by Sam Millar
‘An ingeniously frightening page-turner with just the right amount of dark humor, Past Darkness is Millar’s and Kane’s finest collaboration…nothing will prepare you for the shocking denouement…’
New York Journal of Books
‘Sam Millar’s latest Karl Kane thriller places him alongside such genre greats as Harlan Coben and Lisa Gardner. The aptly titled, neo-noir Past Darkness is a taut, twisty and terrific tale about people pushed to their emotional limits forced to battle demons that refuse to go away, including the darkly heroic Kane himself who confronts his own painful past while investigating another family’s. Powerful and told at break-neck pace, this is Millar’s best and most telling Kane yet. Don’t let this one get past you!’
Jon Land, New York Times and USA Today
bestselling author of Strong Darkness
‘Sam Millar is Stephen King with a sense of humor, a writer at the height of his powers in this, the fourth Karl Kane thriller, Past Darkness, a sly and sinister page-turner that is at once chilling and suspenseful, and equally insightful and entertaining about the nature of good and evil. Kane, the pestered private investigator, is a cool character, intensely human, a denizen of Belfast, tough at times, but also charitable and morally conflicted at others. Brilliant storytelling.’
Richard Torregrossa, bestselling American crime writer,
Terminal Life: A Suited Hero Novel
‘Sam Millar’s Karl Kane series is one of the high points in crime writing today. Millar can string words together like diamonds on a necklace and craft a hell of a good tale, but Kane, his protagonist, is what makes the series a gem. Childhood trauma damaged him so severely that it was like a napalm strike on his psyche. Kane is kind to his friends, a blight on those who threaten the people he cares about. Kane is the kind of guy you’d call up for a beer and a good chat, or if you needed help dumping the body of the guy you just shot in the head. Who could ask for more? Totally addictive and brilliant.’
James Thompson, international bestselling author,
Snow Angels and the Inspector Kari Vaara series.
‘If Charles Dickens were a thriller writer, Past Darkness would be his masterpiece. But Sam Millar beat him to it with his latest can’t put down Karl Kane noir thriller. Millar’s acclaimed descriptive powers once again fashion some of fiction’s darkest characters, ones your soul wishes did not exist even though your mind knows are out there. Past Darkness is another winner from the very gifted Millar.’
Jeffrey Siger, international bestselling author, Sons of Sparta
‘Karl is Everyman, forever walking wide-eyed into trouble but always managing to avoid disaster. In previous books Karl merely faced death. In Past Darkness he also has to face down the horrors of his own childhood. A grisly tale grippingly told by an author whose words burrow down into the most squeamish parts of our psyche.’
John McAllister, critically acclaimed author,
The Station Sergeant and Barlow by the Book
DEDICATION
Past Darkness is dedicated to two great friends. Steve McDonagh, my original publisher of the Kane books, for giving me the idea to write a series of novels based on a Belfast PI. And best-selling American crime writer, Jim Thompson, who died so tragically and so young, and an inspiration to me. Both friends stood by me through thick and thin, never giving up on me, even when I wanted to. Always remembered.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special thank-you to all the crew at The O’Brien Press, especially Eoin O’Brien for his patience and dedication to Past Darkness.
Contents
Reviews
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Sam Millar
Copyright
Prologue
Did you ever have to find a way to survive and you knew your choices were bad? Irving Rosenfeld, American Hustle
Dark thunderclouds hung low over the fortress-like building on the outskirts of south Belfast. Trussed up with razor wire and security cameras, the bleak, pre-war institution looked more like a medieval prison than a place supposedly dedicated to the care of rebellious children.
The administration liked to boast that the grim walls were there to keep bad people out, and to protect the building’s adolescent inhabitants, and that God’s work was being done within.
The boast was a running joke among the staff…
Pastor William Kilkee appeared out of breath as he stepped from the tiny room into the narrow, dimly lit corridor. His wrinkled brow was newly damp with sweat, and his upper lip glistened like a snail-trail on a garden stone.
He looked up and down the corridor, nervously adjusting the dog collar resting on the folds of his skinny neck. Adjusted his fly. Subconsciously ran his bony fingers through the sea of thick grey hair atop his large skull, before proceeding cautiously up the corridor.
The lateness of the hour seemed amplified by the wooden ticking of a large grandfather clock standing like a sentinel in the centre of the grand hall, near the end of the corridor.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…
He approached the grand hall, the ticking becoming louder, more insistent. It unnerved him slightly, though he made the same journey continually, night after night, in adventures filled with sodomy, rape and cruelty.
Loud thunderclaps sent silvery blue light careering around the dark corridor, unsettling him even more. He hated stormy nights, wind and rain, especially thunder and lightning. They put him in mind of the god he had abandoned a long time ago, and how, one day, he would have to answer for all his depraved deeds to that same forsaken god.
He stopped. Glanced behind. Looked deep into the corridor’s sombre greyness. Thought he saw a chalky figure, way off in the distant haze. He wanted to shout out, who’s there?, but feared he would betray his nocturnal transgressions.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…
Just about to move off, his ears picked up the sound more acutely. It wasn’t the sound of the great clock he was hearing, but something else, something more sinister. Not tick, tick. But…
Click, click, click, click, click…
He moved quickly down the corridor, almost at a trot. His room was at the end of the hallway, a few seconds away. Safe harbour.
Click, click, click, click, click
…
The clicking was becoming louder. It had attached itself to the inside of his skull. Tapping on it, tap, tap, tap, tap, like some tormented woodpecker.
Click, click, click, click, click…
He fumbled for his key. Inserted it into the door. Practically fell into the room, slamming the door too loudly behind him.
For the longest time, all he could hear was the sound of his laboured breathing ghosting in the room.
Knock-knock!
The knock on the door frayed what little nerve he had left.
Knock-knock! More insistent this time.
He crept to the door, and peeped out through the spyhole.
She was standing there, naked, in all her fleshy glory, smiling that sweet, innocent smile of seduction and want.
His saggy cock moved, stirred from its slumber.
‘No, not tonight…’ he finally managed to whisper, through the closed door. ‘Too dangerous.’
‘But you like danger, Pastor. You always said it keeps you young, keeps your cock fit.’
He felt his face redden at the coarseness of her words, even though she spoke the truth.
‘Tomorrow night. We’ll–’
‘I can lick all wee Rhonda’s juice from that big cock of yours. I saw you leaving her room, back there. I bet you haven’t dried it off yet?’ She made a slurping sound at the side of the door. ‘Hmm. Yummy. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, having Mister Cocky all nice and dry?’
He felt faint with lust and desire. His knees were trembling, threatening to buckle. He leaned his back against the door, as if fearful she would get in. He closed his eyes, but she was there still, in the leathery under-garment of his lids, all wet and ready.
With his back still tight against the door, he turned the door handle, then stepped away.
The door slowly opened. She stood there, smiling. Two knitting needles in her hands, drumming them off each other.
Click, click, click, click, click…
‘What…why’ve you knitting needles in your– aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
She reached up quickly, then applied pressure, squeezing the needles down into his eyes, twisting and turning them with delighted satisfaction.
He staggered back, blood oozing from each eyeball in spurting hiccups. Instinctively, he tried to pull the needles out, but despite her smallness, she was too strong for him, her youthfulness forcing his ageing body onto his knees. A matador grounding a bull.
The needles journeyed onwards, tunnelling their way through rock-bone and pliable meat. With a final thrust of her wrists, the needles pierced his brain in a brutal yet elegant coup de grâce.
She kicked the door shut. Sat down on his favourite chair. With a mild curiosity, she watched his death-knell spasms on the ground, as he intoned the help of God, Satan, any other underworld creatures roaming the bloody twilight. His mouth was filling with blood, forcing him to splutter and gag, as if drowning underwater.
It was over in less than ten minutes. Despite the satisfaction of ringing in his death, she felt robbed. All those long years of abuse for ten minutes of pain – it seemed small change in the pocket of justice. She sincerely wished for the power to bring him back from the dead, so that she could kill him again, over and over.
She fled the room, twenty minutes later, hoping never to see that terrible place again. That was when the alarms rang out…
Chapter One
He was a ferocious man. He had been ill-made in the making. He had not been born right, and he had not been helped any by the moulding he had received at the hands of society. The hands of society are harsh, and this man was a striking sample of its handiwork. Jack London, White Fang
A nondescript van pulled up outside the tumbling walls surrounding the large Victorian house. The neglected building, in an isolated village on the outskirts of Belfast, was camouflaged in night shadows and overhanging leafage.
The van remained parked for what seemed an eternity. Eventually, a man squeezed his body from the driving seat, stepping out into the crisp, cool air.
No ordinary man. Fearsome in many ways. Unnatural in size and appearance, as if built by some devious god of deception and devilment. His face was a eulogy of darkness and revulsion, a death-shroud of disfigurement. A large, deep scar shaped like a ‘Z’ trenched his face.
He walked to the high, rusted gates, and pushed them open without exertion. The great house came fully into view like a pop-up book, making him smile like an eager child at Christmas discovering boxes of wonderment, dark and mysterious.
The house had seen better years, swamped by luxuriant weeds and brambles. Stocky, mangled trees cast twitching iron shadows over the structure. Paint had long vanished from its pockmarked wooden skin, and most of the windows had been destroyed by the elements and time, giving it a Poesque air.
After a long moment of breathing in his surroundings, he returned to the van, swinging it in from the roadside, away from prying eyes. Moving steadily, he began to unload some items stocked inside, paying particular attention to a large, heavy rug rolled up in the back.
He lifted the rug easily, shipped it upon one powerful shoulder, and walked casually towards the house. He opened the front door with his free hand, and stepped in. Musty smells of remembrance, redolent of a lover’s perfume, greeted him.
Closing his eyes, he sucked in the smells deeply, his massive chest bellowing in and out. When his eyelids lifted, tears were welling in the brims.
A lost child finally found…
He stood in silent contemplation under the doorway’s arch for some moments, before stepping in and closing the impressive oak door behind him. The three heavy bolts slid home into their niches.
Energised now, he began to climb the bare, creaky stairs, taking them two at a time, his speedy stride surprising for a man of such bulk. He barely seemed to notice the massive rug resting on his shoulder, so fluent were his movements and strength.
He reached the third floor, halting outside the one-time master bedroom. Easing the rug down outside the door, he entered the room, his eyes focusing on the centre of the bare floor. A reddened patch, faded by time into a ghostly stain. He knelt down, ran his hands over the stain, feeling something coursing darkly throughout his body; something long dead, now given renewed existence, like Victor Frankenstein granting life to his Monster.
He stood, and began discarding all clothing, despite the cold night air coming freely in through the many gaps in the house. Fully exposed, his nude body was covered in tattoos of smirking skulls. Only the fully erect penis had escaped the craftsman’s ink, making it stand out like a stranger in a strange land.
Out on the landing, the large rug shifted slightly, a tiny, barely visible movement among the shadows. A hand appeared from inside, curled up like a withered flower.
The tiny hand of a child.
Chapter Two
Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean…a common man and yet an unusual man. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness. Raymond Chandler, The Simple Art of Murder
Karl Kane’s mobile began ringing on the bedroom table, just as the pills he had consumed four hours earlier were starting to lose their cosy effectiveness. He could tell it was early morning because of the particular quietness seeping in from the surrounding streets: no sounds of drunken louts or screaming teenagers spilling out from nearby pubs and clubs in and around Hill Street in Belfast’s trendy Cathedral Quarter.
In a way, he was grateful for the phone’s shrill insistence. He had been immersed in another nightmare of drowning in blood – his mother’s – but this time it was so intense, he could taste iron clinging to his teeth like broken floss. The nightmares were now a nightly occurrence, increasingly vivid in their madness and malice.
He dreaded going back to sleep.
Karl let the mobile’s ringing guide him back to reality for a few more seconds before gl
ancing at the luminous alarm clock on the table. The clock revealed the dangerous side of four in the morning. Troubling phone calls at four in the morning, in Karl’s profession as a private investigator, only ever meant one thing: trouble.
Reaching over, he hooked the phone with a finger and thumb before staring at the number on the screen.
‘Lipstick…? What the hell?’
‘Karl…?’ said the groggy voice of Naomi, partner-in-crime and lover, snuggling beside him in the bed. ‘Who…who’s calling at this time of night?’
Extremely attractive, Naomi was dark-skinned with large hazel eyes and wild black hair. Despite the northern cadence in her voice, it sill commanded a strong trace of the south.
‘Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to waken you. It’s Lipstick.’
‘Lipstick…? God, I hope she’s not in some sort of trouble?’
‘Trouble? Lipstick?’ Karl said sarcastically, hitting the button on the mobile. ‘Lipstick? What kind of shit are you in now?’
‘Karl? What kept you?’ Lipstick whispered, edginess in her young voice. ‘I’ve been waiting ages for you to answer.’
‘You have? Please accept my sincere apologies for that. Like most law-abiding citizens, I was in bed, trying to sleep.’
‘Say you won’t get mad.’
‘That’s a bit like when someone tells you not to get nervous. The first thing you do is get nervous.’
‘I need your help. I’m in a lot of trouble.’
‘Tell me something new. Where are you?’
‘Locked in a bathroom.’
‘What? What the bloody hell, Lipstick? You call me at four in the morning just to get you out of a–’
‘In the Europa.’
‘The Europa…?’
‘Yes.’
‘I take it you’re whispering because you can’t speak too loud, in case someone hears you.’
‘Yes.’
‘A disgruntled client?’
