Through A Forest Dark

by Dean M. Drinkel

  I tried some breathing exercises, did what I could to slow my heartbeat. At long last I did manage to get some focus, to get my legs moving. I went into the bedroom.

  Still the sweat poured. I ripped the shirt from my back, it was soaking. My balls sticky between my legs, I collapsed onto the bed.

  My head was full of strange images, attacking my brain. I couldn’t quite work out what I was seeing in my mind’s eye, but whatever it was, I didn’t like it.

  Something about a church....

  I must have lain there on the bed for some time, just staring up at the ceiling. Totally exhausted but too scared to sleep.

  Sometime during this fugue I was aware that of something buzzing, vibrating.

  I had no idea where it was coming from, but in the darkness my jacket pocket was lighting up.

  I leant over. It was a small cell phone which I’d never seen before. I flipped it open.

  “Hello?” I said softly.

  The only reply, the sound of interference.

  “Is anyone there?” I asked.

  A voice spoke but it seemed so distant.

  “I can’t hear you. Speak up,” I said.

  But still the voice was so silent.

  “Do you know what time it is? I’m going to hang up.” I went to close the phone but then a voice spoke.

  “William?” A girl’s voice.

  “Who is this?” I looked at the display, a withheld number.

  “Is that you, William?”

  “This isn’t my phone...how did you get this number?”

  “William, why did you do it? Why did you do this to me?”

  I sat up, intrigued but shitting myself nonetheless. “What did I do?”

  There was an almighty scream. I dropped the phone. The scream was chilling, it cut right through me. Blood curdling.

  I scrambled about on the floor searching for the damn thing. It was sitting on the newspaper. I picked them both up.

  “Hello?”

  Only silence – yet the connection wasn’t broken, so I guessed that whoever had made the call was still on the other end, listening.

  I hung on for a moment or two longer, was going to turn the phone off but then that buzzing / interference sound returned before a man’s voice said, “Turn the page over.”

  That was that – the line went dead.

  I had no idea what he meant but looked down at the bed. The newspaper was there. I flipped through the pages. There was the article on the murder of that girl....wait, that was different, some of the words now underlined:

  Lost...are...we...and...are...only...so...far...punished

  I read the words over and over again. I had seen or heard that phrase before but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember where or when.

  I went over and double-locked the door, just in case. This was really freaking me out. I was being targeted. These weren’t random acts, they were all connected somehow, all connected to me – but what had I done to deserve this?

  I continued to play with the phone, tried to see if I could discover who had rung me or whose phone it was but there were no numbers stored, no messages recorded. I guessed anyone could have slipped it into my pocket, either in the restaurant, or maybe the bar, even on the street, anywhere in fact.

  My mind was overheating, working overtime, supposing this, supposing that.

  Perhaps it could have just been mistaken identity? No, they knew my name...maybe someone’s idea of a joke? A bad joke for sure and one that I didn’t find funny – though that didn’t explain the dead man in the restaurant...

  ...I pulled up the sheet. I felt very tired, needed to sleep.

  It came quickly.

  I saw someone screaming.

  *

  It was almost lunchtime by the time I woke up.

  I was sitting on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. I felt worse than before, like I’d gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer, that I hadn’t slept at all. My body felt like jelly and my senses were all over the place.

  “Fuck!” I looked down at myself.

  My chest and shorts were covered in blood – dried, congealed blood. Where had that come from? I guessed the old man, but surely I hadn’t gone onto the tavern like that? Also – why hadn’t I noticed when I’d got into bed?

  On the floor was my key card. I picked it up, threw it onto the bedside locker, only to see that there was one already lying there. That didn’t make sense, I could have sworn...

  ...I told myself not to think too hard, too quickly.

  Whatever sleep I had had, hadn’t done much for my headache. There was something about my dreams recently (since the accident in fact) which were beginning to unnerve me; so real, lifelike. A church, someone in pain, someone screaming in agony.

  They were starting to depress me and what with all this other weirdness, I felt very low, sad, lonely almost. I began to wonder what the hell I was doing in this city. Perhaps it was time to cut my losses and run.

  There was a knock at the door. I looked up.

  “Yeah?” I called.

  I thought I heard some whispering. A man’s voice asked, “Mr Kennedy?”

  “What is it?”

  “Open the door please.” A command, not a question.

  I threw on a T-shirt and pair of jeans, looked around at the carnage (I should have tidied up last night), headed to the door. “What do you want?”

  “It is the Police. Mr Kennedy, please open the door.”

  I mentally counted to ten and slowly opened it, keeping it ajar.

  “What is this about?”

  Two men were standing there, one probably in his sixties, the other was much younger and more heavyset; he definitely meant business.

  “Mr Kennedy? Mr William Kennedy?” the older man asked.

  I nodded. “Sure.”

  “Do you mind if we come in?” Again, not really a question.

  “Excuse the mess.” I moved out of the way, they pushed past me into the room. I closed the door.

  “You’ve been having a party?”

  “No. But I was going to speak to you about that.”

  The older man looked disinterested but enquired. “Yes?”

  “I think I was burgled yesterday. They made a right mess of the place, as you can see.”

  “And you’ve reported this?”

  “No.” I paused. “Only now.”

  “I see.” He didn’t bother saying anything else.

  “Anyway, what do you want?” I enquired.

  Still the burly man didn’t speak, but the older man reached inside his jacket, pulled out some photographs, flicked through them, found a small black and white one – handed it to me.

  “Do you know that young lady?” It was the girl from the newspaper.

  “No,” I quickly replied.

  “No?”

  “Well, not really. I believe I met her in a bar a few nights back. She gave me her number, I gave her mine.”

  “And?”

  I shook my head. “That’s about it, I’m afraid. I saw something about it in the paper yesterday.”

  “And you didn’t think about speaking to the police, about coming forward?”

  I thought about what he had said, shrugged. “No, not really, like I say, I didn’t really know her....there was nothing in the local papers about her, what was that?”

  Another photograph. He ignored my question.

  “And what about this one?”

  “Sure.” I played with the photo of Marina in my hand.

  “And how do you know her?”

  “Um, well, I can’t really say.”

  The man looked at me blankly. “You can’t say?”

  “It might not make much sense, I don’t remember meeting her, she turned up at the hotel last night. We had a dinner date.”

  “Yes?”

  “We went to a restaurant not far from here. Umberto’s, do you know it?”

  He shook his head, turned to the other policeman who shrugged. />
  “You were with her all night?”

  “Not all night, but for some time, sure. She then left, I went to a local bar, had a few beers then came back here. That’s about it.”

  It looked like he was weighing up my words very carefully.

  “And you can prove all this?”

  “I guess I can, but why? What’s all this about?”

  There was another look between the two of them, when the burly man stated, “She dead.” His English was obviously not very good.

  I frowned. “I don’t understand, I was only with her last night...she can’t be....”

  There was something familiar about all this, as if I had lived through it before. It was like I knew what he was going to say before he said it.

  “The young lady, she was found earlier this morning. A church. She was trussed up, she had been tortured.”

  I listened but none of this was going in, surely it wasn’t real.

  The burly man took something out of his pocket, gave it the quick once-over and then passed it to me. I knew that they were watching me closely, waiting to judge my reaction but that still didn’t stop me saying “FUCK!”, when I did see it. I immediately turned the photo over, laid it on the bed.

  I wiped a tear from my eye. The quick glance between the two of them did not go unnoticed.

  “Is everything okay Mr Kennedy? Perhaps you need some water?”

  I stood up. “Excuse me a moment will you?”

  The burly man followed me as I headed towards the bathroom. “You want to hold my dick while I take a piss as well?” I sharply said to him, the anger audible in my voice. He didn’t come any further but hovered by the bathroom door.

  Inside, after I closed the door, I knew they were listening, they were probably also having a quick look around. I went to the toilet, tried to go but it just wouldn’t come. I stood there for a couple of moments, tried to take it all in. They shouldn’t have shown me that photograph; that was sick, fucking sick.

  The tears flowed down my face. What monster could have done such a thing? I knew it wasn’t me...and yet....

  ....there was a knock at the door. “Are you okay Mr Kennedy?”

  “I’ll just be a moment.”

  I put myself away. Went to the sink, threw some water on my face, ignored the eyes that were still there on the mirror. This was just getting worse with every passing minute.

  When I came out, the burly man stood by the door, blocking my exit.

  “Are you going to move or are we going to dance like this all day?” I knew he was trying to be intimidating and he was a big lump, but I wasn’t going to let him get the better of me.

  Eventually he moved out the way.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked.

  The older one frowned. The burly man made a noise in the back of his throat.

  “I don’t understand...why would we be arresting you? You’re just helping us with our enquiries.” He smiled. “I have no reason to arrest you.” There was a pregnant pause before he added, “Not yet.”

  I returned the smile but said no more.

  He signalled to his burly partner. They headed to the door. “Don’t leave the country Mr Kennedy, we may have other questions for you.” They went into the corridor, leaving the door open. I slammed it behind them.

  I fell onto the bed. They’d left their photographs. I knocked them to the floor. I didn’t bother taking another look; the images were etched onto my brain.

  I closed my eyes and wondered when the hell this nightmare would ever end.

  *

  “How are you?” the barmaid asked.

  “You know how it is,” I replied.

  She pointed to my face. “Have you been fighting?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  She handed me a napkin. “Your nose, it’s bleeding.”

  “Thanks,” I said, dabbing the underside of my nose. When I looked at it and saw how red it had become, I guessed she was right.

  “I’ll be back in a moment, I’ll have a beer please.”

  I headed down the bar towards the bathroom.

  There, I ran some water, washed my face, tilted back my head, pinched my nose. After five minutes or so, it seemed to stop. There were a couple of droplets in the basin. I rubbed them away.

  I went to leave, to go back into the bar, when I saw that one of the cubicle doors was banging open and shut. I headed over, pushed it open.

  Sitting there was the same old man from the restaurant last night. He was dead. His rotting flesh was falling off his bones. He sat there watching me.

  This couldn’t be happening, this had to be my imagination. I closed my eyes, blinked, opened them.

  “Suffer well,” he whispered, his blue lips smiling.

  My nose started to bleed again. Whatever I did to try and stop it, the blood poured from me, over my hands, onto my clothes, the floor. My soul was killing me.

  “What do you want? I asked.

  He dipped a finger in one of his festering wounds and on the toilet wall he drew an eye. “Lost are we, and we are only so far punished.” He laughed.

  I think there was more, but I didn’t hear it, I fell forward, hitting my head on the open door and then on the bathroom floor.

  “Christ, I’m really sorry about this,” I said, trying to smile but feeling acutely embarrassed.

  “As long as you’re okay?” the barmaid replied.

  “I’m not sure what happened,” I explained. She handed me a tissue. I wiped the blood from my hands. “I think I fainted. I haven’t been feeling my best recently, not sleeping...I’m probably just a little tired, that’s all.”

  She nodded, but I wasn’t sure whether she believed me. I picked up the small whiskey she’d poured for me. “I’m sorry if I made a mess.”

  She rested a hand on my shoulder. “What’s a little spilt blood between friends?”

  I sipped my drink again. “I guess I’d better get going.”

  “You’d better go to the hospital, get yourself checked out. I think you hit your head quite hard.”

  “Cheers.”

  I headed towards the door.

  “Oh and by the way?” she called.

  I turned. “Yes?”

  “There were two police offers looking for you, did you see them?”

  I didn’t bother replying.

  But, I almost fell over again when I was outside. The sun was beaming and I wished I’d brought my sunglasses. I hate the light and it was making my eyes hurt, but that wasn’t what was wrong with me.

  I knew I had to go home, to the States. Enough was enough. Time to get some help.

  The decision was made: back to the hotel, pack my bag and get the fuck out of there. I appreciated what the police had told me but I hadn’t been arrested, they hadn’t taken my passport – they had nothing on me to stop me leaving and they’d probably be glad to see the back of me.

  At the hotel, my head was pounding. I did my best to ignore the girl behind the reception. She was frantically waving her hands at me and trying to tell me something but I wasn’t interested, whatever her warning.

  I stood at the lift door, kept pressing the call button over and over again, but it was out so I headed up the stairs.

  My door was open.

  “Hello?” I called as I went inside. Someone was in the bathroom. I didn’t have a weapon but hoped the element of surprise would deter whoever was trying to rob me.

  I rushed through the bedroom, could hear someone speaking in a language I couldn’t quite grasp, but then quickly realised I was trapped. Someone was standing behind me and everything went black.

  A woman spoke.

  Whatever she was saying was muffled. I could just about hear her but I couldn’t see anything. I was blindfolded. I tried to move my hands and legs but they were bound too tightly.

  Something was in my mouth, gagging me. I couldn’t breathe.

  I tried not to panic but it was difficult not to as I could only breathe out of my nost
rils and they were still blocked from the nosebleed I had suffered earlier.

  I knew I was in a bad place.

  The voices came closer. The blindfold was removed and then the gag. I coughed and spat. Some water was thrown onto my face, a glass put to my lips. I drank as if my life depended upon it and ironically, it probably did.

  It took a couple of moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  “Well, this doesn’t surprise me.” My throat was killing me, my voice was hoarse, but I tried to speak with some gusto.

  That burly policeman slapped me across the face. I spat out a mouthful of blood and I think a bit of one of my teeth.

  “Claude, please,” a woman’s voice commanded.

  I looked over. A woman stood there. She wore a long black evening dress and gloves, overdressed.

  “Claude please,” I mocked. He went to hit me again but a hand grabbed his fist. It was the other policeman, if indeed they were policemen. But that I now doubted.

  “Do I know you?” I asked.

  She laughed. “We and you go back, you could say that.”

  “Okay.” That was about all I could say.

  We were in a warehouse. Cold. Stone walls. A stained-glass window. This wasn’t a warehouse.

  It was a church.

  Abandoned by the looks of things.

  “Ironic, don’t you think?” she asked, raising her hands. “The church of St-Julien-le-Pauvre, where the great Dante composed lines to his Divine Comedy.” She began to pace. “And sadly yes, it has seen better days.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I replied.

  “I have always loved your sense of humour.” She signalled to Claude. He ran, punched me in the stomach.

  The wind was knocked out of me. I coughed up blood. Had no control over my functions. The piss free-flowed down my legs.

  “Poor child has wet himself,” Claude said in that monotone voice of his.

  There were tears in my eyes. I looked over to the older man. He hadn’t said anything but I could see on his face that he wasn’t happy with the way things were playing out.

  “Lucrezia,” he implored. She turned to him, saw the look on his face, nodded. “Claude, enough.”

  The command obviously infuriated Claude; he did as he was asked but he cracked his knuckles--he was ready to dish out more pain.