The Killing Hour (26 page)

The killing hour is coming early tonight.

46

He likes to drive in silence because silence is golden. His mind is humming a bunch of thoughts he can’t decipher, and they’re being hummed in a tune he doesn’t recognise, a tune he thinks could possibly be from some sitcom he watches with his wife, the type of show where all the characters recycle the same plot every six months. He hates the sound, it hurts, and there’s nothing golden about that at all.

He pulls the car over and kills the ignition. When he looks at the woman he wonders how she would taste if he bit into her. The hate between them would surely make her taste sour. She’s looking at him, looking at him, looking at him as if he’s crazy, and he hates that look. He raises a hand to his head and he squeezes his fingers into the bone just above his ear, and the headache softens for a moment, only a moment. There’s a high-pitched sound in his ears that he can’t seem to shake. When he pulls his fingers away the headache comes back, as it always comes back. His stomach is okay, his stomach is fine, and though his head may hurt at least it’s clear enough for him to do what he came here for. He can remember everything. Better yet, he can understand it.

He pulls the woman out of the car and locks it before pushing her into the Mazda. He hates this car: maybe when all this is over he’ll burn it. Maybe he’ll burn it with her in the boot. Or tied to the passenger seat. He’ll mull it over. He’ll have time.

When they get to the pier he kills the motor, then looks at her. He has very little to say. So does she, apparently. He removes her gag, then wraps a towel over her wrists to hide the handcuffs. He pulls her across the driver’s seat and outside.

Charlie is out there somewhere, he can feel it. His car isn’t here. In fact the only car here is … he looks at the Holden, and yes, it looks familiar, but he has no idea where he saw it last, if indeed he did. They cross the road. He keeps looking back at the Holden. Something about it bugs him.

They walk towards the pier as the wind begins to pick up around them.

47

They cross the road, Cyris glancing at the Holden that was parked outside the shopping mall last night. I head along the pier towards the ocean. There’s nobody around. For all my planning we may as well have been back out in the woods. I stop next to the rubbish bin with my gear packed in the top of it. I take the pistol from my pocket and tuck it into the waistband of my pants around the back. The wind is getting stronger, stinging me with sand. I’m thankful for the jacket. Cyris and Jo reach the top of the stairs. He lets the wind push the side of his overcoat out so I can see the shotgun beneath. The Mossberg. It’s shorter than when I last saw it: he’s sawn off a good length of the barrel.

He smiles at me when he’s within talking distance. ‘Glad you could make it, buddy.’

I look at Jo. No obvious signs of assault. ‘You okay?’

‘She’s just peachy, just peachy,’ Cyris says.

They stand next to each other, about five metres from me. The wind makes it difficult to hear. Jo lets go of the towel over her wrists and the breeze catches it like a kite and yanks it into the night.

‘Unlock the handcuffs,’ I shout, looking at her hands.

Cyris pulls the keys from his pocket, turns towards her, then turns back to me. The wind has his scraggly black hair standing on end. The grin on his face tells me he’s about to do or say something he thinks I haven’t expected. He raises the keys in the air and they follow the path of the towel.

‘You bastard,’ I yell, moving to the side of the pier and looking over the edge. All I can see is black sand and no water. The tide is out. ‘Why the hell did you do that?’

‘Stop pissing around, partner, and give me the money.’

‘The money’s here. Let her go.’

‘Looks like we need to develop some trust.’ He pulls a knife from his pocket and touches the blade against Jo’s face. I’ve seen how quick he is with that weapon.

I put the bag of money down and step back. ‘It’s all there, I swear.’

‘On your life.’ He laughs.

He pushes Jo forward until she’s level with the bag. He forces her to crouch down and open it. She holds it so he can see inside. One hundred thousand dollars, stacked neatly, looks back out at him.

He looks up from the money. ‘Very good.’

‘Now let her go.’

He shoves her in the back, and I manage to catch her before she falls. I realise I should have let her fall and drawn my pistol instead.

‘One more thing, arsehole,’ he says.

I don’t need to look up at him because I know what he’s going to say and do. I keep moving backwards, letting the momentum of catching Jo push us towards the rubbish bin. When I look up all I can see is the shotgun emerging from beneath his jacket. He points it at us.

‘We had a deal,’ I protest, stalling for time.

‘A deal, uh huh, we had a deal, and I upheld it, partner, I gave you the woman, I gave her to you in one piece. What in the hell’s your problem?’

I start manoeuvring Jo behind me, away from the blast of the gun, closer to the rubbish bin. I keep pushing at her, my hand moving behind my back, moving towards the gun.

‘How noble,’ Cyris says.

‘You’ve got your money. Now leave us alone.’

‘No.’

My fingers curl around the handle. One false move and I could shoot myself in the arse.

‘I called the police,’ I say.

‘Bullshit.’

‘They’re watching right now.’ I slowly pull the gun upwards before putting my finger into the trigger guard. At the same time the breeze whips a load of sand off the beach into our faces.

‘I’d better put on a good show.’ He pumps the Mossberg. The shell crunches into place.

‘I have more money.’

‘How much more?’

‘Fifty grand.’

‘Why don’t I believe you?’

I can see he wants to. His head is slightly cocked to the side as if the sounds of dollar signs crunching inside his mind are heavy. He’s contemplating what he can do with a hundred and fifty grand. Then he smiles. He has finished contemplating.

‘I can get it for you.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

He lowers his gun. Just slightly, but it’s all I need. They say money can’t buy happiness, but they’re wrong. A make-believe fifty thousand dollars has just brought me all the happiness I need.

I bring my arm around, not wanting to fire a gun in public, but not knowing what other option I have. The gun appears in one smooth sweeping movement that makes Cyris’s eyes open wide, and when it goes off, I miss everything but the ocean as the bullet whistles harmlessly out to sea. The small recoil jumps my arm further around. There’s no time to aim so I just fire, my mind sending an impulse to my finger quicker than Cyris can send one to his. The bullet takes him in the left shoulder and spins him as he fires. His shotgun sounds like thunder, then metal rain fills the air as pellets from the cartridge spray across the railings. I fire another shot, this one taking him in the chest. He does not fly backwards. Just falls to the ground where he stands, the Mossberg clattering onto the concrete alongside him.

The problem is it doesn’t stop him. He reaches for the shotgun and pumps it. He tries to stand. My next shot takes him in his left arm and he staggers into the railing, losing the grip on the gun once again. I halve the distance between us. He’s leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the ground. I keep the Glock trained on him, but he doesn’t move. I close the remaining distance, moving in from his side, keeping the gun pointing at the side of his head.

He stands straight and rushes his fist towards me but I’m prepared for it. I pull the trigger, only the explosion of sound that ought to happen doesn’t happen, and the only recoil I take is from his punch. I fall back, staring at the gun, staring at the slide that is pulled back and somehow jammed, staring at it with no idea how to fix it. Cyris comes at me but he’s slow from his wounds. I duck his punch and crash the gun into the side of his head. It jags off his skull and Cyris cries out as his head snaps sideways. The momentum from his swinging punch tugs him forward and he crumples into a heap next to his shotgun. I kick the Mossberg further away. I kick the knife away too. I step back and study him. He’s perfectly still. I kick him. He doesn’t move.

I run towards Jo. She’s thirty metres away, balanced near the railing, looking like she’s ready to jump depending on the outcome of events.

‘Is he dead?’ she asks, the moment I reach her. She yells to be heard over the wind and flying sand.

I shake my head. I dig into my pockets for Landry’s handcuff keys and pull them out. We try for a few seconds to undo her cuffs but it’s obvious the key won’t fit. ‘You should go and search for the keys.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll help you in a minute, okay?’

‘Charlie?’

‘I’ve got a couple of things to do.’

She slowly nods. ‘You don’t have to do this, Charlie. We can take him to the police.’

‘If he ever gets away he’ll come after us. You know that, don’t you? Or in ten years when they let him out for good behaviour. It’s either him or us, Jo. What do you want me to do? Let that happen?’

She doesn’t answer. Instead she raises her cuffed hands over my head and embraces me. We hold each other while I keep my eyes glued to Cyris. He’s not moving. We let go and she runs along the pier as the wind kicks at her.

Sand flicks my face and I use my hands to shield my eyes. So much of it is in the air I can’t even see the beach. I have no idea how we’ll find the keys. As I walk towards Cyris I push and pull at the slide on my Glock, not knowing what I’m doing, but after a few attempts it slides back into place.

The urge to kill Cyris is with me, and it’s the sort of urge I want to give in to. I don’t doubt he’ll come after us when he’s released from prison after spending the appropriate amount of years that balances the scales for killing at least four people. I pick up the rope and Landry’s handcuffs and the same anger that burned through me when I found Frank leaving a briefcase full of money is burning through me now. I snap the handcuffs around his wrists. The moment the second bracelet is in place he shoots both hands upwards, hitting me in the jaw. I reach out and the rope wraps around his neck. When I pull on it, it tightens.

He pushes into me, crushing me between his body and the lamppost. My head clangs against it, and when I look down I see four of his legs getting tangled in two sets of ropes. He tries to keep balanced but the rope is wrapped around him and the handcuffs make it that much more difficult. I grab hold of the rope and twist my body aside, pulling him into the lamppost. Then I push my body weight into him, lifting him onto the railing. I hold him at the top and we seem to realise at the same time that he’s balanced to go either way. All of a sudden he stops fighting me and I stop pushing.

‘We can be partners,’ he says.

‘Go to hell.’

His hands reach out and grab the railing as he falls. I tie off the end of the rope around the lamppost. He sees what I’m doing and knows he should have let go and taken his chances with the water. I kick his fingers and then he’s gone.

He doesn’t make a sound as he falls the four metres. But the rope does. It comes to a sudden snap, then strains against the side of the rail, moving back and forth in small sudden movements. It sounds like grinding teeth. When I look over the edge he’s swinging from side to side. He’s managed to wrap an arm around the rope to take the impact from his neck. Five metres below him is the ocean.

I turn and look back at the pier. Our struggle, from the moment he arrived, has brought us two-thirds of the way towards the end. I make my way over to my gun and spot Cyris’s black satchel just ahead of it. I pick it up, curious to see what he had planned for us tonight, and find Jo’s car keys in it, along with a bottle that holds around a litre of petrol, a lighter and a knife. I can only imagine.

Cyris is still swinging, his hands on the rope to keep him from strangling. He’s trying to untangle his neck. I open the bottle of petrol and pour a quarter of it onto the leather satchel, then I lie down and put my hand through the railing. I’m on automatic now. This path I’m taking is one I don’t even want to consider veering from. I dump the contents of the bottle, getting as much fuel onto Cyris as the wind will allow. I stand back up, then look down so I can see his eyes as I take the lighter from my pocket. I can see little because of the sand swirling around us. I tie the handle of the satchel around the rope so it has enough room to slide, then use the lighter to set fire to it. Even in the strong wind it catches immediately. I let it drop and it spirals down the rope towards Cyris. The wind pushes it around but doesn’t blow it out. Cyris swings harder as he struggles to untie the rope around his neck with his handcuffed hands. Short, jerky movements. He can’t do it. The satchel reaches his hands and he cries out and pulls them away, but then the noose starts choking him so he has to put his hands back.

The fire jumps onto his clothes. It starts eating the petrol. For a few seconds his screams drown out the sound of the wind.

For a few seconds I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

He struggles as the fire consumes him. I search inside myself to see how I feel. Am I happy at what I have done? I hope not, but the truth is I don’t know. Not yet, anyway. I feel nothing.

I lean over the railing and draw a bead on my target with the gun.

Action Man: it is time for all this to end.

48

Swinging around, swinging around, this is so bad, yeah, yeah, and the pain is intense, and the handcuffs dig into his wrists and he can’t fight his way out of them and he can’t fight the rope around his neck, can’t fight the fire, and if this is what revenge is, it tastes horrible, fucking horrible. His fingers are on fire, his body is on fire, and he swings in the breeze and gravity pulls at his body while there’s nothing, nothing, nothing he can do except burn. Burn to death, burn to ash. The fire evaporates his tears before they fall, and there must be a way, must be, yeah, must be a way he can escape this. The headache is back and his mind throbs without the pressure of any ideas. The skin on his fingers and the skin on his face hurts, hurts so much. The sounds it makes is horrible, the
sizzle-sizzle
of meat cooking, of skin cooking, and the smell, the smell is almost as bad as the pain.