The Killing Hour (30 page)
Authors: Paul Cleave
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General, #Mystery & Detective
Her eyelids flutter open. He studies her face. For the first time he notices how attractive she really is. Why hadn’t he spotted that before? He decides it doesn’t matter. All he needs now is the memory of her pain. She’s looking at him, staring at him, and yet he still doesn’t feel good. He’s in too much pain.
He twists the handle in her stomach and he can feel her through it. He can feel her pain as her body moves beneath it. He has stabbed her in the same place Charlie stabbed him. It’s not fatal, not yet, but it will be. She is a different build to him, weaker. She will suffer first the same way he’s been suffering, but it won’t last long. Already he can feel her life slipping away. The satisfaction he feels is meagre. Meeting this woman and meeting Charlie and meeting Frank are the worst things that have ever happened to him. As he takes his hand away and touches the side of his disfigured face, he knows life will never be the same. He looks into her eyes and he can see her dying, he can see her slipping away. He clamps a hand over her mouth to feel her dying breath against his skin. It gives him strength. It makes the back of his neck tingle, it makes the muscles in his arms and legs quiver, but it doesn’t make the pain in his mouth go away.
He stares into her eyes. He keeps his hands on her mouth. Her breath against his skin is weak and warm. She is fading. He stands up. He looks down. She has her hands on the handle of the knife the same way he did on Monday morning.
Welcome to my world, bitch.
He turns towards Charlie. He should just kill him. Then he can jump into his car. Drive away from here. Drive into a lamppost to explain his injuries, though first he’ll have to remove the padding from his stomach.
But first he must show the dying bitch to Charlie, yeah, he has to do that first, because that’s quite possibly the most painful thing he can do to the man. It’ll only take a matter of seconds.
Perhaps he’ll get to enjoy some of this after all.
56
An awareness is coming back to me. I am Action Man. My mind is starting to clear, and a whole lot of imagery starts spilling into my consciousness in a random way that suggests this is all a dream, but the pain in my head suggests otherwise. There are ghosts in my world, but if they are here with me now, if they are a part of this Real World then their time for helping has finished.
Cyris starts circling me, and as he circles he slips in and out of focus. He picks up the torch and turns it on and off, on and off, and the sudden darkness and sudden light make me want to vomit. The edge of the beam hits his broken and swollen face. Each lip is as thick as my thumb. I recall causing that damage. It’s so extensive that it makes it impossible to tell if he’s smiling or grimacing. My mind lets go of everything. I lie in a state of cold hope and I don’t know how much time goes by. The torchlight reappears around the same time I start thinking again. It turns off. Comes on.
Click. Click-click. Click. Click-click.
Click
. He leans down and draws his lips apart. He leaves the torch on so I can see him. Dark blood falls from his mouth in hanging clumps; they are cold and they land on my face and neck. Behind his lips are a couple of upper teeth. The torch shows them clearly. Some teeth are on angles, some run flat against the roof of his mouth. Others are split, most are completely gone. He flicks at two loose ones with his tongue and dislodges them. He pokes his tongue out and shows them to me. They sit on the end, like fingernails. He spits them at me. Hard. One hits my nose, the other hangs down on a long piece of drool from his chin.
‘Where is she?’ My words are sluggish so they come out in one word, but he seems to understand exactly what I’m saying. He moves away and starts to laugh. Jo is behind him. She’s looking at me, but not really seeing, because she’s no longer in my world but has moved on to join Kathy and Luciana. The handle of the knife points from her stomach to the heavens where God doesn’t care or is too busy to notice.
Tears form in my eyes and a scream lodges in my throat. Every muscle in my body starts to burn and then tighten. My jaw clenches so tightly it could be locked. I curl my hands into fists. I thought I was angry earlier in the week, but this is anger. This is the real deal. Jo has a knife sticking out of her and all I’m doing is lying down and feeling pissed off, thinking about my good friend Evil and how he seems to be running my life, thinking about the Real World and wondering what I can do to escape it.
Cyris moves towards me.
‘I’m going to kill you.’ I can say it matter-of-factly because that’s exactly what it is. A fact. A goddamn irrefutable fact. And the best part is that we both know it. I can tell because he stops walking towards me.
I get to my feet, and even on his damaged face there is uncertainty, and I recognise it. My body suddenly feels stronger than it has all week. My mind is sharply focused, and he can sense this. I’ve just had this giant weight taken off my shoulders. The weight of the world. The weight of caring. This is how Atlas would feel if somebody came along and kicked the entire fucking sky off his back.
In the edges of the torchlight I see Cyris’s face start to drop. His eyes, normally wild and black, are now blank. His bleeding mouth is slightly open. Then his eyes flicker and he takes a small step back. He knows I’ve spoken the truth and for the first time he looks scared.
I don’t run at him full steam. Instead I stroll forward slowly, and this seems to threaten him even more because he keeps stepping back. I’m just strolling along as though it’s a nice day and I’m at the beach. But I’ve been to the beach recently and the experience pissed me off. So I’m channelling all my pissed-off emotions. And there are a lot of them to channel. I think of Kathy and Luciana. I think of myself. Most of all I think of Jo.
My cuffed arms hang in front of me. Cyris knows he’s screwed. He just hasn’t admitted it yet. He stops walking backwards. I close the distance. We are silent and we watch each other and no matter what happens now we both know this is finally the end. This week of hell is about to be over.
‘Just like a baby through a windscreen,’ I say.
I make to punch him with both hands but instead I kick him in the balls. He doubles over and now I do throw my fists into his face. Into his mouth. I feel a few more things go crunch and I savour the sound. I cup my hands behind his neck and pull his face into my knee. The damage is far greater than I could have achieved with my fists. He takes a step back. I stare at him – he’s not a monster, he’s a machine – but then he collapses into a heap.
I crouch next to Jo and put my hand on the handle of the knife. I need it.
‘This is for you, Jo.’
‘Charlie?’
‘Jo?’
‘It hurts, Charlie. It hurts so much.’
‘Thank God. You’re going to be okay. Okay? God. You hear me? Jo?’
‘Charlie?’
She needs medical attention and I need to stop wasting time looking at her. I begin examining the knife. I want to pull it out but basic first aid tells me that’s a hell of a bad idea. Never remove the foreign object unless absolutely necessary. So I find the tyre iron instead. I turn it over in my hands as I walk over to Cyris. I don’t bother to offer him a smile or a last request or a final witticism.
Action Man, do your thing.
I crash the socket into the front of Cyris’s face, then into the side of his head, over and over and over. This man, so much bigger than me, so much stronger, so evil, now lies shuddering in front of me. I feel no pity for him. Only revulsion. He lurches upwards, his throat gargling as blood bubbles from his mouth. He starts to convulse. I hit him again. The wound on the side of his head looks like a sliced oyster.
Death is in the air. He has been here all night, perhaps all week, but now he touches my sweaty face and whispers farewell.
Don’t lose yourself.
Kathy’s words come back to me.
Don’t lose your humanity.
I hit him again, and again, and again. Harder each time. His skull cracks open loudly in several places. The tyre iron on occasions gets lodged in a hole. Blood arcs in the air, and when I’m done I’m covered in it; it’s warm and sticky and the stench is all around me. I search his pockets for the handcuff keys. He doesn’t try to stop me. Doesn’t try to do anything, because it’s all over for him now.
Don’t lose your humanity.
I use the torch and find the rest of the lighter fluid. I empty the tin on him, then use his own lighter to set him ablaze. He starts popping. Like meat on a spit. I guess that’s all he is now.
Jo remains silent the whole time. I see a woman who shows no disgust at what I’m doing. We watch Cyris burn and it feels good. He doesn’t move. We say nothing. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The game show is ending. The purple light of the killing hour is here. Evil has gone. He is not dead, but he has forgotten my name.
I look up, sensing that Kathy and Luciana are watching me, but I can’t see them as I carry Jo to the car.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Things have been crazy — in a good way — between the time
The Cleaner
went to print and the time I’m writing these acknowledgements. I have many wonderful friends who have supported me along the way, and this is my chance to let them know how grateful I am — plus with their names in print they’ll buy more copies as family Christmas presents.
Again Dan Myers takes most of the credit for shaping
The Killing Hour
to its potential. Dan is my number-one fan and critic, agent, and friend. His sick humour and pep talks have kept me functioning as a writer over the years. I’ll substitute him with alcohol over the remaining ones. This book, and the following ones, all stem from the work he has put into the novels. I’d like to thank Rebecca Kary for her help, and Anna Rogers whose editing helped me avoid a huge hazard.
Paul Waterhouse and his wife Tina have read my manuscripts at various stages and have stayed my friends anyway. Daniel and Cheri Williams have kept me encouraged from afar. And I thank David Batterbury, whose encouragement encroaches on stalking as he comes by the house to pick up writing that is only hours old. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if you guys weren’t in it. Also Amanda Harris, who explained a few things to me about women so I could write from their perspective — but it all seemed a little complicated so I made it up.
I’d like to thank Nathan and Samantha Ambrose who were at the bookstore to buy
The Cleaner
before it was even out of the box. Aaron Fowler, Joseph Purkis, David Mee, Kim McCarthy and Philip Hughes (Dr Phil) for reading various pieces of writing in various forms. Nicky Covich and Gill Watson for bribing their friends to buy more copies. Jo Richards (Oddgy) who would crinkle up the manuscripts and return them all out of order and who took an author photo that everybody says makes me look ‘psycho’. Ray-Charles Smading, whose disturbed humour makes him the sickest (and funniest) man I know.
I’d like to thank Harriet Allan and the staff at Random House who are amazing people. Harriet has given me support, advice, and one hell of an opportunity.
And lastly I’d like to thank Anna Maria Covich who, when I was nineteen, asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I told her I wanted to be a writer. She told me to go for it. She’s put in a lot of work along the way and has been invaluable in getting me here.
Paul Cleave
October 2006
Paul Cleave lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, where he divides his time between writing and renovating property. His first novel,
The Cleaner
was published in 2006.
The Killing Hour
is his second novel.
For more information, visit
www.paulcleave.com
or
www.randomhouse.com.au/Authors
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Version 1.0
The Killing Hour
9781742748627
Copyright © Paul Cleave 2007
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A Random House Australia book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
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First published by Random House New Zealand 2007
First published by Random House Australia 2007
This eBook edition published 2012
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Cleave, Paul, 1974—.
The killing hour.
ISBN 978 1 74166 853 7 (pbk.).
I. Title.
NZ823.3
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