Dead of Winter (12 page)

O
vercoat wrapped to his ears, Karl sat huddled in the car and watched punishing slabs of grey rain battering the outside. The heater wasn’t working – hadn’t been since he left the car in to be repaired. He should have had it seen to when having the new rear window replaced after the shooting. Now he was paying for his neglect through chattering teeth and dripping nose.

The inside of the car was quickly becoming as cold as the
abattoir
when he had visited Geordie three days ago, discussing the information she’d uncovered about Tev Steinway.

From the glove compartment, Karl removed the security photo of Steinway, giving it another once-over for the umpteenth time.

‘Forgive the pun, Tev, but you’re built like a bloody bull. Would hate to piss you off.’

Steinway’s handsome face was leathery and weather-beaten, looking more like that of a seafaring man than butcher. His thick grey hair matched the grey eyes staring at Karl. The eyes gave
away nothing about what was going on behind them.

‘Despite your impressive size, you certainly don’t look like a killer,’ said Karl, a wry smile on his face, before placing the photo back in the compartment. ‘Of course, neither do most killers…’

This was the third consecutive night of sitting in the darkness and cold, watching for Steinway, and each night seemed to be stretching longer than the previous. Worse, there was no
guarantee
that Steinway would show; no guarantee of the Jewish
butcher
’s involvement, either. And what of Georgina Goodman? Was she to be trusted? As a betting man, he wouldn’t place too much money on the odds, preferring the bookie’s favourite: the M1911 Colt .45 automatic pistol, snuggling warmly in the inside pocket of his coat, just in case.

A stakeout at an abbatoir? Probably should rename it a
steak
-out
.

Unscrewing a thermal flask, Karl poured his fourth coffee of the night. He sipped it for the warmth. The liquid had gone to rot, tasting like foul ink.

Suddenly, a loud tapping at the window startled him, making him spill a goodly amount of the coffee onto his crotch area.

‘For fuck sake!’

A grinning face stared in at him.

‘What the hell are you doing!’ shouted Karl, staring back at the face, while cranking down the window. Almost immediately, the cold rain came rushing into the car, splattering his face.

‘Haven’t seen you about here before,
big
fella,’ replied the hooker, smiling. The rain was running off a battered umbrella in her hand and snaking down the sleeves of her jacket. She seemed immune to it. ‘I’m Joanie. You looking for a bit of warmth on this
ball-freezing night?’

‘Thanks, Joanie, but my balls are warm enough right now thanks to all that coffee you made me spill on them.’

‘Don’t be like that. Want someone to rub your magic lamp?’ continued Joanie, undeterred. ‘See what we can conjure
up
?’

‘My genie’s nice and snug,’ replied Karl, now noticing that Joanie was more of a Johnny, with muscularly chiselled facial features. The masculine voice only added to the peculiarity.

‘
Cum
on. Don’t be like that,’ coaxed Joanie. ‘How can I get you to change your mind, honey?’

Shaking his head, Karl said, ‘Honey, you aren’t wealthy enough, and I’m not desperate enough. Now, disappear before I forget my manners.’

‘Fuck you!’ shouted Joanie, spitting into Karl’s face.

‘Right. That does it!’ snarled Karl, quickly exiting the car. ‘I never hit a lady, but with you not being one, I’ll make an
exception
.’

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the unexpected hit him: a punch to the chin so hard that his head snapped violently back.

‘This lady don’t take shit from no faggot-arse thug,’ Joanie said, batting the umbrella perfectly perfectly across the bridge of Karl’s nose.

‘Fuck!’ Karl instinctively brought his hand up to his nose. It was bleeding.

‘I’m going to teach you how to respect a lady!’ Joanie aimed the umbrella like a spear, before thrusting it towards Karl’s left eye.

Barely managing to move out of the way, Karl balled his fist and connected awkwardly with Joanie’s forehead. She went
staggering 
backwards into a pile of discarded cardboard boxes stuffed with rotten fruit.

Down but not out, Joanie administered a spine-shattering kick to Karl’s balls, buckling him over like a flipped coin.

‘
Ohhhh
…’ moaned Karl, genuflecting to the ground like a monk saying matins.

Almost immediately, eager fingers began rummaging through his pockets. He felt his gun being removed from the inside of his coat.

‘Don’t you fucking move!’ shouted Joanie, pointing the gun at Karl’s petrified face. Her hands were shaking.

‘Take…take it easy. You don’t want to–’

‘This’ll teach you to disrespect me!’ Joanie pulled the trigger.
Click!
Nothing. She pulled the trigger again.
Click!
Same result.

‘Please…’ Karl pleaded.

‘Faggot!’ Joanie shouted, escaping into the darkness with the gun.

Minutes passed before Karl was able to stand, unsteadily, catching his breath, grateful for Joanie’s lack of understanding of guns; her inability to take the safety off.

Warding off vertigo with deep gulps of air, his head suddenly felt lighter. He quickly checked his pockets. Wallet gone too.

‘
Bastard
…’ he hissed, easing back into the car, gingerly
checking
that his nose wasn’t broken.

Less than ten minutes later, chalky headlights lit up the
interior
of the car, casting wilting shadows across Karl’s face. Then, just as suddenly, the darkness returned.

Karl watched the blue Merc halt at the security gate for a few seconds, before the barriers eased upwards, permitting entry.

Quickly leaving the car, Karl ran to the abattoir’s side entrance, and began working the key, given to him by Geordie, into the lock. It was proving stubborn.

A leprous rat watched Karl’s edgy manoeuvres, its yellow eyes making him even more edgy.

‘Scat!’
The rat quickly disappeared under a deep scar in the ground.

‘Come on!’
mumbled Karl to the reluctant key, cold and
adrenaline
making it almost impossible to negotiate the tiny cavity.

At last the key turned and the door opened.

Inside the massive grounds, he could hear guard dogs
barking
in the distance. The sound made his stomach do involuntary flip-flops, despite being assured by Geordie that the dogs were primarily trained not to attack, only to frighten off would-be thieves. He had a problem with the word
primarily
. Too
ambiguously
grey. He also had a problem no longer having a gun, and debated whether to cancel out tonight, in favour of some other night, hopefully a lot more favourable.

‘Fuck it. Get it over with…’

Making his way cautiously across the unruly expanse of tarmac and cement, he soon discovered there was little light, except what glowed from the tired moon silhouetting the different buildings into apocalyptic scenes of desolation and solitude. The night seemed to be closing in all around the abattoir, painting it darker and darker.

Just like Karl’s mood.

‘It can’t get any worse, surely?’
he mumbled, resisting the urge to use the pocket torchlight in his pocket, thankful that thieving Joanie hadn’t liberated that, as well. ‘
Where the hell
is the abandoned tunnel?’

The tension in his spine was horrendous. Every nerve in his body was tingling with adrenaline. He kept hearing Naomi’s voice questioning his actions.
And what about this Georgina Goodman? You don’t even know her. What if she’s setting a trap? You read the newspaper archives about her and her insane sister and father. I told you I had a bad feeling about this
…

Naomi’s dire forecast – balanced against the uncertainty of whatever waited ahead – wasn’t helping the situation. The need to maintain a calm demeanour was paramount if he was to see this through.

To his relief, the entrance to the abandoned tunnel came slowly into view. Covered in thick bushes and triffid-like weeds, he almost missed it.

‘
What a fucking dump
…’ he muttered, entering.

Only now did Karl yield to the necessity to use the torchlight. His anxious face was a pale spot framed by the fragment of
moonlight
sneaking in through the broken stones marshalled all along the makeshift tunnel – the one-time pathway leading to the back of the abattoir. It had remained idle for years, after the
crumbling
stonework had fallen, killing one of the workers making his way home on a Saturday afternoon. Always a favourite shortcut with the workers, it now remained unused and condemned. Too dangerous.

Old, corroded water pipes that ribbed the grey, peeling walls, hissed and spat in his face, blinding him periodically. He began sweating. Since the time of his mother’s murder, dark and
claustrophobic
spaces had always bothered him, and he was finding it extremely difficult to stay orientated or to regulate his breathing.

A crafty wind came suddenly rushing down the tunnel, carrying a medley of nauseating animal stenches. Manure, muck and dead blood all banded together along the slimy floor of the tunnel. Karl could taste it in his mouth. Extremely unpleasant, it gave off some kind of vibration, like a tuning fork punctuated by too much feel. He felt his stomach heave, but managed to control it with sheer willpower.

At last the side door leading to the main building came
mercifully
into view. A few seconds later, he was easing it open,
slipping
inside while extinguishing the light from the hand torch.

The building appeared empty of people, even though lights were flickering, shapeless and indistinct, through frosted glass. In the distance, soft sounds of machinery hummed quietly, in sharp contrast to its normal daily grind.

Quiet as a bloody tomb…

A succession of steps guided the way to the main floor, and Karl took them two at a time, silently, halting only to listen. His heart kept banging in his chest and eardrums.

Less than five minutes later, he stepped onto the deserted main floor, and quickly tried orientating his bearings, hoping to chart some sort of direction from his mind’s map.

Which way?

Moving carefully, he headed along a corridor leading to the large doors of the main floor, thankful now of Talbot’s ghastly tour. The doors opened automatically, waiting for him to enter.

It always baffled Karl – when watching the occasional horror movie with Naomi – how anyone could be so daft as to enter the haunted house. Any fool could see that nothing good would come of it. Yet, here he was, doing the exact same brainless action
– albeit on a bloodier scale.

He entered cautiously, expecting Vincent Price’s laughter to sound out, mocking him. Instead, he caught an unwelcome glimpse of the malevolent Slaughter Restraint lurking in the shadows. The huge device looked even more intimidating and appalling in diluted light. It seemed alive, like an enormous Venus flytrap waiting for a succulent victim to embrace.

Proceeding up the last flight of stairs in the direction of the room above the Slaughter Restraint, Karl suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, alerted by a noise directly overhead.

‘
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
…’ moaned a voice.

What the fuck?
Karl let his breath out carefully, so it couldn’t be heard.

The voice continued moaning. ‘
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
…’

The moaning became louder, more urgent. Had someone hurt themselves on one of the machines? One of the night staff,
perhaps
?

Debating whether to remain hidden or call out to the injured, Karl quickly realised he had no alternative other than to do the right thing.

‘Hello! Where are you? Give me some directions!’

Nothing. The moaning had stopped. All he could hear was his own breathing.

Moving cautiously up the staircase, he began using the
shadows
as cover, wishing he had his gun.

‘
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
…’ The moaning suddenly commenced again. The sound seemed to be quivering. It was coming from inside the room above the Slaughter Restraint.

‘Hello? Where are you?’

Deathly silence.

Just as he halted outside the door, Karl spotted a red runnel of thick liquid beneath, partially gathering in a pool. The
crimson
diffusion slithered to where he stood, touching the lip of his shoes like a swarm of squashed tadpoles.

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly began spiking. Something wasn’t right, and he was standing right in the middle of that something.

‘
Blood? Fuck
…’ he muttered, seconds before something hit him hard across the back of the head, turning all lights off in his dark and bloody world.

K
arl slowly awoke from a foggy stupor in a dimly lit room, feeling as weak as dead man’s piss. His throbbing head seemed to have been cleft open. He reached to touch the wound, only to discover that his hands were tied firmly behind his back.

A fractured mirror on the wall shockingly revealed that he was inverted, naked, hovering directly over the evil-looking
Slaughter
Restraint. His feet were secured at the ankles. A bloody rag filled his mouth, which was taped shut. The pupils of his eyes had gone bloodshot, resembling deep wounds. The scars of boyhood horror that covered his body looked like a giant map of the world in the dull light.

He shivered. A mixture of foreboding and cold. He had never felt so cold in all his life. A large wall clock ticked loudly in his upside-down world. With difficulty, he figured he had been unconscious for at least twenty minutes. Thirty at the most.

His eyes began scanning the room. Bulky blocks of foul-
looking
meat were pyramided in corners, wet with blood. A large metal counter in the centre of the room resembled an operating
table, pieces of newly hacked meat on top. Bloody utensils rested beside the chunks of meat. With sudden horror, Karl realised that the meat was human.

Three figures covered in bloody overalls and wearing facial masks stood a small distance away, mingling in the shadows, whispering. One glanced at Karl before touching the others, as if in a warning.

Seconds later, the same figure approached, stopping directly beside Karl before pressing a button ensconced in the wall.

Karl suddenly felt his body moving upwards, jostled by some unseen device. It sounded like rusted chain.

‘I’m going to take the rag from your mouth and ask you some questions,’ said the man, voice muffled, a serrated knife in his hand. ‘If you try and scream, I’ll gladly remove a finger. Lie, and I’ll remove something a lot more personal. Nod if you
understand
.’

The stench of the bloody rag was burrowing all the way to Karl’s stomach. He wanted to throw up. It was difficult nodding upside-down. He did his best.

‘Good,’ said Knifeman, ripping the tape off, before removing the bloody rag.

‘
Arghhhhhhhhhhhh!
’ Karl felt as if his lips had been torn from his face. He quickly began sucking in great gulps of air, choking on its taste.

‘Why have you no ID?’ asked Knifeman, pressing the knife against Karl’s nose.

Knifeman had young eyes. Untested by the world. The kind of eyes that made Karl nervous.

‘I…it was stolen from me, less than an hour ago. I was
attacked by a woman.’ Karl suddenly became aware of the
mutilated
corpse, several feet away, brains squeezed from the skull like puréed strawberries. The corpse’s bloody face seemed to be
looking
straight at him, a resigned smirk on its face.

‘Attacked, by a
woman?’
snarled Knifeman, mockingly.

‘I meant a man. A man stole it from me. A cross-dressing
prostitute
.’

‘Very original.’ Knifeman began pressing a smaller button on the wall.

Karl immediately felt his body being slowly lowered into the Slaughter Restraint. A sound of steel clanging, and he was jerked roughly to the side. His battered head banged against metal. He began moving in slow motion, rotating at an awkward angle like a hog on a spit, bringing him closer and closer to the face of the corpse anchored below.

‘What…what’re you doing?’ Karl tried controlling the panic in his voice.

Knifeman said nothing, all the while continuing to rotate Karl’s body.

Karl was certain the tiny stepping-stones of his spine were
popping
out from their enclosure.

‘Fuck!’
He began gritting his teeth. The pain was becoming unbearable.

For twenty long seconds Karl’s battered body rotated, then stopped. His nose was touching the corpse’s head. The dead man’s skin felt rubbery and damp, making Karl shudder. Ears were missing from the face, along with parts of the right cheek. A horrible jigsaw face.

In his mind, Karl started replacing the missing parts of the
fleshy puzzle. When he was done, there was little doubt in his mind that the bloody head had once rested on the shoulders of Thomas Blake.

Almost immediately, a warm reek of bile sat in Karl’s throat like a piece of badly swallowed apple. He wanted to throw up again.

Knifeman’s hands suddenly grasped Karl’s head, positioning it in a half-moon clasp.

Karl immediately thought of a guillotine. Tried struggling. No use. His head eased backwards, exposing his neck. Talbot’s grisly words rushed at him: They cut the cow’s throat with a great big bloody knife called a
hallaf
.

Panicking, Karl began squirming like a worm on the end of a line. Without warning, a set of wooden vice-like clamps squeezed tightly against his head and body, stopping all movement.

‘Bastards! Filthy murdering bastards! You’ll not get away with this!’

‘If you scream again, I’ll punish you in such a way you’ll never want to scream again,’ said Knifeman, calmly, running a hand smoothly over Karl’s exposed neck. Knifeman could easily have been a barber, carefully checking the facial terrain of one of his regulars. ‘I’ll ask you one more time. Why have you no ID?’

‘I’ve already told you the fucking truth, you sick bastard! It was stolen from me!’

Knifeman reached for Karl’s hand. ‘First, I’m going to remove your index finger…’

‘No! It’s the truth!’ exclaimed Karl, trying desperately to ball his hand into a protective shell. ‘Outside the abattoir I was accosted and–’

‘How many others have you brought with you?’

‘Others…? There are no others. I’m…I’m on my own. I swear.’

‘Liar. You’d swear your mother’s life away,’
hissed Knifeman, finally securing one of Karl’s fingers.

‘I’m a private investigator, for fuck sake!’ shouted Karl, feeling the coldness of the knife on his index finger.

‘I warned you not to lie!’

Just as Karl waited for his finger to be chopped, another man emerged from the shadow. Even though most of the man’s face was masked, Karl suspected it was Tev Steinway.

‘Wait!’ commanded Steinway’s muffled voice, directing his stare at Karl. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Kane…Karl Kane…’

‘Kane?’ A flicker of recognition seemed to appear in Steinway’s penetrating eyes. ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

‘Why would I lie? My car’s parked in the wasteland, at the side of the abattoir. You can’t mistake it. It’s a silver Ford Cortina GT, originally used in “The Sweeney” TV show. You can’t miss it. Take my keys. They’re inside my coat pocket.’ Karl gritted his teeth. His back felt ready to snap. ‘Go check the glove compartment. You’ll find a load of my business cards and some other scraps of ID.’

Steinway seemed to be weighing up Karl’s words. He waited a few seconds before speaking to Knifeman. ‘Take his keys. See what you can find.’

‘He’s lying. Can’t you see he’s just stalling for time? He’s after the blood money.’

‘What blood money?’ asked Karl, hoping his face didn’t betray him.

‘The twenty thousand pounds,’ said Knifeman. ‘Stop
pretending
not to know. We’re not fools.’

Karl’s mind instantly separated into two camps of thought – deceitfulness and truth – before finally opting for the latter.

‘Look…I’ll admit at the start of this investigation, money
was
the motive–’

‘I told you!’ exclaimed Knifeman, looking directly at the other two men. ‘What more do we need to know?’

‘Go and find his car,’ instructed Steinway to Knifeman. ‘Bring back anything of importance. Make sure you are not seen –
by anyone
.’

Mumbling under his breath, Knifeman glared at Karl for a few seconds, before quickly leaving the room.

A fucking psychopath
, thought Karl, glad to see the back of the mad bastard.

‘If you
are
lying to us, stalling for time, it will be all the worse for you,’ said Steinway. His voice had a commanding calm.

The calm before the storm
, thought Karl, trying to angle his neck, hoping for a better view of Steinway.

‘Why
were
you spying on us?’ said the third man, speaking for the first time. Directly above his left eyebrow, the man had a small but deeply rooted scar.

To Karl, the scar resembled a pitted star.

‘I’ve already told you. I’m a private investigator. When your friend comes back, he’ll confirm everything I said.’

‘You’d better hope he does,’ said Starman. ‘Luckily for you, we found no trace of certain tattoos on your skin. If we had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

‘You mean eighty-eight?’ replied Karl, seeing from the reaction
in Starman’s eyes that he had probably hit pay dirt – though admittedly more dirt than pay.

‘What do you know about the numbers?’

‘Nothing, other than the fact they’ve been on the hands of victims discovered in and around the city.’

‘I wouldn’t use the word
victims
when describing filth.’ Starman’s voice sounded agitated. ‘Now, we need you to remain quiet, until we find out a little bit more about you.’

It was forty long minutes later when Knifeman finally returned, a bunch of papers held tightly in his right hand. He looked less than pleased.

‘I found these.
Cheap
business cards,’ said Knifeman, handing them to Steinway. ‘Unpaid parking tickets and crumpled-up betting dockets. But other than that, no photo ID confirming his name. He also had
this
, hidden in the glove compartment.’

It was the photo of Steinway given to Karl by Geordie.

Almost immediately, Steinway began whispering into
Knifeman
’s ear. Seconds later, Knifeman produced a mobile phone and took a photo of Karl’s face.

The stench of the place was finally getting to Karl. He needed to throw up. Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, the pain in his back began intensifying.

‘My fucking back’s breaking!’

‘Shut up!’
hissed Knifeman.

Less than a minute later, the mobile phone sounded loudly in the hushed room, making Karl jerk as if tapped with an electric cattle prod.

Knifeman glanced at the mobile’s screen before showing it to the other two men.

‘Who gave you this?’ asked Steinway, holding the photo close to Karl’s face.

‘I…I stole it when I was searching about in the office, a few weeks ago. No-one even knows it’s missing. I can put it back just as easily.’

‘You’re not a very good liar, Mister Kane. Did Mrs Goodman give it to you? Or was it Talbot, the foreman?’

‘I already told you–’

‘What you already told was a lie. Don’t compound it with another, please, even if it is commendable that you think you’re protecting your source. Now, what’s Mrs Goodman’s
involvement
?’

Karl let out a sigh before answering. ‘She’s not involved in
anything
, other than trying to save her business. She just wanted me to check that everything was above board with
all
her clientele, that none of them were breaking the law. I’m sure you’re aware of the history of this place, and her father and sister, what they did?’

Steinway nodded. ‘Yes, it’s public knowledge: all the killings Mrs Goodman’s father was involved in before he himself was killed.’

‘Then you’d agree that the last thing she would want is a prying private investigator like me bringing any undue attention to this bloody place? She asked me to check, and then get out of her life and abattoir for good.’

‘That sounds feasible, if somewhat convenient.’ Steinway glanced over at Starman.

‘What guided you here in the first place, Mister Kane?’ asked Starman.

‘I’d like to boast it was brilliant brain-storming, but it was
nothing more than a hunch. I decided to give it a try to see what I could discover, clearly wishing now I hadn’t.’

‘What exactly
did
you discover?’

‘The more I found out about the…’ Karl almost said victim, but quickly substituted the word. ‘…
owner
of each hand, the less inclined I became to find those behind the dismembering.’

‘Even though you discovered what scum they were, you don’t approve. I can tell by your voice,’ said Starman. ‘Perhaps you think everything is black and white? People like you, Mister Kane, can never truly understand that life is sometimes made of grey, and ruled by the past.’

‘I understand the darkness of grey, perhaps more than you do. But I’ve also learnt from the past that a blood-trail is a stain easily created but damn hard to erase.’

‘He’s saying what he thinks we should hear, just to stall for time!’ exclaimed Knifeman, becoming more agitated. ‘Don’t you see? He’ll do anything to get the blood money.’

‘I’ve already admitted that the money was the motivation at the start of this investigation.
Was
. Past tense.’

‘And now?’ asked Steinway.

‘You see these scars covering my body?’ said Karl directly to Steinway and Starman. ‘Want to know the story behind them?’

‘No!’
hissed Knifeman.
‘We have no interest in–’

‘Let him speak,’ said Steinway, his calming voice once again taking control. ‘Go on, Mister Kane. I was more than slightly curious about them, I have to admit.’

‘My mother was raped and murdered when I was eight,’ said Karl, his voice almost a whisper. ‘I was stabbed over twenty times, and left for dead by the same monster. These scars are a daily
reminder of what he did. Each time I look at them, I see him, grinning, warning he’d be back to finish the job.’

Steinway looked totally shocked at the revelation.

‘Years later, as an adult,’ continued Karl, ‘I had the chance to avenge my mother’s murder by killing the man responsible. I didn’t take it. Had I done so, two young girls wouldn’t have been brutally raped and murdered by the monster a few days later.’