The guy looked at me, then back at the boy and shook his head.
“You’re right there, mate. Think I’ll use the toilet at the other end of the centre.”
“Yeah, me too.”
3. Night-time
The deep pulse of the night is pounding in my temples. I pull the darkness in close to me and let it hold me tight. It feels warm and welcoming. It delivers my power. I am at once seen and unseen.
He is near now. I can sense the dread in his veins. The feeling he's trying so hard to suppress. Most of you would not recognise the tells but I can. It circulates with his blood and I can hear him fighting it. It's in his breath, his footsteps, his glance, his shoulders. You would see a confident young man. I see a charade...a victim.
I have selected all of them carefully. They have done wrong - I've seen that. They taunt us, daring us to do something about it; hiding behind rights and excuses. Deny responsibility, blame deflected and renounced. They require chastening and I shall provide. A start was made but I need to finish things off. Complete the circle. Cleanse us of the stain created.
He's wearing the hooded top, shuffling, almost hobbling along in the obligatory manner required of his tribe. The park is deserted, it's late. Any witnesses will likely have four legs and a tail, demonstrate a remarkably similar gait to my boy. In any case, I'm always careful about who sees me. I move with grace and whispers.
I am a shadow, a ghost...a reaper.
He's chewing.
I'm waiting.
He thinks he hears a sound. He does, but without recognition of significance...too late. I am around him, upon him.
No-one sees me. Not even him.
The room is prepared. He cannot struggle now - the anaesthetic has seen to that. It takes me a while to complete all I want to do. Some of it has grace but a certain amount of brutality cannot be avoided. Should not be avoided.
It's a hard lesson learned but he'll be a poster boy for change. An example to take heed of. A warning of what might befall the transgressors. He'll thank me one day for showing him the error of his ways...you all will.
4. Stark
Detective Inspector Adam Stark walked slowly along the hospital corridor, mind not fully on the job in hand, even if it did sound both bizarre and intriguing. To be fair, he was intrigued, but Sarah remained foremost in his pondering.
Sometimes, life as a cop could be shitty. The job, ironically, took no prisoners. You were in up to your neck or you were out - no compromise, no middle ground. Once you made detective grade, it was your life. Sarah: more patient than any of the others, more understanding, more forgiving. But even she had a line - a line he crossed once too often.
Still, you make choices in life. No-one coerced him into being a cop, never mind a detective. If a relationship, normality and all that jazz really topped his list of desires, then he could surely have it. It would probably mean leaving the service, but he could make that choice if he wanted to. The unavoidable truth dawned on him as he mulled. Even though Sarah leaving troubled him, it wouldn't make him choose her. They both knew this to be the incontrovertible truth. He was a cop - welcome to his only choice.
“Hello, Detective Inspector Stark!”
The voice hauled him away from his meditation, back into the harsh fluorescent and cloying antiseptic of the hospital.
“Hey, John. How goes it, wee man?”
John Constance was an orderly and a regular contact. He revelled in feeding Stark snippets of information gleaned from patients, and highlighting any admissions he thought might pique Stark's interest. Constance meant well; a cheery, amiable sort, perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer but harmless enough.
“I'm good, Detective Inspector, just fine an' dandy. Unlike that poor bastard you're going in to see! That is one weird situation right there.”
Eyes twinkling, and yet, Stark sensed an effort being made to suppress disquiet. A false bravado. After many years working in hospitals it was likely Constance had encountered all manner of gruesome sights. Whatever this one involved, it managed to shake a seasoned veteran of trauma. Stark smiled; his own bravado perhaps. Without consciously thinking about it, he held his breath, turned the handle and entered the room.
A young black man lay in the bed, attached to a drip, with his face heavily bandaged. Detective Constable Katz looked toward Stark as he closed the door and nodded the slightest of acknowledgements. Lara Katz was a strikingly attractive young woman. Long, raven-black hair - today tied up tight on the back of her head - a slim, athletic figure and piercing, green eyes. Assigned as Stark's partner about two weeks ago, he was finding it hard to avoid being attracted to her. He got the distinct impression she found keeping things on a strictly professional level with him far less taxing.
“What've we got then, Katz?”
“Dwayne Clements, sir. Aged nineteen, found lying in the street at about three o'clock this morning and brought in here for emergency treatment. Some sick bastard pulled out all his teeth, then sewed up his mouth.”
Stark cocked his head slightly and frowned.
“Jeezo. That's pretty severe. Any indication of motive?”
“Oh, the motive is totally clear, sir. The animal who did it appears to be on some sort of vigilante crusade. He left a note explaining his actions and why we should be thanking him.”
Katz reached down, lightly touched Clements on the wrist, picked up an evidence bag from the bedside table with a note in it, and handed it to Stark.
The note was typed on plain, white paper. No words cut from a newspaper, no sloping handwriting in green ink and, no doubt, once forensics completed their once over, would be entirely clean. The message was clear...but also odd. A tirade out of proportion.
To whom it may concern,
For too long we citizens have put up with the erosion of decency, manners, consideration and all the other things that make living together on this small island more bearable. People like Dwayne here think they can do as they please without consequence. Well, I am here to let Dwayne and his like know that there are consequences - I am their consequence.
As he seems so fond of gum, I thought I'd leave him with his - a reminder that respect and consideration for others is something we all need to get our teeth into. If he won't tell you what happened, ask him to spit it out. He usually has no problem with that.
You may may be feeling sorry for him. Don't! He is a warning, a totem. One day he will thank me for this and so will everyone else.
Yours,
A concerned citizen taking action
Taped to the bottom of the note was a stick of chewing gum
“Wait a minute. Is he saying he pulled out all this boy's teeth because he liked gum? What the fuck, and what's with the cryptic comments about respect and spitting something out?”
“I know, sounds like someone who's seriously disturbed to me, sir. Dwayne's still under sedation, so I've not been able to talk to him yet. Apparently, his teeth were yanked out pretty forcefully and with little finesse, but the doc said the sewing was very neat - possibly professional. He was unconscious when he was found, so he's none the wiser either,” Katz replied with a certain amount of weariness.
“Has he had any visitors?” Stark asked.
“Not while I've been here, but the next visiting time is at six, so maybe a relative will appear then. Do you want me to hang about and wait for them, sir?”
“Aye, that sounds like a plan. I'll head over to his house and see if anyone's in. I might be able to find out if he had any enemies. You never know, this might be some sort of twisted gang thing. I don't think so, but in this city, you never rule out anything these days.”
Katz nodded in agreement and Stark headed for the corridor.
“I'll call you if he wakes up, sir,” Katz shouted as he closed the door to the room.
John Constance must have been hanging around, waiting for him to reappear. He strode towards Stark with purpose.
“Told you it was a weird one!”
“Aye, sure is, John. Have you heard anything about the lad or the circumstances?”
Stark kept walking as he asked the question.
“Well, I heard he was a bit of a gang-banger. Always in trouble with the cops. One of the nurses recognised him. She was none too sympathetic actually. Seemed to think he most likely asked for it.”
Constance revelled in this stuff: divulging information, being of service, relaying something important to the case. Of course, it wasn't really of great import. Stark reckoned it amounted to little more than tittle tattle. Whenever the guy switched into this mode, Stark lost interest in humouring him and, sometimes less than subtly, made his excuses.
“Ok, John. Gotta dash. Duty calls. Thanks for that. Keep your ear to the ground for me now won't you?”
Stark flashed a winning smile and increased his pace towards the exit.
Constance stopped before he wandered into the lobby and risked being noticed by someone who'd rather he got on with doing the job they were paying him to do.
“Will do, Detective Inspector Stark. See you later.”
5. Learning
The laughter swept through the corridor as the pitiful, dripping figure of Frankie Monroe trudged past. The cruellest taunts came from Paddy Kerr and his partner in all things unpleasant, Dan Farrell. I didn't laugh. I watched and I thought about Bub and Gordy, about all that was wrong with this situation.
Kerr and Farrell made it their business to humiliate and degrade Frankie Monroe any time they could. Frankie was small, geeky, clever. He struggled with sport and had the misfortune of a late developing body. For a couple of insecure morons, he presented an unmissable target. That day's ignominy came from having his head flushed down the toilet. A tried and tested, old favourite of school bullies the world over.
I wanted to help, to intervene, but I needed to have more about me. Kerr and Farrell may have been insecure, moronic bullies, but they were also two big, strong lads and they would have happily and easily put me in my place physically. I would change that.
It wasn't exactly an inspiration, but it was while watching the Karate Kid one day that it came to me. That's what I would do to gain an advantage, to help poor, downtrodden little Frankie Monroe and his ilk. Martial Arts.
I was a quick learner. A natural. The athletic flow of my limbs combined with an unrivalled work ethic saw me advance up the belts much quicker than most. I knew beyond any doubt when I was ready. The colour of the belt, the exam passed, irrelevant to my true nature, my true ability.
The day it all changed forever, the day I knew why I was here, arrived spontaneously. Sure, I'd thought about what I might do, considered options but, on the actual day, it was instinct drove me on. Rage against injustice. A dark voice inside.
Frankie had been steadily declining. An already quiet, timid boy became invisible, neglected and ignored by all. A pariah. This was before schools took bullying seriously. To most, it was a rite of passage, an unfortunate affliction the unfortunate needed to endure temporarily. It would toughen them up, it wouldn't do any long-term harm. From the other kid's point of view, they avoided Frankie. They didn't want Kerr and Farrell's high beam to sweep over them by association. As long as they had Frankie to pick on, they'd leave everyone else alone.
It was a scorching day, the sun hammering on the tarmac of the playground. Kerr and Farrell pulled Frankie's trousers and underwear down, pressed his bare flesh against the scorching surface. Frankie squealed like a piglet, but this only encouraged them.
“What's the matter little Wankie Frankie? We thought you'd like a bit of hot cock, you little poof!”
The two lads ended themselves laughing at this. Other kids joined in half-heartedly, some trying to ingratiate themselves with the hard men by congratulating them on their tremendous sense of humour. My indignation burned fiercer than the sun overhead.
Distracted by their convulsions, Kerr and Farrell failed to notice Frankie wriggling away, pulling up his trousers and running off.
When Frankie was cut down from the window frame of the janitor's shed later that evening, I made my mind up to act.
The dark was what I needed, what I've craved ever since. Kerr and Farrell, unrepentant, cocksure, drinking in the local park. Celebrating their victory over a foe who never had a chance against them.
I sneaked round behind them, using trees and bushes for cover. Kerr was on a children's swing; one of those used by toddler's, with a small cage around the seat. Farrell leant on the frame, swigging from a large, plastic bottle of cider.
The darkness provided the element of surprise. It was all I needed. The roundhouse kick sent Farrell sprawling, the bottle of cider spraying its contents in all directions as it hit the ground. I pushed Kerr backwards off the swing, his head thumping off the entirely unsuitable hard standing such swings used to be set in. A crescent of crimson spreading.
I grabbed Kerr by his t-shirt and pulled him in close.
“Little Frankie Monroe says fuck you. If you ever pick on a boy like him again, I'll be back. And, next time, I'll do a lot worse than break your scalp open. Do you understand? Do you get it Kerr you fucking moron?”
Kerr groaned, some kind of expletive, indistinct but defiant. A scuff of shoes alerted me to Farrell's return. Before he could get anything on me, I rolled away, pivoted on my hip, stood, kicked his legs from under him. As he hit the ground, I punched him square in the face. His nose crumpled, blood gushing like a fountain in response. I followed this assault up by stomping on both their groins.
They moaned and wept and started pleading. I ignored them, not confident they were getting my message. I kept beating on them intermittently until eventually I tired and decided to make a tactical retreat.
The attack became the talk of the school. Kerr and Farrell humiliated, the biters bit. Bruises lasted for days, their disgrace permanent.
My power established, the message sent, the lesson learnt.
6. Stupid Trucker
The rain fell to earth in huge dollops all day. Massive showers interspersed with monumental downpours. The road slick, gutters running with miniature rivers in spate. Vehicle tyres gave off that familiar whoosh as they cut through the surface water; a soothing sound but also a warning. The voluminous spray made it feel like driving in the clouds; cars transformed into aircraft. Such conditions require extra concentration and should require more caution from all those out and about. Should.
“He's an absolute arsehole that guy!”
“He certainly is.”
“Someone's going to get killed if he keeps that up.”
“Yup. Hopefully, just him, but more likely some poor unsuspecting sod with a couple of kids and a dog in the car.”
“You know, it doesn't matter how many times you tell some folks, they just don't seem to want to listen or take notice.”
A conversation like this would take place between me and Garry most times we were out on the road together. We often admonished folks who were misbehaving, but for some of them, it seemed no amount of telling off or standard punishment would suffice.
When you travel the same route over and over you get to notice repeat offenders. The guy in the truck was doing it again. A leviathan of a vehicle, travelling right on the speed limit, a matter of inches from the back of a small family car. One dab of the brakes from the car and that truck would be making kid pancakes.
“Maybe we need to teach him a different kind of lesson?”
“You mean like the one we discussed last week?”
“Yeah. I think it's about time we did something a little bit different to the usual.”
“Ok, I'm game.”
Darkness was important, for obvious reasons. The lorry pulled into the petrol station at about nine-fifteen in the evening. The air uncommonly humid for that hour, the breeze still carryin
g a warmth with it from earlier in the day. The driver dropped from his cab and headed for the toilets. He probably spent around twenty minutes doing whatever he was doing before returning to fill the truck with fuel and buy a few sundries in the shop. With his requirements met, he climbed back into the cab.
“What the fuck?!”
I put my finger to my lips as I put the gun against his ribs and pointed for him to go ahead and drive off.
After driving for about a mile, I gestured for him to pull off the main road. We stopped in a lay-by on a quiet lane, got out and met Garry on the verge. He'd parked his car in front of the truck.
“Come on, mate! What's this all about? If it's the lorry or the load then just take 'em,” said the trucker, genuine fear and trepidation in his voice.
Garry gagged him, tied his hands behind his back and blindfolded him, before pushing him into the boot of the car. I took the truck and we drove to our next pit stop.
The cottage was set back off the road, with a driveway wide enough to allow the truck access. It belonged to a friend of a friend, who once let me stay there. Unbeknownst to him, I copied the key to make coming and going separately more convenient for me and my wife. Possibly illegal and definitely a tad rude but, as it turned out, very convenient for the task in hand. Me and Garry had visited earlier in the day and prepared what we needed. We got straight to work.
First off, we trussed him up like a stuck pig. He struggled for a bit, but it was two against one and we knew what we were doing. Once immobilised, we wrapped him in a dark shroud; leaving only his eyes uncovered. Next, we taped his eyes open. It was important he saw the error of his ways. Lastly, we tied him to the bull-bars on the front of his truck. In the dark, it wouldn't be obvious what was going on to anyone watching. It might look a bit odd, but not too suspicious.
Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) Page 2
