by Sam Millar
McGovern quickly stood up. ‘If your associate can’t restrain his thuggish attitude, Detective Chambers, then I’m afraid I’ll have no alternative but to advise both of my clients to end this meeting. As Mister Kane has rightly said, he could easily have thrown the item in the bin and no-one would have been any the wiser.’
‘You’re right, Mister McGovern. We’re very grateful to Mister Kane for calling us, and helping us with our enquiries. And Miss Kilpatrick.’
‘Thank you.’ McGovern nodded to Chambers, and slowly sat back down.
‘And you’ve no idea who sent it to you, and why, Mister Kane?’ Chambers continued.
‘None whatsoever. I can hazard a guess and say I don’t think it was Graham Butler.’
‘Those kind of flippant remarks don’t help. You realise we’re going to have to take your fingerprints, so that we can eliminate them from any we may find on the package?’
In a flash, McGovern held up his hand. ‘That won’t be happening, Detective. Unless you have a court order, of course?’
‘No, we don’t have a court order at the moment, Mister McGovern. I can understand you trying to safeguard your clients’ interests, but all it’s doing is wasting valuable time, when we could be out looking for the abductor or abductors of Mister Butler.’
Karl false laughed. ‘And I’m supposed to trust you that my fingerprints won’t conveniently appear somewhere else, say a gun or a bloody knife?’
‘I can give you assurances that–’
‘You can’t give me anything, particularly assurances, if past experience with the neurotic behaviour of your boss, Wilson, is anything to go by.’
‘You’re hindering police work, Kane!’ McCormack slapped his hand loudly on the table. ‘I wonder the hell why?’
‘You really need to keep attending those anger-management classes, McCormack. Your face looks like it’s ready to melt.’
McGovern looked at his watch, before addressing the gathering. ‘Gentlemen, I think we should call it a night. As you can appreciate, this has been a very distressful experience for my client, and also for Miss Kilpatrick. Both deserve a good night’s sleep.’
Chambers nodded and stood. McCormack stared over at Karl, before reluctantly standing also.
‘If you can think of anything else to help us, it would be very much appreciated, Mister Kane,’ Chambers said, eye-levelling Karl.
‘Of course. You’ll be the first to know,’ Karl said, not too convincingly, but not dropping his eyes.
Chambers seemed on the verge of saying something, but instead merely blinked, then turned and left. McCormack stalled for a few seconds, before leaving also.
As soon as the detectives exited, Karl walked McGovern to the door, thanking him.
‘Don’t talk to the police unless I’m present, Karl,’ advised McGovern. ‘And for God’s sake, watch yourself. Please tell Naomi the same.’
‘Thanks again, Henry, for getting here so soon.’
‘I can’t have anything happening to you, with all the money you owe me,’ McGovern smiled.
Karl watched McGovern drive away before going back inside. Naomi had left, gone upstairs. Karl extinguished all the lights, and followed suit. Naomi was sitting on the sofa in the living room.
‘Want a nightcap before we hit the sack, Naomi?’
‘How much trouble are you in?’
‘Trouble? None. Why’re you asking?’
‘You didn’t mention to the police that the tattoo and beer mat came from the same person.’
‘Who’s the private investigator here?’
‘Or about the phone call earlier tonight.’
Karl looked at her for a very long time before answering.
‘You want to know about the beer mat, and everything else that goes along with it? Want to know my darkest secrets? Think you’re strong enough to listen to my nightmares?’
‘What’s got into you, talking like that? All I want is for you to–’
‘No. None of that old shite about only being concerned about me. You don’t get to pick or choose, Naomi. Not this time, you don’t. You’re asking for the darkness of the genie to be released from its bottle? Okay, but just remember: you don’t get to put the genie back in the bottle, once it’s been released.’
Chapter Thirty-One
I can hear you whisperin’ children, so I know you’re down there. I can feel myself gettin’ awful mad. I’m out of patience children. I’m coming to find you now.
Reverend Harry Powell, The Night of the Hunter
Tara debated with herself about whether to tell Dorothy the dreadful news of what had happened to her family. She remembered herself as a kid – not that she wasn’t a kid still, but an awful lot had changed in her mind – lonely, no family, no friends. Just strangers. Brutal strangers, beating and sexually abusing her. She remembered learning to fight dirty, because life was dirty. The only thing the meek inherited was pain and suffering, not the Earth as slimy old Pastor Kilkee murmured in her ear every night at Blackmore, while forcing his sharp, bony fingers up her thighs.
She thought about how they had thrown her into that padded cell, straightjacket corseting her entire body; about the sharpened knitting needles she had rammed into the Pastor’s eyeballs, forcing the shafts all the way into his brain. She had survived. She would survive this also, because she knew how to fight dirty; she knew not to beg for help.
Dorothy was resting on her back. Eyes closed tightly. Lips barely moving, whispering to herself. She seemed in some sort of trance.
‘Have you lost the plot, talking to yourself?’
‘I’m not talking to myself. I’m…I’m just saying my prayers, asking God to help get us out of here.’
‘I’ve already told you, we will get out of here. But we’ll have to do it ourselves. No-one else – including turn-a-blind-eye God – is going to help.’
‘My mum and dad’ll help. They won’t give up until they find me. Then you can come and live with us, Tara. Our wee Cindy would love you. She’s a pain in the arse, but she’s funny and cute. She’s always laughing.’
‘Don’t be…don’t be getting your hopes up too much…’
‘Why? Don’t you want to come and live with–?’
‘Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
The sound of an engine could be heard chugging to a stop.
‘What is it, Tara?’
‘He’s back.’
Dorothy began hyperventilating, sucking on the air as if having an asthma attack.
‘Will…will he know you…were downstairs? What will… what will he do to us, Tara, if he…if he finds out?’
Scarman emerged from the van. Walked casually to the front door of the house, carrying a couple of decoys: supermarket bags filled with rags and garbage, lest some nosey neighbour spot him, watching his comings and goings. One has to be careful in such isolated areas. Bored people with too much time on their hands quickly learn to become curtain-twitching experts.
He closed the front door behind him, dropping the decoys where he stood. About to walk down the hallway, he hesitated. His body stiffened, nostrils flaring slightly. He sniffed. Something. What? A smell interrupting the other smells, dominating the air.
He prowled down the hallway, sniffing like a bloodhound on a trail. Different smells began webbing inside his nasal cavities: dust, grease, sourness. Blood.
He focused on the blood. Fresh. Damp. From the back of his waistband, he extracted a knife, moving silently on down the hallway, a ghost of a man preparing to meet a ghost of something else, its sell-by-date expired.
He edged his head against the doorframe. A splinter of the room came into view. Butler. Slumped over his bondage, as if cleaved in half.
Scarman’s eyes darted from corner to corner. He waited a few seconds before stepping inside. He didn’t need to touch the body to see that Butler was gone. A bluish hue glazed the skin. His bottom lip hung ghoulishly from the dangling duct tape.
Butler had managed to bite his way throug
h the tape, as well as his lip. The plump lip looked like a bloody garden slug captured on flypaper.
Had the gangster deliberately gnawed his own lip off, so as to die, no longer able to endure what he had forced others to endure? He didn’t think Butler was suicidally inclined. Surely Butler would have done anything to stay alive, to save his own skin?
A wry smile appeared on Scarman’s face at the unintended pun. Still, who knows what breaks one man but makes another?
Scarman knelt on one knee. Began examining the body, paying particular attention to the skin on the forearm he had sliced off and sent to Kane. Blood bumps lined the border of missing skin. Older skin had curled back, exposing growth killed in its genesis.
He pressed down on one of the bumps. It was spongy, blood trapped beneath its tiny dome. The blood was discoloured. Two shades. One on top of the other.
These were fresh cuts. But how?
He glanced over at the table where the surgical blades rested. Looked at the blade he had used earlier. Stood, then walked over to the table. Lifted the blade by the end of its handle. Held it close to his eyes and examined it, before leaving the room. He headed back along the hallway, the blade dangling at his side.
At the bottom of the winding staircase, Scarman stopped, blade raised in preparation. He peered directly above him, in the direction of the girls’ room. He continued staring, trancelike, for the longest time, until startled by a loud banging on the front door.
Upstairs, Tara was peeping out the small hole she had managed to make beneath the window frame.
‘There’s someone down there, at the front door!’ she whispered.
‘Who is it, Tara? Can you see?’ said Dorothy, controlled excitement in her voice.
Tara squeezed her eye tighter against the hole. ‘It’s…it’s a man. He’s got a gun. A big fucking gun!’
‘It must be the police! They’ve come to rescue us! Shout out to them. Hurry!’
Scarman stood, debating with himself, his grip tightening on the blade.
More knocking. Insistent. It seemed to echo everywhere in the hallway, like a wooded creature of flight let loose, banging off the walls.
He walked silently to the front door. Bent his sight to the peephole, just as Tara was doing directly above him.
It was a man, cradling a menacing-looking weapon in his arms. He had a ruddy, weatherbeaten face and shrewd, determined eyes. By his attire, he did not appear to be a cop – at least not a city cop – and definitely not in uniform. Could be the local cop, off-duty, acquainting himself with people newly moved into the area.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’ said the man, staring directly into the peephole and Scarman’s eye.
Scarman calculated the pros and cons of opening the door. Sit it out, and wait for him to depart, leaving open the distinct possibility of his return? Take him by surprise, pull him into the house, slit his throat? Of course, that would create its own problems, if he had family and they started wondering where he was. Miscalculations and rushed moves were the root of all perfect plans laid to waste.
He opted for the only realistic option available. Opened the front door.
‘Yes?’ Scarman kept his right hand behind his back, the blade ready to go to war.
‘Apologies for the shotgun. Just in case I run into a fox,’ Francis Duffy said, patting the shotgun and smiling.
‘What is it you want?’
‘I’m really sorry for bothering you. I’m Francis Duffy, your next-door neighbour, so to speak.’ Francis offered a handshake. Scarman ignored it. ‘I own the farm, a couple of minutes down the road.’
‘And?’
‘Er, yes, just letting you know, my sheep have a terrible tendency to wander away at all times of night. They end up in all sorts of places. If they happen to be seen nibbling your front lawn, I’ll pay for any damage they cause.’
‘This is private property. I didn’t send out any invites to you or your sheep. Don’t trespass again.’
Scarman closed the door, and resumed his watching position at the peephole.
Francis remained, looking at the door, staring at the peephole. It was almost a minute later before he made his way down the pathway and out through the gates.
After Francis had left, Scarman remained standing there for a long time. He couldn’t afford confrontation at this moment. Too many long years had gone into preparation and planning to see it ruined by some straw-sucking, sheep-shagging oaf.
Farmers knew the lay of the land like the muck on their wellies. Re-arrangements of features upsetting the landscape didn’t go unobserved by them. A broken twig, blades of grass trampled on, bushes reshaped by pushing bodies, all made farmers naturally cagey and suspicious. They were constantly vigilant.
This farmer posed a problem. The question was: how big a problem?
Chapter Thirty-Two
I measure out my time in blue pills, hoping to chase the blues away.
Karl Kane
Karl and Naomi sat on the bed, facing the dressing table near the far window. With the lights turned off in the room, the streetlamp directly facing the window filled the room in a weary greyness.
Karl reflectively watched his own reflection in the dullness of the table’s mirror. He looked wasted and lost, like a book with missing pages, or a man for whom time had finally run out. A glass of brandy rested tantalisingly on the small bedroom table, but he refused to touch it. He would do this without the assistance of Mister Hennessy.
Naomi, wrapped in a nightgown, was looking concerned. A terrible tension was stalking the room, like a hand grenade with the pin about to be pulled.
‘Why don’t we get into bed, Karl? You’ll be a lot more comfortable.’
‘Thinking of sex again, Miss Kilpatrick?’ Karl false-smiled. It made him look even older than he felt, right at this moment in life. ‘Remember after we first met, and were getting to know each other a bit better?’
‘Haemorrhoids, love of brandy, divorced, lousy at gambling, great at sex…?’
‘No, that was you. I’m talking about me!’ said Karl, smiling.
They both laughed. A nervous laugh. Unnatural.
‘I confided in you about my mother being attacked and raped, and then murdered, by Walter Arnold, when I was nine?’
‘Yes, and I know how hard is was for you to discuss it.’ Naomi squeezed Karl’s hand reassuringly. ‘Don’t bring up the past, Karl. You know it’s not good for you.’
‘But the past is killing me, destroying the present. That’s why I need to lance it from my system, once and for all. I need to put myself back in the driving seat, instead of just being a hijacked passenger. Remember how I told you that Arnold left me for dead after stabbing me multiple times?’
Naomi shuddered. ‘Yes.’
‘What I never told you was that he…he…’ Karl’s voice trailed off. He inhaled a large gulp of air, and then very slowly exhaled. ‘He…raped me…’
Naomi looked stunned. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her eyes registered shock and horror. She tried to regain her composure, but failed.
‘Karl…oh my Karl…’ She wrapped her arms protectively around his neck and shoulders. Her eyes began to fill with tears. ‘My poor Karl…’
‘Don’t start with the crying. This is hard enough for me. And if you continue squeezing my neck, you’re going to break it,’ Karl said, hugging Naomi reassuringly before easing her grip on his neck.
Naomi wiped away her tears, but more followed. ‘Why… why didn’t you tell me this before? Didn’t you trust me?’
‘I’ve never told anyone; not even Lynne when I was married to her. Not my father. You’re the first.’
‘But why did you wait this long, keep it all bottled up inside of you?’
‘Perhaps it was just a macho thing; that men can’t be raped. The stigma of it, and the shame.’
‘Shame? But this…this had nothing to do with you. You were the victim, a child.’
‘I know that. That’s logic speaking, but
the reality is a different animal entirely. I’ve always felt ashamed about it, as if I somehow contributed to the rape. Even in the psychotherapy sessions I was given after my mother’s murder, I never once mentioned the rape. I was afraid of how the psychotherapist would react to me. I don’t want sympathy or pity, just understanding of the way I behave sometimes. Joking and laughing about things I shouldn’t. Of things I have done…’
‘Things? What things?’
He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. ‘Terrible things…’
Naomi reached over, tenderly clasping his head in both her hands.
‘Look at me, Karl. Look at me.’
Slowly, his eyes rested on hers. He wanted to dissolve away into them, wanted them to erase all the bad things. The nightmares. The perpetual darkness.
‘You, Karl Kane, are the best thing to ever happen to me. Full stop. You’re the kindest, the most loving, the most big-hearted man I know. Do you understand that? Do you understand how much I love–’
‘I killed two young girls…children…’
Naomi’s face turned to the colour of damp snow.
‘What…? What are you talking about, Karl? Why would you say something so horrible?’
‘Ann Mullin and Leona Fredrick. Both aged eight. Raped, then murdered.’
‘But…Arnold committed those horrible crimes, not you.’
‘I could’ve prevented him. That makes me equally guilty.’
‘No. That’s ridiculous. You can’t think that way.’
‘Is it? For years, I lived with nothing but revenge on my mind. Revenge, to kill Arnold for what he did to Mum, to me. Then, one Good Friday night, many years later, I had the opportunity. I’d been watching his habits and behaviours for over a year, following him all around Belfast. I knew that every second or third Friday he went to his favourite restaurant, Fiddler’s Green–’
‘Fiddler’s Green…? The beer mat?’
