by Sam Millar
Fortunately for him, no-one seemed to care. A little while earlier, someone had drunkenly shouted from a window for the dog to shut the fuck up, but other than that, not a soul ventured outside into the freezing night air.
Despite the icy wind cutting to his marrow, he was certain the long wait would be worth it. Then, almost as if his thoughts contained magic, the last remaining lights were extinguished on the second floor, bringing total darkness inside and outside the house.
He waited a few minutes more. Then, from beneath his full-length overcoat, he removed a miniature crowbar, and began working it patiently around the weathered wood housing the galvanised backdoor bolt. Five minutes later, two twists of the wrists and a small amount of his unique brute force quietly splintered the designated area.
Easing the yard door open an inch, he watched the snarling beast looking up at him, its ears pinned back, exposed fangs now ready for action. The dog was some sort of half-breed mutt, ribs protruding cage-like from neglect and cruelty. There was madness in its eyes: a madness mirrored in his own.
‘Good dog…good dog…’ he whispered, removing a large piece of bloodied beef from a sealed bag in his pocket.
The dog continued snarling, but softer now, a low, suspicious growl, eyes flicking indecisively from food to intruder, before finally focusing on the food.
He slipped the beef halfway through the gap in the door, dangling it between his finger and thumb. The dog’s nostrils widened, sniffing guardedly at the meat, before snapping it quickly from his fingers. In seconds, it was chewing hungrily on the rare manna from heaven.
Waiting until the creature was on the verge of swallowing the delicious substance, he struck like a cobra, entrapping the creature’s throat in a vice-like clasp between powerful hands. Lifted effortlessly into the air in a fluid motion without thought, the dangling dog struggled, legs kicking out like a marionette with tangled strings.
He twisted the neck without fuss, hearing a watery snap, and then dropped the carcass where he stood, before moving towards the house.
From his pocket, he removed a skeleton key, grounded down to bypass the levels and wards inside the lock. The key had helped him a few times in the past, but nothing was guaranteed. He hoped he didn’t have to use the crowbar. That would slow down the building adrenalin rush of expectation trafficking his veins, and could also inadvertently alert those inside to his presence. He didn’t mind killing, but he preferred it when everything was under control, moving at a tempo of his choosing.
He needn’t have worried. The key’s movement was silky-smooth, entering the dark passages of the chamber uninterrupted. He turned the key. It rotated fully. Click. The sound made his heart tighten slightly. He removed the key and turned the door handle ever so gently.
No resistance.
The door opened with just the tiniest of squeaks, and he invited himself inside, closing the door silently behind him. From a sheath on his belt, he removed a serrated hunting knife, gripping its carved ivory handle tightly. The knife’s tiny teeth seemed to grin at him in the deadly dull darkness.
Pausing a few seconds to train his eyes to the house’s structure, he proceeded inwards. From the living room, heavy snoring could be heard. He followed it, his great weight soundless. A man in a drunken stupor was sprawled out on a sofa, like a beached whale. The stench of stale booze, dead cigarettes and greasy soup filled the room. An ashtray struggled under a mound of cigarette butts resembling spent gun cartridges. The sleeping man farted loudly, rattling the sofa. He was sewer-stinking.
Pig…filthy drunken pig bastard…
Scarman’s fingers gripped the knife’s handle tighter. He wanted to use the blade. Gut this whale of a pig. Badly. Perhaps crack his skull. Work the crowbar into his brain, spoon out some meaty matter, shove it down the pig’s throat.
No. Get in and out. He’s not worth it. Keep focused. The prize is almost within reach. Yours for the taking.
He turned reluctantly, and began to make his way silently upstairs, thankful for the frayed carpet beneath his feet. Anticipation moved his heart up a notch. Even though he had never been in this house before tonight, his actions contained an unexplainable feeling of familiarity.
The first room he came to was a small bathroom, reeking of piss and a drunk’s sour vomit. Someone hadn’t flushed the toilet – possibly Mister Pig downstairs – and a large, cigar-coloured turd, the size of a baby’s arm, floated helplessly, trying to escape its enclosure.
Dirty smelly pig…
He moved with purpose to the room at the end of the corridor, letting his emotions guide him, bring him home. The door was ajar. He stood outside. Listening. Heard breathing. Soft. Like a susurrus of insect wings in summer heat.
Inside the dull, moonlit room, the floor was scattered with dolls, mixed with little girl clothing. He knew that gold had been struck, and he the beneficiary.
My sweet lord…
He could hardly restrain his excitement at what he was viewing. Two young girls in the bed, side-by-side, bedclothes scattered haphazardly. For a moment, he was overcome by the abundance, and had to steady his breathing and shaking hands. The feeling of iron in his penis made his teeth clench, his ballbag tighten. A plethora of unholy urges drilled deep into his body. He quickly erased them. For now.
Do what you came to do and get out. There’ll be plenty of time for that, later.
Walking to the bed, he knelt down as if preparing nightly entreaties to a voyeuring deity. He could smell the girls’ hot-body smells. Taste them. Exquisite. The richness touched the inside of his mouth, dusting his tongue with a taboo flavour. He almost wept with joy at this wealth of fleshy riches.
Take both? Impossible. One only. But which one?
They both seemed age-identical, but it was the one with red hair that his eyes kept returning to. Blood red, crowning an alabaster skin so beautifully white. A divine seraph from Heaven. Why did tormenting gods make them so beautiful; so teasingly beautiful? How was he, a mere mortal, supposed to resist such temptation?
Expertly shepherding the knife back into its enclosure, from his pocket he produced a silk handkerchief and a glass vial of chloroform. Dabbed the handkerchief with the colourless liquid, before gently tenting the girl’s face in the damp silk. Applied pressure with his hand. Felt her hot, urgent breath mist the plummy flesh of his palm.
Her legs jerked violently, then quivered into serenity. The other child beside her had not moved, but mumbled in her sleep: stop kicking and taking all the bedclothes, Dorothy.
Dorothy…my beautiful Dorothy…
He quickly wrapped his prize in a blanket, before making his way back down the stairs. At the door, he set the limp little body down. Edging back into the living room, he stared down at the snoring pig on the sofa. His fingers touched the knife. He wanted desperately to gut him, ease the knife into the fleshy blubber. He wanted to hear Mister Pig grunt in agony.
But something made him hesitate. Just for a second. He stared at the full-to-the-brim ashtray. Smiled. The gods were good. They had given him the perfect cover-up.
Stepping outside a few minutes later, Scarman re-cradled Dorothy in his arms. Covered her in the custody of the cowl. Held her tightly, lest some thief in the night try to steal her from him. He moved across the yard as quickly and quietly as he had entered.
Just as he neared the busted yard door, a eucharistic moon bloomed forth from behind inky clouds. The moon’s magnesium glow limned over him, tingling every bone in his taut body. He felt exposed, but in a sexual, all-powerful way. That was when he realised he was being watched.
He stopped. Corpse-still. Deadly-silent.
Where? Who?
Still cradling Dorothy, he slowly eased to the ground, kneeling, a demonic version of the Pietà, his eyes methodically scanning the darkness.
Something. What?
Then he saw the watcher. Eyes peering from behind a wall, a sentinel of the night. The face seemed to be grinning, mocking him in righteous judgement.
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br /> Placing Dorothy gently on the ground, he silently eased out the knife. Anticipation filled his nostrils and mouth. In the speed of an afterthought, he flung the knife into the darkness at the watching eyes.
Chapter Six
It is not the violence that sets a man apart, it is the distance that he is prepared to go.
Forrest Bondurant, Lawless
Karl had just shifted himself from bed when the doorbell rang below. Four impatient rings.
‘Shit, we’ve slept in, love,’ Karl said, quickly slipping into his trousers.
‘Of course we slept in,’ said Naomi. ‘It’s Saturday.’
‘Saturday…? God, you’re right. I thought it was Friday. My head’s away.’
Karl proceeded trance-like down the stairs, yawning constantly.
Four more impatient rings.
‘All bloody right! I hear you!’
Opening the front door, he was greeted by a wide-awake Sean, the postman, holding a small package.
‘Morning, Karl.’
‘Never mind that shite. Do you like sticking your bloody fingers in holes that don’t belong to you, Hans Brinker?’
‘Who’s Hans Brinker?’
‘Read a book and find out.’
‘I have to say, you look very rough, like you’ve been boozing and cruising when you should’ve been snoozing.’
‘Another wannabe Seamus Heaney. Just what we don’t need.’
‘Just saying, I’ve seen you looking better.’
‘Sorry I can’t say the same about you.’
Sean smiled a wicket grin, handing Karl the package. ‘At least it’s not another rejected manuscript. Too small to be from–’
Karl slammed the door. Made his way upstairs, yawning some more. Once back inside, he sat on the sofa and began to open the package.
‘What the…?’ He took out the contents.
‘What is it?’ Naomi said, entering the room.
‘An old beer mat, by the looks of it.’ Karl held the piece of cardboard out to Naomi, while searching for a note from the sender. There was nothing.
‘Who’s it from?’ Naomi examined the mat.
Karl shrugged his shoulders. ‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Fiddler’s Green pub, that’s what it says,’ Naomi said.
Karl’s face slapped awake. His stomach felt wobbly. He held out his hand. ‘Let me see that again.’
Naomi handed it back. He scrutinised the front and then the back of the mat, staring at it as though it might speak.
‘Karl? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing…nothing’s wrong…’
‘There’s something wrong. I can see it in your face. What on earth is it?’
‘Nothing. I’m away to get cleaned up.’ Karl stood and left the room, leaving a puzzled-looking Naomi staring at his back.
Inside the bathroom, he switched the power shower on full blast, before examining the beer mat more closely. He turned it over, back then front, hoping for a clue to its provenance. A creepy sensation like dry ice touched the stepping-stones of his spine. His haemorrhoids began throbbing, making him feel like shit.
Opening the medicine cabinet, he reached for a box of painkillers. Removed three from their enclosure. Put the box back. Washed the pills down with shower water. Walked over to the bathroom door and placed his back tight against it. From his trouser pocket he removed a small plastic bottle. Opened it, spilling two blue tablets into his palm. He dry-swallowed both, before sliding his back down the door.
He regarded the beer mat again, wondering. A feeling of dread began creeping over him. He needed to vomit, and vomit he did. Just as he wiped his mouth, the flashback hit him. Hard.
A winter’s night, outside Fiddler’s Green, a popular restaurant and pub on the outskirts of Belfast, over twenty years ago. Rain so heavy, it’s practically deafening.
Karl is taking shelter behind a tree, one of many surrounding the restaurant. He’s wearing a heavy-duty raincoat and wide-brimmed hat. The rain is sliding down the brim of the hat, splattering his face. Despite this, he has a good view of the restaurant, and in particular of a well-dressed man devouring a steak at a table near the window.
The man is a lover of food; his generous body-structure displays this proudly. If he had been a normal man, he would be overweight, but his size – length and breadth – has eliminated this, distributing fat and muscle evenly in almost perfect proportion.
From the inside pocket of his overcoat, Karl produces a gun – a Colt Cobra .38 Special revolver – a tiny gun with an immense impact. Opening up the gun’s stomach, he checks the chambers again – the tenth time in as many minutes – unconsciously wiping the rain pellets from its metal skin. His hands are shaking, but not enough at the moment to retard what he has in mind: close up and personal.
The corner of Karl’s eye catches movement. The man in the restaurant is standing, wiping juices from his mouth with a napkin. After some small-talk with a waitress, he hands her payment, smiles, then heads for the exit.
‘Shit!’ Karl shoves the gun into the overcoat’s side pocket, grasping the weapon tightly in his hand.
The man is emerging from the doorway of Fiddler’s Green, fumbling with a black umbrella. The umbrella blossoms like a funereal flower, and the man is now walking in Karl’s direction.
Karl slowly slides out the gun from his pocket, resting its compact weight against the side of his overcoat. He commences his walk towards the man. The rain is now torrential, beating against Karl’s face, making clear vision impossible. It seems to be trying to hold him back.
The man moves slightly to the left, avoiding a puddle, as they pass. At the same time, Karl makes an identical move, and both men’s arms touch, just slightly, but enough for Karl to release his grip on the gun.
To his horror, Karl watches the gun descend in slow motion, spinning and spinning. For one horrible second, he fears the irony of the gun going off, the bullet penetrating his head.
Both men stop in their tracks. The man looks at Karl. Karl can’t move. Fear has immobilised him. The gun makes a noise as it hits the ground. Both men look down. Karl can see the gun, half-submerged in a filthy shallow puddle. Surely the man can see it also? The man stares at Karl.
‘Sorry. This damn umbrella…I should’ve been looking where I was going.’
The man proceeds hurriedly onwards down the street. Karl stands in the sodden night, watching the distance consume the man; watching him become an inky exclamation mark, fading into a pixel. Then heavy nothingness.
Karl bends and pukes all over the ground, the gun, his shoes. The vomit mixes with the rain, becoming a Rorschach collage, two tiny accusing faces.
Move your arse. He’s getting away!
Karl retrieves gun from puddle. Staggers after the man, swaying from side to side like a drunk. Pushes through the heavy nothingness. Sees the pixel. Watches it transform back into an exclamation mark. Then morphing into the man.
Karl’s hands are shaking terribly, but he manages to pull back the hammer on the gun. Sees the back of the man’s head. Squeezes down on trigger…
Chapter Seven
While money can’t buy happiness, it certainly lets you choose your own form of misery.
Groucho Marks
Monday morning, and Karl had barely sat down for a quick liquid breakfast of coffee in the kitchen, when Naomi entered, smiling. She walked over and kissed his bare back.
‘There’s nothing as sexy as a man sitting in his underwear, drinking coffee, in the morning.’
A suspicious look appeared on Karl’s face. ‘What the hell are you on? Better still, what the hell are you up to?’
‘Just telling the truth, big fella.’
Naomi placed the day’s mail in front of him.
‘That’s bloody early. Bet that lazy bastard Sean has a birthday or something. That’s why he’s doing his rounds so quickly. So he can go out and get blitzed on cheap wine.’
‘Oh, should we get him a card or something? He alwa
ys makes sure we get our post, even when the weather’s atrocious.’
‘Wrong postal service. That’s the Pony Express you’re thinking of. Anyway, it’s his job to get the mail here, isn’t it? Do I get birthday cards for doing my job? Hell no. Abuse, that’s what I get. Anything interesting in all that pile of crap?’
‘Bills, love. All bills.’
‘That’s what I should have been called, instead of Karl. Bill. Hmm. Bill Kane. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?’
‘Not as sexy as Karl.’
‘What’s with the strange smile? You’re up to something. What?’
‘Nothing…’ She ran her hand down his stomach, and into his underwear.
‘If you’re looking for my wallet, it’s not there. But then again, I could be lying. If you keep looking, you just might get a surprise.’
‘What kind of surprise?’
‘That would be telling. You’ve got to keep searching. You might find two big rocks.’
‘Show them to me later.’ Naomi purred against his neck, and then removed her hand. From behind her back, she produced another letter. ‘I think I forgot to give this to you.’
‘For one scary moment, I thought you actually pulled that from under my ballbag.’
‘It’s from the bank.’
‘From one ballbag to another. What do those bastards want now?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t read it.’ A sly grin appeared on Naomi’s face.
‘Hmm. That’s debateable,’ Karl said, opening the letter and scanning its contents.
‘Well?’
‘Well what? You read it before me.’ Karl gave Naomi a smile. ‘The payment from the house has finally come through – as you already know. We’re rich, my dear. Well, we would be, if most of it wasn’t heading to Dad’s nursing home for medical and care costs. But still, I think we–’
‘Shoes. I need some shoes, badly.’
‘You’ve more shoes than bloody Imelda Marcos.’
