by Morton Bain
Courtney rolls a big spliff and lights it up. After taking a couple of deep puffs he passes it to me, then starts playing with the remote for his huge stereo system. Halfway through my first puff on the joint the music comes on at what can’t be far off full volume, making me jump. Even I recognise the track as Parliament’s ‘Mothership Connection’, and I find myself rocking to its rhythm.
How apt, I think. For though he doesn’t know it, Courtney is soon going to be flying on the Mothership, care of a drug called Burundanga – Devil’s Breath – scientific name scopolamine. Produced from a tree native to Colombia, I have a small capsule of it in my pocket. A website called The Silk Road, where anonymous sellers sell to anonymous buyers, with the help of an untraceable electronic currency called Bitcoins, has enabled me to acquire some. I bought the scopolamine a few months ago, as it’s commonly used as a date rape drug, but the package it arrived in has remained unopened until today. Administering it to Courtney should quickly render him pliable and zombie-like, with no subsequent memory of the next twelve hours. I’ll soon find out what he’s been up to with Jake. Slight drawback: if I give him too high a dosage, he dies. Or is that such a bad drawback?
We talk for a while as I consider how to get the drug into Courtney’s drink. The music and marijuana seem to get Courtney onto his favourite topic after women and drugs: ‘This music, man, it’s just awesome,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Soul music, funk music, reggae. It’s the Holy Trinity. Have you noticed how the music just soaks into you? It’s like you’re gettin’ marinated in sound.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Take soul music,’ he continues. ‘Some people think it’s too sweet – too much harmonizing, and oohing and aahing and men singing in high voices. But sometimes sweet is good. Sometimes you wanna sit in a big tub of cotton wool and have you balls tickled. Sweet soul music is a bit like those Krispy Kreme donuts. You know you shouldn’t but you so want to, and that crap tastes better than just ‘bout anything you can get in a fancy French restaurant. If you went to a fancy French restaurant and they gave you cubes of Krispy Kreme donut – except they call it something different – and they dribble some little sauce on it – the restaurant critics, they would go crazy!’
‘You got a point there,’ I say. ‘There was some conspiracy theory going around a while ago that claimed they put some sort of chemical in those donuts to get people hooked.’
‘Yeah, they do put something addictive in them,’ Courtney says. ‘It’s called sugar.’
I pass the joint back to Courtney who drags contentedly.
‘You still trying to become a Rasta priest?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, I’m goin’ to a branch meetin’ next week. I talked about it with some brothers. You can pretty much be a priest just by saying you are. I and I don’t have to have long trainings to be a priest.’
‘Why do you say “I and I”?’
‘Not meant to use the word “we”. We’re – I mean I and I – are all one. Everything is One, everything is “I”.’
He’s starting to sound like Chanda, I think to myself. ‘Aren’t you Rastas meant to think black people are superior to whites?’ I ask.
‘That’s the theory,’ Courtney admits. ‘But each man can interpret things as he want. For example, black men do make better athletes than whites. Fact. So in that respect it’s true.’
‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘No denying that.’
I look at Courtney’s glass of whiskey. He’s only taken a couple of sips so far, but that doesn’t mean he won’t gulp the rest in one go in a second. I need to get him out of the room. I have an idea. ‘Argh!’ I cry, grabbing the calf of my left leg. ‘Fuck that hurts!’
‘What’s up?’
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I say, grimacing. ‘I get these fucking cramps. Come out of nowhere and hang around until I take my medication . . .’
‘You got it with you?’
‘No. Shit. It’s in my car. Problem is I can’t walk there.’
‘I’ll get it if you want,’ Courtney offers.
‘You mind?’ I pull my car keys out of my pocket with one hand, whilst continuing to massage my calf with the other. ‘Glove compartment. Little white bottle with a “Spasmodex” label.’ I throw my keys.
After I hear the front door open I quickly remove the gelatine capsule from a compartment of my wallet. I also pull out a handkerchief. I approach Courtney’s drink, and using the handkerchief to protect my hands, pull the two ends of the capsule apart. Apparently just a sniff of this stuff or a bit on your skin can get you. I shake the powder into Courtney’s drink, suspending breathing as I do so. I step back and drop the capsule bits behind a sofa. Looking around I see a pen on a coffee table. I use this to stir the powder into the drink. It’s meant to be odourless and tasteless, so as long as he doesn’t see bits of powder he shouldn’t suspect a thing. The front door slams shut, and I quickly sit back down.
‘Couldn’t find it,’ Courtney announces. He’s still got the spliff in his mouth.
‘It’s okay. Cramp seems to have eased. Thanks for checking.’ I think about toasting something to get the rest of Courtney’s drink down his throat, but decide this might be too obvious. Instead I take a sip of my drink, then say, ‘A lovely drop this. What did you say it is?’
‘It’s Lugavalin. Single malt – obviously.’ Courtney’s hand reaches for his drink. I watch intently as glass meets lips. He drinks.
Courtney stubs the butt of the spliff. ‘Want another one?’ he asks.
‘Why not . . .’ I’m still looking at Courtney closely. This Devil’s Breath stuff isn’t meant to make the imbiber go apeshit. They’re meant to just do everything you ask of them without question. In Colombia it’s apparently mainly used by criminals who want victims that will help them empty their prey’s houses. There’s no staggering or frothing at the mouth; you only know someone’s had too much when they drop dead. I’ll wait until Courtney’s emptied his glass, then ask him if he’s ever sucked cock. If he doesn’t try and attack me I’ll know the drug’s kicked in.
Another joint is rolled, puffed on and passed to me. I take a drag, then make a big show of sipping my drink, using exaggerated movements and smacking my lips loudly after the liquid has slipped down my throat. Courtney takes a slug from his glass. There isn’t much left of his drink now. It can’t be long before his ass is mine.
‘You okay with this music?’ Courtney asks. ‘Want me to put something else on?’
‘No this is good. Still Parliament, yeah?’
‘Sure is. You know I saw them in Chicago a while back, at The House of Blues. The main guy, George Clinton – he must be about sixty now – anyway, he came on stage wearing nothing but a diaper. Big fat belly, and wearing nothing but a diaper!’
I wonder if this is the proof I need that the drug is taking effect.
Courtney continues: ‘Me, I think the music I like is part of a cosmic plan to save the planet. Like I say, the Holy Trinity. Funk is the Father – the spark, the male oomph – reggae is the Son – lots of jumping and jigging and its home in a young nation like Jamaica where we gets lots of sun – and soul is the Holy Spirit.’
‘Tell me Courtney, have you ever sucked a big fat cock?’
‘Yeah, once. When I was in prison when I was about twenty. It was either that or get beat up.’
Bingo. ‘And how did you find the experience? Enjoyable?’
‘Not really. But not as bad as getting beat up. You could say it was the lesser of two evils.’
‘And you’ve never taken it up the arse?’
‘No. Never up the arse.’
The time is now. Courtney is primed and ready. I drain the last drops from my glass, clear my throat, and say, ‘Courtney, I’d like to know what you were doing at a guy called Jake’s house a few days back. He’s someone I have a beef with, as you know, and it concerns me that you two are friends or acquaintances.’
‘Oh, Jake, sure. He got in touch with me a month ago or so. Knew I knew
you, somehow. He knows we’re up to bad things. Wants me to help him get some big dirt on you so he can have you sent to jail. If I don’t he’ll get me in trouble.’
‘What does he know about what we’ve been up to?’
‘He knows about the whores. Trafficking them. He’s got photos of us driving them away from the convent and dropping them off to buyers. He has an idea about the coke we’re starting to shift. He thinks you’ve killed a bunch of people as well. He also gave me a copy of some camera footage showing you and Joey talking drugs in Spain. Joey went crazy when he saw that.’
‘So he knows about Joey?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’
‘Has he spoken to him?’
‘No, but I have.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He’s thinking about it. Says we might have to hit this guy, but he’s worried that that might not be enough. Jake says he has left a letter and a memory stick with his lawyer guy which tell everything.’
‘What does Jake say about me killing people? What does he know?’
‘He’s always following you. He was bangin’ on about snooker balls. This killer guy has been leaving snooker balls in people’s mouths, and he knows it gotta be you. There’s some other stuff he knows about you killing but he wouldn’t tell me what it was.’
‘Do you think he’s right about me killing?’ I ask, before reaching for a cigarette from an open pack on a coffee table.
‘I don’t know. You say this is the guy you said you were having trouble with, yeah?’
I blow smoke. ‘Yeah. Tell me, why haven’t you or Joey spoken to me about this?’
‘We ain’t made our minds up about what to do. No point tipping you off in case this problem is gonna get solved with a bullet.’
‘If you did sell me out, don’t you think I would grass you guys up?’
‘Yeah, we’ve thought about that. That’s what makes it all pretty complicated. Joey said we could threaten to kill your kids if you open your mouth, or we could get rid of you.’
‘Of course,’ I say.
Thank God for scopolamine, that’s all I can say. I start to get worried about how long the drug is going to work for. I’ve heard twelve hours or so, but lack the confidence of someone who has used it many times. I think I would probably kill the man straight away, but I’ve recently phoned his mobile from my landline. It would be too immediate a connection. What is sure is that blood is going to be spilt over the next few days. Maybe quite a bit of blood. Murder has been a hobby up to now. It’s soon going to be a necessity.
I think I’ve heard enough. It’s time to get away and plan my next move. ‘Hey Courtney,’ I say. ‘I’m just going to go and empty a bunch of spirit bottles down the sink, then scatter them around the living room so that when you come to in a day or so you think you’ve been on an enormous bender. Okay?’
‘No problem.’
‘In fact, do you mind drinking a bottle of whiskey so you have a real hangover?’
‘Sure, man.’
‘Okay – just stay there for a bit.’
I go into the kitchen, and open cabinet doors. I pull out a half-full bottle of Bacardi, an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels and an almost full bottle of Gordon’s gin. I empty the gin and rum down the sink, running the cold water tap for a bit to flush the drink. After opening the Jack Daniels bottle I walk into the lounge with all three bottles.
‘Here we go,’ I say, topping up Courtney’s glass to the brim with JD. ‘Get that down the hatch.’ Courtney obliges. I fill the glass up again and say, ‘And again.’ Courtney doesn’t let me down. Good man.
I unscrew the lids from the two empty bottles, and chuck bottles and tops on the carpet. I then place the bottle of JD at the foot of Courtney’s seat.
‘How you feeling?’ I ask Courtney. ‘Feel that booze?’
‘A bit I think,’ he replies. His eyes have reddened, that much is obvious.
‘Right, well get the rest down your throat. Just drink from the bottle – it’ll be quicker.’
Courtney does as I instruct. Within a couple of minutes there’s a third empty bottle in the room.
‘Okay, Courtney, I’m off. When you came to you’re not going to remember anything of what we spoke about. You’ll just remember me having a quick drink with you. What you did after I left your head will tell you all about. We clear?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘I’ll probably be over to kill you in a couple of days.’
‘Okay then . . .’
I leave the house, and head straight home.
Shortly after we last met the asteroid Albert, it collided with an asteroid we’ll call Alfred. Albert and Alfred, both composed of similar materials, and with a similar size (roughly a mile long and about half a mile wide) begat a third asteroid we’ll call Aldous. The impact of its parents not only created Aldous, but sent it on a trajectory that would take it out of the Asteroid Belt, and towards a small planet that contains water and has an atmosphere.
Chapter Fifteen
On the drive home my mind is turning at about the same speed as the wheels of my car. I fear I’m facing the End Game. Within a week, I accept, I will probably be dead or in prison. If I’m not, several others will be dead. I wonder how Courtney will react when he comes to. Even if his memory of our time together post-drug is completely wiped, he’ll still recall me as the last person he saw before he woke up in a mess, so I can expect questions from him at the very least. I run through my options. I could kill Jake, Joey and Courtney. Difficult to hit three people in a matter of hours, however, and it wouldn’t guarantee that evidence won’t remain that survives the death of its originator; the letter with a solicitor Courtney referred to, for example. I could do a runner. I have more ready cash now than a year ago – I could just take off to South America. Start all over again. I could also go to Joey and tell him that I know what he knows. Join forces with him to get rid of Jake. Mind blowing decisions causes head on collisions . . .
Suddenly I realise I want to talk to Chanda about my predicament. Her unflappability, the way she’s able to retain perspective – I’m going to tell her everything.
When I pull up at home Chanda’s outside, watering the front garden. She’s wearing jeans with a heavily embroidered Indian-style blouse and her feet are bare. As I walk up to the house I admire the poise with which she moves, as if each step she takes is a meditation.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘How you doing?’
‘I am fine.’
‘Can I have a word with you inside?’
‘Certainly.’
Seated a few moments later, I say, ‘Chanda, I want to ask you for your advice. I don’t know why I’m coming to you like this. I’ve just got a gut feeling it won’t make things any worse – maybe couldn’t make things any worse.’
Chanda look at me expectantly. ‘Please tell me.’
‘Well . . . I happen to be a very bad person – a murderer in fact.’ I look closely at Chanda, waiting for her to throw her hands up in shock, or flee screaming. She just nods. ‘I’ve killed people for no reason other than that I wanted to,’ I continue. ‘I like the thought that there are bodies buried because of my actions. I’ve done plenty of other bad things, and now it looks like all of this stuff is coming back to haunt me. I fear I’ll soon be dead myself, in prison, or with even more blood on my hands.’
I fall silent, waiting for the reaction. Chanda is silent for what seems like at least two full minutes, before reaching over and taking my hand. ‘Don’t worry about the killing, except in the way that it interferes with your life and children. You are killing the body, but you don’t kill the soul. The soul doesn’t need the body, but the body needs the soul.’
‘You don’t think it’s wrong to kill?’
‘It’s better not to, of course,’ Chanda replies. ‘But people worry too much about their bodies, when they should be thinking more about that which survives death. When you are killing you are just killing yourself, so
your punishment is immediate.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘If I have a soul I’m sure it’s in a bit of trouble right now, but I’m worrying more about what happens to this body over the next few days.’ I go on to explain about my predicament with Jake, the police, Courtney and Joey.
‘What do you think is the best course of action?’ Chanda asks.
‘I really don’t know. I know I can’t do jail. I’d rather kill myself than go there. I’ve got so much blood on my hands I don’t see how a little bit more’s going to make much of a difference. But I think I am getting tired of killing. Funny. Now’s the first time I’ve felt this way. Up until now I couldn’t seem to get enough of murdering.’
‘How quickly do you need to make a decision?’ Chanda asks. ‘How long have you got before people start making decisions for you?’
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I say, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the house. ‘Let’s walk and talk.’ I stand up.
There’s been a shower of rain since I got home, and the pavement and road glisten with moisture. The sun is weak but unobscured, and there’s a light wind.
‘Have you seen the local park?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Chanda says.
‘I’ll show it to you.’
I take Chanda’s hand as we walk. I expect her to pull away, but she doesn’t. As we head down my road, I see a number of people walking in our direction, spaced at intervals of ten yards or so. As I near the first pedestrian I get a shock, as I’m convinced it has to be the twin sister of my first victim. Or did I not actually kill her? Is she still alive? No sooner have I had this thought than I pass the next walker, and discover she is the spitting image of my second victim. The woman looks at me as we pass, and though I might be imagining it she seems to have a smirk on her face. Thought you got rid of me?
