The Dark Place

by Sam Millar

  “Do we?”

  “Belfast is becoming so dangerous,” said Naomi, filling a glass with water at the sink before handing it along with two painkillers to Karl.

  A wry smile appeared on Karl’s battered face. “You mean compared to the days when the IRA and British army topped the bill, shooting the hell out of each other? Nowadays, we have Westlife and Boyzone topping the bill at the Waterfront – though to be totally honest, I don’t think they’re much of an improvement.”

  “I’m serious, Karl.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it? Bombs and bullets as an everyday occurrence, and bizarrely we felt safer than we do now with packs of marauding thugs looking to beat the fuck out of any poor bastard in their way.”

  “He had to know you, Karl. This wasn’t random.”

  “Didn’t fool you, eh?”

  “Look. I’ve something to say. Don’t get angry. Okay?” said Naomi, looking slightly uncomfortable. “You know my parents are thinking of retiring soon, don’t you?”

  “You’ve mentioned it,” replied Karl, popping the painkillers into his mouth, followed by a sip of water.

  “Well … we could take over from them.”

  Karl coughed loudly. The painkillers almost popped back out. “Run their motel in Derrybeg?”

  “Why not? You make it sound like a fate worse than death.”

  “Is my name Basil?”

  “What?”

  “Could you imagine me running a motel? It would end up like Fawlty fucking Towers – a complete disaster. Please, don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”

  “No, it wouldn’t be a disaster. You’d be great at it – you’re great at everything you do.”

  “Have you been drinking Bacardi? If getting beat up on a regular basis makes me great, then you’re right – I’m the Einstein of Belfast.”

  “At least I wouldn’t have to worry about you each time you leave, wondering what’s happened when you’re late coming home at night.” Naomi looked away.

  “What on earth are you crying for?”

  “I’m not crying!” proclaimed Naomi, quickly wiping her eyes. “I’m tired. That’s all!”

  “C’mere you,” said Karl, patting the sofa.

  “What?”

  “C’mon. Sit beside me for a wee while. I can feel the kick of those painkillers you gave me. I’ll be asleep in a minute. Sure they were painkillers?”

  Naomi sat down, and Karl pulled her tight to him, kissing her eyes, her nose, mouth.

  “I love you so much,” he said. “If that’s what you want, we’ll pack up and leave this dirty auld town. Whadda ya say, kid?”

  “You wouldn’t be happy.” She began sniffling again. “You love Belfast, no matter how much you moan and complain about it.”

  “Ha! You really have been on the Bacardi, my dear. I hate this old whore with a passion. Love to see the back of her.” Karl stole a glance in the side table mirror and was immediately shocked by the wasted look on his face. Thankfully, the pills were starting to kick in, flattening his feelings.

  I’m cursed to stay here for ever. I’m Belfast born, bred and buttered, were his last thoughts as sleep stole him away.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Everyone lives by selling something.”

  Robert Louis Stevenson, Across the Plains

  “Karl? A Mister Lennon to see you,” said Naomi, standing at the office door.

  Glancing from this morning’s Racing Form, Karl asked, “John or Vladimir?”

  “Pardon?”

  “His name. How’s it spelt? Like one of the Beatles or the communist?”

  “What on earth are you mumbling about?”

  “Nothing. Just showing my age,” replied Karl, sighing. “Show him in.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to seeing anyone? It’s only been a week since the assault. The hospital said it should be a fortnight, at least, before you start doing any sort of work.”

  “In the private investigating business, one week is a fortnight. Perhaps I should take a Polaroid of my face and send it to that decent, all-loving landlord of ours? Think he’ll let us skip rent for a few months until my mug heals? Perhaps he’ll pay the hospital bills while he’s at it?”

  “You can be very ignorant and nasty at times.”

  “Only at times?”

  Seemingly on the verge of a verbal joust, Naomi simply shook her head and walked out of the room, muttering something inaudible under her breath.

  A few seconds later, a stocky, well-built man entered and, sitting down, placed a black leather briefcase on Karl’s desk. The man’s face looked soft and spongy, with big acne holes drilled into his drinker’s plum-coloured nose and ruddy cheeks. His hands were large, with crescents of dirt under his fingernails.

  “Good day, Karl. I’m Stanley Lennon. As in Beatle, to answer your question. How’s it going?” he said with a broad smile, seven o’clock shadow crawling over it like a raw nappy rash.

  “Must get thicker walls installed,” semi-smiled Karl, resenting immediately Lennon’s excessive familiarity.

  “Did you get the name of the driver?” A smell like battery acid kept emanating from Lennon’s mouth, each time he spoke.

  “What driver?” asked Karl, puzzled.

  “The bus driver who did that to your face!” Lennon slapped his legs, grinning, the nappy rash spreading quickly.

  “What exactly is it you want, Mister Lennon?” asked Karl, testily.

  “Stanley. Call me Stanley, Karl. Everyone does.”

  “Okay … Stanley. What can I do for you?”

  Lennon’s smile suddenly relaxed and there was something about the smothering smirk that needled Karl.

  “It’s what I can almost certainly do for you, Karl,” said Lennon, opening the lips of the briefcase. “Do you know what I have in here?”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Karl replied, “Your briefs? If so, I hope they’re clean.”

  “That’s funny. I was told you were funny.”

  “Okay. I give up. What do you have in your briefcase, if not your briefs?”

  “The best painkiller known to man,” replied Lennon, removing five tiny bricks of twenties waist-banded with fat, red elastic bands. “I represent a client wishing to remain anonymous,” said Lennon. “There’s five thousand in twenties, Karl. Count it.”

  “I’ve seen enough movies to know the amount is probably correct. I’ve also seen enough movies to know it isn’t free and usually ends up costing more than its sum,” said Karl, leaning slightly over his desk towards Lennon. “This is the part when the good guy – usually Humphrey Bogart – says whatever you’re selling, pal, I sure as hell ain’t buying.”

  Lennon’s smile widened.

  If his greasy fried egg smile gets any broader, it’ll slip from his face, thought Karl.

  “You don’t have to buy a single thing, Karl. These are free samples. Take away all your debts and pain.”

  “What exactly is it this anonymous client of yours wants?”

  “He wishes you to take a little holiday,” grinned Lennon, winking. “Somewhere sunny and good for your health.”

  “Hmm. I see …” replied Karl, scratching his chin before looking at his watch. “I’m sorry, Stanley, I can’t stand the sun. I’m easily burnt – been burnt quite a few times, truth be told. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve other clients to see. Tell Mister Anonymous that he might be the one taking a holiday soon. A very long holiday.”

  Standing, Lennon returned the bricks to the briefcase, snapping it shut. “For such a street-smart person, you seem rather dumb, Karl. Good day.”

  “Sorry for being so brief, Stanley.”

  Less than a minute later, Naomi appeared at the door.

  “What was all that about?”

  “Just a salesman trying to sell.”

  “What was he selling?”

  “Dirty underwear and uncertainties.”

  “Well, he certainly wants to change that aftershave he wears. Must have bathed in it.” N
aomi waved her hands about, distilling the air. “Phew. What a stink.”

  “Yes, he certainly had a smell of trouble about him,” said Karl, reaching for his haemorrhoids cream. His arse was tingling terribly, just like Spiderman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Be nice to people on your way up because you’ll meet the same people on your way down.”

  Wilson Mizner, The Legendary Mizners

  Stanley Lennon pushed open the door to his Lisburn Road home, shortly after midnight, placing his briefcase on a small mahogany table residing in the hallway. Bending, he retrieved the morning’s mail languishing on the mat. Bills, mostly, mixing with the unbearable wastage of junk.

  “Damn junk mail. They should get a –”

  “Hello, Stanley,” said a voice, emerging from the living room.

  “What the –!”

  The blackjack slipped expertly down the sleeve of Karl’s coat, into his curved fingers. The blow struck Lennon on the side of the head as he turned, sending him spiralling to the ground.

  “My father always said that the mightiest oak can be felled by the tiniest of blades,” said Karl, admiring the jack in his hand while towering over the moaning Lennon. “He obviously wasn’t bullshitting.”

  “Oh,” groaned Lennon, hand instinctively touching the side of his large head.

  “Don’t worry. No leakage of blood – yet.”

  “Kane? Have you … have you gone insane?”

  “You can call me Karl, Stanley. Everyone does. And to answer your question, yes, I’m insane in the membrane,” replied Karl, whacking Lennon again, this time on the shoulder.

  “Argghhhhh! … God the night … You fucking mad bastard!”

  “Language! Didn’t your parents – if you had any – teach you about swearing, you fucking bastard?” Whack! Whack! Whack! Lennon’s legs the target.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”

  “You got everything in reverse, Stanley. The carrot and the stick. You were supposed to offer me the money first; then the beating.”

  “I … I don’t know what you’re fucking blabbering about.”

  “You said this morning that the money in your briefcase would take away my pain. Remember? Well, I kind of like my pain. Over the last few days, I’ve actually grown quite fond of it. Even given it a name. Want to know what I call it?”

  “No. Just keep away from me, you sick bastard.”

  “Can’t-wait-to-find-the-prick-who-done-this-to-my-face-so-that-I-can-kick-the-shit-out-of-him pain,” hissed Karl. “I know it sounds kind of longwinded, but I’m working on an abbreviation.”

  “What … what’s this all about?” Lennon’s anguished face was quickly imploding within itself. “This … fucking pain’s unbelievable.”

  “I never did see the prick who attacked me that night, but he had obviously taken a swim in Brut aftershave. Funny, but isn’t that the same shit you almost suffocated us with in the office this morning? Also, he suffered from halitosis. His breath stank like rotting battery acid. My intuition tells me the attacker wasn’t a kick-in-the-arse off six two, weighing in at about two hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle. Big Coco the Clown shoes, just like the ones you’re wearing right now. Probably had a seven o’clock shadow dripping from his face, and a grin of a paedophile.”

  Lennon’s face tightened. “I wouldn’t sully a man’s reputation by accusing him of being a fucking paedo, Kane.”

  “You’re working for one, scumbag. Want some more information? You used to be a cop. One of the so-called heavy-squad from Glenfield, in Carrickfergus. See? I know everything there is to know about you, Stanley, even have your new home address in Ballymena.” Karl whacked Lennon across the ankles.

  Lennon screamed like a banshee with its hair caught in a mangle.

  “Scream like that again and I’ll stuff a pair of briefs in your mouth, tough guy.” Whack! The left shoulder blade.

  “Ohhhhhhh …” groaned Lennon. “Please … why are you doing this? Money? You want more money?”

  “Listen carefully, Mister Moy Park. You made a trilogy of errors the night you attacked me. Don’t compound them now by lying. Otherwise, I’ll have to get serious,” said Karl, producing the .357 Colt Python before pressing it tight against Lennon’s quickly perspiring forehead.

  “Please … don’t …”

  “I want you to inform Mister Anonymous that I’m coming for him. I know the scumbag murdered Ivana, and I won’t rest until justice is done – one way or the other.” Whack! The back of the neck with the jack.

  Lennon bit down on the sleeve of his coat, groaning, his fingers curling inwards.

  “What’s wrong, tough guy?” asked Karl, perspiring badly, bending on one knee while inspecting his handiwork. “Don’t mind dispensing it, but hate being the recipient?”

  Blood was flowing from Lennon’s mouth. He spat, and a thick wad landed at Karl’s feet. “You better … better kill me, Kane … you bastard …”

  “Oh, I don’t need to kill you, Stanley. Do you know what profession my brother-in-law represents?”

  “He … he’s a cop.”

  “A cop?” Karl laughed. “That’s a bit like saying the pope’s an altar boy. No, my dearest brother-in-law isn’t simply a cop. He’s the chief of fucking detectives, and unfortunately for you, Stanley, my brother-in-law loves me like a brother-in-law. If you want to stay healthy, my advice is to pack all your earthly possessions and get the hell out of Belfast – pronto. Go back to Ballymena or whatever hillbilly town you now reside in.”

  “Fuck you,” moaned Lennon.

  “That’s appreciation for you. Do you know that I had to do everything in my power to stop my brother-in-law sending a couple of his associates to have a less-than-friendly chat with you? Trust me. This is a picnic in Utopia compared to what their chats are like. The River Lagan can be a very lonely place, Stanley, and rats like you gnawing recklessly at mousetrap cheese have only one place to go.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Turning Lennon over, Karl inspected the defeated man’s face. For all his bravado, Lennon appeared edgy, assessing. Karl did not need to be a psychologist to detect, in the face of another, terrified eyes struggling desperately to anticipate what was coming next.

  “You don’t look too bad,” said Karl, menacingly running the warm jack over Lennon’s sweating face. “Just be grateful I don’t leave you the way you left me.”

  He whacked Lennon over the head, for good measure.

  Lennon never saw it coming …

  “Good night, sweetheart,” whispered Karl, standing, before exiting the house.

  Outside, the night air was cool. Soulless. Soundless. Karl walked steadily to the car.

  “You okay?” asked Willie, watching Karl get in.

  Karl nodded. “That was called a transfer of pain.”

  “You did what had to be done. Bet he had no qualms about the beating he gave you. End of story. You’ll not see him again.”

  “I hope you’re right, Willie, my friend,” replied Karl. “Here. Put this in the back.”

  “A briefcase? What’s in it?”

  “My medical expenses,” replied Karl, starting the car. “And briefs.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Frisch weht der Wind, Der Heimat zu, Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du?”

  “Fresh blows the wind, To the homeland, My Irish darling, Where do you linger?”

  Richard Wagner, Tristan und Isolde,

  translated by T.S. Eliot for The Waste Land

  The phone rang just as Karl began pouring some early morning coffee. He hated early calls. They never brought good news. He hesitated before picking up the phone. The incident with Lennon, two nights ago, suddenly flashed in his head, but he erased it quickly, believing Lennon would not want cops poking their noses into his messy business dealings despite the beating.

  “Tom? What’s wrong?”

  “The body of a young girl was washed ashore three nights ago in Scotland, over beside the Mull of Kintyre. Bee
n in the water for some considerable time, apparently. Scottish police believe it’s Martina Ferris. They’ve asked me to send her dental records to confirm it.”

  “Ah shit.”

  “They’ve faxed me photos of the body. I would say it’s her, Karl. The eye wound is prominent in the pictures. I’m sorry.”

  “Did … did they say how she died? Was it an accident? Drowning?”

  There was a momentary silence before Hicks responded.

  “No. No accident. She was murdered, the same way the other young girls were murdered.”

  Karl felt blood rise all the way from his feet, before settling in his eyes.

  “Karl? You still there?”

  “What? Oh … yes. Still here … listen, thanks for calling me. I won’t tell Martina’s sister, until you confirm everything. Will you call me as soon as the body is returned, or if you hear anything relevant?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Thanks, Tom. Talk to you later,” said Karl, ending the conversation with a push of a button.

  “What is it, Karl?” asked the groggy voice of Naomi, blinking out the early morning tiredness from her eyes. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Tom Hicks. The police in Scotland have found a body. Possibly that of Martina Ferris. Not yet confirmed.”

  “Martina … oh the poor girl,” said Naomi, shaking her head with disbelief. “Did they say how she died?”

  “More than likely murdered.”

  “Oh my God … how?”

  “We’ll have to wait and see the autopsy report,” said Karl, not wishing to disclose the grisly details to an already distressed Naomi.

  “What about Geraldine? She’ll have to be told.”

  “We’ll wait until we get a definite answer from Tom. No point jumping the gun.”

  Naomi nodded in agreement. “You’re right. There’s still the possibility it’s not Martina. Isn’t that right?”

  Karl did not answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Cruelty has a human heart …”