When he died, he was just a boy. A five year old boy, in a cold hallway with frost on the windows. His feet were cold.
He laid down in bed with his dead mother and his dead father.
They were cold together.
*
Lowe pleaded guilty as soon as he was asked the question in court. And still the case took nearly two years to come to its end. The only witness to anything criminal at all, really, was Lowe himself.
The evidence, the physical evidence, was confused at best.
The jury took a long time to deliberate. Lowe waited patiently.
He didn't care, he didn't listen.
All he wanted was to own his own guilt. To pay his debt. To be a beast in a cage, once again. It was the only place he belonged.
*
Lowe watched the trial, like a man might see a movie in a cinema. Engagement, but detachment, too. It was just a movie. It wasn't him. Wasn't his life.
He'd removed himself from the movie, and he didn't want to see it anymore.
But he watched because he had no choice. Some he didn't hear, because his hearing never fully recovered. Some he did, and didn't understand. Some made no sense at all, and plenty was entirely new to him.
He paid attention, as best he could.
He sat still and didn't fidget. In fact, he barely moved at all.
He answered, politely, in as much detail as he could, each of the questions asked.
He was called, called again.
Experts in their chosen field were called. Policemen. Hotel residents, neighbours of the men involved.
Lowe watched and listened, like a man watching a movie about the life of other men, including his own.
Otaku. The Man with the Gun. Freya. The Man in the Mask.
Two assassins, working together for many long years.
An extraordinary woman.
And an insane, tormented man, driven to lunacy by the murder of his parents, and by a sackcloth mask.
Which was never found.
Driven to kill and kill again, according to Harmon's last testimony.
But no murders were ever committed.
But Lowe had seen the mask. He'd felt the mask.
No record of a payment from Lowe to Otaku.
But he'd paid the man £2,500, from his own account.
The only evidence, the only real evidence, in the end, was the tangled mess in the hotel, and David Lowe himself...and the evidence suggested that David Lowe had killed two assassins, sustained massive injuries about his person while attempting to save his wife, and that he had also apprehended Harmon, who, it emerged, had paid the assassins to have Mr. Lowe, the unfortunate Mr. Lowe, killed.
Everything Lowe said muddied waters that the jury, the police, the judge, the barristers, the press...everyone...wanted clear. They only wanted the crisp, clear water of a mountain stream and Lowe had nothing to offer them but an inner-city sewer. They didn't want it, didn't want to hear it.
They wanted a hero.
Lowe's sense that he was watching a strange movie unfold before him strengthened, solidified.
Until, finally, when the jury's deliberations were ended, when the judge made his final statement and sentenced Lowe, the movie ended.
*
The Court usher bade Lowe to rise, which he did.
The judge put his hands on his face, rubbed his eyes. Like a man suffering from severe exhaustion. He pulled of his wig, leaving a long fibre behind, most likely from the interior of the wig, across his largely bald pate. The judge seemed unaware of the remnant on his skull.
Lowe felt for him, but he was eager to have it all done, to go to jail, to die. He wished for nothing more than to feel the trap beneath his feet open. To drop, to feel his neck snap and die with a grimace upon his face.
'Mr. Lowe...' the judge began. Then, the sense that the world was somehow wrong, insane like the man named Harmon, crazed beyond belief, grew and grew.
'Mr. Lowe. I find myself faced with perhaps the most unusual of cases I have ever presided over, and also perhaps one of the saddest. I am faced with a man bowed by obvious grief. A terrible set of circumstances. The events which transpired at the Regal Hotel will forever be etched in my mind, I fear, as they will in yours. Before me I see a man stricken with sorrow. A man who would take the burden of his wife's murder. And yet I am presented with no reasonable evidence to establish this fact, but for the word of a grieving husband.
'No evidence. I say this because I cannot allow that the prosecution have showed beyond reasonable doubt the case against you, Mr. Lowe, no matter how fervently you might wish it were otherwise.
'I have no monetary trail, but two dead killers for hire. I have no corroborating witness, because the only other man present on the floor during the events was ruled insane, his testimony largely, therefore, impermissible in this trial, and has since committed suicide, driven by his own grief and terrible demons.
'I have your wife, Mr. Lowe. Murdered, without a shadow of a doubt, by an explosive placed by the man known as Otaku. I have bullets wounds sustained upon your person from a gun fired by the killer's partner, whom you did kill, without a doubt. With your bare hands whilst sustaining life threatening injuries, which no court in this land would find you culpable of. Nor, for that matter, is this a trial for that killing, a killing for which you have not been charged.
'It seems, Mr. Lowe, that what we have, instead, is a man grieving a terrible, terrible loss, a man who has suffered immense injuries and survived against all odds. A man who has ended the deadly careers of two killers for hire. A man, in short, who I believe was somewhat confused, following such injuries, and such emotional trauma, and who is suffering from terrible, unenviable, survivors' guilt.'
Lowe, listening to the judge's ruling, stood utterly, completely still. Even though he stood taller than everyone else in the courtroom, and raised, in the dock, not one person looked at him. Everyone who could, looked to the judge.
Lowe wanted to jump on the trap door beneath his feet, but it was solid, shut. He wanted the noose around his neck, but his breath came easy.
What?
He could breath, but he could barely think beyond that.
The judge, once again, rubbed at his balding head, like a man with a terrible headache.
'I am taking, therefore, the unusual step, of finding you guilty of absolutely nothing. I am ordering your immediate release from custody. Ordering you, Mr. Lowe, to live your life. I am, in fact, dismissing all charges against you, and God help you, Mr. Lowe, for as I understand it, a fragment of bone remains in your skull, perilously close to your brain. I hope you live, Sir, and take from all this the fact that your wife, Mr. Lowe, the unfortunate Freya Lowe, will be your judge and companion until your end. As perhaps, is fitting.'
Lowe, a man whose legs could lift several hundred pounds and barely ache the following day, sat down with a thump. The world disappeared from under him. His mind reeled, as though reliving the blast over and over again, the force of it reverberating inside his skull.
*
Later, David Lowe stumbled, shocked, from court.
A free man.
*
In his chambers, the judge put his hand inside his robe and touched a crusted, heavily patched sackcloth mask.
Inadmissible, he thought. Not impermissible.
No one noticed, said the mask.
And the mask was right. It did not make mistakes.
*
XIX.
A Moment in Time
Many people live their lives in the shadow of one or two events. Hubs around which their lives spin, and keep on spinning. Moments they orbit in their minds forever more.
Each day, following the trial, David Lowe, the quiet man, walked the thirty minutes it took to the gym. In his iron church, he prayed for forgiveness, in his own way.
Penance, he supposed.
Self-imposed. There were no preachers, no reverends, no priests.
There was only his own wil
l, fighting against the impossible. Nothing was impossible. Nothing. Not if the mind believes.
He focused, every day, sitting in his gym gear, before the power cage. He took a flat bench easily in one hand and placed it before the cage. He sat. He looked at the empty bar on the rack. An Olympic bar, bare. Nothing at all. Nothing without weight upon it. Just an empty page in a book, a clean table, an empty pan in a chef's kitchen. Dormant. Still.
Just a bar.
It was nothing.
The mirror behind it, too, empty.
*
People noticed the giant who sat, never touching the weights, every single day that the gym was open.
In time, they worked around him. He became a feature. People spoke about him, sometimes to him.
But it was a church and the man was praying. In some way the men and women, sweating, shouting, fighting their own demons with iron and steel like knights in battle, understood that he prayed.
They didn't know for what.
It wasn't their business. His demons were too large for them. A man like that? He had to have some bad fucking demons, they'd say, hushed, in the showers after, posing and evaluating each muscle before the mirrors in the changing rooms.
Bad demons, indeed.
Until, finally, he sat before the cage, watching the bar. Watching the mirror.
The day he'd start lifting again.
His penance was paid. He knew it was true. Without any doubt.
He knew his time was done, because there, in the mirror, a young woman stood in the doorway, as though unsure she should be here. Like she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere between the studios where people did kickboxing exercises and yoga and aerobics.
David Lowe closed his eyes, remembering her standing there, remembered the time he'd stopped, tired, and looked into the mirror and saw her standing there. He remembered her waiting for him in the coffee shop. His terror at the sight of her open desire, her interest.
The one good thing in his life.
Lift.
He looked at the bar, and the mirror, and his wife's ghost standing there. She was smiling, her hands loose at her sides. Confident in herself as she'd always been. His complete opposite, in many ways, and perfection together.
But for his jealously. His insane jealously.
I killed you, he said to the ghost in the mirror.
She shook her head.
He didn't understand what she meant. Was he absolved? Penance done? Did she forgive him, hate him, love him, still?
She walked toward him. Unlike his memory.
This didn't happen, he thought. This didn't happen.
Of course it didn't. Of course it wasn't her. He looked again and realised he was crying and his tears had blurred his vision.
She was an older woman than the Freya of his memory. Good looking, but he was dead to attraction or admiration.
And yet, looking around, she wasn't approaching anyone else. She was coming to him. Straight to him.
The woman stood before him. Unabashed, though she stood before a giant of man with tears in his eyes.
'Every day you come. Every day. You never lift. Sometimes you cry. Why don't you lift?'
She sounded European, like from the eastern part, somewhere with a hint of Russia in its history.
He frowned, disarmed by her openness.
'I lift,' she said. 'I'm a woman. I lift. You don't lift, but you are a big man. Strong, yes? No?'
She hadn't taken a wrong turn. She'd turned toward him.
He didn't want to cry, but he did. This woman whom he didn't know, but who knew him, who'd watched him sit for nearly two years.
She wasn't lost. She was in his church. In her church, too.
David Lowe looked in the mirror and Freya was there. God, she was stunning. She wore her silly aerobics outfit, just like the first time he'd seen her.
She nodded, turned, and was gone. Just like a memory, a ghost, something passing and ephemeral.
'Lift. Feel better,' said the woman beside David Lowe.
The woman by his side was real.
Freya was not. Freya was gone. But she'd been real, too. Real as a ghost could ever be.
David wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Something sharp scratched his hand, just a little scratch, which didn't hurt at all, but the eye was sudden agony. Not like sand in his eye, but like a shard of glass.
'Wait,' said the woman. 'You have a thing.'
No guile at all, the woman reached forward with steady, strong hands and before David could even blink plucked something from just beneath his upper eyelid.
It was white and it was sharp.
It was bone. Freya's bone.
She's gone.
She's really gone.
'Is that bone?' said the woman.
David held his hand out. She placed it in his huge hand.
He nodded. 'My wife's,' he said.
The woman nodded, too.
'Lift,' she said. 'You feel better.'
David stood and walked to the rack.
Lift.
Freya nodding. The woman with the Eastern European accent watching, smiling.
People in the gym finished their sets, sweating, panting, and stopped. They watched.
David was no longer aware of them at all.
He was aware of the bar. The plates. The iron. The church.
He placed a plate on one end of the bar. Then the other. A plate there again, and then the other end.
He didn't count the weight. The gym was silent. It looked like a good weight.
David Lowe ducked his head, then stood beneath the bar. It felt like a good weight. Felt solid on his shoulder, like a warm hand touching, saying it was OK.
It wasn't OK. It never would be.
But it could be better than it was right now.
He pushed his legs straight and took the full weight on his thick muscles at the base of his neck - his trapezius. The weight settled into his thick bones. For an instant, his shoulder blade - his scapula - pained him. The weight pushed down against the base of his spine, too long rested. Some small pain, but nothing awful. Nothing permanent.
Lowe stepped back from the rack.
Squatted down, slow, testing, feeling out the weight.
The weight, the pounds pushing down on him, felt good. It felt great. It felt better.
David Lowe went down with the weight across his shoulders. For a moment, he wondered if he'd break. Then, he came back up, because he had to.
The End
Afterword
Just a short word from me. Why is Deadlift the last in ‘The Mulrones’ series? Because of the mask. The mask is a creation which stands opposite another, more benevolent artefact, a plain steel orb. The orb and the mask feature more heavily in the Land Between Midnight Trilogy, comprised of ‘Hangman’, ‘Highwayman’, and the conclusion (coming soon), ‘Coachman’.
Thank you, as always, for reading.
Craig
2017
The Shed
Also by Craig Saunders
Novels:
ALT-Reich
PIG (with Edward Lorn)
Ghost Voices
Highwayman
Hangman
The Dead Boy
Left to Darkness (The Oblivion Series #1)
Masters of Blood and Bone
Cold Fire
A Home by the Sea
RAIN
A Stranger's Grave
The Love of the Dead
Spiggot
Spiggot, Too
Vigil
BLOOD, DRUGS, TEA
Novellas:
A Scarecrow to Watch over Her (The Mulrones #1)
Death by a Mother's Hand (The Mulrones #2)
Flesh and Coin (The Mulrones #3)
Deadlift (The Mulrones #4)
The Lies of Angels
UNIT 731
Bloodeye
Insulation
The Walls of Madness
Days of Christmas
; As Craig R. Saunders:
The Outlaw King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One)
The Thief King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two)
The Queen of Thieves (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three)
Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book One)
The Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Two)
Rythe Falls (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Three)
Beneath Rythe (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Four)
Short Fiction Collections:
The Cold Inside
Dead in the Trunk
Angels in Black and White
Dark Words
About the author
Craig Saunders is the author of more than forty novels and novellas, including 'Masters of Blood and Bone', 'RAIN' and 'Deadlift'. He writes across many genres.
Craig lives in Norfolk, England, with his wife and children. He likes nice people and good coffee. Find out more on Amazon, or visit:
www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/craigrsaundersauthor
@Grumblesprout
Deadlift (The Mulrones Book 4) Page 6
