Hellbound: The Tally Man

by David McCaffrey

  He stared at the ceiling, hoping for a revelation. There was something linking a number of people involved in and witness to Stark’s execution, he just couldn’t put his finger on it. Acts committed by someone like Obadiah Stark left a resonance, lingering in silence. The family members had an enmity, he had seen it during his interviews. Animosity from evil gone unpunished.

  Beginning to irritate himself, Joe rose from the settee and poured himself another JD, placing the peas back in the freezer to chill again. The glass was almost to his lips when the doorbell made him start, causing him to spill the drink down his shirt.

  “Shit!” He placed the glass on the bench and grabbed a tea towel to wipe his front as he approached the door. Joe noted the small shape through the glass before he opened it, subconsciously registering her frame.

  Vicky waved a bottle of wine gently in front of his face. “I figured we’d give Sean Og’s a rest tonight…”

  Joe felt slightly uncomfortable as she began to register his injuries, her eyes scanning him repeatedly.

  “Jesus, Joe, what happened to your face?”

  “I was attacked by a Crayola. Come in.” He pushed the door open wider and ushered Vicky into the hall. She slowly traversed under his arm, staring at him as she moved into the living room.

  “When did this happen?” She asked as he closed the door behind them.

  “Just this evening, or should I say yesterday,” he replied glancing at his watch and standing awkwardly still. “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  Vicky frowned. “Figuratively or literally, because it looks pretty bad to me. Have you been to the hospital?”

  He shook his head. “No, my bag of Bird’s Eye are currently recharging in the freezer…better than anything they could do. Besides, after the Gardaí were done with me, I honestly couldn’t be arsed.”

  She moved in front of him, frowning. “Gardaí? What are you going on about?”

  “I had a flat tire at work,” Joe replied whilst massaging his bruised jaw. “This guy offered to help me change it, I was tired so I accepted. Then he attacked me.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “Oddly, he didn’t introduce himself.”

  “Why’d he want to hurt you?” Vicky pressed, ignoring his sarcasm as she sat down, resting the bottle of wine between her legs.

  Joe looked at her with an exasperated expression. “You know, it’s funny, he didn’t punctuate kicking the shite out of me with exposition so I don’t really know.”

  “How do you know he wanted to kill you?”

  “He had a fuckin’ gun, Vicky so I figured he wasn’t simply trying to get my attention.” Noticing her hesitant gaze, Joe sat down beside her. “Sorry, just been a crappy day.”

  She gently touched his arm whilst raising the wine bottle and giving it a shake. “It’s okay. We now have a better excuse to open this. That’s if you don’t mind downgrading to something a little less inebriating?” She nodded towards the empty glass on the bench.

  Joe smiled. “No, it’s okay. Most of it ended up down my shirt anyway.”

  Following her into the kitchen Joe leaned back against the bench and pointed towards the drawer holding the bottle opener as she glanced around.

  “So, what do you think it’s all about,” Vicky asked as she began removing the cork. He acknowledged her with a sigh and accompanying frown. “Honestly? I’m not sure, but I think it all has something to do with my digging into Stark’s execution.”

  Vicky looked puzzled as she grabbed two glasses from his cabinet and filled them, handing him the fuller of the two. “How so?”

  Joe hesitated for a moment, his expression closed. “The night Stark was executed. Something’s ‘off’ about the whole thing, and I think tonight pretty much confirms it.”

  Vicky gave a startled laughed. “Joe, being beaten up is hardly confirmation of a global conspiracy.”

  “Ordinarily, I’d be inclined to agree with you, but aside from being a shite raconteur there’s nothing else I’m doing that would get under someone’s skin enough for them to want me dead. When aforementioned beating involves someone actually trying to shoot you, it tends to indicate they want you dead for a reason.”

  Joe noted her skeptical look before taking a drink. “Yeah, I know. But it still doesn’t change the fact that something’s not right about it all.”

  Vicky studied Joe’s face. “Okay, Sherlock. Let’s assume for a moment that I believe you…”

  “I know it sounds a little mad, but bear with me. Stark was executed last month, big event, the world’s media in attendance, the victim’s relatives and yours truly. The lethal injection seems to go as planned and, aside from Stark having some sort of seizure and scaring the crap out of everyone, dies on schedule. Curtain down, exit stage left, case closed, right?”

  “Okay,” Vicky replied cautiously.

  “Boat visits Absolom where Stark’s body is loaded onto it, standard procedure. Boat sets sail for the mainland where the body is to be delivered to the Royal Victoria.”

  “Well, the site isn’t directly attached to the hospital, and they have a contract with the Government regarding the storage of bodies. I imagine if you boil it down to its common denominator it comes down to money. Anyway, there they are supposed to stay until the state decides on the funeral arrangements, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay,” Vicky said rolling her eyes. “It’s fascinating, but I’m not really feeling conspiracy here and I already know all of this.”

  Joe drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment before releasing it slowly as he spoke. “The boat transporting his body took nearly four hours to make an hour and a half trip?”

  “And?”

  “…and, his body never made it to the mortuary.”

  Vicky frowned. “You can prove this?”

  “Well, not exactly, but I think what I have is pretty conclusive. When an hour’s trip takes three times longer than it’s supposed to and there’s no record of problems or weather issues, it’s a fair bet that something’s a little funky.”

  He could tell she wasn’t satisfied with his answer.

  “Okay,” Vicky announced. “Let’s just say for the sake of argument that your right and that something unusual is going on, what purpose does it serve?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe replied, his gaze falling to the floor and then back up again. “Yet.”

  He sighed and stood up, moving back towards the living room shaking his head. He was tired and miserable and aching from head to foot. It was all fucked up and he knew it, but really needed someone to believe him.

  He slumped onto the settee, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s not just the boat, it’s everything. I’ve interviewed every witness, relative, prison guard and criminologist this side of the Liffy because I felt like I owed a service to the relatives. To ensure that instead of reporting crap like other papers did, I could give what had happened to them some gravitas. And then, after Stark’s execution I had this idea to write a book about the man, his life and crimes. I didn’t want it to be just another cash in, I wanted it to be justified and balanced. Your offer of help came at the right time. You’ve given me the credible stuff that adds more than just the ‘he was a killer because his parents held him too tight or not enough’, shite.

  “But since looking into it all further, something’s wrong. I don’t know what or why, but it is. Before Stark died, these people were angry, now, they’re like a bunch of hugger-muggers.”

  “Hugger whats?”

  “Hugger-mugger; cloak and dagger kind of thing.” She started to laugh, but then looked at Joe’s expression and fell silent”

  “I’m not imagining it, Vicky. Stamford started this whole thing, and had nothing to gain by lying to me. Sabitch and Evans are definitely hiding something to do with his execution file and death certificate, and…”

  “And?”

  “…and, Evan’s got all funny when I challenged him about something calle
d The Brethren.”

  “The Brethren,” Vicky repeated, her face twitching slightly.

  “You’ve heard of them?” Joe challenged.

  “No,” she replied quickly, her face flushing as she averted her gaze. “Wow, I feel a little light headed all of a sudden. Must be this wine.”

  Joe watched her as she moved into the living room and sat down in the chair opposite. Vicky’s gaze cast towards her feet before rising again.

  He felt his head tilting wearily, prompting him to give an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know, maybe you’re right. I’m tired, getting slowly drunk and look like I’ve gone four rounds with The Rock. I think I just need to go to bed. I don’t blame you for thinking it’s a little far-fetched. I’m not sure I believe it myself. I guess after everything today, I just needed to share it with someone. And why not a beautiful, smart criminologist…”

  His voice faded as though afraid to say anything else.

  A moment passed between them and seemed to hang in the air.

  Joe cleared his throat and rose quickly from the chair. “Definitely time for bed I think. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Vicky smiled and stood up, following behind him. She placed her hand on his shoulder and spun him around to face her.

  “Time for bed, you said.”

  She touched his face before kissing him, her body folding into his and forcing him back against the front door. Shocked by her sudden actions, he nevertheless found himself pulling her closer to him, his hand sliding beneath her blouse and pulling it loose. Her hands moved across his chest, unbuttoning his shirt and moving down towards his trousers with an unexpected urgency.

  Joe pushed her back, staring directly into her eyes and seeing a stark need that forced his body to unconsciously react.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he uttered in a low voice.

  Vicky gazed back at him, biting her lower lip. “Why not? You promised me a good time the other night at Sean Og’s. I just want to collect.”

  She kissed him again, her hands exploring his body as she pulled him down towards the floor. Joe pulled his shirt over his head and lay down beside her, his hands pulling at her blouse and finding her bra strap.

  “Don’t lose respect for me if this doesn’t happen with one hand.”

  “Just get it done,” Vicky murmured.

  Mindlessly colliding with her body, Joe found himself thinking that his evening had taken a dramatic turn for the better. And yet, the darkest corner of his mind continued to process his refusal to give up on the fact that he was close to uncovering something about Stark that was desperately trying to stay hidden. And like any secret, he knew that the only thing you got when digging up the past was dirty.

  ‘While every human being has a capacity for love, its realisation is one of the most difficult achievements.’

  Erich Fromm

  Chapter Eighteen

  23:18

  OBADIAH turned off the engine outside the cottage and leaned back into the seat. The silence around him seemed almost prescient, a pulsing reminder of what had just occurred and what he knew was to come.

  Nature doesn’t recognize good and evil…

  He recognized the words; he had said them to Franklin the day of the interview. That someone was trying to send him a message was apparent. What the message was he hadn’t yet figured out. That they had used Eva to do so, a mistake.

  He breathed deeply, quelling the rage within him. He couldn’t allow himself to lose focus as to why he had driven here. The compulsion he felt to keep her safe was powerful, driven by feelings he still didn’t understand. Yet he knew whoever had come for Eva would come for Ellie. And that he would not allow.

  Obadiah climbed from the car and gently closed the door. Leaning against the roof he gazed up at the ecliptic, noting the full moon in its eerie glow. It was a harsh reminder of his current place in the universe; cloven and powerless. He forced himself to think when all he wanted to do was close himself off from everything around him. What had happened to Eva shouldn’t matter to him, yet he couldn’t shake his sense of righteous indignation.

  Seeing her face flash before his eyes, Obadiah realised they were closed. Forcing them open he shook the image away, scooped up Ellie from the back seat and placed her on his shoulder. She stirred slightly when he knocked on the front door, the sound of footsteps approaching from the other side a few minutes later.

  “Obi?” Mark Thorne’s voice was laced with concern at the late hour visit.

  “Can we come in?” he asked flatly.

  “Of course you can,” Mark replied, opening the door to allow them passage.

  Obadiah moved into the living room and placed Ellie gently on the settee. He stared at her for a few moments before turning away and standing by the window.

  “What’s happened?” Mark asked from the living room doorway as he tightened his dressing gown belt. Obadiah remained silent, turning to look at the picture on the mantelpiece he had seen the last time he was here before everything reset. Eva and him enjoying a moment frozen in time. A moment he still had no recollection of.

  He felt a weight on his chest as though underwater, the recollection of her voice and touch pressed against his memory as though trying to force their way to freedom.

  Mark moved to his side, gently touching his arm. “Obi, are you okay?”

  In an instant, Obadiah’s hand was around his throat, slowly squeezing his windpipe. Mark grabbed at him, trying to free himself, eyes wide with fear and panic. The sensation of someone’s life being slowly extinguished and their accompanying high-pitched wheeze washed over Obadiah like cleansing water, reminding him of a time when he was the apex predator and people were simply cattle for his pleasure.

  Eva’s body, cold and silent on the bed strobed through his mind, her killer’s hands around her throat, her violation harsh and brutal. As he felt Mark’s energy bleeding away, he momentarily felt ashamed and relaxed his grip. Mark fell to the floor, his stridor becoming less laboured.

  Obadiah glanced over at Ellie, and satisfied she was undisturbed turned calmly back towards the window as though nothing had happened.

  “What the fuck,” Mark exclaimed, massaging his neck. “What’s got into you?”

  “Eva’s dead,” Obadiah stated coldly.

  “What?”

  He turned to face him, his expression causing Mark to take a few steps backwards. “She’s dead…murdered sometime tonight.”

  Mark spluttered with laugher at the matter-of-fact delivery. “You’re joking?” “She’s lying on the bed, her throat cut.”

  Mark stumbled and fell into the chair behind him. “What do you mean, her throat cut? You’re not funny, mate. Why would someone have killed Eva?”

  “To get to me,” Obadiah acknowledged. “I seem to have brought something down on the people around me. Ironic really, given that once upon a time it would have been me…being played at your own game is distinctly un-amusing.”

  “Get to you for what?” Mark sprang up from the seat, his hands shaking as he moved for the door. “You’re fuckin’ delusional, mate. I’m going to the house.”

  Obadiah was in front of his host before he had a chance to open the door, his hand firmly grabbing the handle. “I wouldn’t do that. Not unless you want to be implicated in something particularly unpleasant.”

  He stared at Obadiah as though trying to assess the reality of the situation before shaking his head and sitting back down.

  Obadiah sat on the edge of the settee beside Ellie, his hands clasped together and resting on his knees as though about to pray.

  “Someone broke into the house and murdered her to get to me. Who, I don’t know, but the message was very clear.”

  “Which was?” Mark asked despondently.

  “That I cannot care about something with losing it. It’s punishment, you see. For the things I’ve done. Eva saw someone she believed me to be, maybe the man I could have been, but not the man I am.”

  “You
’re not making any sense.”

  Obadiah continued without elaborating. “Have you ever seen a dead body? The face swells in a matter of hours after death, the body bloating as it fills with gas. They tend to take on the appearance of over-ripe fruit, the skin taut yet at the same time withered, mottled. There is an accompanying smell, of course, but this occurs later, perhaps three or four hours later. And then there are the eyes. Often they take on the last expression the person had, peaceful or horrific depending on the circumstances. They can be discoloured, burst blood vessels and so on, but usually they simply take on a milky appearance, post-mortem cataracts obscuring any warmth they once held.

  “Eva isn’t at that stage quite yet, but she will be soon and therefore if you wish to remember her as she was, you will stay away from the house.”

  Obadiah took a deep breath and moved back towards the window. He noted the look of surprise on Mark’s face as the phone rang, a call at this time obviously unusual. His surprised expression turned to unease as he answered it and then handed the phone to him.

  “It’s for you,” he said, puzzled.

  Obadiah glanced at Ellie, watching her stir slightly before putting the phone to his ear only to hear a tut of disapproval.

  “You’ve been a naughty boy.”

  “Tommy,” Obadiah announced. “I don’t speak to you again after I moved to America, and since my execution I’ve spoken to you twice in the space of an evening. How did you know I was here?”

  Tommy chuckled under his breath. “I know, almost prescient, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Obadiah agreed. “Which means you know I’m going to kill you for this.” His hands were clenched so tightly he could feel his nails cutting into his palm.

  “You haven’t learnt anything have you,” Tommy said with disapproval. “But you’ll figure it out soon enough. I wish I could be there to see it when you do…your big brain finally slotting all the pieces into place. Your apotheosis will be something to behold. But you’re obviously not quite there yet.”

  Obadiah ignored his monologue. “So, come on then, fill me in.”

  “Obadiah, I can’t do that,” Tommy mocked. “Besides, I don’t really need to. You’ve always known what this is all about, your brain just hasn’t quite caught up.”