by Sam Millar
‘Oh, I was just in the area, to be honest. Thought I’d drop in, see how you’re doing.’
‘Checking out your old homestead, around the corner?’
‘It’s no longer ours. I just wanted to have a last look at it. Finally managed to sell it, last week.’
‘You’ve sold it? That house has been in your family for generations.’
‘I know, but it was becoming a money pit. I had to sell to the bank, to help cover Dad’s medical bills, plus the money for staying at the nursing home. It doesn’t come cheap.’
‘Bankers are the lowest bastards of the lot. I’d shoot every last one of them dead, then hang them for good measure. The number of livelihoods they’ve destroyed, and not one of them ever sent to prison.’
‘That’s how the world has always been, Francis. One law for the poor, another for the rich. They’re just more blatant about it now, there’s little shame in any of them. Almost a badge of honour to screw the little guy.’
‘Your father worked all his life. When I know I’m heading out the door feet first, I’m going to drink everything I’ve got, and burn this house to the ground. I’ll not let the bastards get their soft hands on a penny of my hard-earned money.’
Karl shrugged his shoulders. ‘The old house was just rotting away. I never had any intention of living in it. Too many bad childhood memories. At least it ended up doing some good in the long run, paying Dad’s bills.’
‘Who bought it? Anyone I know?’
‘I don’t know. The buyer wanted to remain anonymous. That’s how they do things these days. All about avoiding taxes, I suspect.’
‘I’ve been over in the vicinity of the house a few times, mostly to find straggling cows or to hunt down foxes killing the chickens. The last time was just a couple of nights ago. Bucketing out of the heavens, as usual. There was a moment… no, it was nothing.’
‘What?’
‘Well…probably just my bad eyesight playing tricks, but I thought I saw a light flickering on and off, up in the old boarded-up front bedroom.’ Francis shook his head. ‘There was a lot of lightning that night, so that’s probably all it was.’
Karl looked at his watch, then stood. ‘I guess I should be going, Francis. Got to get back to work.’
‘Don’t you want some more coffee?’
‘Er, no…I try to limit myself to one cup a day. It was great seeing you again, Francis.’ Karl stuck out his hand, but to his surprise, Francis hugged him as if he were the prodigal son.
‘Karl…I’m sorry…you know…’ Francis said, easing away from Karl.
‘Sorry? For what?’
Francis hesitated for a few seconds before continuing. ‘That dreadful night. For not being there, to save you, your mother. If only I had looked out my window that night and–’
‘It had nothing to do with you, Francis. You have nothing to be sorry about.’
‘I should’ve heard you both screaming. Something…’
Karl forced a smile. ‘You’d have needed ears like Steve Austin.’
‘Who?’
‘The Six Million Dollar Man. Anyway, you’re not to think like that – ever. If Mum were alive, she’d give it to you for thinking such nonsense.’
Francis nodded sadly. ‘You’re right. Of course you’re right. Just a silly old man with silly thoughts. Guilt can do strange things to the mind. I know Cornelius never forgave himself either.’
‘Well, being away at sea, there was little he could have done.’
‘Sea? But he…’ Francis’ words stopped dead. He looked like he had just swallowed a worm. Or opened a can full.
‘What? What were you going to say, Francis?’
‘Nothing…not a thing…’
‘You were going to say something. What was it?’
‘I…just thought you knew…about Martha Johnson, that’s all.’
‘Martha Johnson?’ Karl thought for a second. ‘Didn’t she used to own the grocery story in the village, up until a few years ago, before her death?’
‘Yes…’
‘What about her?’
‘Look, Karl, things happened years ago, and you shouldn’t be too judgemental about…well…’
‘About?’
‘Well, Cornelius and her. Only a couple of people knew about it. It was kept very quiet, very discreet. He wasn’t out flaunting it.’
‘Flaunting what?’
‘Their…relationship…’
‘Are you saying Dad was having an affair?’ Karl almost burst out laughing at the thought of it. ‘I find that a wee bit…’ He stopped talking. His face changed. Revelation hitting home. ‘You…you’re saying he was…Dad was with Martha Johnson, the night Mum was murdered, that he wasn’t at sea?’
Francis looked very uncomfortable. ‘I always thought you knew.’
‘No. Never even suspected.’ Karl smiled a wry smile. ‘That’s not very good advertising for a private investigator, is it?’
‘I’m sorry, Karl. I…’
‘Nothing to be sorry for, Francis. Perhaps what you’ve told me helps to explain a lot of things about Dad.’ From his wallet, Karl removed a card and handed it to Francis. ‘If you ever want to talk, that’s my business card. Call me any time. Any time.’
Francis took the card, looked at it, and nodded.
‘I will, Karl. I will.’
Karl walked to the door. Opened it. King followed behind Francis. Karl looked at the old man with fondness. ‘It was good seeing you again, Francis. Keep yourself safe.’
‘Ha! Anyone comes here uninvited, this old shotgun’ll leave him looking like a teabag.’
Karl leaned down and patted the dog’s head.
‘Keep a good eye on your master, King.’
The dog wagged its tail, and barked. Both Karl and Francis laughed.
Francis watched Karl walk down the pathway towards his car. The old man kept watching until the car drove away before going back inside to his loneliness and memories.
Karl drove slowly, turning the things Francis had said around in his head. Not only about Cornelius, but also the house. I thought I saw a light flickering on and off, up in the old boarded-up front bedroom…
He stopped the car directly to the side of his one-time home. Getting out, he closed the door very gently, and walked to the front of the big old house. Rain clouds were gathering overhead, suffocating the last remnants of light the sky was squeezing out.
A dilapidated husk, the house was like the discarded corpse of a once-living home. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness, despite all the bad memories. The awareness of such a vast expanse of time, long gone, made him reflective and melancholy.
Images spawned in his head. He thought he could hear his mother’s voice calling his name. Karl! Karl, dinner’s ready. Hurry in now, before it gets cold! He could hear laughter, also. It belonged to his father, pushing him on the old wooden swing behind the house; pushing him higher and higher until he could almost touch the roof, and the fat-bellied clouds, on a fine autumn day. A house filled with happiness and wonder. Then it all changed. Forever. His mother’s screams, mad, continuous screeches of hellish agony. Knives. Blood. Terror. Rape. Murder.
A boom of thunder exploded above, making Karl edgy. He checked his hands. They were shaking terribly, like the hands of an alcoholic in bad need of a drink.
Tara watched it all from the tiny hole she had carved out, hardly daring to breathe. She wanted to scream out to the man peering up from below, but was frightened Scarman might hear. She yearned for the man to see her tiny finger wiggling in and out of the hole, trying to catch his attention, but it was hopeless. How could he be expected to see such a tiny thing as a finger from so far away?
More thunder cracks erupted, spewing out rain with a vengeance. Tara watched as the man got back inside his car, and slowly drove away. It made her want to cry.
Chapter Nineteen
When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.
Maxwell Scott, The Man Who Shot
Liberty Valance
Sunday morning. Bedroom. Karl sat at the table, typing his latest soon-to-be-unappreciated manuscript on his beloved Royal Quiet DeLuxe typewriter. Actually, there was little typing being done, but Karl was doing plenty of staring blankly at a blank page. His fingers hovered nervously over the keys, like a helicopter trying to perch on a house of cards.
A couple of times, his fingers landed briefly on the keys, only to quickly pull away, as if touching acid.
‘It’s like a damn hothouse in here. That heat must be up full blast,’ Karl said, more to himself than to anyone in the room. ‘The bloody sweat’s trickling down my arse.’
Behind him, Naomi sat contently in the middle of the bed, reading a passel of morning newspapers. She was wearing only Karl’s shirt, and no panties, something Karl was finding rather distracting.
‘Did you say something, Karl?’ Naomi finally raised her eyes over the top of the newspaper.
‘Very cheeky of you.’
She looked over at him, slightly confused.
‘What is?’
‘You pretending to be from Donegal when you’re actually from Derry.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘You, airing your beautiful derriere shamelessly to the world.’
‘Is it really beautiful?’ She smiled coyly.
‘And loyal.’
‘Loyal?’
‘It follows you everywhere, just like me.’
She giggled. ‘You must have writer’s block, my love? Want me to unblock?’
‘You can start by dumping those rags you’re reading, and getting me a nice cup of very hot coffee.’
‘I enjoy reading the Sunday newspapers. There’s always juicy gossip to be found.’
Karl made a disapproving sound with his throat.
‘And the coffee?’
‘You didn’t say please.’
‘You didn’t have to say please when I went out into the cold and pissing rain this morning, just to get you those juicy rags.’
‘True, but you were only expressing your love and deep gratitude for all the things I’ve done for you.’ Naomi returned to reading. She turned a page. Her face suddenly changed. ‘Oh! Karl, Sunday Exposé have an article about you and Lipstick.’
‘What?’ Karl said, pushing away from the table.
‘It’s not a bad photo of you. Especially compared to the one they have of the thug you beat up. He’s scary-looking.’
‘Never mind that, let me see what the bastards have made up this time. Chambers warned me about this.’
‘Chambers?’
‘You know who I’m talking about. The lover-boy detective who fancies you.’
‘Stop being silly.’
‘Am I? Then why are you blushing, just like he did?’
Naomi laughed. Patted the bed coaxingly. ‘Sit beside me. I’ll read the article to you.’
‘I really don’t have time for this kind of…but okay.’ Feigning reluctance, Karl sat down on the bed, edging over beside Naomi. Her latent perfume and body-warmth tickled his nostrils. He hoped that’s not all they’d be tickling before the morning was over.
‘“Is this the man who took on notorious London crime boss Butler?’, says the wee headline.’ Naomi cleared her throat, and continued reading. ‘“This silhouetted figure is believed to be the man who sorted out one of London’s most feared crime bosses, last week at the Europa, according to our inside sources.”’
‘Inside sources, my bollocks. It was that greasy little worm Raymond.’
‘“The notorious London gangster, Graham Butler, was left with a suspected fractured jaw, missing teeth, and a face his own mother wouldn’t recognise.”’
‘Can’t believe I’m agreeing with this rag.’
‘“Our sources believe they know who this man is, who rescued a young woman, the victim of a brutal assault by Butler. Her mystery benefactor decided to go quid-pro-quo, giving the London thug a good old Belfast justice beating. Police say no charges have been brought, because no one has come forward with a complaint. Sunday Exposé hopes the big bad crime boss has learned his lesson about beating up defenceless women in Belfast and elsewhere. Bon voyage back to London, and good riddance.”’
‘Let me have a look at the pictures,’ Karl said, secretly chuffed at the article not making him the villain for a change.
‘I like that photo,’ Naomi said, handing over the newspaper. ‘Even in blurry silhouette, you can still make out that roguish grin of yours.’
‘What roguish grin?’ Karl said, flashing his roguish grin. ‘Anyway, how about that coffee you still owe me?’
Something wickedly seductive twinkled in Naomi’s eyes. ‘I’ve something a lot tastier.’
‘You do?’
‘Want to see?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Is it hot, and does it come in a cup?’
‘Very hot, and comes in two cups.’ Naomi smiled, and slowly began unbuttoning the white shirt of Karl’s she was wearing. Next came her black-laced bra, unhooked from the front, leaving her full breasts fully exposed, nipples hardening. ‘Irish coffee or café mocha?’
‘Irish, of course.’ Karl snuggled closer, and kissed the left breast gently and lovingly, before coming up for air. ‘Bonne bouche.’
‘I love it when you talk dirty and French at the same time. Whisper more to me,’ Naomi whispered in her lover’s ear.
Despite the pissing rain and shitty weather outside, things were starting to look sunny for Karl. Very sunny indeed. Of course, in his world, sunshine never lasted very long, before it was chased away by darkness and demons.
Soon he would meet an old demon from his darkest nightmares. The most dangerous demon of all.
Chapter Twenty
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
Frank Herbert, Dune
‘How many Harry Potter books have you read?’ Dorothy asked, listening at the door for any movement from Scarman. Her body was freezing – particularly her tiny toes – but the filthy blanket over her shoulders was at least keeping in a modicum of heat.
Tara ignored Dorothy, all the while chipping furtively at the window’s wooden undercarriage with the cutthroat. She had been making good progress, but had become frustrated by the harder wood bedded beneath the framework. If she could only gnaw through it, she believed the entire frame would collapse, or a good part of it.
‘I’ve read all of the Hunger Games books as well, Tara.’
Tara stopped momentarily. She stared over at Dorothy. ‘Do you really want Scarman in here, slapping you about? Or worse…?’
‘I was just–’
‘Just shut the fuck up. That’s the only thing you just need to do.’
Dorothy could feel her face reddening at the sting of Tara’s barbed tongue. Tears were welling up, but she willed them away. She wouldn’t cry any more. Not for this cruel girl.
Dorothy was feeling terribly alone now, more alone than she had ever been. She wished she were back home with her family, away from these two monsters. Yes, two monsters, because as far as she was concerned, Tara was as big a monster as Scarman. The fact that she had boasted about killing someone only confirmed this. And smiling that scary smile when she said it.
‘There’s someone coming!’ Dorothy hobbled quickly across to the mattress, the metal leash attached to her ankle almost tripping her over. She quickly spread the blanket out before tunnelling under it.
Tara was momentarily stunned, haphazardly trying to cover up her work at the window. Just at the sound of the door’s bolt clanging open, she hit the mattress, shoving the cutthroat inside, leaving no time to slip her foot back into the manacle.
Beneath the blanket, Dorothy’s hand gingerly reac
hed out to Tara.
Tara quickly pushed it away.
The door creaked open, and the room filled with heavy breathing, raw with bestial menace.
Dorothy’s hand crawled back to Tara’s. This time, however, Tara took the hand, squeezing it hard in punishment. Dorothy bit down on her lip, trying not to scream out loud.
They listened as soft footsteps walked across the bare floor. Socked feet? Bare? They stopped at the mattress.
The two girls became statues, not daring to breathe. Dorothy’s stomach tightened. Nerves were roiling about inside. She needed desperately to go to the toilet. She silently prayed to God, not for rescue, just don’t let her crap herself on the mattress. Tara would kill her. Really kill her.
Floorboards creaked. The sneaky footsteps moved off towards the window. There was tapping on the window frame.
Then silence. Tormenting long silence.
Dorothy’s heart was hammering so loudly, her head began thumping. What if he can hear my heart beating so loudly? Is he standing there, grinning, knife in hand, ready to–
Bang!
The slamming door shattered the deadly silence, making both girls jump. They lay there, not moving, not saying a word, not knowing if Scarman stood there, waiting for them to make a sound.
God had been good to Dorothy. She hadn’t crapped herself, but she dreaded what Tara would do, once she found out she had peed herself instead.
Chapter Twenty-One
I must complain the cards are ill shuffled till I have a good hand.
Jonathan Swift
Swirls of smoke filled Buster McCracken’s living-cum-poker room, where Karl and a few associates sat studying the cards Lady Luck had handed them. The group chomped and sucked merrily on large, Juan Lopez Cuban cigars, provided by Buster, a seller of all things dodgy and illegal. Everyone in the room seemed impervious to the lung-destroying haze issuing from their mouths.
To Karl’s left, Marty Harrington, proprietor of a chain of funeral parlours in the city – Heavenly Harrington’s – placed a tidy sum of money in the centre of the table.
