The Final Cut

by Matthew Smith

  "N-no, I had help. Fuh-Frederica Talón and her men... swapped allegiances."

  "And what did you offer them that they found so irresistible?"

  A phrase I remember Brett using pops into my head. "K-keys to the kingdom."

  Conrad takes a step closer to me, peering into my face. He can't quite conceal his distaste at the dried blood caked to my skin, the bruise swelling up on my forehead, forcing my right eye partially closed, the idiot yawning of my mouth as I gulp for air, my nose a ruined mess. Something about his disgust, the animalistic repulsion of my bloodied state, creeps me out and it occurs to me that maybe the Danskys were right to be scared of this guy. There's clearly an unhinged mind behind that smooth exterior.

  Conrad reaches out his fingers to my face and traces the outline of a welt on my cheek with the lightest of touches, moving his hand up past the back of my neck. Then he grabs my hair and yanks hard, tugging my head back, and moves his lips close to my ear, so close that I can hear the wet sound of his tongue as the words curl out, hissed and heavy with menace: "Who - are - you?"

  "You... think... that I'm... l-lying to you?" I gasp, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. It's not just the pain that's affecting me now, but a cold, hard dread that's building in my belly. "You don't... t-trust me?"

  "I don't like change, Mr Trager. Change is bad. Change brings with it problems, it can upset the status quo. My colleagues, my employer, they don't like to see new faces. They like to keep the system pure and untainted, free from those that seek to enter from the outside."

  "I b-brought you the... gruddamn offer of the w-week," I reply, my watery eyes looking up into his, my hair tearing away from my scalp. "I'm your... n-new contact that can g-get you... all the B-Banana City goodies that you want, and you're gonna th-throw that away 'cause you d-don't know my face?"

  "The organisation I represent, Mr Trager," Conrad says, pomposity and self-importance oozing from every pore, "takes its secrecy very seriously. We had a beneficial relationship with the Danskys because they were reliable and didn't ask any questions. Now they're gone, and out of nowhere you pop up on the scene. You'll forgive me if I'm not the tiniest bit suspicious."

  "S'way it is on the street. Deals come and go, people come and go. The p-point is... whether y-you're prepared to g-grab the opportunity."

  Conrad smiles and releases me from his grip, patting my cheek softly. "And now it is time for you to go, Mr Trager. You're too much of a security risk, I'm afraid." He glances at the goons holding me. "Take him down to City Bottom and dispose of him."

  "Wait, wait," I weakly protest, trying to resist the creeps as they attempt to pull me away. "This... this is a trust issue, right? You don't know me from Aaron A Aardvark, so you're gonna sling me in a garbage grinder?"

  "Something like that."

  "What's it gotta take, man, to... convince you I'm a square bear? You think I don't have the cojones to join your group? What d'you think happened to the Danskys?"

  Conrad pulls an exasperated expression. "Mr Trager, I don't know what has become of the brothers, but I remain unconvinced you were responsible. Now, I have better things to do than stand here arguing with you-"

  "Lose me and you lose all your supplies from South-Am. Talón won't deal with anyone else. Take me onboard an' you'll have direct line to torture central. Won't have to bother with middlemen."

  "This is bullshit," creep number two snarls.

  "Trust has to be earned, I know that," I continue. "I c-cannot be automatically granted your approval... without some show of loyalty."

  "Why don't we just whack him here, boss? Only way to get him to shut the drokk up..."

  Conrad holds up a hand, looking amused. "Hold on, I want to hear what he's got to say." He gestures for me to go on.

  I try to straighten myself, clearing my throat. "You say you don't like those that seek to enter your organisation from the outside. W-what do you do, for example... if you need to replace one of your men? Do you take on the p-person responsible for their removal... The person who has shown themselves to be the s-stronger?"

  The question flummoxes him. "I don't... the situation has never arisen-"

  "But you're going to need... to replace him," I continue, making a sideways nodding motion with my head at creep number two, standing diagonally to my left. "Who would you t-trust to take his place but his most obvious s-successor?"

  "But he's not-"

  I lash out, my speed and strength catching them unawares. I elbow creep number one in the midriff, loosening his grip, then spin and sweep the legs from beneath creep number two. As he lies prone, I flatten my right hand and deliver a powerful blow to his throat as if it were a blade, directly above his Adam's apple. It destroys his trachea and he gags, unable to swallow or gasp for breath. As his hands go to his neck and he struggles to his knees, his eyes bulging, a horrible spluttering noise emerging from his mouth, I bunch my fist and drive it into his face, demolishing his nose, splintering the bone. He collapses instantly, hitting the floor like a dead weight.

  Conrad and creep number one have barely had time to register the attack when I turn back to them, their eyes wide, mouths agape.

  "Seems like you have a vacancy," I say.

  I'm sitting at a bar on Feltz, nursing my sixth or seventh whiskey, or whatever synthetic derivative that I've been served, and I'm allowing the alcohol to dull my senses and soften the pain. My swollen, bruised face is attracting attention from the other patrons and the barman is giving me distasteful glances every time I order another round, but by now I'm past caring. I want to drink until I can no longer feel the ache in my limbs or the throbbing in my skull or remember the sensation of the perp's windpipe disintegrating at my touch. I think I've fractured some bones in my hand, and I'm having trouble holding the glass without it shaking.

  As I suspected, a display of utter ruthlessness was enough to convince Conrad that I was genuine. Although his surviving crony had to be restrained from putting a bullet through my head, Conrad himself didn't seem that upset by the violent passing of his colleague. In fact, he appeared impressed by my casual brutality and lack of mercy, as if wiping out a rival was the way to get ahead in his organisation. Despite managing to wheedle myself into his trust, I thought I had still better watch my step if I didn't want to end up the same way.

  Conrad had said he had a job for me, a trial run, that if successful would open all sorts of doors for a man of my talents. I was told to be at Tommy's in three days' time when a guy called Alphonse would pick me up and show me what the job entailed. I was blindfolded and taken on a short, ten-minute journey before being left on a street corner. Clearly, his trust didn't extend far enough to reveal the base they were operating out of. I know that he has just enough faith in me to keep me alive for the time being, but beyond that I was going to be treated with caution.

  Despite my conscience telling me that I should be celebrating having penetrated Conrad's mysterious outfit, I merely feel deflated and weary. And maybe a touch scared. My head feels too heavy for my neck to support, and every time I close my eyes I see the faces of the perps I've nixed to maintain the great lie that is my life. A blood-spattered gallery of accusatory glares, existences wiped out... for what? For the greater good? Pawns that could be sacrificed because it got me closer to the Mr Bigs, the creeps who were really pulling the strings. And what did that make me? Someone who saw life as so meaningless that it could be snuffed out at the drop of a hat? Who was I to see madness in this Conrad character, when it seemed I was cut from the same cloth? Perhaps that was what frightened me - there was something about him that was very familiar to me, a kindred spirit. We're bonded by the blood we have no qualms about spilling.

  The alcohol is making me maudlin, I realise. I ought to go outside, get some fresh air, shed some of the ghosts clinging to me like cigarette smoke. But maybe one more for the road... I raise my hand slightly, trying to attract the barman's attention, suddenly dimly aware that there's somebody sitting next to
me.

  "You look how I feel," a sultry female voice says. I turn to look to my right, eyes struggling to focus. An attractive woman - dark hair, bright red lipstick that matches her tight little dress - swims into my vision. She doesn't attempt to hide her shock at my appearance. "Jovus, somebody sure went to work on you."

  "You should see the other guy." I smile weakly, even the slightest muscle twitch giving me pain. The barman ambles over and I slide my glass towards him. "Fill her up." I glance at the woman. "You want a drink?"

  "Wouldn't be in here if I didn't," she replies. "I'll have the same." When the barman's gone, she asks: "So, you walk into a door?"

  "More like two doors walked into me. My fault, really, my head kept getting in their way." She laughs, the first joyful sound I've heard all day. "Let me guess, hard day, right?"

  "Hard year; one I'm trying to forget," she whispers.

  I clink her glass. "Join the club. We can have mutual amnesia." I take a gulp, the fiery liquid burning its way to my stomach. "Whaddya do?"

  "Professional heartbreaker."

  "I can see that. Does it pay well?"

  She smiles. "Not really, but there's plenty of job satisfaction. How about you?"

  "Actor." It feels good to be knowingly swapping untruths with someone, both of us aware of the yarns we're spinning, like we're creating new lives just for tonight.

  She looks mock impressed. "Wow. Would I have seen you in anything?"

  "Well, it tends to be underground stuff, mainly."

  "There's some drokking brutal critics out there," she says, nodding to my bruises. She reaches out and lightly touches the swelling above my eye, and it takes enormous willpower not to lay my hand on top of hers and keep it there.

  "They don't pull any punches, that's for sure," I reply quietly.

  We chat briefly, both circling the truth like dancers. For me, this kind of invention is second nature; another skin to step into, another role to play. She keeps up with me every step of the way, obviously having done this sort of thing before. Despite the lack of honesty between us, there's a warmth to her company that I find beguiling and comforting. I always did have my head turned by a pretty face and an easy smile.

  An ache gnaws at the back of my skull and I groan. "Ugh. I've drunk too much."

  "Come on," she says, sliding off her bar stool. "Let's go somewhere more private."

  The floor seems uneven as I join her, and my legs feel like they're going to buckle any second. Fatigue and inebriation are crashing down on me. She slips an arm around my waist and steadies me. This close to her, I can smell her scent, feel the softness of her body. As she guides me out the door, I ask, slurring slightly: "What's your name?"

  "Sam."

  "I'm-"

  "I know who you are, Pete."

  Shock sobers me up fast. I resist her pull, standing stock-still and looking into her eyes. "How do you..."

  "I was sent to bring you in," she replies, motioning with her head towards the street. I follow her gaze and see two Judges beside a catch wagon, waiting for us. "Hendry wants to talk to you." She opens her handbag and I steal a glimpse of the Justice Department badge contained within. She smiles reassuringly. "You're not the only one that can put on a performance."

  I'm sitting alone at a small table in an interrogation room, several cups of synthi-caf now percolating through my system in a bid to stave off the effects of the alcohol. I find the blank walls, intended to be threatening and dislocating to the suspect, oddly comforting. After too much drug-induced hyper-reality and a brain-deadening comedown, it feels good to be in some nowhere-place, where I can't get over-stimulated. The spartan nature of Justice Department holding tanks evokes the cold, brutal efficiency with which the Law is administered, and is supposed to put the fear of grud into the perp, but for me, it seems like a welcome relief.

  The door opens and Hendry walks in, a cane in one hand aiding his limp. He takes one look at my sorry state and shakes his head, lowering himself into the other chair across the table from me. These are the only pieces of furniture in the room.

  "I feel worse than I look," I tell him.

  "Helmets said you were intoxicated when they brought you in."

  "Medicinal. It numbs the pain."

  Hendry sighs. "Trager, do you remember our last conversation? I seem to recall giving you a friendly warning about enjoying life on the street too much-"

  "Gimme a break, chief. I'd just had the shit kicked out of me. If I'm not entitled to a drink-"

  "You gave up your entitlements years ago, when you became a Judge," Hendry snaps. "Exactly what does getting drunk benefit you, other than to lower your defences and leave you compromised? You're an officer of the Law, for drokk's sake, you can't afford not to be alert."

  My superior's words cut through me like a las-saw; a napalm-burst ache blossoms behind my eyes. I wince, rubbing my temples. "Sending a pretty face in there was your idea, no doubt?"

  "Thought we'd bring you in gently. Good job Harvey was a Judge and not an assassin, you wouldn't have made her job too difficult for her."

  "Y'know, your concern is quite touching. You haven't once asked how I came to get all these." I gesture to my bruises.

  Hendry pauses for a second, then says softly: "You went ahead with the torture deal? How did it go?"

  "Weird with a beard. This creep the Danskys were so afraid of, guy called Conrad, he's a complete fruit-loop. Looks like a regular cit on the surface, but he's a drokkin' nutcase underneath, man."

  "Conrad? As in Conn? As in Beast That Ate the Beast That Ate Mars?"

  "Hey, that was a good drokkin' movie."

  Hendry cracks a smile. "Hell of a movie."

  "But, yeah, that's all I know him by. Gotta be a cover name. They're drokkin' paranoid about outsiders."

  "They didn't trust you?"

  "Eventually." I flash back to the creep on his back, my hand chopping down on his throat, the awful gagging of his final breaths. An involuntary shudder travels my spine. "I convinced them I was on the level."

  "What do you think he's up to?"

  "I got a meet in a few days' time, guess I'll find out then. I think they're trying to test me."

  The door opens again and a figure fills the frame. At first, I think it's just a uniform come to deliver a message, but then this gruff, rumbling voice emerges from it and I recognise who it is instantly. I've heard that snarling bark a hundred times on Tri-D, growling at reporters or delivering a warning to terrified viewers about staying out of trouble. "This your wonder boy then, Hendry?"

  Gruddamn. It's Dredd.

  He strides in, every bit as intimidating in the flesh as his reputation suggests, a file tucked under his arm. He throws me a look that says he doesn't think much of me at first glance, and I try to give him an unimpressed stare back, but the truth of the matter is that I'm a touch star-struck. The man's a legend, responsible for saving the city half a dozen times over, and he's the benchmark by which every Judge must test themselves. There is so much weight and history flowing through his bloodline that it is difficult not to be nervous in his presence, even if you are a fellow officer. You feel your every word, your every action, is being judged and invariably will come up wanting. There are few that are his equal.

  "Dredd," Hendry acknowledges. "This is Trager, one of my best Wally Squad operatives."

  I raise my eyebrows at my superior, surprised by my commendation. I had always guessed that I was a little too close to the edge for Hendry's comfort. But I suppose I do get results. "What's all this about, boss?"

  "Your infiltration of the torture-buyer's organisation may have links with my ongoing investigation into a number of murders," Dredd interrupts tersely, putting the file down on the table. "You've heard about the Liz Short body dump?"

  I nod, thinking back to the piece in the Mega-Times. "Yeah, I read about that. Dead were pulled out of a chem-pit, right?"

  "The victims that we've managed to identify have all been actors, and have all worked
for a film studio called Catalyst at one time or another. They make anti-Sov propaganda movies. I believe that the company is a front for an outfit that is kidnapping, torturing and murdering citizens."

  "Whoa." The name Catalyst rings a bell. To be told that it was killing its actors was like hearing that Dave the Orang-utan was actually a gimp in a monkey suit - a big deal to wrap your head around.

  "You sold on the instruments of torture from Banana City to your contact, I understand," Dredd continues. "Where did you meet him?"

  "I was told the handover usually took place at Tommy's, that bar on Bleeker. Creep never turned up but sent a couple of goons to collect me. They knocked me unconscious and I woke up in this big, dark building. Nothing I could recognise; could've been any kind of warehouse."

  "Or a studio?" Hendry puts in.

  "Maybe. There was a spotlight right above me. Everything else was in shadow."

  "The creeps that grabbed you, would you recognise them again?" Dredd asks.

  No drokkin' kidding. You don't forget the face of a man you've killed with your bare hands. "For sure."

  Dredd leans in, flips open the file and retrieves several surveillance photographs showing grainy images of three men emerging from a block main entrance with a woman. She's carrying a couple of suitcases. "We pulled these off the PSU camera trained on George Bush Snr. We've narrowed down the day we think one of the victims was kidnapped, and went through the footage. I think this is her being taken away."

  I squint at the pics. "They're wearing blur-masks."

  "I know. But is the clothing, anything else, familiar?"

  I shake my head. "These aren't the goons that went for me."

  "What about the buyer?" Dredd persists. "Did you get a good look at him?"

  "Sure, when he wasn't having me used as a punchbag." I point at the swelling above my eye. "I got a fractured-"

  "Save it for the meds," Dredd replies dismissively. "What did he look like?"

  "Grey-haired, suited motherdrokker. Not your average crim, but loonier than a barrelful of muties."