in Singapore, sitting at a poolside, she had studied his sad face and known what to do. She owed it to this man to give him the one thing he desired more than being with Rey—a family. She’d simply turned to him, sipped on her Singapore sling, and said, “So maybe we should do the baby thing. I’m not getting any younger.”

  The words had come easily, but Rey had been terrified.

  The entire pregnancy, Rey felt wholly un-maternal. The little foot that stretched out her stomach merely reminded her of the movie Aliens, and she’d freaked out every time the thought of a human head passing through her vagina crossed her mind. Even when Ethan was born, Rey had felt distanced from him. For so long she’d been terrified of being a bad mother—and the previous time she’d had the chance at being a parent she’d allowed Erik to coerce her into an abortion. Her nipples were cracked and sore, her mind frazzled from late-night feedings, and the smell of diapers made her want to vomit. Weeks went by and Rey began to worry she wasn’t capable of feeling as she should. As suspected, Rey was a bad person.

  Connor, on the other hand, had taken to fatherhood like a duck to water. Late-night bottle feedings when Rey was too tired to breastfeed. Nappy changing. Fun games. Homemade veggie mush. He was a wonder to observe.

  Several weeks passed and Rey’s fear grew.

  Then, late one afternoon, sun streaming through the kitchen window as Rey had held Ethan in her arms and rocked him gently, a song had come on the radio—“My Little Man,” by Sean Rowe. An artist Rey had never heard before, his baritone voice commanded attention. Sean talked more than sang, but his voice broke at certain points in the lyrics, telling of the emotion behind his story. The song was about Sean’s unwavering love for his son, and though he had a tumultuous past and felt like he never knew love before, he now had a religious devotion to this little person. Nothing else in the world mattered.

  Rey had come apart and cried. Sean was singing to her, telling her it was okay to be broken. Broken people could love, too. A bond had formed that day, one she never thought possible. For so long, her existence had been about survival, staving off hurt, keeping people away, and focusing only on achieving things in her life to give it meaning. She’d lost her family but now had a new one. It was no longer about her. It was about her son.

  “Hey, why so sad?” Jiji asked, interrupting Rey’s thoughts.

  Rey didn’t answer for a beat, but eventually said, “He’s who I was, you know?”

  Jiji shook her head. “Whatcha mean?”

  “He’s me, thirty-odd years ago. His big smile and his inquisitive nature. So gentle, like I was. He has a chance to be anything he wants. I look at him and imagine how I may have turned out, if things had been different. I can’t conceive of anyone wanting to hurt a child.”

  “He has ya for a movver, he’s gonna be great.” Jiji gave Rey’s shoulder a squeeze.

  Connor rolled across the carpeted floor too quickly and bumped Ethan’s head into the coffee table. Ethan began to cry.

  “Hey!” Rey shouted, then handed Jiji her glass and stormed over. She yanked Ethan from Connor's arms. “What the fuck? Are you an idiot?”

  “Sorry I didn’t mean to,” Connor said, his face white and panicked. “It was an accident.”

  “His head, Connor. Come on. Jesus.” Rey inspected her son’s head while patting his back to calm him.

  “Rey, I’m sorry—” Connor started.

  “You hurt him, I hurt you,” Rey fired back.

  Her husband could only stand like a reprimanded child.

  “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. He’s okay, Rey,” Jiji said. She put down the champagne glasses, then reached out and took her godson. A brief hug until Ethan’s crying subsided then Jiji handed him back to Connor. “Rey, c’mon. Let’s finish that drink.” She picked up the glasses and the champagne bottle and led Rey out into the hall.

  Rey took her flute from Jiji and gulped down her alcohol. “I’m a bad person, Jiji.”

  Jiji looked Rey in the eyes. “It’s okay. You’re bound to be protective.”

  Rey shook her head. “You don’t get it. I’m angry all the time. I trust no one. I’m a helicopter parent over Ethan because every damn person I see is a threat. One more asshole who might hurt him. But then I snap, I shout. At him. At Connor. How long is it before I lash out with a fist or worse? Before I can’t hold onto my anger and I hit him, Jiji? I’m no better than Joe.”

  “Your father has a lot to answer for,” Jiji said.

  “You’re not the first person to say that,” Rey replied with a sigh. “But I can’t blame it all on him. I have to take responsibility. Maybe he was mentally screwed up. Maybe I am. Maybe I always was.”

  “You’re not Joe,” Jiji said, her jaw set. “You’re nuffin’ like him. The fact you’re even finking this way means you’re not.”

  “How do I get rid of it? The anger. The rage. Someone bumps into me on the street and my immediate reaction is to batter them. I’ve tried counseling but they’re all idiots. They know less about my mental state than I do. Nothing they can tell me I don’t already know. I need solutions, not reasons.” Rey huffed out hard. “And sure, I could take anti-depressants, but that just means I don’t give a shit about anything—including Ethan. I ju—”

  “Ya know,” Jiji interrupted, then slurped on her drink again before speaking in hushed tones. “Maybe what ya need is closure.”

  Rey raised an eyebrow. “Closure? How? He’s in Norway. Has been for years. And what? I rock up, knock on his front door ... And? Hey, Dad, would you mind saying sorry. Thanks.” />
  “No, ya kill ‘im,” Jiji offered plainly.

  Rey nearly choked. “Are you fucking nuts?” she whispered. “Trust me, I’ve thought about it. Lots of times. Isn’t that even worse? I’m already worried I’m like him. And I just told you I could do it. I know I could. But, that’s insane.”

  “Is it? Why? That bastard deserves it and ya know it.” Jiji topped up their glasses.

  “This isn’t funny. I’m not joking. Remember your ex, the one who came out to the US to get you? I thought I was going to murder that prick. Not a euphemism. Actually kill him. And Connor just then. I thought he hurt Ethan. I could have stabbed him for it and not thought twice.” A lump formed in her throat. “I ... don’t wanna be like Joe.”

  “Joe hurt women and children. We’re talking ‘bout killin’ an asshole. And with him gone, maybe yer pain will be, too. Ya won’t be worried about taking it out on Ethan or Connor.”

  “You sound like you’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

  Jiji paused, her silence confirming Rey’s accusation.

  “It’s crazy talk. You know as well as I do, killing him is suspicious as hell. It would immediately get traced back to the family. I’d be suspect number one.”

  “Not necessarily. What if he was one in a series?”

  “Like a serial killer?”

  “Exactly. Make his death random. Throw off the cops. Make it all really elaborate and psycho. Give the murders an MO.”

  Rey took a big gulp from her flute. “And who would these other poor bastards be? These victims.”

  Jiji’s face hardened. Rey didn’t think she’d ever seen that before. Her longtime friend was always jolly and bouncy or drunk.

  “Ovver abusive fuckers,” Jiji said with venom. “Use it as an opportunity to take out a whole lot ov these assholes. Guys that never get punished for this shit.”

  Rey’s skin burned hot. Jiji was talking nonsense, but the fact that these men got away with horrible acts of violence and psychological abuse made her blood boil. Maybe they did deserve to die. Maybe Joe did. Maybe Ethan having a mother who was finally free was worth it.