Past Darkness

by Sam Millar

  ‘What is it?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘For God’s sake, Naomi! Thought I asked you to go across the street.’

  ‘You actually thought I was scared of a bomb, after living here for almost a decade?’

  ‘That doesn’t give you the right to sneak the hell up on me like that.’

  ‘Out-sneaking you seems to be the only way to get to the truth,’ Naomi said, her face tense, like a gunslinger’s in a duel. ‘That package had the same printed label the beer mat had. Well? Didn’t it?’

  Karl tried laughing it off. ‘Your imagination’s running wild.’

  ‘I’m within an inch of slapping that silly grin off your face. No more games or avoidance. Who’s it from, and what is it?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know who it’s from, and trust me, you don’t want to know what it is.’

  ‘Really?’ Naomi reached over. Snatched the sleeve from Karl’s hand. Held it to the light. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I hate repeating myself, but you really don’t want to know.’

  ‘I also hate repeating myself. What is it?’

  ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

  ‘It’s a double-headed mermaid.’

  Naomi turned to glare at Karl. ‘A drawing of some sort?’

  ‘A tattoo.’

  ‘A tattoo? Like a stick-on transfer?’

  ‘A bit more elaborate than that, I’m afraid. It’s a real tattoo.’

  ‘Real? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I believe that at one time it belonged to our friend, Graham Butler. His left forearm, if my memory serves me correctly. Someone has peeled it from his skin. That’s caked blood holding it together.’

  Naomi immediately dropped the sleeve. Face paled. Looked on the verge of puking.

  Karl grabbed her by the elbow. ‘Come on. Bathroom this way. The next time I tell you to trust me, trust me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That’s my dream; that’s my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor…and surviving.

  Colonel Walter E Kurtz, Apocalypse Now

  Despite having listened to what sounded like the van moving off into the distance, Tara was still filled with doubt and caution. Scarman could simply have been moving the van to another part of the surrounding forest, and could now be walking back to the house, unnoticed, unheard. For all she knew, he could be down there, sitting, waiting in the dark. A trap set, and her the little mouse walking straight into it.

  The winding staircase was endless. Every few steps, she stopped to listen, wishing she had remembered to take the cutthroat razor. At least she would have something to defend herself, if he grabbed her. Slice his fucking fingers right off.

  Reaching the bottom of the staircase, she stood unmoving, as if trapped in icy paralysis. Her legs refused to budge, in mutiny against commands and natural instinct. Was her brain kicking into survival mode, trying to tell her something, warning her of the danger lurking right there in front of her?

  She crept over to the large oak door. The three bolts were pulled back – Scarman had left, and locked the door from outside. Once, a week ago, when she thought he had fallen asleep in one of the rooms, she had sneaked down and tried the door. It wasn’t locked with a key, but the three bolts had rendered it unmovable. She could manage the bottom and middle bolts, but frustratingly couldn’t reach the third bolt, at the very top of the door. She almost burst into tears, being so close and yet so far.

  Crouching down, she took the rest of the journey crocodile-style on knees and elbows, listening, hoping. She crawled over a group of piss-and-shit-stained mattresses, probably left behind by squatters and local drunks using the place as a booze den. A cold breeze played in the deserted hallway. It breathed along her skin, like a diseased sigh from the dying. She shivered.

  In her peripheral, the rooms started coming into view. Edging to the side of the first door, she held her breath before peeping in, eyes scanning full circle. Nothing. The next four rooms followed suit. But, to her surprise, the third door on the left, the one that was reliably locked every time she had ventured downstairs, was wide open.

  Something wasn’t right. Directly across from the mystery room, the kitchen waited, tormenting her with its possibilities. She sniffed like a wild animal, hoping to detect something in the soulless dark, some source of food, anything to fill her aching insides. Easing down on her belly, skin tingling with nerves, she began snaking along the bare wooden floor. Thorn-like splinters bit into her bare skin, but she ignored the pain, slithering onwards into the kitchen.

  In the far corner, a waste bucket. Scurrying over like a little mouse, she pulled the contents out of the bucket. Hallelujah! Bread. Damp and mouldy. Speckled a nasty metallic blue. It looked terrible, but to Tara, it was beautiful. Next, she discovered something meaty and slimy, held together with ugly, grey glutinous matter.

  Removing a page from the middle of a pile of old newspapers in one corner, she rolled the mishmash of decayed food inside it, shoving the package up her filth-stained sweater.

  Encouraged, she stood and began searching the cupboards, despite the voice pleading in her head to get out now, before he comes back. A squashed box of aged OXO cubes sat smiling at her from a door-less cupboard curtained with spider webs.

  Tara slid her hand in, careful not to break too much of the webbing lest it leave a clue for him. Retrieved the box. Opened it. Four squashed cubes! She could almost taste the beefy tang in her mouth. She removed all the cubes. Thought better of it. Took two. Returned box to resting place.

  About to tiptoe away, she stopped dead. Felt eyes tunnelling between her shoulder blades. Barely able to control her breathing, she slowly turned, expecting a huge and smirking Scarman to be standing behind her.

  Nothing. Just the stagnant gloom, staring out at her from the room opposite, and – there, in the darkness! Movement. Something white and flickering. Eyes? A face, masked in shadow?

  ‘What the…?’

  It wasn’t Scarman. Just a man. Strapped to a chair. Naked body, pale as wet putty. Eyes filled with madness and pain. The man’s entire skin seemed ripped and shredded, covered in drying and gelling blood, pooling in the hollow of his belly’s hairy button and beyond. His nipples were missing, and a great chunk of flesh had been sliced from his forearm, leaving a raw imprint with blood still leaking badly from it.

  The wooden floor beneath the chair was stained a dirty red and brown, like a child’s crayon drawing. Newspaper pages were pasted haphazardly on every wall, bringing the room to demented, claustrophic life. A madness of ink and blood.

  ‘Hmmmg hmmmg…hmmmg…hmmmgggggggggg!’

  The man was mumbling incoherently in muffled urgency, the tape secured to his mouth preventing the sound getting out. Like a ventriloquist’s dummy in reverse.

  Tara approached and stared at him, fascinated. A small, devilish smile spread across her angelic face, transforming her features into an unknown wickedness; a little imp bastardised from Satan’s ballbag.

  The man began shaking the chair violently, all the while mumbling his foreign, panic-stricken sounds.

  ‘Stop with that shit!’ Tara commanded.

  Ignoring her, he continued shaking the chair, in a violence-gathering momentum.

  ‘Stop it!’ Frantically, Tara began searching everywhere for some sort of weapon. She soon found what she needed. A blood-stained surgical blade rested on a metal table, along with other strange, contorted cutting instruments, like medieval torture utensils. She grabbed the blade. Tipped its apex firmly under the man’s chin.

  ‘If you don’t stop shaking the chair, right now, I’ll fucking kill you.’ Her voice was calm. Her eyes wild.

  The man slowly nodded, mumbling a muffled response before halting all movement.

  ‘I’m going to take the tape from your mouth, but I swear, you try anything, or shout, I’ll plunge th
is blade into your throat. There’s nothing I love more than blades. They’ve always made me powerful and dangerous. You got that?’

  The man nodded, eyes showing relief, despite the threat.

  With a snap, Tara pulled the tape halfway off, while keeping the blade secured beneath the man’s throat.

  ‘Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!’ He hissed under his breath, sucking greedily on the stale air.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My…name’s…Graham Butler. Cut…cut me free…you… you’ve got to get…an ambulance. I’ve…I’ve lost…lots of blood…need help…’

  ‘Why has Scarman tied you up?’

  ‘If you’re talking…talking about the maniac who tortured me, he’s…he’s been holding me for ransom. Did he kidnap you as well, love?’

  ‘I’m not your love. Don’t call me that.’

  ‘Sorry, just thought I should know the name of the young girl who’s saved my life. I’m going to make you very rich and–’

  ‘Why would Scarman kidnap you? He’s only interested in fucking little girls.’

  ‘I’ve…I’ve already told you, he’s…he’s looking for money. Holding me for…ransom. I’m…a wealthy businessman.’

  ‘Not a murdering gangster?’

  ‘Of course not! What…whatever gave you that impression?’

  ‘Those newspapers behind you, stuck on the wall. They say you’re a well-known gangster, that you’ve killed innocent people.’

  Butler forced a dry, painful laugh. ‘Newspapers make up that…that sort of thing all the time. Just get me out…get me out of this chair before the sadistic bastard comes back. I’ll… I’ll take you with me.’

  ‘You can’t take me anywhere. He locks the door from outside. I’ve tried to open it before. It’s no use.’

  ‘My strength’ll open it. You…can see the way I’m built. I’m like a bull.’

  ‘A bull? From here, you look like a lamb, waiting to be slaughtered.’

  For a split second, a look of icy glazed malevolence skated across Butler’s eyes, then it melted just as quickly.

  ‘Just get me out of this, and I’ll prove to you just how strong I am.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  Butler looked stunned. ‘What…what are you on about? Can’t you see what he’s done to me, what he intends to do? And what about you? The bastard has done things to you, right? Probably worse than what he’s done to me. Together we can escape this hellhole and–’

  Tara slapped the tape back over Butler’s mouth. He started shaking his head and rocking the chair aggressively, his muffled voice choking on itself.

  ‘I trust you as much as I trust Scarman. You’re all the same, all men, all monsters, all snakes. You’ll say anything to get what you want.’ She brought the blade away from his throat. ‘I can’t let you be breathing when he comes back. You’ll tell him my secret. You’ll tell him I was down here, searching for food. You’ll tell him, so that you’ll survive, you’ll breathe for a little longer.’

  The blade touched the raw area on Butler’s arm where his mermaid tattoo was once proudly displayed. Tara eased the blade in deep, twisting and twisting, watching as the bloodletting was renewed, brighter, thicker, flowing fluently downstream without hindrance.

  Butler’s eyes bulged with terror and pain. He wrestled wildly with the leather straps, twisting and turning, jerking frantically like a crazed cartoon character straddling an electric chair charged with death volts. The veins mapping his entire body started swelling. They looked on the brink of bursting, spewing all over the scene.

  ‘Come on, come on. Get it over with. Let it go,’ Tara whispered into his ear like a priest in a confessional, wishing death would come quickly for the dying, not out of compassion, but necessity. Her attention kept alternating between Butler and the door, her ears listening for the dreaded droning of the van’s engine.

  Butler’s skin slowly paled, and then yellowed, before ultimately returning to the original pasty colour of his pre-tanning-salon days. His throat swelled like a toad in heat and then, just as quickly, deflated like a newly pricked balloon.

  Almost thirty long minutes later, on the threshold of death, he urinated tea-coloured piss, and then shit himself, the bowel movement the last movement he would ever make again in his beastly, brutal bastard life, ending his nightmarish quest to conquer bloody Belfast.

  Tara forced his eyelids open with her thumbs. Checked that her work was complete. The eyes stared aimlessly at the floor, as if they had spotted something soulless crawling along the filthy ground, trying to escape.

  She wiped the blade on Butler’s skin, then placed the lethal messenger back exactly where she had found it.

  ‘Tara!’ Relief mixed with fear animated Dorothy’s face as Tara appeared out of nowhere, slipping back into the room. The bloodspot on Dorothy’s neck had dried into a freckle-design. Dorothy’s hand went instinctively to the tiny wound. ‘I…I asked my guardian angel to watch over you.’

  ‘Stop talking shite. Here, put this over beside the mattress while I get the bolt back in its place.’ Tara handed Dorothy the package of waste food, along with the two OXO cubes.

  Dorothy did as she was told. Despite the reek coming from the package, she thought it best not to complain or show her disgust.

  ‘You were gone so long. What kept you?’

  Tara glared at Dorothy. A killing look. ‘It wasn’t as if I had gone to Tesco, was it?’

  ‘I…I didn’t mean it that way. I just thought…something bad had happened to – you’re covered in blood!’

  ‘Huh…?’

  ‘It’s all over your jeans. Look.’

  Tara stared at Butler’s blood-splatter, covering most of her lower body.

  ‘Are you hurt, Tara? What happened?’

  ‘It’s…it’s nothing.’

  ‘But all that blood and–’

  ‘I said it’s nothing! Can’t you learn to listen!’

  ‘Okay…I’m just glad you’re not hurt.’

  ‘I had my period. That’s all. Don’t talk any more about it.’

  Tara sat down at the mattress and unwrapped the paper. The stench was even more pronounced. She offered the package to Dorothy.

  ‘Want some?’

  Dorothy felt her stomach wobble. She wanted to puke.

  ‘No…thank you…’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Tara shrugged her shoulders. Grounded the OXO cubes into the unholy mess. She began to feast on the devil’s banquet, both hands shovelling the slop into her eager mouth in blasé pleasure.

  Dorothy watched, disgusted yet fascinated. The slimy substance was sticking to Tara’s face, to her lips and chin. Her eyes were crazed. She looked like a wild animal, gorging on a kill.

  Tara continued gobbling the gory mess, only stopping when a photo in the newspaper-wrapping caught her eye. She uncurled the stained page of the newspaper, careful not to tear it. It was a photo of Dorothy, sitting on a sofa with a man, a woman and a littler girl the spitting image of Dorothy, only younger. The headline said: Tragedy Of Entire Family Killed In House Fire.

  ‘Tara? What’s wrong?’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Tara looked over at Dorothy. Then back to the headline. Then back to Dorothy. She set the food down. Wiped her mouth. Tore up the newspaper.

  ‘Come over here.’

  Dorothy’s stomach did a trapdoor movement of trepidation.

  ‘But…what…what’d I do, Tara?’ Dorothy knelt beside the other girl. ‘I…I didn’t mean to–’

  Unexpectedly, Tara wrapped her arms around Dorothy, hugging her tightly.

  Dorothy nervously returned the hug, then squeezed with delight at the first true touch of kindness shown to her since her arrival in this nightmarish place.

  ‘I’m sorry for hurting you, Dorothy. Really sorry. For all the mean things I’ve said and done.’

  ‘That’s…that’s okay, Tara. Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.�
�� A smile of relief appeared on Dorothy’s face as she hugged Tara even tighter.

  ‘We’re both going to be okay. You’ll see. I’m going to get us out of this. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Tara. I hear you. I hear you!’

  Tears began flowing down both their faces. Both for different reasons.

  Chapter Thirty

  We’re eyeball to eyeball, and I think the other fellow just blinked.

  Dean Rusk, Cuban Missile Crisis

  It was nearing midnight when Karl eventually called the police, but not before his card-playing lawyer friend Henry McGovern had turned up, listening to the grisly details and offering advice. Naomi sat to the right of Karl, face still pale.

  When they arrived, detectives Chambers and McCormack were brought into the office and given seats. McCormack sat, studying the tattoo, absorbed by the ghastly slice of inky flesh.

  Chambers nodded to Naomi.

  ‘How are you feeling, Ms Kilpatrick?’

  ‘Fine,’ Naomi replied, her voice indicating anything but. ‘I hope this isn’t going to take all night? I’ve a splitting headache.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Chambers, offering a sympathetic smile. ‘We shouldn’t be too long.’

  Karl stared over at Chambers. ‘I’ve a splitting headache also. You didn’t ask how I was feeling.’

  Chambers’ neck reddened slightly. The smile disappeared from his face. He took the plastic container from McCormack, and held it towards Karl.

  ‘How can you be so certain that this is Graham Butler’s skin?’

  ‘I don’t want to go into particulars, but you have my word on it.’

  McCormack made a mocking sound with his throat. ‘Your word?’

  ‘That’s right. My word. Don’t forget, I could easily have thrown that piece of evidence in the bin. No-one would have been any the wiser.’

  The corner of McCormack’s upper lip curled with contempt. ‘You called it in because you were afraid that down the line, word would eventually get out that you had destroyed evidence. Self-preservation. That’s you in a nutshell. You’re up to your neck in something. I can smell it.’