Altered States (6 page)

Uncovering this detail was not like asking someone if they had a blue car or whether they’d killed somebody, with objective definite answers. This was exposing hidden desires and future intent. He may not even know the answer himself consciously. But underneath it would be there – everything was.

Just as he was lifting his drink to his mouth I placed my hand over it and forcefully slammed it back to the bar. The action was intentionally incongruent and at odds with what little the guy knew of my behaviour so far. It would jar his comfortable mental state; cause his unconscious mind to stall for a moment. It’s called a pattern interrupt – the disruption of an indivisible pattern of behaviour in an unanticipated way. It leaves a person with no program of what to do next. It leaves them looking for a way out, open to suggestion.

Looking the man squarely in the eye, I instantly began to speak with an unusual pace and tone.

‘It’s just that it’s interesting to know ... why we do the things we do. And how sometimes we manage to
justify
to ourselves actions which we know at some level to be wrong. Like maybe we speed in a restricted zone, but we tell ourselves it’s okay because it’s really
late
; there’s no one around. And we
know
the road well. It’s like an
acquaintance
, so it’s fine. It’s fine to go
beyond the limit
.’

I placed particular emphasis on certain words and parts of words, prompting his subconscious to stitch together a subtextual meaning.

‘So all the time, when we do these bad things, we are
prob
ing our minds,
penetrating
our thoughts, until we
touch
on a loop
hole
that will allow us to
do
these things we like and escape the immorality.’

As I continued to fold the massively layered suggestions into the metaphor Burch stood virtually motionless but responded with almost imperceptible twitches of affirmation.

‘So there really is only one question left,’ I stated in conclusion. ‘Will you do it again?’

In an instant the man was composed and laughing at me foolishly.

‘What
are
you talking about, man?’ he jibed.

To anyone but a handful of people in the world, that was a perfect transition. The telltale micro-expression would have passed everyone else by unnoticed. But not me. Just for that split second it was written on his face as clearly as his five-o’clock shadow. And now that his misdemeanours were playing wholly on his conscious mind, all I need do was repeat the question – just to be sure.

‘
Will
you do it again?’

This time he said nothing, just frowned at me as if I was a madman – spot on there I guess – and shook his head in confusion. But once again a tiny twitch of a face muscle belied his inner feelings. That was all I needed. I cracked open the fatal capsule that was nestled in my palm, then left the bar without wasting another word.

Within thirty-seconds of being in the street I knew exactly what I was going to do next and it started with me repeatedly kicking a nearby wall in frustration. I chose this symbolic gesture of head-banging rather than the real thing as it carried with it significantly less risk of cranial haemorrhaging. A good tip by anyone’s standards.

Then I made my way back to the bar. Burch didn’t have time to know what hit him. He was halfway towards the door by the scruff of his throat before he was going for his holster; at which point he noticed his gun sitting on the bar where I’d dumped it, getting further and further out of reach. The clientele didn’t seem too perturbed at me dragging him out of the establishment, just slightly disappointed that it wasn’t going to kick off inside for their own titillation.

He was still struggling to find his feet when we reached the street. I gave him a quick elbow to the face to pacify him and then shoved two fingers down his throat. The small quantity of vomit that didn’t actually find its way up my sleeve splashed into the gutter. When he was done I dropped him to the ground.

‘If you feel a bit faint in the next few hours,’ I said, ‘eat some chocolate.’

I crouched down close to his flushed face.

‘Maybe reconsider your life choices – in case I’m ever back in this neighbourhood.’ I stepped over him as he lay panting and shell-shocked in the gutter. As I walked away I added, ‘And don’t try to find me. I don’t exist. Not in your world.’

Then I was gone into the darkness, like some clandestine crime-fighter, dressed all in black, with bad-guy vomit up his arm.

Maybe it would change him. Probably not. But I proved to myself once again that I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take a life on my own say-so. Whatever bad he had done and whatever bad he may do in the future. It just didn’t feel right. I figured that was a healthy thing.

But now I was back to square one.

Almost.

Truth or Care

Conner was delighted to awake to a generous helping of aches and pains. He took a peek in the bathroom mirror to find one of his eyes peeking back at him from the centre of dark swollen tissue. He decided not to go into work, figuring he was justified in calling an uncharacteristic sickie – at least for the morning. His physical injuries were not so bad, but his soul was battered and bruised, lying prostrate on the floor, and it wasn’t planning on getting up anytime soon.

Conner set about doing nothing but slouching around in his favourite sweatpants, which was a mistake as it allowed his mind to set about doing way too much thinking. What he thought about began to trouble him quite severely, not that such an outcome to his thought processes surprised him anymore.

It was mid-morning before a distraction presented itself in the form of a long-overdue message from Mila. Although it did not query his whereabouts; it was merely a forwarded phone message from the office. Apparently, Kent Bradshaw, the clerk from the bail-bondsman’s office, had tried to get hold of Conner, saying he needed to speak to him. Kent hadn’t left a number, just a place and time to meet.

So his day off wasn’t happening. But on the up side, he hadn’t consumed anything but coffee and cigarettes since waking, so taking up the offer of a lunch date may prove wise.

When Conner arrived at the rendezvous café Kent was already there, sipping on a tall milky coffee. Conner opted for the healthy option:
black
coffee. And added a blueberry muffin to notch up the first of his five-a-day. He took a seat opposite the clerk, who settled his mug down onto its saucer with a nervous rattle.

‘That won’t be a problem. I don’t call anyone up like they’re my buddy.’ Conner began to peel his cup-shaped baked good from its wrapper. Everyone eats their muffins differently. Conner always ate his bottom up, saving the crispy sugary bit on the top till last.

Kent shuffled in his seat. He could learn a thing or two about nonchalance from his muffin-eating companion. ‘How do I know I can I trust you?’ he asked.

Conner leaned back in mild frustration. ‘Look,
you
called
me
here to talk. I’d just as soon be at home watching daytime TV. So it’s really your call.’

‘Okay.’ He sighed resignedly. ‘So, last night, after I got home from the hospital –’

‘Oh yes, sorry,’ Conner interrupted with an overfull mouth. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Quite sore, thanks. Anyway, so I’m at home and I get a phone call. Well, it’s a call to the office, but they get diverted to my cell phone out-of-hours. And guess who it is?’

‘Well, I figured this might improve relations with my boss, so I call him up. And he sends a couple of heavies down to go get him.’

‘So, why are you telling me? Snitching on your boss for kidnapping ain’t going to put you in his good books – if indeed he has any good books.’

‘Because I don’t trust these goons. I think this way he’ll either end up missing or dead. I’d feel much more comfortable if the cops
happened
across the lock-up and took Burch in for his own protection. Besides, is it so hard to believe that some people actually prefer operating on the right side of the law?’

Conner shrugged in response. He generally finds it best to assume that they don’t.

Kent continued. ‘Look, I just want to see Burch get to court, and the more people with that aim the better. As soon as that money’s back I’m outta this town.’

Conner contemplated these details as he finished off the last crumbs of his single-serving cake. Eventually, he gave a consenting nod.

‘Give me the address of the lock-up. I’ll sort it.’

Kent returned his coffee shakily to its saucer again and wrote the address on a scrap of paper. Conner motioned to leave then stopped himself.

‘Have you talked to anyone else about this?’

‘No.’

‘
Any
one? Priest, wife, men in suits?’

‘No. Do I look like the kind of man that would be religious ... or married?’

‘It’s the suits I’m worried about. Has anyone other than me come asking questions: about Burch, about who bailed him ... about me?’

‘No.’ He shook his head in the first confident motion Conner had observed.

‘Okay. So it’s my turn to trust you. But if I discover you’re lying, rest assured I
will
come visiting. And you won’t need to worry about me acting like your buddy. Far from it.’

Conner pegged Kent as way too weak and stupid to be trying something on – whatever
something
might be. So, he left. Unfortunately, the knowledge he left with deposited him squarely on the horns of a dilemma.

Being a cop he should do exactly what Kent expected him to do. Call in the boys in blue, rescue Bigby and keep him safe till court time. But the clerk had come to the wrong cop, because all Conner wanted was Bigby back on the street, doing his job, leading him to the big boys in the rug trade.

He needed to make some decisions but he didn’t have much time. Worse, his mind returned to what had been troubling him earlier. It was troubling him more now that time had passed. He knew he had to resolve that issue first, before he could make any informed decision as to his next action. Who was he trying to kid? Any decision he made would be a long way from informed. If he could achieve anything above complete ignorance he’d be well chuffed.

There was only one thing for it. He had to go on a date.

That evening Conner waited for his guest in the Crown Liquor Saloon – the best of the seventeen so-called Irish bars in town. Having never left America he had no idea as to the bar’s authenticity, but he liked it, and that was all that mattered. The exterior was exquisitely decorated with polychromatic tiles and stained glass. The interior was even more elaborate. Complex mosaics spilled across the entire floor. Every surface of the walls, fixtures and ceiling coalesced into what was effectively a single, highly-decorative wood-carving; as if the room had been whittled from the centre of a massive tree trunk. The altar-style bar-top that stretched the length of the establishment was made of a deep-red granite. And the whole place was lit by polished brass gas lamps. But the best feature of all were the carved wooden booths – or snugs as they called them – each with its own little door, originally designed to accommodate the more reserved patrons of a Victorian era.

It was indeed spectacular. It was also, of course, fake. A modern replica. A cheap imitation. The product of cold-blooded mimicry. The Crown had never hosted survivors of a potato famine any more serious than the kitchen running out of curly fries. But it didn’t matter. Not to the kind of people that visited New Meadows. The quaintness seemed genuine enough. The Guinness tasted real enough. It more than fulfilled the needs of its clientele to feel in touch with their ‘Irish roots’ – the one-sixteenth of their genes that came from somewhere near Europe – and that sufficed.

It sufficed for Conner also. It was not one of Conner’s dreams to visit a
real
Irish pub. It never really occurred to him. Trans-Atlantic travel was in fact very far from his thoughts as he sat at a table in the Crown, keeping a beer company, waiting for his guest to arrive. He was wearing his most recently washed jeans and his only remaining non-work shirt with a full complement of buttons. This constituted a noteworthy level of effort on Conner’s part, even if the result wasn’t going to win any Best Groomed Male of the Year – or Bar – awards.