Returning from upstairs, Eva pulled a chair up in front of Obadiah, forcing him to switch his attention. She had a look in her eyes that he momentarily found hard to place. Her hand slowly moved to his leg and journeyed up. Obadiah felt himself immediately stiffening. He hadn’t expected this, nor had he accounted for it. The last time he’d been with a woman was prior to his being caught. He had picked her up in a bar and taken her back to his apartment. The sex hadn’t been particularly good, but it had been enough of a distraction to keep him focused on what he had needed to do at the time, which was avoid getting caught. He began to find focus difficult as Eva reached out and touched his face, stroking it gently with the back of her hand.
“You saved our daughter. In my book, that deserves at least a little recognition.” Her face was intense, full of desire for what she was instigating. The contact felt electric, his skin painfully developing gooseflesh at Eva’s touch.
She leaned forward and kissed his face, moving down to his lips. They were both beginning to breathe hard as she moved onto his lap, her legs straddling his. Her kisses became more passionate and powerful. Obadiah found himself unable to resist the raw passion flowing from Eva’s body, cupping her breasts roughly then reaching down behind her, pulling her tightly into his crotch. Her hands began unbuttoning Obadiah’s jeans, seeming to move effortlessly across his body.
Every intense feeling he had ever had, murderous or otherwise wanted to explode from his body. The anticipatory rush he felt at having contact with a woman after so long was barely containable. He realised with some measure of disdain that his body was telling him that he had been missing something he had never noticed gone – basic human contact.
Captured in the moment, he stood with Eva wrapped around his waist and moved towards the wall, slamming her up against it with a ferocity that made her cry out. He reached up and ripped down her underwear, feeling her warm skin against his bare torso and groin. In one quick motion they became one person, Eva’s surrender to the moment acknowledged by a gasp.
Pulling her down by her shoulders, Obadiah continued to want only her flesh, unconcerned about what has passed before. He was interested only in the now. For the first time for as long as he could remember, he felt alive.
As Eva gyrated against Obadiah’s hips, he felt his frenzied desire rising until it was containable no longer. As they both leaned into each other, their panting, heavy breaths filling the air, he sensed their bodies relax simultaneously. Eva, her body quivering, her legs still locked around Obadiah’s waist, remained supported by him as though she were weightless.
His mind relaxing, he began to see a myriad of images flash before his eyes. All the crimes he had every committed were there, vividly represented in his recall. And now, following one of the most human and natural of moments that someone could ever experience, Obadiah Stark became cognitive to an expression his narcissism had always defended him against. He had only every felt it once before as a child, conditioning himself from that point onwards to never suffer it again. But now, shaking from a moment of purity, his grandiose self that had been protected by arrogance and hubris had been broken down, revealing a crack in his internalised being.
He knew he was still a monster, and felt no need to deny the fact. But for that one moment, Obadiah Stark briefly imagined himself in the eyes of others, and the feeling of shame now flooding through him prompted tears to roll down The Tally Man’s cheeks as he pulled Eva towards him in a tight embrace.
‘Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it, and eventually they will believe it”
Adolf Hitler
Chapter Eleven
September 29th
11:08
Inishtooskert, The Blasket Islands (Na Blascaodaí)
County Kerry, Ireland
EVERYBODY lies.
A lie’s sole purpose is to mislead. It can be subtle, carefully weaving its way into the most tempered mind, or it can be massive, instantly destroying all those around with its implications. Yet, by the same token, lies can also fail. Those who will perpetrate the lie may not always be prepared to be challenged on it.
Emotions can also reveal a lie. Though a person may try hard to ensure words that would give away the lie are not used, expressions are more difficult to control. Lies can be told for the most noble of reasons. And if this is the case, when does the lie become an acceptable one? Can the deceit of the one ever be for the good of the many? And if it is, and we accept it as such, are we then complicit in the lie?
* * *
A skein of rain danced across the surface of the water as the prison launch made its way across the Atlantic Ocean towards Absolom, turning the islands grey before blotting them out. It was almost as though the storm was tethered to the stern of the boat. The landmass itself that was Inishtooskert, ruggedly beautiful, jutted out into the sea. The Blasket Islands were said to house some of the most varied archeological monuments in Western Europe, mostly due to the fact that peninsulas remote location allowed for reMarkable preservation. Alongside the fact that the archipelago’s were also famous for accommodating the filming of Ryan’s Daughter and Far and Away, one could be forgiven for not believing the original Norse meaning of the word Blasket – ‘a dangerous place’.
The prison itself, surrounded by a containment wall forty feet high and patrolled by armed guards twenty four hours a day, stood on the island like a black spider waiting to ensnare approaching prey within its concrete web. Silhouetted against the darkened and sodden sky, Absolom housed three watchtowers. That was the extent of its perimeter security. Nothing more was required - the vast expanse of water surrounding the island itself did the rest.
Joe had heard an urban legend there was a blanket of proximity mines just below the surface, but this had never been substantiated. Though following Peter Stamford’s comments regarding unethical practices at the prison, Joe wouldn’t have been surprised if the legend turned out to be true.
The rain pounded against him as he bounced in his seat with the rise and fall of every wave, trying not to vomit over the orange life jacket he wore. After visiting the office early to inform Ciaran where he was going, he had called Victoria and arranged to meet her in the afternoon. He would have liked to tell her about his meeting with Stamford, if only to justify why he blew her out the other night. He would also have liked her to accompany him to Absolom, given her criminological background and experience at noting deception leakage, but Joe knew that obtaining visiting permission was a huge pain in the arse unless you were a politician or an insistent reporter. The only reason he had been granted permission to visit again was because he had informed Richard Sabitch he was doing a follow up on Obadiah Stark. His desire to find out if there was any truth to Stamford’s suggestion that the warden was possibly complicit in a conspiracy was now too great. Though what the nature of such a conspiracy could be, he couldn’t begin to guess.
As the launch slowed and broadsided towards the dock, Joe noticed flowers in the earth surrounding the outside of the prison. He then glanced up at the huge concrete construction that was Absolom, coil after coil of flesh-tearing razor wire sitting on top its containment walls. The contradiction was difficult to process.
Stepping from the boat, he removed his life jacket and tossed it towards the guard who had been sat alongside him for the journey over. Aside from a cursory greeting, Joe hadn’t engaged him in a conversation for fear of having the guard see his breakfast in reverse. Catching the life preserve, he shot Joe a disdainful stare and silently turned to head back into the cabin.
Securing his coat to counter the bitter wind blowing across the island, he made his way towards the huge iron gates that formed the entrance to Absolom. Out the corner of his eye he saw the guards swivel on the containment wall watching him meticulously. Like crows on a wire. He suddenly felt like an insect being scrutinised in a jar.
The sky had darkened in the time it had taken to reach the prison, as though the heavens were warning him it was a place best l
eft untouched. He could feel the desperation and hopelessness Absolom represented emanating through its walls. He had experienced the feeling before, whilst watching Obadiah be put to death. It wasn’t something he had been in any hurry to experience again.
Buzzing the intercom, he waited a few seconds before a metallic tinged voice responded.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Joe O’Connell from The Daily Éire. I’m here to see Warden Sabitch. He’s expecting me.”
The intercom silent once more, he turned and stared at the rain without noticing it. Working the fatigue out of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, he noticed the island of Beginish in the distance and observed some of the local Storm petrels fluttering in flight as they dipped towards the ocean in the hope of scooping plankton from the water’s surface. Local folk stories told that petrels were the harbingers of stormy weather, hence their names. They were more commonly known as ‘Mother Carey’s Chicken’s’, Mother Carey being a supernatural figure who personified the cruelty of the sea, the birds thought to be the souls of dead sailors. As the clouds continued to gather over the island, it seemed the petrels were living up to their reputation.
The door alarmed behind him and he stepped through into the antechamber between the outer doors and the doors to the prison courtyard. As it slammed shut, he imagined how it must feel to be a criminal realising that this was your last stop in life. The thought made him shiver.
Another buzzer sounded and the inner door opened. Richard Sabitch stepped though as it locked behind him and extended his hand towards Joe. In his late fifties, stocky and balding, he had a mahogany sheen to his skin, as though recently on holiday. Eyes that seemed too small for his face seemed to drift across Joe’s body, as though taking in every aspect of his person. Joe hadn’t considered it at the time of the execution, but seeing him now, he realised he looked like a fat weasel. He didn’t like him.
“Mr O’Connell, good to see you again. I realise we didn’t speak during your last visit, but I want you to know I’m a follower of your work.”
He squeezed Sabitch’s’s clammy hand tightly for three shakes and then released his grip. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Warden. I appreciate you’re a busy man.”
The warden smiled as he ushered Joe through the huge door. “It’s my pleasure.” Joe found his forced smile nauseating. As they stopped at a security desk contained behind three inches of bulletproof glass, Sabitch nodded to the man built like a bull behind it. He looked at Joe without acknowledging him and pressed an icon on the touch screen panel which released the electronic lock on the door to their right.
The warden led the way down brightly light corridors, reminiscent of a hospital. The harsh lighting exposed the stark, blandness of the paintwork. The dark blue and plain white colours, separated by a distinct line which ran the horizontal length of the corridor, suggested to Joe an analogous reference to the differences between the prisoner inmates and the guards, wardens and visitors; bright white above the line representing the life the population of the prison cells could have had - clear and untouched by darkness; blue below representing the more shady aspects of their lives, alluding to the fact that they had become tainted by a blacker aspect which had contaminated their own once, bright light. A place where the endless journey towards death could not be escaped.
Joe was ushered through two further sets of secured doors with a guard watching from a security booth. As the final gate slammed shut behind him with a deep, metallic clank, the prison seemed to close in. He began to feel claustrophobic.
Then, passing through another set of heavy doors, he found himself in a softly light, carpeted hallway. It seemed an almost implausible contrast to where they had just left, almost homely in its presentation. They passed a number of doors that displayed no significance before Sabitch opened one of them and gestured for Joe to enter, steering him towards the chair that sat in front of a desk.
Cool, but not cold, the air in the room held a hint of incense. The door shut gently behind him and Richard Sabitch moved behind his desk and sat down. He stared at Joe for a few moments before speaking. When he did, his mood was immediately less cordial.
“So, Mr. O’Connell, what can we do for you today? I have quite a busy schedule, as I’m sure you can imagine. I understand you wanted to discuss my views on the death penalty for a follow up article. I’m surprised that you didn’t feel they were immediately apparent, given that I’m warden at a facility that has put to death thirteen prisoners over the last fifteen years. It seems to make this interview moot.” Joe didn’t fail to notice the slight exasperation in his tone.
“Well, I figured a piece covering the esthetics of being on death row, the moral arguments it raises for and against, would be a good way to conclude the articles I’d been doing. As you know, after Stark’s execution, there were a lot of protests concerning excessive delays being a violation of a prisoner’s human rights. Those kinds of discussions are what the readers want.” He could see Sabitch’s irritation at the mention of prisoner’s human rights.
“Ah, the classic bleeding hearts take on the death penalty,” Sabitch said with a smirk. “How quickly they forget what these people have done. I often wonder would they be so procrastic about how we torture prisoners and how they are part of the death row phenomenon if it had been their sons and daughters raped and murdered.”
“The death row phenomenon…you’re referring to an execution following a prolonged delay constituting cruel and inhuman punishment? I’ve read about that. I gather you don’t agree with it.” The warden’s answer had no bearing on what Joe had come here to find out, but he was interested in the answer nevertheless.
A long pause came before a reply. “Absolom is the place the world sends its prisoners it wishes to punish the most. Think of it as a clean version of Hell, the Harvard of the prison system. There are fewer than five hundred prisoners here, and they are sent here because they’re too violent to be anywhere else. That should say everything you need to know.” Sabitch gestured towards Joe’s person. “Shouldn’t you be writing all this down?”
Caught momentarily off guard, Joe fumbled into his pocket and pulled out his notepad. “Sorry, I had been counting on using my photographic recall,” he responded glibly.
Sabitch swaggered a smile before continuing. “You honestly think that I’m concerned about some naive, ignorant protestors who only sleep better in their beds at night because of this place? They seem to miss the fact that any delay in a prisoner’s execution is ultimately caused by the prisoner themselves. They petition and appeal only to be granted last minute stays, but it’s an attribution argument. If the prisoner’s causing the delay, they really have little basis to complain that their human rights are being violated, do they?”
“A valid argument. So, how did you feel about Obadiah Stark?”
“Stark.” The name hung in the air like a bad omen. “I can’t actually think of an appropriate word to describe the man. I’m not sure if you were aware of this, but Stark was kept in Sector 17, the highest level of confinement we have…virtually no human contact, not even with the guards. He was one of only two prisoners kept there, the other being Nader Yousef, the mastermind behind the 7th July bombings in London.”
Joe frowned. “Virtually no human contact? Doesn’t that illustrate what we just discussed?”
“You ever meet Stark?” the warden asked reclining back in his chair. He acknowledged Joe’s negative response with a nod before continuing. “He had that Charlie Manson look. He just had the eyes. Charismatic, certainly and definitely one of the most intelligent people I have ever met. Not just IQ smart, but perceptive smart. Whenever you spoke to him, you could see that it was a powerful person you were looking at, physically and intellectually.”
“So, you kept him in a place where he couldn’t give any orders?” Joe interjected.
“Precisely. Stark was the real deal. Yes, the chance that he could physically harm someone was non-existent, but his intellect meant h
e could get inside your head. To me, his mind was his most dangerous weapon.”
“You make him sound like Hannibal Lecter,” Joe said with a smile.
“Hannibal Lecter is fictional. Obadiah Stark was very real and very dangerous. A sociopath such as him had no desire to be understood or psychologically dissected so that his motivations could be rationalised. He lived to kill, pure and simple. His level of intelligence made him impenetrable to any standard test one would use to perform a psychological autopsy, but it had no bearing on his actions. You could argue someone with such a high IQ would know that killing is wrong, but that wasn’t why he did it. He simply did it because he could.”
Joe rolled his tongue around his cheek thoughtfully. “You admired him?”
Sabitch’s mouth twitched. “I admired his purity of thought. The man could have been a genius in any field he chose, but he chose to become a killer. It seems a waste of a life to me, but then that is what this place represents. An environment of hopelessness and hindsight.”
Joe found Sabitch’s responses unsettling. He was a guardian in the justice system, and therefore not necessarily cheerful, but Joe had imagined he would be less blasé. He decided to manipulate the conversation towards his intended purpose.
“Stark’s execution…Did it go as planned?”
“Like clockwork,” Sabitch replied assuredly. “There were no incidences prior to the execution, all the medical and security aspects of the process went smoothly, as did the actual drug administration. It was fairly textbook.”
“Textbook,” Joe repeated. “An interesting noun to describe someone’s death.”
Sabitch sighed theatrically. “I assure you Mr. O’Connell, their deaths are more humane than those they visited upon their victims. In my opinion, if anything they’re too lenient.”
Hellbound: The Tally Man Page 15
