Past Darkness (4 page)

K
arl had just shifted himself from bed when the doorbell rang below. Four impatient rings.

‘Shit, we’ve slept in, love,’ Karl said, quickly slipping into his trousers.

‘Of course we slept in,’ said Naomi. ‘It’s Saturday.’

‘Saturday…? God, you’re right. I thought it was Friday. My head’s away.’

Karl proceeded trance-like down the stairs, yawning constantly.

Four more impatient rings.

‘All bloody right! I hear you!’

Opening the front door, he was greeted by a wide-awake Sean, the postman, holding a small package.

‘Morning, Karl.’

‘Never mind that shite. Do you like sticking your bloody fingers in holes that don’t belong to you, Hans Brinker?’

‘Who’s Hans Brinker?’

‘Read a book and find out.’

‘I have to say, you look very rough, like you’ve been boozing and cruising when you should’ve been snoozing.’

‘Another wannabe Seamus Heaney. Just what we don’t need.’

‘Just saying, I’ve seen you looking better.’

‘Sorry I can’t say the same about you.’

Sean smiled a wicket grin, handing Karl the package. ‘At least it’s not another rejected manuscript. Too small to be from–’

Karl slammed the door. Made his way upstairs, yawning some more. Once back inside, he sat on the sofa and began to open the package.

‘What the…?’ He took out the contents.

‘What is it?’ Naomi said, entering the room.

‘An old beer mat, by the looks of it.’ Karl held the piece of cardboard out to Naomi, while searching for a note from the sender. There was nothing.

‘Who’s it from?’ Naomi examined the mat.

Karl shrugged his shoulders. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘Fiddler’s Green pub, that’s what it says,’ Naomi said.

Karl’s face slapped awake. His stomach felt wobbly. He held out his hand. ‘Let me see that again.’

Naomi handed it back. He scrutinised the front and then the back of the mat, staring at it as though it might speak.

‘Karl? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing…nothing’s wrong…’

‘There’s
something
wrong. I can see it in your face. What on earth is it?’

‘Nothing. I’m away to get cleaned up.’ Karl stood and left the room, leaving a puzzled-looking Naomi staring at his back.

Inside the bathroom, he switched the power shower on full blast, before examining the beer mat more closely. He turned it over, back then front, hoping for a clue to its provenance. A creepy sensation like dry ice touched the stepping-stones of his spine. His haemorrhoids began throbbing, making him feel like shit.

Opening the medicine cabinet, he reached for a box of painkillers. Removed three from their enclosure. Put the box back. Washed the pills down with shower water. Walked over to the bathroom door and placed his back tight against it. From his trouser pocket he removed a small plastic bottle. Opened it, spilling two blue tablets into his palm. He dry-swallowed both, before sliding his back down the door.

He regarded the beer mat again, wondering. A feeling of dread began creeping over him. He needed to vomit, and vomit he did. Just as he wiped his mouth, the flashback hit him. Hard.

A winter’s night, outside Fiddler’s Green, a popular restaurant and pub on the outskirts of Belfast, over twenty years ago.
Rain so heavy, it’s practically deafening.

Karl is taking shelter behind a tree, one of many surrounding the restaurant. He’s wearing a heavy-duty raincoat and wide-brimmed hat. The rain is sliding down the brim of the hat, splattering his face. Despite this, he has a good view of the restaurant, and in particular of a well-dressed man devouring a steak at a table near the window.

The man is a lover of food; his generous body-structure displays this proudly. If he had been a normal man, he would be overweight, but his size – length and breadth – has eliminated this, distributing fat and muscle evenly in almost perfect proportion.

From the inside pocket of his overcoat, Karl produces a gun – a Colt Cobra .38 Special revolver – a tiny gun with an immense impact. Opening up the gun’s stomach, he checks the chambers again – the tenth time in as many minutes – unconsciously wiping the rain pellets from its metal skin. His hands are shaking, but not enough at the moment to retard what he has in mind: close up and personal.

The corner of Karl’s eye catches movement. The man in the restaurant is standing, wiping juices from his mouth with a napkin. After some small-talk with a waitress, he hands her payment, smiles, then heads for the exit.

‘
Shit!
’ Karl shoves the gun into the overcoat’s side pocket, grasping the weapon tightly in his hand.

The man is emerging from the doorway of Fiddler’s Green,
fumbling with a black umbrella. The umbrella blossoms like a funereal flower, and the man is now walking in Karl’s direction.

Karl slowly slides out the gun from his pocket, resting its compact weight against the side of his overcoat. He commences his walk towards the man. The rain is now torrential, beating against Karl’s face, making clear vision impossible. It seems to be trying to hold him back.

The man moves slightly to the left, avoiding a puddle, as they pass. At the same time, Karl makes an identical move, and both men’s arms touch, just slightly, but enough for Karl to release his grip on the gun.

To his horror, Karl watches the gun descend in slow motion, spinning and spinning. For one horrible second, he fears the irony of the gun going off, the bullet penetrating
his
head.

Both men stop in their tracks. The man looks at Karl. Karl can’t move. Fear has immobilised him. The gun makes a noise as it hits the ground. Both men look down. Karl can see the gun, half-submerged in a filthy shallow puddle. Surely the man can see it also? The man stares at Karl.

‘Sorry. This damn umbrella…I should’ve been looking where I was going.’

The man proceeds hurriedly onwards down the street. Karl stands in the sodden night, watching the distance consume the man; watching him become an inky exclamation mark, fading into a pixel. Then heavy nothingness.

Karl bends and pukes all over the ground, the gun, his shoes. The vomit mixes with the rain, becoming a Rorschach collage, two tiny accusing faces.

Move your arse. He’s getting away!

Karl retrieves gun from puddle. Staggers after the man, swaying from side to side like a drunk. Pushes through the heavy nothingness. Sees the pixel. Watches it transform back into an exclamation mark. Then morphing into the man.

Karl’s hands are shaking terribly, but he manages to pull back the hammer on the gun. Sees the back of the man’s head. Squeezes down on trigger…

M
onday morning, and Karl had barely sat down for a quick liquid breakfast of coffee in the kitchen, when Naomi entered, smiling. She walked over and kissed his bare back.

‘There’s nothing as sexy as a man sitting in his underwear, drinking coffee, in the morning.’

A suspicious look appeared on Karl’s face. ‘What the hell are you on? Better still, what the hell are you up to?’

‘Just telling the truth, big fella.’

Naomi placed the day’s mail in front of him.

‘That’s bloody early. Bet that lazy bastard Sean has a birthday or something. That’s why he’s doing his rounds so quickly. So he can go out and get blitzed on cheap wine.’

‘Oh, should we get him a card or something? He always makes sure we get our post, even when the weather’s atrocious.’

‘Wrong postal service. That’s the Pony Express you’re thinking of. Anyway, it’s his job to get the mail here, isn’t it? Do I
get birthday cards for doing my job? Hell no. Abuse, that’s what I get. Anything interesting in all that pile of crap?’

‘Bills, love. All bills.’

‘That’s what I should have been called, instead of Karl. Bill.
Hmm
. Bill Kane. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘Not as sexy as Karl.’

‘What’s with the strange smile? You’re up to something. What?’

‘Nothing…’ She ran her hand down his stomach, and into his underwear.

‘If you’re looking for my wallet, it’s not there. But then again, I could be lying. If you keep looking, you just might get a surprise.’

‘What kind of surprise?’

‘That would be telling. You’ve got to keep searching. You might find two big rocks.’

‘Show them to me later.’ Naomi purred against his neck, and then removed her hand. From behind her back, she produced another letter. ‘I think I forgot to give this to you.’

‘For one scary moment, I thought you actually pulled that from under my ballbag.’

‘It’s from the bank.’

‘From one ballbag to another. What do those bastards want now?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t read it.’ A sly grin appeared on Naomi’s face.

‘
Hmm
. That’s debateable,’ Karl said, opening the letter and scanning its contents.

‘Well?’

‘Well what? You read it before me.’ Karl gave Naomi a smile. ‘The payment from the house has finally come through – as you already know. We’re rich, my dear. Well, we would be, if most of it wasn’t heading to Dad’s nursing home for medical and care costs. But still, I think we–’

‘Shoes. I need some shoes, badly.’

‘You’ve more shoes than bloody Imelda Marcos.’

‘And there’s this little red dress I’ve been after.’

‘Yes, I’ve been after one of those myself, for some time now.’

‘And spending money…’

‘Okay. You win. I’m not even going to argue with you. I suggest we close for the day, go on a little celebration.’

‘Really?’

‘No, make that a
large
celebration, starting right now.’

‘Oh, Karl!’

Karl stood. They embraced. Kissing. Long, no-coming-up-for-air kissing, before collapsing on to the floor. Karl was thankful he was only wearing his underwear, but the gentleman in him helped Naomi shed what little garments she was attired in at eight-thirty on a lovely, unusually sunny Monday morning in Belfast.

For the longest time they rested there, on the soft, plush carpet, both sexually exhausted, listening to soft melodies whispering from the radio.

‘I wish I had a house to sell every day, if that’s the reward,’ Karl said, grinning like a cat with milk
and
goldfish.

‘You couldn’t hack it, big lad. You’ve nothing left in the pipeline,’ teased Naomi.

‘Don’t test me. I haven’t even started using my reserves of oil, yet.’

The song on the radio came to an abrupt end. It was replaced by the local news, headlined by a house fire in north Belfast.

A family, named locally as the Reilly family, tragically perished in a blaze at their home in Victoria Barracks, in the early hours of yesterday morning. Neighbours reported hearing a loud explosion, before the house was engulfed in flames. Police believe a cigarette left burning by one of the occupants may have ignited a gas leak…

D
orothy opened her eyes to a sea of claustrophobic gloom and semi-darkness pressing against her. Everything strange. Smells. Location. Time.

She tried moving, but arms and legs were swampy. As if bones had been separated from her body. An iron manacle ringed her left ankle. She pulled on the chain connected to it. No use. Fastened securely to the far wall. The effort sapped what little strength she had in her. Exhaustion took hold.

‘Mum? Dad? Are you there?’
she whispered fearfully, tears starting to glaze her eyes.
‘Cindy…? Stop doing this to–’

Without warning, a hand whipped around from behind, clamping her mouth tightly. She could barely breathe. Panicking, she lashed out, but was too weak to cause damage. Tears began flowing. Snot bubbled and spurted from her nose onto the gripping hand.

‘Stop with the crying, and keep your voice down,’
hissed a voice
into her ear. ‘
Scarman
will hear you. If you force him to come, he’ll punish us. If you make him come, I’ll punish you, as well.’

Dorothy stopped struggling as soon as she saw the owner of the hand. A girl, face filthy, ropey hair thick with grease. The girl cautiously removed her hand, before skidding the snot and tears back onto Dorothy’s pyjamas.

‘What’s your name?’ the girl asked.

‘Dor…Dorothy. Dorothy Reilly.’ Dorothy began wiping away the stream of tears and the leakage from her nose. She was finding it difficult not to sob. ‘Where…where am I?’

‘Not fucking Kansas, Dorothy – that’s for sure.’ The girl smiled, but not in a friendly way. ‘We’re in a big house, out in the shitty country somewhere. That’s all I know.’

‘What…am I doing here?’

‘Are you serious? Can’t you guess?’

‘I…I’m not sure. I remember sleeping in bed with Cindy, my wee sister. There was a party…I don’t know what happened after that.’

‘Well,
I
can pretty much tell you what happened after that. You were taken.’

‘What…?’

‘Taken. Just like the movie. Scarman has you now.’

‘Who…who’s Scarman?’

‘The Devil.’

Dorothy started puking. Most of the splattering slammed against the girl.

‘You stupid little bitch! Look what the fuck you’ve done to my jeans!’

Dorothy began sobbing uncontrollably. She was in hell and the devil was coming for her.