Fireproof (4 page)

"Food's almost ready," John said.

"Good." Cathy took the drink from John's hand. She took a gulp from the large glass. John watched her, and she refused to flinch. "That hit the spot."

"Excellent, I like a woman with a good appetite."

He was fishing for more innuendo. Cathy didn't bite. She sniffed at the air. "I think I smell something burning."

"Fuck."

John ran into the kitchen. A loud clatter and a lot of colourful language informed her John had his hands full. Cathy decided to make her move. She had planned to do it after they'd eaten, but she didn't want to taste what she could smell, especially now that half of it was probably on the floor. Knife in hand and heart in throat, Cathy went to the kitchen.

John scrabbled about on his hands and knees. Lumps of cabbage were scooped from the floor and thrown onto a cracked plate. An overcooked steak that looked a bit grey slid down one of the walls. It left a greasy trail on the paint. Cathy couldn't imagine how he could have made such a mess in one go. He was too busy to notice her at the kitchen door.

"Hey. What happened in here, John?"

"What does it fucking look like, you daft bitch?"

He had a point; the food and broken plates were a bit of a giveaway. It was still no reason to be rude. "Get on your feet, you smelly little pudding."

John looked up at Cathy with an aggressive expression that quickly faded when he saw the knife she brandished. He didn't look scared, just uncertain.

"What are you going to do with that?"

"I'm going to cut your throat, John."

"Is this some weird sex game or something? If it is you're getting a bit too kinky for my taste. I'd rather get right down to business. If you think you'll get me into a rubber mask you can forget that right now."

"John, I really am going to kill you."

"Why?"

"I'm exploring some new career opportunities. It's nothing personal… actually, that's not true. It's quite personal this time. But my future projects, the paying ones, won't be personal. Tonight, I'm just cutting my teeth. Learning the ropes. It's been remarkably easy so far."

She'd expected him to act like the classic bully and break down into tears at the threat of her knife. He surprised her. But his attempt to defend himself with his own attack didn't work out well for him. As he jumped to his feet and charged at her, he slipped on a stray leaf of cabbage, went down hard onto his back and cracked his head on the tiled floor. Blood seeped across the floor, neatly collecting in the grout lines, but he held onto consciousness. Cathy approached him with caution. One move and he was a stuck pig.

"That must have sucked," Cathy said.

"Get away from me." John's voice strained. He'd been hurt in the fall and was in no shape to put up a fight. Cathy was careful not to kneel in the blood from his head injury as she lowered herself to slash his throat. Before she could put steel to flesh, the tendons in John's neck tensed and his face went crimson. He pawed at his left arm.

"Are you having a heart attack?"

John made a choked sound through clenched teeth but was unable to form any understandable words. His eyes begged her to help him.

"You inconsiderate little shit." Cathy was not amused. "You've ruined this whole experience."

She stood up and watched him die. A truly dull display. The redness faded from his face and his eyes watered. As they floated in their watery sockets they fixed on Cathy's in panicked desperation and then glazed over. His right hand stopped stroking his left arm and his chest hitched once. There was no death rattle. This further disappointed Cathy. She had always wanted to hear a death rattle, and considering the effort she'd made for the evening, she felt she deserved one.

Now Cathy didn't know where she stood with her training. Technically, if she had not called to his house that night, John might have lived for another while, but she still didn't feel that she could take credit for his death. She hated him even more for that. He'd spoiled her opportunity.

With any luck, he'd rot for a few weeks before anyone bothered to look for him.

Her thoughts turned to the bottle of Chardonnay chilling in the fridge at home. She left by the front door. Nobody saw her leave. The sun had only just slipped away. Plenty of time for a nice glass of wine and an early night.

When Cerberus stopped using his head as a chew toy, Mike found himself back on the leather armchair, in the apartment across the street from The Beehive. Everything was just as he had left it. Which meant that he now had a dead body to get rid of. His last incarnation lay on a blanket of congealed blood. The right hand was missing and the neck ended in a tattered mess. His old, decapitated head lay a couple of feet away from the rest of the body and looked up at him with glassy eyes. The smell of corrupting flesh was still bearable, but only just. He needed to dispose of the empty vessel immediately. Such an inconvenience.

First things first; Mike went to the bathroom to check out the new body in the mirror. The face wasn't as handsome as the last one, but on the upside, he was pretty big. Standing at about six foot four, his shoulders were broad and his arm muscles well defined. He had the look of a real leader. Not too handsome to intimidate but friendly looking and big enough to make people feel safe in his company. He had a bit of a beer gut, but this seemed to add to the homeliness of his new appearance. He felt confident and powerful. This could be the body that would head his movement.

His self-assessment in the bathroom complete, Mike had his first real look about the apartment. It was a standard two bedroom layout, but Mike wasn't particularly interested in how many bedrooms he had or the brand names of the white goods in his kitchen. He was more intent on what tools he might find that would help him dispose of the body. All he could turn up was a very small handsaw and a couple of canvas holdalls. Fitting a large body into small bags was neither easy nor clean, so he dragged the corpse to the tiled bathroom floor and got to work.

***

Four hours later, Mike stood in the shower. The hot water massaged his aching muscles as it washed away the fleshy gore-chunks stuck to his skin. It had been very hard work, but in a way, Mike felt refreshed. Manual labour affected him that way. The aches and pains, the dirty, callused hands, the bone weariness, all added to the sense of achievement felt from a job well done. Not only had he neatly hacked up his former self, but he had mopped up the mess in the bathroom and tried to lift the stains from the carpet in the living room. The carpet cleaning had not been a complete success, but with any luck, he had done enough to combat the odour of death that had seeped into the place. Time would tell. At its most innocent, the stain that remained could as easily pass for a spilt bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Well, maybe three or four bottles.

The shower was a great place to think. Thoughts of a new furniture layout that might suit having the sofa placed over the wine stain were soon pushed aside as plans for the first positive step towards his new religious movement began to formulate. West Belfast wasn't just the most convenient place to start but it was also a great microcosm for the rest of the North of Ireland. He lived within walking distance of St Mary's Teaching College. The Royal Victoria Hospital sprawled over its grounds just across the street from St Mary's. Grammar schools, secondary schools and primary schools were numerous and the unemployment rate soared. Each morning, professionals and students stood side by side at the many bus stops dotted along the Falls Road. Pensioners roamed the streets in packs during the day and teenagers took over the street corners at night. He had access to a varied audience and it was just a matter of deciding which group to approach first.

By the time he stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself up in a towel, he had made his decision. He would start with the Hoods.

The Hoods were the scum of West Belfast. Close to every one of them dressed in Burberry check, sportswear and hooded top combinations. Car stealing, cider drinking, dope using, cocaine snorting, contraband cigarette smoking, petty thieving, foul mouthed, hairy lipped smartarses, the lot of them. They would be a challenge as they resisted everything. The cops couldn't control them, vigilantes were getting nowhere, the Provisional IRA had agreed not to kneecap them anymore -- as part of the terms of their decommissioning -- and the little bastards seemed to be multiplying. If he could get them on his side, then the rest of the community would have no choice but to take notice.

After he dried off and hunted in his wardrobe for some suitable attire, he realised he would have to go for a bit of a shop. What little clothes he could find were much too small for his new body. There wasn't even a baseball cap in the apartment. That would never do.

To get back in touch with his environment, Mike elected to walk into the city centre instead of hopping on a bus or flagging a black taxi. The feel of a fat wallet in the back pocket of his too tight, too short trousers made him strut. He had found cash, stashed in his bedside cabinet, while he was hunting for some hoodlum fashion accessories. The wad of notes he'd uncovered was about four inches thick. He didn't bother counting. Instead, he peeled off a number of twenties and jammed them in an old leather wallet he'd found in the sock drawer. It would be enough to buy him what he needed.

The sun warmed Mike's neck as he made his way down the Falls Road. He felt happy and calm as he took in the sights. Six Pilipino nurses walked ahead of him; their beautiful dark skin emphasised by the crisp clean white of their uniforms. They spoke to each other in their upbeat language and laughed at regular intervals. Mike was amused to discover that he could understand them.

"The dirty old man keeps finding an excuse to show me his bits and pieces."

"He's crazy."

"I couldn't believe it when he peed in that potted plant yesterday. The old lady in the bed next to it got quite a shock. Lucky she has no vocal cords. She used to smoke."

"It doesn't seem like normal behaviour does it?"

"Oh well, I'm not going to be the one to tell a doctor to pull his trousers up. I've seen enough in my time and his little thing isn't going to haunt my dreams."

The nurses burst into another spell of laughter and then went into a little café on the left. Mike was a bit disappointed to lose the entertainment.

He crossed the road to get a better look into Dunville Park as he walked by. A crowd of sixteen-to-nineteen-year-olds sat on the grass, drinking white cider from the bottle and smoking cigarettes. They cackled as the alpha male made fart-noises with his hand in his armpit. To finish off his sophisticated comedy routine, he stood in front of one of the skinny, teenaged girls in the group, turned his back on her and pulled down his white tracksuit bottoms. She shrieked and instinctively tried to push him away.

"She touched it," he squawked as he pulled up his trousers. "The dirty bitch touched my bare arse."

"Fuck off." The girl's voice cracked as she tried not to cry.

"You're a dirty whore, you're a dirty whore." His cruel little song made the others in the group visibly uncomfortable.

"That's not on, Jim," said one of the other boys in the group. He stood up and pushed the comedy genius. "You can't act like that in front of a wee girl."

Jim pushed him back and the hero caught him with a wild haymaker. The others started to chant, "Fight, fight, fight, fight." Jim tried to land a punch but the other guy had the advantage of furious indignation. He fought like a wild animal, mounted Jim as they went to the ground and pounded his face without mercy.

Mike watched from the footpath until Jim screamed for his mother, the police, and then God himself to save him. The new alpha male relented, got to his feet and went to the harangued maiden to ask her if she was okay. She kissed him on the cheek and thanked him. Jim picked himself up with great effort and apologised to both of them. He offered his half-full bottle of cider to the hero, who shared it with his new lady. A new order had been established and Jim would have to eat shit and grin.

The show ended and Mike moved on. The kids in Dunville Park could well become his first audience. But not before he was ready.

***

The first shop that Mike visited had almost everything he needed. It was a little unit in the Castlecourt Shopping Centre called Lifestyle Sports. He purchased a baseball cap, a green and white striped football top, a tasteless Adidas tracksuit, complete with the obligatory hooded jacket, and a pair of gaudy Nike running shoes. The girl at the counter asked him if he needed a few pairs of white socks to go with his ensemble and he thanked her kindly. She had quite an eye for detail. He went to the changing room and donned his new garments before he continued his spending spree. It felt good to be in clothes that actually fit. The Incredible Hulk look had drawn too much attention.

What he couldn't buy in the sports shop, he was able to procure in the Half Price Jewellers on Anne Street. He picked a hash leaf pendant on a thick chain and a chunky identity bracelet, as well as four sovereign rings; each piece was nine carat gold, and a wonderful deal at only half price. As the girl on the cash till behind the security glass started to pack up Mike's purchases, he asked her to just give him the gold without the boxes as he intended to wear it on his way home. She looked at him with approval as he put on the fourth ring. On his way out of the shop, he stopped at one of the mirrors and checked out his new image. He was the definition of style.