by Sam Millar
“I don’t exactly know. Something. Anything. Sometimes not knowing what you’re looking for helps you find something you never expected to find in the first place. Hopefully, something incriminating belonging to a double-barrelled palindrome by the name of Hannah.”
It took Willie ten minutes to defeat the first lock and six more minutes to defeat the other two.
They quickly stepped inside, Karl closing the door behind them.
The large office was glutted with a mixture of papers, books and various unkempt knick-knacks. A collection of keys dangling from metal loops were attached to a protruding nail. A photocopier resting in the corner was watched over by fluorescent lights dangling from creaking chains, appearing ready for collapse. A solid mahogany desk ruled the room, topped with a tiny lamp neighbouring an open-style Rolodex.
“That looks like a skeleton key,” said Willie, looking at the rings of keys. He reached over and removed a set, and then nodded. “That’s what it is.”
“Do such things exist? I thought that was all movie bollocks.”
“No, they do exist. This one, for example? A Kingston U90. Used by cops, screws or military for locking up prisoners and –”
“Used by cops and military?”
“Saves them running about with a ton of metal in their pants. Did I hit on something? Your eyes suddenly lit up for second.”
“I don’t really know. Just thinking.”
Karl began rifling through a stack of drawers. Nothing much. Rubber stamps and stationery. He sniffed the aroma of pencil shavings and dried ink. The smell made him think of bad school days.
That was when he spotted the safe.
“Willie?”
“What?”
“Can you do anything with that?” said Karl, indicating the safe.
“Hmm …” Willie ran his hands over the safe as if conducting a séance. “It’s a Burton Eurovault TG-3 Grade 3. Floor bolted and concrete filled construction with reinforced steel fibres and bars.”
“Can you do anything with it?” repeated Karl impatiently.
“For an extra hundred quid, he could have had an electronic combination lock, and the answer would have been a resounding no.” Willie removed an item from his bag of tricks and knelt down beside the safe. “Thankfully, the cheap prick is penny wise and quid foolish. Two minutes is my all-time record on one of these. Let me see …”
One minute crawled by.
Karl checked his watch.
“Forget about it, Willie. We don’t have a lot of –”
“Quite a bit of stuff in here,” said Willie, smiling, pulling back the door on the safe. “Mostly paper and a few DVDs, by the looks of it.”
Quickly bending down, Karl reached into the safe. A folder, choc-a-bloc with pages. He disturbed it, scanning the pages for any clue to what he was searching for. The pages contained what looked like foreign movie titles – French, mainly – all alphabetically sequenced.
“Observez sa matrice.”
“What? Did you say something?” asked Willie, sitting in a fat leather chair, his work done for the day.
“She Must Die.”
“Who must die?”
“I’m trying to sound-out these French titles.”
“From here you sound more like Peter Sellers doing a very bad Inspector Clouseau.”
“Les femmes sont la mort. The Women Are Death, perhaps?”
“Not Disney, then?”
“I have the sneaking suspicion that they’re all snuff movies.”
“Snuff movies?”
“People – usually women – tortured and murdered for so-called pleasure.”
“What kind of sick bastard would watch those disgusting things?”
“The sick bastard who normally sits in that chair, no doubt. Our Mister Hannah.”
Willie quickly eased from the chair.
“Check these DVDs out,” instructed Karl, grabbing a handful, before handing some to Willie. “They look like soft porn, but go through them, just in case.”
“Shaving Ryan’s Privates,” grinned Willie, looking at the cover. “You have to admit that’s a funny title.”
“Hilarious,” said Karl, quickly scanning some of the DVDs. “This one’s called E-Three: The Extra Testicle.”
“Not bad. Eight out of ten.”
“The Lord of the Rings.”
Willie looked puzzled. “The Lord of the Rings? You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s one of my all-time favourites.”
“Not this one, I can assure you.”
“Why?”
“The rings on the cover have hairs sprouting out of them.”
“Sick bastards.”
Karl quickly placed the DVDs back, and on doing so, discovered a small collection of wrapped papers nestling at the back of the safe. He removed the papers.
“If I’m not mistaken, these are deeds to properties,” said Karl. “Must have a right few bob, our Bob.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Search the rest of the room. We don’t know when Hannah will return. See if there is anything of interest over in those boxes in the far corner.”
While Willie worked the boxes, Karl placed the deeds on top of the photocopier’s bed face, immediately pressing the copy button. Waiting for the copies, he flicked through the Rolodex, reluctantly switching on the table lamp for better viewing. Puzzlingly, the Rolodex held no names or addresses, just initials and phone numbers.
Quickly removing some of the cards in the Rolodex, he gave them the same treatment as the property deeds.
“Karl!” hissed Willie, pointing directly towards the far entrance down below the office. “We have visitors.”
Almost instantly, Karl reached and turned off the table lamp. Peeping through the office curtains, he studied two figures in the theatre talking to each other.
“Who are they?” whispered Willie, his voice barely audible.
“From the couple of photos I saw, the taller of the two is Bob Hannah. I haven’t a clue who the other one is.”
Hannah was tall, extremely muscular, with hair cropped down almost to the bone. The other figure was harder to make out. A lot smaller than Hannah and thinly built.
Suddenly, the photocopier jerked noisily in the corner, making both Karl and Willie jump slightly.
“Shit, damn, fuck!” hissed Karl, rushing quickly to the machine. “The bloody paper is jammed!”
“He’s looking up, Karl. Your man’s looking directly up here,” said Willie, panic in his voice. “Oh no. He’s walking this way …”
Karl felt his nerves tightening like guitar strings.
For such a tall and muscular man, Bob Hannah walked lightly, as if on cushioned soles. He walked calmly and confidently up the stairs, stopping directly outside his office. He listened. He did not hurry. He placed his keys in the locks, opening them one by one in a timely fashion, and then pushed open the door before walking in, turning the light on in the process. He allowed the semi-silence of the room to settle before studying the table and then the safe. Nothing amiss. He glanced at the photocopier. Something. What? Reaching over, he touched the top of the machine with his hand. He removed his hand and looked at his palm strangely, as if wondering where it had come from. Warm? Or was it simply the stifling heat in the room? His leather office chair looked out of place. What? He placed his hand on the soft leathery indent made by Willie’s arse less than a minute ago. Warm, also? He glanced at the side door. He walked to it and checked that it was closed.
It was. He opened it and journeyed down the stairs, but not before removing the fire axe stationed on the wall. The exit sign gave off a green hue, and he followed it obediently without turning on the lights on the stairway.
At the exit doors, he leaned his body inwards, placing an opened palm on the metal skin as if sucking in its energy. He placed his right ear against the door and listened, his grip on the axe tightening. He balanced his body like an ancient god awaiting a sacrifice.
Karl and Willie
remained motionless, their backs to the exit doors. They did not speak. They were one mind in two bodies, stifling all breathing, like unholy offerings preparing to meet their god. Karl felt something grabbing his intestines, knotting them.
With each silent second, the dread grew. He tried relaxing the muscles in his jaw. He could hear breathing. Not his. Not Willie’s. It was discharging from the other side of the door. It seemed to have a life of its own. Tangible. Evil. He felt the door move slightly, as if it were breathing also. Someone pushing against it? He held his breath. Waited.
Hannah stood there, listening to the outside world created by a god of accidental ability. He listened to the night sounds of cats frolicking and fucking; of unhurried traffic in the distance; the night hum of dead silence only, a sleeping town in a tunnel of glass. He held little doubt that someone was out there, close. Very close. He thought about the foreign smells in the office and the eerie feeling of a presence not too long gone. The thought disturbed him momentarily, then was gone, just as quickly. He thought of other things. The thin thread between life and death, and what fate can bring if tested. He tried stifling the urge not to tempt fate and its unpredictability, but he failed, pushing the doors quickly open, sucking in the warm clammy night air as it rushed at him.
He stepped back, preparing for fate, the axe held high in striking mode. He gritted his teeth. Waited. The night was there, watching, like one black sheet of nothing, waiting patiently for him. The night seemed darker than usual. He held his breath and stepped out, as if in a time machine, not knowing what he would find.
It startled him, the two drunken brutes rolling on the ground a few feet away, fighting over cheap wine evidently wasted from one of the many smashed bottles littering the filthy waste ground. They were cursing, threatening unspeakable wrath upon each other, as they tossed and turned in all the shit of the night. One of them had pissed his pants. He could see that clearly, even in the heavy shroud of night.
Disgusting creatures, he thought. “Animals … scum …” he whispered, fearful that they would hear him, hoping they would, his hands tightening, his knuckles protruding from their encasement. He wished the dirty animals each had an axe, just like this healing, no-nonsense harbinger in his able hands. They could hack each other to pieces, and their deaths wouldn’t even be counted, their insignificance in this world washed away with their cheap wine and filthy piss.
Closing the door quietly, he retraced his steps all the way back to the theatre, leaving the axe standing guard at the top of the stairs.
“You can open your eyes, Miss McCambridge,” he said, a thin smile scrawled on skinny lips.
Obediently, the young girl opened her eyes, gawking in sweetie-shop awe. “It’s … it’s … this isn’t yours … it can’t be … is it, Mister Hannah?”
His thin smile fattened into a healthy grin of pride. “Yes. Isn’t it beautiful?”
She nodded, her open mouth saying nothing.
“Let me undress you,” he said, walking to her, his hands displayed openly.
“Here?” Her face reddened slightly. “In the middle of the movie house?”
“Theatre,” he corrected, an edge to his voice. “Movie houses are for barbarians. Here, we are in the company of gods, Miss McCambridge. Allow them to feast on your beauty. If you please the gods, wondrous things will happen. Don’t you know that?”
The redness on her face deepened. She smiled awkwardly, while he removed her grubby sweater. The sweater fell to the ground, her hands instinctively covering the tiny dirty bra she wore. She began shaking. The theatre was extremely warm.
“You do have a way with words, Mister Hannah.”
“Bob. Call me Bob. May I call you Judy?” He smiled.
Judy nodded shyly. “Yes … of course … Bob.”
“Tell me, Judy, why on earth have you cropped your beautiful hair? It makes you look rather boyish – in a very sexy way, of course.”
“I … it keeps them from wanting me. At night, in the streets … they’re always watching me, trying to take without paying. You’re not like that, Mister – I mean Bob. You’re a kind man. I knew that from the way you spoke to me, bought me McDonald’s and cigarettes, last week, and today.”
“There will be plenty more surprises awaiting you, Judy. Now, remove your bra. The gods are eager to see what hides beneath.”
Nervously she removed the bra. The breasts were buds. Nothing more.
“No … don’t cover your breasts,” he said. “They’re beautiful, not meant to be covered.”
She obeyed, bringing her hands slowly down to her sides.
“How old are you, Judy?”
“Four- I mean sixteen. I’ll be seventeen next week.”
“Really? Then we must have a very special party for you. I’ll invite some very important people to it. You would like that, wouldn’t you?” He touched her breast, his nails skating over the tiny nipples. A pleasing but disturbing sensation took him by surprise, despite the strong stench of unwashed skin coming from her. She would need to take a bath – perhaps more than one.
“Remove the rest of your garments. I have new clothing waiting for you. We can’t have a beauty like you seen in such tattered rags.”
Hesitantly, she began slipping out of the battered shoes and badly stained jeans, revealing a pair of oversized boxer shorts, bony hips protruding over the waistband like tiny anchors. She removed the shorts and stood naked, bony chest and girdle of ribs a chalky grey colour in the artificial light. A hatching of small scars and red pockmarks covered her upper arms.
“This will help you relax, Judy,” said Hannah, producing a needle and syringe.
“What … what is it, Bob?”
“It’ll take all your suffering and pain away, for ever.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.”
Philip Larkin, “This Be the Verse”
Friday afternoon, and Karl stretched his legs on to the edge of the table, leaning back on a chair while reading a magazine article about travelling to Belfast. Once lumped as one of the four bastarding B’s to avoid when travelling – Beirut, Baghdad and Bosnia being the other Horsemen of the Apocalypse – Belfast was now receiving a more favourable, if somewhat belated, press.
“Tourists have been told they no longer need to bring their bulletproof vest with them, when coming to Belfast,” said Karl loudly through the open door, hoping to capture Naomi’s ear.
Naomi continued to work at the computer in the next room, ignoring him.
“It’s been almost a week, Naomi,” said Karl. “When are you going to at least acknowledge me and start thawing out?”
Glancing up from the screen, Naomi presented Karl with a snarling did-you-dare-say-something look?
Unfortunately for Karl, he was quickly discovering that Naomi was fast becoming singularly skilled at ignoring him while going about her normal business. Deep down, he wished for a few hard slaps to his face as punishment for Cathy McGlone instead of this tortuous unresponsiveness.
Thankfully, his mobile rang on the desk. Picking it up, he asked, “Hello?”
“Dad?”
“Katie! How’s my favourite daughter?”
“Fine. How’s the weather in Belfast?”
“If you’ve called all the way from Scotland to ask for money, I’ll suddenly feel under the weather.” Karl detected a giggle in Katie’s reply.
“You’re so suspicious, Dad.”
“Goes with the territory, my wee love. Anyway, enough preamble. How’re you doing?”
“Doing really good, Dad.”
“Hope you’re keeping an eye on those Scotsmen. As I’ve told you a hundred times before, I never trust a man who wears a skirt,” replied Karl, scratching an annoying imperfection on his nose.
“That’s disgusting.”
“It�
�s the truth.”
“I’m not on about Scotsmen, Dad. I’m talking about you picking your nose.”
“I’m not picking my … how the hell …?” Karl’s legs dropped immediately from the desk, springing the rest of his body forward. Katie’s smiling face was staring at him from the office’s outside window. She was waving.
Before Karl could make a move, Naomi was already heading towards the office’s front door. A few seconds later, Katie appeared at the doorway and rushed to give her father a hug, totally ignoring Naomi.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I’d have baked a cake,” smiled Karl, kissing his daughter’s head.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Katie’s squeezed harder. “Surprised?”
Karl felt that the squeezing and show of emotion was a bit of a show for Naomi.
“Pleasantly so. You’ve said hello to Naomi?”
“How about you and me heading over to Nick’s Warehouse?” replied Katie, brushing off the question. “It’s been over a year since I was last there.”
“Okay,” agreed Karl. “Naomi? Fancy something to eat?”
Katie’s face tightened.
“No, thank you,” replied Naomi, rather stiffly.
“Okay … I shouldn’t be too long.”
Naomi returned to the screen without answering.
Outside Nick’s Warehouse, a troupe of jugglers on a tiny tricycle pedalled past Karl and Katie. Six colourful clowns ran behind, honking horns and throwing animal-shaped sponges at onlookers.
“Clowns. They give me the creeps. They’re like fascists in those rigs and pointed hats,” said Karl disdainfully. “They should be called Ku Klux Klowns.”
“Don’t be such a killjoy, Dad,” said Katie, smiling. “I forgot the circus is here for a week. Remember how you used to take me, when I was a kid?”
“You’re still a kid. Even when you’re sixty, you’ll still be a kid to me. Always remember that.”
“That’s embarrassing, Dad.”
“No, that’s a parent.”
“So many clowns,” said Katie, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen so many in one place.”
