by Andy Remic
‘Clear as crystal, Mrs Ryan.’
As Cal turned to leave he caught the smirk on Eddie’s face, and tightened his jaw, stomping out of the office but closing the door carefully, with a gentle click.
Jimmy was outside. He winked. ‘Did she eat your balls?’
‘Just chewed one off,’ grinned Cal, letting out a deep sigh.
‘Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.’
‘Is it that time already?’
‘Callaghan, you need to learn to get out of bed earlier.’
‘Shoot me.’
‘Then you can check your cameras.’
They trotted down the medicinal–smelling steps and out into the building’s foyer, smiling at Andrea the receptionist (whose smile was just a little too friendly to Callaghan, probably due to the previous Office Christmas Party and their rampant, drunken, under–desk sex ) but he pretended not to notice.
Wintry sunlight cast white squares across the tiled floor. Somewhere high up, the wind mewled like a disowned kitten.
‘Look Jim, I’m sorry about the shoot. I really, really don’t know what went wrong. I checked the digital – the images were there. I saw them. I scrolled through them. They were on that damned memory card, I’d swear it. And the Pentax has never let me down before. I...’
‘It’s OK. We all make mistakes. Just don’t make a habit of it. You just lost us eight grand, each, my friend.’ Jimmy smiled to take the sting out of his words, and led the way into brittle cold sunlight.
The motorcycle was matt black, stocky, powerful, intimidating. No chrome showed; it had been uniformly plated with Dacromet: bolts, fasteners, bars, exhaust. There was no manufacturer’s mark. No insignia. No name. The machine sat on twin yellow lines, engine burbling with a torquey, deep–throated, V–twin rumble. Its rider wore a black helmet with black visor, was stocky under a heavy overcoat, and had unmarked knee–high boots. He sat easily, lithely on the powerful machine, leaning forward slightly towards the bars – as if waiting... watching.
From swing glass doors stepped Cal and Jimmy, laughing at the tail–end of a joke; they skipped down chipped, grime–ingrained steps, turned left, and headed across the uneven cracked pavements.
As they turned the corner at the end of the street, the biker revved his machine twice – hard – and leapt away from the kerb with a rumble of acceleration.
He did not follow the two men. Instead, he smashed between a narrow gap in a queue of cars to a cacophony of horn blares, and vanished amidst the bustling throng of West London traffic.
Cal rode the lift to his thirtieth floor apartment, toothache almost gone now, to be replaced by a substantial pounding of genuine alcohol abuse. After leaving the Black and White offices the two newsmen headed for a few local bars, pints of Guinness with Glenmorangie chasers, followed by a visit to the Taj Mahal (official business dinner, dontchaknow; you can offset that against tax) where they discussed possible story leads and a couple of upcoming features (is excessive violence in computer games leading to a future of zombie kids ambling the streets, or was it always that way?/ what are the effects of cocaine on our unborn professors of the future?/ how bureaucracy, pedantry and the naturally inherent anal attitude of school inspectors is destroying not just morale, but the entire teaching profession, subsequently forcing teachers to leave and thus creating a lack of role models and leaving so–called intelligent, unguided, non–game–playing children as zombie kids ambling the streets) and then they split, Cal weaving an unsteady gait back to the offices to check out his cameras, Jimmy headed home for a well deserved bath and bed (and one last whisky, obviously).
Cal stared at himself now in the bright silver mirror of the lift. His eyes were bloodshot, he desperately needed a shave, his hair was lank and lifeless and he could smell his own putrefying stink. I could definitely do with some TLC, he reasoned.
‘I just don’t get it.’ He shook his head as he spoke to himself, watching his reflection with a glimmer of inebriated amusement. ‘Just dun geddit.’ The cameras had both been fine. Worked perfectly. He’d taken ten digital shots, transferred them to the Black and White mainframe which they’d humorously named Mickey: because, as computer servers went, it was a disjointed bag of useless, whining, pointless shite. He’d watched the TIFF images decode neatly on the screen, thumbnails scrolling in a little row. Then, chewing his lip, he’d done a roll of 35mm and taken it to a one hour developer. Four coffees, three donuts and a glance through The Times later, 24 prints had emerged perfect. Not a blemish. Not a hint of intruding light. So what was the damn problem? Freak of nature? Freak attack? Freaky Friday?
Ping.
Muttering in annoyance, Cal padded down the hall and pushed his key into the lock, opening the door onto –
Candlelight.
Mia was home.
Oh yeah, baby.
Callaghan grinned, dropping his padded Nikon camera bag to the settee and kicking free his shoes. ‘Mia? Mia, my little psychopathic, blood–drinking dove? Where are you?’ He found her naked on his bed, face down, ass firm and proud and tanned, snoring gently. His eyes flicked to the neatly and lovingly sculpted lines of coke on the dresser... and to his diminished stock of Glenmorangie.
‘Hmm. You’re a greedy little vixen, hey?’ He sat next to her on the bed, shook her gently, her skin almost feverishly hot under his hands – but she did not respond. He shook her again, and she murmured, turned slightly, luxurious curls tumbling across one shoulder. He placed his mouth close to her ear. ‘Mia,’ he whispered. ‘Mia, wake up, it’s Cal.’
His hand stroked her flank. She crooned, and her delicate, feminine snoring abated. Her breathing now came in deep, regular sighs. His hand traced patterns across her back, then stroked down over her buttocks and soothed circles towards the top of her legs and the honey beyond. He felt himself growing hard.
‘Mia. Wake up. I’ve got something for you.’
She turned slightly, and he eased his hand between her legs. Her cunt was wet, soft, and incredibly hot around his fingers; a moist fruit, a pouch which absorbed his probing with a welcoming ease. He glided in and out, gently, leisurely, teasingly, and she murmured again, purring like a cat as her eyes half–opened and she groaned, buttocks lifting a little and wiggling as she forced him deeper, harder now, his own cock rock in his pants and threatening to burst the seams of his DKNYs. Mia’s hand crept down his crotch, tugged at his buttons, curled around him, squeezed him, crushed him, taunted him, working on him with a threatening, dangerous pressure.
‘Come to bed,’ she said, her voice, as always, driving him mad with its sultry sexiness.
‘So... you’re awake then?’
Her brown eyes fixed on his. There was need there. An urgency. She licked her lips, pink tongue caressing even, white teeth stark against her olive skin. ‘Come to bed, Cal.’ It was an order. There was pain behind her smile. ‘I need to fuck.’
It was late. Or early. Depending how you viewed it. Callaghan lay awake, confused, wondering what had woken him. Cramp speared his left arm and he glanced at Mia, at the mass of curls, and gently eased his limb from beneath her head. She murmured and rolled away, presenting her back and absently pulling the duvet around her shoulders in sleep–driven selfishness.
He could still smell their sex. Taste her. On his fingers. On his tongue.
Callaghan turned away, gathering his own clump of duvet and then he remembered the dream, a dream he’d experienced intermittently over the previous few months. Every time, it would always take a different pathway, a different tributary, but retained the same constant core.
The dream would start with blinding white light, so bright it was painful but he was forced to look: as if somebody, or something, was holding his head... or maybe his skull was locked in the vice–grip of some horrible torture machine.
Machine? Had it been a machine?
The images danced away. Teasing.
Callaghan reached for his whisky glass, which he knew was half full, but knocked it with a thu
d to the carpet. ‘Damn.’ He made no move to retrieve it; partly because he felt too snug, but partly because the dream was seeping back into his conscious, waking mind, drawing with it a widening net of creeping, crawling horror.
White. Bright white.
And then swirls, spirals of ink–black darkness which exploded outwards into a static image. Black and white – with a myriad of shades. But no colour. There was never colour.
The image showed a young girl, about nine or ten years old. She had very pale skin, jet–black hair, and a long, lace–edged dress which reached her ankles. She was beautiful – stunningly beautiful. Her head was lowered, eyes hooded. In her hands she carried a long, curved sword, nearly as long as she was tall and completely at odds with the scene. The sword blade was corrupted with blood. Several drops had formed a small pool beneath the blade’s tip.
Something about this girl always filled Cal with an unspeakable terror. Nausea shook him like a terrier with a rancid bone. Because he felt, deep inside, for some reason, that one day she would kill him…
He got up, found the whisky bottle, unscrewed the cap and took several long swallows. It burned his throat, but killed the fear. It also warmed his belly and made senses swim but then, yeah, that’s what he wanted. Wanted – needed. An immediate oblivion. The ability to take him away from that nightmare scene of –
Of what?
A little girl with a sword?
Don’t be such a pussy.
He climbed back into bed but couldn’t bring himself to hold Mia despite desperately needing the company, the warmth, the simple basic human contact. Because, strangely, almost superstitiously, he didn’t want to infect her with his dirt. With his implied impurity.
And Callaghan realised with a great, settling sadness, like drifting snow settling on his head and shoulders and life, here, now, right now in this miserable world this tawdry existence filled with nothing but false smiles and hollow gestures: now, now, he was utterly and totally alone.
Sleep came quickly. Thankfully, there were no more dreams.
I love the cold air. Enjoy the chill. It seeps into me as I sit here, still, silent, patient, leaning slightly forward: a gargoyle watching black lapping waters.
Slowly, I ease up and lift the motorbike helmet from my head, feeling the release of compression, a freedom and sudden awareness of vulnerability. Not just because of the removal of a physical protection; but because I am visible for all to see.
I hang the helmet on the bike’s mirror, then reach back, gathering my long, jet–black hair, and tie it into a compact pony–tail. I sigh, return to my static pose, gazing over the waters of the wharf towards the Marriott Hotel; and the luxurious penthouse apartments nestling at the summit in a preposterous superiority.
He’s up there. I watched him go in. Watched the lights of the lift rise to the top. Watched the lights in his apartment appear, ignited by the dimmer switch to the left of the doorway – at my exact shoulder–height.
I know this fact because I was there, tonight. I watched the woman sleeping for a while. Listened to her whimpers, admired her smooth skin, her thick hair, her full lips.
I think about Callaghan.
And I realise with a start: I like him. I like him a lot.
I smile at that, aware my needle teeth would frighten small children. Indeed, would terrify large men. And to complement the image, I pull free my skinning razor and unfold it leisurely, marvelling at that simple sliver of honed steel, and at the black metal handle with its archaic etchings. I twist it, this way and that, so it catches the light of the moon… and glance up again at the high apartment and realise that soon – yes soon – we will meet. We have a lot to talk about, and a lot to think about. And finally: a lot to do.
But first.
First, I must teach Callaghan a lesson.
CHAPTER TWO
INFANTICIDE
CALLAGHAN HAD A plan, and it was a damned good one. It had worked before, and it would work again. It required one slow cooker, two jars of medium chilli, fresh peppers, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, red chilli peppers, a couple of garlic bulbs, a kilo of fresh steak mince (from a real butcher, not the chemical filled crap from the supermarket), tortillas, rice, an hour, a sharp knife, a bit of patience, and three bottles of Chardonnay. Mission A: cook. Mission B: invite Mia inside. Mission C: pour wine, drink quick, fuck like rabbits for three languorous hours, serve and... feast on bubbling Mexican chilli sprinkled with crumbled cheese.
Cal was carefully chopping the garlic when his mobile chirped. He placed the knife reverently to one side, having been a victim of many a drunken finger–slicing incident, and damn lucky to retain all his own fingers and thumbs. The text was from Sophie. Cal went cold, and a small shiver tickled his spine.
»from Sophie SexGoddess
»03.37 pm
»Vladimir gone to Odessa on deal. I free tomorrow. We need to meet.xx I can make it to Stratford upon Avon if u like? Will wear short black dress and sussies. I will love u long time.Xxx.
Cal chewed his lip, frowned, then picked up the knife and finished chopping the garlic into slivers as he thought about his reply, and considered the implied comedy promise of hardcore sexual activity. With garlic–juice fingers, he typed:
»to Sophie SexGoddess
»03.41 pm
»Is meeting so soon such a good idea? After what happened on hotel balcony? I get the idea GOD trying to tell us something! Or tell ME something, anyway!!! x.
He sent the message, scraped garlic into the slow cooker atop the vegetables, opened the Chardonnay (breaking his own unwritten rule of never drinking whilst chopping and cooking – he had to think about those valuable fingers, after all!), and downed a large glass in one.
Something sat bad inside him.
Drilled the back of his brain with unease.
After all, how long could one man’s luck hold out?
Cal got an uneasy feeling he was coming to the end of his nine lives...
He drank more wine. It kicked a marble around his skull, and he was just about to start frying the steak when his mobile warbled. He stared at it for a long, long time before picking it up and clicking OK.
»from Sophie SexGoddess
»04.01 pm
»I think Vlad might suspect. We REALLY need to meet. I am scared, Callaghan. I need to see u again! I need to hold u! I need to be with u! I need u!Xxxxx.
Five kisses? ‘Shit, shit, bastard, shit. Vladimir might fucking suspect?’ Cal grinned but the grin had nothing to do with humour. He pictured once more those gleaming Techrim 11mm pistols. He remembered cuddling Sophie, ample breasts pressed eager against his chest, soft hair in his face, inhaling her scent, her hair, the musk of her skin. He remembered painfully the taste of her lips, the salt of her flesh, the honey inside her hot and welcoming dark places. His mind spun a little with the wine and the heady intoxication of memories; memories of love, sex, intimacy; walking hand in hand by the Avon in Stratford, watching the ducks, laughing, kissing, trailing hands in dark waters; then, kissing for hours in front of Sophie’s open roaring fire at her Edinburgh flat, the heat prickling faces, tongues entwined long and languid and soft and teasing and biting and holding...
Cal took another greedy gulp of wine. Shit. How do you dump a Sex Goddess?
In fact – can you dump a Sex Goddess?
Especially one married to a Romanian gun–runner slash hit–man?
With shaking fingers, Cal compiled his reply. Now was the time to be a Big Man. To stop this insanity – before it got him, or probably both of them, killed. Killed dead.
»to Sophie SexGoddess
»04.09 pm
»OK. We can meet at the usual place. 1pm. I miss you.
He sent the message before he had time (or the good sense) to delete the last bit, and cursing to himself even as he sent the loaded message. ‘You’re your own worst enemy, Callaghan, you dickhead,’ he muttered, and punched in the numbers for Sullivan’s home. Getting no reply, he tried his best friend�
��s mobile – and it rang for a while before being answered.
‘Yeah?’ The gravel of a smoker’s drawl.
‘Want to meet for a drink, old buddy?’
‘What’s up this time Callaghan?’
‘You’re too cynical, my friend. What makes you think there’s something up?’
Sullivan laughed. ‘There always is. It just so happens I have a slot in half an hour. See you in the Gunmaker’s?’
‘You’re on.’ Relief flooded Cal like a drug.
‘Just one proviso.’
‘Name it.’
‘All the drinks are on you, fucker.’
I open my skinning razor and take the amputated leg in my hands. The flesh is cold, hard almost, the limb severed below the knee. The flesh is puckered around the yellow of bone, and a deeper yellow of chilled fat shows in the cross–section. I cut deep, and the blade performs immaculately, its fine edge parting flesh with ease and stripping it in lengths until the freezer–chilled skin and muscle lie like shavings at my boots. As I get closer to the bone I take an infinity of care, making sure I don’t mark the bone itself and using the fine edge of the skinning razor to remove the last peelings of muscle and tendon. I struggle around the ankle joint, but there is no foot so I am spared the fiddly necessity of skinning toes.
I know what you’re thinking. I’m a lunatic, right? A madman. A beast. Maybe even The Beast. Disgusting, perverted, despicable, life unworthy of life, another deviant mental case in need of locking up, beheading, death by lethal injection. And ha, maybe by your terms, in your context, you could be right. But then you live your lives in the shadows... the shadows of the real world, the true world, the cold world. You live in the Other State.
You see, I have not come here for fun, or personal gain. I follow no religion or moral obligation; I have no code of conduct, am not answerable to any deity or abhorred perception of evil which you summon from tarnished souls. Your laws mean nothing to me; nor does your policing, or the joke that is your twisted and decadent legal system.
