Dead Broken - Psychological Thriller / Horror

by Gerard Gray

  Steven nodded. “I think Roland’s Café is out. Shall we find somewhere else to chat?”

  I suddenly remembered why I was meeting this guy in the first place.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I tried to call. I haven’t got the book…’

  “I know. There must be another café around here. A pub even.”

  “Sorry. You know?”

  If Steven had heard my reply then he didn’t let on. “Come on. You look quite shook up. Let’s find somewhere else to talk. Something tells me Roland’s Café is no longer an option.”

  Chapter 9

  The Serial Killer’s Brother

  The priest’s brother wasn’t what I expected at all; the voice didn’t match the man. His strange accent had projected a long, thin frame dressed in casual but expensive business attire; what I got was a man in a black biker’s jacket sporting an overly large paunch. His hair was long, lank and grey, hidden away behind a clandestine ponytail, and his eyes were as slippery as a couple of eels. This wasn’t down to him avoiding your gaze; it was just that his spectacled eyes forced you to look away, to slip to the side. I got the impression right from the start that this was a formidable man.

  “I need to apologise for my behaviour earlier,” he said, sitting down with our drinks.

  “Sorry?”

  “On the phone. I’ve been stressed lately, you wouldn’t believe. But that’s no excuse. I’m sorry for being short with you. I’m sorry for being rude.”

  “Och, no worries. If you were then I didn’t notice.”

  “No, I was rude. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

  “Och, Don’t worry about it.”

  The stranger picked up his pint of Guinness and took a thirsty gulp. On entering the pub he had heartily asked me to choose my poison. I was just going to have a coke, but then decided that one drink wasn’t going to hurt so ordered a Guinness; I needed something to steady my nerves after the incident in the café. “Good choice, good choice,” came his reply. “I think I’ll join you.”

  As we sat at the table I wished I hadn’t ordered anything. The conversation was tentative to say the least. For starters there were spaces. I hate spaces. Now, all sentences have spaces in them, but these spaces were long and protracted. Spaces like these didn’t just happen – they required effort.

  The stranger moved his glass to his mouth, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on mine. He smiled at me from behind his thick glasses but said nothing; he appeared to be relishing the uncomfortable silence, like an ambassador appreciating a fine cigar.

  “So was it easy, getting a flight at such short notice?” I said, in an attempt to bridge the growing gap.

  “Easy? Yes, easier than I thought. I was going to take the train, but to tell you the truth, even though the journey time is roughly the same, the flight, just taking an hour, makes the journey seem shorter. Do you know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  His hand drifted to his mouth.

  The afternoon pub was deathly quiet.

  “About the book,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry for not bringing it, but for the life of me…”

  “You looked quite shook up back there.”

  “Sorry?”

  “In the café. You weren’t that close to them, and yet… you looked quite disturbed by the whole affair, even before they started to cause trouble.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. Would you think it rude of me if I were to ask you why?”

  I picked up my drink and took a pathetic gulp. I had only just started mine whereas he was halfway through his. I suddenly wanted to go home. I didn’t like where the conversation was leading us. “It was nothing.”

  “Nothing? It’s just… I could have sworn you looked worried the moment they entered the café.”

  “Were you there? When they came in?”

  “Yes, I was sitting in one of the cubicles.”

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you. If I had done, I would’ve come over.” I chided myself. My comment had alluded to the fact that his actions had been less than mine. But in saying that, I would have at least done him the courtesy of going over to talk to him.

  “I was just about to talk to you, when the trouble started.”

  What have you killed?

  I sat back in my seat, disturbed by the sudden voice in my head. It had sounded like him, but not a word had his lips uttered. Where had it come from? I pushed myself to look the stranger in the face, but I couldn’t hold his stare for long. I tried again, but my eyes simply slid to the side.

  I suddenly had an uneasy feeling in my stomach. On the surface I knew that I should drop the thought, but something deep inside wouldn’t let me. Like the doomed proverbial cat, my curiosity had gotten the better of me.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  The stranger handed me back a smile in reply. At least I think it was a smile. His expression was hard to get a handle on, a bit like his eyes. Was he smiling or was he thinking? I shook the thought from my head.

  “You asked me something, earlier on the phone.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that; I was rude.”

  “No, no. You said something odd. You… you asked me: what had I killed?”

  His smile grew. “Have you seen those kids before?”

  “What did you mean by that: what have you killed?”

  “Do you know who those kids are?”

  I paused, my head swooning. I had suddenly found myself standing precariously on the edge of a cliff. I adjusted myself in my seat and averted my gaze. “No. No, I don’t know them.”

  “But you’ve seen them before?”

  I shifted in my seat and took another drink from my glass.

  Steven relaxed back into his chair, thankfully dropping his stare. I felt a palpable release of pressure, as though I had just managed to get myself off a nasty hook.

  “It’s the book, you see.”

  I looked up at him confused.

  “The book does strange things to people – puts ideas into heads. You’ve read some of it, haven’t you?”

  For a second I was going to lie to him, but I stopped myself. I wasn’t going to lie to him anymore. “A bit – sorry about that.”

  He nodded. “Finish it.”

  “No, no. The second I find it I’ll call you. It’s very good by the way, that’s not what I mean. It’s just… I’ve put it somewhere. I just need to find it. Have you ever thought of getting it published?”

  Steven laughed out loud. “Can’t find it? Must be hiding.” He took another drink. “Save yourself a lot of anguish and just finish it. You have my permission. Just do it quickly. Best get it over and done with, like removing a plaster from a septic cut.”

  Just then the barman switched on the TV. I stared at the screen for a moment. It was the news. By some freaky coincidence a reporter was talking about the priest and the murders.

  I returned my attention to the stranger before me. He was staring at the screen. And before I knew what I was doing I had asked him a question, a question I should never have asked. I was shocked at how rude I had been. But it wasn’t me who had asked it; it was my subconscious:

  “Is he your brother?”

  Silence. The atmosphere turned cold once more, a large rift opening up between us. Steven smiled bitterly back at me, picked up his pint and took another long drink. I winced on realising the implications of what I had just asked.

  “Yes,” he finally said, placing the glass back down onto the table. “Yes, he’s my brother. But he’s a good man.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Please forgive…’

  “You’re not prying.”

  “It’s just that… I thought it a coincidence, is all: the name, the address.”

  “That’s OK. Yes, I am, but he’s innocent. I know that for a fact.”

  Up until that point I don’t think I had believed that he was his brother. But now that I knew for sure I just wanted to run, to run away as fast as I could.

/>   “I’ve answered your question,” he said, cutting my exit short. “Now you can answer mine. Was I wrong about those kids?”

  I tried to escape from the question by raising a glass to my lips, but on lowering it the question was still there. The man had been more than honest with me. The least I could do was tell him the truth. But I didn’t know if I could. Other than describing the incident to the police, I had never spoken a single word about it. Not to anyone. Sure, I had ranted and raved about the youth of today, about the moral decline of our society, but I had never actually spoken about my half hour of hell. I had told myself that it was because I didn’t want to talk about it, but perhaps the truth was that I couldn’t.

  In the back of my mind there is a curtain, so fine it is like an autumn mist. Behind this curtain lies all of the things my mind doesn’t want me to deal with. Take my dad for instance: my dad lies behind that curtain; he lies there as quiet as the grave. At times I stop myself in the street, on a bus, or at my desk, and just stare at it. But that’s as far as I get. I can’t go any further. The curtain might as well be a concrete wall. Both the car and my dad lie behind this veil, but only one of them do I want to see again.

  A breeze gently drifted through my mind, ruffling the fabric before me. The drapes moved to the side to reveal my dad’s dead face. He was sixty-five when he died, but his face still looked that of a young man, his hair as black as ravens, his skin as tanned as the sun. I saw only a glimpse but it angered me. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. This man had been larger than life. How could he just disappear like that? Where had he gone?

  The curtain moved again. But this time it wasn’t the face of my dad that I saw, it was the face of a fifteen-year-old boy.

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  The priest’s brother nodded. He looked like he understood. “You know, sometimes it’s good to get things off your chest.”

  I stared at what was left of my Guinness, my mind momentarily blank.

  Leave now. Stand up and leave.

  “OK. I know them. Well, I don’t know them… Probably won’t see them again, if I’m lucky.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry, I need to go. I’m sorry.” I made to leave by picking up my jacket.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said, placing a shovel of a hand onto my shoulder, forcing me to sit back down. “I apologise; I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s OK,” I replied, a little disturbed by the physical intrusion. “It’s me. What I mean is… I physically can’t talk about it. I can’t even talk to my wife about it. I’ve completely wiped it from my mind. Buried it.”

  I winced as a disparate memory darkened my thoughts. I think I might have involuntarily put my hands to my head at this point. For the first time that day it had sunk in what I had done. I had murdered a child’s pet. What else could I call it? It was as good as murder.

  My body slouched as my thoughts descended into darkness. The priest’s brother was saying something to me, but my mind was back in that basement, staring down at a headless cat. What had I done? This had to be the worst thing I had ever done in my life. God, I’m a rancid person. I scrunched up my features in disgust. How the hell could I call myself a Christian and do something like this? I’m a hypocrite. Every Sunday I walk into mass with my children by my side, and yet I am capable of doing something like this? That poor family; their kid must be distraught.

  “You know, it’s ironic,” I said, staring at the back of my veined hands. “Here I am, angry with a couple of feral kids, when in truth I’m just as bad as any one of them.”

  Steven sat back in his chair but said nothing. He looked like he was smiling to himself, but he could have been deep in thought.

  The body of the dead cat appeared before my eyes once more, disturbing my equanimity. Why did I do it? I would never do something to hurt a living soul like that. What would possess someone to even think such a thing, let alone carry it out?

  Tell him nothing.

  I raised my head for a second to face the stranger. There are certain things a man should keep to himself. And besides, I didn’t even know this guy. On second thoughts, perhaps that was a good thing. It would be a bit like a confession, not that I had been to confessions in a while. I was supposedly a practicing Catholic, went to mass every Sunday, but hadn’t even thought about confessions in the last ten years. For some reason I wanted to confess now, though. I needed someone to forgive me, to tell me that everything was going to be OK.

  “I’ve done a terrible thing. But for the life of me I don’t know how I did it.” A shiver ran down my spine. I hesitated as his brother’s deeds crept into the room and sat down beside us. What was I doing? He was the brother of a serial killer. I no longer wanted to talk to him, but at the same time I had to. I had to confess. It was part of the penance. I had done a terrible thing and I now had to own up, to beg for forgiveness, and whatever happened as a consequence was irrelevant. I deserved all that was coming to me.

  Tell him nothing.

  “I woke up this morning to find a dead cat lying on a piece of tarpaulin in the middle of my cinema room. Its head was nowhere to be seen. I think I did it.”

  “You think? Don’t you know?”

  I was surprised at how matter of fact his reply had been. He didn’t seem to be that shocked by my confession, somewhat unperturbed actually.

  “I can’t remember doing it, that’s the problem. I remember dreaming about it. I can’t remember the actual details, but it was something to do with the cat… the dream, I mean.”

  “You dreamt you killed a cat?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Silence.

  “A cat, you say?”

  I gave him a contrite nod of the head, my hands cupped awaiting forgiveness.

  “Did you know that some ancient civilisations actually believed that cats protected them from evil spirits? Some superstitious people believe that entities can’t enter your house until all cats have been purged. Probably goes back to the days when cats were used to clear the household of vermin. The book certainly is thorough.” His glass moved to his lips.

  I stared at the table for a moment before registering what he had just said. I moved my eyes heavenwards to meet a pair of glasses staring off towards a window. It was only then that I noticed how dark his shielded eyes were. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a long time. He looked tired.

  I shook my head in a bid to show him that I hadn’t understood.

  “Just finish the book. You have my permission. Just do it quickly.”

  I nodded, but my thoughts were with that poor creature again. And as I thought about my terrible deed, a blonde headed boy staggered drunk into my mind. Why the fuck was he still walking the streets? He should be behind bars. It had taken me six months to recover both physically and mentally from what he had done. Why choose now to come back into my life, why now, when I was finally getting better? Why? I wrung my clammy hands beneath the table and ground my teeth hard.

  “Do you really want to know what happened to me? Do you want to know what those little bastards did?”

  “Yes.”

  I paused, not looking at him.

  “OK, then. I’ll tell you.”

  *

  I had been driving home from work. I must have been working late, because it was about nine o’clock at night. The sun was tightly locked behind closed doors, and quite rightly so. This was not a place to hang around after dark, no matter how pleasant during the day. But that was OK, because I was in my car.

  Of all the places in the world you would think you’d be safe, the car would be right up there, right? It’s like that song by Gary Newman: Cars. Here in my car, I feel safest of all. And I did. I didn’t even need to think about it. I implicitly knew that the moment I started my car I was safe, at least from thugs. Sure someone might crash into me, but in another car for fuck’s sake, in another car.

  We’d only moved into
our new house two weeks earlier. My dad had died the year before. I was almost home, turning into the next street, thinking about getting myself a Chinese meal when it happened.

  I can remember him wandering out into the middle of the road, staggering like a zombie. I slowed down a bit so as not to hit him; I must have been travelling about ten miles an hour. He didn’t move out of the way. He didn’t even seem to notice or care that I was getting dangerously close to him.

  I swerved at the last moment. Maybe I glowered at him, maybe I didn’t, but something made the zombie come to life. On passing him the wee junky bastard did a spin kick and attacked me. I swear it. He must have looked like a cross between Rab C Nesbit and Bruce Lee. His leg spun right around and kicked the electric wing mirror right off my car.

  I drove on for a couple of seconds before coming to a halt by the side of the road. I couldn’t believe what had happened. I had just had my wing mirror fixed the month before and it had stung me for 200 quid, so the cost of this altercation instantly rang up before my eyes.

  I turned off the engine.

  All was quiet.

  In a flash I came to my senses. I hurled open the door, leapt out of the car and spun myself around to face the little monster. “Do you know what you’ve just done? Do you know how expensive that is to repair?”

  Up until then the boy had been completely oblivious to me stopping. On hearing me say this, his nonchalant mask slid to the ground like a corpse, revealing a Buckfast-fuelled-killing-machine. I watched as the boy began to run, began to grow. The next thing I knew he was looming over me, his face contorted with anger. A boy he may have been, but from the sitting position of my car I had no idea just how big this boy was. He was well over six foot. I on the other hand would have been lucky to touch five foot ten.

  My eyes dropped to his fists. Tightly packed, they looked like demolition balls. “What the fuck’re ye gonnae dae about it, eh?” he growled. “Come on, just what the fuck’re ye gonnae dae about it?”