The Dark Place (19 page)

K
arl stared out the window like a zombie, watching people flowing into work. They all seemed to have the same expressionless face stitched between their ears. He kept trying to refocus his mind, but it kept returning to yesterday’s disastrous results at the police station. Wilson was right. What good would it have done, arresting Hannah? A shiver ran up Karl’s spine at the thought of Katie starving to death in some darkened hole. What the hell was he thinking of? That was the problem. He
wasn’t
thinking, allowing his heart and emotions to run amok.

“Stop torturing yourself, Karl,” said Naomi, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Everything will work itself out. You’ll see.”

“I’m glad you didn’t leave,” stated Karl, placing a hand on Naomi’s. “I’d be a basket case if you had.”

“Let’s not talk about that, for now.”

The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up hurriedly.

“Hello?”

“I’ll make this quick,” said Wilson on the other end. “I’m not going to press charges against you. But I must warn you, Hannah’s not a happy man –”

“As if I give a fuck about his happiness!” snapped Karl, relief suddenly combining with anger.

“If you would just let me finish!” boomeranged Wilson’s tetchy voice. “He’s not a happy man because as we speak, all of his premises – including Crumlin Road Prison – are being searched.”

Relief suddenly flooded over Karl.

“I … thanks,” mumbled Karl. “I … appreciate this …”

“I don’t want your thanks. I didn’t do this for you – or my sister. I did it because Katie is my niece and I love her as if she were my daughter.”

“I owe you an apology for –”

“Stuff your apology! Don’t think this changes anything between us. I still hold you responsible for the deaths of my detectives. Your day will come, Kane,” snarled Wilson, hanging up.

No sooner had the phone stopped ringing when it started once again.

“Hello?” asked Karl.

“You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” hissed the voice at the other end.

“Hannah?”

“I would have released her after a while. But you’ve changed the rules, dear Karl, and I don’t allow the rules to be changed. As we speak, barbarians are tearing my theatre apart, all because of you. I have no doubt about that. Do you know how that feels, to be violated?”

“Let Katie go. Please. I’ll do anything you ask.”

“Too late. Far too late to bargain, dear Karl.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“I’m going to kill you, dear Karl, and not in a very nice way. I’m going to kill you with the gun Cathy took from you.”

“It was you, that night, wasn’t it? It was you who murdered Cathy.”

“Cathy had outlived her usefulness. She had become a liability. The good thing is that the gun has your prints on it, not mine.”

Karl’s stomach suddenly heaved.

“Did you ever see your beautiful daughter naked, sweet Karl?”

The blood went straight to Karl’s head.
Bang! Bang! Bang!

“You’ve gone all quiet, dear Karl,” continued Hannah. “Trying to
trace this call? Won’t do you any good. I always use a throwaway phone. Where was I? Oh! Sweet Katie. Did you know she has her little boy nipples and clit pierced? Quite provocative, I can assure you. But you probably knew that already. Eh? I might send you a photo of –”

“Bastard! So help me, you bastard, if you’ve touched my daughter, I –”

“Just think of this: if I hadn’t been watching you, that day in Nick’s Warehouse, I would never have guessed Katie was your daughter. You looked right at me when I hit you up the face with the rhino-shaped sponge,” laughed Hannah.

“What?”

“The clown. That was me, dear Karl. I even winked at you as I walked by. I was on the lookout for other young … companions, when I suddenly realised the resemblance between father and daughter.”

“You fucking bastard …”

“You brought all this to your own door, Karl. Live with the consequences – for ever.”

The phone went dead.

K
arl sat in Wilson’s office, feigning calmness, all the while watching Lynne ripping shreds from her brother.

“How the hell can you sit there, Mark, claiming you can’t find anything!” screamed Lynne, leaning into Wilson’s haggard-looking face.

“Because we
couldn’t
find anything, damn it! Perhaps if
someone
hadn’t burglarised his premises, it wouldn’t have unnerved Hannah enough to move any incriminating evidence stored there!” retorted Wilson, glancing at Karl.

“Or someone in your office tipping him off,” said Karl, calmly.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you, Kane? All mouth, no brains. Always looking for police corruption, aren’t you?”

“I don’t think you looked hard enough, Mark,” accused Lynne.

“For God’s sake, Lynne! The search parties explored every inch of the prison, in a three-day extensive search. They even reopened all of the old covered-in escape tunnels, just to make sure. What else can I do?”

“You can find my daughter! That’s what you can do!” Without
warning, Lynne suddenly burst into sobs. “Just … just find her.”

“Easy, Lynne,” soothed Karl, suddenly standing beside his ex-wife, holding her tightly in his arms. “Easy, girl … breathe easy. That’s it … easy …”

“Oh, Karl, what … what are we going to do?”

“Something. I’ve already made my mind up. Come on, I’m taking you home.”

“This something better not be breaking the law, Kane,”
cut-in
Wilson, blocking the doorway. “You won’t get any permission or support from me if you do. I warn you well in advance.”

Starting from his toes, a lit fuse of burning anger immediately ran up the entire length of Karl’s body, heading for the gunpowder in his brain. He stopped it, just in time, preventing the explosion.

“I don’t need
your
permission or support for anything, Mark,” replied Karl, calmly. “Perhaps not too far in the future, you’re the one going to need
my
support, though.”

“Your support? Ha! Don’t make me laugh, Kane. Why the hell would I need your support in the future or any other time, for that matter?”

Forcing a smile, Karl replied, “A wee birdie told me that Phillips got his pension reinstated. I wonder why? Perhaps I don’t need to wonder. Perhaps I already know the reason. Think about that, Mark, the next time you forget to look over your shoulder. Now move out of the way.”

Paling quickly, Wilson moved slowly from the door before easing down on to a chair.

Karl closed the door gently behind him and Lynne.

K
arl was certain the bar – Ramblers – was somewhere in the vicinity. What he wasn’t certain of was its ownership; if it was still run by the man he desperately needed to speak to. Yesterday’s confrontation with Wilson had galvanised him. Sitting on his arse was a luxury he no longer could afford.

“Who’re you looking for, Mister?” asked a little girl no older than ten years of age, angelic face a landmass of freckles resembling rusted nails. Her left hand held a beat-up teddy bear with bizarre glass eyes and both ears missing. It resembled road kill.

“Don’t you know you shouldn’t be talking to a stranger, little girl?” said Karl.

“What about you?
You’re
talking to a stranger,” spit-fired the little girl in an automatic retort. “
Well?
Aren’t you?”

“Good point. But I’m a bit older than you.”

The little girl seemed to ponder this revelation for a few seconds before suddenly bringing the road-kill bear towards Karl’s face. He could smell dog piss and dampness from its mangy fur.

“But you’re not as old as me,” said the bear, its bizarre toe-like lips unmoving.

“Oh, a go-between? You’ve got more tricks than Richard Nixon,
little girl,” said Karl, feeling like a proper dick, standing in the middle of the street talking to a stuffed bear.

“I’m not Little Girl. My name is Bear,” said the bear, getting annoyingly closer to Karl’s wary face.

“I see … well, I’m looking for a certain type of place that wouldn’t be known by you, Bear.”

“Is it Brenda’s?” asked Bear.

“Pardon?”

“Brenda’s. You know, the place where all the strange men go to at night?”

“Homeless shelter, you mean?”

“Are you heebiefuckingjeebie out of your head, Mister? The strange men go there to have sex. It’s a whorehouse. Is that what you’re looking for?”

Karl’s tongue almost fell from his mouth. “No … no, but I’ll keep that in mind, the next time I’m feeling strange.” About to move on, he suddenly decided that perhaps Little-Not-So-Angelic could, after all, know the location of Ramblers.

“Ever hear of a bar called Ramblers?”

“Sure. Who hasn’t? Everybody knows Ramblers. It’s in Clifton Square.”

“Clifton Square? You wouldn’t happen to know the directions by any chance?”

“Sure.”

Karl waited, but other than sure, no other word emerged. He tried again. “Can
you
direct
me
to Clifton Square?”

Bear nodded. “It’ll cost.”

“What else is new?” said Karl, digging into his pocket, producing some coins, before handing them to an outstretched paw and hand.

“
This
is Clifton Square,” said Bear. “That’s Ramblers over there, beside the bakery.”

“Beside the …” Karl glanced across the street at the indicated building. Ramblers resembled an old church, badly converted into another old church. “No wonder I couldn’t find it.”

“You really shouldn’t be going to that place, Mister,” advised the
little girl. “They’re always fighting in there, and beating people up.”

“Thanks. I’ll try and remember that.”

Outside Ramblers, Karl stepped over a rib-protruding, sleeping dog being used as a doorstop. The dog stirred and emitted a low growl before slumbering again. He wondered if the dog was an omen, if perhaps the little girl was right?

A skinny young man – mid-teens – stopped him as he was about to enter.

“Sorry, pops. Strictly members only during the afternoon. Come back on Sunday night. That’s when the other old age pensioners play bingo and knit jumpers.”

“That’s my boot wedged in the door. Either it continues its journey through the door or goes up your arse. The choice is yours,
sonny
.”

Sonny stared into Karl’s eyes before quickly looking away, mumbling, “I’m … I’m going to inform management on you.”

“I suspected as much.”

From the jukebox close to the bar, Boxcar Willie’s gentle voice, singing “Gypsy Lady and the Hobo”, greeted Karl.

For Karl, the first sign of trouble in the bar was just that – a sign: No Fighting With
Full
Bottles. Smash The TV And You Are Barred
For Life.
We
Do Not
Pay Your Hospital Bills. Beneath the official sign, some local wit had scrawled in blue marker:
Nor funeral arrangements
.

The place was done up like something from the cowboy shows
Bonanza
or
The High Chaparral
, with sawdusted floors, batwing salon doors and even a family of unhealthy-looking rusted spittoons under each table. Boxcar Willie faded out, replaced by the haunting achy-ness of Patsy Cline’s “I Fall To Pieces”.

As if to prove the authenticity of the bar’s theme, a deliberate,
old-wild
-west hush suddenly stalked the room as Karl faked a leisurely saunter up to the counter – a saunter John Wayne would have been proud of. But despite being a converted church, Karl didn’t think this particular congregation was inclined toward any religious persuasion – it was more like a lynch mob in badly faked designer denim.

Parking his arse at the end of the counter, he made a motion with his hand to the barman. “When you get a chance, partner.”

The barman fixed Karl with a brow-rippling scowl, before returning his eyes to the television.

“Any chance of a drink?” persisted Karl.

The barman did not answer, but a voice from behind spoke.

“I believe you were told it’s members only in the afternoon.”

Karl swivelled in the chair. A keg-barrel chest of a man smiled, a golden Celtic cross dangling from his generous muscular neck. His body wasted no space, all of it packed in under his skin like muscular rivets. To Karl, he looked like a wrestler about to go to town – a town called Karl.

“I’m looking to become a member,” said Karl.

“Memberships all booked up,” replied Mister Wrestler. “What’s your business here?”

“You the sheriff?”

“Sheriff’s out at the ranch,” smiled Mister Wrestler. “I’m the deputy.”

“What’s a man got to do to get a drink in this place?”

“You might find it difficult getting served.”

“Even for a wanna-be member?”

Smiling even broader, Mister Wrestler said, “What would you like?”

“For starters, a bottle of Harp would be nice. Chilled, if possible. I’ll even buy you one, because you’ve shown such kindness to a tenderfoot riding the open trail,” said Karl, returning the smile.

“Joe? A bottle of Harp – chilled for the cowboy.”

Joe dipped a massive arm into an ice case and produced the beer before handing it to Mister Wrestler, totally ignoring Karl’s outstretched hand.

Instantly, the bottle disappeared into Mister Wrestler’s ham-like fist. “Here,” said Mister Wrestler to Karl, twisting off the cap as if snapping the neck of a small animal. “Enjoy and leave.”

“I must warn you that I’m a very slow drinker.”

“You look like a fast learner. Drink it fast.”

Karl took a long sip of the beer. It was refreshing, hitting the back of his throat in just the right place. “That was good,” he said, placing the half-finished beer on the counter.

“What exactly is it you want here?” asked Mister Wrestler.

“I’m looking for a man,” said Karl, removing a business card from his pocket, reaching it out towards Mister Wrestler. “Brendan Burns.”

Mister Wrestler refused to take the card. “Put it back in your pocket. This isn’t the place to come looking for
anybody
. Now, finish your drink and saddle up. You’ve overstayed your visit.”

Karl placed the card on the counter alongside the unfinished beer.

“I take it that means you’ll not help?”

“Take it whatever way you want, but take yourself and leave – right now.”

“What about the job you promised?” said Karl.

“What job?”

“Why, the blowjob, of course.”

Mister Wrestler’s skin suddenly tightened. Karl could see veins as thick as shoelaces tunnelling along the skin.

“How do you know when a dying man is about to make his exit from this world?” asked Mister Wrestler, his face suddenly resembling that of a hangman who has just discovered the perfect knot.

Karl looked immediately troubled. “I’ve got a foul, sinking suspicion of where this is headed, but amuse me, anyway.”

That’s when all the lights went out in Karl’s head.

Karl groaned. His ribs hurt like hell, hands badly torn. He spat a blob of blood from his mouth. He was sure some of his teeth had migrated. Something burned in his throat, tasting like vomit. Each time he attempted to move, a surging pain went up along his spine, ringing a bell inside his head.
Ding Fucking Dong!
He was in an alleyway of some sort, flat on his back and wedged between overturned bins, their putrid contents spewed on top of him. An enormous dent in one of the bin lids gave him an indication of what he possibly had been hit
with
– as well as the ham sandwich from Mister Wrestler’s hammy hand, of course.

“I
thought
I heard you moving. I’ve never seen a man take a beating like that before and live. That was very rare,” claimed a voice, directly above Karl’s head. It was Mister Wrestler, calmly smoking a cigarette, the other hand behind his back. “What is the rarest thing you can think
of, cowboy?”

Karl tried grinning, but it was too painful. His intestines felt like they were quickly unravelling. “A used condom from the Pope? Your wife cuming?”

“A dying man being given the chance to live. I’m offering that to you. Do you want it?” said Mister Wrestler, bringing his other hand suddenly into play.

His attention now riveted to the bulbous gun in the non-smoking hand of Mister Wrestler, Karl whispered, “I’m … I’m not leaving – not until I talk to Brendan Burns.”

“You are and you aren’t. We could have used someone like you, years ago,” said Mister Wrestler, shaking his head, as if with admiration for the tenacity of the tenderfoot. “A pity you have more balls than brains, though. All that testosterone can be bad for your health, if you don’t mix it with some good old common sense.” Mister Wrestler went down on one knee, placing the gun to Karl’s left eye. “Do you know anything about hollow point bullets? No? Well, allow me to educate you. When the bullet hits you, the splits along its filed grooves divide into fourths, each piece going in a separate direction. That’s why it leaves a hole the size of a grape in your stomach and a gap the size of a watermelon in your back.” Mister Wrestler cocked the gun. “Now, are you smart or just ballsy?”

Karl spat another blob of blood from his mouth. “I’m not fucking leaving until I meet Brendan Burns, you bastard.”

“Wrong answer.”

The lights went out again and Karl was suddenly in a freefall of dark nothingness.

You really are heebiefuckingjeebie out of your skull, Mister,
said Bear.