Fletcher (7 page)

Not a snowball’s chance in fiery Fucksville.

I’d been to the shelters once, late at night, while following a lead. The dogs had barked incessantly, which helped drown out the sounds of drinking and revelry on the basement level. They hadn’t liked my attitude. I hadn’t liked the way their fingers weren’t all broken.

The shelter was not responsible for Cartwright. Im-fucking-possible. Their enforcers couldn’t organise a shanking in a shiv warehouse. I arranged my collected pages in order from least to most worn and started to read.

Several unique phone numbers could be made out. I called them, sequentially, and noted who answered.

“You’ve reached the Arcadia Retirement Home Reception.” Hang up.

“Hi! You reached NutCase Repairs. Our operating hours are between—” Hang up.

An automated phone sex number, a laundry service and a local grocery store were the next three most recent scribbles. Cartwright clearly had a habit of transferring numbers from the computer to the pad before dialling them.

God, old people are inefficient.

I wasn’t actually complaining this time. I spent some time dialling around the options of the phone sex line—not that I liked her voice, God no, it was ghastly—to see if there were any less-legal services hidden in the system, but it seemed clean. I circled NutCase and the laundry for further investigation before taking the right pills and wiping out on my sheets.

I woke several times, sprawled awkwardly and uncomfortably, before mind-staggering back to sleep in a shadow-slurred haze. My mind was restless and didn’t like to idle.

#0799

“It’s times like these that I wonder if there’s some statistical sweet spot of hostages murdered vs. hostages brutally maimed.”

10: Welcome to Salem

I finally woke into a rare hallucination. They happen occasionally. My brain spends so much time playing jump rope with reality that it occasionally forgets which gear to start in. There was a cracking, scraping noise, and I tracked the movement of some nameless creature behind the tiles on the wall, which bubbled and writhed at its passing. A skitter-chittering of rats could be heard, but with the deeper timbre of a far larger beast. Eventually concrete and tiling began to crack and fall, and two clawed, ivory bone-paws reached through. The creature was soon to follow.

It was a massive, skeletal rat, sporting bleached, hollow eye sockets and a fleshless grin. The spine clicked as it leaped onto the back of my chair. The tail wrapped around one of the stiles, and it spoke.

“I Am Not A Metaphor.”

Its voice carried the wails and screams of all my victims. The rat sprang onto my face and began to crawl down my throat, before my brain decided to reboot and give reality another shot.

I blinked and licked my lips, the feeling of bone sliding over my skin already a bizarre and imagined memory. I looked at the time on the bedside clock and decided not to bother trying to sleep again. Four hours was enough.

I rolled out of bed and showered up before grabbing breakfast. I had an hour—at least—before I could make those calls, so I spent the time catching up on small details I often overlooked. I clipped my nails—not too short—and flossed meticulously before shaving, twice. The first pass-over was with the grain, while the second was against it for the best finish. I then took another shower, this one cold, to soothe my skin. Finally—dried, spotless and in fresh clothes—I enjoyed my new smoothness with the tips of my fingers. It was an hour and a half of simple, refreshing self-maintenance (Kaintenance?). It felt well deserved.

My first call was to NutCase Repairs. I dialled it from Alastor’s phone, and was answered by an angry voice.

“For the last time, Mr Cartwright, I don’t know who ticked you off but it wasn’t us. Please stop calling, because this is bordering on harassment.”

And then, after a few seconds of silence from me, he continued. “Mr Cartwright?”

“Hi,” I started, trying to sound congenial. “Sorry to bother, my grandfather’s just been suffering from some memory loss lately and I was calling all his recent numbers to try see if I could find anything out.”

The voice at the other end deflated. “Oh my. I didn’t know Alastor had any family. I’m very sorry to hear that. Is he okay?”

“We’re taking it day by day, but we’re hoping for the best. He has a fiery soul, that man. A real fighter. Would you mind helping out? By the sounds of it, you’ve chatted to my grandfather before, Mr…”

“Call me Jake, please. We received a bunch of calls from your grandfather a few weeks back, actually. Telling us to show some respect and keep some professionalism or something. He worked at that big glass place—they keep us on retainer for general building maintenance—and apparently some of our men were running some loud repairs or something there. It definitely wasn’t us, so it must have been a private tenant doing some work. He just assumed it was NutCase, I guess, and was too lazy to investigate it further. Accused us of “shirking responsibility”, quote-unquote.”

I forced a chuckle. “That’s my grandfather all right. Got amazing ears, could hear a moth sneeze in a thunderstorm. Sorry to take up your time, but do you know if he saw or talked to anyone? Any of your men. I mean, the men he thought were your men, of course.”

“Apparently he saw them coming in and out. There was nothing we could really do other than lodge a note with the body corporate and hope that they’d look into it. Alastor can get pretty riled up, I’ll tell you that. He was talking about lawyers and everything. How is this a legal matter at all?” He suddenly remembered he was talking about my memory-incontinent grandfather. “Um, no disrespect, of course.”

“No, no, not at all,” I assured. “He could definitely get worked up over small things. Do you know if he talked to any lawyers?”

“Can’t say I do. It was the last we heard of him, actually, so I’m guessing the body corporate got to the bottom of it.”

“Looks that way. Look, I know you’re probably not supposed to, but could you maybe, possibly give me a list of the trustees you called?”

“Emailed, actually. Best to get these things in writing.”

“Of course. So could you? It’s just been so tough on all of us ever since…” I reached around for a plausible mental condition but pulled a blank and just ended up petering off pitifully. Fortunately, it was exactly the right course of action to take.

“Sure! Anything to help. Just don’t go misusing them, alrighty?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Let me just find the email, could you hold a sec?”

I snatched up a notepad and got ready.

“You still there?” he asked after half a minute.

“Yep, fire away.”

“So I sent this email off on the third of last month. It was sent to Paula Cockburn—she’s the managing agent, see—as well as Sam Stortz and… Oh, don’t worry about the last one.”

I paused for a second. “Pardon?” I asked in my most innocent tone.

“Don’t worry about the last one. Was sent to poor Mr Rourke, God rest him. Nasty business all of that. Makes you really think, you know? Like, could any of us just snap like that?”

Four years ago, I had spent two weeks narrating my life with the help of several skulls repurposed as puppets. I hadn’t gone crazy, but I’d just failed to find a reason not to do it. If Jake considered a simple murder-suicide as a nasty business, I pitied his imagination.

“Oh, I don’t know Jake. I like to think people are good deep down. Made in God’s image and all that. Could I possibly get all three addresses? Every little detail helps.” My simpering tone was beginning to grate my own ears.

He sniffed, and I could hear him jolting out of his musings.

“Sure, sure. Anything to help. It’s paula-dot-c, that’s the letter, at brown-dash-brown-dash-agents-dot-com, s-stortz-zero-four, that’s ess-ess-tee-oh-arr-tee-zee, at flashmail-dot-com, and finally john-dot-rourke, with an e on the end, at railtech-dot-org. Got all that?”

I hung up. I didn’t need anything else from him. I called the laundry briefly, with the same cover story, and was told that my grandfather’s shirts had been ready for over a month.

“Oh, it’s the memory thing, see? I’ll come get them this afternoon”, I lied. There didn’t seem to be anything useful there. I hung up and turned back to my notebook.

[email protected]

The connections between Rourke and Cartwright were stacking up. I had no idea when Cartwright had been murdered, but the decomposition put the ballpark at around a month ago. Alastor and John had probably been murdered in the same week. Upon comparing the dates, I could see that the email had been sent three days before Rourke’s murder-suicide. I wrote all onto a white board, drawing a connective diagram with John at the centre. Rourke, RailTech, Cartwright.

Tingle, tingle, tingle.

I put together a fake email account—[email protected]–and sent an email to Paula. I used the same cover, and asked if anything had been investigated. Several minutes later I got a response.

To whom it may concern.

We at Brown & Brown are very sorry to hear about your grandfather’s troubles. We tried to contact him after he stopped coming into work, but were unable to do so. Unfortunately, there was no investigation into his complaints towards NutCase Repairs. It was totally overshadowed by the unfortunate incident in flat 202 with Mr and Mrs Rourke.

We wish Alastor the very best in his recovery.

Paula Cockburn, Managing Agent

Brown & Brown Agents

Who had Cartwright seen? I assumed they were repairmen or, at the least, were doing some repair-esque work on the building. I wondered if, and how, it tied into Rourke. I was still thrown by the bizarre blend of brutality and intelligence that had gone into the old man’s murder.

I need the green eyes on this one.

I took some photos of my work and went to get my bags. I had one or two experiments to run before the evening.

***

As the sun dipped, I headed towards the Midnight Hour. Valerie accosted me at the door, refreshing my senses with the scent of torched skin. She was decked out in tight black garb, her face daubed with red occult symbols. I knew better than to ask if it was her blood. She wrapped her arms around me and slurred into my ear.

“Welcome to Salem. We’ve been expecting you.”

‘Sah-lem’. It wasn’t the alcohol, nor was it the
witchery
. She mispronounced it because she knew how much it rankled me. I pulled my nails—still a little rough from the morning’s clipping—over her fresh burn marks and satiated myself on the quick gasp.

“Be nice,” she continued. “Dante got his hands on a fresh batch of
witchery
. If you’re nice to me, I’ll share… Be nice.”

I continued the hug until I’d removed the smile from my face.
Witchery
was notoriously hard to get hold of, but fantastically fun. The synaesthesia was just the tip of the iceberg; the drug hijacked the skin’s heat receptors and transmuted the reaction into a cascade of endorphins. Warmth became a wave of satisfaction; cigarette burns precipitated into climax.

You could always tell a
witchery
addict by the burn marks. Valerie was in control, but fresh red welts always sprang up whenever she got her hands on a new batch. She loved her
witchery
almost as much as she loved her morphine.

We disengaged and she grabbed my hand. I could feel hot spots all over her nimble fingers. Surprisingly forceful, she yanked me past the bouncers and to the bar. Dante winked at me.

“You’re not in theme, sweetheart. Welcome to Salem.”

That’s how it’s pronounced.

“Sweetheart?” I laughed. “Please, Dante. You’ve seen me operate.”

Valerie spun around—back now leaning against the bar—and grabbed my lapel. Another forceful tug, and I was inches away from her face. Our teeth bared in unison, and she pulled my lips into hers.

Her tongue extended and I felt a sweet strip begin to dissolve on my own. Payload delivered, she snaked back and smirked at me.

“I was lying. You don’t need to be nice for me to share.”

Sly cun—

—the first part of
witchery
kicked in quickly. A faint echo started up in my ears, and a fresh surge of heat made it to my face. I could feel the blood pulse in my cheeks, and my vision twitched to the beat. Valerie’s hand—wrapped in mine again—felt exquisite, the flowing notes of her skin punctuated by the high floriations of the burns. I trailed my fingers across the counter, adding a deeper tone to the experience.

Dante pushed two drinks towards us. He brought a lighter to one, but I raised a finger to stop him—the second effect of
witchery
would take a while to kick in.

Five minutes later I was pouring the flaming liquor down my throat. I’d regret it tomorrow, but for the moment it felt heavenly.

Valerie tried to drag me onto the dance floor, but I stopped her and motioned towards my backpack. She pressed a key into my hand and waltzed off. I passed through the Wasp Gallery and into her private quarters.

Taking note of the discarded lighter cartridges strewn everywhere, I nestled my backpack in the space between her bed and the wall. From its folds I drew a meat cleaver—red from the experiments of the earlier evening—and dropped it in the sink. I’d explain it to her later. I paid the ward a visit—devoid of patients, but stocked up on burn cream and gauze. A young man sat by the window, smoking and staring into the night. He hadn’t noticed me.

“First time?” I asked, foregoing introductions.

He twitched at my words, but said nothing. It was enough.

“Guessed as much,” I continued. “Valerie is out to get broken tonight, so you’re going to be flying solo. Here’s some advice.”

He turned around while drawing deeply on his cigarette. “I’m listening.”

“Play safe over sorry. If you think you might have to restrain someone, do it. People don’t sue here, they just take
angel-rage
and try to bite your ears off. Valerie keeps the ketamine and the morphine syrettes in that closet there. Always keep a few of each on your person.

“Learn to prioritise. The screaming drunk isn’t the issue, especially if he’s in restraints. The
straitjacket
user going into freezing seizures: not the issue. The quiet guy who’s repeating ‘no no I’m okay, seriously’ with a hook in his stomach… That’s the issue.

“Lastly. If I end up on your table, and you screw anything up…” I stepped closer and took a breath. “If you screw up on me, I’ll peel your eyelids off myself.”

There was a visible tremor. Audible? I couldn’t tell anymore. The cigarette shook for a second, but the new guy steeled himself. I liked that. I extended a hand, and was surprised when he shook it.

“Fletcher.”

“Daniel.”

“Charmed, I’m sure. Welcome to Salem.”