by Sam Millar
“I was thinking of a place near me.”
“This is a place near me, so stop thinking. Anyway, where did you get all those marks on your face? Have you been fighting again with Billy Gorman? How many times must I tell you if you want to fight, join a boxing club?”
“I wasn’t fighting, Dad. It was a bit of a car crash, an accident. It was nothing serious.”
“A car crash … dear lord. How … did someone hit you when you were walking to school?”
“No, I was driving.”
“Driving? You’re driving me crazy, that’s what you’re doing. What on earth are you rambling about? Driving, indeed! You need a good boot up the arse with all those lies. Don’t you want to get into Heaven?”
“You’re right, Dad. I’m sorry. No more lies.”
“Good. See how easy it is to tell the truth? Now, where’s that girlfriend of yours? Lilly. How come she doesn’t bake any more cakes?”
“Girlfriend? Lilly? Naomi, you mean.”
“I don’t know any Naomi. Your girlfriend, I’m on about. The one with the long black hair. Nice looking.”
“Lynne?”
“That’s what I said. Lilly. Why don’t you bring her to visit, anymore?”
“We’re divorced, Dad. Our marriage was over, a long time ago.”
“Marriage? Divorced? What kind of nonsense are you talking? Fifteen years of age and you’re married and divorced! I’ve a good mind to give you a good wallop. Does your mother know the lying you do? And speaking of your mother, she said you’ve been neglecting your homework. Is this true?”
“I’ve been very busy.”
“What kind of excuse is that? You know your mother doesn’t entertain excuses. She believes that excuses only lead to more excuses, and I can’t say I disagree with her.” Cornelius shook his head. “You’ve become very lippy, lately, very disrespectful. It breaks your mother’s heart each time she hears you speak like that.”
Karl sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll try and focus on my homework, Dad. Promise.”
Suddenly a smile emerged from a fog that had been floating over Cornelius’s features. The deep lines in his forehead suddenly receded, the darkened eyes lightened as Cornelius reached and touched Karl’s head, ruffling his hair playfully.
“You’re a good son. The best a mother and father could ever want. Your mother loves you. You know that? She never says it, but she loves you.”
How do you know if she never said it?
“Dad, I need to tell you something.” Karl’s voice seemed to remain stationary in his throat.
A frown suddenly appeared on Cornelius’s face. He slowly curled his fingers, cracking all the knuckles at once, an action known to Karl of seeping apprehension in his father’s body.
“What is it? What have you done now?”
Rain began tapping loudly against the window, a welcome distraction for Karl.
I’ve just killed two men, Dad, and caused the death of a young woman and her mother. The young woman was not unlike myself, her head slightly fucked up because of events she was forced into. Oh, did I mention the Chief Constable? A man probably up to his balls in murder, and that it’s only a matter of time before someone tells him I just might suspect his dark past? Coupled with that, I’ve no one to talk to without fear of seeing them harmed, and it’s slowly crushing me. Can you take all this suffocating pain away? Can you do that, Dad? Can you? Please. Just this once?
“Well? What is it?” reiterated Cornelius, a slight impatience in his voice. “You haven’t gone and got that girl, Lilly, pregnant? Your mother’ll kill you, if you have. Mark my words.”
“No, Lynne’s not pregnant, Dad.”
“Well, that’s something to be grateful for. I always told you it’s okay to look at the flames of the fire, but once you start poking with it, be prepared to get burnt.”
Despite himself, Karl smiled. “I won’t be touching Lynne’s fire, Dad. That’s a promise. Oh, I received a letter from the hospital today. I got the all clear. No cancer, only piles. Isn’t that great?”
“A chancer? Who’s a chancer? Piles? Piles of what? What on earth are you mumbling about?”
“Nothing, Dad. Nothing at all …”
“Bring Lilly over, the next time. I haven’t seen her in a while. Nice girl, that Lilly. Make sure she bakes a cake …” Cornelius’s voice slowly trailed off. From his pocket, he fished the cigarette out, checking its condition before placing it back in his mouth. Seemingly satisfied, he turned his attention to the window; at something only he could see, totally ignoring his son.
The rain became hailstones. They sounded like rocks on the window.
“I’ll see you next Monday, Dad …” said Karl, departing.
* * *
Karl lit the small fire out in the tiny yard directly behind his office. A large cardboard box full of old newspapers waited, and not for the first time did he glance at them, juggling his emotions.
Kneeling, he piled some of the newspapers onto the flames, waiting until they caught, before placing additional copies on top, creating more smoke than flame.
Don’t read any. Burn them. No looking back. Always forward. Remember what happened to Lot’s wife when she looked back?
But the newspaper’s Siren’s call proved more powerful than some old woman being turned into a pillar of salt.
Two young girls found murdered! screamed the headline. A badly aged photo from a school trip showed a group of young girls. From the group, two of the faces were highlighted. Smiling. Shy.
Karl’s stomach tightened. He read the subsequent paragraph.
The two girls, Ann Mullin and Leona Fredrick, both aged eight, were found dead yesterday in a narrow laneway not too far from their respective homes. The girls had been missing for over a day since going on a painted-eggs gathering on Easter Sunday morning. Initial reports said both girls were sexually molested before being murdered. Hardened police officers were said to be shocked at what they saw at the scene of the crime. The murderer used either a knife or some other sharp weapon – possibly a razor – to do his grisly deed. Police have warned parents to keep their children indoors …
Karl released trapped air from his lungs, as if he has just been swimming underwater. He picked up another newspaper, this one dated two weeks after the girls’ murder.
Police have arrested a suspect in the Easter Morning Murders. He was named locally as Walter Arnold. Locals say he was a loner but were shocked to discover that Arnold was actually the notorious Bibendum, a man already suspected of having carried out killings, many years ago. Arnold was found not guilty by reasons of insanity, in the murder of Julia Kane and the attempted murder of her son, Karl …
“Karl?”
Naomi’s voice startled him, forcing him to drop the remaining newspaper.
“You scared the crap out of me,” said Karl, standing.
“What’s with all the burning? The smoke’s everywhere. It’s even getting inside the office.”
“Just clearing out that loft. The junk I’ve accumulated over the years is unbelievable.”
Naomi looked at him strangely. “What is it is, Karl? Something’s bothering you. I can tell. What’s wrong?”
Everything’s wrong. The whole world is wrong. Perhaps if I had killed Arnold one Good Friday night, all those years ago, those little girls would now be alive. But no, not me. Didn’t have the balls …
“Nothing’s wrong, Naomi. Just let me finish here and I’ll be right in. Okay?”
She reached and touched his arm. “You should be happy, after getting the all-clear from the medical report, yesterday.”
“I am. Very happy. If anything, it has given me this incentive to try and remove the past without disturbing the present.” He squeezed her hand gently. “I love you. You know that?”
“Yes. Of course I know it. That’s the only reason I tolerate your behaviour,” smiled Naomi.
“I’m sorry, for yesterday.”
“I’ve already to
ld you that there is nothing to be sorry about. It was understandable, considering the stress you – both of us – have been under.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
“I know,” she smiled. “Try not to be too long.”
“I won’t,” he promised, throwing the remaining newspapers on the welcoming flames. “This is almost finished …”
EPILOGUE
“The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Adonais
SHIFTING TENDRILS OF morning mist drifted over the sodden grass, dissipating as they rose against tiny pockets of heat. Threatening rain clouds hung low-ceiling, sucking the colour out of the surrounding landscape. Everything looked black or brown, with even the grey being squeezed out.
Perfect funeral weather … thought Karl, watching the coffin of Jenny Lewis lowering into the mucky ground. You’re such a great equaliser, Mister Death. No excuse. No bullshit. No questions asked. Simply get on with the job, whether it be prince, pauper or private investigator …
Jenny’s funeral, in contrast to Bulldog’s and Cairns’s yesterday, had tuned out to be a low-key, private affair with only a handful of youthful-looking mourners in attendance. Karl speculated that most were probably friends from Jenny’s student days. Only three police officers were present – Wilson being one of them – and once again the media outnumbered the mourners, this time six to one.
Wilson appeared to be glaring over at Karl, the policeman’s face as pale as the starched shirt he wore, his lips and mouth still badly swollen from the brief encounter with Karl.
Karl held the glare, but was grateful when a photographer stuck a camera into his face, the flash blinding him, briefly.
In the distance, the hurrying figure of Tom Hicks was fast approaching, stumbling as he tried to make his way across the treacherous ground. He had promised to meet up with Karl at the funeral, but time had never been a great guidance for Tom, who was notoriously late for everything.
“You don’t think our little conversation the other day has ended this? It’s only just begun.”
Wilson’s voice caught Karl unaware. It took him a few seconds to absorb the question.
“This isn’t the place or time, Wilson. Can’t you at least show some respect to Jenny in death; respect you never showed when she was alive?”
“You cocky bastard! I’ve had enough of you!” screamed Wilson, lunging at Karl, catching him unprepared. Within seconds, both men were stumbling backwards, slipping in the slick mud, and scarcely missing their heads on protruding headstones.
Wilson struck the first blow, hitting Karl cleanly on the side of the head, reopening the old stitches. Karl’s retaliatory movement came slightly slower but was much more effective with a knee to Wilson’s groin area. Wilson let out a painful moan.
Onto a headline grabber, the camera crews quickly began to surround the scuffling men, both of whom were quickly resembling mud wrestlers.
“You bastard!” shouted Wilson. “You’re going away for a very long time. I know you were up to your neck in the murders of my two men.”
Heaving Wilson to the side, Karl flung himself on top, hurriedly grabbing Wilson by the throat, squeezing tightly on his windpipe. “Bulldog was a walking, talking hand-grenade – with the fucking pin already extracted!” exclaimed Karl. “And fucking Cairns wasn’t too far behind!”
“They were good men!”
“They were fucking scumbags! Now, I want you to listen, very carefully,” hissed Karl, into Wilson’s ear. “You better hope for your own sake that I don’t get arrested for anything, even for a parking ticket. If Jenny Lewis’s body is ever exhumed, they might just find some interesting items.”
“What are you slobbering about?” Wilson’s voice was a croak.
Karl applied some more pressure on the windpipe, fighting the urge to strangle the life out of Wilson. Lowering his voice, Karl said, “Your hairs, traces of your blood in her fingernails.”
“What? What hair? What blood?”
“The hairs were easy enough, but it was a flash of genius which reminded me of our little altercation in your office. Remember, bastard? The blood from your mouth? I wiped it from my hand onto a handkerchief. Now it has found a final resting place. You better pray it’s never disturbed, or that Ian fucking Finnegan gets itchy fingers to come looking for me.”
“You’re bluffing …”
“I never bluff, Mark. You should know that, knowing how crap I am at cards. One thing I have learned from cards, though, is that when you play a cheater, be sure you cheat better than he does. That way, you’ll always come out trumps.”
“You piece of shit! You won’t get away with this.”
“For your sake, I better. Trust me …”
Tom Hicks arrived, just in time to disentangle the two men. He had a concerned face on, with a less-than serious hat roofing it.
“Fine example, both of you. What a disgrace. A mêlée. This is going to look lovely on the six o’clock news. A young woman being buried, after being brutally murdered, and you two looking like dogs fighting over a bone?”
“You’re in on this with him,” accused Wilson, pointing his finger directly into Tom’s face. “I never trusted you, Hicks. It was you who gave that bastard the combination numbers into headquarters. Wasn’t it? Both of you are well matched. I hope you’re willing to sink with him?”
Pushing Tom to the side, Wilson stormed through the bemused media crews, slipping and sliding, cursing under his breath.
“What the hell was that all about?” asked Tom, shaking his head in bewilderment. “And what exactly am I supposed to be in on? Is there something I should know?”
“Nothing. Just Wilson having a shit fit, letting off steam through his arse. Must be all the pressure he’s under, making him paranoid. Anyway, what happened to you? You were supposed to be here over an hour ago,” said Karl, quickly deflecting Tom’s questioning.
“Just as I was about to leave my office, I got called back. The report on one of the murder victims was waiting for me on my desk.”
Murder victims? Jenny? Bulldog and Cairns? Karl tried to sound casual, grateful for the muck camouflaging his worried face. “And?”
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic, whatever you do. One minute you’re up my arse searching for information; now you seem totally indifferent.”
“Touch of the flu coming on. Go ahead.”
“Remember the murder victim killed by phosgene? Joseph Kerr?”
“The cat. Right?”
“Yes, the cat. Well, something weirdly interesting has come back from the lab. Remember I told you that there was a tiny tarnish on the outside of the condom and that I was hoping we could extract some DNA from it?”
“Vaguely.”
“The vagina swabs taken from the condom revealed the same DNA as the victim.”
The words floated in Karl’s head. They kept repeating and repeating. The same DNA as the victim …
“Karl? Did you hear what I just said?”
Horrified at the implications of the words, Karl could only mutter: “What? Are you sure? I mean …”
“Sure I’m sure. One hundred per cent. This is a marvellous breakthrough for us. I know it’s sick, but it has to be a member of the victim’s family. How else can the matching DNA be explained? The police are already gathering up as much information as possible on Kerr’s immediate family. He has two sisters. I’m sure they’ll be taken in for questioning. The newspapers are going to have a field day when this gets out. Incest, a grisly murder … they’ll think they’ve won the lotto.”
Karl sat down on a headstone, fingers pressed to his chest. His heart did this occasionally, stumbled, beating ineffectually. It didn’t happen often, maybe once or twice a month, and it usually just made him momentarily light-headed. Not this time. This time it felt dangerously close to death.
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You poor girl …
“Karl? Are you okay?”
Karl felt his eyes switch out of focus and for a moment he couldn’t remember who this person asking questions was; couldn’t remember why he was sitting on a headstone in some godforsaken graveyard thinking of a young woman gone to her grave not knowing one of the rapists and would-be murderer of her mother would become her biological father.
“Karl? Are you listening?”
“What?”
“I said are you okay?”
Fishing for unspoken words, as if words in-and-of-themselves might contain some element of explanation, Karl finally managed to say, “Light-headed from this flu coming on. That’s all. Why don’t you go on, Tom? I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Are you sure?” Tom’s voice was hesitant. “This isn’t the place or day for flu.”
Karl nodded. “I know, but I’ll just sit here for awhile. You go on.”
Thirty minutes he sat, watching the unenthusiastic gravediggers making the hillock of clay slowly disappear into the grave of Jenny Lewis, before they packed up their tools and also left, leaving the graveyard deserted, except for Karl and the dead.
Pellets of filthy rain began to fall harshly on his head. Wind was everywhere, sending leaves and muck in every direction. Yet he couldn’t find momentum to move.
For Karl, time assumed a scattered quality. Everything looked dark, shapeless, a distilled intensity of things to come. The only sound was the wind overhead, and it was one sound, terrifyingly strong, forcing him to stand.
With purpose, he made his way out of the graveyard, never looking back.
Also by Sam Millar
Fiction
The Darkness of Bones
Dark Souls
The Redemption Factory
The Dark Place
Dead of Winter
Memoir
On the Brinks
Copyright
