by Sam Millar
‘A lep what?’
‘Lepidopterist. One who collects and studies butterflies.’
‘Why the fuck didn’t you say that, then? Oh, that’s right. You used to do that shit in school. That’s why you were always getting beat up, and I had to rescue you with my fists.’
Hicks glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time for you to go.’
‘Now, can you give my head peace and kindly get going? If I hear anything relevant, you’ll be the first I’ll contact,’ said Hicks, ushering Karl out towards the door. ‘Unfortunately, knowing you, you’ll probably discover something before I do.’
Tipping an imaginary hat before leaving, Karl replied, ‘Make no bones about that, my good friend.’
Once outside, Karl removed the mobile from his pocket and hit a number. After a few seconds, a soft voice answered.
‘Dad?’
‘How’s my favourite daughter doing?’
‘Great. Getting stronger each passing day. Oh, did I tell you, I’m thinking of taking driving lessons, then hopefully get a wee run-around?’
CHAPTER FIVE
FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
‘A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all.’
W.B. Yeats, Death
Where am I? wondered Harold Taylor, awakening from a drug-like stupor. A darkened room of sorts. The exact time was a mystery to him. He was stuck in a moment, trying desperately to piece together events. The room was funerary and cold. Walls covered in blood. Pieces of meat barbed with specks of dirty-white bones. Everything bizarre. Unreal.
From his peripheral, he could just about make out a cluster of people lurking nearby. They all seemed to be adorned in gowns, surgical gloves and masks. Each item of clothing looked heavily stained with blood. The sight terrified Harold.
Doctors?
They were whispering. Secretive hushes. They looked as if they were about to perform major surgery on some unfortunate being.
Is that it? Am I in hospital? Did I crash the Rover? What happened to the woman? Kerry…?
Harold tried speaking. Nothing came. Gums dry like cotton. Mouth taped.
Panicking, his tongue began pecking frantically at the tape, trying to get out.
Then the realisation suddenly hit home: he was inverted, naked, dangling from the ankles, hands tied securely behind his back.
As the seconds passed, something dark and sinister began swelling in him. The burden of the closed space created fear. It touched everything and set his mind alight.
Can’t breathe…
His heart started pumping madly, as if he’d just sprinted up flights of stairs trying to escape pursuers. Panicking, he began mumbling incoherently, shaking his head and body wildly at the cluster of people, hoping to get attention.
A man’s head turned, his eyes looking directly at Harold’s. He whispered something to the group before walking slowly forward.
Harold’s eyes went straight to the man’s hand. The hand housed a large knife, its half-moon-shaped blade glistening in the godless gloom of the filthy room.
Fuck!
More blood began rushing to Harold’s head, adding pressure to his stressed brain. He could feel blood spouting from his nose, leaking slowly down his eyes. It stung like acid, blurring his vision.
I can’t breatheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Oh god, help me!
The man now stood beside Harold, pushing down on a red control button stationed on a steel table to his right. A chain began rattling. Gradually, Harold felt his body moving, snaking upwards like an Indian rope trick. A few seconds later, all movement stopped.
He was now level with the man’s masked face, but still inverted.
The man slowly reached and touched Harold’s face tenderly with the blade. The touch was gentle. A lover’s caress. It made Harold’s spine tighten in a very bad way.
‘Tick…tock, Harold. See the wall clock?’ The masked man was pointing at an old clock on the far wall, his muffled voice barely audible but quite sinister in its sound.
Without warning, the man began slowly swinging Harold’s naked body back and forth, like a meaty pendulum hoping to balance time and sanity.
‘Do you hear it, Harold? That old clock, ticking away into eternity? Listen to its calling. Tick…tock…tick….tock.’
Harold shivered. Vomit began bubbling in his stomach. With all the strength left in him, he forced it down, fearful of choking on it.
‘Surely you remember all that ticking? You sneaking craftily up the hallway, in the silence of your murdering heart? Was that the only sound you heard, Harold? No soft sleeping slumber of children? No voice of conscience? No pity for their cries in the darkness?’
Those dreadful, accusing words began conjuring images in Harold’s mind – freighted images he would much rather forget. His already stressed bowel abruptly opened. He shit himself, all hot and volcanic, down his bare spine.
A brilliant, white-hot light began filling Harold’s head, obliterating vision and all random thoughts. He was sliding towards that hypnological state where the mind and body wrestle to determine reality from dream. Despite this, he understood immediately what it meant. He hadn’t until that moment, but the revelation was firmly here and demanded his full attention: Death in all its grisly glory.
To Harold, death had always been real, yet utterly unknowable, just something to be anxiously expecting at all times. But now he knew it had arrived at his door, and there was nothing he could do but wait for it to knock.
The man with the knife began smiling.
‘Time to tell us everything, Harold, and depending on how much you want to suffer, I advise the truth…’
CHAPTER SIX
THE ODD COUPLE
‘Owl hasn’t exactly got Brain, but he Knows Things.’
A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
Karl entered the dusty hallway in Lower Donegall Street and began pressing the buzzer centred in a ‘Do Not Press’ niche. Junk mail and soggy magazines carpeted the floor of the building that housed mainly small businesses and a couple of artsy tenants. Stale stench of urine was everywhere, alongside the cloying smell of something indescribably sweet and sickening.
Twenty seconds passed. No response. The buzzer appeared to be banjaxed.
Just as he was about to press it again, Karl heard a metallic voice emitting from the intercom. ‘What’s the password?’
‘Come on, Richard. I don’t have time for this crap.’ Karl glared into the tiny peephole camera. ‘Open up. I need to talk to you.’
‘What’s the password?’
‘I told you before, I can’t pronounce that bastard’s name. Now, will you open the hell up and stop fucking about?’
‘Learn it, or the next time you don’t get in.’ The door screamed loudly, before squeaking slowly open. ‘Hurry into the time capsule. You’ve five seconds before it shuts.’
Karl mumbled something nasty before entering.
Four flights of narrow stairs later, he knocked at a door plastered with super hero stickers. A large, bloodstained smiley smiled out at him, encapsulating Rorschach, the mask-wearing vigilante from Watchmen. I’m Watching You, it proclaimed, in bold black letters.
An eye looked out from the ‘o’ in You.
‘Yes?’ asked a voice behind the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Open up, Richard, and stop being such a dick.’
The door opened. Behind it stood a man with face furniture consisting of cheap sunglasses, anarchist earrings, studded eyebrows and a greasy barcode moustache. His hair was brown and shoulder-length, draping a puffy face with eyes the colour of wet concrete. A saggy, lit joint dangled from his mouth, releasing a sweet pungent aroma. He wore an unwashed T-shirt with the legend: Don’t hit kids – they have guns now, and a pair of ragged Diesel jeans exposing more underwear than denim.
‘I keep telling you the password is Mister Mxyzptlk. He’s Superman’s nemesis,’ said Richard. ‘I should get you to say his name backwards, just like Superman does to get him to
disappear.’
‘We can deal with Superman’s angst later,’ said Karl, pushing into the room. ‘Right now, I’m the one in need of help.’
Richard Rider was in his forties going on sixteen, a child of the Sixties lost in the years of zeroes. His tiny flat was filled to capacity with superhero memorabilia, including statues, busts and endless rows of American comic books packed neatly into exposed wooden drawers. Posters of numerous mutants and flying beings covered the ceiling like some eerie, claustrophobic skin. A framed picture of Richard smiling alongside legendary Marvel creator, Stan Lee, took pride of place on a desk with multiple computer screens buzzing with artificial life.
‘Want some Coke?’ offered Richard.
‘That’s always a dodgy question, coming from you. Any coffee?’
‘No. Don’t you know caffeine’s a killer? I’ve some weed, if you want to try that?’
‘I’m dopey enough, thanks.’
‘You being a writer would find it relaxing. Opens up your mind.’
‘Opens up your mind, but closes down your brain cells.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Richard, sitting down in front of the army of computer screens. ‘How’s the writing coming along, anyway?’
‘It ain’t.’
After some more perfunctory chit chat, Karl finally got down to brass tacks.
‘What I really need is some info, Richard. I’m hoping you captured it on one of your spy cameras.’
‘Self-containment cameras,’ corrected Richard. ‘If you must know, Karl, I’m compiling an electronic account of life in Belfast, for future generations to enjoy. A bit like Samuel Pepys’ diary.’
‘More like Peeping Tom’s, you mean.’
‘WWW?’
‘What?’
‘The information you’re looking for. Who, when, where?’
‘Oh…me, last Tuesday, outside my place in Hill Street.’ Karl sat down on chair beside Richard, but only after removing a nude Homer Simpson doll. ‘Roughly seven in the morning.’
‘What happened to your cousin, the cop? Didn’t he used to supply you with this stuff?’
‘He’s not my cousin. Ex brother-in-law. It’s a long story, so don’t bother asking. Besides, no matter what they say about the long arm of the law, your reach is longer. You’re a legend.’
‘Flatterer.’ Richard smiled proudly, broadcasting disjointed teeth enmeshed in silver wire. He began tapping the keyboard.
‘Hill Street? Hmm. Let’s see what we can come up with…’
The screen blackened, and then turned grey. A monochrome picture of falling snow emerged. The picture looked grey and very hazy.
‘Is that the best you can get?’ asked Karl, not too impressed. ‘Snowy static?’
‘That’s real snow, not static. I’m trying to zoom in without losing perspective or pixel count. What time did you say?’
‘Roughly after seven in the morning, or thereabouts. The newspapers and milk had already been delivered a few minutes before seven, according to the shop owner, so it was shortly after that I went out to collect them.’
Richard hit the keyboard. The picture slowly became clearer.
‘That’s it. That’s Hill Street,’ said Karl. ‘I’d recognise those filthy bins anywhere.’
‘Well, let’s see what we can come up with…’ with his cursor, Richard clicked on a button on the screen.
‘There! That’s me!’ exclaimed Karl, like a kid seeing an early-morning Santa.
‘Zooming in,’ said Richard, enlarging the picture. ‘Nice robe you’re wearing.’
Karl began watching himself bending for the newspaper and milk. A few seconds later, he saw himself stand, before going back on one knee.
‘What’s that you’re staring at?’ asked Richard, taking a deep suck from the joint.
‘A hand.’
Richard laughed. ‘No, really?’
‘Really? A really real severed hand. Even you must have heard about the nut running about chopping off hands, all over Belfast.’
‘No. Can’t say I have.’ Richard looked dazed, as if trying desperately to remember. ‘That’s so fucking cool! A severed hand, and you found it?’
‘Yes. I’m a lucky sort of bastard when it comes to finding hands other than my own, so stop wetting yourself with admiration.’
‘Zombies. Could be something to do with zombies,’ said Richard matter-of-factly, blowing smoke down his nostrils like an ageing dragon.
‘Stop blowing that shit in my direction, otherwise I’ll go out of here higher than the debt those banker bastards have us in.’
Richard turned his attention back to the screen. ‘Hey, are you kicking at that wee cat? That’s cruel, man. There’s no need for such aggression towards a defenceless creature.’
‘It was a spur of the moment thing. Couldn’t be helped, and I regret doing it. Feel better now?’
‘A bit.’
‘Besides, it’ll live. It’s got nine bloody lives and an extra finger.’
‘Huh?’
‘Nothing. Let’s just stay focused.’
Next came the scene of Karl slipping and falling on his arse, and the two passing schoolgirls giggling.
‘Whoa! That’s got to hurt, man!’ exclaimed Richard gleefully. ‘Right on the old tailbone. And then exposing all your hardware to two little kids. Bit pervy, if you ask me.’ Richard played the scene again, freezing the frame exactly when Karl crash-landed. ‘Man, that’s a pisser.’ He replayed it two more times.
‘Give it a rest, for fuck sake. Can you backtrack? I need to see if we can catch the culprit, or culprits, leaving the hand.’
‘Shit, man, that’s cool. I never thought of that.’
‘That’s why I’m the private investigator and you believe in UFOs.’
Richard hit the keyboard again. The snowy scene went retro and slow mo. Nothing. Just falling snow.
‘Can’t it go any faster? This computer is slower than one of my client’s cheques in the mail,’ grumbled Karl.
‘There’s a reason for it going slowwwwwwwww. It’s called slowwwwwwwww motionnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.’
Then it happened.
‘Stop!’ shouted Karl, making Richard jump. ‘I think I saw a blur of a car.’
Richard quickly hit a key. It was a patrol car, stationed at the top of Hill Street. Then, at the other end of the street, another car began entering before slowing to a halt a few feet away from Karl’s office. Ten seconds it lurked there, before a door opened, then quickly shut.
Karl’s heart moved up a beat.
‘Freeze that, and zoom in,’ commanded Karl. ‘I thought I saw someone throwing something out of the car.’
Richard zoomed in. The picture was blurred by snow. ‘Hard to say, man. Looks like something. Could be that hand. Perhaps not.’
‘Can’t you get it any clearer?’
‘No. That’s it to the hilt.’
‘What about the car? Plate number or make?’
Richard tried a few more buttons on the screen, but the picture only became more blurred.
‘The car looks like a Mercedes, but can’t be sure. Forget the plate number. Too blurred. Sorry, man. If this were next week, it would be clearer pictures. I’m getting some great HD shit sent from the States.’
‘HD?’
‘High Definition. Top of the range shit. From that day onward, I’ll be able to see the pores in their skin, instead of this grainy shit. It even comes with crystal clear audio.’
‘Would you be able to run this tape through your HD when it arrives, get it clearer?’
‘No. Incompatible. Sorry, man.’
‘No need to be sorry. You did great, pal. I suspect whoever was driving that car spotted the cops, panicked, and then discarded their unwanted cargo. At least now I can relax. It was random, rather than being deliberately dumped at my doorstep.’
‘You…you’re not going to tell the cops about this. Are you?’ Richard suddenly looked jumpy. ‘I could get into all sorts of crap with these c
ameras.’
‘Don’t worry. The cops don’t even know you exist. The less they know, the better.’ Karl slipped Richard a twenty.
‘You don’t need to pay me. I’m more than willing to do this after you got me a good deal on this place.’
‘Stop thanking me. I only did it because you were becoming an eyesore, sleeping in my doorway, scaring away potential clients.’
‘You’re not the hard man you let on to be.’
‘Hard? Me? The only things hard about me are my socks and underwear.’
‘Hey, man, now that I have you here. I’m doing a showing of Star Wars, back to back, tonight, with a few mates. You’re more than welcome to join us. I’ll even supply you with a lightsabre.’
‘Er, thanks for the offer, Richard, but I’ve a poker game tonight. Some other time, perhaps?’
Richard looked crestfallen.
‘Okay, man. Some other time…’
Karl made his way to the door and opened it.
‘One word of warning, though.’
‘What?’
‘I find out you put my naked arse on the Internet, I’ll come back and kill you with one of those ninja swords on the wall.’
Richard’s mouth gaped open like a frog’s.
Karl smiled wickedly before exiting.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NAKED CITY
‘We’re all of us sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life!’
Tennessee Williams, Orpheus Descending
Snow was dropping like dead feathers from the heavy night sky as Karl waited for the traffic lights to change. Overhead, telephone wires tensed tightly and deadly, like garrottes waiting for an unsuspecting victim’s neck. He glanced from the telephone wires to the luminous face of the impressive Albert Clock, standing in the night’s darkness like a sentinel. The hands of the colossal clock were touching the dangerous side of three in the morning.
‘Shit. Is that the fucking time?’ He glanced at his watch. Worst fear confirmed. Ten minutes after three. He’d be in for it from Naomi, having said he’d be home by one. But lady luck had steadfastly refused to leave his side at the poker game, and his endurance was rewarded with a tidy pile of winnings. He’d let Naomi ice-cube him for a day, then, when her anger had defrosted, give her lots of something nice, made of paper with the word fifty written all over them. She liked nice things like that.
