by Sam Millar
Dorothy sat huddled on the mattress, head down deep in her chest, legs pulled up tight against her chin, eyes tightly closed. Porcelain, barely breathing, praying silently, asking a deaf god to forgive all her sins. She would never sin again if only he let her go home.
In contrast, Tara stood defiantly in the middle of the floor, legs akimbo, arms resting on her hips. She seemed to have made herself larger than her tiny frame actually was.
Scarman walked beyond her, over to the window. He slowly studied it, running a callused hand along the frame and bars, as if checking for dust. Or something else. He bent on one knee, and held that position for the longest time before standing and heading back towards the door.
‘Someone has been leaving this room, and going downstairs,’ he stated in a matter-of-fact voice, bland and flat as a mortuary slab. ‘I had a…visitor staying with me. Someone paid him a visit, yesterday, and made him unwelcome. Very unwelcome. I don’t tolerate rudeness, especially rudeness directed against my guests.’
It was the first time Dorothy had heard him speak. It made her skin feel as if stinging nettles had been inserted underneath. She prayed he didn’t notice her shuddering.
‘It cannot go unpunished,’ he continued in his stoic monotone, glancing from Dorothy to Tara and back. ‘Well, which of you is leaving the room? More importantly, how?’
Neither girl spoke. Nor moved.
‘Perhaps both of you? Very well, if that’s the case…’ He lifted Dorothy by the scruff of her neck, before grabbing her ankle and inverting her. ‘You’ll do for now, little Dorothy.’
‘Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!’ Dorothy flayed about, kicking out with her free leg.
Scarman held her at arm’s length, fumbling to insert a key into the ankle’s manacle. He was finding it difficult.
‘Leave her alone, you filthy bastard!’ shouted Tara, leaping at Scarman, her fingernails aimed at his smirking face.
With a backhand, Scarman sent her careering to the ground, like a fly being swatted.
‘I’ll come back for you, after I’ve enjoyed your little friend.’
‘Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!’ Dorothy continued kicking and screaming. ‘Don’t let him take me, Tara!’
‘Leave her alone. Take me. Take me…’ said Tara, rubbing the side of her bruised face. ‘It’s me you really want, anyway.’
‘I’ve already had you, little whore. I can take you any time I wish.’
‘No…no, you haven’t, not the real me. I fought you the last time. This time…this time I’ll not struggle. I’ll do things for you, things you can only imagine.’ Tara smiled. Angelic. Her eyes shone. ‘Little girl things…things you dream of…wet things…I’ll be your good little girl. No-one else can do it like me…you know that.’
Scarman stood as if in a daze. Dorothy stopped her struggling and watched his mutilated face. The sweet, melodic sound of Tara’s teasing tongue held him in its spell, hypnotising him. He couldn’t resist her Pied Piper voice. Gently, almost in slow motion, he lowered Dorothy back on to the mattress.
‘If you resist, I’ll come back and cut her throat.’
He walked over to unlock Tara’s manacle, and only then, too late, did he notice what she was hiding behind her back. The chain seamed itself against her thigh, its manacle free from her ankle, dangling. He looked at it in amazement. Then at Tara.
‘Fuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!’ Tara put every ounce of fury and hatred into swinging the leash, catching him under the chin, knocking him back against the far wall. She swung and hit him again, this time across the back of the head, and he crumpled onto his knees, dazed and confused.
Removing the razor from the waistband of her jeans, Tara aimed wildly at Scarman’s face, slicing off an ear and part of his cheek.
‘Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’ Scarman screamed, as Tara raced through the open door, along the landing and down the stairs, leaping them two and three at a time.
On the last flight of stairs, she lost her footing and tumbled, violently banging her head off the wooden banister. Momentarily dazed, she tried to stand, but her ankle felt wrong. Shit!
Battling the pain, she moved towards the front door. The three bolts were firmly in place. She pulled the bottom and middle bolts across from their niches, and then balanced on tippy-toes, stretching to reach the final bolt at the top. Her fingertips touched it; she was tantalisingly close, but it was no use.
‘C’mon! You can do it!’ she hissed through gritted teeth, attempting to stand on the bottom bolt. Despite her best try, she could not gain a proper grip. ‘Fuck! Think!’
Turning, she scampered down the hallway, half-running, half-limping, adrenalin dulling the pain in her ankle. She leapt over the soiled mattresses and other debris littering her pathway.
She stopped outside a room. Entered. Butler’s body was still there, pinned in the chair, stiff and unloved, eyes staring out at eternity. The body was in the early stages of bloating. It looked like a giant marshmallow melted at the fire. The sickening, cloying death-stench was everywhere, overpowering.
Tara retched. Removed the razor from her waistband, and began hacking through the leather straps holding the body. Suddenly, the body lurched forward, its dead weight released. A loud, suppressed belch emitted from the throat, directly into Tara’s face.
‘Disgusting dog,’ said Tara, kicking the body violently over, before grabbing the chair and running down the hallway.
A bloodied Scarman stood unsteadily, like a drunk overloaded with cheap booze. He brought his hand gingerly around the side of his head to where the ear had once been. Thick, meaty blood attached itself to his hand, as he tried to stem the flow. The hurting he was feeling was beyond pain, but he contained and controlled it, his eyes narrowing, focussing his hate.
He looked down at the floor. The ear nestled in a beard of blood, like a slice of bread in a bowl of tomato soup. It seemed to grin up at him.
‘Little bitch! I’ll fucking kill you!’ he screamed, staggering out the door and giving chase. He couldn’t see clearly, swaying from side to side as he ran down the stairs. On the second floor, he too lost his balance. But unlike Tara, he did not tumble to the relative safely of the bottom of the stairs. Instead, he went crashing through the wooden banisters, crash-landing his face, ribs and lower body.
‘Arggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg!’
The last thing he remembered was staring at a chair, toppled over in the hallway, and the front door wide open, allowing a gust of wind to enter and mock him.
Tara was gone and there was nothing he could do.
Chapter Forty
I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.
Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
Karl stood outside Francis’ house, in a reflective mood. The countryside silence was a balm to his soul, a welcome break from the constant mêlée of Belfast. All around, smells were targeting his nostrils: damp leaves and tree bark mingled with oil and diseased sacks of seed gone to rot; dried diesel smells from the leakage staining a tractor’s side, like a wounded beast.
He imagined he could see Francis, working on the tractor, wiping the sweat of hard work from his brow with a blue-and-white handkerchief, freshly starched by Nora.
For a second, the industrial countryside smells were replaced by home cooking and laughter. He saw Nora rapping on the window, beckoning for Francis to come in for dinner, only be sure to take off those muddy boots before daring to set foot inside.
Karl smiled at the memory. Many’s the time, he had been given the same command, before feasting at her table.
‘Good people…damn good people…’
He ambled around to the back of the house. Police tape fluttered in the wind like weather kites, marking out a rectangle of muck and weeds. The plastic yellow strands seemed to be reaching out to him, like Sirens whispering doom.
Police had determined that the burglar or burglars
had entered through the basement. Karl stood at the remains of the door, examining the shattered boards and wedging. A lot of trouble taken to enter a house.
Karl had acquainted himself over the years with burglars, for numerous reasons. One thing they all had in common was the easy approach. He remembered one old hand, Victor Harris, a master burglar, saying to him, if you need to break sweat to break in, then you’re doomed to failure – you will end up breaking everything, including your neck.
He stepped into the basement. Dank. Cemented with the stench of neglect. He hit a light switch. Nothing, the naked light bulb dangling from a wooden beam like a hangman’s noose. This was giving him the shits. He quickly moved on and through. Three badly constructed concrete steps ushered him into the heart of the house: the kitchen.
He saw himself sitting there at the table, happily chatting with Francis, never realising what cruelty fate had in store, just a few days later.
‘Fucking life…’ he muttered angrily, seething at the injustice of it all.
In the living room, the forensic cleaners had done a decent job, but he could clearly see the stain of Francis’ last grasp on this earth, engrained into the stinking carpet.
Karl peered around the gloomy room, beating himself up psychologically until he was punch-drunk with guilt, contemplating the what-ifs of life, the could-have, should-have, would-have-been scenarios of missed opportunities; he stood there until he was drained and chastened, and a modicum of redemption entered his battered spirit.
Darkness had fallen. Almost two hours had slipped by, unaccounted for. The strange coldness in the room enveloped him in a wary warning, auguring something he could not quite put his touch on.
He shuddered, and made haste to leave, going out the front door this time like a guest, instead of out the back like a thief in the night.
As he closed the front door, behind him, a sound, somewhere from the trees and out-of-control growth of bushes and wildness. Crows began cawing a warning. He stiffened. The sound was almost imperceptible to the human ear, unless that ear was trained to discern danger very quickly.
He craned his neck. Stared out into the gloom of night. He could see nothing, but he knew something was there, watching.
He glanced at Francis’ Massey Ferguson tractor, over to his far left. Tried to keep his breathing under control. Edged over to the venerable vehicle. Opened the side door, hoping Francis hadn’t let him down. Beneath the driving seat, one of the many shotguns scattered throughout his kingdom.
Karl let out all the pent-up breath. Eased the shotgun out from beneath the driver’s seat. Checked its metal stomach. Two shells. Two chances. No more. No less.
The shotgun was aged, with better days seen, but despite this, it made him feel good, its oily smell of self-assurance balancing the odds somewhat.
The bushes directly facing him moved slightly. A ripple made by a night breeze? He cocked the weapon. Dropped to the ground behind the tractor’s large wheel. Aimed, more in hope than expectation.
Waited.
The bushes suddenly parted. Someone came running at him from the overgrowth to his right.
‘Fuck! King, you bastard.’ Karl lowered the weapon as King approached, tail wagging enthusically. ‘Almost blew your damn tail off.’
Nerves gnawed his spine. He felt like puking. He needed to get home. Get a stiff drink before he ended up a stiff.
His mobile shattered the air. He answered it.
‘Naomi? What’s wrong?’
‘You’re not here, that’s what’s wrong.’ Her voice sounded on edge. ‘Where are you? You told me you’d be back shortly. That was hours ago.’
‘I’m sorry, love. Lost track of time. I’m finished here at Francis’. Heading to the car right now, as I speak. I’ll make it up to you when I get home. How about a nice meal out?’
‘I’d much rather have your nice arse in.’
‘Well, I have a special on at the minute for beautiful women. You can have both. A meal out, and my nice arse in.’
She laughed, but there was a nervous quiver of desperation to it.
‘Karl?’
‘Yes?’
‘Come home. Right now. Please. I…I don’t know, just some sort of bad feeling’s come over me. Like dread…’
‘Don’t be worrying. Nothing’s going to happen. I’ll be home soon.’
He blew kisses down the mobile, before disconnecting.
The whole time Karl was on the mobile, King hadn’t stopped barking.
‘Hungry, boy? Let’s go inside, see where Francis keeps your–’
But King was backing away, barking, its head tilting up and down.
‘What’s wrong, King?’
King turned, and walked back towards the forest, looking over towards Karl at the same time.
Reluctantly, Karl started following. ‘If this is to show me where you buried your last bone, King, I can tell you now you’ll be in the shit. Big time.’
As Karl moved further into the interwoven maze of hedges and thickets, he realised they were on some sort of unused road. A stream curled itself along the path, bad smell seeping upwards from it. Sewage or something equally unsavoury. Death in its aquatic sediment.
He quickened his pace, trying to keep up with King, all the while ducking and leaning to avoid the menacing thorns and branches. Rain was coming down now, making navigation more difficult.
As he came out into a clearance, a déjà vu dread attacked him. There. Staring at him. In defiance and arrogance. Cycles within cycles. Death born of death.
His mobile rang again. This time, Chambers.
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘The disc you gave me?’
‘Don’t tell me you clowns lost it?’
‘We pulled a few good stills from it, and used facial-recognition software on the person in the Reilly’s backyard. We’re almost one hundred percent certain it’s Walter Arnold.’
An invisible fist rammed itself against Karl’s kidneys. He felt dizzy with concern but also acceptance.
‘You still there, Kane?’
‘Yes…that’s brilliant. Well done to all involved. Now you have the target. Get the bastard.’
‘We will. We’re hoping to catch him off-guard.’
‘Where exactly would that be?’
‘I suppose I can tell you now without compromising security. Two Greenway Lane, over in the–’
‘North of the city…’
‘Oh, you’re familiar with that part of town? You know the place?’
‘I’m looking at it right now, standing a few feet away.’
‘What? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s where I used to live…’ Karl said, much too calmly.
‘Kane, don’t. Don’t go in there. For your own safety.’
‘Concerned about my safety? Very touching, Chambers.’
‘Don’t be doing this, Kane. I know how you must be feeling, what you want to do, but–’
‘I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Bad reception, up here in the hills.’
‘Kane! For Heaven’s sake, don’t be–’
Karl turned off the mobile completely. No more calls. No more voices. No more excuses.
He looked at King. The rain was easing now, and a waning half-moon cast a theatrical silver sheen over the old house.
‘Coming with me, boy?’
King refused to budge, as if sensing something unpleasant lurking in the building.
‘Not as stupid as I look, eh, boy?’ Karl said, patting King’s head before moving towards the door.
Chapter Forty-One
Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. ‘Pooh?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, Piglet?’
‘Nothing,’ said Piglet, taking Pooh’s hand.
‘I just wanted to be sure of you.’
AA Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
The front door was unlocked. Ajar. Karl pushed it open apprehensively with the barrel of the shotgun. There was nervousness i
n his movements. He felt hollowed out from tension, like he had scraped the bottom of his adrenal glands. He didn’t know if he had any more fight, or flight, in him. He peered in. The darkness within was diluted by tiny beads of moonlight, leaking in to expose an upturned chair in the hallway. The blood-soaked chair had dried out in whorls and dark knot patterns. It looked like a left-over from the Turner Prize.
Karl studied the chair with wary puzzlement in his eyes, as his peripheral took in everything else around him.
He stepped inside, as if approaching a landmine. Breathe, just keep breathing. The deadly silence was drilling into his ears, as if he was submerged in thick, viscous fluid. The shotgun moved to his left, then to his right, as if waiting for a hail of bullets to come storming out of the darkness.
I’ve been watching too many fucking movies – and bad ones at that…
Newspaper clippings and snapshots wallpapered every conceivable space. Some of the clippings told of Karl’s mother’s death; others of the murders of Ann Mullin and Leona Fredrick, and the subsequent trial of Walter Arnold.
Karl recognised himself in quite a few photographs. There were four or five of him entering and leaving the Reilly household. Karl’s mind flashed back to that day, to the man standing there with the camera. Shit. If only he had realised, back then.
The house was a coalition of feelings he thought he had long ago excised. Smells were flocking all around him, like feeding seagulls. He could smell damp and aged washing powder, and bleach spillage. It made him think of his mother filling the washing machine with dirty clothes, while he played out in the glorious sun. Her smile. Her voice filling the house. Roots here in his very bloodstream.
Other smells here also. Overwhelming and sinister. He could smell excrement, piss spillage glazed with rotten vegetables, unwashed bodies. But topping this menu of wretchedness was the unique perfume of death.
He didn’t want to think negatively, but Dorothy instantly, automatically, sprang to mind.
