Bloodstorm

by Sam Millar

  “Let me see it,” said Naomi, holding out her hand. She studied the screen.

  “What does it say?”

  “Probably just a wind-up call …”

  “What does it say?” repeated Karl, trying to control his agitation.

  “Dog injured? Think! You, Brown and your girlfriend? Time is running out. Do something now, before it’s too late …”

  Ice formed in Karl’s stomach, but he kept his face expressionless. “Right. That does it. Tomorrow, I’m getting a new phone. This bastard is doing my head in.”

  “Perhaps you should try and get Wilson to try and put a trace on it? That way it would give us both a peace of mind. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s a good idea. I should have thought of it before,” he replied, not telling her that Wilson would probably be the last person he would ask. He couldn’t help but notice now how pale she looked, considering she had been in a tanning booth most of the morning. It worried him terribly. “How are you holding up?”

  “What?”

  “With all this nonsense.”

  “Fine. Why are you asking?” Her forehead lined slightly.

  “Listen. I’ve been doing a bit of thinking, Naomi. I’ve made arrangements for you to stay with a family friend of mine, down in Dublin. Just until all this shit blows over. We can leave any time you’re ready.”

  “That’s nice of you. Say hello to your family friend for me, when you meet.”

  “Naomi –”

  “I don’t know which is the bigger insult. I’m a Donegal woman and you’re asking me to hide in Dublin, or that you have the audacity to ask a member of the Kirkpatrick clan to run. The Kirkpatrick clan never ran from anything. Do you really think I’m going to start now?”

  “Don’t be stupid. This isn’t a pride thing. It’s about maniacs running about with guns. You witnessed firsthand what they are capable of doing.”

  Naomi’s facial expression did not change, only the pitch of her voice. “Don’t ever make the mistake of calling me stupid, Karl. And don’t dare raise your voice. You raise your voice to me and you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

  “Stay, then,” he answered with a sigh reeking of inevitability. He did not try to change her mind any further. What could he say? She was in one of those moods when rationality was beyond her, where everything was emotion.

  “Thanks for caring,” said Naomi, calming down a minute later, kissing Karl on the cheek. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to run a bath. Want to join me?”

  “You’re lucky I’m beat, otherwise I’d call your bluff and take you up on your offer. Go on. Enjoy. I like it when you’re all nice and squeaky clean.” He gave her a playful slap on the arse.

  “Won’t be long,” she said, leaving the room, wiggling her hips.

  “Tease …”

  Karl waited until he heard the taps running, before making his way up to the loft.

  Switching the light on in the loft, he shielded his eyes from the glaring naked bulb dangling from a bent nail like a hangman’s noose. The entire area was a DIY nightmare, emphasised by poor basic maintenance. It was a catastrophe waiting to happen.

  Gingerly making his way across the floor, his stomach suddenly began to feel queasy. The belief that at any moment he would go crashing through into the bedroom below, breaking his neck, saddled his thoughts.

  Two heart-stopping minutes later, he leaned against the far wall, quickly trying to regain his composure before reaching into a small alcove hidden perfectly within the wall’s face. Carefully, he extracted an old metal biscuit tin from within, destroying thick webbing in the process. The tin’s lid had a coating of dust. He resisted the urge to blow it away.

  Staring at the box for over a minute, before opening it, Karl now knew that the personal debate was gone. Open it. Get it over with.

  The lid opened with some effort, exposing a gathering of rags. Slowly unwrapping the rags, the hidden item began to materialise in Karl’s hand.

  The gun’s metal was freezing. It made him colder than what he naturally should have been. It disturbed him, the gun. Somehow it seemed to have grown since he had taken ownership of it many years ago.

  Fifteen minutes later, emerging from his trip to the loft, he quickly entered the bedroom, believing Naomi to be still in the bath.

  “Karl! You’re covered in webs and dust. What on earth were you doing up there? And what on earth are you doing with that filthy tin?” asked Naomi, placing a paperback down on the bed.

  “Just checking an old file about an ex-client,” replied Karl, almost dropping the biscuit tin. “This was one of my early cases, before I even had an office.”

  “You look shaken. Are you okay?”

  “Damn floor. Almost went through it.”

  “Would you like me to run a bath, get all that dust off you?” asked Naomi, smiling.

  “Perhaps when I return. I’ve got to go out, but I’ll be back in a short while.”

  Suddenly, Naomi’s face looked troubled. “In this weather and time of night? What’s wrong?”

  Kissing her tenderly on the lips, he replied, “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “I asked you what’s wrong,” repeated Naomi, easing out of the bed. “You don’t need to go out. Surely it can wait until tomorrow?”

  “Get back in the bed, and keep it warm for me. I’ll be back shortly. I’ve got to see a man about a dog …”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Monday, 5 March (Night)

  ‘It’s my rule never to lose me temper till it would be dethrimental to keep it.’

  Sean O’Casey, The Plough and the Stars

  KARL HELD THE car’s steering wheel gently while easing into the back street, away from the main entrance to the large, gloomy building with its intimidating glare of industrial edge. In scattered windows of every room, fluorescent lights flickered like forgotten birthday cakes.

  Cutting the engine, he allowed the car to drift down the street, extinguishing the headlights in the process. The filthy rain now falling would mean less people on the streets, and under the cover of darkness, few if any of the building’s occupants would see him entering. Hopefully, most had gone home for the night. There was only one person he was interested in meeting.

  Glancing at his hands, he hated what he saw. They were shaking, despite the warmth flowing from the car’s heater.

  Rummaging through the glove department, he found the crumpled-up pack of Benson & Hedges. Extricating a battered cig, he placed it in his dry mouth before fumbling for a lighter in his coat pocket, only to remember that Naomi had removed all items of temptation from his belongings.

  Frustrated, he spat the cig from his mouth. “Fuck sake!”

  What the fuck are you doing, anyway, out here on your own, scared shitless? Playing out your John Wayne fantasies? Catch yourself on and get back to a warm bed with the woman madly in love with a stupid bastard. Go on. Turn back now, before it’s too late …

  Ignoring all last-minute reasoning and risking everything in pursuit of the imminent danger that was unfolding, he quickly exited the car, feeling a strange momentum hurrying him along while making his way to the side of the building, head down against the relentless beading rain. The wind, strong and gusty, tore up the last layers of thought swimming through his head.

  Upon reaching the skin of the building, bulbous-headed security cameras cranked their necks, slightly. He ignored them, tapping in a combination of numbers on the security keyboard stationed on a large door. Testing the door’s handle, he heard a click not unlike a safe’s tumblers, and to his overwhelming relief – and paradoxical dread – the door opened, inviting him in.

  Once inside, he leaned his back against the door, closed his eyes, and released all the stale, tense air from his lungs. As the seconds passed, he felt something mysteriously raw swelling in him. Adrenaline? Madness? No going back now, you stupid bastard.

  His fear began touching everything. Dark notions prowled his thoughts. He thought he
saw things. Movements in all corners. Things projected on the acne-scarred walls.

  Touching the side of his wet coat nervously, he checked that the gun was still there, as if some nightly pickpocket may have worked his trade on him, leaving him defenceless.

  The building’s intestines housed a sturdy wide-body of black metal stairs ten floors high. Proceeding upwards, he took the stairs silently, halting on each landing just to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  He rested on the second floor landing, catching his second wind. Bar his laboured breathing, all was quiet. Thankfully, most of the occupants seemed to have gone home, but that didn’t prevent him sweating. The smell of rain on his coat stank like unwashed dogs. The smell made him feel terribly alone and troubled.

  Moving upward to the third floor, he halted at the door, listening to the nothingness of white noise from within: aging fluorescent tubes crackling; computers humming dully; the stuttering of a soft drinks machine on its last legs, about to give up the ghost. To Karl, they were nothing more than warnings to be ignored.

  Turning the handle gently, his hand slipped. Too much sweat? Rain? C’mon! Drying his palm on the inside of his coat, he tried again. The handle turned. The door opened slightly.

  Easing inside, he quickly orientated his eyes and allowed retro knowledge to kick in. He had never been on this section of the floor, but a quick turn left, then one more right, found him in familiar territory.

  The office light was dimmed, but not enough that he couldn’t make out the silhouette in the frosted glass. To the far side of the room, someone was working a photocopier. He could see sheets of paper being slowly vomited from the machine’s mouth. A few other heads were slumped at desks, leaning into computer screens and newspapers.

  He stepped stealthily in to the small but adequate office, standing near enough to see the man’s hairs nesting in his ears. The man seemed relaxed, his long legs stretched out on top of a desk. He was doodling in a jotter. A radio was playing Van Morrison, so soft it was barely audible.

  “Hello, Mark. Skiving again?”

  “God!” Wilson almost collapsed from the seat. “Kane! What are you doing here? And what’s all the sneaking about for?”

  “Did your father never tell you that the best way to catch a dog is by the tail, and when it’s sleeping?”

  “What?” A puzzled look appeared on Wilson’s face. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Coffee. Buckets of it. Perhaps that’s why I’m so hyped up. So fucking edgy.” Karl forced a smile. “Old habits die hard with you, don’t they? I suspected that you’d be here, double over-timing yourself.”

  “How did you get in the back entrance?” Wilson looked annoyed and slightly puzzled. “That’s only for selected personnel.”

  “Perhaps one of your own men supplied the info? Or simply that I’ve been coming here for so long, I only have to keep my ears to the ground, listen to all you bucket mouths? Take your pick.”

  Wilson pushed himself from the chair, and stood. His face was flushed. “I think you better hurry up and tell me why you’re here; otherwise, you’ll find yourself downstairs, in one of the cells.”

  “You’re a bit like the school bully, in that respect. Threatening when demanding something.”

  “I’ve had enough of this shite. You’re going downstairs.” Wilson reached to press a button on top of his desk.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Mark,” said Karl. “Your superiors could hear me mumbling in my sleep, talking about murderers roaming the streets of Belfast with impunity.”

  Wilson’s finger froze. His face did a strange movement, as if a sharp pin had been stuck into his ear. “You have been drinking. Haven’t you?”

  “You told me to let you know if I came across any info.”

  “You came in the back entrance to tell me?”

  “Best no one sees me. Don’t want to be labelled a tout. Not too healthy in this town, being a tout. Quite deadly. Isn’t that a fact?”

  A lit cig rested in an ashtray, its nipple glowing teasingly at Karl. What he would give for a good intake of nicotine to help ease his frayed nerves.

  “Well? I’m listening. What do you have for me?” asked Wilson, a slight annoyance mixed in his voice.

  “You told me at the time of Chris Brown’s murder, that neighbours ‘heard that dog of his barking its head off.’ Remember?”

  Wilson’s face knotted slightly. “What of it?”

  “I checked with people living in the street. Not one of them admitted to hearing the dog bark.”

  “You know that neighbourhood. None of them will admit to a stranger that they were talking to cops.”

  “Chris Brown’s dog was a Basenji called Paisley.”

  Wilson shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care if it was a great slobbering Saint Bernard named Gerry Adams. What exactly are you getting at?”

  “Basenji is one of the most ancient dog breeds, originating on the continent of Africa. It has been venerated by humans for thousands of years. Their image can still be seen on steles in the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs. It’s prized for its intelligence, courage, speed, but most importantly its silence.”

  “What?”

  “A Basenji doesn’t bark. That was Chris’s in-joke of calling it Paisley.”

  Wilson slowly sat down. His lips moved, slightly. No words came.

  Karl continued. “Neighbours didn’t alert the police to any barking dog. The only people who alerted the police were the murderers of Chris Brown.”

  “Don’t talk daft. Why would they do that?”

  “This particular brave gang of wankers probably had it all planned, right down to the very last detail. A silencer would take care of the dog in the yard. Dead of night for cover. A paralysed man, sleeping. Shotgun to blow his face off. That would send out a message to any other potential whistleblowers. Perfect. What could possibly go wrong? Be in and out of there in less than five minutes. But as you could probably testify, the best plan usually ends up becoming the plan with the most pitfalls. They weren’t expecting a sleeping, paralysed man to fight back, shoot one of them. How deadly embarrassing did that almost turn out to be?”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “No, of course I’m not. What about the alarm system? How do you explain that?”

  “I don’t know anything about the alarm system, only what I read in the report.”

  “Well, you should have fucking talked to the alarm operator, Protector Incorporated, just like I did. Know what they told me? Chris’s system was very sophisticated, but somehow had been disarmed without even a beep at their headquarters. Somehow, I don’t see your run-of-the-mill drug dealers having the know-how for such a slick job. Do you?”

  Wilson reached his hand across the desk.

  “Don’t!” From his coat, Karl pulled out the gun, pointing it directly at Wilson.

  Wilson’s face paled to eggshell-white. He aged in front of Karl’s eyes. “Easy … easy … I’m just reaching for my cigarettes. Easy … see?” Wilson gripped the cig, and to Karl’s relief, his ex-brother-in-law’s hand was shaking as badly as his own.

  “Just make sure that’s all you reach for.”

  Wilson lit and then sucked on the cig. “I never realised you knew how to use a gun.”

  “I don’t. So I would be very careful about sneezing or farting, if I were you. And here’s a question while you’re being careful: what’s the second biggest evidence type after blood and DNA at any crime scene?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Give up? How about footwear prints? Yes, that’s right. Footwear prints. Yet, no one bothered to take a cast of the perfect prints in Paisley’s shit. There’s no record of any prints being taken, and the day I was there, I noticed the lack of residue from print powder, be it footprints or fingerprints.”

  “What were you doing at Brown’s house? That’s serious business, contaminating a crime scene. I only hope you’re aware of just how serious?”

  �
��Is it as serious as someone sticking a gun in your face?”

  Wilson started to rise from his chair. “Look, Kane, we’re both stressed out. Let’s head over to the Europa for a couple of drinks and –”

  “Sit!”

  Wilson slowly melted back down.

  “Good dog. Oh, and talking of dogs, where’s your faithful hound?”

  “What?”

  “Bulldog. Haven’t seen him about, lately. Normally, he’s not too far from his master’s voice. Heard he had some sort of accident. Lost a considerable amount of blood, according to the rumours.”

  Wilson face turned as grey as the ash capping his cig. His mouth looked soupy with saliva.

  “You better leave now. While you can. Listening to rumours can be very detrimental to your health. There’s only so much shelter I can give you.”

  Karl reached and gently removed the trapped cig from between Wilson’s clamp-like fingers. Flicking the ash onto Wilson shirt, he inhaled the cig. A few seconds later, he hammed a cough.

  “Naomi was right. These are filthy, disgusting things, leaving a bad taste in your mouth.” He let the glowing cig tumble from his fingers, onto Wilson’s crotch.

  “You maniac!” hissed Wilson, jumping Jack-in-the-Box style, quickly brushing the sparking menace away.

  “That’s right. I am a maniac. Kuckoo Kane is insane in the Membrane. So if I were you, I’d be very careful.”

  “Okay, Kane … let’s just take a breather. So far, no harm has been done. You’ve been under a terrible lot of stress lately. This is all understandable. Why don’t –”

  “Why don’t you just zip it, and pay attention for once? Probably the gang’s initial plan was that once they had carried out their grisly deed, they would set about securing their chief objective: finding the rumoured manuscript with details of murders and corruption sanctioned by certain members of the police force. Problem one: their mate is shot, blood pouring all over the place. They can’t take the chance of him being found at the scene. How could they explain that? They decide to bring in more of their mates. Search the premises, all nice and official. Problem two: the Keystone gang can’t find what they are searching for. Panic. Where the fuck is it? Perhaps that fuck of a private investigator has it?”