Hellbound: The Tally Man (5 page)

Joe looked surprised. “To be honest, I never thought she’d agree to talk to me. I mean, she’s turned down every interview request ever made since her daughter died.”

Ciaran took the opportunity to remind Joe of his responsibility. “Well, it’s good news for you that for whatever reason, she’s changed her mind. But remember Joe, I had to go out on a limb for this one. I had to pull a lot of strings, considering it has nothing to do with anything that will benefit this paper. One of her provisos was that the interview is not exploitive, purely factual. She doesn’t want her daughter’s name being used as a promotional tool.”

Joe knew Ciaran was referring to his book, an independent piece of work, neither sanctioned nor opposed by the paper, and one that also required Joe to use many of The Daily Éire’s resources in order to make it feasible. Margaret Keld’s agreeing to an interview was the first step. Victoria Carter would be the second, but he was going to keep her to himself for the time being. Ciaran and the paper had no monetary gain from the book deal and, if working on it infringed on his actual reporting duties, his editor could intervene and stop him pursuing it. So far, it had not come to that, and his editor had gone out of his way to be helpful. Therefore, Joe knew he had to show his appreciation.

“Thanks Ciaran. It means a lot. I won’t let it get in the way of my job.” Joe meant what he had said, but knew that it would require a lot of work in his own time. Still, fortune and glory are never supposed to come easily.

The ringing phone on Ciaran’s desk broke the moment. Joe thumbed back towards the door, indicating his query to leave. Picking up the phone, Ciaran nodded and greeted the caller with his surname. As Joe left, he heard his editor sigh before the door closed behind him.

The office was now in full flow, every desk and cubicle diligent with ambitious individuals, eager to be the next candidate for Sky News or the BBC. Many of the people he worked with made no secret of the fact they were using the paper as a proverbial stepping stone to something better, at least in their eyes.

He looked around at the various outcroppings of monitors, noting the numerous pairs of eyes and flurries of hair which were all that was visible above the many terminals. Alison remained busy scrolling showbiz copy in her corner, the financial team of Wilson Graves and Mike O’Hare could be heard talking about the most recent Bank of England interest rate cut, their voices just audible above the low murmur of the television above them. All around, the snicker of keyboards filled the air, suddenly sounding to Joe like the loneliest sound in the world; the sound of monotony. His book was sounding like a more promising idea with every passing minute.

Placing his hands in his pockets, Joe casually weaved his way between desks until he arrived at his own. He fished the card out of his pocket and began to dial Victoria Carter’s number. The call connected on the fourth ring, putting Joe through to a messaging service. The brief message, detailing that Victoria was currently away in business and would be back on the 18th September, provided Joe with a melodic tone and perfect diction; quintessentially English.

“Hi. My name is Joe O’Connell. I work for The Daily Éire. I received your parcel this morning, offering your services regarding my book. I’d like to take you up on your offer, so please ring me back when you get this message. Cheers.”

Hanging up, he found himself imagining the face that went with the voice. She sounded like she would be a slight, fragile specimen, but he knew well enough that a perception of someone rarely matched the actuality of their appearance. Still, the English voice of hers had sounded damn sexy.

Checking the time, he decided to prepare his notes for his meeting with Margaret Keld. Her cooperation was important, not only for his actual narrative, but also for potentially ensuring the cooperation of other relatives. Joe knew he had to treat any interaction with them sensitively. Even though Margaret Keld’s daughter, Obadiah’s second victim in Ireland, had been murdered over seven years ago, he knew that feelings, both personal and political, still ran strongly regarding the Gardaí’s lengthy investigation into the murders.

Though eager to pursue an alternative career and hopefully secure a financial deal, it was important to Joe that the book be taken seriously by his peers as a point of reference for the Obadiah Starks of the world. His time covering the murders had given him an insight afforded to few others. And though it had taken him to dark places and provided him with images in his head he would much rather be without, they had also provided him with a diacotomy that had allowed him to see human monsters like Obadiah for what they were. Social chameleons. Able to use the facets of peoples left over emotions to fashion something appealing to them, they then used people’s weaknesses as strengths to bait the hook that would eventually snare them.

Settling into his chair, Joe began scribbling down a few ideas he had for the interview. How this one went would dictate the responses of the other relatives to his request for their thoughts. He found himself wondering if such tragedy could convince someone that there comes a time when there is no longer a point searching for understanding as to why some things happen. Would Margaret Keld really be interested in a book attempting to unravel the complex nature of her daughter’s killer? After all, Joe thought, he was dead. What would insight into his mind offer them now?

‘Death - A punishment to some, to some a gift, and to many a favor.’

Seneca

Chapter Four

08:49

SINCE awakening, the hairs on Obadiah’s neck and arms had been prickling as if subject to an invisible static. Something was out of place.

During his viaticum, Father Hicks had eluded that Obadiah’s only salvation would be to accept God’s forgiveness or suffer for all eternity. He had made no such admonishment.

For this refusal, Obadiah had expected to find himself in a dark, inhospitable place distant from God, in extremis as he was tortured in ways his blackest nightmares could never evoke - a punishment reflective of his soul.

He currently saw none of those things.

His path leading from the house was tapering into a tree-lined by-grove. The low morning sun flashed through the branches, striping the path and casting long shadows ahead of him as though indicating his destination. Sessile oaks either side were a blanket of autumnal golden fire, their colours rustic and faded. The leaves seemed to possess an inner light of pure yellow, burning brighter than the sun. Interspersed with the Sessile’s were small filmy ferns, their previously dull, green leaves now a brilliant crimson.

For a moment, he wondered if he was still dying and the two minutes it took for the injections to take effect translated as abstract time. Closing his eyes, he could recall the sensation of the Velcro straps, the tilt of the execution table and the pin-prick caress of needles being inserted into his veins. Moments later, he had been somewhere that reminded him of his childhood home. But if death was a dream-like state such as this, death wasn’t something he would be worried about.

As if to reinforce the reality of his surroundings, Obadiah touched the trees and tarmac. His every breath drew in the fusty odour of mouldy leaves and damp earth, evoking the smells of sages and pine. Underneath, their aroma was subtly being overridden by the fragrance of decay as countless organisms actively broke down as spent vegetation and returned to the soil. All these sensations supported by the bracing air tautening his face, collectively encouraged him he wasn’t dreaming.

As the avenue became more urbanised, Obadiah approached what appeared to be a town. He stopped and leaned against the corner of a wall, his face dropping as a look of puzzlement skittered across it.

Clusters of brick buildings faded into the distance, surrounded by folded hills of rich green. Streets ahead of him dazzled in their array of painted washes, picturesque shops and bar signs. He saw lovers walking hand in hand, the woman laughing at something the man whispered in her ear. Another couple sat on a bench, talking quietly. A man walked slowly down the street, his hands in his pockets, his attention focused on a distant point ahead. A woman pushing a pram across the street waved her thanks to the driver for stopping. Everywhere he looked, people were going about their mundane, human diatribes.

The sights before him fuelled his confusion. He tried to take in every detail of the environment, studying each scent and ambivalent action. A lion studying cattle in the prairie lands.

He began traveling slowly towards the throng of activity, moving past the shop front displays. Catching sight of a figure mirroring his steps, he leaned into the plate glass. Obadiah saw the white shirt and blue pyjama trousers, hair cut close to his scalp and a face clean-shaven. His eyes reflected the light from behind him, appearing colourless in the sheen of the glass.

Purveyors of the soul that told everything about a man.

In this case, they told of a man very much alive.

Turning away from the window, Obadiah tried to gather his thoughts as he moved on past cafes and sandwich bars. The smell of coffee and croissants assaulted his senses to the point of being overwhelming. He heard a train in the distance, rattling across tracks and ahead of him saw a Market place where people milled about in front of bookstalls and fruit and vegetable stands. Towards the horizon, a church spire pointed heavenward.

Making his way towards the centre of the town, Obadiah positioned himself on a bench whilst continuing to gaze at the golden glint of the streets and shops in the morning sun. All around him buzzed with life and shone with promise. It was the opposite of his habitat in Absolom for almost a decade and a complete contrast to all he had ever known.

Yet he was still trying to shake the sensation that the location was familiar. The house. The town. It was almost as if someone had taken a description from his memory and interpreted it as best they could, but in the process had lost something. For all intense purposes, it all looked remarkably similar to Killarney in Kerry, where he had grown up. Somewhere he had tried very hard to forget. But if that was the case, how did he get here? Okay. What the fuck is going on?

An attractive, red-haired woman passed by in front of him, distracting him from his thoughts. Her slim, toned legs and shapely hips were accentuated by the tight fit Levis she wore. He found himself aroused at the sight of her, despite his current predicament. Then again, he hadn’t seen a woman in years, so maybe it wasn’t that strange. But despite her physical appearance, all he saw was meat. Someone plainly waiting to be a victim.

She glanced at him, obviously embarrassed by his appearance and the attention he was giving her. Reactions such as those, and the growing whispers and stares he was accumulating, forced Obadiah to realise he was unsettling the people around him. In pyjama trousers, a shirt and no shoes, he looked every inch the unfortunate. If he was to go any further without drawing attention, he would need some clothes.

As he sat contemplating how he would obtain some, he heard someone call his name. Looking around, he noticed a man approaching him, tall and thin with an unusually chubby face and a confused expression. His hands were gesticulating wildly at the surrounding environment as though he couldn’t believe Obadiah was sat there.

“Obadiah? Jesus, man. What’s the craic? Why are you sat in your fuckin’ PJ’s?”

He sounded genuinely concerned, his manner free as though addressing a close friend.

Obadiah stared at the man with a dark expression, his right hand blocking out the now high sun’s glare. He didn’t like his casual tone. Nor did he look remotely familiar. His accent however established that he was indeed in Ireland.

Obadiah studied him as people continued to pass by, muttering under their breath and adhering to the sociological theory of defusing responsibility.

“Do you think he’s sick…”

“…poor man. He must be homeless…”

“…if his family know? I know his wife…go over? No way. What happens if he’s drunk.”

The stranger moved around to face Obadiah. “You must be freezing? Does Eva know you’re here?” He moved to sit beside Obadiah before noticing the look in his eyes. Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, he decided to remain standing, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Despite this, his tone remained laced with worry.

“You feelin’ okay, mate?”

“You know me?” Obadiah’s voice was soft, yet subtly accusatory. He didn’t like what the stranger represented - an unknown quantity.

The man’s eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean? Jesus, have you been drinking or something?”

Obadiah’s eyes held their obsidian darkness. He was in no mood for civilities. However, the encounter had now provided him with an opportunity - both for attire and possible answers. Realising this, Obadiah softened his tone slightly.

“I don’t suppose you could see to it to loan me some clothes?” He faked his friendliest smile.

The man returned the gesture and placed his hand on Obadiah’s shoulder, cheerfully jostling him as he spoke. “Of course I can. Christ, my car’s over there. You can tell me what happened to you on the way.” He pointed southwards towards a series of side streets.

“Wait here. I’ll pull up over there,” he said gesturing to the roadside ahead.

As the stranger jogged away, Obadiah returned his attention to the town, now bustling with people. The sun was at enough of an apex that it seemingly cast the buildings alight, as though the town was determined to present itself to the world.

A horn sounded just ahead of him. The man had returned and was idling by the kerb, his face full of eagerness for Obadiah to climb into his vehicle so he could assist him with his misfortune. At that moment, a piece of the puzzle fell into place.

He has no idea who I really am.

* * *

The journey to the stranger’s house was brief. Obadiah said little, preferring to project the impression of someone vulnerable and confused. Confused he was.

Pulling up at a small cottage, the man invited Obadiah in as though they were friends and journeyed upstairs to find some clothes. As he waited, Obadiah softly padded around the living room, reconnoitring his environment. For the second time today, he saw a photograph that piqued his curiosity. Obviously taken on a night out, it showed a group of people, men and women, jeering towards the camera with their arms around each other, drinks held high in the air. A woman second to the left Obadiah recognized as the woman he had encountered this morning. Besides her, he saw himself, smiling as he mouthed something to the cameraman.

Interesting.

Aware of the man returning, Obadiah turned towards the living room door holding the picture frame in his hand. He ran his tongue over the fronts of his teeth, biting gently the front of it. He could hear the man explaining as he got to the bottom of the stairs that he was sorry if they weren’t very stylish, but they were all he could find. Obadiah positioned himself in front of the doorway, the picture frame by his side. His breathing was slow and even. His demeanour relaxed to the point his heart rate was bradycardic.

As the man turned into the living room, Obadiah grabbed him by the throat and propelled him against the wall. The clothes dropped to the floor, the man trying to grab at his attackers hands, but finding a grip like steel.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck…?” His voice was tremulous with the shock. Obadiah leaned in close. “Shhhhh. I simply want your attention. I’ll release my grip and allow you to take some deep breaths and calm yourself. If you try to run you’ll be telling God in heaven that you never saw evil so personified as you did in my eyes. Do you understand?”

The man nodded franticly, the colour draining from his face with the understanding that the person he thought he knew was also very dangerous.

Obadiah relaxed his hand and took a small step back.

“Who are you?” Obadiah’s tone remained quiet, yet laced with insistence for an answer.

The man swallowed audibly as he rubbed his neck. “What? Mark. Mark Thorne. For fuck’s sake, Obadiah. What’s gotten into you? You must be ill, mate. Let me call Eva and she can come and get you.”

Obadiah ignored him and continued. “How do you know me?”

“I’m a friend of your wife’s. We went to school together. I introduced you both.” Mark’s hands were now shaking violently, as adrenaline flooded his brain and body’s stimulus centres.

“I’m not married,” Obadiah replied matter of factly. He held up the photograph. “When was this taken?”

Mark paused as he tried to recall the time period. “Erm…two years ago. When we all went to Portugal. Don’t you remember?”

“Two years ago, I was in Absolom in a cell with a three inch by three foot long slit for sunlight.” He moved closer to Mark, his eyes never once blinking.

“Absolom? What’re you talking about? You’re sick, man. Let me help you. We can call Eva and deal with it together.” His tone failed to hide its pathetic, pleading quality.

“And where are we?”

“Killarney. We’re in Killarney.”

Obadiah barely reacted to the confirmation he was in the place of his childhood, his only movement the release of the picture frame which shattered on the floor. He couldn’t explain why Killarney looked different than he remembered but then again, he hadn’t been here for over thirty years.

“Please let me go, Obadiah. What’s with all the questions? I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“Ah, the eternal refrain of humanity. Pleading ignorance and begging for help.”

Obadiah moved so quickly, Mark didn’t have time to react. The vice-like grip back around his throat once more, causing him to become frantic and aggressive.

“For god’s sake, man. Let me fucking go. I mean it.” Trying to sound intimidating, he simply sounded like a wilting flower.

Obadiah tightened his grip, pulling Mark close. “Do I look like someone who cares what God thinks?”

Grabbing his head with both hands, Obadiah snapped it round, the accompanying sound like a tree limb breaking. Mark’s body seemingly hung in mid-air for a moment, before sliding down the wall and crumpling in a rag doll heap at Obadiah’s feet.

The house became silent once more. The tick-tock of a clock in the passageway and the insectile hum of traffic outside in the distance the only sounds accompanying the moment.

Obadiah sniffed belligerently before picking up the clothes and holding them up one at a time - dark blue Diesel jeans and a white T shirt. Obadiah nodded at Mark’s good taste in leg wear before stripping of the shirt and pyjama trousers he wore and changing into them. He caught sight of his back in the mirror behind him as he pulled on the T shirt. The absence of his tally still confused and frustrated him in equal measure. Not only had his chance at death been stolen from him, his shrine had been taken from him.

Dressed, Obadiah stepped over to Mark’s body and removed his trainers. Checking the size, he sat on the floor to put them on before rising and picking up the house keys from the table by the door.

Venturing outside, the street remained quiet, the occasional passing car the only sign of activity. He locked the door and posted the keys through the letterbox, taking in a deep taste of the clean, morning air before setting off back in the direction of town. He considered taking Mark’s car, but quickly dismissed it. Having spent so long behind concrete walls, he was enjoying the opportunity to walk freely.

Approaching the town again, he noticed it was busier than when he had left. People wore casual clothing, making the most of the unbroken sky and the uncharacteristically warm autumn weather. Aside from Dublin, Killarney had always been the most popular of tourist attractions in Ireland. Its historical exposure had begun when Queen Victoria had visited in 1861, and had continued ever since. Indeed, the place had spawned Hugh Kelly and Brendan Moloney. Obadiah smiled wryly that its most famous son was currently walking amongst them, and they had no idea. He knew they had tried hard to forget that one of the world’s most infamous serial killers had grown up in the same town as Michael Fassbender.