by Sam Millar
Dear Mister Kane,
Please find enclosed letter from one of our clients, now deceased. Should you need any more information, please do not hesitate to contact me.
Yours sincerely,
Thomas P. McGuigan
Karl’s intuition began kicking in. Deceased? He didn’t like the sound of that particular deadly word.
As if handling a booby-trap bomb, he began gingerly removing the contents from the other envelope. One typed page. Small key taped securely to it.
Well, Kane? Bet this comes as a bit of a shock to you?
Karl quickly ran his eyes to the bottom of the page, hoping to determine the sender. The name screamed at him: Edward Phillips.
‘Shit…’
If you’re reading this, Kane, then I guess I didn’t manage to die of old age in my bed, and have probably ended up a victim of a mysterious or violent death. If so, I’ve given instructions to Tom (McGuigan, my solicitor) to ensure this letter arrives safely in your capable, if somewhat dodgy, hands.
Remember that day we bumped into each other outside headquarters, all those eons ago? My pension had been withdrawn by that fuck of a brother-in-law of yours, and I was on my way to confront him? I was slightly intoxicated. Remember?
Karl remembered. Too well…
Karl had just emerged from Police Headquarters when he bumped into Phillips. Phillips had recently been drummed out of the force, with loss of pension and benefits. Rumour said it was something to do with shaking down drug dealers.
Upon seeing Karl, the ex-detective had engaged him in conversation, the effect of booze obvious in the way he slurred some of the words. The short version of his story was that he was heading in to see his old boss, Wilson, and was going to make him reinstate what was owed to him.
‘Good luck with that,’ Karl had said.
‘Luck’s got nothing to do with it when you’ve got good, solid insurance and just the right amount of secrets.’ Phillips had seemed very confident.
‘Secrets? What kind of secrets?’
‘As juicy as a box of oranges, or should I say, figs from King David’s garden.’ Phillips had winked knowingly.
‘King David?’
Karl remembered Phillips leaning in confidentially before he said, ‘Listen, Kane, I’ve always liked you, despite the fact that you probably shot two of my old workmates, who, likely as not, had it coming to them.’
‘That booze is making you talk shit, Phillips,’ Karl recalled saying. ‘I had nothing to do with Cairns or Bulldog being killed.’
Phillips had shrugged. ‘I’m only saying I always liked you, and just to prove it, if some unfortunate accident should befall me, I’ll make sure my solicitor sends you a little something in the mail.’
With that, Phillips had headed towards the door of HQ. ‘Be seeing you, Kane.’
What the hell was all that about?, Karl had wondered at the time.
Maybe now he was going to find out.
‘You were wrong on that account, Phillips. You never did see me again.’ With difficulty, Karl sipped the coffee before continuing with the letter.
A numbered key should be enclosed with this letter. It opens a private postal box in the train station at Great Victoria Street. Open it. Once you do, you’ll find a nice wee surprise from me. A sort of going away gift, we’ll call it. There will also be another letter. Read it and weep, Kane. Discover the truth about your so-called moralistic brother-in-law. Remember what I said about the King David Syndrome?
See you about, Kane. Some place…
Edward Phillips
A scraggly signature was scrawled over the typed ‘Edward Phillips’.
And there was a PS: Oh, I suppose there’s a possibility that this communication has fallen into the wrong hands. If so, I guess it’s not you reading it. Probably, just like me, you’re dead also.
The coffee no longer tasted honest in Karl’s mouth. He sat the cup back down on the table.
‘Karl?’
‘Naomi! What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?’
‘I’m not sneaking anywhere.’ Naomi was leaning against the bathroom door, her arms folded, a frown on her face. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost.’
Or felt one pissing on my grave. ‘It’s this awful coffee. Where the hell did you get it? Miser Mick’s? It’s bouncing.’ Karl desperately began balling Phillips’ letter.
‘What’s that in your hand?’ asked Naomi, ignoring the sarcasm in Karl’s voice.
‘What?’
‘That.’ Naomi pointed at the offending hand. Bits of the letter spiked out between Karl’s fingers.
‘Oh! That? Would you believe, another rejection letter? Those heartless publishers show no mercy, always kicking a man when he’s down. That’s the third this week. They’re relentless and ruthless.’
‘Oh, Karl. I didn’t know.’ Naomi walked over and began comfort-hugging him. ‘Try not to let them bother you too much. I’m sure even Shakespeare got rejection letters.’
‘Please don’t compare me to that old plagiarising bastard. He stole more notes than the Northern Bank robbers. At least they had the decency to wear masks.’
‘Don’t let those silly publishers get you down,’ said Naomi, planting a kiss on his cheek. ‘You’ll prove them wrong, one day. Promise me you won’t let them get to you.’
‘I’ll try, my wee love, but it’s not easy being me.’ He stood and returned the kiss, while stuffing the letter hastily inside the pocket of the bathrobe.
‘Go for your shower, Karl. I’ll have something else for you to slip into, once you get back, and it’ll be a hell of a lot warmer than my bathrobe.’ Naomi grinned, giving him a playful slap on the arse.
‘Such a tease.’ Karl moved quickly for the shower, grasping the key so tightly it began cutting his skin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE STRANGER
‘And there shall be no night there;
And they need no candle,
Neither light of the sun;
For the Lord God giveth them light:
And they shall reign forever and ever.’
Revelation 22:5
Sarah Cohen stood silently at the grave of her three children, staring at the simple inscription on the tombstone: Benjamin, Nora and Judith.
Always with you.
And the spirit shall return unto God, who gave it.
Fat snowflakes were falling heavily on Sarah’s uncovered hair and long black coat. She appeared immune to them, as if stuck in a moment, or in an unexplained mystery. Snow and ice encrusted her eyelashes, preventing any more tears. Her lips were quickly becoming chapped from the bitter cold.
Although early in the afternoon, the relentless snow was already creating a dull darkness over the area. The graveyard was quickly emptying, with the exception of an elderly woman two rows down, and a tall, well-made man directly across from her. Both seemed deep in meditation.
Sarah lifted her head slightly, before glancing over at the man and woman, wondering if they also were weighted down with inconsolable sorrow?
The elderly woman – now finished – began trudging through mounds of swampy snow, making her way towards a parked car a small distance away.
Less than a minute later, she started the car and began guiding it slowly out towards the main entrance gate. Just as she was about to ease through the gates, the engine began spluttering, forcing the car to stall.
Sarah could clearly hear the ignition being sparked up, the ageing engine spluttering and wheezing. She hoped the woman wasn’t going to be stranded in the snow.
The snowfall was becoming noticeably heavier, with the winter wind increasing its fierceness. Sarah moved to go.
‘There’s always some comfort here,’ said a voice directly behind Sarah, startling her. ‘Perhaps not a lot, but some, once you find it.’
Sarah stared at the man. He looked like a preacher, garbed in sombre clothing. Features were difficult to decipher in the dull li
ght, but his skin was pale like the snow, eyes the colour of dead coffee. They had a cold distance in them.
‘It took me a while to find you, Sarah.’
Surprised, Sarah said, ‘How…how do you know my name?’
‘Patience and time. Everything eventually finds its way home.’ He held out his hand. A tiny item rested in it. ‘Take it.’
‘Take it? Why?’
‘I created it especially for you.’
‘I…I don’t understand.’
‘There is no longer any need for understanding. Take it… please.’
She backed away, her eyes on the tiny offering, her hands pulled defensively aagainst her chest.
‘What am I supposed to do with it?’ she asked nervously.
‘Do? Keep it.’ He smiled. The smile looked borrowed. Like something he’d just bought in a pawnshop. ‘It will be yours to cherish forever.’
Sarah shivered before quickly glancing beyond his shoulders, towards the woman in the car. The vehicle was still wheezing with effort. Sarah thought about running towards it, but her feet seemed unable to move, as if glued to the snowy ground.
‘She can’t help you,’ he said, producing a bulbous gun with a long-nosed silencer attached. ‘Besides, if she tried, who would help her after you’re gone? This is just between us, Sarah.’
Sarah’s heart began beating furiously. Words were sticking in her throat.
‘I…I don’t understand. Why…why are you doing…this?’
‘Why? Because it’s necessary.
‘Is it money you’re after?’ She took a small purse from her coat pocket. ‘I don’t have much with me, but take it. I’ve some jewellery, also.’ She fumbled at her wrist, the watch her mother bought her all those years ago.
The car started with a low growl, before easing outwards. Sarah watched it disappear into an impenetrable haze of swirling snow, with only headlights holding off the weight of the flakes. In her mind she could still see the taillights of the car, long after it had gone. It made her feel terribly alone.
He reached and touched her shoulder.
Bizarrely, a comforting calmness began spreading throughout her body at his touch. She suddenly felt light. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
The shot hit her in the head and she flew back with a grunt, her breath swept away in the sharp, unholy wind of winter. Landing on her back, glazed eyes opened to the sky. Blood began spreading out under her, mingling with the pressed snow.
For a few seconds the killer closed his eyes, head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer. Then he gently placed the rejected offering in Sarah’s left hand, before leaving the cemetery to the dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DARK CITY
‘A big hard-boiled city with no more personality than a paper cup.’
Raymond Chandler, The Little Sister
Karl shook snow from his overcoat and leather gloves while entering the all-night cafe on Great Victoria Street. The exterior of Debbie Does Dinners looked like something from a Charles Dickens’ novel, but inside served the best coffee and grub in Belfast.
He removed the overcoat and gloves before parking his bulk at a small table right beside the front window, and waited for service. It wasn’t long coming, in the form of a middle-aged waitress, notepad in hand.
‘Hello, lover boy. Haven’t seen your craggy mug in weeks. Where’ve you been hiding?’
‘Busy as sin, Janice. Any late breakfast?’
‘Breakfast? It’s eight o’clock at night. Have you been boozing?’
‘Nope. Just working my arse off. Now, what can you do me for? I’m starving, babe.’
‘That’s what you get for tying up with a gorgeous-looking girl, half your age. You missed your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with me.’
‘I know, and I’ve come to regret every second of it.’
‘Liar.’ Janice smiled. ‘How about an almost Ulster fry?’
‘Almost?’
‘Sausages, eggs, potato bread, fried tomatoes, and mushrooms. Sorry, but we’re all out of bacon and soda bread.’
‘Cancel the sausages, and shovel the rest in my gob. Don’t forget a big pot of coffee, you lovely thing.’
‘No sausages? What’s wrong with you?’
‘It’s a long story, and one that you wouldn’t want to hear. Besides, I’m working on a new, slim me.’
‘I like you the way you are. Something a woman can grab.’
‘You say the loveliest of things, you lovely thing.’
As soon as Janice left, Karl focused his attention on Great Victoria Street Station, directly across from the cafe. The place was screaming with people, despite the last train having pulled out of the station over an hour ago. Tourists were everywhere, mixing with late-night drinkers and Thursday night shoppers. Unfolded maps and brochures of Ireland were being scrutinised by the beleaguered foreign visitors. Tour guides were herding the unfortunates from buses just back from the Giant’s Causeway and other and ‘must-see’ scenic routes of monotonous, winding roads and sectarian towns painted in wonderful colours of the rainbow. Some of the tourists sported loud t-shirts depicting Donald Duck wearing a bulletproof vest, proclaiming: Please don’t shoot. I’m only a tourist visiting Belfast. Quack! Quack!
Only yesterday, bus crews had admitted to wearing bulletproof vests, after threats from a shady organisation, suspected in some quarters to be disgruntled taxi drivers angry at their meagre income being lessened by the big bus companies.
Who the hell in their right mind would want to tour this bloody place, anyway, and in this god-awful weather – or any other weather, come to think of it? Karl had to smile at his own thoughts. Speaking of right mind, you’ve a cheek…
This afternoon’s letter from dead man Phillips had galvanized him, forcing him to comply with the madness in his head and going against the rational thing to do: ditching the plan completely.
Janice returned ten minutes later, thankfully interrupting his conflicting thoughts.
‘Enjoy, lover,’ said Janice, leaving the bill on the table before departing.
Almost immediately, Karl began cutting into the eggs. The fry was greasy, but not as greasy as some of the customers directing their suspicious stares at him.
Antique Rouge Show, thought Karl, doing his best to ignore the stares.
The cafe was a well-known haunt of hookers and johns, thieves and fences, along with bent cops and double-tongued informants. Karl hated admitting it, but he blended in perfectly with this particular brand of society’s purgatorial lepers.
Despite the grease, the fry was delicious, and the coffee excellent. Just as he was about to bite into the potato bread, two off-duty policemen stopped beside his table, one of them belching loudly.
‘Nice meal, Billy. Pity about some of the scumbags they let in here, though.’
Billy grinned, but said nothing in reply.
Another time and place, Karl would have made a smart retort. But now wasn’t the smartest of times to be smart. He continued eating, allowing Belcher and Billy to depart verbally unscathed.
Just as he was about to sip on the coffee, out of the corner of his eye he noticed a movement; someone trying to exit the cafe and not wanting to be seen – at least not by him.
‘Lipstick…?’ said Karl.
Lipstick stopped immediately, like a rabbit in headlights.
‘Karl?’ Lipstick smiled. It looked forced. ‘I…I didn’t notice you there.’
Despite the heat from the cafe, Lipstick’s skin was brailled with goose bumps.
A burly man accompanying Lipstick looked infuriated at Karl’s interception. To Karl, the man appeared to be higher than a lost balloon, bloodshot eyes bulging angrily from their sockets.
Looking directly at Lipstick, Karl patted the seat beside him. ‘Join me.’
Lipstick looked nervously at her companion, before replying. ‘I’m really in a hurry, Karl, and need to be–’
‘You need to be sitting beside me – now.’
> ‘Just who the fuck do you think you are!’ snarled Mister Burly, stopping beside Karl’s table. ‘She’s going with me, so don’t go sticking your nose where it isn’t wanted, otherwise I’ll bend it out of shape.’
Karl stood, face tight with anger. Quickly pushing away from the table, he eyeballed the man, nose to nose. ‘It’s not my nose you need to be worrying about, dopey. It’s my boot.’
‘Huh? What the fuck did you just–?’
Grabbing Mister Burly by the balls, Karl began squeezing. Tightly.
Mister Burly moaned in a bad way. His entire face seemed to have lock-jawed. Tears began forming in his eyes. He looked on the brink of collapsing.
‘Can you hear me better, now?’ whispered Karl into Mister Burley’s left ear.
Mister Burly nodded weakly. ‘Please…the pain…’
‘Wrong answer.’ Karl tightened his grip.
‘Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
‘How’s the hearing, now?’
‘Okay! Okay!’
‘Good. When I release my grip on your tiny balls, you’ll do an about-turn, head straight for the door, and no back-lip. Deviate whatsoever from my instructions, and you’ll find your coat in the Mater Hospital – along with most of your body. Understand?’
Mister Burly quickly nodded.
‘Goodnight, sweetheart,’ said Karl, releasing his grip, before unceremoniously shoving his victim towards the door.
The man staggered out like a drunk at a wine convention.
‘You,’ said Karl, pointing a finger at Lipstick. ‘Sit.’
‘Where do you learn such frightening stuff?’ asked Lipstick, a mixture of awe and terror on her tiny face.
Karl seemed deep in thought, before answering in a soft voice. ‘I learned that little trick from a lady I had the privilege to meet, not so long ago. A lovely lady named Sandy.’
Then, just as quickly, the softness was gone, replaced with a forced crustiness. ‘Now, what the hell are you up to?’
