Ciaran Walsh was in his late forties, slightly overweight but possessing the broad shoulders of someone who was once lean and fit. His brown eyes, peered through his steel-rimmed, black glasses. As well as being known as a nice guy, he was softly spoken and casual, dressed in a blue shirt, no tie, no jacket and black trousers completed with meticulously polished shoes. Ciaran had a reputation in the office for being a man of stringent self-control and punctuality. Many of the staff saw him as the eye of the hurricane; calm in the face of the chaos that was a press room. Always coming across as if he had any situation under his complete control, Ciaran Walsh was someone who was not only a good editor, but a decent human being. Joe knew he often played upon those most principled characteristics to get what he wanted, and sometimes he felt guilty about it. He liked his boss, but he had never been one to fall into line easily, often trying to find holes in other people’s logic as to why they should do something a particular way. Joe knew he often came across as belligerent and that the only reason he still had a job was that he was damn good at it. And his editor knew it too.
Joe was certainly one of the most proficient journalists Ciaran had had working for him in many years. During his eight years with the paper, his crime reporting had gone from simply commenting on local delinquencies, to being one of the countries’ leading sources of information on not only local criminals and their activities, but on international crimes and their after-effects, both politically and emotionally. Ciaran always expected good work from Joe, but even he was constantly surprised by his ability to gather information from witnesses, victims, and most intriguingly, the criminals themselves in some cases. Not only did Joe seem to understand the bureaucratic ways of things, but he had an ability to get under the skin of the people he was investigating, often coming back and producing a piece of journalism that was not only factually accurate, but imaginative and powerful. Though Ciaran didn’t want to know how Joe gained most of his information, he did know that not once in eight years had Joe O’Connell produced a mediocre piece of work for The Daily Éire. It was that reason and Joe’s knowledge of the crimes that had convinced Ciaran to offer him the prestigious job of reporting on the execution of Obadiah Stark.
As he spoke in his melodic Gaelic tone, he looked serious but thoughtful. “So, how are you? I know we haven’t really spoken since the prison.”
Joe shrugged his shoulders, not used to answering questions from his editor that required emotional honesty. “Okay. You know, just getting on with things.”
“There’s no shame in admitting that watching someone die, regardless of what they’ve done, is a pretty big deal. I don’t know how I would feel about it.” Joe could feel his boss’s sincerity as he spoke, his voice soft and empathetic.
“Well, he didn’t writhe around in agony. He just looked like he fell asleep, albeit suffering what appeared to be a myoclonic jerk halfway through.”
Ciaran looked at Joe quizzically. “What’s a myoclonic jerk?”
“You know when you’re just falling asleep and your dreaming you’re riding a bike and you fall off. You wake yourself up by jumping in your sleep as you bang your head in your dream. That’s a myoclonic jerk. Obadiah had what looked like one, just before he actually died. It was creepy, actually.” Joe stared at the floor for a moment, playing back the moment in his mind when Obadiah had looked at everyone in the viewing chamber. It had almost been as if something had momentarily interrupted the execution process.
“Interesting,” Ciaran replied, moving his empty coffee cup absentmindedly across the desktop.
Looking back up, Joe smiled halfheartedly. The whole conversation had him uncomfortable. Sensing his unease, Ciaran quickly moved onto his reason for asking to see him. “Anyway, I received a phone call from Margaret Keld this morning.”
Joe quickly straightened up in the chair, his interest piqued and his discomfort forgotten. “Really? And…?”
“…and, she’s agreed to your request for an interview and is willing to meet you today. She laid down a few stipulations, but nothing that will interfere with you too much, I don’t think.” Ciaran sounded almost triumphant as he delivered the news.
Joe looked surprised. “To be honest, I never thought she’d agree to talk to me. I mean, she’s turned down every interview request ever made since her daughter died.”
Ciaran took the opportunity to remind Joe of his responsibility. “Well, it’s good news for you that for whatever reason, she’s changed her mind. But remember Joe, I had to go out on a limb for this one. I had to pull a lot of strings, considering it has nothing to do with anything that will benefit this paper. One of her provisos was that the interview is not exploitive, purely factual. She doesn’t want her daughter’s name being used as a promotional tool.”
Joe knew Ciaran was referring to his book, an independent piece of work, neither sanctioned nor opposed by the paper, and one that also required Joe to use many of The Daily Éire’s resources in order to make it feasible. Margaret Keld’s agreeing to an interview was the first step. Victoria Carter would be the second, but he was going to keep her to himself for the time being. Ciaran and the paper had no monetary gain from the book deal and, if working on it infringed on his actual reporting duties, his editor could intervene and stop him pursuing it. So far, it had not come to that, and his editor had gone out of his way to be helpful. Therefore, Joe knew he had to show his appreciation.
“Thanks Ciaran. It means a lot. I won’t let it get in the way of my job.” Joe meant what he had said, but knew that it would require a lot of work in his own time. Still, fortune and glory are never supposed to come easily.
The ringing phone on Ciaran’s desk broke the moment. Joe thumbed back towards the door, indicating his query to leave. Picking up the phone, Ciaran nodded and greeted the caller with his surname. As Joe left, he heard his editor sigh before the door closed behind him.
The office was now in full flow, every desk and cubicle diligent with ambitious individuals, eager to be the next candidate for Sky News or the BBC. Many of the people he worked with made no secret of the fact they were using the paper as a proverbial stepping stone to something better, at least in their eyes.
He looked around at the various outcroppings of monitors, noting the numerous pairs of eyes and flurries of hair which were all that was visible above the many terminals. Alison remained busy scrolling showbiz copy in her corner, the financial team of Wilson Graves and Mike O’Hare could be heard talking about the most recent Bank of England interest rate cut, their voices just audible above the low murmur of the television above them. All around, the snicker of keyboards filled the air, suddenly sounding to Joe like the loneliest sound in the world; the sound of monotony. His book was sounding like a more promising idea with every passing minute.
Placing his hands in his pockets, Joe casually weaved his way between desks until he arrived at his own. He fished the card out of his pocket and began to dial Victoria Carter’s number. The call connected on the fourth ring, putting Joe through to a messaging service. The brief message, detailing that Victoria was currently away in business and would be back on the 18th September, provided Joe with a melodic tone and perfect diction; quintessentially English.
“Hi. My name is Joe O’Connell. I work for The Daily Éire. I received your parcel this morning, offering your services regarding my book. I’d like to take you up on your offer, so please ring me back when you get this message. Cheers.”
Hanging up, he found himself imagining the face that went with the voice. She sounded like she would be a slight, fragile specimen, but he knew well enough that a perception of someone rarely matched the actuality of their appearance. Still, the English voice of hers had sounded damn sexy.
Checking the time, he decided to prepare his notes for his meeting with Margaret Keld. Her cooperation was important, not only for his actual narrative, but also for potentially ensuring the cooperation of other relatives. Joe knew he had to treat any interaction with them sensitively.
Even though Margaret Keld’s daughter, Obadiah’s second victim in Ireland, had been murdered over seven years ago, he knew that feelings, both personal and political, still ran strongly regarding the Gardaí’s lengthy investigation into the murders.
Though eager to pursue an alternative career and hopefully secure a financial deal, it was important to Joe that the book be taken seriously by his peers as a point of reference for the Obadiah Starks of the world. His time covering the murders had given him an insight afforded to few others. And though it had taken him to dark places and provided him with images in his head he would much rather be without, they had also provided him with a diacotomy that had allowed him to see human monsters like Obadiah for what they were. Social chameleons. Able to use the facets of peoples left over emotions to fashion something appealing to them, they then used people’s weaknesses as strengths to bait the hook that would eventually snare them.
Settling into his chair, Joe began scribbling down a few ideas he had for the interview. How this one went would dictate the responses of the other relatives to his request for their thoughts. He found himself wondering if such tragedy could convince someone that there comes a time when there is no longer a point searching for understanding as to why some things happen. Would Margaret Keld really be interested in a book attempting to unravel the complex nature of her daughter’s killer? After all, Joe thought, he was dead. What would insight into his mind offer them now?
‘Death - A punishment to some, to some a gift, and to many a favor.’
Seneca
Chapter Four
08:49
SINCE awakening, the hairs on Obadiah’s neck and arms had been prickling as if subject to an invisible static. Something was out of place.
During his viaticum, Father Hicks had eluded that Obadiah’s only salvation would be to accept God’s forgiveness or suffer for all eternity. He had made no such admonishment.
For this refusal, Obadiah had expected to find himself in a dark, inhospitable place distant from God, in extremis as he was tortured in ways his blackest nightmares could never evoke - a punishment reflective of his soul.
He currently saw none of those things.
His path leading from the house was tapering into a tree-lined by-grove. The low morning sun flashed through the branches, striping the path and casting long shadows ahead of him as though indicating his destination. Sessile oaks either side were a blanket of autumnal golden fire, their colours rustic and faded. The leaves seemed to possess an inner light of pure yellow, burning brighter than the sun. Interspersed with the Sessile’s were small filmy ferns, their previously dull, green leaves now a brilliant crimson.
For a moment, he wondered if he was still dying and the two minutes it took for the injections to take effect translated as abstract time. Closing his eyes, he could recall the sensation of the Velcro straps, the tilt of the execution table and the pin-prick caress of needles being inserted into his veins. Moments later, he had been somewhere that reminded him of his childhood home. But if death was a dream-like state such as this, death wasn’t something he would be worried about.
As if to reinforce the reality of his surroundings, Obadiah touched the trees and tarmac. His every breath drew in the fusty odour of mouldy leaves and damp earth, evoking the smells of sages and pine. Underneath, their aroma was subtly being overridden by the fragrance of decay as countless organisms actively broke down as spent vegetation and returned to the soil. All these sensations supported by the bracing air tautening his face, collectively encouraged him he wasn’t dreaming.
As the avenue became more urbanised, Obadiah approached what appeared to be a town. He stopped and leaned against the corner of a wall, his face dropping as a look of puzzlement skittered across it.
Clusters of brick buildings faded into the distance, surrounded by folded hills of rich green. Streets ahead of him dazzled in their array of painted washes, picturesque shops and bar signs. He saw lovers walking hand in hand, the woman laughing at something the man whispered in her ear. Another couple sat on a bench, talking quietly. A man walked slowly down the street, his hands in his pockets, his attention focused on a distant point ahead. A woman pushing a pram across the street waved her thanks to the driver for stopping. Everywhere he looked, people were going about their mundane, human diatribes.
The sights before him fuelled his confusion. He tried to take in every detail of the environment, studying each scent and ambivalent action. A lion studying cattle in the prairie lands.
He began traveling slowly towards the throng of activity, moving past the shop front displays. Catching sight of a figure mirroring his steps, he leaned into the plate glass. Obadiah saw the white shirt and blue pyjama trousers, hair cut close to his scalp and a face clean-shaven. His eyes reflected the light from behind him, appearing colourless in the sheen of the glass.
Purveyors of the soul that told everything about a man.
In this case, they told of a man very much alive.
Turning away from the window, Obadiah tried to gather his thoughts as he moved on past cafes and sandwich bars. The smell of coffee and croissants assaulted his senses to the point of being overwhelming. He heard a train in the distance, rattling across tracks and ahead of him saw a Market place where people milled about in front of bookstalls and fruit and vegetable stands. Towards the horizon, a church spire pointed heavenward.
Making his way towards the centre of the town, Obadiah positioned himself on a bench whilst continuing to gaze at the golden glint of the streets and shops in the morning sun. All around him buzzed with life and shone with promise. It was the opposite of his habitat in Absolom for almost a decade and a complete contrast to all he had ever known.
Yet he was still trying to shake the sensation that the location was familiar. The house. The town. It was almost as if someone had taken a description from his memory and interpreted it as best they could, but in the process had lost something. For all intense purposes, it all looked remarkably similar to Killarney in Kerry, where he had grown up. Somewhere he had tried very hard to forget. But if that was the case, how did he get here? Okay. What the fuck is going on?
An attractive, red-haired woman passed by in front of him, distracting him from his thoughts. Her slim, toned legs and shapely hips were accentuated by the tight fit Levis she wore. He found himself aroused at the sight of her, despite his current predicament. Then again, he hadn’t seen a woman in years, so maybe it wasn’t that strange. But despite her physical appearance, all he saw was meat. Someone plainly waiting to be a victim.
She glanced at him, obviously embarrassed by his appearance and the attention he was giving her. Reactions such as those, and the growing whispers and stares he was accumulating, forced Obadiah to realise he was unsettling the people around him. In pyjama trousers, a shirt and no shoes, he looked every inch the unfortunate. If he was to go any further without drawing attention, he would need some clothes.
As he sat contemplating how he would obtain some, he heard someone call his name. Looking around, he noticed a man approaching him, tall and thin with an unusually chubby face and a confused expression. His hands were gesticulating wildly at the surrounding environment as though he couldn’t believe Obadiah was sat there.
“Obadiah? Jesus, man. What’s the craic? Why are you sat in your fuckin’ PJ’s?”
He sounded genuinely concerned, his manner free as though addressing a close friend.
Obadiah stared at the man with a dark expression, his right hand blocking out the now high sun’s glare. He didn’t like his casual tone. Nor did he look remotely familiar. His accent however established that he was indeed in Ireland.
Obadiah studied him as people continued to pass by, muttering under their breath and adhering to the sociological theory of defusing responsibility.
“Do you think he’s sick…”
“…poor man. He must be homeless…”
“…if his family know? I know his wife…go over? No way. What happens if he’s d
runk.”
The stranger moved around to face Obadiah. “You must be freezing? Does Eva know you’re here?” He moved to sit beside Obadiah before noticing the look in his eyes. Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, he decided to remain standing, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Despite this, his tone remained laced with worry.
“You feelin’ okay, mate?”
“You know me?” Obadiah’s voice was soft, yet subtly accusatory. He didn’t like what the stranger represented - an unknown quantity.
The man’s eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? Jesus, have you been drinking or something?”
Obadiah’s eyes held their obsidian darkness. He was in no mood for civilities. However, the encounter had now provided him with an opportunity - both for attire and possible answers. Realising this, Obadiah softened his tone slightly.
“I don’t suppose you could see to it to loan me some clothes?” He faked his friendliest smile.
The man returned the gesture and placed his hand on Obadiah’s shoulder, cheerfully jostling him as he spoke. “Of course I can. Christ, my car’s over there. You can tell me what happened to you on the way.” He pointed southwards towards a series of side streets.
“Wait here. I’ll pull up over there,” he said gesturing to the roadside ahead.
As the stranger jogged away, Obadiah returned his attention to the town, now bustling with people. The sun was at enough of an apex that it seemingly cast the buildings alight, as though the town was determined to present itself to the world.
A horn sounded just ahead of him. The man had returned and was idling by the kerb, his face full of eagerness for Obadiah to climb into his vehicle so he could assist him with his misfortune. At that moment, a piece of the puzzle fell into place.
He has no idea who I really am.
* * *
The journey to the stranger’s house was brief. Obadiah said little, preferring to project the impression of someone vulnerable and confused. Confused he was.
Hellbound: The Tally Man Page 5
