The Dark Place

by Sam Millar

“Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me.”

  H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds

  Karl staggered down Hill Street, feeling like a drunk as he headed homewards. He slipped twice on the cobblestones underfoot, cursing their giant-knuckle unevenness, before finally reaching the door of his office.

  His hand was shaking so badly he found it difficult to work the key into the door. All about, night shadows were quickly coming undone. Soon it would be dawn.

  “Come on, you bastard. Get in,” he hissed, glancing to his left and then to his right, the key seemingly getting bigger and fatter, becoming more awkward to hold.

  Thankfully, the narrow street was empty – as far as he could detect – but the feeling of eyes watching him never left as the key finally hit home.

  Inside the darkened hallway, he leaned against the door and held his breath.

  Footsteps? Someone walking; nearing?

  Thump thump thump went his heart.

  The hallway seemed to be getting darker, swaying like a boat on unfriendly waters. Vertigo was kicking in. He feared being on the verge of a blackout.

  Breathe, for fuck sake! Your bastarding imagination’s interfering with reason.

  He quickly breathed, allowing air to fill burning lungs, until it chased everything from his head.

  “Easy … easy …” The dizziness began easing.

  Steadying, he entered the bathroom, gently locking the door before hitting the light switch.

  “Fuck the night …” Clothing bloody and tattered.

  Hesitantly, he consulted the wall mirror, directly to his left.

  “Shit!” The face looking back at him was a stranger; a bloody, ashen-faced stranger, puckered skin covered in blood. He looked lost, like a mourner at the wrong funeral.

  Quickly turning on the water tap, cupping hands beneath the faucet, Karl began channelling the water into his mouth. Finished, he squeezed some toothpaste from a tube on to his index finger, rubbing the gooey contents hard against his teeth.

  Discarding his bloody clothing, he stepped out of their puddle and into the shower, its cold-water propulsion jolting him into alertness.

  “Karl? Is that you?” asked Naomi’s muffled voice, close to the door.

  Shit! “Yes … yes, love …”

  “Why’s the door locked?”

  He could hear her pushing against the door, fiddling with the handle.

  Think! “I … I just took a terrible shit. It stank all the way to Bangor.”

  “Too much information, thank you,” returned Naomi’s disgusted voice. “It’s almost five in the morning. Where’ve you been?”

  “To … to the been place.”

  “I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm, Karl. Why the shower at this time of the morning?”

  “I …” Think, for fuck sake! “I … slipped and fell against a skip, over beside Saint Anne’s Cathedral. Some silly bastard left it filled with planks of wood and broken glass sticking out. Almost broke my bloody neck. Busted my face, a bit …”

  “Oh my God, Karl! Are you okay?”

  “Yes … just a few bloody scratches and on-coming bruises. I’ll feel a lot better when I sip that Hennessy you’ve got waiting for me in the bedroom,” he replied, desperately trying to make his voice sound jolly and calm.

  “Want me to come in and scrub your back?”

  Karl quickly glanced at the pile of bloody clothes. “Er … I’m … I’m almost finished. In a few minutes, you can scrub my front, in bed.”

  Naomi giggled. “Okay, but don’t be long.”

  “Only a few more minutes.”

  He listened to her walk away before bending over and vomiting into the shower’s enclosure. It was a full-bodied vomit, shaking most of the upper body, face instantly contorting in pain.

  It was a good ten minutes later before he felt confident enough to stand, and step out of the shower’s enclosure.

  Checking his naked body, he looked for major cuts. Nothing. A few scratches, but not enough to warrant the blood-covered clothing on the ground.

  Where the hell did all the blood come from? Suddenly, a foggy flashback of weirdness. A man pretending to be Jesus, laughing as he self-inflicted knife wounds to his wrists, claiming to be able to bring the house down – literally.

  “Headcase,” mumbled Karl, less than confident.

  Cathy’s smirking face suddenly appeared at the mirror. He quickly wiped it away with the foggy condensation.

  Balling the clothes, he quickly deposited them in a large black garbage bag from underneath the sink and stealthily made his way downstairs, stepping out into the cold street, naked. He glanced left and right before dumping the clothes in a bin huddled together with others for the morning collection.

  Without warning, a mangy cat jumped from its filthy hideout, scaring the shit clean out of him.

  “Bastard!” he hissed.

  Closing the door quietly behind him, he tiptoed up the stairs towards the bedroom. Inside, Naomi was sound asleep, his glass of Hennessy parked beside the table lamp.

  He swallowed the lovely liquid expertly with one gulp, dreading what the next few hours would bring.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Is there no way out of the mind?”

  Sylvia Plath, Apprehensions

  “You still haven’t told me where you went last night – or should I say this morning?” said Naomi, pouring a steady ribbon of black coffee, before handing it to Karl.

  Background music from Downtown Radio’s afternoon show lilted over the room. Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way”.

  Cupping the mug, Karl considered how the coffee’s blackness resembled his mood perfectly.

  “This fair trade coffee tastes like bloody muck. Can’t we just get our normal coffee? Where the hell’s all that expensive Rio coffee?” moaned Karl, trying desperately to sidestep the looming interrogation. His brain was still quaking with the drainage of whatever shit Cathy had injected into his body.

  “You’re just in one of your hate-the-world moods, finding fault in everything. Anyway, you were just about to tell me where you were at five in the morning and how you got all those mysterious scratches on your face.”

  Trying desperately to come up with a feasible story, Karl’s brain suddenly began kicking into gear. Hated the thought of lying to Naomi, but could find no other escape route. Truth be told, he was still somewhat confused about last night, almost as if it had all been a bad dream.

  “I already told you: I banged into a skip, over beside Saint Anne’s Cathedral. If you must know, I met up with an old schoolmate from years back. He happened to be at that cocksucker’s signing down at Eason’s and – arrghhhh!” Some of the coffee spilt from the cup on to his left leg. “Fucking bastarding coffee!”

  “Karl!” screamed Naomi, rushing towards him. “Get those pants off, quickly, before the coffee burns through to your skin! Hurry!”

  “It’s nothing,” said Karl, grimacing. He hadn’t meant to spill so bloody much.

  “Don’t be silly. Get your pants off – now.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  “This isn’t funny, Karl. You could have scalded yourself, badly.”

  “Another inch, and I’d have done more than bloody scalded myself.”

  As Karl peeled off the offending pants, he reluctantly agreed with himself that the pain was worth it, if only to keep Naomi’s mind away from last night.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” soothed Naomi, seeing the red welt quickly forming on the wounded leg. “I’ll have to get some ointment from the medicine cabinet. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  The words of “Go Your Own Way” faded quickly, train-rushed by a news jingle.

  “This is the news on Downtown Radio,” stated the newscaster’s bland voice. “Police have confirmed that the body of a woman was found floating in the River Lagan, in the early hours of this morning.”

  Karl did not make an immediate association with the words.

  �
��Initial reports suggest the woman was one of the homeless people living in and around the old church at Custom House Square …”

  “Karl? Are you okay?” asked Naomi, entering the room, startling him.

  “What? Oh … yes …” He suddenly felt dizzy.

  “What was that about a woman’s body being found in the Lagan?”

  “I … I’m listening to it.” He needed air. Everything spinning.

  “Karl? What’s wrong? You don’t look too good. Perhaps we should go to the hospital? That burn could be a lot worse than we realise.”

  “… shot in the head …”

  The words caught Karl like a meat hook to the throat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.”

  Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

  It was two days later when Karl finally decided to make his way to Hicks’s office, dreading what he might hear concerning the body found floating in the Lagan.

  Inside, he found Hicks spreading ketchup over a flat-looking hamburger and tired salad.

  “How the hell can you eat in this place?” asked Karl, trying to block the cloying stench of dead bodies from entering his nostrils.

  “There was no need for you to come here. I told you that on the phone. I could just as easily have brought you the damn report, Karl,” said Hicks, bringing the hamburger to his mouth. “Seems as if you’re almost spoiling for a fight with Wilson.”

  “I’m not looking for a fight, Tom, unless it concerns getting justice for Martina and Ivana.”

  “They’ve already arrested someone for Ivana’s murder, so you can stop dragging her name into your crusade.”

  “Vincent Harrison? Come off it. The cops are trying to squeeze a round peg into a square hole. The lad’s obviously innocent.”

  “Really? I believe that when enough murky patterns emerge, one can make a clear enough picture out of them.”

  “What murky patterns?”

  “Harrison’s numerous court appearances, as a juvenile.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, at fifteen he was charged with GBH against his then girlfriend. Charges were later dropped when the girlfriend changed her story. Two other times he appeared in the dock, and both times violence was involved. This time the victims were men – gay men.”

  “I see,” said Karl, hating being caught wrong-footed by his best friend. “So, Harrison is now a homophobic stalker?”

  “Sometimes you’ve got to open your eyes to the obvious, Karl. Murder isn’t always complicated.”

  “You still haven’t told me if the body out there is Martina’s,” said Karl, stealing a quick glance towards the main room. Two bodies lay side by side in sheet-covered gurneys.

  “It’s definitely hers. The dental records confirm it. When the body arrived late last night, I wasted no time in conducting my own autopsy, working through to the wee hours of this morning. The kidneys and liver were missing, and once again we had accelerated formation of cells and protein.”

  “It’s the same bastard doing this?”

  “I never jump to conclusions, no matter how easy the leap. Keeping all options open is my preferred policy. Her sister will have to come and identify the body, of course, just to make it official.”

  “I haven’t told Geraldine yet. I’m not looking forward to it. What do you say in a situation like this? I feel I let her down.”

  “That’s all very laudable, but I always warned you about keeping your emotions detached from the cases you get involved in. Once you become personally involved, you can’t remain objective. I don’t have that luxury and need to retain a clinical detachment.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Well, if it helps, I’ve no doubt Martina Ferris wasn’t killed in Scotland,” said Hicks, pouring coffee into a cup.

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “When I conducted the autopsy, I discovered particles of seaweed had coagulated inside the body. The seaweed in question is indigenous to the Antrim coast.”

  “Trying to throw the cops off the scent? Do you think he’s panicking, thinks someone knows who he is?”

  “That’s feasible, I suppose. Interestingly, there were tiny splinters of paint trapped between her fingernails.”

  “Paint? What kind of paint?”

  “Specialist paint called Neo X2. It’s used to paint barracks and places of that nature.”

  “Barracks?”

  “For the military and police. And don’t give me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The there-must-be-police-involved-somehow-in-these-murders look.”

  “Well? Who knows?”

  “Your paranoia will end up sending you in the wrong direction,” said Hicks, sipping his coffee. “Do you want to see the body before you go?”

  “Stop trying to be smart. You know I don’t have a strong enough stomach for that sort of thing. I take the hint. I’m going now.”

  “Good. If there are any more developments, I’ll phone you.”

  Turning to go, Karl hesitated. “Tom … there was a woman’s body found floating in the Lagan, two days ago. What can you tell me about her?”

  Nodding, Hicks indicated his nose towards the bodies. “Cathy McGlone. That’s the body over there, beside Martina Ferris’s.”

  Karl fought the temptation to look. “What … what are the cops saying?”

  “Not too much, other than she ran some sort of Fagan homeless gang, over near Custom House Square.”

  “Just because they’re homeless doesn’t make them criminals.”

  “What the hell’s eating you? I never said it makes them criminals, so there’s no need to be so defensive. I’m simply stating what the police report said.”

  “I’m sick of people pinning everything on homeless people. Pin it on the fuckers with money.”

  “Calm down,” replied Hicks, looking at Karl curiously. “Why the interest in McGlone?”

  “How … how did she die? The news said something about her being shot.”

  “She was murdered. Shot in the head four times. Quite brutal, almost like a frenzy.”

  Karl felt his stomach do a trapdoor sensation. His haemorrhoid began burning the arse off him. He needed to take a shit.

  “Any … any clues about her attacker?” asked Karl, poking a finger in the offending area.

  “Don’t do that, Karl. It’s disgusting. Can’t you see I’m eating?” Hicks swallowed another well-chewed chunk of meat, washing it down with coffee. “No, no clues as such, but there are some fingerprints imprinted upon the neck. Vague prints. Time will tell if we can capitalise on them.”

  “That’s something.” Fuck!

  “One thing, though.”

  “What?”

  “Cathy McGlone had a record as long as Gerry Adams’s face.”

  “What … what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “McGlone used to be nicknamed Yo-Yo because she had been in and out of prison so many times.”

  “Oh?”

  “Police were looking for her six years ago when she suddenly and mysteriously vanished,” continued Hicks.

  “What … what did the cops want her for?”

  “Attempted abduction of a child, over near the Malone Road. Luckily, an alert neighbour spotted something suspicious and immediately called the police. McGlone escaped, but the police found her fingerprints at the scene. They’ve been searching for her ever since.”

  Fuck! “Wow …”

  “At least it gives the police something to work on, as far as the killings are concerned. I would say that when all this comes out in the wash, McGlone’s name will be plastered all over it.”

  “Everything nicely tied up in a bow, eh?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Am I ever sure of anything?”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me, Ka
rl, and I know from past experience that you won’t unless you have to. A little bit of advice from your best friend. When you walk into a coalmine and see the canary, feet up, common sense should tell you it’s time to get the hell out of there. Understand?”

  Look, I … have to go … the smell … can’t stick the smell of hamburgers and death any more.”

  Outside, Karl began retching, his entire body shaking with pain. Shockwaves radiated from the base of his spine.

  Suddenly, he felt terribly unclean.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “See how love and murder will out.”

  William Congreve, The Double Dealer

  Early next morning, Karl shocked himself awake, momentarily disorientated and saturated in sweat. He was frightened, not by last night’s nightmare; instead it was the devastating fear of a man whose world has suddenly grown completely beyond him and out of control. His stomach felt tight, as if he’d been performing crunches all night. Cathy kept appearing over and over again in the nightmare, laughing, telling Karl what a great fuck he had been.

  Thankfully, Naomi was still sleeping, her breathing coming deep and slow. She had managed to nearly twist her way out of the sheets. They were pulled all the way down to her waist, her bare breasts exposed. Karl reached, pulling the sheets over her, before exiting the bed.

  In the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew, he thought about his choices, their limitation.

  You should have acted sooner, said an accusing voice in his head.

  “Couldn’t have. Not enough evidence.”

  Ha! That’s never stopped you before. If anything, it encouraged you.

  “This is different.”

  Bullshit! You had sex with Cathy. Possibly killed her with all those drugs fucking your head about.

  “Don’t talk shite!”

  “Karl? Who’re you talking to?” asked Naomi, suddenly appearing at the doorway, startling him. She looked as unnerved as Karl.

  “What? Oh! Myself. I’ve … finally flown over the cuckoo’s nest.” He forced a smile. “Coffee?”

  “You’ve been acting strangely, ever since that night you claimed to have banged into a skip. Have you something you want to tell me?”