by Ryan Casey
And then I punched him again and again and again and with every shout, every cry, every splattering of blood, I felt better.
James Scotts didn’t speak at all during his beating. Which pissed me off, in a way.
“I want you to apologise,” I said.
He looked at me with his swollen, bruised face, still smiling away even though I’d knocked the majority of his teeth out. He looked like some kind of purple monster. Like a nastier Barney the Dinosaur. If that was possible.
I hit him again. Sent his head cracking into the floor. My knuckles ached, my stomach stung, but I was feeling better.
I was avenging Danielle.
Right?
No matter how many times I hit James Scotts, he just kept coming back up. Kept on coming back up with that twisted, messed up toothless grin. Back up with that fucking annoying face that just begged to be smashed to pieces.
“Apologise!” I shouted, hovering my knuckles over his face, the alarm blaring through the hospital, commotion picking up outside. “You owe her that much, you shit.”
He opened his mouth.
And he spat another stringy bout of blood into my face.
“Fu’ you,” he said, struggling to speak properly with no teeth.
I lifted my fist. Got ready to pound them into his face.
And then I saw Danielle. In my mind, I saw Danielle. I saw her smiling as she walked up to Groovy Smoothie. I saw her blonde hair rustling in the wind. I heard her laughter. Smelled her sweet perfume.
“Fu-in slu’,” James Scotts said, spitting away more blood. “Fu-in slu’.”
I could hear him. “Fucking slut,” he was saying. And I wanted to beat him even more for it. Wanted to beat him for all the horrible things he said he’d done to Danielle. Wanted to cause him a world of pain, all for Danielle.
But I saw Danielle reaching for my bruised knuckles. Saw her lowering my hand, telling me to let go.
I heard her whispering me to stop being a macho idiot in my ear.
I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to listen. I wanted to beat him. I wanted to avenge her death.
Let go, Blake. Don’t let him win.
Another spit in my face. Another chuckle. Blood dribbled out of James Scotts’ mouth and all down his bruised cheeks, onto the floor.
Let him go.
I stood up. Took a deep breath. Felt my pulse easing off, steadying.
My hand, which stung like mad, was by my side. I was still standing over James Scotts, who was almost recognisable, but I had no desire to kill him, not anymore.
Because Danielle wouldn’t have wanted me to kill him. She’d want me to go back to Groovy Smoothie. She’d want me to drink a few pints in her honour at her funeral. She’d want me to be my stupid, clumsy, grumpy old self.
She wouldn’t want me to be a murderer.
I stood up. Wiped my knuckles on my shirt. Walked over to the toilet door, opened it up to find a crowd of people outside.
“He’s in here,” I said.
“Cowark!” James Scotts shouted, still struggling without his teeth. “Fu-in cowark!”
I turned around. Looked at him lying on the bathroom floor in a pool of his own blood, all alone.
“I’m not the coward,” I said. “A coward would’ve beat you into a pulp instead of rising above it. A coward would’ve taken the short term solution rather than the long term one. A coward would’ve given you what you wanted and put you out of your miserable little existence. Enjoy prison, you attention seeking piece of shit. Enjoy prison while I get on with my life. Enjoy the thought of me smiling again. Enjoy the thought of losing your little game. I hope they treat you nicely in there. You’re nothing.”
I stepped out of the way as a team of security guards and police officers approached. They barely even looked at me, despite my bloody knuckles and trousers. I just pointed inside the bathroom and they flooded in.
I stared into James Scotts’ eyes. Stared with all the hate in the world.
As the police officers lifted him off the floor, I swore for a split second I saw his smile falter, saw a twinge of fear in his eyes.
I knew at that moment that I’d made the right decision.
I knew at that moment, I’d won.
FORTY-FOUR
When they slam James Scotts’ cell door shut, he is relieved for a bit of peace.
His cell is windowless. All white, tiled walls. A little mattress thinner than a starving African kid on the floor. By the side of the bed, barely three steps away, a toilet. The seat is covered in damp, brown stains filling the bowl.
He sighs, sits on his mattress and leans back against the white tiled wall.
He can still hear the cries of his cellmates outside the door. Still hear them, all these nut cases, going crazy at one another. It’s a sound that will grate on him, sure. But it’s also a sound that will remind him he is alive.
And remind him that there are still lives out there to be taken.
He edges to the side. Leans on his pillow. His back aches from the gunshot wounds he acquired on the train stunt. Ah, the train stunt. He smiles. The good days. He’d had a blast that was for sure. A literal blast. Experienced some things people only dreamed about when they let their darkest thoughts, their darkest desires, play out.
He stares up at the white tiled ceiling. Inhales and smells warm piss. A smell he can get used to. A smell that reminds him of all the women he has killed. Of all the times they pissed themselves before, during, after they died.
And then he thinks of the smell of piss in that hospital staff toilet.
The staff toilet where Blake Dent won.
He tenses up when he thinks in those terms. Because yes, Blake Dent might’ve got the better of him. He might’ve won that battle. And that was highly, highly frustrating.
But he’d still taken things away from Blake Dent. Still taken things away from Blake Dent that he cared about. That was a mini-victory. A fair end result.
1-1, if it were a football match.
He closes his eyes. Listens to the crazy voices of the inmates. Feels the hard floor under the mattress digging into his back, and enjoys the peace.
He has all the time in the world to plan his next project.
All the time in the world to work on his next masterpiece.
And a prison full of crazies to audition for his lead roles.
He smiles.
FORTY-FIVE
I stood at the back of the church while Danielle’s sister read out some stuff about her life.
I didn’t like churches. Didn’t like that woody smell about them, or that feeling that you couldn’t even have a dirty thought without pissing off God.
Granted, on the day of my girlfriend’s funeral, I wasn’t having many dirty thoughts.
I was alone in the back row. The priest at the front of the church was reading out words, and then people were singing, but it was all jumbled up to me. I wasn’t processing a thing.
I was just thinking of Danielle. Thinking of the good times we’d had together, trying to stay happy for her.
It had been four days since James Scotts’ arrest. Since I’d walked away from his bruised, beaten-to-a-pulp body and left the police to deal with him. And I was still convincing myself that I’d done the right thing by not killing him. Sometimes, my mind taunted me—told me I was weak, told me I should’ve ended his shitty existence on that bathroom floor.
But I was just a guy who ran a smoothie stall. I wasn’t a murderer.
Okay. I might have killed in the past, if the job required it, or if I just felt a little pissed off. But I wasn’t a revenge killer.
James Scotts was rotting away in his cell now. The papers had moved on. Kids were talking about someone else—the next big news story—on social media. His time in the limelight was over.
That was the real victory. Because the spotlight was the very thing that attention-seeking bastard craved the most.
James Scotts was a nobody again.
After
the hymns were read out, the coffin was carried outside. I kept my head down as the men carrying it passed. As Danielle’s dad, with his bald head, walked by with tears down his cheeks. With him were her ear-ringed brother, Peter, her spiky-haired friend, Elise. I knew I should be there with them. I knew I should be helping carry Danielle, because she was the number one person in my life.
But I simply wasn’t ready to forgive myself just yet.
I followed the crowd out of the church, into the yard, where birds sang from the top of headstones, and where the breeze pushed the smells of the countryside—cow’s arse—over the crowd. I stood beside the open grave. Stood beside, as the priest said some more things. More things I couldn’t quite wrap my head around.
And I watched as Danielle’s coffin descended into the ground.
It was about that point, surrounded by crying, whimpering people that a smile worked its way up my face.
I knew it was wrong. Made my cheeks bloody rush, too. But I had a memory. A memory of Danielle joking once about her funeral—saying that she wanted to be buried with her iPod playing, as well as a charger and an electrical supply. Something to keep the worms entertained, she’d said.
I never had given her that iPod. She’d be bloody furious with me.
I looked up at the crowd. Looked at them, all dressed in black, hoping my checkered black and grey shirt wasn’t too casual. I took in a shaky deep breath. Watched the leaves tumble on the branches of trees as the wind brushed against them, and let a warmth inside me grow.
A warmth that I usually only got when I was in my pants with nachos and PS4.
Danielle had made me happy. She’d been a little spark of light in my life. She’d made me realise I could love. I could be loved. I could commit.
And although Danielle was over now, I knew commitment wasn’t.
I knew I could, one day, move on.
I gulped down the lump in my throat and looked back across the crowd, over to the road and the pub opposite the church, cashing in on grievers drowning their sorrows.
By the gates, I saw Martha and Lenny.
Lenny was, for some reason, wearing a black top hat with the rest of his black gear, including black shorts. He looked frigging Amish. He nodded at me. Nodded in that “Poor bastard” way.
But hey. Nice of him to come.
I nodded back.
And then I looked at Martha.
She was dressed all in black too. Black trousers, a black blazer, even a black shirt underneath. I looked into her eyes and I saw guilt, still. Guilt, for what had happened to Danielle. Guilt, for phoning the police when I was captive in James Scotts’ weird little lair.
Guilt for ending Danielle’s life, in her eyes.
I smiled at her. Nodded my head.
She lifted a tissue to her eye. Wiped away some of her drifting mascara. Smiled back.
I couldn’t blame Martha. Martha was only trying to help. She was trying to save me and Danielle. And God knows what might’ve happened if she hadn’t called the police at all. Would James Scotts—Hose—really have spared Danielle’s life?
“Thanks for coming, Blake.”
The voice came from my left. Female voice. I turned and saw Patricia, Danielle’s mum, standing opposite. Naturally, tears filled her eyes, but she looked genuinely happy to see me. Beside her, there was an old woman with dark curly hair and a round face. She half-smiled at me too, like I was some kind of disabled animal.
“I… Yeah,” I said. My cheeks heated up. I wasn’t quite sure what to say to a grieving mother at her daughter’s funeral. “Sorry, for… for Danielle. I—”
“She always said you were a grumpy sod,” Patricia said. “Said you’d never willingly stand up and give a speech, anything like that. Prefers the shadows, she said. I guess she was right.”
I scratched the back of my neck. Smiled awkwardly, although I wasn’t sure that was the right move. “Right.”
Patricia reached into her handbag as the crowd started to move away from the grave and back towards the church.
“She… she left something with me. One of her first dates with you. I think… I think she’d have wanted you to keep it.”
I tensed up inside. Wondered what the hell it might be, as Patricia fumbled away in her handbag. Used Johnny was the first thing that came to mind, but that was a horrible assumption. Sorry, God. Cleanse me of my dirty, terrible thoughts.
Fortunately, Patricia didn’t pull out a used Johnny from her handbag.
But it made me churn up inside way more.
It was an origami swan. An origami swan made out of a Groovy Smoothie drinks carton. I’d made it for her one of the first times we’d met. She wanted to know what I was good at, and I didn’t have a frigging clue what I was good at so I just made a load of origami. Weirdly, she kind of liked it.
Patricia placed it in my hands. Patted her palm on my closed fingers.
“You’re a good man, Blake. Keep this close to you. Keep her close to you. And when you’re ready to… to let go, then you know what to do.”
Patricia smiled at me. I thought her face was blurring like in some weird dream, and then I realised my eyes were filling up.
I nodded. “I know what to do,” I said.
“Well,” Patricia said. She looked over my shoulder at the crowd of people moving on to the pub opposite. “Looks like everyone’s ready to get drunk now. You coming along for a…?”
I shook my head. “Nah, I… I’ve some things to do. But thanks. I’ll, er. I’ll see you around.”
We held eyes for a few seconds. “Yes,” Patricia said. “See… see you around.”
She walked past me, and it was just me and Danielle’s grave.
I knew for a fact that I would never be seeing Patricia again, around or anything.
I felt my heart pounding, the wind getting heavier. The churchyard was almost completely silent now. And opposite me was Danielle’s grave, still open, no one beside her.
I walked over to it. Walked over, my legs like jelly. I felt alone. Well, not completely. I felt like Danielle was here with me, as I rubbed the origami swan in my hand. I felt like she was with me, as I crouched beside the grave, looked down at the dark wood.
I rubbed my tongue across my lips. Tasted the plaque that I’d have to definitely cover up with some kind of menthol treat later. I stared at the wooden coffin. Stared at the golden emblem on top.
“Here with you, Dani. Always here with you.”
And then I held my hand over the grave. Held the origami swan over it, ready to let go, ready to let my commitment drift away down an imaginary lake.
Then I thought about my responsibilities. My qualities. I was a good bounty hunter. A bloody good private investigator. And I was a ruddy good person—that’s what Danielle had made me realise.
She’d made me realise I could commit.
She’d made me realise that commitment, fighting to the bitter end for what was right, was the only way to go.
I let the origami swan loosen between my fingers. Felt it blowing, fluttering, in the wind.
And then I brought it back from the edge of the grave.
“God bless you, if he’s even bloody up there,” I said.
I stood up. Took a deep breath of the pongy country air. Enjoyed my final moments with Danielle.
I could commit. I could be a good bounty hunter. A good PI. A good person.
Danielle had made me realise that.
I loved her for that.
I took one final look at Danielle’s coffin. Wiped a tear from my face.
And then I walked away, into the sunlight, into the rest of my life.
The origami swan fluttered between my fingers.
What Next for Blake Dent?
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About the Author
Ryan Casey is an author of suspense thrillers. He incorporates elements of horror, science fiction, mystery and satire in various works. He has written seven novels, a long-running serial, and several novellas and short stories. Across all genres, Casey is renowned for his dark, page-turning suspense, his unforgettable characters, and his knockout twists. His work includes the best selling Dead Days horror serial, the Brian McDone mysteries, Sinkers, The Hunger, Killing Freedom, What We Saw, The Watching, She Remembers, Something in the Cellar and Silhouette.
Casey lives in the United Kingdom. He has a BA degree in English with Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham, and has been writing stories for as long as he can remember. In his spare time, he enjoys American serial television, is a slave to Pitchfork’s Best New Music section, and wastes far too much of his life playing Football Manager games.
For more information, visit ryancaseybooks.com
About this Book
Things are good for Blake Dent, part-time bounty hunter and smoothie stall owner. His business has sky-rocketed. His personal life is in order. And most importantly, he has a posh new apartment stacked with expensive gadgets and technology. Life couldn’t be better.
But things take a drastic turn when the police receive several horrifying snuff tapes from a sick serial killer called “Hose”. And when Blake chooses not to aid the police, swearing to protect those he cares about, his worst nightmares are realised.
Now, Blake is thrown into a dramatic race against time to save everything he cares about. But “Hose” is clever. Intelligent. And Blake must play by his deranged rules if he ever stands a chance of leading a normal life…
Cucumber Coolie contains more of the same witty humour and biting satire as Bubblegum Smoothie, and the thrilling mystery is darker and bloodier than ever before. This is the second book in the Blake Dent Mystery series from Ryan Casey, author of the Brian McDone books, and the most suspense-packed yet.
