Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller

by Ray Kingfisher

  Kristoff held out a hand. Patrick shook it and they left in separate directions, Patrick away from the blast and further down the alleyway. He came out onto a wider pedestrian area, where the ground was littered with random shapes – some regular, like beam sections, rods and right angles – but mostly blobs and clumps. However, everything – absolutely everything – was now shrouded in dirty white powder. It could almost have been a Christmas grotto scene.

  At first Patrick needed to step carefully over the debris, and after a few coughs held his handkerchief back to his mouth. He stumbled a few times and recovered, then fell as he lost his footing on a thick angled object, clasping it as he held his hand out to protect himself. He lifted the object. His stumble had shaken most of the dust from it and he could see at the thinner end of it was a shoe. At the thicker end the dust had turned crimson, with straggles and shreds falling from it. He brushed the dust from the angle in the midsection of the object and the knee joint silently opened out, straightening the leg. For a second Patrick winced, then he dropped the limb, causing a puff of dust to explode beneath it. He snorted a laugh and walked away.

  Soon, as he got further away from the hotel, the debris became sparser, and he was able to break into a jog. He turned a corner and ran for another thirty seconds. Then he came across a momentary scene of organisation amongst the chaos. A woman was guiding people in the direction Patrick had just come from.

  He slowed and tried to casually walk past her.

  She grabbed him and shouted, pointing in the opposite direction.

  It was a policewoman. As she stood to one side of him, shouting again and ushering him back, Patrick looked around. She was a lone policewoman – and she looked six or seven inches and at least a hundred pounds his inferior.

  He pushed. She resisted. A baton was whipped out and Patrick felt its hardness twisting around his arm, trying to lock his elbow. A tight kick flicked to the woman’s legs and she lost her grip on the baton. It drummed a dull tune as it hit the concrete. She grabbed his arm and at the same time reached for her two-way radio.

  Patrick immediately knew that was a fatal move.

  There was a short-lived grapple before he pulled her hand, drawing it onto his shoulder. He paused as he sensed the faintest whiff of her perfume – presumably a remnant of last night’s entertainment – then brought his free hand with full force into the back of her elbow joint. She screamed as it cracked like damp firewood, then fell to the ground.

  Patrick drew his knee up to his hip, then dropped his size twelve boot down onto the woman’s throat, giving his pelvis a sharp twist to force his bodyweight into the blow. She was immediately still and silent, but he repeated the action twice. Each strike produced the same sound – a combination of vertebrae popping and skull recoiling onto concrete.

  *

  At that moment Patrick’s alarm went off.

  He sat bolt upright in bed, chest heaving, sweat not just gathering on his forehead but also trickling down in rivulets past his temples and along the sides of his nose.

  “Jesus Christ! Jesus fucking Christ!”

  He turned his alarm off and flopped back down, causing the bed to creak a complaint. The sweat-soaked sheets underneath him had started to cool and he shivered.

  Was this what insanity felt like?

  And how many more times before he could take no more and ended his dreams – ended everything – for good?

  These dreams had been happening for almost three months now. Each time he knew at the start that something wasn’t right, that he belonged but didn’t want to. But that feeling subsided within minutes, and each time he succumbed, relishing the freedom the dream bestowed upon him, settling into his role like a method actor.

  It was only with the ending of each nightmare that the self-loathing began; each time he hated himself that little bit more, and hoped and prayed for it to be the last nightmare.

  Dreams had been coming to him as long as he could remember, just not disturbing, nasty ones like of late.

  But everyone had bad dreams, didn’t they? So why didn’t they talk about them? Maybe it was one of those things that people – other people – seemed to play down. Was this normal? Did most people get these kind of dreams and either ignore them or forget them? Did they care?

  Patrick turned to the poster of Marlon Brando on the wall. In years gone, whenever he’d found himself with a dilemma, he’d asked Marlon what he would have done under the circumstances.

  But this was getting too serious for celebrity advice.

  Patrick got up, doused his face in cold water, and went to make a coffee strong enough to give a grizzly bear a hit.

  3

  “That’s horrible,” Maggie Dolan said, as the man across the table from her in the Lake’s End coffee shop took a long pause for breath.

  “I know,” he said with a croak.

  “But he just dreamed it, yeah, like a movie?”

  The man cast a glance around the coffee shop. It was neither one thing nor another. It had coordinated drapes and tablecloths, but then again a few old cloth armchairs lurked in the low-lit corners.

  “Just like a movie,” he said. “At least, that’s what Patrick thought at the time.”

  “So what was it?” Maggie said.

  The man struggled to find words. Eventually he said, “How long have you worked here?”

  “Too long, but it pays the bills.”

  “Do you own it?”

  Maggie sneered, and half of her mouth twitched upwards. “I manage it. Big difference.”

  The man nodded and took another glance around the shop. “You’ve got the place looking nice.”

  “Yeah. And so?”

  “What?”

  “What did it turn out to be? What were this man’s dreams?”

  “There’s more to listen to before we get to that. It’s a long story.”

  “Can it wait until tomorrow?” Maggie said. “I have some clearing up to do before I can go home.”

  “No,” the man replied, his face shaking a little. “No, it can’t. It’s important I tell you now.”

  Maggie checked her watch. “Okay, let’s see.”

  “You want me to carry on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” The man rubbed a dirty hand around the back of his neck, then started talking again.

  4

  By the next Monday morning Patrick had recovered as much as anyone could have done.

  And there was something else to take his mind off his troubles. He’d worked pretty much as a lone programmer at OrSum Games for as long as he could remember, but now things were changing. He was going to start working within a team, and for a new – and by all accounts formidable – Department Head called Beth Caine.

  In the time he’d worked for OrSum he’d been content to keep a low profile, to stay a junior programmer and concentrate most of his efforts on his extra-curricular activities. He joked to the guys he met down at the bar that his hobbies were picking up girls, watching English soccer on TV, picking up girls, occasionally playing guitar for a local band, and picking up girls. At least, the guys down at the bar took it as a joke.

  And so at work he did his job, asked no questions, took no active part in idle gossip, but just listened, and got to know Beth by reputation alone.

  Now that was all changing. He spent half an hour talking to his new workstation neighbour, Paulo, a sedate middle-aged man with thick black-framed glasses and a hairline that, in his own words, had receded “all the way back to Cleveland, Ohio”. Then he was called in to talk to Beth.

  There was a nervousness, even some trepidation, when you met someone with a reputation for the first time. That was only normal, wasn’t it?

  Before Patrick left his seat Paulo whispered to him: “Keep your hands on your balls, buddy.”

  It didn’t exactly help.

  And as he took the lonely walk to Beth’s office he considered the legend that was to be his new Department Head.

  Beth
Caine had experienced a rise through the ranks of OrSum Games that defied belief.

  Until you met her.

  An unshakeable self-confidence combined with the ability to talk faster than most people could listen was only the start. She managed to get into the office – complete with make-up and immaculately pressed trouser suit – by seven most mornings, and was infamous for expecting her minions to do the same – make-up optional. But Patrick had always thought there was something about the legend that didn’t quite fit. This was a games development company after all – full of geeky adolescent types who took time out from programming by relaxing in a play area which came fully equipped with beta versions of their latest products. Although she had worked her way up from junior programmer to group then department manager before the age of thirty, she was brazen about her contempt for the ‘boys who never grew up’. The word was, her popularity was exactly down to that – in a sea of geeks she was the sexy face of gaming. And she relished the role. She was also well known for never saying no when asked to carry out any task that would help her career – and never saying yes when it wouldn’t.

  As it turned out Patrick was pleasantly surprised. This was what they called the familiarisation session, where they got a chance to ask whatever questions they wanted about each other.

  Beth in the flesh was more relaxed than he’d been led to believe, but still very assured, very professional – perhaps helped by the fact that even in relatively low block-heel shoes she almost came up to Patrick’s height. She was good looking – if you went for the stern type – with a petite nose and expressionless eyes resting between a curtain of straight blonde centre-parted hair cascading towards her grey jacket and cream blouse. She also gave off a pleasing – but not particularly sexually alluring – perfume.

  Patrick made a point of saying very little. Although he had questions to ask he thought better of it, and the meeting was very short.

  “So, you had your meet and greet?” Paulo asked when he returned to his desk.

  “For what it was worth,” Patrick said.

  “And you still got your balls?”

  Patrick dropped a hand to his crotch. “I think so.”

  “So what did you find out about the mighty B?”

  “Nothing.”

  Paulo paused, his face cricked with a puzzled expression. “Nothing?”

  “She asked what I wanted to know, I hesitated, then we… she finished the meeting.”

  “You didn’t want to ask her anything?”

  “Only why we were working together,” Patrick said. “The question could have come out wrong – like ‘Why the hell are we working together?’, so I thought it better not to ask.”

  Paulo gave an upside-down grin. “A wise decision. She didn’t ask anything about you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not even how long you’ve worked at OrSum?”

  Patrick shrugged. “I guess all that boring stuff’s in the records.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Paulo tapped away at his keyboard for a few minutes, then stopped and looked across to Patrick. “So how long have you worked here?”

  Patrick fixed his focus into the distance, to the banks of pig pens separating programmers away from each other. “About six months.”

  “Where’d you work before OrSum?”

  “Oh… Somewhere in England.”

  “London?”

  Couldn’t he get the answer on a loop?

  “There are other places in England.”

  Paulo pulled a mock sneer. “Okay, pissy-pants.”

  Fifteen minutes later Patrick’s fingers slowed on the keyboard and his head started to dip and bob. Perhaps it was the tedious nature of the job or the air conditioning.

  Perhaps it was the recent dreams disturbing his sleep.

  Whenever the nightmares invaded his troubled mind, he felt dog-tired for a couple of days afterwards, his muscles – even his bones – aching like those of an old man. It was as if he’d been running the gauntlet of an army assault course rather than sleeping.

  He shook his head awake and took a sharp breath; for a number of reasons he definitely didn’t dare fall asleep. A few minutes later he had to do the same again, and told himself if he didn’t liven up he’d have to visit the washroom and splash cold water on his face.

  He didn’t get the chance. The next time his eyelids drooped he succumbed to his body’s urges and went straight into a dream.

  But this time the dream he had was the comforting one.

  The warm flames seemed to envelop his small body, and he heard the crackles like jumping jacks thrown into an open fire. This dream wasn’t pin-sharp like the others – the bad ones – but hazy and warm like a dream should be. Perhaps that was why he found it so comforting. He would have happily stayed in this dream forever.

  He jerked awake, smashing his hand onto the keyboard in front of him.

  Paulo looked around the office and leaned across. “You okay, buddy?”

  “Sorry,” Patrick said. “Bad night.”

  “And it’s not the most exciting job in the world,” Paulo said. “That doesn’t help, does it?”

  Patrick shook his head.

  “Coffee?” Paulo said.

  “I don’t know why I told you that,” Patrick said after he’d taken his first sip from the paper cup.

  Paulo carefully reached into the vending machine to take his drink. “Told me what?”

  “That I worked in England until six months ago.”

  “Don’t worry, buddy. It’s not an exam.”

  “No, but I’m not myself; I had a few problems over the weekend.”

  Paulo stood closer. “Yeah?”

  “I…”

  And although Patrick knew what he wanted to say, the words became locked in his throat again. After all, how could you start to explain to a work colleague – someone you didn’t know until a few hours ago – that you were starting to lose your mind?

  Paulo motioned to the easy chairs next to the coffee machine and they sat.

  “Hey, I’ve seen it all,” Paulo said. “And I’ve taken more rookies under my wing that I care to count. So don’t worry.” He looked around again, in that expectant way of his. “You know, I was one of the originals here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.” Paulo nodded. “I was taken on here when they started the whole shebang up – as the most junior of junior programmers – and twenty-one breathtaking years and a grand total of two promotions later I now hold the pivotal role of senior programmer.” He injected a large dose of grouchiness into his voice. “To tell you the truth, I feel like a freakin’ grandad sometimes. But I’m sure I’ll be here till I am – and then some.”

  “You must be doing something right,” Patrick said.

  “Oh, I’m sure by the law of averages that’s true. The point is this: I’ve seen so many people come in here, burn themselves out, and get spat out by this corporation. I just keep doing my job, and – joking aside – I think I do it pretty damn well. The skill is keeping sane, looking after yourself. And that means taking regular breaks and getting enough sleep.”

  If only, Patrick thought. If only he possessed that ‘skill’.

  Paulo glanced both ways down the corridor, leaned in to Patrick and lowered his voice. “The survival strategy in this place is not to get taken in by the sons of bitches in those offices. And definitely don’t put your soul up for sale, or it’ll get snapped up for a darn sight less than what it’s worth.”

  Patrick nodded. “Thanks for the advice. Perhaps I’m just a bit stressed out.”

  “If I’m honest, Patrick – and please don’t take offence at this because it might just be the way your face naturally hangs – you look it.”

  “That bad, eh?”

  For a few minutes they looked around and sipped coffee, and looked around a little more.

  “So, how long have you really been in the land of the free?”

  “Sorry,” Patrick said. “I was saying, wasn’t I? I c
ame over with my kid brother, Declan, about two or three years ago. I got a scholarship, paid for by the company, then started working here about six months ago.”

  “You like Chicago?”

  Patrick thought for a moment, then nodded. “Took a bit of getting used to, but I like it.”

  “The Windy City,” Paulo said, giving a theatrical turn to each syllable.

  “Mmm… Not that windy.”

  Paulo held a finger up. “But freakin’ freezin’ when it blows cold off the lake.”

  “Yes,” Patrick said. “But it’s the pedways that got me when I first moved here.”

  “The pedways,” Paulo said. “Huh! I had to figure out what the hell they were when I moved here too. Why they can’t just call them subways or walkways like everyone else in America I just do not know.”

  Then there was another lull in the conversation as they both sipped some more.

  Then Paulo spoke.

  “So, you got any regrets about coming over here?”

  Patrick thought for a moment then shook his head. “OrSum have been good to me. Wage is nothing to get excited about, but with accommodation and health care all thrown in, I’m okay.”

  “You get free accommodation?”

  “Is that unusual? There’s three or four of us in the same apartment block – all from abroad.”

  Paulo screwed his face up. “You think it’s something to do with you being a Brit?”

  “Just what they offered,” Patrick said with a shrug. “And I accepted.”

  “Good for you,” Paulo said. “And you said you had a brother. Does he work at OrSum too?”

  “Declan? God, no.”

  “Not the geeky type, huh?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure what he does for a living.”

  “He’s still in the US, though?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Somewhere.” Patrick hesitated, staring down into his paper cup before continuing. “I should know, really, shouldn’t I? I try to look out for him. I’ll ring him tonight and catch up.”