The Dark Place

by Sam Millar

  “Glad you like it,” said Beverly. “I’ve been drinking it for years. Imported. Slightly expensive, but really worth it.”

  Karl took another sip, longer this time. “I was wondering if I could have a look in Martina’s room, to see if there are any clues to her state of mind before she left.”

  “Oh, the room was vacated weeks ago. It’s been repainted,” replied Beverly. “Actually, we have a new resident in that room, now.”

  “What about Martina’s possessions? What happened to them?”

  “That will be all for now, Alison,” said Beverly, once her delicate-looking cup had been filled.

  Alison nodded, quickly leaving the room.

  “Martina didn’t have many possessions, Karl,” continued Beverly. “One black bin liner, if I recall correctly. We held it for as long as we could, but when no one came to collect it, we had to dump it. Her so-called caring sister couldn’t even be bothered to come by and collect it. We don’t have a lot of room, Karl, and can’t keep things in storage indefinitely. I’m sure you understand?”

  Karl nodded, before taking another large sip of the fine coffee.

  The next forty-five minutes were spent on small talk. Beverly, Karl soon realised, was as much of an expert on being evasive as he was on being intrusive.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to hit the road,” said a defeated Karl, standing, but not before finishing the coffee.

  “I’m sorry it’s been a wasted journey for you,” smiled Beverly, standing also, extending her hand.

  “I don’t think any journey is ever wasted – provided you finish it,” said Karl, returning the smile while shaking the outstretched hand. “Good day, Beverly. It was nice meeting you. And thanks for the lovely coffee.”

  Outside the office, Karl pressed for the lift. Listened to the gears growling in the housing. A few seconds later, the lift door opened, revealing Alison.

  “Thank you for the lovely coffee, Alison. It was –”

  Alison thrust something into his hand before rushing onwards towards Beverly’s office, never looking back.

  Karl could see Beverly Thompson staring at him from her office window, wearing a painted smile. Alison quickly entered and began collecting the tray and its contents.

  Stepping into the lift, Karl waited until the door closed before glancing at the item in his hand. A note. Badly scrawled handwriting. He balled it quickly in his fist, seconds before the door opened, revealing Peter Lorre.

  “Miss Thompson says you are to stay here, sir, in the lobby. She’s coming right down. Needs to see you urgently.”

  Stepping out, Karl listened to the lift ascending.

  Shit! Beverly must’ve spotted Alison’s clumsy sleight of hand! Karl tightened his grip on the note. Wondered how to dispense of it, unseen by Peter Lorre.

  The lift began descending. Peter Lorre refused to take his eyes off Karl.

  Do the old cough trick. Hurry! Swallow it!

  As he was about to bring his hand up to his mouth, Beverly Thompson suddenly stepped out of the lift and handed him a small package.

  “Rio,” she said, smiling.

  “Pardon?”

  “Rio coffee. I had a spare package of it in one of my cupboards. Enjoy.”

  Before he could thank her, she was gone, back into the lift, humming like a busy bee.

  Outside, Karl allowed a breeze to cool his hot face. The package of coffee felt heavy in his right hand. The note in his left hand felt a lot heavier.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “… there was about him a suggestion of lurking ferocity, as though the Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.”

  Jack London, White Fang

  “Cleanliness is next to godliness. Always remember that, Martina,” he sang, setting her down on the slick black tiles, before adjusting the showerhead so that the water sprayed over her filthy and bloodied body.

  Martina sat terrified with knees huddled against her chest until he gently pried her legs apart to soap that most private area.

  Finishing ten minutes later, he turned the water off. There was nothing but quietness, interrupted only by her heavy breathing.

  “Good. Almost new again,” he said, smiling, scooping her effortlessly off the floor. “You really wouldn’t recognise yourself. All that weight you’ve put on instead of that horrible skinny frame you existed in. And spotless! My! Remember when you first came here, infested with fleas and lice? And that horrible stench of unwashed flesh and raggedy clothes? Now look at you. Practically reborn!” he exclaimed, burying his head in her wet hair, sniffing like a curious dog. “You smell so beautiful when you’ve washed. Yes you do do do!”

  Martina tried speaking. Her mouth began leaking sounds, but the words dropping from it were like dull coins, as if she couldn’t remember how to form language.

  Gently, he placed her on top of a steel table. It was freezing. It chilled her immediately. She began shivering. Leather straps tightened themselves around her, like tentacles.

  “Soon have you nice and warm. But first, there are a few more hurdles we must get over.”

  From a large plastic container, he scooped up a handful of items and sprinkled them about her body.

  Leeches.

  She tried to scream, but nothing came.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” said his voice hovering over her, his fingers dropping more leeches on to her body. “These are your friends, helping to eat all the bad flesh. Leeches get dreadful press. People associate them with death, not knowing they can be life savers, if guided correctly.” He continued placing the leeches strategically across her body. “That was very silly of you, trying to escape, a few days ago. Don’t you know there are only bad things out there, waiting?”

  “Please …” Her teeth began rattling with the cold. “Jjjjust … just llllet mmmme go … I … I … wwwwon’t say a word … I … I ppppromise …”

  “Don’t try to talk. You’re safe now, my dear. Everything is going to be fine. You must let our little friends do their work.”

  Cupping her neck gently in his arm, he tilted her head slightly, easing a small amount of strange-looking liquid into her bruised mouth. The liquid punched its way to her stomach, staying down only for a few moments before erupting from her busted lips.

  “Easy … easy …” he encouraged. “Don’t try to rush.”

  He tried again, more successful this time.

  “Good. Much better,” he encouraged. “Now relax and let the medicine do its job.”

  Suddenly, her stomach was in turmoil. A sensation of growing pressure started in her gut, stabbing down into her bowels, seething like a geyser.

  “I … I ccccan’t hold … hhhhold it in …”

  “You can and you will!” he hissed, the tone of his voice suddenly changing. “Control is everything … it always brings its rewards … control is god. Repeat that.”

  “Control … cccccontrol is … ggggg … god …”

  “Good! Now, again.”

  Before she could repeat the words, her bowels let go, funnelling everything on to the steel table.

  “Filthy creature!” he shouted, pushing away from the table, a look of revulsion on his face. “Now look what you’ve done! Can’t you even control your own shit!”

  A mixture of shame and relief bit into her as the stench of shit and piss grew.

  “I … ccccouldn’t help myself. Don’t … don’t bbbbbbe angry with mmmmme … Please …” Tears ran freely down her petrified face.

  “Please! Please! Please! Always the please. Now I’ve got to wash you all over again,” he said, shaking his head with disgust. “This time, I won’t be so gentle.”

  Opening a small medicine cabinet, he produced a long silicone tube.

  Her eyes widened with terror.

  “Please … nnnnot that … please … I … I’ll take mmmmy medicine … ppplease …”

  “Shhhh. You must remain quiet and still. It’s only dangerous when you talk. Now, open wide.”

&
nbsp; She thought of resisting, but remembering the last time she was foolish enough to try, quickly relented.

  “That’s better,” he praised. “Nice and wide. Good girl.”

  She felt the greased tube slide down her throat, worming into her stomach. She wanted to vomit, but the tube’s placement made it impossible.

  He began pouring the brown liquid into a funnel attached to the tube’s other end.

  Almost immediately, her stomach began swelling. She could feel the liquid rattling inside. She believed her stomach was about to explode.

  Oh God … oh God … let him kill me … get it over with …

  Ah, much better,” he proclaimed, touching her stomach gently. “Much much better, indeed. You’ve almost reached the golden weight. Soon. Very soon, indeed. Then it’ll all be over, I promise.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Let them be brought to the house of ‘She-who-must-be-obeyed’. Bring forth the men, and let that which they have with them be brought forth also.”

  H. Rider Haggard, She

  Karl revisited the note handed to him this morning by Alison. The young girl’s handwriting was difficult to decipher, but with Naomi’s help and patience, they eventually managed to decode it. Martina, apparently, had been living with a group of homeless people over at Custom House Square, not too far from the hostel. Alison had managed to speak with Martina on a couple of occasions, bringing her some smuggled-out food from the hostel’s kitchen. Ominously, contact stopped when Martina no longer showed at the prearranged meeting place.

  “I’ll be back in about an hour,” said Karl, pocketing the note.

  “Where’re you going?” asked Naomi.

  “To the going place.”

  “Don’t be flippant.”

  “Don’t flipping ask, then,” said Karl, gathering keys and wallet from atop the kitchen counter. “I’m cranky enough in this bastarding heat wave without you cranking me up further.”

  “You’re not serious about going out in the heat?”

  “How about if I wear a clown costume, look less serious?”

  “Didn’t you hear the weather report? The weatherman issued a warning, telling people not to go out unless absolutely necessary,” retorted Naomi, folding her arms impatiently.

  “The weatherman. What would he know about weather? Besides, it is absolutely necessary. Anyway, it’s only over to Custom House and the surrounding area. Probably my dog of a mind chasing after a cat of an idea.”

  “Please be careful.”

  “Am I ever anything other?” he replied, smiling, before kissing her on the lips. “Did I tell you Peter Mullan is doing a book signing at Eason’s, Donegal Place, this Wednesday?”

  “Who’s Peter Mullan?”

  “Who’s Peter Mullan, she asks. That proves you never listen to me. Peter Mullan has had about six bestsellers, to date. Three of them have been made into movies.”

  “That’s great. But I don’t remember you ever reading any of his books.”

  “Er … well, they’re not exactly my sort of book, to be honest.”

  “Why the big interest if you haven’t even read any of his stuff?”

  “Because Peter and yours truly went to the same school when we were kids. I’m going to ask him to have a look at my manuscript, see if he’ll do a blurb for it. That could go a long way to getting the manuscript accepted by potential publishers.”

  “That’s great, Karl!” exclaimed Naomi, giving him a full kiss on the lips. “I have a feeling this will be your year for publication. Honestly, I do. You’re going to prove all those silly rejection slips wrong.”

  “I love the way your eyes light up when you fib, but I love you anyway. See you in a couple of hours.”

  “Oh! In case I forget, there’s a do on at Billy Holiday’s for Ivana’s birthday, Friday night. We’ll have to get her something.”

  “I’m not really in the mood for any party.”

  “I promised her that we’d be there. She’s expecting us. We can’t let her down. How much money do you have? I’m going to buy her something nice.”

  “Won’t a bottle of cheap wine from Tesco and a card from Oxfam suffice?”

  Smiling, Naomi held out a hand, chanting, “Give, give, give, give, give.”

  “Okay, okay. No need to rip the arse out of it,” said Karl, reluctantly producing his wallet before removing two twenties.

  “I’ll need a bit more than that. I saw a lovely necklace in Lunn’s. It cost two hundred.”

  “Two …? Are you out of your head, Naomi? It’s Ivana’s birthday, not Elizabeth bloody Taylor’s.”

  “Stop your moaning. She’s my best friend. She was the one who looked after me and gave me shelter when I first came to Belfast, way before you came on the scene. Just give me another two twenties and I’ll put the rest to it.”

  “Bloody rent due at the end of the month,” muttered Karl, surrendering the money, before quickly exiting the room.

  Stepping into Hill Street and the afternoon heat, he immediately felt as if a plastic bag was hugging his face. Hot. Suffocating. Above, the sun was floating on a ghostly haze. He considered the air. It tasted like exhaust vapours. Everywhere he looked, people were sucking on the toxic traffic fumes like stranded fish.

  People said this muggy, claustrophobic weather made Belfastians strange. Sometimes it made them do strange things. Karl’s retort to that sweet idiom was that the people of Belfast didn’t need excuses to do strange things.

  Only supposed to be mad dogs and Englishmen who venture out in this type of madness, thought Karl, wiping his brow with a damp handkerchief as he strolled by the palatial Merchant Hotel in Waring Street. You’re neither, so what the hell are you doing, joining them, you big eejit, getting your loaf toasted by the baking sun?

  Despite it being a mere five-minute walk from where he lived, the oppressive heat was making him exhausted and even crankier than he had been in the apartment. To exacerbate matters further, his sinuses were killing him, making his eyes feel sandpapery each time he blinked out sweat. Thankfully, despite the heat, his haemorrhoids weren’t arsing about.

  Quickly cutting across Victoria Street and into Custom House Square, he spotted a parcel of homeless people shadowed outside an old derelict church, not too far from the impressive Italian Renaissance-style Custom House building. The homeless all looked skinny, lined up against the church walls like pencils in some cheap stationery shop before suddenly disappearing inside out of sight.

  “What an existence,” muttered Karl.

  The abysmal conditions of the homeless in his hometown never failed to shock Karl. He had always believed that their growth had been cultivated by an obscene dichotomy where, a few streets away on the Waterfront, the affluent helped to fill the coffers of corrupt, greasy politicians and city councillors, backing their plans to make the homeless invisible with the help of thugs in and out of uniform.

  To Karl, the old church seemed to be swelling in the heat, casting shadows further down the street. Long gone were its begging tongues and burning candles, but somehow it still infused his atheistically inclined imagination with agonising angels, their alabaster faces all majestically attuned to a vivid tapestry of concrete heaven.

  “Hello? Anyone in?” he asked loudly, tentatively poking his head in through the large, ornate door of the church. “Hello? Anyone –”

  “Get yer big fucking head out of our house!” screamed an intimidating voice, making Karl step backwards quickly.

  A bear of a man appeared from the mouth of the door, his massive face covered by a forest of unruly beard, eyes flat as flint. What skin could be seen was jaundice yellow – matching his sporadic teeth. A bruise as big as an infant’s fist lamp-posted his forehead. The man was wearing history clothes – someone else’s history – with a wine bottle protruding from his pants like a pickpocket’s arm.

  “I … I was wondering if I could ask a few questions?” asked Karl. “It’s about a young girl who’s been missing –”


  “Want to dirty my skin with bruises, punk?” asked the homeless man, motoring unsteadily towards Karl. “Ye better kill me – cuz I’m coming for ye! See? See? Whaddya hear, whaddya sssayyyyy?” Like lightning, the man produced something long and shiny from his coat pocket.

  “Let’s not do anything silly, or hasty, friend,” urged Karl, tracking the man’s eyes, simultaneously watching for any sudden movement from his hand.

  The man growled a howl not unlike a wounded animal. He appeared to be preparing to leap with the weapon in his hand. Karl readied himself.

  “Leave that man alone, John-Jack,” said the voice of another homeless man, suddenly emerging from the doorway of the building. “What’s this stranger done to offend you?” The man had dozens of tiny metal hoops implanted in his ears and some in his nose. His grey hair was a long, ropey ponytail.

  “He’s poking his big nose in, uninvited to our home, that’s what he’s done. Probably trying to steal our grub, Michael,” stated John-Jack, tightening his grip on the item in his hand. “How would he like any of us poking our heads into his kitchen without permission?”

  Karl flashed his palms up, saying, “You’re one hundred per cent correct, John-Jack. My apologies for that. To be honest, I couldn’t see any other way of alerting someone to my presence.”

  “Okay, John-Jack? See? The man apologised. Now, go back in and finish your dinner.”

  Slowly, John-Jack eased back towards the entrance, but not before sticking out his tongue at Karl. The tongue was carpeted in baked bean sauce and sores.

  “He’s harmless,” explained Michael, as John-Jack disappeared out of view. “Just a bit paranoid. One of the risk factors of being homeless.”

  “I wouldn’t call brandishing a knife harmless.”

  “Knife? Oh … you mean this?” replied Michael, producing the offending item: a piece of sagging rubber wrapped in tinfoil.

  Karl felt quite foolish.

  “It looked so real …”