by Mark Lumby
For once, Ray was faced with a problem which he couldn’t work out. He scratched his head, drew his palm down his stubbled cheek, and cupped his chin in his hand. Ten minutes passed and the windows had fogged from the insides. They had both kept wiping the windows clear, to see if they could see anything. Ray had tried breaking down the door again, but short of cracking the interior, the door remained intact. The windows were locked, too. But then, as he took his foot to the window to shatter the glass, Tom’s door opened. They were both silent again, stared at the door like some monster was standing ready to rip them to shreds. But it was only blackness. Ray reached into his jacket, pulled out his Beretta and waved it for Tom to get out.
Tom removed his gun also and climbed cautiously from the car. He checked up and down the car, over the roof, pointing the gun over their heads at the iron steps, behind the trash containers. “No one here,” he confirmed. “What the fuck?”
Ray shuffled over and climbed out. “Where’d he go?”
“If I knew that do you think I’d be stood still?” Tom snorted. “Listen, we’re out now—we should go. We can climb the gate; it’s not that high.”
“But who was it?”
“Does it matter? We’re alive. Let’s get the fuck out.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Ray said, watching the steps overhead, a feeling of being spied upon. “Maybe.”
“If you would follow me,” a voice instructed them, hiding in the shadows under the iron steps. “We have some business I do believe. A mutual interest.”
Tom glanced over at Ray just as they heard a door open from where the man had been standing. They had their guns raised at the door that had now closed with a thud. Getting closer to the opening, they could only just make out where the door was, although reaching out and guiding themselves to make sure. “This isn’t good, man,” Tom said to his brother. “You know this guy?”
Ray nudged the door with his shoe like he was testing it for a trip wire or some other trap. Eventually, he said, “Not me.” He was calm.
Tom was edgy, standing behind Ray, then looked back at the mesh gate considering leaving his brother alone. But something else bothered him. A slow clacking noise from the back of one of the trash containers. “You hear that?” But Ray wasn’t listening. And as Ray pushed his foot further through the door, Tom went the other way, towards the container. He approached the disturbance, gun held high as he inspected where he thought the sound to be coming from. The clacking wasn’t coming from the container at all but from the rear of the car.
From the trunk.
And it could have been the drugs in his body, but when he approached the back of the car, he tapped the tip of his gun against the black paint, lowered his head, and he was sure he could hear whispering.
Ray said, “What you doing round there?”
“I think there’s something in the trunk, Ray—or someone.”
But Ray didn’t move. He breathed the word, “Bullshit!” And then told him, “Get the fuck over here!” He held the door ajar with his foot and waited for Tom.
“I’m telling you; something’s in the damn trunk.” He still heard knocking, like a foot kicking at the interior, but as he pressed his ear against the cold keyhole, the whisper became clearer, although he still couldn’t make out what it was saying. He looked up into the sky, rain falling coldly onto his face, and he closed his eyes, reminding himself that the whispers were all in his imagination. But when Ray had called him over, Tom heard a small voice pleading for help amidst muffled sobbing. He tried opening the trunk, although was apprehensive of what he might find. But it was locked, and as his failure to opening it was evident to whoever was inside, the sobbing became louder.
“Tom!” his voice straining. “Come on!”
“I can hear something, Ray.” His hair was sodden, glued to his forehead and dripping over his eyes. He pushed the hair on his forehead aside with the back of his hand, as if he was wiping away sweat on a hot day, and with the same hand that held the gun. He didn’t look desperate as much as he did confused. “He’s locked someone in here.”
“So what if he has?” Ray stepped away from the door, approaching Tom, and said quietly as to not make himself heard by the other man.
“But it won’t open: it’s locked.”
“We’ll deal with him first,” he said irritably, waving his gun at the door in such a threatening manner it could have been intended as a warning for his brother instead. “Then—if you really want to, we’ll deal with that.” Ray went back to the door and waited for Tom. “You got my back,” he asked him, although it sounded more like an instruction. They went through the door, Tom looking over his shoulder at the rear of the car before he disappeared after his brother.
The room was in darkness. Tom stood at the door allowing at least a little light to filter through. They could both make out a silhouette of a person frozen in the corner. Ray said, “That you?” He aimed his gun at the shadow.
As the lights buzzed to life, they stopped themselves from applying more pressure to the trigger as they realised the figure was just a mannequin. In fact, the whole room was full of them, mostly standing; some fallen over; some with no arms; some missing heads. And the figures that did keep their heads were unfortunate to have had them melted in some juvenile vandalism.
The room was small, a reception room with an even larger room at the other side of some dented metal swing doors that were victim to rusty horizontal scratches deep within the metal. The brick walls were painted a shiny dark green and were scored with scratches, some deep into the bricks. Claw marks. There was a cocktail of faeces and blood smeared down and across the walls like long fingers, and ammonia was pungent, almost choking, in the air. As soon as the brothers had entered, even in the dark, they had to scramble for the backs of their hand to shield the smell from flowing up their noses. Tom coughed and spluttered, coughed again, vomit splattering the floor to this side where tiny bones, animal bones, most likely from a rat, had been crushed. Tom traced the rest of the floor, following a path of more bone, some larger—some human.
But that smell. Ray fought to hold it in.
Francis Dupont was behind a mannequin, his back turned to them. “Close the door behind you,” he insisted. There was no feeling in his voice. It was bland, and like it never emitted from this man.
Ray took away his hand, his gun pointed at Francis; Tom followed Ray’s direction. In their minds, it was simple. Guns aimed at the back of Dupont’s head they would blow out his brain from his forehead. They thought they had the upper hand. But they couldn’t. It should have been simple; the brothers were used to death: used to killing. Although, as they stared at the back of his head, Tom would fire his gun, but only when Ray had told him to. Ray, on the other hand, was curious. Something he had never fallen victim to before. Death had been straightforward. But he was curious. He needed to know what this man wanted. As Ray stepped forward, an arm’s reach away from Dupont’s head, Tom holding behind just in case anything went wrong, Ray was cautious on what Francis could possibly conceal underneath his knee-length black rain jacket. He could have hidden a bazooka; a sword; even another person to do his fighting for him. He looked like that type of person: someone who wouldn’t get his hands dirty. But what would a person like that be doing here? Ray stepped away from the door leaving the night behind them.
“Jack Monday—you know him?” He still didn’t turn around.
“Yeah, that’s right. Whose asking?” spat Ray like it was none of Dupont’s business.
“He owes you money?” It was like he wanted them to confirm what Jack had already told him as if he needed a second opinion, something to justify the gift in which he had given to him.
“He might do,” Tom put in, jabbing his gun forward. Ray looked back at Tom like he was warning him to keep his mouth shut.
“No—he does owe you money,” Francis corrected. He turned his head so that they could only see half of his face.
“And what’s your business in all
this?” Ray asked. “You didn’t give your name.”
“My apologies; my name is Francis Tiberius Dupont. Call me Francis.”
“I won’t call you anything if it’s all the same. I don’t want to label you with any importance.”
He chortled. “But I am the most important person to meet your acquaintance tonight! I am the choice between life and death. I think that makes me pretty damn important.”
“You’re full of yourself, Man,” Tom yelled. “Why we even letting him talk, Ray? Let just kill him.”
“You could,” Francis told them. “But you won’t.” There was a pause. “Like you said, Ray—it’s business. I wish to buy his debt.” His hands were behind his back, and he had a humoured smile, which from the side of his face, was peaceful and sublime. He asked, “Would you allow that of me?”
Tom snorted and looked at Ray. Shook his head. “Doesn’t work like that. The debt comes from him. Anyways, we got plans.”
“Oh—I know of your plans, but I will make myself clear to you both,” Francis expressed as though they had no option and he was merely being courteous. “I wish to settle his debt!” As he turned around, he stepped away from the mannequin and towards them, and his smile appeared forced and was as sinister as his wide eyes.
“Far enough. Let’s say we fill you with lead,” Ray nudged his gun at him as if he meant it, “walk out of here, and what we have with Jack is business as fuckin’ usual.”
With a grin, Tom slipped his gun behind his belt, and in its place, produced a cycle-chain, wrapped half of it around his knuckles, the rest hanging like a whip. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”
Francis peeled his jacket away from his shoulders, hung it over the head of a mannequin, then began to loosen his tie, laying it over the shoulder of the jacket. He started unbuttoning his white shirt.
For a moment, Tom was convinced that Ray was getting him back for the prank he pulled on him last month. He never did appreciate finding that finger in his soup. But, Tom soon realised his brother had no part in this.
Francis stared at them, eyebrows raised, like this was all natural, all some game. He took another step forward, his hands once again linked behind his back. He smiled, wetting his lips, and he said in answer to Tom’s statement, “No—I think not, if it’s all the same to you, allow me the pleasure.” He watched amusingly as Tom swung the chain.
“Okay whacko! What’s all this about? Who put you up to it?” Tom demanded.
“But, I’ve already told you.”
“Jack? Nah! Not our Jack. He wouldn’t have the balls for this.”
“Oh, well I assure you—he has.” He looked at Tom, removed his hands from behind his back, jingling the car key in front of him. “Be a good chap. There is a girl in your trunk, but you already knew that. Be a good man and bring her in.”
Tom looked at Ray like he was seeking approval, which his brother hesitantly gave. Tom wrapped the rest of the chain around his wrist, holding it in place, and snatched the keys from him, kicking through the doors. It still rained, puddles forming on the ground where it was impossible to drain away; mud sinking into the soles of his shoes and wrapping, almost, up to his ankles. He rushed from under the dripping steps, his feet heavy like the mud was eating them, and he inserted the key into the lock. The trunk snapped open, but Tom stopped it opening fully. He listened. There was no crying, and he hadn’t realised when he approached the car that the knocking had stopped too. He let the truck open.
Her clothes were torn around the shoulders where scarlet cuts were matted with dirt. The pink t-shirt she wore was ripped across its chest. Tom could see the girl’s breasts, her pink nipples protruding through the torn material, the cold making them much larger. She was shaking, or trembling, and then bolted away and yelped as Tom squeezed her shoulder. He watched her breasts, then the brown sack hiding her head and chord tied around her neck. He was about to pull the chord that kept the knot intact.
The girl said, “You better not do that,” slow and calm as if by warning. “He won’t like it.” She sounded like she was choking as she hesitated for breath. Tom touched the chord again, but she frantically shook her head.
Tom pulled away, was about to ignore her again and untie the string anyway, but he thought about Francis Dupont pulling away his tie and slowly unfastening his shirt buttons. And he couldn’t understand why he had done this. If he had gone back inside would Dupont have stripped down to his underwear? Would he be naked? He decided to listen to what this girl had warned him of, so instead, he grabbed underneath her arm, her wrists bound behind her back, and helped her from the trunk. “Are you Okay?” He sounded concerned, although kept catching a glimpse of her naked breast and couldn’t help but be stirred in his trousers.
She stopped shaking, turned to him, her head and face wrapped in cloth, and said, “My hero,” giggling playfully. When Tom pushed through the door, the girl resting against him too weak to support herself, Francis Dupont had removed his shirt and had covered the shoulders of another mannequin, and was now slipping out his belt. Scars laden his torso, whip lashes still raw.
Tom said, “What’s with the clothes, man?”
“I like to stay clean,” Dupont stated as though it should have obvious, looked at the girl, gestured for Tom to place her on a metal chair that had fallen over onto its side. “Poor little girl,” and he smirked at her, staring lusciously at her bare legs, the high skirt riding up her thighs revealing sore grazes.
“I went to pull the chord, but she told me not to. Why would she say that?
Francis stared at him sternly. “That’s my business.”
“You did this to her!” Tom blasted as he helped her to sit down.
He shrugged at Tom, then gave a nod. “Right after I cut your drivers throat.”
Ray went forward, holding his gun at Dupont’s head, but he showed signs of discipline and remained unsurprised, proceeding to wrap his belt into a spiral before placing it beside the feet of the mannequin.
“Pull the trigger,” Francis almost dared him and stepped forward pushing his own forehead against the barrel. Then he put the gun into his mouth, biting around the barrel. And with his teeth clenched, he still managed to say, “Put a bullet in my throat. Let's taste lead." He grinned.
“Kill him, Ray!” Tom urged. “Get this shit over with.”
But Francis laughed at Ray, grabbed his wrist and removed the gun from his mouth.
“I can’t,” Ray confessed to Tom as he stared at the gun as if it was broken, and then he looked confused at Francis.
Francis eased off his polished black slip-on shoes, placed them near the belt, and dropped his trousers, folding them neatly and laying them over his shoes. “You cannot kill me, Ray. Even if you managed to pop the trigger, I wouldn’t die. But you’re the intelligent brother, aren’t you, so I think deep back in that violence infested brain of yours, you already knew.”
“What’s he talking about, Ray?”
Ray turned to Tom like he was apologising. “Like he said; I think we should listen to him.”
“Why you talking shit, Ray?”
Francis said with a smile, “Yes, Ray; why are you talking shit?”
“I can’t kill you,” he shouted. “I can’t kill him, Tom! My fingers wouldn’t fuckin’ work around the trigger! I don’t know why. I just—”
“So,” Francis said, almost disappointed. “Do we have a deal? I will buy Jack Monday’s debt from you?”
Then Ray looked at Francis, and although he couldn’t understand why he couldn’t kill him, he frowned at him and said with adjusted assertiveness, “Didn’t we make ourselves clear? There is no deal. Jack is ours, and whatever your business with him—well, it will just have to wait.”
Francis welcomed the news with a smile that was borderline naughty. He said, “Let’s play a game.”
Tom said, “No more games,” and started to pull the cord around the girl’s neck, not even beginning to wonder how quiet she had been throughout. But she s
at still like she was already dead. He had wondered whether the chord had strangled her as he slowly released it.
“You may want to second that,” Francis advised, although it was too late.
Tom said, “I don’t think she’s breathing.”
“For you,” Francis said, “that might not be a bad thing.”
Tom removed the sack from her head. He couldn’t see her eyes; her head had fallen forward, her chin resting almost on her chest. Blood oozed from her mouth and had made a glistening pool that filled where her stomach arched and material from her t-shirt had clustered. It was like she had taken a chunk from her lip in her obvious panic: maybe her tongue had been bitten through, too. Her hair dishevelled, matted with dirt and blood, was caked to her forehead. Tom pushed aside her hair. Her face—what he could see of it—was coated scarlet, too, like blood had been smeared across her skin; finger marks could clearly be made out down her cheeks. He drew his head in closer to her face, close enough but not touching. He couldn’t feel her warm breath on his cheek. He pulled away. “She’s gone.”
Francis looked thoughtful, almost worried, when he said, “Good!” although didn’t sound too convincing. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the girl, her scars, wondering whether he had hit her too many times. “Then let the game begin.”
Tom unwound the chain from his wrist and dragged it along the floor as he advanced towards Francis.
Francis held up his hand for Tom to stop, turned to Ray. “You may want to tell your brother to stop.”
Ray said, “Why should I, man? You’re one weird fuck; you know that? Stripping to your underwear; is that natural to you? And for what? You want to buy Jack’s debt? Well, I’ve already told you that it ain’t for sale. As for this game you wanna play; there ain’t no game gonna be played tonight or any other night. I don’t know what the fuck you did, why I couldn’t kill you: I don’t know. That was some weird shit. So, this is what’s gonna happen. Tom has the car keys. You can keep the girl. We’re gonna leave you two alone to do whatever it is you wanna do, but we ain’t getting involved. So, if you think you’re gonna fuck us, think again, freak.”
