by Lee Isserow
Ben knew they were still watching him. Maybe not the two of them, but the camera behind the glass would still be rolling. He stayed as still as possible, trying not to make any movements or display any emotion or reaction on his face. He wouldn't let them pin the murder on him because of some small, subtle accidental movement on his part. In his binge watching sessions he had seen too many criminals go down because of their body language and smug attitudes. Letting a smile come to their lips at the description of a murder, or fingering at the underside of a table as detectives described how a victim was molested.
He reminded himself that he had nothing to fear, that the CCTV wasn't going to show him doing anything wrong, that it would reveal the true perpetrator. He breathed in deep, exhaled long and slow. He hadn't done anything to James, not on that night at least.
The question then came to him; if it wasn't him, then who was responsible? All he could remember after the knife went in and he fell to the floor, was the nightmare. In that nightmare, he wasn't imagining men as monsters – the monster he saw there was truly a monster, and acted as such. But that story would never fly with the detectives, so it would remain unspoken.
He knew they would try and pull a confession from him, not that he had anything to confess to, but if there was one thing he had learned from true crime stories, the police were more interested in the figures of cases closed than they were getting the right guy. Ben could picture them coming back into the room, reassuring him that it would be thought of as a crime of passion rather than pre-meditated. Maybe even temporary insanity, from all the grief he was overwhelmed with, by seeing his mother's killer in front of him. Manslaughter, a reduced sentence given it was his first and only offence. Minimum security incarceration with all the perks. They'd lay it on thick, but he was prepared for any spin they might play on it, and wouldn't give them anything they could use to pin it on him.
The lock on the door clicked, and it swung open. Ben glanced towards it, expecting the detectives to be returning with a new tactic to their line of questioning. But it was neither Harris nor Levine who stood there as the door opened. The man who stood silhouetted in the light of the bull pen outside was taller than the two of them, his ginger hair backlit, giving it a silver halo. He was clean shaven, and had a smile fixed on his lips. The man moved from the doorway without an introduction, gaze fixed on Ben with piercing blue eyes. His face was thin, cheekbones pronounced, thick eyebrows raised as if frozen in a state of empathising with Ben's situation, pushing up thin lines on his forehead that rippled all the way up to his hairline.
“Mister Graham,” he said with a nod, still smiling. His voice was pitched higher than Ben expected, sounding younger than the years on his face. He walked slowly, with purpose to the table, sapphire stare locked on Ben's hazel glance back. “You and I both know full well that you are innocent of the crime of which you are accused.” The man reached for a chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down, eyes still locked on Ben's. “The question is, what are you willing to do to prove it?”
15
Ben had no answer for the man, who introduced himself as Nixon Ailes. In turn, Ailes refused to state who he worked for. At first, Ben expected him to turn out to be some kind of ambulance chasing lawyer, but the assumption was quickly dashed by Ailes, who chuckled at the mere mention of him being involved in the profession.
He wasn't police, Ben could tell that much. He handled himself differently to the detectives. Less formal, more relaxed, as if he just casually wandered in to have a chat. And all he did was chat, asking Ben about his life, his family, his friends. Ben kept his answers short and to the point, in case this was yet another attempt to trap him. He pulled from his memories of depositions given on television dramas, the lawyers always telling their clients to keep the answers to the point; yes or no, with as little elucidation as possible. It was in those longer answers that one could say something that was easily taken the wrong way.
His life was fine, comfortable. The job took up the days, and when he was done with marking, he watched Netflix and Amazon Prime at night.
His family was practically non-existent; no siblings. They already knew what happened to his mother.. His father was barely there, and he was brought up by his grandparents who were both long departed.
His friends... he didn't so much have friends as colleagues that he occasionally socialised with. Didn't participate in their inane conversation much, but they were good to be around.
The questions went back to his life, with Ailes' fixed smile returning to his lips after every word: “Are you happy with it as it stands, or do you want more?”
Ben didn't know what he was asking. He tried to work out the ways this might be a calculated attempt to get him to say something incriminating.
“Who do you work for?” Ben asked. The question had been burning away at the back of his mind, and he finally let it fly.
Ailes said nothing, simply continuing to stare and smile.
“You're not police,” Ben said, eyeing the man up and down. “But you were able to waltz in here and sit down with me... Are you government?”
The smile on Ailes' lips grew wider, seemed to be an honest smile that sent creases crawling out from the sides of his eyes. Ben took this as a silent affirmation.
“Why is the government interested in me?” he asked.
Ailes' lips parted, he inhaled briefly, still smiling. “My department deals with cases that are... best left out of the hands of the police.”
Ben cocked his head to the side, he didn't know what Ailes meant, and the man could tell, the smile withdrawing from his lips.
“There have been an increasing number of cases that are similar in nature to your own. Mysterious deaths, missing persons, supposed perpetrators that are found unconscious at the scenes of the murders they're accused of.” He took a breath, the upward lilt returned to his lips, but the lines by his eyes did not reappear. “We believe you can help.”
Ben scoffed. “I teach primary, what the hell can I do to help you?”
Ailes continued to stare at him, the smile departing entirely. “I believe you can help us more than you'd ever know.” He reached to an internal pocket in his coat and pulled out a small silver case. He clicked it open revealing business cards, taking one out and offering it across the table.
Ben took it and turned it over. One side was pure matte black, the other side pristine white, with the man's name and a phone number printed on it in raised black ink.
“If you change your mind, do please give me a call,” Ailes said, rising to his feet and walking to the door. He stopped, rapped his knuckles on it twice, and looked back at Ben as the lock was clicked open from the other side. “I look forward to hearing from you.” he said, before exiting. The door clunk shut behind him, leaving Ben alone once again.
He looked at the card, turning it over between his fingers. There was no department, no insignia of who he worked for. Pressure started building behind Ben's forehead. He translated it as mistrust. But not just mistrust. Somewhere, buried in that throbbing was the vaguest notion that this man, Nixon Ailes, who appeared out of nowhere, who walked into an interrogation room in a police station with seemingly no problem, might have the answers he was looking for.
16
After being left to wait for what felt like hours, the detectives finally returned. Rather than retaking their seats, they simply stood by the door.
“Who was that man?” Ben asked.
The detectives glanced at one another, but did not answer the question.
“We've ruled you out as a suspect,” Harris said, with a grimace. “You're free to go.”
“What?” Ben exclaimed.
“You head him,” Levine grunted.
“What was on the CCTV?” Ben asked. “Does it show who did it?”
“Afraid we can't comment on an active investigation,” Harris mumbled.
“But you know it wasn't me...”
“Yes, Mister Graham.”
The two men refused to meet his eyeline. “You're free to go.”
“But --”
“-- you're on the verge of wasting police time, Graham, get up and get out.” Levine growled.
Ben did as instructed, but didn't feel good about it.
He wanted answers.
17
Hi Dad,
Good news. Well, not good news, but news.
Carter is dead.
I don't know how to take it. Don't know how you're going to take it either... But that's how it is. Someone killed him.
They're not telling me what happened. Cops thought it was me, of course. Interrogated me and everything, but I guess they've moved on to other suspects because they let me go.
No, before you ask, I didn't do it.
Not that I didn't want to...
He got what he deserved though. That's what matters.
You know what the worst things is? He's dead and gone, but it hasn't brought me any damn closure. I was expecting a rush of relief, catharsis or whatever, but there's none of that.
He's just gone. Like she's gone. But it hasn't made things right. It hasn't brought her back.
You know what the worst thing is?
I'm starting to wonder if he actually killed her. If the police could accuse me, haul me in, be dead certain that I'm responsible, then why couldn't they do the same to him...
Isn't that screwed up?
As always, hope you're ok wherever you are.
And hope this news brings you more peace than it's brought me...
B
18
Sending the email didn't make him feel any better. A part of him hoped that writing it down would change the way he was thinking, but as with every message to his father, it felt like nothing more than pissing into the wind.
Ben looked over the email in the sent folder. Tried to convince himself that this whole experience was the universe making things right, fate closing a loop; the killer of his mother killed in a manner similar to her demise. But it wasn't sitting right with him.
He had arrived home and jumped straight into writing the message. Hadn't washed or changed clothes. He needed to get out of the torn shirt. It was like wearing a constant reminder of the events of the night.
Ben took it off, wincing as he raised his arms. The tear in his gut was being stretched with every large movement he made, and he was afraid it would start bleeding out. He threw the shirt in the trash and looked at the wound. It was still wet, but the blood didn't seem to be going anywhere.
Sitting back down at the computer, he started Googling for his symptoms. The blood still being wet meant he wasn't clotting, and that was worrying. Even though it appeared that it wasn't going anywhere, he had seen too many episodes of House in which weird symptoms lead to even weirder symptoms, which eventually lead to life-threatening conditions that the patients had no idea they were afflicted with.
The search came back with too many results, from a low red count to vitamin K deficiency, haemophilia to Van Willebrand's disease. A myriad options, but none of them matched all the symptoms, because he wasn't bleeding out, the blood was just sitting there. He started thinking again of the conditions he had seen on TV, and pressure started building behind his forehead. Throbbing harder and harder, punching the underside of his skull with increasing force. His fingers started trembling, a cold sweat coming to the surface across his skin. It was fear, pure and unadulterated fear that he was going to die imminently.
Ben reached for the phone to dial 999, but his hand was trembling so much he couldn't grasp hold of it. His belly felt wet. He looked down at his gut. A slick of bright red was pouring out of the gash in his belly. He reached for it. The blood was thick in his hands as he tried to put pressure on the wound. Sticky, like over-wet dough. Keeping his left hand on the wound, he reached at the fluids with his right hand, tried to scoop them back up and push them back into the hole in his abdomen, but they continued to pour out, slipping through his fingers, as if intent on heeding the call of gravity rather than obeying his will to survive.
He saw stars, his body felt weak, and he rested his head on the desk as the blood continued to flow, sloshing down his ankles and pooling at his feet.
Ben closed his eyes. Begging to any deity that might be listening for it to all be a dream. No God would answer his prayer, but soon enough, he would be dreaming.
19
Ben dreamed of monsters.
The thick, viscous blood did not soak into the fibres of the carpet, it settled atop, stationary around his feet. And for a time, it was still. A bright red mirror that reflected the image of his unconscious body above.
From the centre of the red lake, a ripple formed. Then a second, and a third. It started washing up against his feet, the tide of a small, unruly sea.
A hand burst forth from the surface and grabbed hold of his ankle. A hand unlike any he had seen before. The bone was brown, not charred, it was the colour and texture of thick, dried blood. The ligaments of the monstrous appendage were not anatomically correct, misshapen and far too long, as if drawn by a child. Where there should have been cartilage between the bones, there was thick, purple sludge, and where there should have been fingernails, the digits had formed into sharp, brown points.
A second hand burst fourth, reaching up higher, latching on to his knee, digging its claws deep into the flesh. No blood came from the wounds it made – Ben had no more blood to shed.
It tugged hard, not to pull itself further out of the sea of crimson fluids, but to drag Ben down into it. The floor beneath him seemed to fall away. The chair fell sideways as he was ripped out of it, his head slamming against the desk on his way down.
Ben had no strength in his body to fight it, already waist-deep in the sloshing pool of blood. The demonic hands tugged harder, his arms flopping like a rag doll against the carpet before they came to the edge of the red lake, and as with the rest of him, were pulled beneath the surface.
He tried to breathe, tried to scream, but the sanguine fluids were thick in his lungs. Filled him up from the inside out. Ben no longer felt cold. It was warm there, surrounded by all that blood. The hands that were pulling him down released their grip on him, and he floated, deep in the depths of the crimson sea. A calmness washing over him. Peace.
The warm, sticky embrace of the plasma around him was like a long forgotten memory, something akin to floating in the safety of the womb. He had no fear. No thoughts at all. Ben had accepted his fate.
20
There was no crimson sea when Ben woke. He found himself on the floor, chair on its side, but no signs of a pool of blood by his feet. He checked his wound, and found it in the same state as it was before he passed out. The blood was still wet on the outside of the gash, but there was no sign that it had been bleeding out whilst he was unconscious.
The tremble of fear rippled inside his skull again, but he didn't let it take hold. WebMD was designed to make everyone think they had cancer. He needed to get a medical opinion from a real doctor.
When he called his GP, they told him there were no appointments available and he'd have to try the following day. Ben wasn't prepared to wait. He got dressed, grabbed his car keys and headed to the hospital.
The Accident and Emergency waiting room was full of people whose injuries were more of a priority than Ben's. Many of them seemed like cookie cutter tales of drunkenness gone awry. Faces pummelled, stab wounds from bottles, what he imagined most A&E departments were used to after a Friday night. Given that he wasn't bleeding out, other people were pushed ahead of him, even if they arrived after he walked through the door.
After just over three hours, his name was called, and a doctor walked through the door to greet him. He took him back to an examination room and had Ben hop up onto a bed. The room was bright, light bouncing off the sterile white walls making it seem even brighter. The faint smell of disinfectant on the air reminded Ben of childhood visits to do
ctor's offices, getting shots or being diagnosed with flu. The doctors in his memories were friendly giants, always seemed old, and were constantly smiling.
The doctor that walked Ben into the room was older than him, but only by around fifteen years. Time, or perhaps the job, had not treated his hairline kindly, and what was left of his grey hair was combed back over a large, shiny bald spot that dominated his skull. He made Ben hop up on to an examination bed, the back half of it up at a forty five degree angle. A paper roll sat at the foot, and had been pulled up to cover the wipe-clean upholstery. The paper crinkled under Ben's weight as he perched on it.
“What seems to be the problem?” asked the doctor, his small eyes made cartoonishly large behind thick spectacles.
Ben didn't know quite how to describe the events of the previous night, and opted to lift his shirt up as explanation.
“Oh my!” the doctor exclaimed at seeing the wound. He put on some latex gloves and reached towards Ben's gut, putting pressure at the sides of the gash. “Hmmm.” He raised an eyebrow, and manoeuvred closer to the slit, pulling the two sides apart, which made Ben wince. “Well, this is curious, isn't it?” he said, as he stared at the glimpses of organs between the layers of flesh.
“Have you seen anything like this before?” Ben asked. “I'm not clotting, right?”
“Not clotting, but also...” The doctor took his hands from the sides of the wound and sat back up. “Your blood doesn't appear to be flowing...” He sounded like he was trying not to appear alarmed, and reached for Ben's wrist to check his pulse.
