Hellbound: The Tally Man (12 page)

They turned on Cahernane Meadows off Muckcross Road, Obadiah noticing the doctor’s surgery just up ahead. Nothing looked familiar, but then again he had never really been allowed to visit a doctor’s as a child in case they had asked him awkward questions concerning bruises on his body.

“Dr’s Fiona O’Brien and John Gantly,” he read out loud from the sign.

“Obi, are you okay?” Eva questioned.

He began to walk towards the entrance, dismissing her with a curt, “I’m fine.”

Eva loosened Ellie’s coat before taking her hand. “Is Daddy okay?” The concern in her daughter’s tone pulled at Eva’s heart.

“Daddy’s fine, sweetie. He’s just anxious, is all.”

Their presence triggered the surgery’s automated doors and they moved through to stand besides Obadiah at reception.

* * *

Obadiah had let Eva do the talking, given that she appeared to know the girl behind the desk personally. He had stood impassively whilst she enquired about any spaces in Dr. O’Brien’s schedule. After a brief phone call, they were told she could see Obadiah briefly in the next ten minutes and would they kindly take a seat in the waiting room. Eva and Ellie decided to do some shopping whilst they waited.

Sitting down, Obadiah had amused himself by imagining the reactions of the people around him were they to know who he was and what he did. The desire to show them was still there, pulsating beneath his skull but he remained controlled. He was much more interested in what the doctor had to say about his physical condition here, beginning to think it strange that he had no actual symptoms when his name had been called from the reception desk, advising him the doctor would see him now.

Fiona O’Brien’s office was fairly large, housing the usual medical equipment one would expect; a long, black examination couch, a shelf stacked with medical journals and textbooks, a handwash basin in the corner, a device for measuring your height and a desk with a computer and the obligatory sphygmomanometer where the doctor sat. The only thing incongruous in the room was him.

Dr. O’Brien was a slight, well dressed, middle aged lady, with greying hair and a pleasant expression. She had welcomed Obadiah into the room as though they were old friends and had motioned towards the chair by her desk whilst she washed her hands.

“So, what can we do for you today, Obadiah?” Her Irish lilt and warm delivery were oddly relaxing.

“I want you to tell me what’s wrong with me?”

Though taken aback by Obadiah’s direct manner, she moved her chair a little closer to him. “Has something happened?”

Obadiah couldn’t help but smile. “You have no idea, Doc. I just want it explained to me again so I have it clear in my mind.”

Fiona settled back into her chair clasped her hands together. “Look, I know it can be a great deal of information to process. What specifically would you like me to go over?”

Obadiah leaned forwards. “Tell me everything.” His emotionless tone surprised her, but then she accepted that people deal with things in many different ways and that perhaps this was Obadiah Stark’s way of coping – compartmentalising his condition.

With a sigh, she began. “Okay. You were diagnosed with a Glioblastoma multiforme – the most common and aggressive type of brain tumour in humans. Nine months ago you underwent multimodality treatment consisting of an open craniotomy with surgical resection of as much of the tumour as possible, followed by a course of chemo-radiotherapy, anti-angiogenic therapy with bevacizumab, gamma knife radiosurgery. Your symptomatic care is with the corticosteroids. By the way, I see you have kept your hair short since the operation. It suits you.

“Usual symptoms include nausea, vomiting, headaches and possible hemiparesis. The main symptom however is progressive memory loss, with personality and neurological deficits due to the tumour’s temporal and frontal lobe involvement. The symptoms of course depend greatly on the location of the tumour, which in your case is in the frontal lobe. This can affect your ability to recognize future consequences resulting from current actions, to choose between good and bad actions…..previous research has identified that some patients find it difficult to suppress unacceptable social responses… all higher mental function involvement. As your frontal lobes also play an important part in retaining longer term memories, memories associated with emotions, symptoms can include finding it difficult to modify emotions that fit socially acceptable norms.

“Two months ago scans showed your tumour had returned. Other than further chemotherapy, which you refused, our options are limited. Forgive my bluntness Obadiah, but the fact we’re having this conversation again is a little worrying. Is everything okay?”

Obadiah, ignoring her questions, crossed his arms as he processed what he had just been told. He wasn’t sure if what he had just learnt helped him with understanding what had happened to him. If anything he was slightly more confused. Difficulty recognising consequences, inability to choose between good and bad actions, unacceptable social responses…all aspects of his personality as defined by every psychologist who had ever attempted to get inside his mind. Yet, in life he’d had no tumour. Or had he? No, all the tests carried out on him at Absolom would have picked something up. He had suffered headaches, but didn’t everyone? Nausea and vomiting…generally he had a strong stomach. He had felt nauseated recently but figured it was related to the process of actually dying. Hemiparesis… never that he could recall, but yesterday when he jumped from the cliff he had experienced pain and numbness down one side. He had attributed that to his tattoo supernaturally reappearing.

In the words of Lewis Carroll, curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice.

Taking several breaths and pressing his head back against the chair, Obadiah waited a moment before speaking.

“Prognosis?”

Fiona O’Brien smiled apologetically. “Three to six months.”

Obadiah clenched his jaw. “And this surgery was nine months ago?”

“Yes.” She waited a beat before speaking again. “Is there anything I can do?”

Silence permeated the room, accentuating the ticking of the clock on the desk. Obadiah stood as this latest piece of the puzzle bounced around his mind, trying to find its logical place. If all he had just been told was true, he could be facing a slow, painful death from a growth potentially the size of a grapefruit in his head. That was if he could even die here. For reasons still beyond his comprehension, he appeared to have jumped from the proverbial frying pan. Maybe this was his actual punishment. Had he been spared death by lethal injection only to face a possible death considered more appropriate to his crimes? Was his mind being rotted away so delicately, that he couldn’t tell what was real or not anymore? Maybe he had always been here and life before was only a dream.

Returning to Fiona’s question, Obadiah bent forward and placed his hands on either side of the doctor’s chair. His inappropriate closeness forced Fiona to lean back, her expression one of increasing concern for her wellbeing.

“Obadiah, please sit back.” She failed to hide her anxiety.

“You medical people are all the same. I had to listen to a pious, sanctimonious arsehole only a few days ago. He was telling me all about death as well. That didn’t turn out exactly as I imagined, so I can’t see how this could be any different. Why would I be spared death only to be placed in an afterlife where I’m dying anyway, albeit slower? You ask if there is anything you can do. Can you turn back time and allow me to die the first time around?”

Her eyes projected blankness.

Obadiah leaned in closer and grabbed her by the chin with his right hand. “I didn’t fucking think so.”

He mused as to whether she would still hold her dumb-arse expression if he crossed the ends of the stethoscope around her neck and pulled them taught. He could just place his knee on her chair to give him leverage and really put all his force behind it. Maybe he could even cut through her neck. Decapitate this stupid bitch who thought she knew everything.

His heart pounded in his chest as his face hovered over hers. The doctor’s eyes glanced furtively at the door behind him, wondering if someone would hear her if she shouted. Once upon a time, she would have already been dead. Now, with everything else going on he simply couldn’t be bothered. The mystery unfolding before him seemed intent on consuming all that he was and had been.

Fiona O’Brien swallowed audibly, her anxiety rapidly becoming unbridled fear as she saw in Obadiah’s eyes a darkness that seemed barely contained. He slid his nose along the side of her neck, taking in her scent as though a tiger confirming a kill. Fiona, her eyes shut tight, worked her head franticly from side to side trying to evade the dehumanisation of her person. Tears began to roll freely as she tried to comprehend how a straight forward appointment with one her fondest clients could have so quickly turned in to the most fearful experience of her life.

“I am going to tell you something important,” he said tonelessly, still holding her face. “On a scale of one to ten, it’s a ten. It’s ‘I just worked out how the fucking universe works’ important. And after I’ve told you, I want you to explain it to me, like I’m a two year old. Do you understand?”

Fiona nodded quickly.

Obadiah leaned forwards again and whispered in her ear. “I murdered the owner of Miss Courtney’s Tea Room two days ago. Slit her throat from ear to ear. It was beautiful.”

The doctor was pale, her eyes wide with fear and shock. She was afraid to call out even if she’d been able to.

Obadiah let go of her face began to pace around the room. “She wasn’t the only one of course. I murdered quite a few people that day. And then, the strangest thing happened. I woke up the next day and everything was the same. No one was dead. They were all going about their business as though nothing had ever happened. So I killed myself. And guess what…I woke up and found that everything was still exactly the same. This is now the third day I have experienced and everything is the same as it was the day before and the day before that. I can’t seem to die or change anything for the course of twenty four hours. But that isn’t the best part. Four days ago I was executed by lethal injection in ADX Absolom – my reward for being one of the world’s most notorious serial killers. And then I found myself here - Heaven, Hell, who the fuck knows. I have a wife, a child. I live in my old childhood home in the town where I grew up and have just learnt that I have an inoperable brain tumour.

“By the way, doc, the tumour? Would you, in your medical opinion, consider it evil? I’m guessing you would, seeing as you probably define any defect in the structure of the human body that prevents us from fulfilling our potential as human beings as evil. Of course, if evil is an illness, it’s not only a disease; it is the ultimate disease. Maybe that’s my punishment. The ultimate disease afflicted with the ultimate disease. Poetic, don’t you think? So anyway, doc, you tell me, which part of what I’ve just told you do you want to explain first?”

Fiona shook her head, an indication that she could neither comprehend what she had just heard nor knew the answer. Obadiah snorted his distain at her pathetic response.

“That’s the thing about this place. No one has a fucking clue what I’m talking about.”

He stopped his pacing and paused in front of the doctor, her body almost curled into a fetal position in the chair. “Close your eyes.” She didn’t hesitate, despite the waves of terror crashing over her.

Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes, as she considered what she had just heard, as she waited for some violent act to take place against her person. And then there was nothing. No sound, no presence, no movement. She slowly opened her eyes, expecting to see Obadiah’s face hovering over her. But she saw no one. The door to her room was open, the muffled sounds from the corridor and distant reception assuring her that life was still continuing. There were no screams or cries for help.

She tentatively rose from her chair and moved slowly towards the open door, wiping snot and tears from her face. A practice nurse walked past the door, paying no attention to Fiona as she moved down the corridor and into the reception area. The waiting area was beginning to fill up now, the majority of the people waiting to be seen elderly, though a few children were present with their parents. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

Attempting to compose herself by straightening her skirt, Fiona approached the girl behind the glass panel who was just completing a phone call. She smiled at Fiona, but received nothing in return other than a look of distress.

“Obadiah Stark. Did he just come through here?”

“Yes, Doctor. About two minutes ago. Is everything okay? You look dreadful.”

Fiona tried to smile a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Was anyone else with him?”

“No, not that I could see. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, thank you Kay. I’m just tired. Give me a few minutes before sending in the next patient if you don’t mind?”

Fiona O’Brien slowly walked back to her office and shut the door, trying to process what had just happened to her.

As he walked up the road to meet his ‘family’, Obadiah knew he should despise what was happening to him. But he didn’t. He had approached his being here all wrong. His anger at being cheated death had clouded his ability to see the opportunity before him. Whatever had occurred at the moment he was executed, the fact remained he was now somewhere where he could go unnoticed without the pretence. If he desired to kill, so be it. It would all reset the following day, with no consequences resonant. If he chose not to, he would be able to experience life in a way he had never thought possible. Free from recognition and implication. He was actually proud of the self-control he had shown with the doctor. And this tumour he was supposedly dying from. If each day began anew, what was the worst that could happen?

Yes, here he could be who he had always conditioned himself to be.

No-one.

‘The darkness drops again but now I know that twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle. And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born.’

William Butler Yeats

Chapter Nine

September 28th
20:06

O’Dywers, Ashe Street, Tralee (Trá Lí)

County Kerry, Ireland

EVIL can be subtle, insidious, capable of infiltrating the most secure of philosophies and ideologies, planting its ‘vicious mole of nature’ in even the most righteous of minds. Oligarchies and organisations can be founded with the most noble of aspirations in mind, and yet find themselves becoming the most capricious of despots, with their power resting amongst a small segment of society, the wealthy, royalty, military and corporate.

But what constitutes an evil act? To answer that, it must first be defined what evil actually is. Is slapping one’s child considered evil? Were the acts committed at Auschwitz during wartime evil? The rape and murder of children? Is it the act which is evil, or the person who commits it?

* * *

Daylight was a distant memory by the time Joe arrived at O’Dywer’s. Despite the month, the air was warm as he finished the last of his cigarette outside the entrance to the pub. Anyone who smoked in Ireland nowadays was pretty much made to feel like a leper, the social ostracisation akin to being an endangered species. Joe was immune to the attention it now brought. He had only ever been a social smoker anyway, and given he was about to have a pint, it was his excuse for having one now.

The open fire to his right was burning as Joe stepped through the doorway, the crackling of embers and coal adding to the relaxed atmosphere the pub always held. He made his way down the narrow walkway adjacent to the bar, stopping long enough to order a pint of Guinness before removing his coat and taking a seat on the brown, velvet banquette in the empty booth at the bottom as instructed by his mysterious caller. He had deliberately gotten there early in the hope he could control the situation when, and if, his furtive guest arrived. The Guinness was refreshingly cold as Joe took a long drink, emptying half the glass. He realised he hadn’t been here in a while. He had always preferred O’Dwyer’s around this time, its early evening occupants mostly consisting of regulars ruminating over the newspaper or talking about their day at work. The sounds of the hushed conversation and the smell of brewed hops and whiskey were comforting.

Joe leaned back, letting out a huge sigh of frustration at his being here instead of a booth somewhere with Victoria Carter. He began to irritate himself further with the thought that this meeting might be a complete wind up. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Feeling his eyes becoming heavy, he closed them and let the gentle murmur of social interaction wash over him. What felt like instantly, a presence made itself known by sliding onto the bench opposite. Glancing at his watch, Joe realised he must have dozed off.

The man before him was stocky, built like a rugby player. Middle aged with auburn hair thinning on top, he had the intense stare of someone who took life extremely seriously. His black coat with its wide collars, buttoned almost right to the top, made him look like a spy from an old 1930’s movie. Joe rubbed his eyes and quickly centered himself, shuffling forwards on the bench slightly.

“Hello,” he said firmly. “Can I get you anything to drink?” His journalistic instincts kicked in, knowing he could get more from someone if they felt at ease.

The stranger glanced from side to side, quickly checking behind him and towards the bar before speaking. “No, I’m fine.” His Belfast-accented voice was strong, the voice of someone used to having people do as he told them.

“So, mate. Can I ask who you are?”

He paused before speaking. “Peter Stamford.” His hands were clasped in front of him, the thumbs methodically working around each other in a thoughtful fashion.

Joe took another mouthful of Guinness as he assessed the man before him. So far, he wasn’t giving much away.

“So, Mr. Stamford. Why am I here? Just so you know, I turned down a date with an attractive woman, so I hope you’re going to blow my mind.”

The man before him didn’t react to Joe’s flippancy. “I work at Absolom, Mr. O’Connell. I was one of Obadiah Stark’s strap-down guards.”

Joe shifted in his seat. “Okay, you have my attention.”

Stamford leaned towards Joe, his breath smelling like he had already frequented a pub before arriving here. “You were there, when he died, at the back of the room. What did you see?”

Joe smiled at the direct nature of the question. “Straight to the point. Okay, what did I see? Well, I saw one of history’s most infamous serial killers strapped to a table, receiving a cocktail of non-recreational medications, whilst most of the world’s media and a dozen or so people who wished him dead looked on. Am I missing anything?”

Stamford smiled a knowing smile. “You’re missing everything.”

“Oh, really? Okay, let’s assume for the sake of argument that you’re not jerking my chain. What did I miss?” Joe did little to hide the intrigue in his tone.

“What do you really know about Absolom, Mr. O’Connell? Did you know that we pretty much provide an environment where the inmates eat, sleep and defecate in their cells and only leave them for one hour a day? With the full support of the Government, we have ensured that the prisoners never allowed themselves the audacity of hope that they would ever see the light of day as free men.”

“That’s quite a profound statement,” Joe said quietly.

Stamford ignored him and continued. “We perfected the tradition of behaviour modification. Strip searches, metal detectors and constant video surveillance are common practice at the prison. Yeah, they’re deemed excessive and humiliating by the Irish Human Rights campaigners, but really, they only serve as intimidation techniques. Because of a previous incident a number of years ago and picketing by those pain in the arse bleeding hearts, Sabitch had to abandon the strip searches that were a daily part of the program. Then the same Government that had supported many of his methods suddenly baulked at such extremes, probably due to media pressure, forcing him to agree to acknowledge the prisoners human rights. Their human rights! I mean, seriously.

“Joe Fort imprisoned on drug trafficking charges; the only Irishman ever convicted of terrorism for hire. Santiago Margarito Rangel Varelas, murdered his two year old stepdaughter with kicks to the head. Upon investigation she also had numerous broken ribs and had been sodomised, all injuries Varelas told the police she had sustained having fallen at home. Stuart Swango, physician and serial killer. David York, serving 135 years for child molestation. Mohammed Rassim, one of the four former al-Qaeda members sentenced to life imprisonment in 2007 for their parts in the London July 7th bombings. The list goes on. I can’t think of one inmate there who deserves any leniency or compassion of the slightest modicum. And then you had Obadiah Stark.”

Stamford hesitated for a moment as though thinking. “He never showed signs that any of those measures had any deterrent effect on him. He was simply a vacant, black hole of a human being. I hesitate to even call him a man, as he seemed to lack the most basic human emotions. There was no empathy, no remorse, not even hatred. Varelas demonstrated anger at his incarceration, denying he had committed a crime. Stark didn’t emote at all. You simply couldn’t gage the man for a baseline. He never caused any trouble, but you could see it in his eyes. It was more than darkness. It was simply…emptiness, as though he had no soul.” Stamford’s voice slowed as though recalling Obadiah had forced him to experience a deep disquiet.

“Stark was kept in Sector 17; call it an ‘ultramax’ within the supermax. A group of cells where there is virtually no human contact whatsoever, not even with the guards. Almost the entirety of Stark’s incarceration at Absolom was spent in Sector 17.”

Joe’s expression remained impassive as he finished his pint and wiped his top lip.

“Okay, I can count at least four violations of civil liberties going on at Absolom, but assuming I actually give a crap that they are happening to criminals, why should any of this interest me?”

“It should interest you, Joe, because you’re not reading between the lines. What I’ve just told you illustrates how well-oiled a machine Absolom is. There are no mistakes or oversights. It has a perfect record for a reason. Which is why what I am going to tell you is all the more disturbing.”

“Go on,” Joe instructed, quietly becoming more excited at Stamford’s building up of his exposition.

“I told you I was one of the strap-down guards at Absolom. Well, after an execution, there’s all the procedural stuff. Determination of death of the inmate, reading of a statement by the warden notifying the witnesses the execution is complete, contacting the media regarding the carrying out of the sentence, etcetera, etcetera. Then, after all the witnesses have been escorted from the death house, the intravenous lines are supposed to be crimped closed and disconnected, but not removed. This is to allow a review by the county coroner if necessary. First red flag – all the lines were removed from Stark the minute the room was sealed. I know this because I was assigned to the room for security. Then, after the body has been tagged and placed in a body bag for removal to the mortuary, all the unused chemicals are documented on a CDCR form as to why they weren’t used and then transferred to a locked fridge to await disposal. Red flag number two – I spoke to the Intravenous Sub-team a few days later after the execution. They completed an inventory of all the supplies and drugs used. I asked them for their records regarding the supplies used during Stark’s execution. None of the drugs used for an execution - Sodium thiopental, Pavulon and Potassium chloride had been released from the pharmacy on the day of the execution. When I questioned them, they said it must have been a clerical error and that they would look into it. Drugs used for lethal injection do not suffer from clerical errors, Mr O’Connell.

“Red flag number three – the Record Keeping Sub-team is supposed to meet with the team leader to check all the documentation, which is then given to the warden for inclusion in the Master Execution File. Seventy-two hours after this, the warden writes an after-action critique of the execution - what went well, compliance with regulation – and then a death certificate is issued along with a warrant of death. None of the documentation concerning Obadiah Stark’s execution is in the Master Execution File. Not a single document.”

Joe felt confused. “But Obadiah has a death certificate. I know, because I checked as a matter of course for the article I wrote after his death.”

“But he shouldn’t have,” Stamford interjected. “Not if his warrant of death hadn’t been released.”

Joe suddenly needed another drink.

“So, Mr. Investigative Journalist,” the strap-down guard announced, leaning back in the bench. “Riddle me this. How does someone who has been executed by the state have a death certificate issued, despite there being no legal documents concerning his actual execution, and why does he have all evidence of the drugs used in his execution, lines and all, removed from his body and omitted from the inventory?”

“Okay, so we have a few examples of clerical oversights. At the end of the day, Stark is still dead. Dead is dead.”

Stamford slammed his palm against the table, causing Joe’s empty glass to jump. “You’re not getting it mate. They’re hiding something. Shyte, I’m risking my livelihood just being here with you. Be a journalist, do yer job. If something illicit is going on at Absolom, someone needs to find out.”

Joe raised his hands in a submissive manner. “Easy, friend. Do you have any proof? Something that will stand up to scrutiny?”

“Other than what I told you I saw, no. Officially, Obadiah Stark was executed on September 7th, 2011. Unofficially… well, that’s where you come in. If I was you, my first port of call would be the warden at Absolom.”

The pub door opened, a cold gust of wind accompanying the man and woman who entered. Peter Stamford shot an anxious look in its direction before he began to shuffle from the booth. “I have to go.”

Joe stood to try and slow his departure. “Wait, I need more.” He went to grab for his sleeve, but Stamford had already moved beyond his grasp and was fast approaching the door.

“Dammit.” Joe grabbed his coat and moved to intercept him on the street. He thought he knew every facet of Obadiah Stark’s life and death, but his understanding had just been turned on its head by a stranger.

Joe burst out the pub entrance, scanning the pavement on either side of him but he saw no sign of the guard. Standing in the night air, a chill of paranoia washed over him. First he had relatives acting strangely when he interviewed them, now he had a prison guard suggesting that they may be more to Obadiah’s execution than he could have ever realised. Intuitively, he knew that somehow the two were connected, but he had no idea how.

He had lived and breathed Obadiah Stark for two years, and yet even in death, his ability for misdirection and obfuscation were still in play. The rules of the game had just been changed – a game Joe hadn’t realised until this very moment he was involved in.