Fireproof (11 page)

Denise nodded and blew Mike a kiss. He snatched it out of the air and put it in his pocket.

"I'll use that in Hell. Thank you, Denise."

Mike really had the crowd on the edge of their seats. Cathy was quite enjoying the show herself, but wasn't as hooked into it as the impressionable teens.

"Now folks, I am about to complete the final part of this one-off ceremony. Please listen to me and heed what I say.

"Tonight I will perform the one and only sacrifice that is required to mark the start of our movement. Worship is all that I want from the rest of you, worship and belief. This one sacrifice will give you something to believe in. Kids,
do not
try this at home."

Mike hopped like an oversized mountain goat onto the altar and kneeled. He took the unsheathed tanto in both hands and pressed the tip into his beer belly. The big muscles in his arms tensed. He was about to use the blade in its intended manner. Cathy wasn't the least bit surprised. Of course he was going to commit seppuku. What else would he do?

"Because I do not wish to complicate this legally, I will perform only the Hara-kiri element of this ancient Japanese ritual. I will not be beheaded by an assistant. Instead, I will die slowly and painfully. Those of you with a nervous disposition are going to have a bit of trouble sleeping tonight."

A real showman. Not a particularly tough illusion to pull off but he played it with style. Cathy leaned forward in her seat; waited for the fake blade to slide into the hollow handle.

Mike shoved the tanto into his stomach. Screams of horror filled the hall and many of the teenagers closed their eyes or turned away. Cathy stood up for a better view. Blood pattered on the altar and Mike grunted as he pulled the blade upwards. Very realistic. He didn't scream or even register the pain on his face. Most illusionists got carried away with hamming up their role. Not this guy.

The blade cut deep and the wound opened from his bellybutton to the middle of his stomach. Mike pulled upward again. Ropey lengths of intestine peeked out as the wound grew.
How did he do that?
Cathy thought. Mike let go of the tanto when it got to his sternum and grabbed the sides of his wound. His innards hit the table with a wet, squelching thump. The screaming intensified. Mike smiled.

"I'll be back, my friends." He bent at the waist and blood gushed from his mouth. Then he was still.

Cathy watched Tony as he walked to the centre of the stage and stood in front of the altar. He seemed calm. Jim had fainted.

"When you feel ready to do so," Tony said, "please leave the hall in an orderly fashion. The ceremony is ended. I will send out word when we establish a new venue. I'm pretty sure we won't be welcome here. John and Paddy, will you boys carry Jim outside for some air? Thanks."

Tony turned to Mike's body and put a hand on the back of the corpse's head. Then he pulled each curtain across one at a time, shielding the audience from the gory sight.

Cathy was almost convinced she'd witnessed a real suicide. The rest of the room believed it just fine. She stayed in her seat until the writhing crowd of youngsters pushed their way out of the building. She'd disappear when the rush died down.

Mike found himself alone in a waiting room. A mahogany coffee table straining under the weight of a thousand dog-eared magazines stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by empty chairs. Behind the glassy divide of the reception area sat two naked, humanoid, female demons. They filed their black talons on chalkboards. Mike thought them rather attractive. One of them subtly shone a sleek midnight blue. She had small breasts, an athletic frame and leathery wings. Her head, bald and smooth had an S&M gimp mask look to it. The second demon's body weighed in on the voluptuous side. Her dragon-like skin flexed red and scaly. She had no wings but a pair of twelve inch horns sprouted from her head, through a blonde mane of hair. Mike entertained some creative fantasies as he shifted the pile of intestines on his lap to a more comfortable position. He dripped various fluids all over the floor. The receptionists didn't seem to mind.

Mike didn't know why he was waiting. He gathered his insides in a painful bundle and looped them around his left arm. He walked to the receptionists' window and knocked it with his free hand. The midnight blue demon slid the glass panel open.

"Can I help you, Mike?" she asked. Her voice purred husky and sensual. As she spoke, a little cloud of white smoke spiralled from her mouth. Mike watched it rise before he answered.

"Yes, you can help me," he read the name plaque on her counter, "Barbara. I'd like to know what I'm waiting on and how long I can expect to wait."

"That sounds like a reasonable request, Mike. Can I get back to you?"

Mike sighed. "I guess so. Thanks for your help, Barbara. I'll be right over there."

"Okey dokey."

Mike sat and watched Barbara file her nails. It would probably be some time before she got back to him. To pass the time he thought about the day he died.

***

Paul Murphy threw the first punch. A huge big lump of a man shouldn't hit like a girl. In a moment of instantly regretted bravado, Mike told him so.

"Come on, Murphy. Put some back into it."

Mike had been tied to a chair. The chair sat in the middle of the dance floor in the upstairs nightclub run by The Beehive. A glance at Paul's gaudy, gold-plated watch told Mike the time. Six in the evening and he knew that the doors would be closed until the disco started at eleven. He would enjoy the company of the four heavies that surrounded him, undisturbed, for hours.

"You going to let Mike talk to you like that, Paul?" This came from Frankie.

Wee Frankie Watson used to be a jockey but was forced to leave the profession after a random drugs test. He had more speed in him than the horse. Weighing in at a mere eight stone, he had to work hard to make people respect him in the circles he now moved. His trusty collection of hunting knives helped. He carried at least four at any given time.

"Frankie," Mike said, "why don't you shut the fuck up? Children should be seen and not heard."

Frankie curled his moustached upper lip. He pulled a hunting knife from his belt and slashed Mike's face. Blood ran freely from the diagonal wound on his left cheek.

"They say chicks dig scars," Mike said through gritted teeth. "I'll ask what your wife thinks next time I shag her, in
your
bed."

Frankie raised the knife with murder in his eyes. A third man restrained his arm. He was of average height and build with a skinhead haircut and an untidy goatee that gave him a doglike appearance. Dave O'Brien, the only one in the room almost as intelligent as Mike. The others didn't come close.

"Don't, Frankie." Dave said, "Old Mike here is just trying to insult his way to a quick death. We've been told to make him suffer."

Fat Sean Phillips skulked in the background. The squeamish big bastard was only comfortable with a gun in his hand. This kind of torture wasn't his forte. As usual, he had nothing to say.

Dave, Paul, Frankie and Sean had abducted Mike from the corner of the bar downstairs. The lazy bastards had taken him upstairs instead of driving him to a secluded spot in the back of a van. Typical Belfast hit squad. They felt too untouchable to be bothered making an effort. Mike scanned their faces.

"I know all of you boys," Mike said "You better make a good job of this, because revenge will be sweet if you fuck up."

"Don't you worry about that, Mike," Dave said. "We're professionals."

Mike laughed. It was a cruel and mocking laugh that he had perfected for situations just like this one. It always had the desired effect. Dave's face went beetroot red and he clenched his fists. Mike's eyes gushed water as a punch landed on his nose. Paul had thrown it before Dave could move.

"Anybody else would have made my nose bleed with a free shot like that. What's wrong with you, Murphy?"

Dave sent Paul to the bar for a bottle of whiskey. He asked Frankie for a knife and pulled up a chair. He sat facing Mike with Frankie's hunting knife in his hand. Little Frankie and Fat Sean stood behind him, like spare pricks at an orgy.

"Mike, you need to shut your mouth. I'm sick of your shit."

"Let me go and I won't insult you ever again. I might even buy you a drink."

Dave drove the hunting knife into Mike's right thigh. Mike fought to hold back a scream. He clamped his teeth down on his lips, pinning them together and filling his mouth with blood. He swallowed and breathed again when the agony dulled to painful discomfort. The pain flared up when Dave yanked the blade back out but Mike held his composure. Mike wished O'Brien had nicked an artery. He'd heard bleeding to death felt a bit like getting pissed.

"Bring me that whiskey bottle, Paul," Dave said.

Paul handed his fearless leader the bottle. Black Bush, one of Mike's favourite brands. Dave took a swig from it and then spat it into Mike's face. It burned the wound in his cheek. Dave then poured a generous amount into Mike's lap. Painful but nothing compared to the stab. Mike easily resisted the urge to cry out.

"That's a waste of good drink, Dave," Mike said. "Somebody should tie
you
to a chair."

Dave took a drink from the bottle before he spoke. "You're funny, Mike. Funnier than a burning orphanage, but I think you'll lose that sense of humour before the night is out. Before Sean puts a bullet between your eyes, you'll be crying like a wee girl, and that's a promise."

Dave slapped Mike's wounded cheek. Hard. Mike saw black spots. Dave grabbed Mike's ears and shook his head to keep him alert. The bastard really was made for this. The sadistic fucker. Mike had to get under his skin.

"Frankie."

"Yes, Dave?"

"Have you calmed down a bit?"

"Yes."

"All right." Dave grabbed Mike's shirt and ripped it apart. Buttons skittered across the dance floor. "Carve your name into Mike's chest. Make it nice and deep."

Frankie smiled. Dave got up from the seat and Frankie took his place. He sheathed the hunting knife that Dave handed back to him and reached into his pocket again. He pulled out a canvas roll bag and opened it. Surgical tools neatly lined the pocketed material. He pulled out one of the biggest scalpels and waved it in Mike's face.

"I got these off eBay. I knew they'd come in handy tonight."

Mike tried to retreat to a quiet place in his mind. He managed to block out most of the pain, but the sickening splitting sound of his flesh parting under Frankie's blade cut through his meditation and nauseated him. Dave seemed to realise that Mike was cheating and went to the bar to pour a pint. He threw a full glass of Harp lager into Mike's face. Paul laughed. Sean skulked. Mike licked his lips.

"Could you do that again, Dave?" Mike said. "But make it a Guinness this time, will you?"

Dave moved to Mike's flank and smashed the empty glass into the back of Mike's head. Dave and Frankie cursed in unison, but Mike sucked up the pain.

"Fuck sake, Dave," Frankie said. "A big chunk of that glass just hit my cheek. You could have had my eye out!"

Dave said nothing.

"Sore hand there, Dave?" Mike asked.

Dave hit Mike with a left jab to the side of the head and then went behind the bar to pull shards of the pint glass out of his right hand. He washed the wound and found a fresh bottle of whiskey. He opened it and drank deep. Frankie got back to work after he had checked his face for cuts.

Mike knew he wasn't going to escape. The pain had become unbearable and he'd have to give in to the screams soon. He refused to give the bastards the satisfaction, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could control it. He would have to stoop to the lowest level.

"Hey Dave, I was the one that dug up your son's grave and pissed on his coffin."

Mike had done no such thing. The sacrilege was said to have been committed by a posse of grief-stricken relatives of one of Dave's victims. Nobody had ever claimed responsibility, and Dave had tried to cover up the incident as best he could to save some face. Mike was just one of those guys who heard things and remembered them when they seemed important. He hoped he'd found a way to a quicker death. It was the only thing he could hope to salvage from this situation.

Frankie stopped carving into Mike's chest and looked over his shoulder at Dave. Dave pulled a glass from under the bar and poured himself a very large shot of Black Bush. He opened the freezer and pulled out the ice bucket. He used an ice pick to break up the frozen clump of cubes and dropped a few chunks into his glass. He swirled the drink and ice rattled against the sides of the glass. The sound overwhelmed in the suddenly dead quiet room.

Dave's son had died in a car crash. Dave's alcoholic brother John was driving Dave junior home from a trip to the cinema. John had dumped a half bottle of vodka into his large diet coke to see him through the Disney double feature. On the way home he drove his Vauxhall Cavalier into a lamppost. Little Dave was in the front passenger seat without a seatbelt. He hadn't stood a chance.

John O'Brien was found face down in the River Lagan with his throat cut two weeks after the funeral.

Dave threw himself into his work after that. He became one of the most feared hitmen in the North. The Provos put him on their payroll and sourced him out all over the province. He'd committed some of the most notorious murders in the history of the troubles. A lucky risk taker, his hits were spectacular, but he never got caught. It was rumoured that he'd smuggled himself into Long Kesh Prison, killed a prominent UDA chief and escaped with a gang of tunnel digging Nationalists. Mike believed it was bullshit, but Dave never confirmed or denied it.