Hellbound: The Tally Man (18 page)

Joe remained quiet, simply nodding his understanding before turning toward the door.

“Joe,” Ciaran said, causing his employee to stop halfway out the door. “Whatever you find or think you’ve found, be right about this one, for all our sakes.”

“I am. Trust me.” Joe closed the door slowly behind him.

“I do, son. That’s usually the problem,” Ciaran said out loud before returning to his computer.

Back at his desk, Joe stared again at the e mail on his screen, considering his next move. So, he had a wealth of evidence and no evidence at all. Circumstantial, anecdotal and nothing that amounted to anything concrete. He needed something to tie it all together. The time lapse was a start, but he needed more. Visiting Absolom again was out. The warden probably wouldn’t see him, and if he did he wasn’t going to admit to a crime. He doubted Stamford would meet him again and the harbor master probably couldn’t tell him anymore than he already had. He needed to know where the boat went for those missing hours that no one was particularly concerned about. So, he considered, why not go backwards. If the destination of the boat’s cargo was the mortuary, why not start there? Reverse engineer his whole, nebulous suspicion.

Joe rubbed the top of his head vigorously, the potential weight of it all forcing him to consider if he was about to cross his Rubicon. Wanting to focus himself, he grabbed a file from the shelf next to him entitled ‘Stark – relative’s transcriptions’. The folder contained all the interviews conducted with the relatives of Stark’s victims, either by himself or other journalists from the media. He flipped it open and began jotting down some aspects of the interviews he had found unusual at the time. It was time to start gathering the evidence he had, however transparent it may be. Maybe then, he could calm his mind long enough to enjoy his night with Victoria. There was no way he was going to allow anything to get in the way of his meeting with her this time. Obadiah Stark had already gotten in the way of enough of his personal life.

* * *

Joe watched her returning from the long bar opposite them, with a Gin and tonic for herself and a Guinness for him – their fourth. Victoria had the build of a gymnast; slightly broad shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist and great legs. Her face provided further luster by way of large, encouraging blue eyes. Blonde hair hanging loosely across her shoulders, the slight wave in it suggestive of it having been wet when she’d come to meet him, Joe found himself momentarily imagining her in the shower, but quickly pushed the thought away. He was uncertain whether it was the British accent or her physical appearance that gave her that ‘upper class teacher’ sexiness, but there was no denying Victoria Carter was extremely attractive. And though Ciaran didn’t have a strict ‘no fraternising with colleagues’ policy, Joe knew him trying to get her into bed would not be greeted with applause.

Probably not the best idea in the world to be getting shit-faced with her then…

Familiarising himself again with her credentials before leaving the office, he had little doubt that she was one of the foremost experts in her field, having spent most of her adult life trying to get into the minds of the some of the world’s most evil individuals. He was still surprised she was so willing to offer her assistance with his book. Joe had found himself even more impressed to learn that she had apparently assisted Scotland Yard in drawing up a profile of Jack the Ripper when a local author had offered yet another new theory on his identity. He shivered, momentarily considering how easily Obadiah could have fit the role of the Ripper had he been alive in 1888.

Sinking into the upholstered chair in front of him, Victoria placed their drinks on the small wooden table. Joe raised his glass in a salutary gesture and took a large mouthful, wiping froth from his top lip. The remnants of their meal – burger and chunky homemade fries, were being collected by a waiter who thought Joe hadn’t noticed him staring down her top as she’d sat down. Looking up, he realised Joe was watching him and quickly hurried away with an apologetic nod, balancing the stacked plates in his hands.

On his way here, Joe had realised he hadn’t spent any real time with a woman since his last relationship had ended eighteen months ago. Since then, he had practically lived and breathed Obadiah Stark. Back then, Emma had accused him of being obsessed, stating he preferred getting to know a serial killer than spending time with his girlfriend. In hindsight, he realized she had probably been right and he still hadn’t quite worked out what kind of person that made him.

Maybe the kind of person who would consider that one of the world’s most famous prisons had a touch of the Machiavellian about it.

“So,” Victoria announced, her cheeks flushing with the sip of her G and T. “You were saying?”

Joe thought for a moment, trying to redirect his thoughts from Absolom to his book. “Okay, I have the background on Obadiah, the murders, the details, evidence, etcetera. But what I don’t have is any context, theories on how the mind of the serial killer works, that kind of thing. I’m thinking it might help offset the more unsavory aspects of his life. I don’t mean I want to humanize him and certainly don’t want to elicit compassion for him, I just thought any physiological or behavioral aspects could provide some credibility to the narrative. What do you think, Victoria?”

“Vicky,” she corrected. “And I think it would provide a good focal point. Studies of serial killers often straddle a fine line between either portraying them as deities or evolutionary misnomers, so it sounds like you’re going about it the right way. Have you read the Franklin report on Stark?”

“Yeah, a couple of times actually. His interview provided me with some great insight into his background and the details of the murders…stuff even I didn’t know about.”

“John’s work is an excellent jumping off point,” Vicky confirmed. “It would certainly provide your readers with the more rounded picture you mentioned. What about biological explanations? They might encourage debate amongst the readers.”

“What do you mean? I didn’t know there were any.”

“Well, there’s controversial research suggesting a link between human physiology and the brain, that it directly correlates to an individual’s levels of aggression and propensity for violence.”

She paused, noting Joe’s slightly bemused expression. “Okay, basically all sensory systems have a thalmic nucleus that get signals which are then forwarded to the associated cortal area of the brain. Theoretically, if an individual has an impaired thalamus, they may suffer from a lack of empathy, thereby affecting how they process the emotions generated from inflicting pain on others for example.”

Joe grinned. “Wow, Miss Carter,” he said in an exaggerated fashion. “You’ve just turned me on with the sexiest justification for someone being a serial killer I’ve ever heard.”

Vicky blushed slightly. “Shut up. It’s all highly technical stuff, I assure you.”

“Oh, it must be if you’re using the word ‘stuff’ to describe it.” He maintained a flirty smile as he raised his glass and took two large mouthfuls.

“Seriously though,” Vicky corrected, her smile slowly fading. “Imagine you had no conscience, no feelings of guilt, remorse, concern for friends or family. Shame is an alien concept to you, regardless of the immoral action you have just carried out.” She took a sip of her drink and gently placed it back on the Tetley’s mat before continuing, her voice so quiet it was barely audible above the background hum of the bar.

“Your blood’s like ice water flowing through your veins, you have no internal restraints that you even recognise. But you also know that, no matter how intelligent you are, you’ll never amount to anything in the upper echelons of society, not unless you become CEO.” Vicky chuckled darkly before continuing. “You know you’re different. You’re broken. What makes you unfeeling also makes you unable to function in society. And this makes you resentful, envious of those around you. You dream of living life as a human being, and instead you simply exist as a monster.”

Silence permeated the air, her comments hanging there uncomfortably. Uncertain how to respond, Joe ran a finger around the rim of his glass as he thought.

“So, would a sociopath have insight to their own lack of humanity?”

“Well, they know they’re different,” Vicky said. “They know they experience emotions in a different way to me and you. Really, all they have in regards to actual emotion is a profound sense of ‘one-upmanship’. I guess you’d call it pride. But the characteristics they do possess; deceitfulness, manipulativeness, impulsiveness, disregard for another’s safety, these are their actual emotions. Along with the ability to be superficially charming, they end up armed with a paradoxical way to interact with society. Ironically, it also makes them more interesting than most of the people we would encounter in everyday life. And because they’re more intense, more impulsive, they therefore become sexier, more intriguing and, ultimately, more dangerous.”

She shook her head as though dispelling dark thoughts and returned to her drink, all the time avoiding eye contact. Joe leaned his chair on its back legs, recognising her discomfort before tipping it back on all fours and moving his glass to the side, his elbows resting on the table as he leaned closer to her.

“This can all be applied to Stark?”

“Absolutely. Obadiah Stark is the epitome of everything I’ve just told you. Despite the unassailability of his character, he represents the pinnacle of what a true sociopath is – free of internal restraints and an unhampered liberty to do whatever they want. Ramirez, Manson, Henry Lee Lucas, they were all in Stark’s league, but he definitely takes the prize for being the most successful in regards to his trade. You only have to look at how long he evaded capture to realise that his intellect and cunning far exceeded theirs. And just like them, he’s never expressed guilt for his crimes. Then again, Manson and the others were actually insane. Stark’s never displayed irrationality…only apathy.”

Joe remained quiet, processing Vicky’s use of the present tense when discussing Obadiah. He remembered Kizzie’s mother doing the same and filed it at the back of his mind. “So, this phalic thing you mentioned…”

“Thalmic,” Vicky corrected with a smile.

“Right. Do you believe it?”

“Well, as I said, its only research but not without merit. I mean, if you look at the Franklin report or any of Stark’s prison assessments, they all describe someone not only without empathy, but someone who was consciously aware of this vacuum and proud of it, yet displayed no psychotic symptoms, only sociopathic ones. He was completely aware of his actions and actively pursued them. If the suggestion of thalmic impairment is taken as fact, then Stark fits the theory perfectly - the perfect killing machine.”

“I imagine he would have made quite the study candidate,” Joe asked thoughtfully.

“You have no idea,” Vicky agreed.

They both took a drink before lifting their eyes to each other.

“It’s all heavy stuff, Vicky. I mean, you sound like you understand him,” Joe suggested. “Obadiah, I mean.”

She flared briefly at his comment. “Understand him? No. In all the years I’ve studied serial killers and tried to explain their actions, I’ve never come close to understanding them. Understanding The Tally Man wouldn’t take back the things he did.”

Finishing her drink, Vicky looked up at Joe and smiled apologetically, warmth once again returning to her face. “Wow,” she said with a heavy shrug. “How did you manage to get me in such a melancholic mood after we were having such a nice time?”

“I’m sorry,” Joe responded. “I just find it all fascinating. And it’ll all be really useful…if I can remember any of it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll give you the cliff notes tomorrow. I thought they were joking at your office when they said you were obsessed with The Tally Man. I mean, is he all you think about?”

“No,” Joe replied hesitantly, considering the irony of Vicky’s comment. “I do think about other things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the colour of your underwear.”

Really,” Vicky responded with a coy smile.

He laughed, raising his hands in surrender at the ridiculous nature of his flirting. “Just ignore me. Ol’ Man Guinness has obviously settled in for the night. And, on that note…” He flashed Vicky a wide smile as he moved from the table. “Same again?”

She nodded and shot him a pretend frown, acknowledgment that she knew he was trying to get her drunk. Joe told the bartender to keep the change as he returned to the table and handed her a drink.

“I’ll tell you what,” Vicky said with a half-smile. “No more talk about Obadiah Stark or any other serial killer you can think of. Tomorrow, you can ask me as many questions as you like on whatever you like, and I’ll give you as much as I can for your book, but for the rest of tonight I want to enjoy your little town. I want to learn more about you, Joseph O’Connell. Think of it as a first date….where would you take me after here?”

“Joe,” he corrected. “I even made my parents call me Joe. And we could go to Sean Og’s. It’s a good craic in there.”

“Your place’ll have to wait then.” Vicky stood up and finished her drink in one before giving him a wink and walking towards the door, her bag flung over her shoulder.

“Shit,” Joe said out loud with a laugh, surprised but pleased at her sudden enthusiasm. Leaving his drink untouched on the table, he followed her out the double doors, eager to forget the sinister theory concerning Obadiah’s execution that was forming in his head. As he jogged to catch Vicky up, Joe failed to notice the car idling on the other side of the road, its driver taking a rapid series of photographs of him before slowly accelerating up Denny Street.

‘All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible’

T.E. Lawrence

Chapter Fourteen

17:32

HE felt empty. Emptiness he had never before experienced. And it filled him with another feeling he had never known. Dread.

Obadiah had no idea where they were going, only that Eva had said this morning that they needed to get away. He needed to get away. She believed wholeheartedly that his seemingly flashpoint aggression and descriptions of murder were simply the end result of a man trying to come to terms with a terminal illness. And though Obadiah had allowed her to believe that, he knew his eruption of anger was due to the conflict going on within him, a conflict with the prize his very soul.

He glanced over at Eva in the driver’s seat before pulling down the sun visor and flipping open the mirror. He saw himself; his emerald eyes seemingly alight with crimson flames as though the battle within him were reflected there. The monster that was Obadiah Stark – or had been Obadiah Stark – felt lessened somehow, as though every breath he took expelled one more part of who he had been.

Before he found himself here, the shadowy corners of his heart had been sated with his desires and projections of strength and power. Now, in a place where he was powerless, with those wants and desires taken from him, he no longer knew how to fill those empty spaces. Even if what he thought he felt for Eva and Ellie was something abstractedly related to caring or even love, he had no concept of how to use those emotions for anything other than manipulation and suffering.

“Where do you want to go, Obi?” Eva flicked on the windscreen washer, scraping away the dead insects that had accumulated on the screen.

“I don’t know,” he replied distantly. “Where could we go?

“Well, we could check into a hotel for a few days while we work out what we’re going to do,” she replied, trying to be cheerful. “Or there’s my parents cottage on Beginish. I mean, you know there’s not much to do for Ell’s, but she loves the grey seals and the Artic Terns, so she would be okay for a few days. I don’t mind sweetie, it’s up to you. Whatever you want, we’ll do. I just want to understand what’s happening.”

Obadiah remained expressionless. “You and me both.”

Staring out the window, he tried to focus on the images rushing past, their inherent images blurring into one, coalesced backdrop that seemed almost painted onto the window. Ellie sang a Disney tune in the back of the car that Obadiah recognised as ‘A Whole New World’ from Aladdin.

It most certainly is, he thought, turning to look at her.

She stared back at him, beaming a huge smile that threatened to split her face open. Obadiah tried to remain stoic, expressionless. Over the years he had perfected the art of a crocodile smile, able to produce a perfect image of kindness and compassion that ultimately served his goal of manipulation. Yet here, in the back of a car in this ethereal no man’s land, he found himself unable to stop the genuine response that was forming on his face. And he felt discomfort at the fact it didn’t feel unnatural. He knew he shouldn’t be having these reactions to such basic stimuli, but Ellie’s genuine look of love and adoration was a force more powerful than Obadiah had ever experienced. His smile quickly faded as he caught himself unconsciously enjoying a human moment, Obadiah quickly turned around and back towards the window.

“Obi, I think maybe we should speak to someone else,” Eva announced with a sigh. “The things you said, maybe they mean you’re getting worse. It’s something I don’t even want to think about, but we have to face that possibility.”

Obadiah nodded, but remained silent.

That’s a fucking understatement.

“Obi,” Eva asked gently. “Please talk to me.”

“You want to talk?” He asked quietly without facing her. “Okay, we’ll talk. Did I ever tell you that when I was young I was always bored. Nothing really held any interest for me; girls, skipping school, smoking, none of it. The only thing I found could control my boredom were the holidays we used to take. We used to camp in the Black Valley near Lough Leane. I would spend a lot of my time climbing along the Hag’s Glen and then up Devil’s Ladder to the col between Carrauntoohil and Cnoc na Péiste. The lake there was home to hundreds of bullfrogs. I used to spend hours stabbing them with a pair of scissors or catching them in nets and lying them on their backs, stabbing their little bulging stomachs and turning them over to see their jelly eyes mist over as they died. Then I used to see how far I could throw them into the lake.”

“What? Obi, you’re not making any sense.” Her voice trembling slightly, Eva briefly glanced back at Ellie as though seeing her would make her feel secure and safe.

“Just listen,” Obadiah said, turning to face her. “Later on, I learnt that fireworks strapped to their backs made the most amazing sight, blood and lights all combined, flowerlike shapes in the sky. And do you know how that made me feel?”

Eva had pulled over onto the hard shoulder, her face one of incredulous shock at what she was hearing.

“Nothing,” Obadiah continued flatly. “I felt nothing. I realised I couldn’t feel anything, from that day onwards. And I never thought anything of it. Everything I ever did, I did without any consideration of the consequences, because, as far as I was concerned, there were none. But I was paying a concealed price for my actions. That was the tradeoff. I see that now. Everything I ever did required me to be emotionally bankrupt. I could never have achieved the things I did otherwise. But, now I wonder was the price to high? Was it a price I didn’t even know I was paying?”

Eva had shrunk as far towards her door as she could go, trying to place as much distance between her and husband as possible without leaving the car. She glanced furtively at Ellie, playing on her tiny laptop, the little girl unaware of what was being discussed before her.

“Oh my God, Obi.” Glistening tracks snaked down Eva’s face, her tears coming in slow intervals. “I’m trying to understand, but you’re scaring me. These things you’re saying…they’re terrible. I mean, you’re talking like you’re a monster.”

Obadiah dropped his head as he spoke. “I am.”

Eva reached out and touched his face gently. “No, you’re not. You’re sick, but we can get through this. You just need to let me in. Please, Obi, let me in.”

Reaching up, Obadiah placed his hand over hers and held it on his cheek for a moment before gliding it back towards her lap.

“You got in. You make me feel stronger than I have ever felt before, and yet I’m weak around you. And I should hate you for it, but I don’t.” Obadiah shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You want to know the closest I’ve ever come to being afraid? Being here, with you and Ellie. And you know why…because you don’t see me. Everyone I’ve ever met, they all gave me a look, like they could see the real Me, the Me waiting to come out. The bad Me. The one not here with you.”

Tears in her eyes, Eva looked at Ellie, as though trying to get some comfort from seeing her daughter. “Obi, this is insane.”

“Just listen. Feeling that fear makes me relieved, relieved that someone can see something else in me besides evil. It makes me believe it could be real. It makes me believe that even someone like me can feel things. A little bit…a tiny piece of empathy. I always believed empathy was the greatest weakness mankind could possess, a vestigial limb, making people vulnerable. But I see now it isn’t a weakness, it’s your greatest strength. Where it makes you strong, my lack of it left a hole in my psyche that I know now I can’t fill. Where I should have had the most evolved of all human functions, I ended up with emptiness.”

Eva looked as though her world were collapsing around her, but Obadiah held his gaze, as though trying to burn Eva’s face into his memory before turning to look at Ellie. He saw she had fallen asleep, her head resting against the side of the window. He wanted to remember this moment and their faces, feeling sudden apprehension for reasons he couldn’t explain. He realised that right here was his opportunity to experience something that he had never thought possible, a chance to exist outside the dark life he had fashioned so carefully for himself over so many years. But he knew now that it would be something he could never accept as anything other than a distraction. Obadiah had made his peace with who he was a long time ago. How could he ever expect anyone else to do the same?

“Compassion, Eva,” he said softly, as he looked at Ellie before turning back. “That’s what I should have, where instead there was…is…nothing.”

Smiling softly at her, he opened the car door and stepped out. The evening air was bracing, a cold breeze washing over him like a sign of approval at what he was doing.

“Obi, where are you going?”

She gasped, moving hurriedly into the passenger seat.

“I have to leave,” he replied. “I know you don’t understand, despite what I just told you, but I do. It’s for your own safety, yours and Ellie’s. You need to leave me.”

“Why?”

“Because, if I stay…I’ll hurt you.”

She clasped her hand to her mouth, tears flowing down her face. “Obi, you’re breaking my heart. What can I do? Tell me. I’ll do anything.”

He surprised himself with his genuine attempt at a smile. “There’s nothing you can do. Just know you’ve already done so much. I’ll be back…I just need time.”

“Where will you go?”

Obadiah looked around himself thoughtfully. “Oh, don’t worry. I grew up around here remember. I’ll just walk and see where I end up. I’ll be fine.”

He glanced one final time at Ellie asleep in the back of the car and gently closed the door. Eva leaned over and placed her hand on the glass, her face sad but full of compassion for the man she loved. He nodded acknowledgement of her gesture and walked around the rear of the car, not looking back until the car had made its U turn and disappeared into the distance. Turning up the collar of his jacket, he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed towards to the lights of Caragh, the distant sound of the Liffey enticing him to approach.

* * *

The sun had all but set when Obadiah walked into Cooke’s Pub. The place reminded him of Coffey’s Bar. Whilst in care as a teenager, he had belligerently walked out of the home on a few occasions to go and watch the Raheens when they played at Tom Lawlor Park. After the match, he would go to Coffey’s and blag himself a few drinks with his false ID before returning back to the home to face the wrath of whomever was on duty that particular night. He always ensured he had drunk enough to numb the discomfort of the beatings he knew he would receive.

Standing at the bar he ordered a Jack Daniels, perusing the pub whilst he waited. The Smith’s played quietly from the jukebox, intermingled with low, background chatter of the pub’s few patrons talking softly whilst they finished their food. The gentle atmosphere of the pub calmed Obadiah, allowing him to slow his mind for the first time since he had awoken this morning. Being around Eva and Ellie was distracting. Not because he felt a desire to harm them, but because they made him feel.

Yet somehow, he felt that having walked away from them felt to him like failure, something he had never accepted; a conceit he would ever submit to. In his former life, he had strived to make himself the most proficient and successful serial killer, honing his art until it became muscle memory. Even when facing execution, he had refused to succumb to the societal dictated pressure that you must be contrite when confronted with death. And he had died knowing he had devoted himself to the ideal of become a unique agent of death. But could he so readily accept the idea of being ‘normal’.

A sudden air of disquiet seemed to descend, causing him to shiver. It was as though the temperature had dropped momentarily.

He hadn’t noticed the man take up the position next to him at the bar. Slight, with broad shoulders, wearing a black suit and shirt. He was staring at Obadiah, simultaneously running his finger around the top of his shot glass methodically.

“Problem, mate?” he asked, his tone laced with menace

The man smiled, his cheeks wrinkling with the movement. “Not at all.”

Obadiah turned away, taking a long mouthful of his drink. The stranger was still staring at him when he put down his glass.

“Listen, do yourself a favour and fuck off.”

Unfazed, the man continued looking at him intently.

Obadiah turned round full in his seat. He went to speak but found himself lost for words, staring back at the man before him. Unable to process what he was seeing, he tried to make sense of how the man before him could look exactly the same as he had that day at the lake the last time he had seen him. His mind told him it was impossible, that it clearly had a memory of being stood at the back of the cemetery as they lowered his body into the ground.

Obadiah could also clearly remember the time he had spent with the man who had killed him. He considered his time with Richard Bullen four nights later after the funeral as one of the defining moments of his career. He had thought it impossible that someone could suffer so perfectly until that night. But Bullen had exceeded his expectations. Screaming and begging almost right on cue. Even when Obadiah had stuck the screwdriver slowly into his spine, he hadn’t disappointed, squirming and gasping in an almost staccato pattern. It had been beautiful. And yet now, the reason for his revenge all those years ago was seated beside him, as though they were just out for a beer.

“Tommy?”

“Hey Obi, how you doing?”

Obadiah ran his hands over his shaven head, rubbing it vigorously before returning to stare at Thomas Jacques. “What the fuck’s going on? You’re dead.”

“If that’s true, then what does that make you?”

“Riddles? From a dead man. What the fuck, Tommy?”

Obadiah glanced quickly round the pub, expecting to see a sign that something was amiss, some indication that this was not supposed to be. But all he saw were the pubs few remaining customers finishing their meals and talking quietly, oblivious to the impossibility that was sat before him.