Date: 2012-09-18 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Short Stories
Description: Twelve tales of terror. What lurks within the darkness? What crawls outside of our perception? What happens when the world as we know it stops making sense? When reality isn't what it seems, and the rules no longer apply... Dark Corners is a collection of twelve interlinked short stories plotting the darkest reaches of the human psyche.

Dark Corners

Twelve Tales of Terror

Michael Bray

Dark Hall Press

A Division of New Street Communications, LLC

Wickford, RI

Copyright 2012 by Michael Bray

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except for brief quotations for review purposes, no part of this work may be reproduced in any form without the permission of Dark Hall Press, a Division of New Street Communications, LLC.

Published 2012

ISBN-13: 978-0615696423

Dark Hall Press
darkhallpress.com

A Division of New Street Communications, LLC

Wickford, RI

Dedication

For my wife Vikki, my daughter Abi, my sisters Ann-Marie, Carol, Debbie & Pauline and my mother Mavis. This labor of love is also dedicated to my father Michael, who always encouraged me to embrace my creativity.

Acknowledgments

Huge thanks to all of my family and friends who have supported this project from start to finish, and have generally tolerated my often incessant ramblings about the book. Also to William Renehan at Dark Hall Press for having belief and faith in the manuscript and for his tireless work to bring it to press. And last but by no means least, to Robert Belsten and all the staff over at Emblesten.com for creating and hosting the www.dark-corners.co.uk website.

OBSERVATION ROOM 5

January 14th

I’m in isolation. The doctors aren’t sure what I was injected with, so they’re not taking any chances. I’m scared, really scared, but I won’t give up hope that I can come through this. I’ve always been a survivor and this will be no different. I found this pen and notepad by the side of my bed and figured I might as well log everything that happens, if for no other reason than to keep myself occupied. My name is James Robinson and I work in the city for an insurance brokerage firm. I’m making my way up the ladder, and although it’s slow going, I’m getting there. I still remember the words of my father, the only advice of any worth he ever bestowed upon me.

‘There’s a lot of money out there in the world, James. Just make sure you get your share of it,’ he said around the hand rolled cigarette that was always wedged between his teeth. Those words stuck with me—almost as much as the drunken beatings and crushing put downs he dealt out liberally. But that’s another story. Besides, I had the last laugh; he died of liver failure when I was fifteen. Tough-titty, Pops.

I don’t like this room I’m in. It’s too sterile, too white. I’ll describe it for you from where I lie, propped up in this hospital bed with its itchy sheets. It’s around twelve feet square with no windows, and other than the bed and small table beside it, no furniture. There’s an ugly faded painting on the wall of a vineyard basking in the glow of a summer’s day. Artistically it’s awful, but I suppose it serves as something to look at in the absence of a real view. I also have a small private bathroom and have been told to bottle my piss if I need to go, as they want to test it. There is a TV, although you won’t catch me watching it. No time for tuning out to shitty quiz shows and the like; I need to keep active and not become depressed despite what happened. They keep the door locked of course (otherwise it wouldn’t be called isolation) and keep an eye on me from the small security camera mounted in the corner. I can see the small red light blinking as it watches my every move. Fuck it. I won’t have to put up with this for too long. They’ll find a way to help me and then I can get back to my normal life.

Sorry, I had to stop writing for a while, as a doctor came in to visit me (why I’m apologizing I don’t know). He was wearing one of those white full body suits with the hood and clear plastic visor. It all seemed a bit dramatic to me and I don’t mind telling you that it caused me a little alarm. He asked how I was feeling, waiting for my response with his stupid fucking pen and clipboard. I told him I felt fine apart from the dryness in my throat, which is starting to feel like somebody installed a roll of tiny carpet inside whilst I wasn’t looking. In fact, I feel pretty good all things considered. I didn’t like the way that doctor looked at me; the way I imagined he looked at patients when he was about to bear bad news. I’m sorry, it’s terminal. I suggest we turn off life support. Days rather than weeks. Nothing more we can do. Standard bread and butter of the job for a sour faced prick like him. I told him I was hungry though, and as he scurried off he promised to have one of the nurses bring me some food. I hope it’s not the standard hospital fare. I could really use a decent meal… I suppose now would be a good time to explain what happened. I should warn you though, it’s a pretty fucked up story.

I only live six blocks from the office where I work, and most days I walk there by cutting through the park. However on this particular morning, I had failed to set my alarm clock and was forced to take the subway rather than my usual park route. I was sure I would make it if I caught the eight thirty-five train. Now I must admit, I hate trains—the thought of being closed in with so many people makes me feel sick. I don’t like to be touched, especially by the great unwashed. It’s nothing personal; I just don’t like my space to be invaded. But if it meant I would avoid being late for work, then I was prepared to make the sacrifice.

The subway entrance is only half a block away from where I live, and as I hurried down the steps, I felt a quiver of unease in my stomach. As I had feared, the subway car was already filling up with people. I tried to keep a neutral look on my face as I squeezed in, but all I could think about was my churning guts, and I had to concentrate all of my efforts to stop myself from being sick. You may think me odd, and maybe even a little obsessive, but just think about it for a minute. How many people are breathing their germs on you? How many people have gripped the metal rail after wiping their nose? Germs. Infections. Shit like that was rife, especially with so many people crammed together, sniffing and coughing. Initially I found a relatively spacious area (no seats of course—there never were any left, even that early on a morning) but as more and more people streamed onto the train, I found myself pushed further into the corner.

If not for choosing that exact moment to look through into the car next to me, I wouldn’t be here writing this now. I saw that it too was full, apart from the seat nearest the door. I craned my neck to see why nobody had snatched such a rare opportunity to sit whilst they travelled to work and immediately saw the reason. There was an old hobo slouched in the corner. Although that car was jammed to capacity, nobody would take up the spare seat, keeping their distance as if the old fuck carried some kind of plague. (Maybe he did, but I won’t think about that yet) Baffled by their stupidity, I jostled my way through the people next to me and made for the empty seat. There was plenty of distance between him and myself to sit without touching him, and that’s exactly what I did. You might call me a hypocrite, and that’s your right. However to me, sitting next to that filthy old bastard was far more acceptable than being wedged shoulder to shoulder with all those dirty, sniffling, germ-carrying people. The other passengers looked at me as if I was crazy, but I didn’t care. I was the one with the seat and not breathing in their diseases. Not that the old bastard didn’t smell. There was a distinct air of over ripe cheese and the yeasty stench of hops. Although everyone else was doing their best to ignore him, I couldn’t help but stare, fascinated and disgusted at the same time. How could a person let themselves go like that? He was the typical homeless cliché; long scraggly hair and beard that looked like it had once been black, but was now mostly grey and matted together. He had leathery, sun damaged skin from what looked like a lifetime of living on the streets. His clothes were old and tattered and the toe of one shoe was missing, revealing the stub of a filthy and overgrown toenail (he didn’t appear to be wearing socks). Clutched tightly to his chest were two things: a three-quarters empty bottle of cheap red wine, and a cardboard sign. Despite my disgust I wondered what it said, but whatever writing there was he had concealed by his arms. I don’t know if he felt my eyes on him, or if by sitting in his space I had stirred him from his snooze, but he woke up, looking at me with glassy, half-sunken, three sheets to the wind eyes. I suppose you could almost feel sorry for him, if he wasn’t such an obvious waste of space.

The old prick might have gone back to sleep, but instead his eyes lit up and he straightened in his seat, sending a fresh wave of that disgusting cheese and booze smell towards me. I glanced around and noted how I, like him, had become invisible to the other passengers.

“Can I tell ya somethin’, young fella?” the hobo had slurred, looking blankly in my direction.

Now here is something else about me that you probably should know, if you haven’t guessed it already that is. I’m a prick, and I don’t mind saying it. You probably suspected as much anyway, but I don’t really care what you think. The point is that you might have ignored him, or looked away, or maybe even stood and took your chances with the other sardines crammed into the rest of the subway car. But not me. I’m James fucking Robinson, and I don’t get intimidated by anyone—least of all an old, stinking, alcoholic bum. I told him to go ahead and talk, get it off his chest. He leaned forward and grinned, showing a mouth that was more gums than teeth.

“It’s the end of times you know, sonny.”

His breath made me queasy, but I had a point to make and forced myself not to flinch or show my disgust. Not just to him, but to the other people on the train who were now watching secretively. I don’t know if the old bastard noticed, but I did. I’m good at noticing shit like that—the little details that most people miss. I told the old guy in no uncertain terms how I felt about it. I told him that it was people like him that were dragging down society, and that he would be better off dead. That one got me a few disapproving glances from the observers, but I didn’t care. I turned the tables, acting as if they were as invisible to me as I was to them. I always spoke my mind and if someone didn’t like it, tough luck. To his credit, the old man didn’t seem to mind and laughed it off.

“I used to be like you, sonny. All dressed up in my suit and tie. I bet you have one of those big apartments in the city too, don’t ya?”

This wasn’t part of the plan, and certainly not what I had expected. This old guy was sharper than he looked and I was more aware of the people who were now watching intently, waiting to see what would happen. Maybe he was just getting his second or third wind, or perhaps he was fuelled by the attention, but he suddenly seemed bigger, somehow more powerful. I’ll admit it— I felt a little intimidated.

“Oh I see it alright, boy. You live there in that big place, all decked out with luxury items, but you’re alone, ain’t ya? I can see how lonely you are.”

I didn’t like this, and was about to tell him to go fuck himself when he leaned close, unbearably so, and whispered to me.

“We are all going to the same place.”

I genuinely thought he had meant to the same station on the subway when he flipped the cardboard sign around and showed me the words.

“This is where we are all headed, sonny. And ain’t nuthin’ you can do to stop it.”

What came next is still confusing, as it all happened so fast. I remember glancing down to the sign, reading the words crudely scrawled on the cardboard with black marker pen.

End of the Road

Simple. To the point. I’d had enough of his shit by then and I didn’t want to be caught up in some bullshit end of the world debate, so turned away from him. I clearly heard someone shout “LOOK OUT,” and immediately I felt it—a small sharp pain in my neck. I thought he had pinched me, trying to grab at me, but I could tell by the faces of the other passengers that it was something worse. Their expressions were haunted, and for the first time in years, I felt genuinely afraid. Some of the passengers moved to restrain him as I pulled away. Now standing, I saw myself in the opaque reflection of the window—it was then I realised what had everyone so upset. The fucker had stuck me with a syringe, which was still hanging out of my neck. In a panic I reached up and yanked it free, holding it in my hands and not quite able to believe what had happened. It’s funny that as filthy and grimy as he was, the needle looked perfectly clean and sterile. The chamber was empty apart from a few lingering drops of bluish liquid. I whirled on him and screamed, more in rage than anything else. That was the worst, hearing him cackle as they restrained him.

“End of the road, sonny! End of the road!”

God only knows what he stuck me with. I keep thinking of all the fucked up diseases in the world; Hepatitis, Ebola, HIV. The words keep spinning around my head, but I’m determined to be ok. After all, I don’t feel ill—which can only be a good thing. I’m tired of writing for now. I’m going to kick back and wait for the doctor to come and give me the all clear. I’m sure it will be soon.

January 15th

They kept me overnight for observation. As requested, I pissed in a cup for them, which they took away for whatever tests they do. They also took some more blood. That’s the thing with doctors. No matter what ailment you have they always want blood and piss. I asked about going home and what they thought was wrong with me, but I couldn’t get a straight answer. I’m sure the doctors know something they aren’t telling me. I can see it in their faces. The way they shoot each other short, panicked glances. The man in charge is a guy called Fredericks. He’s the one who seems to be hiding the most. Earlier this morning he came in to do a routine examination. There was a look in his eyes I didn’t quite like. He looked afraid. On the other hand, maybe it’s just my overstressed brain reading too much into it.

I will beat this.

Fredericks asked me again how I was feeling. I told him that other than the itching needle mark and the stiffness from their shitty beds, I felt fine. My own questions went unanswered, whilst they went on asking theirs. The best they can give me is that it’s “ too early to tell” what’s wrong. Fucking clueless idiots. Why am I even telling you all this? I’m tired and need to get some sleep. I need to let my body fight whatever poison is in me until the incompetent staff get their shit together.

January 15th (continued)

It’s now just after eleven o’ clock in the evening, and I’m still here. I tried to eat earlier, pasta and meatballs, but could only manage a few bites before I was sick. I’m growing more worried about the situation now. Something is wrong; I can feel it in my bones. Fredericks made a brief visit, and although he did a better job to hide it, I could still see that scared expression on his face. I demanded an update and he said my blood work should be back in the morning. I’ll be making an official complaint about this, that’s for sure. I think I’ll try to get some sleep and hope for good news tomorrow. I hope that fucking hobo suffers a slow and painful death.

Sunday

Rough night’s sleep last night—dreamed of little soldiers in my blood fighting off whatever infection is in there. I have a headache, and even though I feel hungry, I still can’t eat. As I glance up from this paper, I can see my breakfast cereal still untouched. I looked at myself in the mirror today and realized why Fredericks looked so concerned. I look like shit. My skin is pale and waxy, my eyes ringed and dark. I think the puncture wound on my neck is infected. Its edges are red and itch madly. I think it’s starting to spread. If they can’t give me a straight answer today then I’m going home. I can’t stand this place any longer.

Sunday (pm)

Told Fredericks of my intention to leave and he said I should reconsider, as they have discovered some irregularities with my blood. I pressed him for more information, but as always he clammed up and wouldn’t tell me. Still can’t eat. No food now since Friday, although the gnawing in my belly tells me I’m hungry. Also, my hair is starting to fall out. I run my hands through it and it comes away in great black clumps.

What the fuck is happening to me?

Monday

I’m trapped here. I demanded to leave and Fredericks told me that he wasn’t authorised to allow it. I told him he had no right to keep me here and he responded by promising to speak to his superior. Fuck him. I still feel like shit—the headache is worse and I can feel myself growing weaker. I’m so hungry, but even though they brought me a decent breakfast (toast and boiled eggs), I couldn’t eat it. I tried to force it down, but I couldn’t swallow without being sick. The old fuck on the train jabbed me with something potent all right. I’m tired, so very tired of all of this. I need to get out of here. I need to get well. Fredericks tells me they are going to try and get an IV drip in tomorrow to feed me that way.

Monday (pm)

Spoke to Fredericks’ boss. Like everyone else who comes in here now, he wore one of those damn hoods and biohazard suits. He told me that I was—

Just now, as I was writing the above entry, my thumbnail fell off. All of it. I’m looking at it right now. The flesh below where it once was is black and painful to the touch. What the hell is this? I tenderly touched my other ones and they also feel loose, as if I could just slide them straight off the skin if I wanted to. I’m afraid now and need help. I’m hungry, so hungry. I need to fight this. I WILL fight this. Nails or no nails, it won’t stop me from telling the rest of the story.

Now where was I?

Fredericks’ boss is a man called Richards. He’s a big man with flabby cheeks and glaring little eyes, and he had a pompous air about him that I disliked from the start, but I was too tired and too weak to give him the verbal dressing down I had intended. He told me I was potentially contagious and would not be allowed to leave. I told him he couldn’t do that, but he wasn’t as easily intimidated as Fredericks, and quick as a flash he corrected me, saying that he could and had. The room is now under armed guard. Still nobody will tell me what’s wrong, but I can feel whatever it is getting worse. I try not to think about it, but I get the feeling my body is losing the fight. The rash on my neck has now spread onto my chest and back and shows no sign of slowing. It itches all the time and is now weeping a thick clear liquid, flecked with tiny slivers of yellow pus. I’m also bald now, apart from a few stubborn strands that still cling to my skull.

So hungry.

Tuesday

Drifted in and out of sleep and lost another three fingernails during the night. They just peeled away without resistance. Still not eaten and have lost a lot of weight. I can see the shadows of ribs poking through my skin. A nurse came in to take more blood today. (What the fuck do they do with it all???) She was escorted by two burly doctors who watched me carefully, even though I didn’t try to resist. The needle went in easy, but my blood came out in thick, congealed lumps, accompanied by a horrific stench. The nurse screamed and hurried from the room. I just laughed. Good God, I’m tired of these people. I just want to be left alone.

Wednesday

Lost more nails. Toes this time. Drip wouldn’t go in. Blood too lumpy. I’m an Auschwitz cliché; just skin and bones and haunted eyes. Can’t be bothered writing. Too hungry to care.

Thursday

Feel a little better today. The perpetual headache has faded slightly, but yesterday it was brutal. I can feel the bones protruding out of my skin, but still can’t eat. Twice now they have tried to get a drip into me, and both times with the same result—the horrible congealed blood and rotten pus stench was all they got. That smell has somehow ingrained itself in me, but it’s not so bad once you get used to it. My skin is turning purple at the joints and somehow feels loose on me, like it’s sliding over the few muscles that haven’t yet wasted away. Fredericks made a brief stop, poking his hooded head into the room just long enough to say they had some test results and that he would be by later to fill me in. I probed to see if the news was good or bad, but he didn’t answer—and to be fair he didn’t have to. His sombre look told me all I needed to know.

So hungry.

Friday

So Fredericks tells me I’m dead, and have been ever since I came in. How’s that for a diagnosis? I wouldn’t believe him if not for the evidence. He hooked me up to one of those heart rate monitors, and sure enough, there was no response. My skin came away as he pulled the sticky pads off my chest. He screamed. I laughed. It didn’t even hurt.

He looked at me as if I was some kind of monster, and who could blame him? After all, I’m rotting away as I lie here in this sterile white walled room! First my nails, now my teeth. They are loose and two of them fell out today.

So hungry you wouldn’t believe it.

I dreamed of my father last night—of eating his flesh and drinking his blood—and woke up with my mouth watering.

Sunday
hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry hungry

Wednesday ???

No nails. No teeth. No hair. Skin rotten. Nothing hurts anymore though. That’s good, but I’m still hungry.

Thursday

Did I read somewhere that blood was blue and not red?

Red.

Blue.

Blue.

Red.

Dead.

This is not a hospital room anymore. It’s a zoo and I’m being watched—observed. After all, nobody has seen a genuine living dead man before ha-ha! The rash that started on my neck now covers my gaunt chest and face, and my skin has turned a bruised shade of blue-grey. I think my organs have begun to settle, to liquefy inside me, because my stomach is bloated, like a blister needing to burst. I jabbed this pen I’m writing with into my stomach to see what would happen. It went straight through with no resistance and the relief was immediate. No pain though. Just that lumpy, streaky yellow fluid and that rotten-death stench. The old man was right. End of the road. End of the road. He stuck me good, that’s for sure.

Hungry. So damn hungry.

I’m drooling all over the paper.

Friday ???

Eaten at last. Fredericks has only himself to blame. He leaned too close while he was examining me, and I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t scream for long. God, it was divine… I’m feeling much better, and now that I have his keys, it’s time for me to leave.

I can smell them out there—the cattle going about their business in the corridors.

NO REST FOR THE WICKED

“We Serial Killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.” - Ted Bundy

Roberts knew when he was going to die. It didn’t scare him; instead, he felt a liberated sense of freedom that made the long and tedious hours in his cell bearable. Huntsville prison was the oldest state penitentiary in Texas. The red bricked building where Roberts was spending his last hours was known as The Walls, and was a three story imposing structure with a clock on the front. (As if time mattered in such a place.) It could pass for a school, if not for the bars on the windows and the large sign outside proclaiming its purpose.

Huntsville Unit

Texas State Penitentiary

Est. 1848

Not only was Huntsville the oldest prison in the United States, it also boasted the country’s most active execution chamber. Over four hundred inmates had checked into The Walls and had never checked out. There were a few who managed to slip through the cracks though. Anton Harris, who had protested his innocence for the murder of his sister and her friends after a drug fuelled night out, had already been strapped down and was about to be given the needle when the call came granting him a stay. His relief didn’t last for long, as his appeal was thrown out, and two weeks later he was strapped in for the second time. They called it the most humane method, but Roberts thought that the idea of feeling your body shut itself down was pretty shitty no matter what kind of spin you put on it. If it were up to him, he would choose the chair. A quick jolt and done. Your brain was turned to mush before you really knew anything about it. Unfortunately, old sparky had been retired years earlier, so lethal injection it was.

He had been brought to The Walls earlier that morning, and with his execution scheduled at six sharp, it only left him with a few hours to live. This was the time when an inmate might begin to beg, plead, and proclaim his innocence. But not Roberts. They had him bang to rights. Guilty as charged. During the first year or two spent in prison, he’d been forced to undergo psychological evaluation. He had a series of discussions with a wiry, nervous looking doctor called Jones. Roberts didn’t like the way Jones moved, the way his eyes darted and flicked from side to side as he asked his questions. He was also a nose breather. You know the type—the ones who wheeze and whistle out of their nostrils instead of the mouth.

“Why do you choose to kill?” Jones had asked as he peered over his glasses.

Roberts paused to consider, and there was silence apart from Jones’s maddening nasal wheeze. He considered making up some elaborate story to justify his actions, but in the end he decided to be honest.

“Because I like it. I like the way it feels,” Roberts said, adding a sneer he hoped would unsettle Jones.

“You like the power it gives you?”

“Yes.”

“And what about your victims? Do you feel anything for them?”

Another pause for consideration. More nasal wheezing.

“No.”

Jones nodded and wrote something down.

Snort wheeze. Snort wheeze.

“Tell me about your family—”

Roberts was already lunging over the table before he realized he was going to do it. The guards reacted quickly, but not quickly enough to stop him. He remembered laughing at the way Jones screamed. It was high pitched like a schoolgirl. The guards had pulled him off and beaten him with their truncheons, but not before he had managed to get his fingers up Jones’ nostrils and tear away his nose. Roberts laughed as he was dragged away, watching the screaming doctor as he tried to hold the jagged remains of his face in place. There would be no more psychological evaluations after that. He had been placed in solitary confinement, and had remained there until his transfer earlier in the day.

The door at the end of the hallway creaked open and unhurried footsteps approached. Roberts remained where he was, stretched out on the bed—his six-foot-seven frame not made for standard issue prison cots. It was lucky for him that he wouldn’t be sleeping over. Officer Remy approached the bars. He was a flabby man who seemed to be on the verge of bursting out of his uniform, which was stretched to tearing point across his immense stomach. He was short, standing only a shade over five feet. His skin was freckled and he sported a carrot colored crew cut. Every time Roberts saw him, he was sweating and had brightly flushed cheeks. Remy watched Roberts through harsh little eyes, which combined with his huge jowls and downturned mouth gave him the look of a bulldog chewing on a mouthful of wasps. He looked flustered and angry, but Roberts noted that even here Remy was walking with his usual arrogant swagger, swinging his key chain and giving the thousand yard stare.

“Looks like you have friends in high places, maggot,” Remy said in his southern drawl.

Roberts smiled but didn’t stand. Maggot was Remy’s standard insult, and was as cheap and clichéd as the man himself.

“Hey, motherfucker, I’m talking to you.”

“Kiss your mother with that mouth, officer Remy?” Roberts responded curtly, standing up. Even with the bars between them, he was pleased to see Remy take a cautionary step back.

“Sit your big ass down,” said Remy, who suddenly seemed less sure of himself. Roberts didn’t sit. Instead he folded his arms and waited.

“You just made history, maggot. You have a visitor. First time in the history of this fine institution that a dead man walking has been allowed a visitor on execution day.”

Roberts kept his expression neutral, but inside he wondered who it could be. Family was out of the question— those bridges had long since been burned, and he had no friends.

“Who is it?”

“How the fuck should I know, retard? All I knows is that y’all must have someone way up the food chain looking out for you, cus this is unheard of. Says his name is Elgin. Don’t expect no stay of execution though, freak. Visitor or no visitor, you are gonna die today.”

Remy smiled, showing the immense gap between his front teeth. Roberts wondered how many people Remy had accompanied here and seen put to death. He looked the type that would get a kick out of it, like the kind of man who would get off on those last desperate moments as a prisoner would finally accept the inevitable. Perhaps Remy was on the wrong side of the bars. Roberts held his silence, and realizing he wasn’t going to get a reaction, Remy wiped the back of his forearm against his sweaty head.

“I’ll bring a chair and he can sit right here in the corridor. You have one hour.”

Five minutes later, Remy returned with a folding chair, which he set up in the hallway. As he left he shot a venomous glance at Roberts, who had seemingly ruined his day. Roberts paced his tiny cell. Five steps from wall to wall, it was hardly the Ritz. He waited for another five minutes, then heard the door creak open and echoing footsteps approach. His mystery visitor had arrived.

He’d expected someone older than the man who came and stood by the folding chair with a briefcase in hand. He looked young, perhaps early twenties. He had a strong jawline and piercing blue eyes. His hair was a short buzz cut and he wore an expensive looking black suit and white shirt. He set his briefcase down and sat on the chair without saying a word. Unlike Remy, he showed no fear of being in such close proximity to the bars.

“Good day, sir. My name is Joshua Elgin,” the visitor said.

Roberts didn’t answer.

“You have been a prisoner of the state for how long, Mr. Roberts?”

“Six years.” As he said it, he marveled at how much time had passed, though it felt like longer. Elgin leaned over and opened his briefcase, and began to rummage around inside. Roberts busied himself by looking at his own warped reflection in the leather of Elgin’s shoes. He had never seen such well-polished footwear. Having found what he was looking for, Elgin turned back to Roberts, a brown folder in his hands.

“You are awaiting execution for the murder of…” Elgin referred to his folder, leafing through a page or two as he looked for the relevant information. “Ninety-seven people.”

“Yeah, but between you and me, I did a hundred and two. They just couldn’t find any bodies for the rest, and I can’t remember where I put them.”

He had expected this to shock Elgin, but the man simply nodded as he adjusted his position on the chair.

“That’s a lot of blood on your hands.”

“Not enough,” Roberts fired back.

Elgin opened his mouth to speak, but Roberts cut him off.

“Mr. Elgin—I’m not interested in your psychological evaluation, and I don’t particularly care what you have to say. The last person who quizzed me found himself needing a new nose, so I advise you to be careful here.”

Roberts wasn’t angry, he just got a kick out of frightening people. Elgin’s response was completely unexpected. He laughed. Slightly annoyed, Roberts waited.

“I’m sorry for laughing, Mr. Roberts, but you are quite wrong. I am no psychologist, and for the record, I am also fully aware of what happened to Doctor Jones. No, my purpose here is entirely different.”

Roberts wasn’t sure what to make of Elgin. There was a calm assurance about him that he found to be slightly unsettling. Nevertheless, if Elgin’s intention was to raise Roberts’ curiosity, he had succeeded.

“So why are you here? I’m sure you can appreciate that time is precious to me, today of all days.”

“Mr. Roberts, I’m here to offer you a job.”

“A job? I got a newsflash for you, buddy. In around five hours’ time I’m a dead man.”

Elgin smiled and leaned closer.

“I can assure you I’m quite serious, Mr. Roberts. Now please, sit down and let me explain.”

He was about to tell Elgin to go fuck himself, but he realized that he had nothing better to do, and since he was already a better sport than Remy, Roberts sat.

“Thank you.”

Elgin seemed very assured as he sat on the chair in the corridor. Many lesser men would have been intimidated, but Elgin took it all in stride.

“Mr. Roberts, I represent an organization that is always on the lookout for someone with your unique skills.”

“And what skills are those?”

“I think you know, but to save time I’ll come right out and say it. Violent sociopaths, remorseless, honestly brutal killers, Mr. Roberts.”

Roberts shook his head.

“This is the point where I’m supposed to tell you I’m misunderstood. Or that my mother made me do it, right?”

“What you tell me is entirely up to you. My job is just to assess your suitability.”

Roberts laughed. It was a strange sound in a place so closely associated with death.

“A fuckin’ job interview? This is classic! Don’t be surprised if I can’t make it to work tomorrow!”

Elgin waited patiently until Roberts calmed.

“Don’t think of it as an interview. It’s more a case of checking your credentials.”

“What are looking for me to do? Contract killings? Like some kind of off the books hit man?”

“No. The role we are offering is far more rewarding.”

“No offence fella, but you are one crazy motherfucker.”

“Perhaps I am,” Elgin said with a thin smile. “Even so, I would appreciate it if you would indulge me and allow me to do my job.”

“Hell—why not. This is the most entertainment I’ve had in years.”

“Very well,” said Elgin, as he referred to his notes.

“In the brief conversation you had with Dr. Jones, you told him that you kill because you enjoy it.”

“That I did. I often wonder what happened to that wheezing prick.”

“He’s dead,” Elgin said, without looking up from his notes

“Yeah? I hope it was painful.”

“He suffered a stroke, and even though he recovered, he couldn’t handle the indignity of having to be cared for by his wife— who was suffering with severe depression of her own.”

“So what happened?”

Elgin looked Roberts dead in the eye, but his face bore no expression, not that Roberts could read at any rate.

“One morning—not long after the stroke—he struggled out of bed, and with his one working hand, managed to load the .38 pistol they kept in the house for protection. His wife hadn’t heard him get up. She was in the kitchen preparing breakfast.”

“He offed her, right?”

Elgin nodded.

“He shot her in the back of the head. My guess is he didn’t want to leave her behind when he took his own life.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t hear him wheezing all the way across the room. So he did her, then put a bullet in his head?”

“Not exactly. I have no doubt that it was his intention, but the recoil of the gun knocked it out of his hand, and it wedged itself between the oven and refrigerator. He tried his best, but with only one working hand and being as weak as he was, he couldn’t get it out. So he had to resort to other methods.”

“Tough break for old wheezy. What did he do?”

“He only lived a mile or so from the train tracks. He waited for the eleven o’clock train and jumped in front of it as it passed.”

“Not a bad way to go. I wonder if he felt it,” Roberts mused.

“I know there wasn’t much left to identify him by. Quite a mess by all accounts.”

“I bet it made the little nose job I gave him seem like a paper cut.”

“Indeed.” Elgin offered another thin smile and continued.

“We’re becoming sidetracked… I’m aware of the time constraints, so let us continue.”

Roberts nodded. And why not? He couldn’t put his finger on the reason why, but he liked this kid. And keeping his mind occupied meant he didn’t have to think about the clock, relentlessly ticking away towards the end of his life.

“Ok, Kid. You go ahead and ask your questions, and I’ll answer them if I can.”

Elgin nodded curtly and closed the folder that had been open on his knees. Both men were quiet, and for a moment there was only the dull growl of the air conditioning unit that ran the length of the hallway. Eventually Elgin continued.

“You said you liked to kill. Has that always been the case?”

“I think so. I mean, I had thought about it without really knowing I was thinking about it, if you know what I mean. I think it was always there, buried and waiting for me to find it.”

“And what happened when you found it?”

Roberts thought for a moment, then looked Elgin in the eye. His gaze was met fearlessly.

“I think it found me, if that makes any sense. I always suspected there was something different about me, but I didn’t know what it was, not really until it happened.”

“Are you talking about the first kill?”

Roberts nodded, surprised just how good it felt to get it off his chest.

“Yes. Would it surprise you to know I was just a boy when it happened?”

“Not really. Most serial murderers start off at an early age.”

“You can probably tell by my appearance that I’m not native to the United States.”

“No,” replied Elgin with a small smile. “You were raised in southern Italy, if my research here is correct.”

“I was born in Taranto,” nodded Roberts. “But raised is hardly the word I would use.”

“You had a troubled childhood?”

“Actually no—more an ignored one. I was the youngest of six siblings—three brothers and two sisters. You could say I was the runt of the litter. I suppose they loved me in their own way, but if its affection that you are talking about, then no. There wasn’t any that I remember. My father was born into money and we owned a small Vineyard that saw us live comfortably. Not rich, you understand, but we did well enough. My memories of him are few. I remember he was a big man, with large workers hands and a booming voice. He ruled the house with an iron fist, but as he was often away from the house working, it was my mother who would hand out the punishments. She was unpredictable, and her moods would swing from placid calm to fierce rage in an instant. We knew not to push her, but either because I wanted to test the limits, or more likely because I wanted attention, I pushed. I pushed and pushed, and by the time I was nine I had already started to become distant from my family.”

“Did you have friends?”

“No. I never understood the reason why people crave companionship from others. Even now, I still find it a strange concept. Not that I was unhappy. I liked being by myself. I used to wander the fields surrounding our vineyard. I would walk for miles just thinking, trying to make sense of the world. I think even then I was searching for something, looking for anything to make me feel alive.”

“Killing?”

“No. Not yet. I discovered death. The simplicity of it—the finality. The opinion I formed as a child is still the one I have today, if you can believe that. See, nature has it right. The human species is too concerned with doing what it deems to be the right thing, and as a result, we often die miserable and unfulfilled. I think we have it wrong though. I think we need to look to nature.”

“In what way?”

“Well to be blunt, Mr. Elgin, nature doesn’t fuck around. Take any species apart from our own and you will see it. They kill to survive, they kill to protect. And who knows, maybe they even kill because they enjoy it. I like that idea. I think we as a species, humans I mean, have that inherent desire to shrug off the pressures of society and just get back to basics. We are savage creatures, Mr. Elgin. When the mood takes us, and we allow that primal instinct to take over, we can be deadly.”

Roberts paused for a moment, rubbing his stubble-covered cheeks thoughtfully.

“I first killed when I was ten years old. The seed had been planted a year before, and the only reason for the delay was that opportunity had not presented itself. That word is the serial killer’s only companion, Mr. Elgin. Opportunity. It happened whilst I was out on one of my long, directionless walks. I was maybe a mile and a half away from the vineyard, by the narrow creek which cut across the boundary of our land. I wasn’t doing anything out there in particular, just wandering around, trying to keep myself occupied. It was a hot day and I was enjoying the heat on my back and the peace of the water as it gurgled past me, when I heard a pained whimpering noise from somewhere ahead. The creek opened up a little farther downstream, and there was a small sandy bank cut away from the dirt. There were two dogs down by the water. They were skeletal and mangy, covered in scars both old and new. One was on its side, its tongue lolling out of its mouth as it stared blankly ahead with milky, cataract eyes. The other was beside it, its jaws clamped around the throat of its opponent. I drew breath and watched in fascination from the edge of the water. It was nature at its purest. Life versus death. Strong versus weak. I watched the dog with the cataracts die. I watched the light fade from its eyes, and its breathing slow and then finally stop. You know what the best thing was? When it was all over, the other dog just stood and walked away. It hadn’t killed for food, or for survival. It had killed for fun.”

“And that set you off on your own journey?”

“I wouldn’t say that. As I already mentioned, I think it was always within me. But it planted a seed. And over the next year, that seed grew, until I took my first tentative step.”

“Seed?” enquired Elgin.

Roberts nodded.

“I thought a lot about that dog in the following weeks. I think I knew on some level then that I would make a good killer, and like that dog, I would do it for my own enjoyment. Maybe it wouldn’t have come to the forefront so early in my life if my childhood hadn’t been so lonely, but when those who are meant to love you neglect you, it gives someone—even a boy—time to think. And I thought about it a lot. I suppose it was just a question of waiting for that golden opportunity.”

“And that first kill. Tell me about that.”

Roberts hesitated, watching Elgin, who looked back with a neutral, impossible to read face.

“As much as I’m enjoying getting this off my chest, Mr. Elgin, you still haven’t told me anything about this company you represent.”

If Elgin was flustered, he didn’t show it. He simply offered that oily, thin smile, and regarded Roberts with his cool gaze. For some reason, Roberts shuddered. Elgin finally spoke, keeping his tone neutral and conversational.

“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Roberts, and I can assure you that I will explain in full when the time is right.”

“Now seems like a good time to me. Tomorrow definitely wouldn’t work— I can tell you that, Mr. Elgin.”

Roberts chuckled at his own joke, but Elgin’s face remained impassive. He leaned forward then, his face close to the bars. He gestured to Roberts to come closer, and as he did, he could smell the expensive cologne on Elgin’s skin. Elgin spoke in a whisper—his eyes fierce and serious.

“What if I told you that you didn’t have to die here today?”

Roberts chuckled, but wondered why he felt so uncomfortable; even a little afraid.

“Pardon my French, but I would tell you you’re out of your fucking mind, Mr. Elgin.”

Elgin continued on, still wearing his lizard-like smile.

“Perhaps I am. But in the end, what do you really have to lose?”

Roberts had no answer, and like a great salesman, Elgin kept running with it.

“I can offer you something, Mr. Roberts. Something you would not only excel at, but also enjoy immensely. And that’s just the job itself…”

Elgin tilted his head slightly, which only intensified the reptilian mask that was his face.

“There are benefits. Everyone knows the best jobs have good fringe benefits, and if you will pardon my French, Mr. Roberts, the fringe benefits of this job will blow your fucking mind.”

He leaned back in his chair, and the spell was broken. Lizard face was gone. He was just plain old Elgin, in his snazzy black suit with a neutral look on his face. Roberts wondered why he was more afraid of Elgin than he was of his impending death. He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry, and was determined not to appear as flustered as he actually was.

“Ok, Elgin. I’ll play along. But if you’re fucking with me, I swear I’ll add you to my tally before they stick that damn needle in me.”

Elgin nodded but appeared completely unconcerned. It didn’t help Roberts’ feeling of uneasiness. He’s in control, Roberts thought distantly as he composed himself. He’s in control and knows I’ll do as I’m told, because he’s right. I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“I’ll talk a little more, if that’s what it will take. But it goes both ways. I want answers too.”

“I appreciate that. Please, do continue.”

“In the Spring of nineteen eighty-three, I killed my brother, Alessio. The two of us had been sent out to the old well on the border of our property to fetch some water. We had running water in the house of course, but my father liked giving us jobs to do so we would be kept busy. Alessio was three years older than myself, but I was already taller than him by a couple of inches. He hated that. Alessio was always the apple of my mother’s eye, and although he wasn’t the oldest, it seemed he could do no wrong. For that reason alone, I had a particular bitter hate for him, which was amplified by my parents indifference towards me. The well was around a mile and a half from the house, nestled in a dip between two hills. Over the brow and across a short field of long grasses, our land ended and became farmland belonging to the Picenzi family. They had initially claimed ownership of the well, but my father was adamant that it belonged to us, and after a long legal battle that cost both families a lot of money, the ruling went in our favor and the Picenzis were furious. They had since erected a large fence around the border of their property, and although they were technically our neighbors, our families would never speak directly again. The strange thing was that we didn’t even need the well. I think it must have been a matter of principal, but either way, it was deemed as ours.

“Alessio had been on my case for the entire walk to that damn hole in the ground. He was preaching about being responsible and not letting the family down, as if he were a disappointed parent. I reminded him that he was only thirteen and could keep his shitty opinions to himself. His eyes had grown wide at my profanity, and I think we would have come to blows then, had we not arrived at our destination. That well frightened me; I should lay that out straightaway. I’d seen it once before when it had been uncovered (my father had installed an iron grate over it the summer after it was legally made ours). Like any curious child would, I had peered down, and was horrified that I couldn’t see the bottom. It smelled of rot, earth, and moss, and as I dropped a stone down, it echoed back with a deep bloop that I didn’t like. The walls were smooth and cold to the touch, and I always thought it was like an inky eye, peering up into the world from some secret and dark place.

“Alessio had the bucket, and I carried the two large containers we were to fill and store in the barn until our father needed them. The walk had been tiring, and as I set down the containers, Alessio took off his shirt and started to slide the iron grate aside from the well. I didn’t really want to go near it, but he barked at me to help, and because I didn’t want him to see that I was afraid, I did. The grate grumbled slowly aside, and with about half of the hole uncovered, we stopped, leaving enough room to get the bucket down and do the job. As the sun was directly overhead, I had hoped to see the bottom and dispel my fear of a never ending hole, but the light barely penetrated the darkness.

“Alessio took the bucket and began to lower it down. I watched from a distance, not wanting to be any nearer to the hole than I had to be. As I watched Alessio work, I was overcome with jealous rage. It came down to that word again. Opportunity. I think I had already decided I was going to do it, and even as I crept towards him, I was already thinking of what I would tell my parents. I would tell them that he slipped as he was leaning over the edge, and although I tried to save him, I couldn’t get to him in time. It was certainly plausible. I knew the well was deep and that Alessio couldn’t swim, and if went ahead the outcome would likely be his death. I was only a few steps away from him now and was psyching myself up to do it. He was concentrating on reeling in the bucket, which was taking considerable effort now that it was full. I was just about to commit and had my hands out ready to push him, when he turned towards me.

“ ‘Help me with this, it’s heavy,’ he said between gritted teeth. He reminded me of my father, framed there against the golden afternoon sun, and I knew I had come too far to turn back. I bent as if to take some of the strain on the rope, then at the last minute, lunged at him and grabbed for his leg. He must have seen me, because he dropped the bucket and half turned towards me, but I was too quick, and already too strong for him, despite being younger. There was a moment of stalemate and Alessio seemed suspended in midair, his arms pin-wheeling as I tipped him over the edge. He screamed as he fell, the sound reverberating off the stone walls, then coming to a sudden end with a wet, gargled snap. Those next few seconds are as clear to me as any memory I have had since. The utter silence as I peered over the edge, my heart racing inside my chest as I listened and willed my eyes to see through the darkness. I half expected him to call out to me, or to hear him moaning and splashing in pain, but the silence told me all I needed to know. I waited and watched. For how long I couldn’t tell you, but as time went by, I was more and more sure that he was dead. I knew what I had done was wrong. My mother had taught me about the rights and wrongs of life and death by the time I was five, which made the feelings that raced around my head even more confusing. I was euphoric.”

Elgin watched carefully from his seat across the bars, his face still completely unreadable.

“Did they believe the story? Your family I mean.”

“Of course they did. My father made me go with him to the well and rig up a harness to get Alessio out. He thought it was a rescue of course, but I knew the truth. I remember my father lowering himself down, me and a couple of the men who worked on the vineyard taking the strain of the rope. It seemed like he was down there for a very long time, and only then did I consider what might happen to me if Alessio was somehow still alive. I began to panic, and wanted to let go of the rope and leave my father down there with his precious son—but then I heard him scream. It was a raw, anguished, primal sound, and I knew that Alessio’s days of bullying me or saying anything to anyone were over. When they pulled him up, his face was twisted and blue, and his head flopped around loosely on his broken neck. I had to fight back a smile as I looked at my brother, staring up at the sky with his glassy doll’s eyes. I approached my father and laid a hand on his shoulder. Not because I was upset, but because that’s what I would have been expected to do. He whirled on me and shoved me aside, glaring at me with red-ringed eyes, containing more hate than I had ever seen.

“ ‘You let him die, you little bastard. Why couldn’t it have been you?!’ he raged at me. Then he began to weep, his massive shoulders shaking with his sobs as he stroked my dead brother’s wet hair.”

Roberts smiled as he looked Elgin in the eye. He thought he might see a glimmer of humanity, but he was met with the same blank expression.

“And that, Mr. Elgin, is how it began. Hell of a story, huh?”

“Did they ever suspect you had anything to do with it?”

“If they did, they never said anything. After that day, my father barely spoke to me again. He died two years after Alessio. He was never the same after that day at the well.”

Elgin looked at him with raised eyebrows, and Roberts knew what he was thinking. He snorted roughly and offered a wry smile.

“I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re thinking. Although I would have, if I had found a way to. I grew to hate him as much as he hated me.”

“What happened?”

“Cancer. They gave him a year, but he only lasted five months. That stuff don’t fuck around, Mr. Elgin. Even when he was a flesh-covered skull on his deathbed, he still couldn’t look me in the eye. I think on some level he suspected what I had done to Alessio, and felt partly responsible. I wasn’t sorry when he died. It was like a weight lifting off my shoulders.

“I thought that by satisfying the urge to kill with my brother, the desire would fade away, and I would become the same as everyone else. But it didn’t. Instead, it grew, festered, and swelled— my own cancer, if you will. I fought against it for a while, but things at the vineyard took a turn for the worse. Without my father to run things, the place began to fall apart. The family unit, of which I was barely a part of anyway, started to crumble, and when I was thirteen, my mother sold the vineyard to the Picenzis. My oldest brother, Marco, moved away to northern Italy with his girlfriend. My two sisters stayed in Italy with my uncle, and as far as I know are still there, married with families of their own. My mother took me with her to America, where we settled in New York, in a shitty apartment above a filthy dry cleaners. It was very different from the open fields and clean air of the vineyard, but I didn’t care. I had half hoped that with my mother to myself, she would finally give me the attention I felt I deserved. But with a son and husband buried, and the vineyard lost, she found her own comfort—the southern kind—and she was knocking back at least a bottle a day. The place may have changed, but the situation hadn’t. I was left to my own devices. I felt like that dog, Mr. Elgin—the one with its teeth around the neck of its prey. I didn’t want to kill because of some bizarre need or means of atoning for my shitty childhood. I wanted to kill because I knew I would enjoy it.”

Roberts felt good saying it aloud. His back had begun to ache from sitting on the edge of the bed, and he stood and stretched. He watched Elgin carefully and saw that he was smiling. Not quite the wide mouthed lizard grin from before, but more of an I know something you don’t know kind of smile. His stomach felt bloated, and without excusing himself, he crossed to the toilet and began to urinate loudly. He couldn’t see Elgin from where he was, but he would bet on him having that same blank but interested look on his face. He finished his business and returned to his bunk, and sure enough, Elgin was waiting and as hard to read as ever.

“Just over half an hour left. We should continue.”

Roberts nodded grimly. He suddenly wasn’t so indifferent about dying as he was earlier that morning.

“What do you want to know?”

“That’s up to you. Whatever feels right to talk about.”

He thought for a moment, then lowered his head and spoke to the bare white floor.

“Those first years in New York were lonely ones. I thought I’d known isolation back at the vineyard, but that was a picnic compared to this. Even though I felt isolated from my family, there was always activity in the house. My brothers or sisters arguing over the television, or how they didn’t like whatever was for dinner that night, or my father complaining how the grapes weren’t as good as they’d been the season before and how it would affect his profits. Whatever it was, there was always activity. But now things had changed, and I would come and go from that stinking apartment with my mother either drunk and on her way to sleep, or just waking up and starting to drink. I didn’t bitch about it. There was no point. Let the old fuck drink herself to her grave, if that’s what she wants… I was already planning my next kill.”

“What happened to waiting for opportunity?”

Roberts smiled. It was without humor.

“That’s a pretty naive question, Mr. Elgin. Opportunity is fine, but if you don’t know what to do when it knocks, then what is it but a wasted opportunity. And I was keen to make sure that when the time came, I would know exactly what to do.”

“I see your point. Please continue.”

“I… I invented an imaginary friend. It seems stupid and childish, and I suppose it was. But to me he seemed real. It was like…he was the real me. The one who didn’t have to pretend to be normal like everyone else. It sounds strange, but I think he became a real thing. He and I would discuss methods to kill and not be caught. That was the key thing. We were planning for the long term.”

“What was he like?”

Roberts chuckled and shook his head. “It would sound stupid to you.”

“You don’t know that. I’m a hard man to surprise.”

“I don’t doubt it. You might be too young to remember who I’m talking about anyways.”

“I’m older than I look,” Elgin responded, flashing the lizard smile. Roberts felt gooseflesh prickle on his skin.

“I imagined he was this Italian gangster type guy, with slicked black hair and a smooth little moustache. Did you ever see the original Rocky movie?”

“Of course. I think everyone saw that movie.”

“There was an actor called Joe Spinell. He played a loan shark called Gazzo who gives Rocky a job collecting unpaid debts.”

“I know the actor. He also played Willi Cici in the Godfather, if it’s the same one I’m thinking of.”

Roberts slapped his thigh and offered a broad grin.

“That’s him, that’s the one! That’s what my guy looked like. All smooth and dark skinned, slick and confident. He was everything I ever wanted to be. I even gave him a name.”

“What was he called?”

“I called him Monde.”

“No first name?”

“Didn’t see the need. I liked the snappiness of it. Just one word that you could say quick and easy.”

“Did you know he wasn’t real?”

Richards looked offended. “Of course I did. Just because I like to kill doesn’t mean I’m off my damn rocker.”

“I never said it did. I was just asking.”

“… Anyway, Monde and me, we planned and schemed, and sometimes he did seem real. He suggested things I never would have thought of.”

“Like what?” Elgin asked, as he shifted position.

“Like where to find our first victims. There was no shortage of people in New York, but that didn’t mean we could just charge out into the streets and start waving a knife around. Monde said we needed to be sensible. We needed to hone our craft. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he spelled it out for me. The homeless. There were around a quarter-million of them in New York alone, and they would be easy pickings. They were already anonymous and nobody would care if a couple went missing or turned up dead. It was perfect. We had already spent weeks wandering the streets and looking for the best places, seeing where they spent their nights. Eventually we were ready.”

Roberts trailed off, and his brow furrowed.

“Is everything ok?”

“Yeah. It’s just that bringing everything back is not always good, you know?”

“Guilt?”

“Guilt?” Roberts repeated, with a short bark of a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. You must have read about me—you know what I said at my trial.”

“I do. You said you felt no pity or remorse for any of your victims or their families. It was a powerful statement.”

“Yeah, and it wasn’t just for the TV cameras either. That’s how I felt then, and it’s how I feel now.”

“So why did you look so…Conflicted just now?”

“You know what, Mr. Elgin,” Roberts raged, suddenly feeling defensive.

“This has been all give and no take, and I don’t feel like talking to you anymore. I think you can take your job and shove it up your prissy little ass!”

Roberts was hot and sticky, and yes, a little afraid. Afraid that his life was scheduled to end in a matter of hours. The dim realization crept up on him that he would never sleep in the bed he was now sitting on. He wondered why the cells here even had beds at all.

He had hoped to see Elgin beg and plead for him to continue, but as always, he was sitting impassively and watching Roberts with mild amusement. Suddenly feeling stupid for his outburst, Roberts sat and continued his story without prompting.

“That first one was no fun. I was nervous, and the old fuck wouldn’t die, even though I choked him so hard I couldn’t flex my hands for two days. He just looked at me with a glazed indifference, and when he finally snuffed out, I was neither satisfied or elated. Monde had decided to keep quiet. He often did when things went to shit. It didn’t deter me though. I chalked it up to nerves and poor technique. I tried another couple of strangulations, but they had the same empty feeling. Then I figured out what was bothering me…”

“The anonymity. You didn’t like the secrecy.”

“Exactly. I wanted people to know that I was out there, and what I was doing. I wanted to smell the fear on the streets. I wanted to read about myself in the paper and watch myself on the news. I wanted to become the most famous killer in history. That was when I started to use the knife, and I christened myself with the name I would become known by the world over.”

Elgin nodded his head and smiled. Unlike his previous reptilian versions, this one was of genuine pleasure.

“Of course. The Demon Dismemberer. Demon is Monde. Monde is you. Genius, Mr. Roberts. Absolute Genius.”

Roberts swelled with pride, and although he tried to hide it, a smile cracked the stern face he’d been trying to hold.

“It made sense to use Monde. When I was out there stalking the streets, I used to pretend to be him—that swaggering Italian gangster who lived to give the middle finger to the world. As with anything, the more I worked at it, the better I got. By the time I had offed my seventh hobo, I was pretty damn slick. They were no sport though, not really. Nobody bats an eye when a hobo turns up dead. Monde suggested we take things up a notch.

“I first saw the girl completely by chance. I was twenty one, and had finally moved out of the shitty apartment where my alcoholic mess of a mother still lived. She had stopped living in the true sense of the word years before, and instead wandered around with yellowed eyes and skin to match. I thought she would croak before Christmas came, but the stubborn bitch is still ticking over as far as I know. Anyway, I got a place of my own. It wasn’t spectacular, but at least it was clean and didn’t smell of booze and vomit. I had taken a job working security for an all-night supermarket. Because I worked nights, it meant I didn’t have to mix with anyone and could keep to myself. I didn’t have any friends, and didn’t really spend much on food. I pretty much lived on takeout and TV dinners, so I had plenty of money left over each week. I saved up and bought myself a car—a white Toyota. It got stuck sometimes between second and third and didn’t always turn over the first time, but it got me from A to B.

“I was on my one-hour break. They still called it a lunch hour, but at one o’clock in the morning, it was hardly lunchtime. It was one of those hot and sticky nights where you could still feel the residual heat of the day rising up off the pavement. I had walked half a block down to grab a sandwich when I saw her, and I knew she was the one. She was tall and slim and had long blonde hair, which seemed to shimmer with a life of its own. She looked to be around the same age as I was, but I didn’t think of her sexually. I never really had those feeling; didn’t do anything for me. Anyway, she was just leaning there against a wall, crying. She wasn’t making any sound, but I could tell she was upset. I didn’t care of course, but Monde whispered that special word in my ear, and my heart began to beat a little bit faster.

Opportunity.

My mind began to race about how I could get her somewhere quiet. I approached casually, and almost backed out when she pretty much handed herself over to me.

‘Officer, please help me,’ she sobbed as she looked at me pleadingly.

She’d seen my security guard uniform and assumed I was a police officer. How I managed to suppress the smile I felt welling up within me, I’ll never know. I offered her the most reassuring voice that I could muster, flashed my pearly whites and said, ‘Officer Monde. How can I help?’

It was easy.

She was new to the city, had become separated from her friends, and was now lost. I nodded in all the right places and wore an expression of concern that was no more than a mask. I was thinking, you see; thinking about how delicious it would be to kill her— to cut her up. I had a bizarre and completely random flashback to a day back at the vineyard when I was a boy. My mother was removing the legs from a chicken she was preparing for our evening meal. I remembered the gristle like crunch as the knife went through the bone and separated the joint. My stomach quivered. I wondered how it would feel to do it to this girl.

I listened politely and confidently with Monde guiding me, helping me when I struggled for something to say. I loved that about Monde. He always knew what to say and how to make it sound convincing. I let him operate my mouth. He told her we would give her a ride back to her apartment and that it was no trouble. She thanked us profusely, and Monde told her that a young girl could never be too careful, that there were a lot of bad people out there. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. She came willingly enough. It was easy to reassure her, despite her questions.

‘How far is your patrol car?’

‘It’s just down here.’

‘I really appreciate your help, Officer.’

‘No problem, ma’am. It’s our duty to protect.’

‘It’s dark down here.’

‘Don’t worry, miss. Nobody will harm you whilst you are with a police officer.’

‘Wait, what are you doing? No!’ ”

Roberts smiled wistfully.

“Her neck felt tiny in my hands… Even though the alleyway was dark and smelled wet and rotten—kind of like Alessio’s Well—I enjoyed every second of it. I tried to cut off her head, but my small pocketknife was dull, and try as I might, I couldn’t hack through the gristle and tendons, so I had to stop. It was much more satisfying than offing the hobos though. I looked into her eyes as she died, and I swear I saw the life leave her. It was exhilarating. That’s when I knew that all I wanted to do with the rest of my life was kill.”

Elgin looked up and Roberts was surprised at the look in his eye. He had expected revulsion, or disgust. But what he saw was admiration.

“This is fascinating. What happened next?”

Roberts shrugged. “I started to kill. As often as I could. I was smart about it though. They found the girl’s body the following day. It turned out she was only sixteen, but she looked a lot older to me. I still didn’t feel guilty… I was desperate to kill again, but to do another in my own city would be risky. Monde suggested we select cities at random and drive out to look for someone to kill. I also knew that if I wanted to continue, I would have to make provision to hide the bodies. I didn’t want to be caught, not when things had just begun.”

“How long did it take for them to catch you?”

“Sixteen years. A man can do a lot of killing in that time.”

“So what happened?”

“If I had the time, I could tell you in detail, but I suspect we don’t have long left.”

Elgin looked at his watch and frowned. It was the first real facial expression other than the lizard smile that Roberts had seen.

“We have around fifteen minutes.”

Roberts nodded. “Well, the short version will have to do. I did as Monde suggested. I had a huge map of America pinned to my bedroom wall. What I would do is take a dart and throw it at the map, and wherever it would land, that’s where Monde and I would go to find our kill. Apart from a few exceptions, like our failed trip to Delaware, there was almost always an opportunity. Most serial murderers go for a specific type of victim. Ted Bundy chose only middle class white women. Jeffrey Dahmer chose only men and young boys. They each had a profile, a reason for choosing that particular type of victim. I didn’t have limits like that. My kills weren’t about repressed homosexuality, or the thrill of the chase. Do you remember that business with the clown who went ape shit at the circus one day, completely out of the blue?”

Elgin nodded. “Sure. It made headline news. But he was depressed, or so they say.”

“Bullshit,” Roberts said flatly. “He wasn’t depressed. He just got tired of pretending to be normal…”

“You don’t know that, not for sure.”

Roberts grinned.

“His name was Freddy. He used to write to me. Sympathized with my plight, or so he said.”

Elgin offered no reaction, so Roberts went on.

“The poor guy was fucked up, tired of his life, alienated from his family. He was a lot like me. I gave him a few pointers on how to break the cycle.”

“You… encouraged him?”

Roberts shrugged. “I don’t think so, not really. He would have done it anyway, with or without help. The point I’m trying to make is that there isn’t always a motive. Sometimes people just lose it and want to go crazy.”

Elgin nodded, but didn’t pursue the point.

“I don’t have a preferred type of victim. Male, female, young, old, black, white—it really didn’t matter to me, as I chose based on Monde’s suggestions and our favorite word—good old opportunity. The security job got in my way, so I quit and took a job as a long distance delivery driver. Not one of the big eighteen wheeled rigs, mind you, but the smaller transit types. It was perfect. Not only was I left to my own devices, the company I worked for even paid my fuel expenses. I’ve often wondered if that makes them an accessory to murder…. Anyway, Monde came up with another great idea. Once we’d selected a location via the dart and map, we would ship a package to a random address there via the company I worked for. All I had to do was make sure that particular delivery was on my sheet— and boom. I had a paid trip to my next kill.

“Monde also suggested we keep the dual identity game going too. That first girl had gone with me willingly because she believed I was a police officer. It took a while, but I eventually sourced some high quality police uniforms from a movie costume company and bought them using Monde’s name. We didn’t always use the police disguise, but it was an option. Sometimes I was Monde the door-to-door salesman, or Monde the doctor. I also refined my technique, and after my eighteenth or twentieth kill, I had it down to a fine art. If my victim was a woman, I would strangle her. I liked to watch that little light blink out in their eyes. If my victim was a man, I would render him unconscious with a lump hammer. In all cases, I would dismember the victim after death. I would always remove the head, but if I could, I would also take the arms. I tried the legs too, but they were difficult to take off, so I gave that up early on.

“Depending on where I killed, I would try to conceal the bodies. Monde told me the longer I could hide them and allow them to rot, the less chance there was of the police linking me to any of the murders. I took to dumping the body parts in rivers in weighted bags, and in the woodland so the wildlife could finish the job I started.

“In the winter of ’02, I reached my century. One hundred kills. By then of course, despite my best efforts to hide them, many of my previous victims had been found. It didn’t take long for the police to notice the similarities between the mutilations, and as soon as word reached the press, I was finally in the spotlight. They dubbed me the Decap Killer, which I hated. I had worked too hard to let them label me with such a flimsy name. Monde suggested I contact them to let them know the error of their ways, so I sent a severed head to the editor of the New York Times with a letter suggesting they call me the Demon Dismemberer. The public went into frenzy, and if anything, I think that one instance of self-indulgence was what led to my downfall and capture.”

Elgin glanced at his watch. It was no more than a flicker of the eyes, but it got the message across.

“How long left?”

“Ten minutes. We better wrap this up quickly.”

“Yeah, time flies when ya’ havin’ fun, doesn’t it Elgin?”

No response. Roberts lifted his feet and crossed his legs on the bed, his long, tattooed arms dangling down past his knees.

“It was some smartass called Petrov who caught me. Petrov. Can you believe that? A damn Russian, at least in name. Turns out he was technically an American—had become a full citizen back in the eighties. He was famous for thinking outside the box, thinking like a killer. I don’t think he was too different from me at heart, apart from the fact that he never had the balls to take that first step… Anyway, Petrov was brought in to work the case because he’d already caught the Green Bay rapist, and was fresh off the back of catching that female serial killer in Rio De Janeiro. I had read about him in the papers, and when I saw his picture for the first time, I was concerned. He had these eyes Mr. Elgin, and—not unlike yours—they were hungry, knowing eyes. Eyes that said he knew secret things. Monde told me not to worry about him, but I had a feeling the game had changed. I was feeling the pressure of my notoriety then, and I had developed insomnia. There is nothing worse than nights spent lying awake, waiting for daylight to come. By that time, they had found fifty bodies that were attributed to me, and as they widened their search, more and more of my handiwork was digging itself out of shallow graves. The headlines proclaimed me as the world’s most prolific serial killer—said that I was the most feared man in history. Monde was thrilled, but I was starting to feel scared. For the next few months, I didn’t kill as often. It wasn’t that the opportunity wasn’t there. I just assumed that my nationwide notoriety had put people on guard, but the truth is: people never believe such things can happen to them. No, Mr. Elgin, killing was as easy as ever. By May of ’04, my tally was at one hundred and two, and unbeknownst to me, there it would remain. The police had discovered eighty-seven bodies, and the general public was demanding action. I was worried, but Monde’s confidence assured me that it was ok. I imagined him flashing his big Italian grin, telling me he would take care of everything. But Monde was wrong.”

Roberts smiled reflectively as he continued.

“I wonder if the circumstances of my capture were as random and incidental as they appeared, or if there was some higher power at work. Had the dart landed in Boston or Nebraska, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. But instead, it wedged itself into good old San Antonio. Nestled right between the A and the N of Antonio. I never liked going to Texas. I had killed here once before in 91’ and it was hard work. It was too hot, too dry for me. Too much dust and not enough wind. Monde and I had driven around for what felt like hours in my trusty white transit with SPEEDY TRANS written on the side in a garish orange font. The mercury was touching a hundred and four degrees, and even with the windows open and the air conditioning on full, it was almost unbearable. I glanced over to Monde in the passenger seat and felt a stab of jealousy. He didn’t look hot or uncomfortable. He was playing it cool, with his foot up on the dashboard and his elbow hanging out of the window. He had huge reflective aviator glasses on that kept catching the sunlight and hurting my eyes. It was then I saw a brunette with a slim waist and large hips in tattered jeans shorts, walking unhurriedly down the edge of the road. I glanced over to Monde for his approval, but he just kept looking ahead. I knew he wouldn’t speak until he had spotted the golden opportunity. What happened next you couldn’t even make up, Mr. Elgin. I don’t believe in fate, but if there is such a thing, that boiling hot Friday in July was it.

“The first thing that happened was the blown tire. It happened quickly, and it took all my effort to steer the lurching, bucking van off the road without rolling it into the ditch. I glanced over to Monde with a what the fuck expression on my face, but he had gone. Retreated to whatever part of my mind he lives in. He had left me to deal with it alone, so with no other option, I climbed out of the van and into the baking July heat to assess the situation. It was the left rear that had gone. It lay against the dirt shoulder like a melted slug. I was in the process of taking the spare tire out of the recessed panel in back, when a voice called out to me to ask if everything was all right. I turned around expecting to see some country-bumpkin-old-timer and almost screamed outright.

It was Petrov.

Imagine winning the lottery every week for a year. Or throwing twelve sixes in a row at the craps table. Those are the kind of odds we’re talking about here. I pleaded with Monde to appear and tell me what to do, but he didn’t, and I stood there in the back of the van open-mouthed and sweating.

‘Sir, is everything alright?’ Petrov asked again.

He didn’t sound Russian. That was the first thing that hit me. And why should he? Even though I was born in Italy, I have no trace of an accent either. I knew I had to answer, but had lost the ability to speak. Instead, I managed a weak nod and went back to work freeing the tire from the well. It’s funny, because although I’d seen his picture in the papers, I never imagined him to be real. But there he stood, in his sunglasses and plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a cup of Starbucks coffee in his hand.

The words finally found their way out of my mouth—

‘I’m fine, officer. Just a tire blowout. I’ll change this up and be on my way.’

Petrov had nodded, and even though I couldn’t see them behind his sunglasses, I could feel his eyes crawling over me, and over the inside of the van. I tried to stay as calm as I could, and look as casual as possible as I lifted the tire free from the well, but my hands were shaking and I dropped it.

‘Here, let me give you a hand,’ Petrov said, and without another word he set his cup on the ground and hopped into the van. I could feel him staring at me, and was sure I could hear his thoughts processing like some damn computer. We got the tire free and were wheeling it towards the open back doors, when Monde finally made his appearance.

You are going to have to kill him.

I wanted to laugh and scream at the same time, but did neither. Instead, I helped Petrov to get the tire out the back. Sweat was dripping off me, but I felt better being out in the open. I could see his car parked across the street, its bodywork glittering in the fierce heat of the sun. I didn’t know the make and noticed the steering wheel was on the opposite side. Petrov saw me looking and flashed a crocodile grin.

‘It’s European. A gift from my father. Had it shipped over from Russia.’

I nodded and somehow managed to hold on to my breakfast, which churned and swilled around my gut.

‘My name is Petrov.’ He took off his glasses and held out his hand. I didn’t want to, but forced myself to shake it. It felt solid. Workers hands, as my father would have called them.

‘Monde,’ I replied, then immediately regretted it. He watched me carefully for a second, then turned his attention back to the tire.

‘Ok, Mr. Monde. Let’s change this and get you on your way. Where are you headed?’

I couldn’t think of an answer. I knew he was somehow reading my thoughts, that he could tell what I was thinking. Luckily, Monde took over.

‘Just passing through. Got a delivery to make in Houston.’

Petrov nodded and I was calm. My hands had stopped shaking, and I set to work loosening the nuts on the flat whilst Petrov worked the jack to lift the van up. We worked in silence for a while with the heat of the day on our backs, and I had just pulled the spent tire loose, when he spoke again.

‘You delivered here before?’

‘No.’

Petrov nodded and I tried to stay calm, despite a belly full of ice. We moved the spare tire into place and he looked up at me with one probing eye closed against the glare of the sun.

‘You sure about that?’

‘Positive. I rarely get out this far.’

He nodded in silence, and I was sure I could hear his brain ticking over.

‘It’s funny,’ he said, setting down the cross-wrench and standing. ‘When I first approached, you called me officer.’

I stood to meet his gaze, and we faced off in the blazing sun on a backwards little San Antonio street. I tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t incriminate me, but my silence only gave him time to put more pieces of the puzzle together. His next words made me feel sick.

‘What do you know about the Demon Dismemberer case?’

I tried to look neutral, but was certain he could see the guilt written all over my face.

‘Only what I’ve seen on the news,’ I heard myself say as I crouched back down to the tire. I was no longer interested in changing the wheel you understand, my eyes fixed greedily on the abandoned wrench which lay in the dust.

‘Yeah, it’s funny,’ he said as he took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, the smoke quickly dragged away by the light breeze.

‘I was out here following up a lead on that particular case. There was a girl killed here a couple of years ago. She worked over there.’

He stuck his thumb over his shoulder to the glass-fronted café on the other side of the street. I gave it a cursory glance as I tightened the wheel nuts by hand. I had to make it look natural when I reached for the wrench.

‘Nobody remembers much about the last time she was seen alive of course. People tend not to remember details, even though we try our best to encourage them.’

I nodded, trying to look busy. I was looking for that word. The one that begins with o and ends in y, but I couldn’t see it. Petrov had a smile on his face now. A smug and satisfied smile as he took a cursory step back.

‘I hope you get a lead soon. Terrible business if you ask me,’ I said, both surprised and impressed by how calm I sounded. Monde would have been impressed too—if he hadn’t left me to my own devices. Petrov nodded, took a long pull on his cigarette, then dropped it to the road and stubbed it out with his boot.

‘Witnesses are funny creatures, Mr. Monde. They don’t appreciate how useful even the smallest bits of information can be.’

He crouched again now, and I could feel his eyes glaring through me. I kept my own gaze fixed firmly on the tire, even though I was no longer working on it.

‘I’ve interviewed more than three hundred people about this particular case all over the country—and when you lay all the information out, certain patterns present themselves.’

I looked up at him then, and he was no longer smiling. I chose to remain silent.

‘They seem like such trivial things, but sometimes… Sometimes they start to jive.’

‘How?’ I heard someone say, who may or may not have been me.

‘Well, let’s say a third of the people interviewed remember a white van near some of the murder scenes.’ Petrov put his hand on my van for emphasis.

‘And of those people, say a quarter remember that the van had New York plates.’

I crouched there, sweating and watching him as he seemed to grow more and more confident. I had given up on grabbing the wrench. I knew he had me.

‘Now, say another hundred of those people, unrelated to the first ones who saw the van, say they remember a tall man in the area on the night of any given murder—you see where I’m going with this? Pretty soon you have a good idea of who you are looking for.’

I prayed for Monde to tell me what to do. Monde always knew what to do.

‘Imagine my surprise when I looked out the window of the café there to see a white van with New York plates broken down by the side of the road. That alone would be reason enough to take a closer look, but then I saw you climb out of the cab. What are you, six-five?’

‘Six-seven,’ I replied distantly. My calves were burning from crouching there on my haunches, but I was frozen and unable to move. Petrov didn’t notice my discomfort. He was on a roll.

‘And that got me thinking: if I were a nationwide serial killer, how would I go about it? How would I make sure I could reach all of those places? And I thought to myself: well, I’d work for a delivery firm. One where the leash was long and there was no way to track my movements—a company like Speedy Trans for example.’

I heard the approaching wail of police sirens. They were still distant, but I knew they were coming for me. He must have called them in straightaway—he was just keeping me busy until they arrived. I looked up at him then, and offered a smile of my own.

‘Congratulations. You’ve caught the Demon Dismemberer.’ ”

Elgin blinked and nodded. Roberts remained silent. There was no more to say.

“You just…confessed?” Elgin asked, with a note of surprise.

“I would like to say I went out in a blaze of glory, but that would be a lie. Hell, we both knew it was over. If you ran a blue light over the inside of that van, it would have lit up like a damn Christmas tree.”

Elgin nodded, then reached into his briefcase and brought out a single sheet of paper and a pen.

“I think I have heard enough, Mr. Roberts.”

“Yeah? How did I do?”

“I think you will be perfect for the job.”

The sound of the outer gate being unlocked echoed down the corridor.

“Looks like visiting hours are over, Elgin. Tell me what the job is.”

“How would you like the chance to have everything you ever wanted? The opportunity to be as cruel and sadistic as you like, for all eternity.”

More keys rattling now, as the second door was unlocked.

“Stop screwing around with me, Elgin. You promised to get me out of here, so do it!”

Roberts was suddenly desperate to be free. All the talk of killing made him realize he wasn’t ready to stop. Not yet.

“You must understand the terms, Mr. Roberts. Once you agree, there will be no turning back.”

“Elgin, just tell me!”

“How would you like to be a demon, Mr. Roberts?” Elgin said from behind his reptilian smile. Roberts exploded forwards and reached through the bars.

“You motherfucker! I knew you were playing me! You sorry son of a bitch!”

Elgin didn’t move. He’d positioned himself to be just barely out of Roberts’ reach. Instead, he smiled and spoke calmly.

“I assure you, it’s no joke. I’ve been sent from hell to recruit you, Mr. Roberts. You have all the qualities we are looking for.”

“You fuck, I’ll tear you apart!” Elgin reached up and grabbed Roberts by the forearm. His grip was like a vice. Roberts stopped struggling and stared on, wide-eyed.

“You can finally be all that you set out to be. You can become Monde. Not just a figment of your fractured imagination, but really him.. You can continue the work you started in life… in death.”

Roberts looked on as Elgin grinned, and he was sure he could see a narrow, forked tongue flicking around behind his teeth. The main door was now opening, the sound of its tired, creaking hinges followed by the steady clip clop of footsteps on the polished floor.

Elgin’s eyes were now black bottomless pools that reminded Roberts of Alessio’s well.

“I need an answer, Mr. Roberts,” Elgin hissed. His breath was hot and smelled of sulfur.

“You freak. You fucking freak!” Roberts spat.

He heard Remy’s lumbering footsteps and was relieved—at least until he saw him. Like Elgin, his eyes were black. His teeth were thin daggers of bone, and his forked tongue probed in and out of his mouth. He stood beside Elgin and folded his arms. Roberts backed away, knowing the true meaning of terror for the first time since that day with Petrov. The two men—two demons—stood and approached the bars. Roberts looked on in horror as the white paint on the cell bars began to peel and melt away under the heat that emanated from them. Smoke billowed out of the collar of Elgin’s shirt, and Remy’s gold police badge had begun to sag and warp.

“Join us, Mr. Roberts,” said Elgin, his own dagger teeth making his voice sound different. Deeper somehow. Roberts backed away as far as he could, pressing himself against the cinderblock wall of the cell. He could see a shimmering haze of heat around them now as Remy took out his keys with hands that were more like claws, unlocking the cell.

“Come with usssshh, Mishter Roberthhhh,” Remy hissed as he swung the door open. Elgin entered, sliding towards Roberts with his wiry, crooked form.

“Join usth. Let usth take you away from all thsth…”

Roberts closed his eyes and screamed.

MYSTERY DISSAPEARANCE OF CONVICTED SERIAL KILLER

A nationwide manhunt began yesterday after the mystery disappearance of a convicted serial killer.

Marco Roberts (35), otherwise known as the DEMON DISMEMBERER, was convicted of more than 90 killings over a sixteen year period, and had been transferred to The Walls unit of Huntsville State Penitentiary, Texas, to await execution by lethal injection.

Upon arriving at five p.m. to deliver Roberts his last meal, guard staff were baffled to find Roberts missing, but his cell securely locked. Staff Sergeant Julius Remy, the senior guard on duty, reportedly said: “Nobody came in or out of here all day. That I can guarantee.”

Security footage was retrieved, but found to be severely damaged due to an equipment malfunction.

Although there is no evidence to suggest that Roberts escaped, authorities have advised the public to remain vigilant, keep their doors and windows locked, and to report Roberts at once if spotted. The search continues. If you have any information as to Roberts’ whereabouts, please contact the police action helpline at 555-6342.

THE PRANK

I’m an old man now, but I think I can finally pluck up the courage to talk about the day Snoddy, Denton and I killed that kid, back in the summer of 2010. People say that time heals, but I don’t buy into that. If anything, it makes things worse. You may wonder if I’m sorry for what happened—well the truth is, not a day passes without me wishing I could turn back the clock and change things. But I was just a kid, and at fifteen sometimes you do things just to keep up with the pack. Stupid, I know, but back then it made sense. You’d think carrying this around with me for so many years would be punishment enough, but I think I always knew—deep down—that it wasn’t… Bad luck has followed me ever since that day, bound to me like a ball and chain. My mother and father were killed in a car accident when I was eighteen, and my sister, Tina, was institutionalized for the murder of her best friend—only to escape, disappearing to God knows where… Because of this, I have done all I can to keep my own family close, protected from something I guess I always knew would catch up with me… Now he’s back, and he’s coming.

I am writing this from a hotel room in Southend, having fled my home when he first came for me. I know now there is no way to escape it. My best guess is that they helped him to find me, the dark things. The rats and the spiders, and the festering things that live in the black, wet places of the world. He’s one of them now, you see. Kept alive by what? The need for revenge? The pain of betrayal? Who can say for sure… I can already hear him, scratching around behind the walls, and I’m too old and too tired to run anymore.

That day, the day it happened, had been a hot one. It had been a rare English summer that year, without winds and rain. We Brits always make the most of summers like that, but the flip side is that boredom soon sets in, especially for restless kids with no school to go to. Snoddy and I were hanging around my place, generally wasting the day away, when he suddenly asked me if I had heard of the old Fisherman house. I had, of course—everyone had. It was one of those places everyone had a ghost story about, usually one that came from a friend of a friend, or from somebody who knew someone who knew someone else who used to live there. That kind of deal. It was, of course, the usual schoolyard bullshit. I looked back at Snoddy, his skinny face taut and determined. The wheels were already turning in his mind as he watched me and waited for my answer.

“You wanna go break in?” he asked me, flashing his pierced lipped, crooked-toothed grin. I didn’t, not really, but I couldn’t say that. I was already technically grounded, and didn’t want to push my luck. But you can’t say that when you’re a kid, not when the pressure of expectation is heaped on you by your friends. So I reluctantly agreed.

We picked Denton up on the way. Most people didn’t like Denton. The other kids said he was fat, but he was just big for his age, with a huge barrel chest and broad shoulders. He played rugby for the school team, and although at a glance he did look a little chubby, he was fitter than most of the other kids in our year group. They would never say it to his face, of course. Denton had a well documented mean streak and a bit of a reputation as a bully, and I think that without him driving things along, that day might have been much different. Right from the start, I could tell he was itching for a confrontation. You could sense it in the air, if that makes any sense. I think Snoddy felt it too as we walked in tense silence past houses ripe with the smells of freshly cut grass, and the meaty charred smell of barbecues going full tilt.

The Fisherman house had been empty for over thirty years, and depending on who you talked to, had either been the site of a grisly murder, or the home of an old man who kidnapped and ate local kids. I never believed any of it, and although I knew it was just a building—bricks and mortar—it still gave me a small chill when I first set eyes on it. The grass out front was hip high and a sickly, faded yellow, and the house itself was an ugly stain on what was otherwise a nice area. Its walls seemed to bow inwards, and the windows were covered by graffiti-scrawled wooden boards. It certainly looked the part, and despite my disbelief, I could imagine any one of the stories about it being true. Suddenly I regretted going, and wondered if Denton and Snoddy felt the same. I thought Snoddy might’ve called it off, given the chance, but not Denton. The look in his eyes said he was going ahead with it, no matter what. So with our pride on the line, and none of us prepared to state our concerns, we went on.

We saw Steve as we neared the dilapidated porch. He was sitting cross-legged in the sun, writing feverishly on an old notepad. Denton never liked Steve. There was a history between them, and Denton had made it his personal mission to make Steve’s life hell for the last couple years of school. Steve was brush thin, with long gangly arms and a thick greasy mop of hair. He wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses that fit him poorly, and he was always pushing them back up his face when they slid down his nose. He was one of those kids who wore the cheap brands of clothes, the ones who always turned up for school with dirty shirts. You could almost smell the poverty on him, but he always did well in class.

“What are you doing out here?” Denton asked aggressively, flashing a crocodile grin.

Steve looked up, but didn’t answer, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. You could see how scared he was.

“Nothing, just researching the house for my website.”

“What website?” Snoddy asked as he absently pulled the grass out in huge clumps.

“Urban exploring. I write about abandoned places like this and review them.”

He flashed a hopeful grin, only to realize no one else was smiling.

“Geek. Lemmie see,” Denton said as he snatched the notebook. I could see that Steve wanted to object, but experience had taught him not to fight the bullying, but to go along with it. He looked at me then, and I gave the briefest of nods. I never had a problem with him, see. We were never friends, we never moved within the same circles, but I never had anything against him. My eyes flicked to Denton, who was leafing through the notebook.

“This is garbage. No mention of the good stuff like the murders, or the dude who ate all those kids. Maybe I should tear this up and you can start again, eh geek?”

Panic flashed over Steve’s eyes, and I saw that Denton meant to do it.

“Hey, Denton, leave him be. He’s not bothering anyone,” I said, giving him my best stern look. I knew he could probably take me in a fight, if it came to it, but I was good at bluffing. Denton did back down, tossing the notepad to the porch where it raised a puff of dust.

“I was just fuckin’ with him. Relax.”

There was an awkward silence as we stood there, nobody quite sure what to do next. It was Snoddy who made the first move. He hopped up the three porch steps to the door and tried the handle.

“Fucker’s locked,” he said, pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket and offering one to Denton, who took the offering wordlessly. The pair lit up, then Denton regarded the door.

“Course it’s locked. It’s hardly going to be open, is it? Too many crack heads and winos around. Let me try.”

Denton puffed his chest out and brushed past Steve, who flinched involuntarily. Denton rattled the door, and even tried breaking it open with his shoulder, but as old and tired as the door looked, it wouldn’t budge.

“What about the windows,” I said, half hoping there would be no way in and we could give up on the entire thing. I had a horrible feeling in my gut, not quite déjà vu, but that light, giddy feeling that sometimes comes with knowing something isn’t quite right. Snoddy gave the windows a quick once over, and tugged at the boards.

“No chance, those fuckers are solid,” he said as he joined Denton in sitting on the porch.

“That’s that then,” I said, hoping I sounded casual.

“Suppose so,” said Denton, glaring at Steve as if it was somehow his fault.

We would have left then, and none of what came later would have happened, if Steve hadn’t spoken up. I think maybe he was trying to win us over, maybe make some friends. Whatever the reason, he pushed his glasses up his sweaty face and said he knew a way in.

“Go on then. Don’t leave us hanging. Tell us,” ordered Denton.

He did.

Ten minutes later, we had squeezed our way through one of the kitchen windows at the back where a board had been partially pulled away. Steve was with us, although he hadn’t wanted to come. It was written all over his face, but Denton had insisted. So the four of us stood breathless in the gloomy dilapidated kitchen. The inside of the house was bare, and sunlight diffused dust motes hung heavy, making it hard to breathe. Graffiti covered the walls, some of it colorful, some vile. Hundreds of orange-tipped drug needles littered the floor, and the air was acrid with the stench of rot and urine.

“Watch your step,” Denton said as we made our way through the kitchen.

“Fuckin’ smack needles everywhere,” Snoddy muttered under his breath.

“You think there’s anybody here?” Denton asked with a huge Cheshire grin.

“Could be. Hell, we got in easy enough,” I said, still unable to shake the horrible feeling in my stomach.

We came into the living room. There was a huge graffiti mural on the wall of a woman being raped by a multi-headed snake, and more evidence of drug use. Several empty beer cans were stacked in a neat pyramid in the corner, and there was an old rolled up sleeping bag covered in a thin layer of black mold, which spread like spider webs across the corners of the walls.

“What now then?” Snoddy asked, his face looking waxy and tired in the diffused light of the room.

Denton grinned and kicked the can stack, sending them clattering noisily to the ground.

“Fuck’s sake, Denton!” Snoddy hissed as we collectively held our breaths, waiting to see if some crazed crack head would come racing down the steps, or out of one of the adjoining rooms. I realized then that ghosts were the least of our problems; the living were far more dangerous. But nobody came. No crazy old man, no cracked out lunatics.

“Suppose that answers the question. It’s just us. Let’s take a look around,” Denton said as he walked off towards the stairs. So that’s what we did. We split up and explored. There wasn’t much to see really. It was a typical old, empty house. No ghosts, no slimy things crawling around in the shadows. Just damp, and rot, and rats.

There were a lot of rats. They were everywhere. You would walk into a room and they would scatter, squeezing through gaps in the walls, or under old husks of forgotten furniture. Some of them were big too. I saw one the size of a fully grown tomcat, somehow squeezing its huge soft body between two of the broken kitchen cabinets. I could tell Steve didn’t like the rats. You could see it on his face. Whenever he saw one, he would grimace and shy away, and I think I even heard him let out a small yelp when we found a nest in the corner of the bathroom, the blind newborns like plump, pink slugs.

I was leafing through some old newspapers from the 70’s, when Snoddy and Denton shuffled over to me. I didn’t like the look of their matching grins.

“We’re gonna play a prank on Steve. We need you to help out though,” Snoddy said, showing too many of his not quite white teeth.

I asked them to leave me out of it, and to go easy on Steve, since he showed us how to get into the building in the first place, but there was no swaying them. It seemed that Denton’s mean streak had somehow rubbed off on Snoddy, and I knew there was no point in trying to talk them out of it. I asked why they needed me anyway, why they couldn’t do it themselves.

They explained their plan and I began to laugh too. I laughed and went along with it, because that’s what I was expected to do. It’s hard to explain, but I felt somehow obliged to go along with it, despite my own misgivings. Even now I hate myself for it.

The plan was this: I would lure Steve upstairs to see some nonexistent but amazing discovery, and as he came down the hall, Denton and Snoddy would leap out of one of the bedrooms and give him a fright. I went downstairs to look for Steve, who was perched on the arm of a tired old sofa in the living room, scribbling furiously into his notebook. I felt a pang of guilt as I approached him.

“Steve, come check out what I found upstairs. You have to see it to believe it,” I said, sounding as excited as I could. Part of me hoped he would see it coming, that he might sense the trick and refuse. But as I said earlier, he and I had never had a problem, and since he had no reason to distrust me, he followed. I felt sick as I climbed the stairs, knowing what was coming, and that from then on poor Steve would group me in with all the other people who picked on him and made his life a living hell.

It makes me sad to write it down, and as I do, I can feel the tears welling up in my tired old eyes. I need to finish though, the sound in the walls is getting louder, and I suspect it won’t be long now.

I walked down the upstairs hallway, Steve just behind me. I was hoping he would see the funny side when it happened, but when it did, it caught me by surprise too, because they came not out of the bedroom at the end of the hallway as we had agreed, but out of the bathroom. I remember it well. Snoddy wild-eyed, Denton grinning like some kind of snarling animal. They carried a box between them and threw its contents at Steve, screaming loudly as they did so. What happened next took only seconds, but I recall it in horrific, slow detail.

I remember the contents of the box landing on Steve, and feeling disgusted at the sight of those fat, pink, newborn rats as they hit his chest and face. I remember Steve screaming and lurching back, too far back, and slamming into the old, rotten banister rail, which broke under his weight.

I remember how the look of joy on Snoddy and Denton’s faces transformed into a look of sick horror as they realized what was happening. I remember reaching out to Steve, trying to stop his fall, but he was wild-eyed and frightened, his hands flailing as the baby rats squealed in a freakish high register.

I remember Steve falling down the steps, rolling down on his back and landing in a heap on the floor, and then I remember the rats.

Streaming from the downstairs walls like a thick, moving carpet, they charged towards the distressed newborns in an effort to protect. I remember meeting Steve’s gaze from the upper landing, or at least imagine I do, and remember his betrayed, terrified expression as the rats covered him, biting and tearing, smothering him until he was no more than a screaming, thrashing mass of filthy black fur. I couldn’t say how many there were. Hundreds? Thousands? It’s impossible to say.

We could have saved him, but as we stared at one another there on the upstairs landing in the gloomy half light, we were in unspoken agreement to run. Down the steps, two at a time, and around the mass of rats as they continued to defend the newborns. I’m pretty sure Steve had stopped screaming by then. I remember seeing his notepad, still perched on the arm of the sofa where just five minutes earlier he had been minding his own business, gathering information for his website.

I would like to say we went for help and came back to rescue Steve, who suffered only minor injuries, and we all lived happily ever after. But that would be a lie. We didn’t go back, and we didn’t tell a soul about it. I feel sick about it even now, and curse myself for being such a coward. The three of us never spoke much again after that day. Perhaps through shared guilt, or shame, we drifted apart. Steve was reported missing a few days later. A huge deal was made of it in the news and the local press, and as the days passed, I was unable handle the guilt. So I made an anonymous call to the police, advising them to check out the old Fisherman house. They did, but Steve wasn’t there. They found his notepad, but no sign of him, or the rats by all accounts. I was tempted to go back there, to see for myself, and even went so far as to make it to the porch when I was seventeen. But the rats stopped me. Not physically, you understand. But as I stood there, I was sure I could hear them, moving around stealthily in the walls, the same sound I can hear now.

That was almost seventy years ago, and in that time, I don’t think I’ve slept a full night without the nightmares or the sickening guilt welling up inside. But it makes no difference. He’s back. He’s back and he’s brought the rats. Like a ghastly pied piper he has led them to me, to the walls of this cheap hotel room. The Fisherman house was demolished twenty years ago, and a multi-story car park stands where it once stood. I wonder where they went from there, Steve and the rats. Where did they hide until the time was right to come for us?

He got Snoddy a couple years ago. Snoddy had led an indistinct life, working minimum wage jobs, and developed a pretty serious drinking problem along the way. He never spoke of that day directly, as far as I know. But I’ve heard tell that when he was particularly out of it, he would mutter to himself about the sounds of the rats, and how he would never have enough traps for them all. He was found dead, with his eyes wide open and a look of sheer terror on his face. They said it was a heart attack, but I know better. I think Steve came for him, and when Snoddy saw what old Stevey-boy had become, how he looked after so many years festering in the dark— well, I think it was enough to stop his clock right then and there.

At first I tried to rationalize his death, told myself I was just being paranoid. And that worked for a while—at least until Denton called me out of the blue last week. His voice was familiar, but strange at the same time. It wavered as he spoke, and came in a high, shrill register as he whispered through the line to me. Of us all, he had fared the worst. His aggressive nature had led him to crime, and as the story often goes, things went from bad to worse for him. He shot an old man in a clumsy carjacking and was jailed for twenty-five years. He ended up serving sixteen, coming out reformed and fit to rejoin society. I hadn’t spoken to him since school, but I remember seeing his picture in the paper when he was arrested, and even though he was much older than the boy I once knew, he still wore the haunted, glassy expression I remember from that day in the house. When he called me, I could barely understand his manic whispers, and I couldn’t really make out much before they turned to full on screams. After that all I could hear was the high pitched drone of hundreds, or maybe even thousands of rats. I definitely heard something speak, although it wasn’t Denton. The voice was thick and wet, and said it had something exciting to show me—that I would have to see it to believe it. And I do believe it. The scratching in the walls is louder now, and I fear I’m out of time. He’s come back, and God help me, I deserve whatever he brings.

It’s time.

They are here.

YURPLE’S LAST DAY

Freddy wondered what he had done to deserve such a run of bad luck. He’d just turned fifty-one, and for his entire life he’d done his best to entertain people—to make them happy. It wasn’t always easy, not anymore. He had arthritis in his left knee, which meant that the bumps and prat falls that always raised such a laugh legitimately hurt him now. He sat in his dressing room and took a long swig of Jack Daniels. No glass for Freddy. He preferred it straight from the bottle these days.

Glancing at his reflection in the large mirror, Freddy wondered what the hell had happened to his life. He didn’t know where the time had gone, how the years had slipped by without him noticing. One day he was twenty, with a head full of ambition and aspirations of success. In the blink of an eye, he was here. A bitter old man, with nothing to look forward to except biting the big one.

Flicking his eyes to the clothes rail in the corner, he scowled at the green and blue spotted shirt and red dungarees, and grimaced at the thought of slipping his feet into those oversized shoes. He wanted to scream, to reach out to his reflection and shake it by the shoulders— ask it what the hell it was doing with its life—but he knew that it was too late for that. Much too late. As the saying went, he had made his bed, and now he would have to lie in it.

Some might say he was lucky. After all, he had travelled the world and wasn’t tied to a standard nine to five job. But the grass wasn’t always greener on the other side. The pay was poor, and performing the same tired routine every night had grown to be monotonous. Then there was the hectic travel schedule, meaning he was constantly moving from place to place, city to city, town to town. In the end it had destroyed his marriage. His wife had been unable to cope with the lonely nights spent in an empty house, bringing up their two children on her own, and who could blame her?

He took another long swig of the sour whiskey, grimacing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. Yes indeed. Who could blame her? What did he expect to happen when he wasn’t there to stop her from succumbing to the charms of another man? And not even someone he could accept as better than himself. Oh no, she fell for an accountant. A fucking accountant. He shouldn’t have been surprised. She needed someone who could provide the things she needed. The things that she had expected from him. Someone stable, with a good job, sociable hours, and steady income. And when she tired of his excuses and promises that things were about to get better, that’s what she went out and found. He’d heard through the grapevine that they had recently gotten married, and although he knew he shouldn’t hold it against her, as it really was his fault, he did anyway. The split had been amicable—cold and distant, but amicable—though he still harbored a deep, simmering hatred towards her for leaving him alone in the world. That was the problem; people didn’t understand how hard this job was. His job was to be funny, to make people laugh even when he felt like screaming at them. Try keeping a stupid smile on your face the next time you get divorced. The long and short of it was that he was tired. Tired of life, tired of the routine. Tired of feeling so… tired.

Even the routine, the one he used to get so much joy from performing—the comedy falls, the water shooting Lilly on his jacket—all of it had lost its charm long ago and become something he detested, leaving him empty inside. He opened the desk drawer and took out a handful of pills, and swallowed them down with another shot of JD. He winced.

God, what a mess.

Pills for everything. Pills to keep him supple. Pills to keep him pain free. Pills to keep him sane. Although he had stopped taking those. The bottle was pushed to the back of the drawer. They made him sleepy, and in his line of work, he had to stay sharp. Nobody likes a woozy clown. He reached further into the drawer and pulled out the red-lidded green box that had been on the road as long as he had. Its casing was chipped and beaten, and one of the hinges was loose, but still served its purpose. He flipped open the lid, revealing the vast array of greasepaints. Bright reds, blues and greens, yellows and purples.

How much of this shit had he plastered onto his face over the years? He couldn’t even begin to guess. Taped to the inner lid of the box was a reference photo of himself, although this was a younger, less cynical version—one still hoping for a big showbiz break, one with a sparkle in his eye and the happy I can do anything grin. He frowned and wondered why he still kept it there. He could apply his makeup with his eyes closed. White base, huge red and yellow smile, oversized purple eyebrows, and of course, the red nose. Easy when you have been doing it every day for the last thirty-four years.

But not today.

Today he was going to try something new. He stood and removed his shirt, trying to ignore the weight he had gained. He could try to pass it off as something coming naturally with age, but knew it was his dependency to drink that caused the flabby, ape-like appearance. No longer able to stand looking at himself, he quickly pulled on the garish bright shirt and stepped into the dungarees. He glanced at the shoes, but couldn’t face them just yet. He hated the way they clopped on the floor, and how they made him feel as if he was walking underwater. His stomach growled, and he realized he’d forgotten to eat again. He rarely ate anymore, and as a result, the alcohol would go straight to his head. He knew he would be fine though; he was, after all, a professional. He sat back at his dresser with a thump, and looked bleakly at himself. The show had started. He could hear the muffled sound of the band striking up, and the voice of the ringmaster as he made the initial introductions. Checking his watch, he calculated how long until his section of the show. Still twenty minutes yet. Plenty of time to get ready.

These big top gigs weren’t too bad. Always guaranteed a decent turn out. And because tonight was sold out, everyone would get paid, which wasn’t always the case. He could hear the muted sounds of laughing and cheering already, and began to feel the niggling self-doubt he couldn’t seem to shake these days. He no longer cared for the crowds. The stupid adults jeering and booing, whilst their even less intelligent offspring whooped and laughed at the fat, washed up old clown.

Well, we’ll see who has the last laugh tonight.

As much as he hated the crowds, they were heaven compared to the private bookings he was forced to take to make ends meet. The birthday parties, where it was him alone in some stranger’s house, performing like a monkey to a room full of sniveling fucking kids. Do a trick, monkey. Fall over again, monkey. Tell us a joke, monkey. Worse still were the times the parents had grossly miscalculated their children’s interest in clowns. Those were the worst of all. The kids would just sit there and watch impassively as he went through the motions of his routine. The party would inevitably end with everyone involved feeling awkward and praying for a quick end to the travesty.

He began to apply the white greasepaint, his hands moving with expert precision. As much as he hated it, at least it helped to cover the deep lines that had grown on his face over the years. The undeniable signs of growing old. He heard an audience wide ahhhhhh in the distance and knew that Stavros was up on the trapeze, performing his death defying and legitimately impressive act. Not long to go now, then showtime. Giving the white basecoat time to dry, he picked up his oversized patchwork jacket and slipped it on, and unable to put it off any longer, slipped his feet into those horrible, giant shoes. Taking another great drink from the half-empty bottle, he then took out the red greasepaint and drew a large mouth shape across his lips and cheeks, filling it in efficiently. His next step on a routine day would be to take out the yellow to color in the outer edge of the red, but not today. Instead, he took out the black and filled in all of the inner part of the oversized mouth, leaving it looking like a wide-open maw. Next, he took out the yellow paint pencil and carefully drew in twin rows of jagged teeth. Next, he blotted some of the black paint roughly around his eyes. The left first, then the right. He felt satisfied as he stared out from the twin pools of black. It looked good, better than that happy-go-lucky-kiddy-crap. He looked like a grinning demon. More cheering from the crowd now— this meant Stavros had defied the odds yet again, and survived his latest feat of skill. Good for him. Not bad at all for a wife beating pedophile.

The choice of wig was next, and important to complete the overall look. He tried on the green, but it didn’t feel quite right with his new makeup, so he plumped for the red; a huge curly afro made of cheap cotton that made his skin itch.

Satisfied, he looked at himself in the mirror, and at last, he could bear his reflection. Now the outside reflected how he felt within, and he felt a giddy excitement that had been absent for some time. He thought it must be because he had something new for the masses tonight. Something spectacular. There was just enough time to make his final preparations. He took the note out of his pocket and taped it to his dressing room mirror. It would answer most of the questions that would be asked. The ones it didn’t, they would have to figure out for themselves. He was almost ready, with just one more thing left to do.

He walked to the desk in the corner and filled his pockets with the props for his performance.

Extendable boxing glove.

Water squirting flower.

Handshake buzzer.

He felt the part now, and was ready to perform. He slipped the belt full of ammunition around his waist, and slung the bag of hand grenades over his shoulder. The M16 and sawn off shotgun were already loaded, and he filled the remaining pockets of his jacket with as much extra ammo as would fit. There was a knock on the door, then a voice, gone as quickly as it arrived.

“Yurple. Showtime.”

And so it was. The crowd was waiting now, and his theme was playing. Despite it all, he managed a smile as he slipped the handgun into the waistband of his pants, then picked up the M16 and the shotgun—one in each hand. That was the thing with clowns, he thought to himself as he walked towards the center ring. Nobody ever takes them seriously.

Perhaps today they will.

TINA

Thomas Rhodes had worked as a detective for almost fifteen years, and had seen pretty much everything there was to see. But even he had trouble believing that the young girl in the interview room could be guilty of anything other than denying herself a decent meal or two. He’d always had a good instinct for sniffing out the truth, but from the moment she was arrested, covered in blood and walking in a daze, something had not felt right to him. He looked at her now, as she sipped from her polystyrene cup, and wasn’t quite sure what to think. Her skin was smooth and pale, and she had a narrow, oval face, which seemed both guilt and trouble free. She hadn’t given any personal information when she was arrested, but he guessed she was only in her early twenties. Her frame was thin—borderline malnourished—and her shoulder blades stood out, casting ugly shadows in the harsh light of the interview room. Her hair was long and black with a red streak at the fringe, and she wore it parted down the centre, which brought out the brilliance of her piercing, blue eyes. Rhodes searched her features, looking for any hint of guilt, but found none. She could just as easily have been sipping coffee in the park with friends, rather than under arrest and wearing a white paper forensics suit.

He set down his own cup and stretched, trying to ignore the dull ache in his arthritic knees. He was only forty-two, but was starting to feel the depressing onset of old age creeping up on him. The hair that hadn’t already gone grey was thinning, and the dimples in his cheeks that had given him a chiselled look as a young officer had now deepened into worry lines. He hadn’t shaved for two days, and found that even his stubble had lost its once natural blonde colour, taking on a salt and pepper tone. He made a reluctant mental note to see the doctor about the pain in his knees, even though he knew he would be given the same advice that he’d ignored for the last few years. Lose a few pounds, cut out the saturated fats, stop smoking, and exercise more. Although he could probably benefit from losing a few pounds, he didn’t think it was as doom and gloom as they liked to imply. Either way, he thought he might put in a request for some vacation time. But only after he dealt with the enigma sitting across the table from him.

“Ok,” he said, folding his hands on the table. “Let’s start with the basics. How about a name?”

She looked at him with a smile, and it troubled him deeply. It was a warm, friendly smile—not the twisted smile of a killer or maniac. Her voice was soft and calm, and although it was just a single word, it gave him an inexplicable chill.

“Tina.”

“Ok, Tina. I’m Detective Rhodes. I’m going to ask you a few questions, all right?”

She nodded and put her cup on the table.

“Now, I need you to tell me what happened; why you were covered in blood when we picked you up.”

She frowned, and for a moment, there was a look of uncertainty on her face.

“Oh, I forgot about the blood,” she said casually, lowering her gaze and staring at the wooden tabletop.

His mouth suddenly felt dry and he had to force himself to stay focused.

“You were covered in it when our officers picked you up. You were walking down the middle of the road singing. Do you remember that, Tina?”

“Of course I remember. I always sing when I’m out walking. It’s an old habit,” she said with a shrug.

“What about the blood. Tell me about the blood. Where did it come from?”

“From Lexi, of course. Where else?” she said irritably, like he had asked the most obvious question in the world. She was staring at her hands now, as if they held the answers to his questions. Even though Rhodes had shared rooms like this with some of the most vile and dangerous criminals to ever roam the country, he had never felt as unsettled as he did in the presence of this young girl.

“And where is Lexi now?”

She didn’t answer, and wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Tina, I want to help you, but you have to talk to me. What did you do to Lexi?”

She threw her head back and laughed, the trouble-free mirth of it disturbing him even more.

“Me? I didn’t do anything. I could never do anything like that.”

“Then who did it, Tina? Talk to me,” Rhodes pressed.

She stopped laughing and met his eyes with an icy gaze.

“It was Monde.”

Rhodes took out his pen and held it over the notepad.

“Ok, spell that for me please. M-O…”

“N-D-E,” she finished as he scribbled the name and underlined it.

“And where is he now, this Monde?”

She shrugged. “He comes and goes.”

“Is he a friend? Boyfriend?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes a friend or sometimes a boyfriend?”

“Both,” she replied with a small smile.

“And what did Monde do? To Lexi I mean.”

“Only what he had to. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t back off.”

Finally feeling that he was getting somewhere, Rhodes added the name Lexi to his pad and set the pen down on the table.

“So you and Lexi are friends?”

“She and I had been friends for years, but she kept pushing and pushing, and Monde didn’t like that. He hates it when people don’t do what he says.”

Rhodes didn’t like the way Tina was speaking about her friend in past tense. He pressed on carefully.

“Tina, this is very important. What happened to Lexi?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, shaking her head slowly.

“Look, I’m trying to help you here, but you have to talk to me.”

She looked up at him, her eyes hot with defiance.

“You won’t find him. You probably won’t find her either.”

“Let me worry about that. Just talk to me, tell me what happened. You realise you could be in a lot of trouble unless you give me something.”

She smiled at him again, showing her perfect white teeth.

“I’m not afraid. Monde said he would come for me and take me away from here.”

“Look Tina, I’m going to be honest with you. It’s not looking too good for you right now. You have to tell me what happened.”

She shrugged, looking unconcerned.

“I haven’t done anything. I already told you. Monde did it.”

“So you keep saying, but it was you we picked up covered in blood. Now unless I get some answers, you are only a matter of hours away from being charged.”

“Monde said it didn’t matter. He said he would take care of things.”

“Tina, don’t be fooled by the stuff you see on television. The fact is that the bloody clothes you were picked up in are now with forensics. If they determine that it’s human blood, we would have enough to charge you.”

For the first time, she seemed to be flustered, chewing her lower lip nervously.

“You can’t do that, can you? I didn’t do anything!”

“Then you had better tell me what happened. All of it, starting from the beginning.”

She leaned on the desk and sighed. He sipped his coffee and watched her, waiting patiently until she was ready to continue. She looked tired and waxy under the harsh strip lights of the interview room. After a few minutes, she leaned back and looked him in the eye.

“It doesn’t really matter anyway, but if you want to know what happened, I’ll tell you.”

Thomas picked up his pen.

“Tell me everything, starting with how you met Monde.”

Two

Quint’s bar was the only place to go in the small town of Oakville. During the day, they served hot lunches and the place had a mellow, easy-going feel. Tina didn’t work the dayshift. Her clientele were a different breed; the factory workers and hillbillies who were looking to unwind after a hard day’s work. The nights were noisy and smoky, and she’d lost count of the number of times she had been groped or had her ass grabbed by some too-drunk-to-remember Oakville native. She had noticed the man watching her from the end of the bar when she first arrived for her shift. She only noticed him because he looked so completely out of place that it was impossible not to. It was just after eleven, and even though the place was now almost full, and getting more and more rowdy, he still hadn’t moved. He simply sat and sipped his drink. He was very tall and thin, with broad shoulders, and was dressed in an expensive looking crème suit. As he toyed with his vodka, she could feel his eyes crawling over her. His skin was naturally tanned, and he had a thin moustache and slicked back jet-black hair. She didn’t normally like men with facial hair, but it somehow looked right on him. She couldn’t decide on his nationality—perhaps Italian or Spanish.

She glanced up and found his brown eyes still locked on to her intently. Tina quickly looked away, embarrassed. She gathered the rest of the bottles and headed behind the bar and into the kitchen area, enjoying the brief respite from the country music being stomped out by the house band. Lexi was there, leaning on the stainless steel counter and sipping a beer.

“Here she is, the object of affection,” she said with a smirk.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, Tina. You know what I’m talking about. The guy in the suit. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he came in.”

“Cut it out, Lexi, he isn’t watching me.”

“Oh come on, T, surely you must have noticed. He’s not even trying to hide it. You should go talk to him.”

Tina had known Lexi for the three years she had worked at Quint’s, and although they hadn’t liked each other initially, over time they had become friends. Lexi was more confident than Tina, and was unafraid to respond to the drunken approaches and gropes of their customers with verbal abuse of her own, somehow knowing just how far to push without crossing the line. At twenty-three, she was two years older than Tina, and she dressed like a punk rocker from the Eighties. Skinny jeans and vest tops were her thing, and she had that maddening knack for looking stylish in everything she wore. She was naturally pretty, with smooth skin, green eyes, and full lips, which made her hugely popular with the men. She considered herself a free spirit however, and wasn’t the type to get bogged down in relationships. Lexi tucked a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear and took another swig of beer.

“I’d lose my job, Lexi. You know how Stokes feels about us getting too involved with the customers.”

“Fuck Stokes,” Lexi replied with a chuckle. “He’s a fuckin’ prick with an attitude problem. Besides, he’s holed up in his office and probably won’t show his fat little face tonight anyway.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you always seem to get away with whatever you want.”

Lexi offered her beer, which Tina took a long drink from.

“It’s no secret, T. I just know how to push his buttons enough so he doesn’t fire my ass. People like him walk around all angry and self-important, but it’s always just a front.”

“I need this job, Lexi. I don’t wanna rock the boat, that’s all.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lexi responded, taking the offered beer back. “It’s not like you have your hands in the fuckin’ cash register or anything. Even a dick like Stokes can’t fire you for talking to a customer.”

Tina chewed her lip and turned back to Lexi.

“It’s not just that, Lexi. After the business with Paul, I really don’t need the hassle of men; I’m going through a lot right now.”

“Oh come on, T. You need to stop moping around and get back out there. Besides, old crème suit out there looks rich. Hell, I would go for him myself, if he didn’t have such obvious eyes for you,” she said with a small smile on her black painted lips.

“I’ll give it some thought. Look, could you watch my tables for five minutes? I need to use the bathroom.”

“Yeah, no problem, you go right ahead. I’ll pass Mr. Smooth your best,” Lexi said with a wink, then disappeared through the swing doors into the bar.

Feeling anxious, Tina went through to the back, heading for the employee bathroom. She glanced into Stokes’s office as she did so, but he was busy with bookkeeping, the top of his bald head moving from side to side as he worked through the books. She was glad. The last thing she needed was any more crap from him about unauthorised breaks or whatever else he decided to complain about. She watched him, his small fat hands working quickly as he counted money. Even from the doorway of his office, she could smell his cheap aftershave mingled with sweat and felt her stomach roll a little. He was a nasty piece of work all right, and seemed determined to make up for his physical and social shortcomings by pressing his authority on the staff. Even the gold plaque on his desk stank of self-indulgence.

Henry T. Stokes

Manager

She wondered why he even had it. It was unnecessary, and probably more for his own benefit than anything else. She glanced to the family photograph on the wall, the one that said more about Henry Stokes than any amount of bullying or nastiness could ever hide. The five-foot-four Stokes smiling awkwardly beside his mountain of a wife, who towered over him by a good seven or eight inches. There was no way of sugar coating the fact that she was dog ugly at best. Their daughter stood in front of the mismatched pair, with her father’s bug eyes popping out of her chinless face. Tina suppressed a smile and walked quietly past the office entrance. She reached the small bathroom and went inside, locking the door behind her and basking in the silence. She shot a repulsed glance at her mirror image, and realised she hated the person she had become. Three years in the same dead end job and nothing to show for it. Her stomach vaulted, and she knew she needed to do it now, before things got worse. Besides, she always felt better after.

She removed the small zip bag from her purse and carefully opened it. Inside were her most prized possessions, the only things in the world that made her happy—her drugs. She took inventory:

Heroin. Needles. Cocaine.

She had tried to convince herself that she was only a recreational user, but knew deep down that she was gradually becoming the dreaded ‘A’ word. The one that people like her always insisted they would never become. She had a definite need for it now. It took her to a warm, fuzzy place, and allowed her to at least tolerate the mess her life had become. The heroin was for later, back in her damp, cold flat, where she could finally drop the act that she was as happy and content as everyone else. She opened the small wrap of cocaine and arranged it into two neat lines on the counter top. Then, holding one nostril closed with her finger, she snorted it up, blinking as the numbing electricity overcame her. It was less than she would usually take, but it would be enough to see her through until her shift finished at three. Only then could she ready herself for the main event—the bliss of her beloved heroin. It was the one constant in her life that never seemed to let her down; the best relationship she ever had. Straightening her hair and making sure she hadn’t left any evidence behind, she headed back to work, feeling more confident for the shift ahead—even though the need for smack was already tugging at her guts.

Back in the bar, the band was just finishing their cover of Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman,” and Tina thought they were doing a decent job of it. She watched the locals dancing as the band surged towards the song’s finale, and felt embarrassed for them. They looked ridiculous enough when they were sober, but add alcohol and jerky dance moves into the mix, and you were in for quite a sight. Fortunately, she had mastered the art of keeping a straight face long ago.

Her eyes drifted to the strange man at the bar, and unsurprisingly, he was looking right back at her. She couldn’t read his expression, but she also could not deny that she was attracted to him. He was by far the pick of the bunch here in Oakville—the land where mullets and beer bellies were king. As she crossed the room towards the bar area, she could feel the men leering at her with their half-drunken, glassy-eyed stares. The room was suddenly too hot and the air too thick, and as she reached the bar, she exhaled deeply. She watched the band finish their set to drunken whoops and scattered applause while she collected herself.

“You look like you could use a drink,” a voice spoke from behind her. It was smooth, deep and confident, and she knew it belonged to him—to the man in the Crème suit. He was looking at her, watching intently, and she felt her heart skip with giddy excitement. There was something in his eyes, a deep, animalistic intensity that both scared and aroused her.

“I could, but I don’t think my boss would approve of me drinking on the job.”

She half expected a cheesy line or clumsy response here, but the man only nodded, still watching her as he swirled the dregs of his vodka around in its glass. She looked at his hands, his fingers long and thin, his nails manicured. She imagined him touching her with them, running them over her body—she blinked, pushing the thought aside.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” she said, regaining her composure.

“Yes you have,” he replied as he drained his glass and set it down. “You’ve seen me watching you.”

She smiled at him nervously, but his face remained neutral, his eyes intense and locked on hers.

“You certainly don’t sugar coat it, do you?” she said, flashing a smile at him.

“When I see something I want, I take it. It is the only way. Tell me your name.”

She felt herself blush with embarrassment as she looked at him. It wasn’t a request. It was a demand.

“Tina. My name is Tina,” she said softly, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

“I am Monde… Tell me, why do you work here, in a place like this?” he asked, cocking his head at the room that no longer seemed to exist for Tina.

“It’s not by choice, believe me, but the bills won’t pay themselves.”

“You are far too beautiful to work in a shithole like this.”

“I don’t know about that,” she replied, feeling a hot flush bristle on her skin.

“I can take you away from all this. I can show you a world you have never seen before.”

“You don’t even know me…” she said, this time unable to keep the tremble out of her voice. He reached over and took her hands, his skin hot to the touch. Maintaining eye contact, he leaned in close and whispered into her ear.

“I can give you everything.”

As he pulled back, his eyes still fixed on her, she wished it were that simple—that she could just walk out with him and leave everything behind.

“I can’t…”

Monde didn’t seem at all put out by this. Instead, he offered his perfectly white smile and released his grip on her hands.

“Tomorrow, I will take you to dinner. Be ready at eight.”

She laughed but saw something change in his face; a millisecond of rage that was enough to make her stop and explain herself.

“Look, you don’t know how great that sounds, really… But I’m working tomorrow. In fact, I work almost every night.”

Monde didn’t respond, he simply reached into his pocket and took out a business card. It was white and his name and number were printed on it in gold lettering. She didn’t think anyone actually carried business cards anymore, and smiled as she took it.

“You are persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“If you change your mind, call me.”

“Look, don’t get me wrong here; I’m interested in seeing you again. I don’t want you to see this as a brush off, but I really don’t know when I’ll be able to see you.”

He smiled, drained his glass and stood. For the first time, she realised how tall he was. Jimmy who worked behind the bar was around six feet tall, but Monde had at least six or seven inches on him. He straightened his jacket and turned that deep, brown-eyed gaze onto her again.

“One thing you will learn about me, Tina, is that I get everything I want.”

“Well, don’t be disappointed if you don’t hear from me. I can’t just leave my job. You understand that, right?”

He flashed his smile again, and her heart skipped.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said softly and made his way towards the exit. She watched him go, waiting to see if he would turn around and look back at her from the door. He didn’t and she felt suddenly deflated. With a sigh, she picked up her tray and went back to work.

Her shift ended at three AM, and she had gone home exhausted, eager to fix some of the H. She locked herself away in her dingy apartment, and felt more alone than ever. As she cooked up the shot that would get her through the night, she looked at the business card Monde had given her. Clean, straightforward, to the point.

Monde

555-2624

She siphoned the heroin into a syringe and readied to inject herself, wishing there was a better way to dull the pain of her life. Rolling down her elbow-length, fingerless gloves, she looked at her arms, which were deeply marked with scars from self-inflicted cuts. She did it less now that she had her heroin, but on those occasions when she couldn’t afford it, she would take out the razor blades. She selected a vein, the skin around it already bruised from months of injections into the same place. She inserted the needle and slowly depressed the plunger, the immediate rush of heat overcoming her as she slumped over onto her bed. She felt warm and safe, cocooned in from a world she no longer had any connection with.

Three

She woke to the maddening vibration of her mobile on the bedside table. She had been dreaming of Monde, of him making love to her, carefully caressing her as she looked into his deep, brown eyes, whispering hotly into her ear about giving her everything she ever wanted. Now roused from her dream, she grabbed clumsily at the handset, fumbling for the answer key.

“Hello?”

“Tina? It’s me.”

“Hey, Lexi, what’s going on?” Tina stifled a yawn as she glanced at her alarm clock. It was just after nine AM.

“Are you fucking kidding me? There was a fire at the bar last night.”

She was immediately awake and sat up in bed.

“Holy shit. What happened?”

“Nobody knows yet. Could be an electrical fault.”

“Was anybody hurt?”

“Nah, place was empty, but you should see what’s left of it. I’m down there right now.”

“How bad is it?”

“It’s gone. Burned to the fuckin’ ground. Looks like we just got the night off. Hell, what am I saying—it’ll be months before they get this place fixed up again. I was saying to Sasha that…”

Tina wasn’t listening anymore. She was thinking of Monde, of how he had been so sure she wouldn’t be at work the following night. Surely he couldn’t have had anything to do with the fire. No, she wasn’t thinking straight. No one would burn down a bar just to free up a date. Especially not someone as refined as Monde. Right? She saw his card tossed on the bedside table and picked it up, wondering if she should call or make him wait a while. She already knew the answer. She was desperate to see him again, and her dream of being with him had not faded away as dreams often did. Lexi was still talking, about what Tina wasn’t exactly sure, as she had been too lost in her own thoughts to pay much attention.

“Hey, Lexi, do you want to meet up this afternoon for a bite to eat? I could do with some advice.”

“Yeah sure, where do you wanna meet?”

“You know that bar down on the corner by Oakfield Park?”

“Yeah, down by the Italian place right?”

“That’s the one. How about we meet there around twelve?”

“I’ll be there. Is everything ok, Tina?”

“I’m fine. I just need a friendly ear, that’s all.”

“Is it about Mr. Crème suit?”

She felt a stab of anger and jealousy at Lexi’s slightly teasing tone.

“Yeah, it’s about him. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”

“Ooh sounds exciting. Ok, T. See you in a few hours.”

“Thanks, Lexi. Bye.”

Tina hung up the phone and thought about the implications of not having a job. Remembering she had a little heroin left, she decided to shoot up and sweat the job problem later. “Tina, you stupid bitch,” she muttered to herself as she cooked up the last of the potentially lethal drug and pumped it into the same vein as the previous night. She promised herself that would be it. No more now that it was gone. But then again, resolutions always sounded better with a head full of smack. She felt that familiar warm blanket envelop her, and she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Tina was running late, and when she arrived at the bar, Lexi was already waiting for her. She felt a pang of jealousy at how relaxed and worry free her friend looked. She was reading a magazine and was dressed in an oversized Ramones t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, revealing a singular, pink bra strap. As Tina approached, revelling in the smell of fresh coffee and cooked bacon, Lexi looked up and smiled. For the next hour, Tina told her all about Monde and her suspicions that he might have had something to do with the bar fire. Lexi listened intently, barely speaking and allowing Tina to tell the story in full. When she had had finished, Lexi took a second to consider, then pronounced her verdict.

“I think you should stop worrying about coincidental shit and go out with him.”

Tina blushed, and despite her concerns, managed a smile

“I don’t know, Lexi. There’s something about him, and I’m not sure what it is.”

“Can I be honest with you, T?”

“Always.”

“I think you’re scared to commit and looking for an excuse not to. Give him a call. Meet up with him. See how it goes. It can’t be any worse than spending your nights alone.”

Or fucked up on drugs she thought to herself. She went on to make idle small talk with Lexi for a while, but she felt distant somehow. A restlessness had overcome her, an uneasy feeling of something being slightly off balance, or more off balance than normal at least. She finished her drink and made up an excuse to leave, telling Lexi that she would call her later. Almost immediately after she left the bar, she took out her pink Samsung and punched in Monde’s number. She had half convinced herself that he wouldn’t answer; or if he did, he wouldn’t even remember who she was.

Four

Rhodes looked up from his notepad, ignoring the pain in his wrist from writing for so long. Their conversation was being recorded of course. All interviews were, as per standard police procedure, but he always made his own notes to refer to later, when he was home and able to think more clearly.

“You think Monde started the fire at the bar?” he asked, watching closely for her reaction. Tina paused, considering carefully, then looked him in the eye.

“I don’t think so. Not seriously anyway. I’d considered it at the time, but knowing him as I do now, it doesn’t really seem his style.”

“I’ve seen some pretty crazy things over the years. You would be surprised what some people are capable of.”

She only nodded in response, and he couldn’t shake off his uneasiness.

“You said you didn’t think he was capable of starting the fire. Has that changed now, Tina?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t think it was his style,” she said, offering a slight smile.

“Did you ever ask him about it?”

“Eventually I did, but he didn’t really want to talk about it… and Monde isn’t the kind of man you’d want press… His temper is… bad.”

“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here. What happened after you tried to call Monde?”

“He answered on the second ring. He wasn’t even surprised to hear my voice. It was as if he had been waiting for me to call—and maybe he was. I was nervous of course, but he took over as he does with everything and guided me through the conversation. He wanted to pick me up from my place, but I was embarrassed about how it looked, so I convinced him to meet me at the restaurant he had booked. That was the night I began to suspect that there was more to him, not as a person, but… I don’t know…” She trailed off and shrugged.

“Tina, please. I need you to focus. What happened next?”

“Well I went out and I met him. I thought that I would be more in control of myself the second time around, but as soon as our eyes met, I immediately fell under his spell again. That’s exactly what it was: a spell. An enchantment. Something he does with his eyes that makes you lose free will. It wasn’t just me either. Everyone seemed to be in awe of him. Now I know why, but I’ll get to that eventually if you don’t mind, as it would just derail things, and I’m feeling better about everything now.”

“That’s good. Please continue.”

“So the meal was fine. Actually, that’s an understatement. It was amazing, unlike anything I had ever experienced. High class, rich snob stuff. Way more expensive than anything I would ever be able to afford. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the meal cost more than a month’s rent for my shit-box apartment. Lexi was right, Monde had money. He picked me up in a limousine for God’s sake! It was crazy! I thought it might be awkward at first, you know how it is when nobody can think of anything to say to plug the silences, but I needn’t have worried. The conversation came easily. I couldn’t stop looking into his eyes, those beautiful, brown eyes. I could stare into them forever.”

Five

When they arrived, she had felt awkward and underdressed, but Monde had relaxed her, taking the lead, exuding the confidence she severely lacked. They made small talk during the course of the meal, mostly about her and her life. She found that whenever she asked a question about him, he would evade it, and smoothly divert the attention back to her.

She normally wasn’t the type to talk about her childhood, but it seemed whatever question Monde asked, she felt compelled to answer. He took her hands across the table, and she gasped at the heat that seemed to radiate from his skin.

“Let me take you away from all of this. Let me give you the life you deserve.”

“Away from what?” she said, feeling the heaviness of her own voice. The world felt distant—faraway. All she could think about were his eyes, and how easy it was to lose herself in them.

“I can give you everything, Tina. More than you could ever imagine. All you need to do is give yourself to me.”

She could barely breathe and her pulse pounded thickly in her temples. The chatter of the restaurant seemed muted and distant, and she knew then that she would do anything he asked her without question. She recalled her dream of making love to him and stirred in her seat.

I’m yours, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come, and she just looked at him in breathless need.

He smiled at her, acknowledging the unspoken agreement.

“Then we should go.”

“Where?”

“To my apartment. Come.”

Heart racing, she allowed him to lead her out and into his car, which was waiting with the engine running, the driver holding the door open for them. It was as if he knew the exact time they were leaving. They climbed into the car, and immediately fell upon each other.

When she awoke in the morning, she could barely move. Being with Monde had been very different from her dreams, and instead of the gentle lovemaking she had imagined, it had been a frenzied and violent affair. She had been afraid at first as he ravaged her, his hands clutched around her throat as he glared at her with a terrifying intensity. Unable to breathe, she had feared for her life, but it only served to intensify the pleasure, and six more times that night they had engaged in their violent coupling. Scratching, biting, and tearing at each other in an animalistic savagery she didn’t even know she was capable of.

She stirred under the tangled mass of sheets on the huge bed and looked around, her bruised and beaten body throbbing in agony. She looked at her skinny reflection in the mirrored ceiling and winced at the ugly, purple finger marks around her throat, the bite marks on her breasts and stomach. Monde was nowhere to be seen. She climbed gingerly from the bed, hissing in pain, but somehow completely satisfied. This was her first real look at his apartment, and she thought it suited him well. It was on the seventeenth floor of a large, recently constructed apartment building deep within the city. The building was modern—all steel and glass, with deep red, gold-trimmed carpets in the hallways. Monde’s apartment was the penthouse of the building, and was sparsely but tastefully decorated with clean lines and plush furnishings. Apart from the bathroom, which housed a huge and ornate marble bathtub, it was a large open space with expensive white carpets and lavish gold furnishings.

She walked to the window and looked out over the city, which looked beautiful in the blue-purple hues of the early morning. It was wonderfully picturesque, and for the first time in a while, she felt at peace. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead on the cool glass of the window.

The harsh vibration of her mobile phone broke the silence, demanding her attention. She couldn’t locate it at first, eventually finding it in the pocket of her jeans, which were still discarded on the floor. She retrieved the phone and answered the call, expecting it to be Lexi.

“Hello?”

“Tina, it’s me.”

Shit.

It was Paul. She cursed herself for not checking the caller ID before she answered.

“I told you not to call me anymore,” she said irritably.

“I heard about the fire. I just wanted make sure you were ok,” came the slightly hurt reply.

“Look, I already told you to leave me alone. Stop calling me.”

“I want us to be together again. We were good together.”

Monde walked into the room from the bathroom. He was wearing a towel around his waist, and the sight of him standing there dripping wet made Tina ache with desire, despite her ravaged body. He looked at her as she spoke, but said nothing, sitting down on the bed and watching the conversation unfold. She turned to the window, but could still feel his dark eyes crawling over her.

“No, Paul, we weren’t… Jesus, just stop bothering me. I’m trying to get on with my life.”

Tina felt awkward conducting this conversation with her ex-boyfriend in front of Monde. Paul had that sarcastic, mocking tone in his voice that she hated.

“Look, you can’t blame everything on me all the time, Tina. You had a part to play too.”

“Fuck you. I’m not going through this again. Just stop calling me.”

“You don’t control me, you little bitch. I’ll call if I want to, you got that?”

She was upset now and old memories began to surface, bringing fear with them. She had learned the hard way that Paul had a temper. At first he blamed the drink for the times he had beaten her, but over time, he stopped trying to make excuses all together, only grunting reasons for his actions between gritted teeth. She remembered them all. She looked at another man. She was flirting with his friends. She made him do it—that was his favourite. He had introduced her to the drugs, and because she was afraid to say no, she had started to use with him—anything to keep his fists from connecting with her body. The end came when he tried to force her into prostitution. He had called it something else, accompaniment…no—escorting. That’s what he had called it. He said he had good friends who would look after her, and they would make a ton of money. She told him she wouldn’t do it. His response was to punch her in the face and throw her down the steps of his apartment, where she had been living at the time.

All of this was conducted in secrecy of course. Lexi had told Tina she was lucky to have found such a good-looking guy, and wanted to know if he had a brother to introduce her to. That was the problem: in public he treated her well. Hugging her close, holding her hand, but she could always sense it. The anger simmering below the surface. Fearing that the next beating might be the one she wouldn’t wake up from, and desperate to avoid becoming a whore to his circle of friends, she finally plucked up the courage to leave him, doing it whilst he was out at work. She was terrified that he would find her, so she left a letter warning that if he didn’t leave her alone she would go to the police about some of his less than savoury dealings. That kept him at bay for a while, but recently he had started calling her, usually when he was drunk, which frightened her even though he didn’t know where she lived. If she had been alone when he called, she would have been terrified to stand up to him, but she felt strong with Monde in the room with her.

“Look, Paul, I won’t let you do this to me again. Just leave me alone.” Her voice was shaking, but she managed to blink back the tears.

“You better watch yourself, Tina. You had better remember who you are fuckin’ talking to, you little cunt. I might just drop by your place one day and remind you,” he spat down the line before hanging up.

“Problem?” Monde asked her, watching carefully.

Apart from being absolutely fucking terrified of my psycho ex? Nope, not a thing.

“No, no problem,” she said as she tried to still her heart, which pounded in her chest.

Something in his expression changed. Maybe it was no more than a trick of the light, but his eyes seemed to darken.

“Tina, I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. You have my word.”

For the next few weeks, the routine was the same. Tina and Monde’s nights would consist of several bouts of frenzied and increasingly violent sex, then in the mornings Monde would dress and leave to conduct his business. She had asked him what he did for a living, but he would always evade the question, telling her simply that he owned an import-export business and worked long hours in the city. Her obsession with Monde grew, and the less he revealed about himself, the more she wanted to know. He had given her a key to his apartment and a credit card, and spoiled her with expensive gifts and clothes.

Also curious was her drug addiction. She no longer craved the heroin that had been such a huge part of her life in recent months, and as she spent more time in Monde’s world, she found she no longer desired it at all. Unlike the last time she tried to clean up, there was no painful drying out or sickness whilst the drug flushed itself out of her system. This time, stopping was as easy as breathing. Her need for the drug had been replaced by her obsession with Monde. It was one addiction in place of another. He had become her life, her existence. She forgot the Tina of old and devoted everything to him.

It was a Friday afternoon when she received the voicemail from Lexi. The usual bubbly exuberance in her voice was absent, replaced by a tension Tina had never heard before. The message asked Tina to call her back to arrange to meet up, as there was something they needed to talk about. The thought of being away from Monde filled her with dread. She begrudgingly called back and arranged to meet her at the same bar as before.

It was the first time since their last meeting here that Tina had seen Lexi. In what seemed to Tina as something of an irony, there had been a role reversal; now it was Lexi who appeared distracted and carrying a world of worry on her shoulders. In contrast Tina felt good, ecstatic with happiness even despite the painful bites and bruises, which she wore like trophies.

“Hey there, stranger.”

Tina detected a bitter tone to Lexi’s voice, which she tried her best to ignore. She was already missing Monde and wanted to get back to him.

“Hey, Lexi. How are you? You sounded strange on the phone. Is everything alright?”

Lexi swallowed, as if trying to select the right words. Tina noticed that her friend couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Look, Tina, I need to tell you something, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

Her stomach vaulted, but she masked it by sipping her drink.

“What is it?”

“It’s about that guy you’re seeing.”

Rage. Jealousy. Panic.

She smiled and sipped her drink. “What about him?”

“He’s not what you think, Tina. He’s bad. Really bad.”

“How would you know?”

Tina had the impression there was some kind of bombshell coming—a revelation, a plot twist. Remain in your seats, folks. Remain calm.

“He… He went to see Paul.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t even know Paul,” she argued, but knew inside that it didn’t matter. He’d overheard their argument on the phone and had gone to see Paul. She knew it as well as she knew that the sky was blue and that she hated the taste of mushrooms. Monde had said he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her again.

“Tina, you know me. You know I wouldn’t just say shit for the sake of it. But this guy is bad.”

“How can you know? You haven’t even met him,” she said between gritted teeth. She knew it was stupid, but she was angry and jealous. Even though she was doing a fine job of burying her head in the sand, somewhere deep down she knew there was more to Monde than perhaps she would ever know.

“I know because I was there with Paul when your man knocked on the door.”

There it was. She imagined it unfolding like a play: plot twist enters stage left.

“What do you mean you were there?” Tina asked sharply.

But Lexi didn’t need to answer. The look on her face said it for her.

“You were sleeping with him?”

“I know I shouldn’t have, especially after what he did to you, but you know me—I’m attracted to men like him. You know… I always go for the wrong kind of guy.”

“Wrong doesn’t begin to cover it. You don’t even know half of the things that bastard did to me. You think you know everything, Lexi, but you don’t. How could you do this? Why him?”

“Hey, you’re the one who just disappeared off the face of the earth with this new man of yours. Think about that before you judge me.”

People were looking at them now, casting disapproving looks at the two women who were spoiling their quiet, mid-afternoon lunches.

“So that’s it—you’re jealous. Well fine, you keep Paul. I don’t care. Just don’t come running to me when he gets loose with those fists of his.”

“He would never hit me.”

“I thought that once too.”

“Yeah, but I’m not as…” Lexi trailed off.

“Go ahead, Lexi, say it: you aren’t as weak as I am. Is that what you were about to say?”

There was a tense silence between them. Lexi shuffled awkwardly and continued.

“Look, that’s not the real issue here. That man Monde…He hurt Paul.”

Tina leaned forward to listen, now interested.

“We were fooling around at his place, when there was a knock at the door. We had ordered in pizza so we assumed that’s what it was. Paul was drunk, or at least well on his way, so I opened the door—and there he was, your man Monde.”

Tina searched her friends face for a lie, hoping desperately to find one. She was horrified to see nothing but truth, and suddenly felt sick.

“Go on,” she said, with a voice that didn’t even sound like her own.

“So I asked him what he wanted. I mean, why would he be there, right? He didn’t get mad or anything, he just calmly asked to speak to Paul, who by that time had heard the commotion and come to the door. Well, you know how he is when he’s drunk.”

She most certainly did.

“So Paul starts getting in Monde’s face, or more his chest because he’s so big. I mean holy fuck, is he tall. Anyway, Paul was ranting and raving and Monde just stood there—stood there with a crazy look in his eye and an amused smile on his face. Now, I’m trying to calm things down, because I figure these two are about to get into it right there on the doorstep. So I’m in the middle, and then he…”

Lexi swallowed and Tina noticed that she could no longer look her in the eye.

“He—he moved so fast that I didn’t really see him move, you know? One minute Paul was pointing and shouting, and the next he was on the floor holding his face, and there was blood, good God there was so much blood.”

Lexi had grown pale and Tina thought she had aged at least ten years in the last few minutes.

“I wasn’t really sure what had happened until after, but Monde kneeled down and whispered something to Paul when he was on the floor. And I heard him, I swear I heard him as clear as day.”

“What did he say?” Tina asked, trying to ignore her somersaulting stomach.

“He said ‘she’s mine now.’ And he was calm, so calm, even though he had it in his hand and it was still moving….”

“What happened, Lexi? TELL ME!” Tina demanded.

Tears began to roll down Lexi’s cheeks, but there was no accompanying sobbing or wailing, just a lost and neutral look on her face. Tina wondered if something in Lexi’s mind had broken.

“He pulled out Paul’s tongue… I don’t know how he did it, or how he could move so fast, but… he yanked it out with one fucking hand. Oh God, he looked at me and his eyes were black… I swear they were black as night.”

Tina was repulsed, but also felt a sense of pride that both surprised and emboldened her. Nobody had ever gone to such extremes on her behalf before.

“And the thing I will never forget, the thing I can’t get out of my mind, is that Paul’s tongue was still moving. Like it was still trying to talk or something… Now you see why you have to leave him. Leave and get as far away as you can.”

Lexi was borderline hysterical, but Tina wasn’t listening. She was imagining Monde deep inside her, both of them covered in fresh, hot blood. She saw it vividly in her mind; her tied naked to the bed, Monde licking her breasts and her belly, moving down, down, down—not using his own mouth, but Paul’s severed tongue, which he held in his right hand like some bizarre phallus, still twisting and writhing. She found herself becoming aroused and wished she were with him now. Lexi was looking at her pleadingly, openly crying, but Tina could only think of that severed tongue exploring her. She smiled.

Lexi’s face screwed up into an expression of disgust and anger.

“Why are you smiling? What’s wrong with you?!” she wailed, the pair now had the full attention of the neighbouring patrons.

“Did you tell him to do it?”

Tina blinked in shock, and her depraved thoughts were gone from her mind in an instant.

“Of course I didn’t! I didn’t know anything about it! How can you even ask me that?”

“Then leave him. Get away from him, whilst you still can. You aren’t safe with him.”

“He looks after me, Lexi. You don’t have the right to try and wreck things for me!”

“I’m trying to help you, Tina!”

“No, that’s not it. You want him for yourself, don’t you?! You want Monde!”

“Of course not, what the hell are you talking about?!”

“Poor little depressed Tina finally gets a man. Well it’s no joke now, is it? Now that I’m doing well, you’re just jealous!”

“He’s changed you! You aren’t yourself!”

“And how would you know? You were never there when I was crying myself to sleep at night, when that animal you’ve been sleeping with was fucking raping me! Monde is the only one who cares about me! I love him and none of your lies will change a fucking thing!” Tina was shaking now and gripping the edges of the table so hard that her knuckles had turned white. Lexi shook her head slowly, wiping her hand across her nose in a childlike gesture.

“He’s brainwashed you, Tina. Why can’t you see it?”

“Look,” Tina said as she stood quickly, tipping her chair backwards onto the floor. Even the staff were looking now and had joined the rest of the customers in watching the show. Tina pointed at Lexi and spoke through gritted teeth.

“You and I are through. Don’t contact me again. I love Monde and that’s all there is to it. He’s no monster. You keep away from me and you keep away from him, or I swear to God, I’ll kill you!”

Not one to back down, Lexi also stood and put on her leather jacket, which had been hanging off the back of her chair.

“You know what, that’s fine. I tried to warn you, but you don’t want to listen, and that’s fine. But if our friendship ever meant anything to you, Tina, then think about what I said. How much do you really know this guy?”

“Enough to know he’s no monster.”

Lexi smiled and Tina went cold. It looked oddly false, and reminded her of the grinning rictus of a Halloween mask.

“Try rearranging the letters of his name. Then you’ll see what I think he is.”

Tina gave Lexi a disgusted sneer and left, sweeping out of the coffee shop and away from the judgemental eyes of the customers.

Six

Rhodes looked up at Tina, but couldn’t get a fix on her expression. He returned to his notepad, running his eyes over the scrawled arrangements of Monde’s name.

Do men.

Mod en.

Em don.

Demon.

Rhodes snorted an uneasy bark of laughter, then turned back to Tina. “Demon? Lexi thought Monde was a Demon?”

He was anxious to hear Tina’s response, but she simply sat and watched him with half a smile on her face. Rhodes’ mind buzzed with the bounty of information he had taken in.

“Tina, are you still with me?”

“Yes. I’m just resting my voice. I’m tired of talking now.”

“I understand, but we have to continue. Would you like another drink?”

“You got any Vodka?” she asked with a teasing smile. He felt a quiver in his groin at the flirtatious way in which she had said it, and he wondered if she was deliberately trying to tease him. He pushed aside the images of being with her that had begun to form in his mind, and continued with his questions.

“What happened to Paul?”

“He couldn’t handle what had happened to him. I guess he didn’t like being on the receiving end for a change.”

“What do you mean?” Rhodes pressed.

“He’s dead. Suicide apparently. I only heard the rumours, same as everyone else. But by all accounts, Paul went and bought himself a big old dirt sandwich. And good riddance too, if you ask me.”

She was so nonchalant, so matter of fact that it made goosebumps pop up on Rhodes’ arms.

“What happened?”

“What do you mean what happened? He died,” she said with a chuckle.

“Come on, Tina. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry, Tom. Just messing with you. I don’t know exactly. I heard that he filled a bath, took a bunch of sleeping pills, tied a plastic bag over his head with duct tape, and then slit his wrists.”

“Jesus…”

“He clearly wasn’t fucking around. Not a cry for help, if you catch my drift.”

She was still smiling at him, and began to pick away at the edge of her polystyrene cup. Rhodes took a deep breath and tried to get things back on track.

“I’d like to hear more about Monde.” Rhodes chose his next words carefully, knowing that Tina’s reaction could spell the end of their conversation.

“Tina…Do you think Monde was a demon?”

She laughed again and shook her head.

“I’m not crazy, Detective Rhodes.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

She considered for a moment, flicking her top lip with her tongue, which didn’t help Rhodes’ efforts to suppress his attraction towards her. He looked at her neckline, and sure enough, he could see the ghosts of finger-shaped bruises. At last, she responded.

“I think it’s best if you save questions like that until the end.”

“That’s fair enough, but I’m almost out of paper here. How much more is there to tell?”

“Not much. We’re nearing the end of the road now.”

The way she said it sent a chill through him.

“Then please, continue.”

She smiled at him, and again there was a seductive element to the way she looked across the table. Baby’s growing up, he thought to himself, although he had no idea where the quote came from, or why it came to him at all.

“You don’t quite know what to make of me, do you Tom?”

It was becoming more and more difficult for him to ignore his physical attraction to her. It was the way she kept calling him by his first name, the way she kept looking at him, even the seductive secrecy of her smile. There was an innocence to her, but it only served to magnify the explosive sexuality simmering beneath. To his horror, he felt himself stiffening under the table. Stabs of images flashed through his mind; of her coming close, those full, red-painted lips slightly open as she repeated his name.

Tom, I know what you want to do to me…. so just do it.

He forced the thoughts out of his head and collected himself. Her question was a good one—did he really know what to make of her?

“Honestly? No. I don’t. But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

It was his turn to smile now, and he was pleased with how well he’d managed to hide his growing uneasiness. She faltered, just a slight frown, but nonetheless a chink in the armour. He decided to press on.

“Tell me what happened next,” Rhodes said as he picked up his pen and prepared to start writing.

“Well, after I calmed down, I started to feel guilty about what happened with Lexi. I hadn’t wanted to fall out with her—it’s just that Monde has this way of driving me crazy, you know? I mean, obsession is too weak a word. Anyway, I dwelled on it and decided to ask him about everything outright. We had words and things got heated, but when it was all said and done, we understood each other, and he sat me down and told me everything. It was a lot to take in, so I went out to get some air afterward. I don’t know if it was deliberate or just by accident, but I found myself outside Lexi’s place.”

Seven

Lexi lived in a small ground floor apartment. The walls were whitewashed, and beside each white panelled door there was a mailbox and gold painted number. Lexi lived at number six, and as Tina knocked, she hoped that it wasn’t too late to put things right. She waited and was about to leave, when she heard the chain rattle on the other side of the door. It swung open, the acrid smell of cannabis drifting out. There was no welcome, no excited hello, just a strained silence as the two friends stared at each other awkwardly.

“Lexi… We need to talk.”

“I’m listening,” she replied, watching Tina with glassy, half-baked eyes.

“I spoke to Monde about the things you told me…” She barely finished the words before breaking down, and in an instant the argument was forgotten as Lexi draped her arm around her friend, ushering her inside.

“Hey, hey, come on in.”

Tina allowed herself to be led as Lexi kicked the door closed behind them. She was wearing black leggings and an oversized Iron Maiden vest. The apartment was cluttered but cosy, one wall devoted to a large shelving unit filled with records and an extensive CD collection. Tina sat in an armchair and Lexi perched on the sofa opposite, quickly putting out her large, oddly shaped joint in the overflowing ashtray on the table.

“Sorry about that. I was feeling down in the dumps,” Lexi said with a shrug as she waved away the smoke. “So what happened?”

“I confronted Monde. I asked him about Paul. He didn’t deny it. Lexi, I’m so sorry for doubting you.”

“Forget about that, hon,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m just glad you came to your senses. Look, here’s the thing, I’ve been doing some research on Monde.”

“Lexi…”

“I’m sorry, but I needed to know. I was worried about you. Hell, I’m still worried about you.”

Although she felt a prickle of anger stir within, Tina let it slide. She didn’t want to get into another fight. Besides, her curiosity was piqued

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing that will put your mind at ease. I made a few calls, did some independent research of my own… Tina, he doesn’t exist. No social security, no traceable history. It’s like he just appeared out of thin fuckin’ air.”

Tina said nothing. She felt sick with nerves.

“And to top it off, his fucking name! Did you get it, when you rearrange his name it spells…?”

“Demon,” Tina said with a smile on her face. It felt good to say it aloud. Those two syllables rolled easily off the tongue. De-mon. She watched Lexi carefully as a look of realisation came over her.

“You already knew, didn’t you…”

Tina nodded.

“I think I suspected something right from the start. I knew there was something about him, I just wasn’t sure what it was.”

Lexi looked as if she wanted to say something, but instead she simply sat motionless and stared at Tina, her revulsion barely hidden.

“But you argued with me, you defended him…”

“I didn’t know what he was then, not completely anyway. But I suspected something… It was the little things that added up, Lexi. The way his skin is always hot to the touch. The way he can make anyone bend to his will. And the way he is in bed… the way he snarls and bites and hurts me…”

“You’re sick,” Lexi whispered, her eyes flicking towards the door. She wanted to run. Tina could sense it, almost smell it in the air.

“When I asked him about what he was, and he finally told me, I asked him to show me his true self. How he really looked behind the human mask.”

Tina smiled to herself, sitting back and crossing her legs as if she was discussing the news or a movie she watched the night before.

“He didn’t want to, but I insisted, and when he did I was glad. You would have screamed, of course. Screamed and run away because you don’t understand. But when I looked at him, I could still see how beautiful he was. I let him take me then. Not as Monde, but as the thing that lives underneath. His skin was so hot it burned, and his nails tore at my flesh. Here, look at this.”

She lifted up her shirt to show her ribcage, which was lined with deep scratches, and just below her navel there was a deep bite mark, still weeping blood.

“He has branded me, Lexi. I’m his. You know what he told me? He said he chose me because I was just as lost and as dark a soul as he.”

Lexi leaned across the table and grabbed Tina’s hands.

“Tina, you need help. You’re delusional.”

“I’m pregnant, Lexi. He told me. Our baby will be born half of our world and half of his.”

Lexi let go of Tina’s hands and half rose.

“This is sick. I won’t listen to it anymore.” Lexi marched to the door on rubber legs that wobbled beneath her.

“I want you to leave,” she said as she opened the door.

Monde was standing outside. Lexi shrieked and backed away. Her eyes darted from Monde to Tina, then back to Monde as she back-pedaled away from the door.

“What is he doing here? Why did you bring him here?” Lexi shrieked.

“Lexi, just relax. I wanted to explain, to make sure you understand that this is what I want.”

“Tina, snap out of it! Think about what you’re saying!”

Monde smiled at Lexi then, and his teeth were needle-like daggers, his eyes black pools of hate. He casually walked into the apartment and closed the door behind him.

“I want to go with him, Lexi. Back down there.”

Tina pointed to the floor, and Lexi knew she didn’t mean the maintenance basement. She licked her lips nervously, her eyes bulging out of her head as she backed away from Monde. Lexi thought she could see the tip of a forked tongue flicking between his partly open lips.

“Tina, don’t do this! Tell him to leave me alone. I know you are a good person. Please!”

“I’m not a good person, Lexi. I pretend to be, but I’m not,” Tina said with a sad shake of her head.

Lexi was now backed into a corner with Monde’s six-foot-seven frame looming over her.

“I asked him to do it quick, Lexi. It’s all I can do.”

“Tina, please!”

“Goodbye, Lexi.”

Tina watched as Monde went to work, the violence and frenzy exciting her. She tried to hold back for as long as she could, but the wet ripping and tearing sounds and the sheared copper smell of the blood overcame her ability to hold back, and she loosed herself upon him, pushing her tongue into his mouth, pulling the heat of his body towards her. They rolled in what was left of Lexi, smearing it on each other, lost in the primal act. Tina knew that somewhere deep down she should feel some sense of guilt or remorse, but there was none to be found. All she could think of was Monde. They finished, climaxing together as she held Lexi’s severed hand in her own, their fingers interlocked.

Rhodes felt nausea roll through him as he looked at Tina in a new light. What he had mistaken for innocence was nothing more than a complete and utter lack of remorse. Unlike him, she would sleep soundly tonight. She was insane, of course. Of that there was no longer any doubt.

“So what happens now?” Tina asked.

“We check your story. But you need to give me Monde. Where is he?”

“Gone.”

“Tina, come on. Gone where?”

She flicked her eyes to the floor.

“He said he would come back for me once the baby was ready to be born.”

Rhodes leaned forwards, looking her in the eye.

“Can I tell you what I think, Tina?”

“I’m hardly in a position to stop you.”

“I don’t think there is or ever was a Monde. I think you invented him.”

Even as he said it, he glanced at the bruises on her neck. The ones that looked exactly like hand prints.

“I think you found out that Lexi was sleeping with Paul and you killed them both, plain and simple.”

He had expected this to rattle her, but she simply smiled at him. He was growing to hate that smile.

“Tina, you’re going to be put away for this. You know that, don’t you?”

“I suppose I will, but only for a while. He’ll come back for me. He promised.”

He realised there was no helping her. Even though he would push for a criminal conviction, he was sure she would be institutionalised. Taking his notes, he stood. He wanted to say something profound, something thought provoking. He felt as if something should be said, and Tina seemed to be expecting something too as she watched him with her icy gaze. But try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything. Without a word, he walked out of the interview room and closed the door.

Eight

The subsequent trial of Tina Rose Delatros was a whirlwind of media attention and speculation. As Rhodes had feared, Tina was deemed unfit to stand trial for the murder of Alexis Greene, whose remains were only identifiable by dental records. (Although Rhodes had speculated that Tina was involved with Paul’s death as well, further investigation confirmed it as a true suicide.) Those who attended the trial had commented on the way the girl carried herself during the proceedings, showing neither remorse nor shame. Despite an extensive search, no evidence of Monde’s existence was ever found. His apartment was never located, and when pressed, Tina claimed she couldn’t remember where it was.

Some argued that it would have been impossible for Tina to inflict such damage on Lexi by herself—that the savagery was more akin to an animal attack than anything a human being was capable of.

Three months after her interview with Rhodes, Tina stood for sentencing, the bump of her stomach now confirming her pregnancy. Tina accepted the guilty verdict with the same indifference she had displayed since her arrest. Rhodes had met with her several times following her incarceration at the Wren State Mental Health Institute, and in collaboration with the psychologists and staff, he ascertained that Tina’s story never once changed, never once altered throughout her numerous retellings. She was either telling the truth, or was so deeply invested in her story that she believed it to be true.

In late September, with the baby’s arrival only weeks away, Rhodes came to visit Tina, wanting to follow up on some potential sightings of Monde by patrons of Quint’s bar the night before it burned down. (The case was now closed, but he soldiered on, driven by his own maddening curiosity.) What he saw when he arrived at Tina’s quarters would haunt him forever. No alarms had been triggered, there had been no breach of security, nor had there been any breaks in the twenty-minute hall patrol rotation.

Here were the white walls and wire-covered windows, the bunk style beds—but no Tina. Rhodes could see the wet patch where her water had broke, and a thin trail of liquid leading to the wall, where she had come to rest. Her cellmate, a young schizophrenic named Melissa, had tried to help deliver the baby, and now had four deep gouges across her face. Rhodes spoke to her only once in the days following Tina’s disappearance, but her words were ones he would never forget.

Her bottom lip trembling, she looked him in the eye—her gaze clear and unclouded by her illness—and said:

“He took her. He came out of the floor and took her.”

She went on to explain how a tall man in crème suit, with black eyes and pointed teeth, had climbed out of a fiery hole in the floor to take Tina and their newborn child away.

Rhodes simply shook his head, and suddenly felt the need to light up a cigarette, though he had quit more than ten years before.

THAT GNAWING FEELING

Danny was dead. At least that was his first thought as the bomb in his chest exploded and sent him tumbling to the floor. He thought he knew pain—the double leg break he suffered as a student back in ‘94 was bad—but this was something else entirely. He was grateful that he wasn’t alone. Sarah and Jim were with him in the apartment the three of them shared. He hoped they had heard the commotion as he fell, as he couldn’t speak to call to them, nor could he move. It felt like a pickup truck was parked on his chest.

Sarah was a nurse, and Jim—like Danny—was a doctor, fresh out of medical school. He figured his chances of survival were decent as long as they acted swiftly. Sarah came first, a blonde vision. She crouched and grabbed the phone, which was still clutched in Danny’s hand. He remembered that he had been about to call out for pizza when it happened. She held it to her ear, then turned to Jim, nodded, and placed the phone back in its cradle. There were a few tense seconds of silence as he watched them, and they watched him.

What are you doing? Call a damn ambulance!

His eyes met Sarah’s, and despite the agony, her expression scared him even more. She was smiling.

Why is she smiling? Why aren’t they doing anything?

He’d heard stories of people’s lives flashing before them as they died, but for Danny this was not the case. The last coherent thought he had was a simple question.

Why?….

White light. As awareness crept back to him, he realized firstly, and with some relief, that he was no longer in pain.

Was this it? Was this death?

He thought not. His instincts told him he was still alive. He wanted to close his eyes against the harsh intensity of the light, which seemed so incredibly bright, but couldn’t. As feeling came back, he became more convinced that he was still a living, breathing being. He felt gingerly outward with his senses, gently probing into the unknown, and yes—he was definitely alive. He could feel the floor beneath him. He wondered for a brief moment if he had been saved after all, and was now in the hospital recovering. But no. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he realized that the bright great-ever-after light was actually just the ceiling lamp in the lounge. They must have brought him here to wait for the ambulance. Relief overcame him, but as true as it was that he was no longer in pain, the artificial light burning into his eyes was maddening. He tried to lift his head or at least turn it to the side, but found that he couldn’t move. He tried to close his eyes, to blink away the discomfort, but even that small gesture, which takes only a tenth of a second to go from brain to eyelid, was beyond his ability.

Terror bubbled in the pit of his stomach as he systematically tried to move any part of his body. To his horror, he found that he couldn’t even manage a tic, a flick of a finger, a curl of a toe. He forced himself to consider the possibility that he might actually be dead after all.

Could this be it? Could this be what death is? Trapped in a body that no longer functions.

No, it couldn’t be. He could still think. He could sense the world around him. He could feel the plush carpet below his body, its fibers tickling his neck and arms. He could feel the dull ache in his left knee where it hit the kitchen cabinet as he fell to the ground. He could even feel the light breeze coming in from the open lounge window, which caressed and whispered against his skin. He could feel himself breathing…couldn’t he?

Ok, if not death, then what? Paralysis? Some incredibly vivid dream situation?

Whatever it was, he knew for certain that he wasn’t ready to die yet, not at just twenty-seven and with a promising life ahead of him. The next question was one that had been bothering him since he regained consciousness, and one he had perhaps been putting off because he feared the answer.

Where are Jim and Sarah?

It was a good question. They should have been here waiting with him, making sure he remained stable until help arrived.

Jim was Jim Cole, and Danny had known him for four years. They had been paired up together in medical school, and found that even though they were fundamentally different as people, they had a similar work ethic, and quickly became friends. Jim always looked more suited for sports than medicine. He was tall with broad shoulders, and because he chose to unwind from the pressures of study by working out, he was built like a Sherman tank. He was one of those friends it was easy to be jealous of—naturally good looking and always sickeningly popular with the opposite sex. Danny had met Sarah through a mutual friend of Jim’s a couple of years before, and although she wasn’t the type of girl he usually went for (he preferred brunettes), their conversation wasn’t as awkward or as forced as Danny was used to, and they started to see more and more of each other. Jim used to tease Danny about moving so slow.

“Why don’t you make your move Danny? It’s obvious that the two of you are into each other.”

Danny would always shrug and say that he was waiting for the right opportunity, but inside he didn’t know when that would ever be. He was absolutely terrified. He desperately wanted to take things to the next level, but was afraid he might ruin the relationship they already had. He eventually plucked up the courage to broach the subject at Jim’s twenty-fifth birthday party, and had approached her as she sat outside on the short wall at the edge of the driveway. It was a cool night in October, and as he looked at her in the soft glow of the houselights, he almost didn’t go through with it. The silence was awkward, which was rare and Sarah eyed him curiously, her face difficult to read. He had taken her hands and told her he thought of her as more than a friend, and wanted to take things further. It was clumsy and cheesy and all the things he didn’t want it to be, his cheeks growing red with embarrassment. Sarah didn’t answer him at first. She only looked at him, searching his eyes with her own. He was about to play it off as a joke, when she kissed him. It was hard and passionate, and when they pulled back, she simply pulled herself closer and rested her head on his chest.

“What took you so long?” she asked softly as she wrapped her arms around him. He held her, relieved and happy. As happy as he thought he could ever be. He realized now, as he lay paralyzed on the floor, that he had so much to live for and was determined to survive.

He sat up—or at least in his mind he did. In reality, his body remained as motionless as when he awoke, and he felt a hopeless frustration that made him want to scream.

But even in this general state of panic, a singular concern seemed to rise above all else. It was the reaction of his friends. The look on their faces when they found him… as if they had expected to find him like that. There was no look of surprise. No shock. Sarah had even smiled as she took the phone from him, putting it back in its cradle.

Why would she smile? Why did she check the phone? Was she checking to see if he had managed to call an ambulance or…

His stomach churned as considered the alternative.

Or was she checking to make sure that he hadn’t?

And Jim. Why would Jim just stand there and watch as his best friend had a heart attack, or whatever it was? He knew what to do, what he should have done, but he didn’t react at all; all he did was stand there with his hands in his pockets, looking on indifferently. None of it made sense unless…

Unless they knew it was going to happen?

He balked at the idea as soon as it processed. It was preposterous. It couldn’t be…

The front door swung open and Danny turned his head towards the sound, or at least in his mind he did, his unblinking eyes still fixed on the sickening light. He heard voices as they came into the apartment from outside. It was them! Jim and Sarah! Of course! They had gone downstairs to let the ambulance crew in! He chastised himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. Surely they were just—he froze mid-thought. The door closed and he heard the lock slide into place. No paramedics. No hurried conversations. No racing footsteps. He could hear hushed voices outside the adjoining door to the hallway, but there was no rescue. No attempt to help. Again he felt an awful churning in his stomach, a horrible, gnawing feeling. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, the closed door muffling the words, but he could tell they were in intense conversation. He tried desperately to move, to turn his head or roll his eyeballs towards the door. To do anything. But his body, stubbornly uncooperative, ignored his commands. The door to the sitting room opened, and he could see shadowy figures on the edge of his peripheral vision. Sarah spoke, and with the seven words that drifted unseen towards him, his world and everything that he knew to be normal imploded.

“My God. He really does look dead.”

There was such coldness in her voice, and suddenly she came into view, leaning over him with a neutral, unconcerned expression on her face. Her blonde hair hung over her narrow face as her blue eyes scanned his features. Her lips curled into a cruel smile.

“It really is remarkable, Jim. Are you sure he isn’t actually dead? You didn’t give him too much, did you?”

Too much? What did they do? What have they done to me?

Then Jim came into view, his black hair slicked back as he always wore it, his small eyes peering expressionlessly down his hooked nose. He was standing behind Sarah, massaging her shoulders. He bent forward and kissed her neck.

“Don’t worry, he’s still alive. Plenty of time to get everything done.”

“But what if he dies before then?”

“What does it matter? You got what you wanted. You win Sarah.”

“I don’t want him to get off so easy, Jimmy. I want him to suffer.”

“You really are a cold bitch.”

“But you still love me, don’t you?” she asked with a hint of desperation. Without waiting for him to respond, she turned and kissed him passionately, watching Danny out of the corner of her eye. The show was obviously for his benefit, and although abject terror still held the forefront of his mind, he found himself sickly jealous as he watched them, literally unable to avert his gaze. She broke away and turned towards Danny, looking at him with a smug smile. There was no love, no sorrow, no remorse in her face—just hate. Hate for him. And he couldn’t begin to fathom why.

“Do you think he can hear us, or see us?” she asked without looking away.

“You know perfectly well that he can… Quit playing around, Sarah. He was my best friend… I can’t be as cold as you can.”

Jim walked away, leaving Sarah and Danny alone.

Ah, the happy couple.

She knelt beside him, filling his field of vision. He could smell her perfume mingled with a slight undercurrent of perspiration. He didn’t want to look at her, but under the circumstances he had no choice. She whispered in his ear, her hot breath reviving memories of passionate night spent entwined together.

“I suppose you at least deserve and explanation,” she began as she pushed her hair back and tucked it behind her ears. He could see as she leaned back that she was still smiling that spiteful, self-amused smile.

I’m sorry it had to come to this, Danny, but let’s be honest—you and I have been growing apart for some time now… This is actually your own fault, you know. I was going to leave you. I even had a suitcase packed on that day you called and told me about your damn inheritance.

The money. Of course.

“We could have had a great life, Danny. We could have lived overseas or travelled the world, but no—you wanted to bank it. Who the hell banks two million and keeps going to work every day?”

She shook her head, the smile melting away from her face as her eyes darted restlessly around the room.

“Maybe it’s ok for you. You’re a doctor, you’re shown some respect. But what about me? Did you ever think about me? I was out there day and night running myself into the ground, taking shit from this way and that. It’s hard on the wards, Danny… You could have taken care of me. You could have taken care of us, but you didn’t. So I had to take matters into my own hands.”

He wanted to tell her, to explain he had put the money away with only the best intentions; so they could have a fine wedding someday, so he could buy her the house that she deserved, so they could focus on raising a family instead of worrying about money. But of course, he couldn’t.

Her hand came into view and his first thought was that she was going to hit him, but then he realized she was merely holding something out to him. A small vial containing a yellow liquid.

“I got the idea from the Discovery Channel. There was a documentary on about zombies, about how in Haiti they believe in all that stuff. Not like TV zombies, not like Dawn of the Dead shit. I’m talking about the real deal. The Haitian Sorcerers, or Bokors as their tribes know them, claim that their resurrection powers come from their ability to capture a fragment of their intended victim’s Ti bon ange, or soul. But they don’t actually have supernatural powers, of course.”

She smiled at him with a dreamy glow that made him wonder exactly when she had lost her mind. She continued—

“Instead they use this.” She shook the vial in front of his eyes, the liquid swishing around inside.

“You have no idea what lengths we had to go to in order to get this stuff. But if you know the right people, you can get just about anything. We gave you the liquid form, but the traditional method of the Bokors used a powder. They would combine it with a mixture of ground plants and animals… It comes down to neurotoxins, Danny. The powdered version was created to break and irritate the skin, allowing the neurotoxin to enter the bloodstream. But for our purpose, you got the more direct, more potent liquid version. I’m sure you’ve realized by now that you are in a state of total paralysis. In Haitian folklore the victim would then be buried, and later, when the effects wore off, they would rise and believe themselves to be reincarnated from the dead.”

She leaned close, the smell of mint and coffee on her breath.

“Of course, only the first part will apply for you.”

She brought the vial closer to his eyes, turning it slowly. It reminded him of one of those late-night TV shopping ads that air when nobody is awake to watch.

GOT THAT GNAWING FEELING? THEN GET THIS EXCLUSIVE AUTHENTIC BOKOR ZOMBIE SERUM!!!

TIRED OF THE WELL MEANING, HARD WORKING BOYFRIEND?

INJECT HIM WITH THIS AND VOODOO ALL YOUR TROUBLES AWAY!!!

ORDER NOW AND WE’LL THROW IN THE TRAITOROUS BEST FRIEND TO HELP WITH YOUR WICKED SCHEME!!!

ORDER NOW FOR JUST TWO MILLION U.S. DOLLARS!!!

BETTER HURRY, ONLY SEVEN LEFT IN STOCK!!!

He was losing it, and tried desperately to regain control of his mind. He had to keep it together until he could figure a way out of this mess. He watched Sarah as she put the vial back in her purse.

“It slows the heart and respiratory systems down to almost a complete stop. Essentially, you are dead. But here’s the best part. Tonight, we’re going out to a special place in the woods. I sent Jim out there this morning to dig a hole. That’s where you’ll live out your final hours, alone in the dark. You’ll eventually regain control of your body, but by then it won’t matter.”

Buried alive.

He gazed into the monstrous eyes of his former partner and wondered when the idea had begun to form in her mind; how long she had sat on it, mulling it over. When had she realized she would need Jim’s help?

“I know this must seem overly cruel, and you’re probably wondering why. The truth is I don’t have a straight answer for you, baby. But it sure feels good.”

The conversational tone of her voice astonished him, as if killing another human being was on par with running to the supermarket.

“They’ll look for you, I suppose. You may even make the news. I’ll play the grieving girlfriend, supported by the loyal best friend. We’ll say how it’s uncharacteristic of you, how you are usually so responsible. No, you have no enemies, nor do we know of anyone who meant you harm. Soon enough there will be some other story, maybe a terrorist attack or a squabble in some backwards little country that will take center stage, and you will be forgotten. When you’re declared dead, the money you inherited will be mine.”

Danny realized then that she was totally insane. It was a combination of things: the tone of her voice, the wild-eyed stare as she rambled on, pointing at him all the time. The way she was wearing that smile, that awful smile…

“I know what you’re thinking—that I have no right to that money if you die. Well think again. Jim pulled some strings, greased a few palms, and made sure the right papers found their way to the right people. I get everything, you son of a bitch.”

“That’s enough!” came Jim’s voice from somewhere to Danny’s right. “Go down to the car and make sure we have everything we need. I want to get this over with before I lose my nerve.”

Jim drifted into Danny’s field of vision and handed the keys to Sarah, who stood and walked away. He listened as she went down the hall and the door opened and closed, then pulled up a chair from the dining table and sat beside Danny. Unlike Sarah, who appeared to be untroubled by the murder they were about to commit, he looked like hell—pale and antsy.

Good. Fuck him.

Jim lit a cigarette with shaking hands, exhaling a long plume of smoke.

“Hey, pal. I uh… Just wanted to talk to you in private one last time.”

Forgive me if I don’t answer, Jimbo, but I’m a little dead here. I’m sure you understand. You go ahead and talk though, if it will make you feel better.

“Look, Sarah and I… I tried to resist her, ok? I mean, I really tried. But the three of us living together, it just—well, she always gets what she wants, doesn’t she? We’ve joked about that before.”

We have Jim, but there is one hell of a difference between dominating the TV remote and killing off your boyfriend for his inheritance.

“I mean, I’ve always been there for you, haven’t I? In the past I mean… I even kinda got the two of you together in the first place, didn’t I?”

Danny could see Jim becoming unhinged. He was starting to babble, his eyes shifting nervously about the room—a man trying to convince himself of his actions.

“And hey, at least you’ll be dead soon, right? I mean, I have to live with this guilt for the rest of my life. So you see how it is, don’t you Danny? Surely you do.”

Forgive me for not being sympathetic to your plight, Jim, but your feelings don’t really concern me too much right now.

Jim leaned forward, his eyes darting nervously from the door to Danny and back again.

“Look, Danny, I’m too deep in this now to back out, she made sure of that. I’m implicated and we both know she wouldn’t hesitate to drop me in the shit if I didn’t go ahead.”

I know what you’re saying, Jim, but think about this—no harm no foul. Help me survive this and I’ll put it down to a prank gone wrong. Please Jim, I need you to help me!

“I will do something for you though, Danny. For old time’s sake.”

Jim pulled out a hunting knife, sheathed in a brown leather scabbard.

“She may want you to suffer, but I don’t… I sharpened it and I’m going to slip it in the waistband of your jeans. When you come around from the serum, use it to slit your wrists.”

Danny felt the cold leather on his skin as Jim tucked the knife into his jeans, and he flinched mentally as the metal of the hilt tip pressed into his side.

“I know this doesn’t make it right, but it might make it easier for me to look in the mirror without feeling so fucking guilty. I might even be able to sleep again. Damn it, Danny, I haven’t slept for months.”

Months.

So that’s how long this had been in the works. He wondered how he could have been so blind. How could he not have known? Nothing had alerted him, nothing had seemed suspect or out of place. He never had any suspicions, or that gnawing feeling. He certainly had it now though… Jim finished his cigarette and walked out of Danny’s field of vision. The door opened and he spoke again.

“Remember to slit down the vein, not across it. You should bleed out pretty fast…” He left, closing the door gently behind him.

Although Danny knew it was pointless, he tried again to will himself to move—start with a finger or a toe and go from there. Perhaps Jim had made a mistake with the dosage and he would come around in time to act. In truth, he knew it was unlikely. It was obvious how meticulously they had planned it all, and to hope they had made such a simple error was naïve at best. Suddenly they had returned, and Jim stood with a roll of cheap looking carpet by Danny’s feet. He turned to Sarah, his voice trembling.

“Can I close his eyes? He’s freaking me out.”

“No,” Sarah said calmly. “I want him to experience every second of this.”

Jim shot her a pained look as he put the roll of carpet down and spread it out. Then Danny felt powerful hands roll him roughly across the floor—a flash of knees, the television, and then nothing as his face was mashed into the fabric. He began to panic, worrying that he would suffocate. But then he remembered the situation, and amid the horror, he laughed inside his head.

Ha! Relax. It might be better to die here with your nose buried in a cheap carpet, considering the alternative.

He could visualize it in horrific detail. Slowly gaining control of his limbs in the pitch dark, as seconds turned into hours and hours turned into days. He found himself praying to a God he didn’t even believe in. All he wanted was a chance—a fighting chance.

They finished wrapping him in the carpet. The cheap fibers felt rough against his cheeks, and the indistinct off-white color that filled his entire field of view made any sense of direction hard to judge. Although he could still hear them speaking, their words were muffled and hard to make out. He was moving now, out of the apartment and into the hallway, then to the left and through another door, this one creaking loudly as it was opened.

They were taking him out via the stairs.

Of course they were, he thought to himself as he was jostled along, they wouldn’t risk taking him in the lift. He counted the flights as they descended: four, three, two, one. He felt the wind ruffle the top of his hair and knew they had made it outside. Despite his prayers, they were not stopped. Not challenged. Probably not even seen. More muffled conversation as he was bundled into the back of a car, most likely Jim’s SUV. The door was shut and for a few precious seconds there was silence, before the twin sounds of the front driver and passenger doors opened and closed. He heard Jim speak, his voice wavering with uncertainty.

“Are you sure this is what you want? This is the last chance to back out.”

“I already told you this is what I want. This is what we want, Jim. Don’t pussy out on me now. Don’t be like him.”

“Fine, but you can’t expect me to be happy about it. Danny and I have been friends for years… I just think we could have gone about this some other way.”

“Well, you’ll just have to learn to live with it. I bet a couple million in the bank will go a long way towards healing your conscience.”

There was a brief awkward silence.

“Did you dig the grave where I told you to?”

“Done. It’s not perfect, but it will do the job.”

Until that point, Danny had held out some small hope of escape, but it was now he realized that this was actually going to happen. They were going to bury him alive.

“Good. Come on, let’s get this over with. I want to be back in time for American Idol.”

Choosing not to respond, Jim started the car and put it into gear. They were on their way.

Danny had lost all sense of time and wasn’t sure how long they had been driving. To him it felt like days, though in actuality they’d only been in the car for about an hour. After a while, the smooth ride of the road surface changed to the suspension-jolting ride of a dirt trail. He tried to think of where he might be, but realized it was pointless. He didn’t know the area well enough to even hazard a guess.

The car eventually came to a slow stop.

“Is this it?” asked Sarah excitedly.

“Yeah, just a little way into the woods. Right where we planned.”

“And you’re sure everything is ready?”

“Checked and double-checked.”

“Ok, let’s go then. Grab the head, I’ll get the feet.”

That was all he was to her now. Not a him, not a name, just an object. He was nothing but an obstacle between her and the money she so craved.

He was pulled out of the car and then they were on the move again. Despite knowing what was coming, Danny was surprised to find himself overcome by a strange sense of calm. He felt the branches of trees greedily tugging at the carpet, and was suddenly happy to have its protection from their gnarled grasp. He could smell the woodland air and hear the dying birdcalls of dusk. Suddenly they stopped and he was lowered to the ground.

“Is this it?” Sarah asked with a note of irritation in her voice.

“What do you think? The damn coffin is right in front of you.”

“Relax Jim. Nobody is going to catch us.”

“Don’t tell me to relax. Let’s just get this done. The sooner the better.”

“Is that going to be deep enough? I told you to dig six feet down.”

His grave. Not being able to see it was somehow worse.

“I’m a surgeon, not a damn grave digger!”

Danny prayed for an argument, for Jim to realize that she was the one in control. That she wouldn’t hesitate to throw him under the bus if things got hairy. But Jim reacted the same way Danny had so many times before—he backed down.

“Look, I’m sorry, Sarah. But you can’t blame me for being a little on edge.”

“All the more reason to get it over with. Come on, help me get the coffin in the hole.”

He could hear the scraping of wood against soil, and then the dull thud as his final resting place was prepared. Footsteps approached and he knew it was time.

He felt himself jerked quickly to the side, his face mashing into the ground as he was roughly unrolled from the carpet. Danny could feel a dull pain in his temple, and his right arm was twisted uncomfortably beneath him. He could smell the earthy rot as he was pushed over onto his back, his open eyes now gazing into the face of his former best friend. He looked even worse than before, as if the last few hours had drained the life out of him.

Jim dragged Danny by his arms across the leafy forest floor. His legs trailed out behind him and he watched as one of his Nike pumps pulled loose and was left behind. I think I’ll stay up here if it’s all the same to you, Danny. Shoes work better above ground. He was lowered gently into the grave, its rough edges filling his field of vision, framing the sky and treetops above. He felt his body come to rest as Jim hoisted his leg over the grave edge and pulled himself up with a grunt, speaking to Sarah as he did so.

“Grab the carpet. Come on, hurry up.”

The re-rolled carpet and lost shoe were tossed into the makeshift coffin, landing on Danny’s lower half. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples as he willed himself to live, for his body to overcome the poison coursing through its veins and fight back. Sarah came back into view then, and seeing the crudely constructed coffin lid she carried made Danny’s blood run cold.

This is my grave.

What if the soil came through the gaps in the boards? What if it filled his ears, mouth, and eyes before he regained control of his body? He imagined the worms, touching his skin with their cold, wet bodies, the maggots burrowing into his eyes, nesting in his mouth, feeding on his tongue.

Oh God, please let it be quick…

Jim moved the lid into position and then hesitated. The gloom was heavy now and Danny felt the occasional wet splash of rain on his skin. For a moment, Jim looked almost like a child—his eyes wide, his grimy face streaked with tears. A mucus bubble expanded and contracted in his left nostril as he breathed in ragged gasps.

“God forgive me,” he whispered as he lowered the lid of the coffin, shutting out the world and plunging Danny into suffocating darkness. In his head, Danny screamed.

Rio, Brazil.

The man sipped his gin and tonic as he looked out over the glorious panorama of the Rio coastline. The sun was just beginning to set, and the sky was a beautiful red orange hue. The ocean was dabbled with golden reflection from the fading light of what had been a glorious day. As the sodium streetlamps began to fizzle on in unison, the man smiled, for he had seen another day come and go. His hand, the palm rough and calloused, instinctively went to the large crucifix that he now wore around his neck, and he let his fingers glide gently over its contours.

The sixteen hours between Danny Harding’s burial, revival, and escape are ones he prefers not to think about. However on this day, the anniversary of it happening, he always did. It had been seven years now, and although he still suffered frequent nightmares about the incident, he didn’t mind— because he was alive. Never a religious man, not back then anyway, Danny’s outlook had changed.

After all, it had been a bizarre set of circumstances that allowed for his escape from the premature grave. Jim and Sarah had planned well, but they hadn’t taken into account certain variables of the situation. Even now, he still liked the word—

Variables.

Things such as the home-made coffin being much larger than a regular one, allowing Danny to roll onto his side, then onto his knees once he regained control of his body. Then there was the knife that Jim had left Danny to kill himself with. How he was able to use it to cut away the cheap wood around the nails holding the lid in place. Even these fortuitous circumstances could have been for nothing, had it not been for Jim. Jim with his surgeon’s hands. The six-foot grave Sarah had demanded was in reality only a little more than three, and combined with the flimsy coffin and the heavy rain that followed the burial, Danny was given his fighting chance.

He’d known the chances of escape were slim, but as he began to regain control of his body, he decided to try for it—see how far he could get, one step at a time.

He finished his drink and pulled out two things from his wallet. The first was a photograph. The years had seen it become dog-eared and there was an ugly crease down its middle. It was of Jim and Sarah. She had been right, of course—if you knew the right people, you could get your hands on just about anything. Danny just happened to know an overweight Italian mob boss who was more than willing to locate the materials he required. It cost Danny a pretty penny, but money isn’t everything after all.

In the photograph the pair were in the same hole they had dug for him, only they were in a much smaller coffin. He had trouble fitting them in, and they were pressed face to face, nose to nose. Their eyes seemed lifeless, already dead in fact, but Danny knew better. He knew they could see and feel everything that was happening.

He often wondered if they had at least made a try for escape. He supposed they would have, although he couldn’t fathom how. He remembered sitting on the edge of the grave, his feet dangling above the open coffin, looking down at his two friends. It really didn’t seem as scary from up there.

“I’m going to give the two of you almost the same chance I had. It won’t be as easy because frankly it looks a bit cramped in there, and I doubt you’ll be able to get any leverage. But if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. The hole is the same depth too, just less than three feet…”

He’d watched the waxy, frozen faces of his friends, who looked about to engage in a bizarre open-eyed kiss.

“Because of your disadvantage, I gave you a watered down version of the serum… You should come around in say… two hours, which means I better get to work. If you do manage to escape, then consider us even.”

They were still motionless, but in his mind he imagined them screaming, pleading for their lives. It made him smile. He took out his phone and snapped a quick picture of the scene, which had since resided in his wallet behind his driver’s license and a photo of his parents. He then put the lid in place and hammered in six nails, the same number he’d had to contend with. He then went to work filling the hole as the sun poured down on his back.

He smiled and wondered if God would forgive him when his time to pass finally did come. He could have gone to the police and had them arrested, prosecuted and convicted, but for what? A few years in a comfortable prison, then free again in the world?

No.

There had been no other way, and he hoped that would be taken into account when his judgment came. He left some money for his drink and stood, stretching as he watched the sun begin to fade below the horizon line. He slipped the photograph back into his wallet, and gazed briefly at the second item, a small piece of paper folded carefully into four. He unfolded it, his eyes drifting over the list even though he had long ago memorized it.

List of items:

Zombie serum?

Rope

Car keys (Jim)

Strong wood for coffin

Tape measure

Hammer

Nails

Shovel

Gloves

2 x bags of ready mix concrete (for hole)

He put the paper back in his wallet. He had told them what to expect. He said would give them almost the same chance to escape. Even without the concrete, he doubted they would have been able to get out of the coffin anyway.

He glanced over at the ocean, the sun almost gone now apart from a golden sliver, which still hung above the horizon. He didn’t like the night, not anymore, and always made sure to be indoors before the sun fully set. Too many shadows in the dark. Too many cold, wet things that could be dragging themselves around unseen. They couldn’t come into the light though. That’s not how it went. Those were the rules. He smiled to himself as he began to walk, and he quickly became another anonymous figure, lost in the densely crowded Rio streets.

It was good to be alive.

NO. 5 SYCAMORE ST.

Alex looked at himself in the rearview mirror, smoothed a stubborn lock of hair into place, and checked that his tie was straight. Finally satisfied, he picked up the stack of pamphlets from the passenger seat, then shut off the engine and climbed from the car. It was a beautiful day. The sky was a pale, cloudless blue, and birds were already in full song down the length of Sycamore Street. It was a perfect example of middle America suburbia. Tasteful, neat homes with beautifully trimmed lawns and white picket fences. He paused by the car, enjoying the beauty of it all. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the jolly jingle of an ice cream truck making its rounds and whipping the local children into a frenzy. He thought this was the kind of place he would like to live someday, maybe after he retired. Somewhere quiet where he could sit in a rocker by his front door and watch the world go by. But that was farther down the line. Right now, he had a job to do.

He inhaled deeply, allowing himself a contented smile. He loved this job. At first, the idea of spreading the word of God grated with him. He was never religious, at least until the last few years. But sometimes things happen in life that change your outlook—make you re-access the situation. Yes sir. Now he lived to spread the word of his church. He felt alive there, and his parish loved him. They praised his commitment and his drive, but they didn’t know that it hadn’t always been this way. Indeed, there was a time when Alex Childs only stepped inside church for funerals, weddings, and occasionally at Christmas if his wife managed to force it on him.

That was when he used to work for a man called Victor.

Victor was a nasty piece of work. He was a drug runner, up to his neck in all sorts of activities, and none of them legal. He was a large, flabby man with small eyes and a long cruel mouth. Every time Alex was summoned to the back room of Victor’s restaurant in downtown New York, there were always two things that were guaranteed: that Victor would be eating and sweating, both in massive amounts. He would also be guarded by at least two of his staff, who were never far away if trouble should arise. Sometimes his brother Salvatore would be there, but he was different from Victor. He didn’t give off the same oozing sense of insincerity, and seemed like a fairly decent guy as far as mob families went. Of course, Alex would never say that to Victor in person. He didn’t want to end up missing a finger, or taking the express line to the bottom of the ocean in a pair of cement shoes.

Alex was the man Victor would call in to do jobs that required a hands on, yet clinical touch.

Alex was very good at his job.

He was certainly moving up the ladder in Victor’s organization, and had developed quite a reputation of his own.

“Aleeeex,” Victor would drawl in his thick Italian accent as he slurped down his spaghetti.

“Nobody gets a joooob done like you doooo my frieeeend. Stick with me and you wiiiill go farrrr…”

Alex never really liked Victor, but knew enough never to question him. He had seen what happened to people who got on Victor’s bad side. In fact, it was often someone like Alex who would be sent out to deal with those people.

As he looked around him now at the lush green lawns and the beautiful pale morning sky, which was cloudless apart from a few cotton wool smudges, he thanked God for the fortunate intervention. For without it, he too might be an overweight mass of flesh, surrounded by frightened thugs waiting on his every whim. No sir, he wouldn’t go back there. Not for all the tea in China, or all the money in Victor’s deep pockets. Even so, he still had a lot of blood on his hands, and although he wasn’t there yet, he was working on redeeming himself.

He remembered the day that everything in his life had changed. He often thought about it when he found himself questioning his faith. He’d been sent to do one of his special jobs for Victor. He was ordered to pay a visit to a guy in Queens who was late on his loan repayments and had started to drag his heels. He remembered Victor’s instructions clearly.

“Either briiiing me my money, or bring me soooome body parts.”

The man owed fifty grand, but only had four when Alex called. Later, as he made his way back to Victor, his right inside jacket pocket contained the four grand. His left contained a bag with three fingers, seven teeth, and half an ear.

Lesson learned.

You don’t fuck with Victor.

Although he didn’t know it at the time, divine intervention had already begun. Alex drove a big Pontiac Firebird. It was black and had a gold eagle painted on the hood. Some would say it looked sporty, but Alex always thought it looked mean. He liked the sound of it when he fired the engine, the aggressive way it growled, spat, and grunted, as if it came from hell itself. He hadn’t paid attention to the no parking signs as he pulled up outside Tony Valentine’s apartment block. If he had, he would have parked a little farther down, but he was keen to get on with the job. When he returned twenty minutes later with his knuckles raw and bleeding, he found his beloved Firebird clamped and ticketed. He was furious, more at his own stupidity, as he now had no option but to return to his pasta slurping employer on foot. It was an amateur mistake. His hands and shirt had been spattered with blood, which made the journey incredibly risky. He pulled his jacket around his neck and thrust his hands into his pockets, which did and adequate job of hiding the mess. Deciding there was no point crying over spilled milk, he set off walking, hoping to maybe flag a taxi a little farther down the street. He was just starting to calm down when he heard the unmistakable wail of a police cruiser. It rocketed around the corner, tires squealing in protest and casting its harsh blue and red lights onto the darkened streets. Alex ducked casually into an alleyway, pushing himself into a recessed archway as far as he could as the car raced past him. Suddenly he felt a strange tingling in his left arm as alarm bells began to ring in his head.

Please, not now.

He willed himself to remain calm, thinking not of his health, but the bags in his pockets and the blood on his clothes. A heart attack was not something he could afford right now. He was sweating profusely, holding onto the wall with gritted teeth, willing the feeling to pass. He felt the vice-like grip on his chest begin to loosen slightly, and thought he might actually be ok, when he was overcome by incapacitating agony. He couldn’t breathe, and could only manage a weak gasp as he staggered forwards into the street. He managed a couple of slow, lurching steps before he fell, smashing his face into the pavement as the pressure in his chest increased. He began to drift in and out of consciousness, and was vaguely aware of the crowd of people gathering around him, ghostly faces swimming in and out of focus. Alex accepted what he was sure was his death.

Twenty-nine.

That’s how old he was when it happened. His next memory was of waking up dazed and groggy in a hospital bed with his ashen faced wife beside him. Her eyes were relieved, but pleading for answers. She knew he worked for Victor, but not in the capacity that he did. She thought he was a manager of one of Victor’s export businesses, but that was merely a cover. Every part of him hurt. He tried to talk, but couldn’t muster the strength. Suddenly his memory returned and he remembered the bag—the bag containing the non-essential (but incredibly incriminating) parts of Tony Valentine that he had forcibly removed. Surely they had found it, perhaps as a nurse removed his clothes as they tried to save his life. He could imagine her screaming and dropping the bag on the floor, the other doctors recoiling in horror.

It would transpire that on this occasion, luck was on his side. Two things happened that managed to get him off the hook:

First was the heart attack itself. When he’d fallen he had smashed his face on the curb, which explained away the blood on his shirt. Then there was the bag. Each day he waited for the police to arrive and question him about it, but they never showed. He did receive a visit from one of Victor’s men, however. Alex had seen him before, but couldn’t remember his name. He thought it might have been Gino or Giuseppe, but wasn’t certain. The man sat beside the bed, watching carefully with shifty rat eyes. He eventually leaned in close and said:

“Boss sent me to tell you not to worry. We took care of the bag.”

It was as simple as that. Victor had come through for him.

“He also said with that ticker of yours, he can’t keep you on the payroll. Here—” He pushed a sealed envelope into the pocket of Alex’s trousers, which were neatly folded over a stand by his bed.

“Five G’s for the job, as agreed. Plus an extra hundred grand for not spilling your guts.”

Alex nodded, but honestly wasn’t sure if he had spilled his guts or not. He couldn’t remember the events immediately after the accident, and he was still woozy from the medication.

“Take it easy, pal. You had a close call,” said rat-features as he stood and walked away without looking back.

Just like that, Alex was out of the game, and with more money than he’d made in the last year and a half. Something told him to heed it as a warning, that maybe he was meant for a better life than that of a thug.

He looked down at the pamphlets in his hands as he crossed the street and prepared to start work. The sun was warm and the breeze cool. It was the perfect day for working outdoors, spreading the good word of God. It was difficult at times. Most people were unwilling to listen, and he noticed with dismay that the world had become a cynical place, desensitized to the value of a true miracle. But there was still hope, as scattered amongst the dark that lived in many were a few bright souls who were just waiting to be given something to believe in. This was his third street of the day, and already he had found a few people interested enough to come to one of the sermons at his church the following Sunday. He had high hopes for this street. There was a wealthy vibe to it, and the rich in Alex’s experience were often more tolerant than the rude lower classes. As he prepared to begin, his mind drifted once more to his former life and the change that made him the man he was today.

The hospital discharged him three weeks later. He’d been even luckier than he initially thought. They told him he died three times on the operating table, and they were about to give up on the resuscitation, when they managed to get a faint pulse. The instructions were clear enough; no stress, less salt, less fatty foods, more exercise—but not too much at first. He listened closely, as his brush with death had made him appreciate life even more. Even without the payoff from Victor, he had already decided to change his ways. God had seen fit to give him another chance at life, and he intended to make the most of it by spreading the word and hoping to one day be forgiven his sins. His wife Lori had been skeptical at first, but understood why it meant so much to him. And once she had seen the passion with which he approached his new faith, she got behind him wholeheartedly.

As the months turned into years, his old life had faded away, and his tireless work with the church was rewarded as he was made a minister. He was no preacher, but he definitely believed there was a higher power looking out for him, and he wanted to tell people about it—to share it.

The first two houses he visited had been busts – a disinterested middle aged man at number one who seemed well on his way to being drunk (just after ten a.m. on a Wednesday morning), and the woman who lived at number three was just leaving the house as Alex approached with his pamphlets. There was no point in getting frustrated though, it was simply the nature of the game.

He approached the third house on the street, number five, and looked it up and down. Well-kept gardens. Neat and tidy driveway. Clean windows and curtains. He had learned from experience that the house was often a good representation of the owner’s character, and Alex thought the occupier of number five might well be willing to hear him out. He opened the gate carefully, whistling tunelessly as he walked up the neat pathway to the door. He took a moment to compose himself, then put on his best smile and knocked, waiting patiently for the occupier to answer. He was about to leave, when the door was opened just a crack. He could see a floating female eye peering through, watching him suspiciously.

“Yes?” said the faceless eye, looking him up and down.

Here we go Alex. Showtime.

“Good morning, ma’am. My name is Alex, and I wonder if I might talk to you a little about our lord and savior Jesus Christ?”

He smiled warmly at the floating eye, which continued to look at him distrustfully.

“You aren’t trying to sell anything, are you?” came the shrill voice from the other side of the door.

“No, ma’am. Of course not. I merely wish to speak with you, that’s all.”

Silence.

“You had better come in then.”

Alex heard the chain slide free.

Ten minutes later, he was sipping a cup of tea in Mrs. Bendtner’s sitting room as she fussed in the kitchen. He looked about the room, noting that it was the typical dwelling of a lonely old woman. High-backed chairs with gaudy floral patterns, mantle place full of photographs of what Alex presumed were her grandchildren, and on the small table by her chair (he could tell it was hers as it looked far more worn than the one in which he was seated) was an old black and white photograph of a much younger Mrs. Bendtner alongside a man who Alex presumed was Mr. Bendtner, holding a chubby baby in her arms.

She shuffled back into the room carrying a try of cakes and sandwiches, her slippers making a swish swoosh sound as they padded the carpet. He looked at the old lady and smiled warmly. If you were to pick up a dictionary and look up the word ‘grandma,’ you would surely find a picture of Mrs. Bendtner, standing there with her tray of cakes. She was a small woman, her skin heavily lined with the toils of age. Her hair was a curly white permed mass, and her tired brown eyes looked out with semi-glazed indifference. Age had not been kind to poor Mrs. Bendtner, Alex thought, as he compared her to the picture by her seat. She set the sandwiches on the coffee table and shuffled slowly to her own chair, sitting with some effort.

“Please, help yourself to a sandwich,” she said as she wrung her hands together fretfully.

“Thank you,” said Alex, noting a slight accent to the old woman’s voice. Russian perhaps? Maybe Polish. Definitely eastern European. Alex selected a cheese and cucumber sandwich and took a small bite. It was good, and he quickly finished the rest before helping himself to another.

“These are delicious, Mrs. Bendtner.”

“I don’t have much cause to make a fuss these days. My children are grown up and don’t really visit.”

Bingo. Here was an old lady looking for something to fill her life with.

Alex nodded sympathetically. “It must be lonely,” he said as he took another bite of his second sandwich, this one egg and cress.

“It is. I miss my William dearly,” she said sadly, glancing at the picture beside her.

“I’m sure God is looking after him, Mrs. Bendtner—in fact, that’s why I’ve come to you today, to speak of the great Lord himself.”

She looked at him then, a flicker of coldness in her eyes, gone as quickly as it came.

“I’m not sure if I believe in God anymore, young man,” she said with a shake of her head, the European twang to her voice more evident this time.

“Please, call me Alex.”

She failed to respond, instead taking a sip of her tea. He thought he could lose this one if he didn’t move quickly.

“May I ask why you don’t believe in our Lord, Mrs. Bendtner?”

“I know God, and let me tell you, he is no savior.”

Alex nodded slowly, perplexed at this response. Perhaps the old woman was senile, or on her way at least.

“I once felt as you do, Mrs. Bendtner. I was a man without faith, without direction. Yet I was saved, and I thank God every day for his intervention.”

“Intervention?” she laughed heartily, causing Alex to shuffle uncomfortably in his seat.

“He is no more interested in you than you are an ant. God is cruel, and enjoys watching us play out our miserable lives in desperation and pain.”

The venom in her words took him aback. Recovering quickly, he set down his plate and handed over one of the pamphlets. She took it from him, and read it carefully as he spoke.

“We at The Church of the Divine would be happy to show you the way our Lord loves each of us. If you were able to join us a week from Sunday we…”

She looked up at him with a smile that held no humor.

“Love? What does he know of love? As much as you, I suspect,” she said firmly, the strange twang of her dialect coming through even more now.

Somewhere in his mind, a long-forgotten alarm bell began to ring. The alarm bell of self-preservation. He pushed it away and continued.

“I must disagree, Mrs. Bendtner. I have been fortunate to find solace in his love.”

She chuckled dryly.

“No. You survived a near fatal heart attack that should have killed you, and you think God was responsible. But we know different, don’t we? Do you really think it was God who got rid of Tony Valentine’s teeth and fingers for you?” she said with a long, ugly smile that seemed to stretch too far across her face.

He couldn’t speak. How could she know? Nobody knew. His tongue felt like a deadweight as it lay on the floor of his mouth, unwilling to cooperate. Finally the words came out—

“I’m sorry… I really don’t know what you are talking about, ma’am.”

She smiled, a ghastly, wide smile showing her teeth, which were crooked and yellow. Her eyes burned with contempt.

“Oh yes you do. I know all about you and your kind, murdering dog!”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave, Mrs. Bendtner. I’m starting feel unwell.”

It was true. Nausea was rolling through him in waves, and he was suddenly hot. He lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, but it felt heavy and disconnected from him. Mrs. Bendtner smiled and licked her lips greedily.

“That will be the muscle relaxants I slipped into the sandwiches. I’m afraid you won’t be able to move for some time, but the nausea will pass in a few moments.”

Terror. He tried to lurch to his feet, his legs immediately buckling as he fell forwards, crashing into the glass table, which gave out spectacularly under his weight, sending shimmering diamonds of glass exploding outwards. He was face down and unable to move. He could see the fleshy remains of the sandwiches scattered around him, along with shards of the broken table. He heard the scuffle of the old woman’s slippers as she stood and moved close to him.

“Where is your God now?”

“Please… Why have you done this to me?”

“Because you and I have something to discuss.”

“You are a crazy old bitch!” he spat.

“Why don’t you pray to him, for forgiveness? Your God. The Great Almighty.”

Her voice was mockingly cold, and that alone was enough to terrify Alex.

“What do you want?” he asked quietly, wishing he could see what she was doing behind him.

“I want to talk to you about your sins.”

“What sins? I have no idea what you are talking about!”

“Tell me about Victor.”

Silence.

This woman, old and decrepit as she appeared to be, was so much more.

“I think you are mistaken, ma’am. I don’t know anyone called Victor.”

“Really,” she said as she stood and approached the fireplace. She picked up her walking stick with a gnarled, liver-spotted hand. Alex craned his neck and noticed that it was one of the old-fashioned kind—a thick length of dark polished oak with a black rubber stopper on the end.

“I’ll say it again. Tell me about Victor.”

He could hear that European twang again in her voice, the V of Victor sounding more like a ‘W.’ It was no longer the voice of a sweet old woman, but that of an interrogator.

“Look, I really don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t know any Victor. I’m here to spread the word of…”

Agony.

She had jammed the end of the walking stick into the back of his hand, leaning all of her weight on it, twisting it back and forth. He felt one of the small bones snap as he cried out in pain. Finally she released the pressure, though his hand still throbbed hotly. Returning to her chair and sitting calmly, Mrs. Bendtner lay the stick across her knees and watched him with cold, cruel eyes.

“Young man, do not make the mistake of underestimating me. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

He believed her. Despite the complete absurdity of the situation, he truly believed that this old woman was dangerous. He looked at his hand, an ugly round bruise already forming.

“Look, Mrs. Bendtner, just tell me what you want, I’m sure God can…”

She laughed at him, again showing those crooked, yellow teeth.

“Save your prayers, young man. Your God is not welcome in this house… Now tell me about Victor.”

It was hopeless. She knew. He didn’t know how, but she knew. Despite the care he had taken to construct a new life, she knew about Victor. Knew about him. From somewhere deep inside, he found a little of his old self, a nugget of instinct, a tiny voice that said: buddy, she’s got you.

“Ok look, I used to work for Victor, but it was a long time ago,” Alex blurted through a mouth full of carpet fibers.

She stood again and shuffled towards him. He could smell her, like mints and mothballs and dry rot. She was holding the walking stick loosely by her side, swinging it with intent. She wanted him to see it. Alex knew well enough from his old life that the idea of pain was often more effective than the physical response itself. Mrs. Bendtner seemed to know this as well.

“Very good. Now tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you really intend to test me young man?”

“Please, I swear to you I don’t know. I haven’t worked for him in a long time, I—”

She hit him in the face with the walking stick, the wood smashing into his nose and teeth. His vision swam in and out of focus as he spat out a great gout of blood, along with two broken teeth. His eyes fell on the white slivers where they lay, in a pool of red on the carpet. It reminded him of Tony Valentine, and he felt a dizzy giggle flash up his throat. He could feel the warmth flowing down his lips and chin as he struggled to compose himself.

“Ok, I’ll tell you what I know,” he spat wetly, touching his tongue to the jagged remains of his front teeth.

Despite the heavy sense of fear that consumed him, he still thought he might have a chance to escape. Already he could feel his fingers and toes beginning to come back to life. He wondered if the muscle relaxants she used were old. Do muscle relaxants have a use by date? He wasn’t sure, but it was the one advantage he might have over this crazy old bitch. He would talk, talk until he was blue in the face and strong enough to make a break for it. He watched now as she returned to her chair. She sat with an arthritic groan, and opened the brown wooden box on the table by her chair, the one Alex thought may have contained old photographs, reading glasses, or a half-eaten packet of Werther’s Original sweets—the general daily clutter of old ladies worldwide. But this was no ordinary old woman. This was some kind of monster. He watched as she pulled out a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. Terror, pure and honest terror raced through his mind.

“What the hell are you doing? I said I’d talk. Please!”

She expertly filled the syringe, watching him with emotionless eyes as she did so.

“Relax, preacher. This is just so we might talk in more comfort.”

He began to panic as she approached him, her slippers padding along the carpet as she came.

“What are you doing? What are you doing to me?”

She crouched and jabbed him in the neck, and he immediately began to feel woozy. His vision danced, and as it faded, he saw one of his pamphlets now strewn across the floor. The question printed on the front in bold, black text seemed as relevant now as ever.

DOES GOD REALLY LOVE US?

It was a good question, initially intended to stimulate conversation, to allow him to ease into his sales pitch. After all, wasn’t that what he was? A salesman of God? The question resonated within him, and he would have given it more thought, but his eyelids were now lead weights and he couldn’t keep them open any longer. He passed out.

2.

He awoke slowly, and in the haziness of those early seconds he could not remember the terror of what had been. It was only as he became lucid that the fear found him again, and he forced himself to stifle the scream that so desperately wanted to escape.

He was still in the old lady’s sitting room, although the light had shifted, the shadows now long and menacing, reaching up and branching across the walls. He was no longer on the floor, but instead sat on a sturdy wooden chair. He tried to move, but found that not only were his muscles unresponsive, he was also securely tied to the chair. And not just securely, but expertly—arms behind his back, feet to the chair legs. He was sweating profusely, unable to breathe through his nose, which was clogged with dried blood. He suspected it could well be broken. He swallowed dryly, wincing at the copper taste.

He looked around the room, which was mostly unchanged, although he could see it had been tidied. The broken remains of the glass table were gone, apart from a few missed shards that glinted like tiny diamonds in the late afternoon sun. He could still see the red stain on the crème carpet where he had bled, although his broken teeth had been disposed of. He ran his tongue across the sharp stumps in his mouth, moaning quietly with the pain. His thoughts were muddled, as if they were forced to wade through a thick fog in order to present themselves. He wondered where she was—his insane captor. Holding his breath, he listened intently, past the irritating tick-tock of the huge grandfather clock against the far wall. He thought he could hear voices. No, not voices. It was the radio. He could hear the steady drawl of the DJ as he pronounced what a beautiful day it had been.

Not for all of us, pal, he thought to himself as he tried to formulate some kind of plan. He looked up and could see the fireplace, and above it, the rows of old photographs that stood on the mantle. From his seated position he could see himself in the mirror. He thought he felt bad, but he looked even worse. His face was swollen, and his nose had an ugly bend around halfway down. His lips and chin were covered in dried blood. He looked into his eyes and could see fear reflecting back at him. A bloody, terrified, thirty-seven year old man who had set out that morning with the sole intention of spreading a message of love and happiness, and was now held captive by a crazy old woman with a grudge.

He heard her coming, the unmistakable shuffling of feet on carpet as she approached. He instinctively tried to free himself. He wanted nothing to do with her, this crazy old woman who pronounced her ‘V’s as ‘W’s. Who kept syringes of tranquilizers and muscle relaxants in the house, and thought nothing of drugging and torturing houseguests. She came into the room.

He was still amazed by how harmless she looked. She was carefully carrying a tray containing a cup of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits. The tray also contained several items that had no business being there. Items that made his stomach knot. A scalpel. A pair of old red-handled pliers. A small hammer. He watched her form as she shuffled across the room, eyeing him carefully with her emotionless gaze. She set down the tray on the table beside her chair, and lowered herself carefully into the seat. He swallowed his fear as she again opened the wooden box, only this time she removed a small notepad and pen, some thick-rimmed reading glasses, an old pack of cigarettes, and a lime-green lighter. Still she said nothing, her deeply lined face watching his bloated and bloody one. Slowly—deliberately so, Alex thought—she took out a cigarette and lit it, exhaling deeply as she sat back in the garish floral pattern chair. Alex glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner, and saw that it was just after four in the afternoon. Still she was silent. She finished her cigarette and took up the notepad, and turning to a clean page, she finally spoke.

“Tell me about Victor.”

That same line. No pleasantries, just straight down to business. This was his chance to keep her talking. He’d already regained control of his fingers, and was exploring the knots of the ropes, looking for a weakness in them.

“That’s a broad question, what do you want to know.”

“You work for Victor, no?”

“Actually no, not anymore. I used to do… errands for him, a long time ago.”

She smiled, but there was no humor in it.

“You speak of errands like you speak of your God, lapdog!” she barked as she scribbled something in the notebook.

“I must tell you that it would be unwise to lie to me… I have no desire to hurt you, and am perfectly willing to set you free as soon as I have the information I require. However, you must tell me the truth or there will be repercussions.”

Alex was familiar with this game and knew his chances of leaving that room ever again were slim.

“Look, I’ll be honest with you—I have no loyalty to Victor. Not anymore. And I have no interest in whatever problem you have with him. I’ll answer your questions if you will set me free.”

She nodded curtly. Game on. Cat and mouse. Tit for tat.

“I appreciate your willingness to assist. Let’s do this quickly then, so we can put this unfortunate incident behind us.”

Bullshit. They both knew it. One of them was going to die in this room, and Alex was determined that it wouldn’t be him.

“That’s all I want,” he said, adding a tremble to his voice. Let the old bitch think she had rattled him.

“Very good. Now tell me, when did you last work for Victor?” She waited, pen poised, watching him carefully.

“I don’t remember the exact date, but it was over seven years ago.”

She wrote it down and then her vulture-like eyes were upon him again.

“When did you last speak to him? Directly I mean.”

“The day of my last job. I never spoke to him again in person after that morning.”

“I see, and this job you refer to would be the assault of a…” she referred to her notes, leafing back a few pages.

“A Tony Valentine, is that correct?”

He had to be careful here, had to keep playing the game. He had to appear weaker than he actually was.

“I can’t remember, it’s been a long time,” he lied. He remembered all too well.

“And during your time working for Victor, you had training yes? Specialist training?”

“No.”

She closed her book, sighing deeply.

“I thought we had an agreement, preacher. Now I will ask again. Did you have training?”

He wondered why she kept calling him preacher. It irritated him.

“I don’t know what else to tell you. I had no training.”

Another lie. He’d received lots of training. Victor liked his boys to be on top of their game. Hand to hand combat, explosives, torture techniques, marksmanship. He could give the average army commando a run for his money—or at least he could have back in the day.

She pursed her lips and glared at him, shaking her head slowly.

“I told you not to underestimate me, yet you lie through your broken teeth.”

“I’m not lying, I received no training!”

She had stood and was now walking towards him.

“I’m afraid, preacher, that until you begin to appreciate the severity of this situation, you and I will be quite unable to engage in any kind of meaningful conversation, eh lapdog?”

He could feel the crazy coming off her in waves. She flicked her sunken eyes towards the tray beside her chair and considered carefully. She decided on the pliers and approached him, the maddening sounds of her slippers on the carpet now secondary to the terror.

“Mrs. Bendtner, please….”

“I think that you and I are not so different, lapdog. Many years ago, I too used to work for a powerful man who demanded results—and I was very good at getting results. Tell that to your Master, eh. Woolph!”

She was behind him now, gibbering and insane, and armed with the steel pliers. He flinched as she leaned close, her foul breath hot in his ear.

“You stupid Americans are all the same. Overconfident fools. Let me tell you something, mister preacher man—you think that you know of pain, yet you know nothing. I have extracted secrets from better men than you, puppet of Victor! Now tell me what I want to know!”

She sounded like one of those clichéd Russian villains from the movies trying too hard to sound authentic, but this was real. Thickly, frighteningly real. He knew he had to tell her the truth, at least to keep her talking in the hope that he could regain control of his limbs.

“Yes,” Alex said with a sigh. This time the tremble in his voice was not an act.

“In which fields?”

“Weapons, explosives, hand to hand combat.”

“And torture, yes?”

She was still behind him, and although he couldn’t see her, he could feel her smile as she spoke.

“Yes,” he said with a sigh, lowering his head. He knew then that he couldn’t win this. Somehow the world had gone crazy, and he was massively out of his depth with this frail old woman. He waited for the sting of pain, for the cold feeling of steel on flesh, but nothing came. She seemed to be satisfied and returned to her chair, setting the pliers down and picking up her cup of tea, which she slurped loudly.

“Who the hell are you, lady?” he croaked as she continued to drink noisily.

“The questions about things are mine to ask, eh?”

He didn’t understand and was about to speak again, when she twitched and blinked, then said it again more calmly.

“I will ask the questions. You will answer.”

Back to playing the game. He needed to buy time.

“At least be fair. What were you ? Russian intelligence? KGB?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “Nothing so dramatic I’m afraid. I worked for an agency that dealt with traitors, enemies careless enough to be caught on our lands. They would be sent to me and I would make them talk.”

“And if they didn’t?”

“They would talk or die. Something you may wish to keep in mind, preacher.”

“My name is Alex.”

“Does it really matter?”

He broke her gaze and lowered his head. He needed to keep her busy, keep her mind off her questions.

“How did you plan all of this? I mean, how did you know I would come here?”

She smiled, taking another long sip of her tea and lighting another cigarette. He saw with dismay that her hands were rock steady. His wouldn’t stop shaking.

“It was a chance encounter. I saw you at your church.” She nodded towards the pamphlets, now stacked neatly by the telephone.

“I wasn’t entirely sure it was you at first. You’ve lost weight since you last worked for Victor.”

It was true. After he’d left the business he’d slimmed down, cutting out the steroids and paying more attention to his diet.

“I had already been following Victor and his affairs for some time, so finding you by chance was something of an unexpected bonus. I’m sure you of all people understand that, preacher man.”

He tried to process the information, but as she spoke, only more questions came to mind.

“I still don’t understand! How did you know… How did you know I would come here, right to your door?”

“Oh it was simple educated guesswork. This is a nice street, and within the catchment area of your church. I knew you were doing a drive to recruit new members for your parish. It was just a matter of time before you knocked on my door. And what else does an old woman like me have but time to wait.”

“But why? What do you want with me? I haven’t had dealings with Victor for years. You probably know more about him than I do!”

He was frightened and angry, and had let his guard slip. The old woman smiled, knowing she had the upper hand. She continued as if he hadn’t even spoken.

“The strange thing is that, even when you knocked on my door, I still wasn’t sure that it was you. You have changed in appearance quite dramatically, and look quite different up close. And in your defense, it seems that you do genuinely love the work you do for your church… It wasn’t until I saw the look of recognition on your face when you looked at the photograph of William that I knew I had the right person.”

He was confused, and tried to recall earlier that day. It already felt like a lifetime ago. It was true that he had seen the old black and white picture as he walked in, the man and woman on their wedding day, both smiling proudly, the small child in the woman’s arms not quite looking into the camera. A small pang of recognition had come over him, but he dismissed it as a false memory, perhaps confused with another old photograph of similar content. One thing was for certain, he didn’t know the man in the photo. He had never seen him before.

“I don’t know any William, you have the wrong person,” he pleaded.

In response she sneered, rushing suddenly from her seated position. He tried to recoil, but she moved with the skitter quickness of a spider, and he was rocked by a fresh wave of pain. He didn’t realize what she had done at first, and then a tight sickness in his gut overcame him as he glanced over to his horrified reflection in the mirror above the mantle. She had torn off his left ear lobe.

“Do not lie to me again, dog! You killed my William on Victor’s say so. Well let’s see how brave you are now, preacher. Whore son!”

He was breathing heavily now and began to squirm in his seat, trying to ignore the wild-eyed way that she was staring at him.

She sat back down in het chair calmly, settling in again. He glanced at the mirror once more and barely recognized the man he saw there. The sweating, puffy-eyed, bloody-nosed stranger. And yes—he could see it. The flap of skin that used to be his ear was stuck to the shoulder of his blue suit.

“Look, no bullshit ok, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!”

She had picked up the screwdriver now and was walking back towards him.

“I know you will.”

She jabbed him in the arm, and although it still hurt, his suit jacket cushioned most of the impact. She realized immediately, and without hesitation, reared back and drove the metal shaft into his thigh. He screamed as a white-hot pain surged through him, clenching his remaining teeth, breaking off more of the damaged ones in the process.

“Tell me why Victor ordered you to kill my William.”

Despite the horror, she was calm. Her voice flat and toneless. This was nothing new to her—an ordinary day. He wondered how many she had killed. Tens? Hundreds? Thousands? He began to writhe now, but the knots were holding firm.

“I don’t know him, I didn’t do anything!” he was sobbing now, a bloody mucus bubble forming in the left nostril of his crushed nose as he tried to force air through it.

“You had him drowned. You took his money. His pride. You took everything, lapdog—eeeee!!”

“I didn’t have anyone drowned! That was never my style!” he pleaded, trying to ignore her gibbering.

“Then give me Victor, tell me where he is!”

“I don’t know, you crazy bitch!”

She wriggled the handle of the screwdriver back and forth where it still lay nestled in his leg. He could feel it scrape against the bone and a wave of nausea overcame him. He thought he was about to faint.

“It was you. You and Victor together. For two weeks they didn’t find him, bloated and fat.”

“It wasn’t me!!! You have the wrong man!”

She was no longer making sense, her eyes like saucers, and her chin was lined with slick spittle. She was leering over him now, her face inches from his. He couldn’t stand to be near her and lunged backwards, pushing off the floor with all the force he could muster. The chair pitched backwards and tipped over, his knees connecting with her chin as he tumbled painfully to the floor. She fell away, grunting as she landed on her side. Horror overcame him as he twisted to see where the old hag was. It was as he did this that the chair finally gave way under the strain, freeing him.

He came to his knees and managed untie his hands. Trying his best to ignore the pain in his face and thigh, he looked to his left and saw that she was already up, coming at him again with the screwdriver. She lunged towards him, slashing at his face. Instinctively he rolled to the right, knocking his shoulder hard against the armchair. He tried to scramble to his feet, but his legs were still too weak, and he stumbled back to the floor with a grunt. He knew she was on him now. He could smell the mothball stench and could hear her shuffling slippers. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the screwdriver coming towards his face. He managed to flinch away, but the metal shaft gouged into his cheek, tearing open a large wound. Fueled by adrenaline, he turned and shoved her hard with both hands. She staggered backwards and he saw the screwdriver skitter across the floor as she lost her grip on it. Unable to walk, he crawled towards the sitting room door, hoping he could make it to the front of the house and the freedom of the lush gardens and picket fences of Sycamore Street.

He pulled himself up at the door and felt pain come over him again, this time in his side as she stabbed him once more with the screwdriver. He instinctively threw an elbow behind him, rejoicing at the feeling of bone on flesh. He heard her utter a surprised grunt, and then he was on his way, door open and into the hallway. His face and side burned with pain, and as he looked down at his side, he could see an ugly maroon stain forming on his shirt. But adrenaline was helping him to keep going. He focused and took in his surroundings as he wheezed and snatched for breath. Staircase directly ahead. Two doors to the right, front door to the left. He prayed that she hadn’t locked it. He thought if she had, he would probably die.

He crawled on all fours to the door, then grabbed at the handle. He knew it would be locked. He just knew deep inside. He pulled and rejoiced as it turned in his grip. He opened the door, his freedom so close, when he felt a new pain, worse than all the others he had endured. An inferno of agony in his left leg caused him to lurch forwards and slam the door closed again, shutting out his freedom.

Blood pooled around the long slash in his trouser leg, and he knew what she had done. She had cut something back there, a tendon or perhaps his hamstring. Something vitally important to his ability to walk. She hadn’t cut it through full, he could still flex, but it felt loose and rubbery. He turned and glared at her as she walked towards him, scalpel blade shining ominously. She swung the blade at him again and he snapped his head back, wincing at the sickening swish sound as it missed his throat by inches. Alex grabbed her ankle, and drove his shoulder as hard as he could into her knee. She wailed, and he felt a flash of satisfaction as he heard something break and she crashed to the floor, banging her head on the wall as she went.

He hoped it would keep her down long enough for him to escape, but whatever she had cut on the back of his leg had incapacitated him, and he could only get to his knees, holding one arm against his bleeding side. He looked on in dismay as she grabbed the dropped scalpel and tried to stand, but then rejoiced as she shrieked and stumbled back onto all fours.

Battle of the cripples, he thought to himself as she shuffled towards him.

“Tell me about Victor!” she cackled as she lunged at him again with the blade, narrowly missing his throat for the second time. Instinctively he grabbed her wrist, and without pausing to think, balled his fist and hit her as hard as he could in the face. Guilt immediately overcame him as she crumbled to the floor. The guilt was quickly replaced by searing agony, as he felt the tendon or hamstring or whatever it was snap away wetly as he rolled onto his side and clutched his leg. As he lay there, he could see the doorknob, tantalizingly close, yet out of reach. His entire body hurt, and only his willingness to survive and belief in God allowed him to continue. He crawled past her, trying to ignore the pain—perhaps a back door then. He dragged himself along, his left leg limp and useless as it trailed behind him, his right still functional but trilling with pain from the screwdriver wound. He made for the slightly ajar door he presumed was the kitchen, and barged through, falling onto the cool black and white tiled floor.

He could see clean white tiles and lemon-colored painted walls. He could see the kitchen work surfaces and the counter that edged the room. He could see the back door, open and inviting. Outside, he could make out the tall wooden fence and a flash of green from the oak tree in the next-door neighbors’ back yard. He could also see a huge Rottweiler, which was lying in the doorway and looking at him, growling aggressively.

He froze, and tried to remember if you should or shouldn’t break eye contact with an angry dog. He couldn’t remember, but decided to take his chances. He inched forwards and suddenly it was up, leaning towards him and drooling, daring him to come closer. He didn’t like dogs, never had, now cursing this one for blocking his escape. He wondered if he could take it on, but in his crippled state, he knew it would be stupid to try.

He backed out of the kitchen, closing the door quickly. She was there waiting for him, kneeling at the bottom of the staircase, her mouth and nose bloody where he had struck her. She had the scalpel in her right hand, waving it deftly back and forth.

“Don’t think you can escape, I have been waiting for you for too long!”

She slashed at him, and he ducked away, yet already he could feel his reactions becoming sluggish. He had lost a lot of blood and was exhausted. He grimaced at her as she gibbered and grinned.

“Come on, Victor, let’s see those pearly whites hmmm!”

“I’m not Victor, you crazy bitch!”

She was mad. Not senile, not pleasantly docile, but mad. Crazy. Her eyes shone wildly as she licked her lips, bloody drool hanging from her chin. She had completely snapped.

“Do you know how many nights I have listened to you eating that slop, Victor?”

He had no idea what she was talking about, and that in itself made her even more terrifying. She licked her bloody lips and rocked from side to side as she glared at him.

“Look at me and take it easy. I’m not Victor, I’m Alex.”

“Victor’s dog you are! My dog is better. Ha!”

She slashed at him again, lightning quick. He couldn’t avoid it in time and instinctively threw his hands up, the razor-sharp blade slicing across his palm. He reared back and slammed against the closed kitchen door. The Rottweiler began to bark and growl as it scratched at the door, trying to get out.

“See, lapdog, not so funny with the red blood anymore is it?”

Her eyes were vacant pools of insanity, and he wondered who she saw kneeling in front of her. He felt faint, the world beginning to ebb and flow as he tried to focus. His life depended on it.

“I can tell you where Victor is. I can get close to him. He trusts me!” he pleaded, aware that he was cornered.

“Not the puppet, but the puppet master. His strings I will cut like I will cut you, yes!”

She sounded like a bizarre psychopathic Yoda as she hovered there, just out of arms reach, waiting for him to make a move. He saw in horror that she had urinated where she knelt, the carpet below her dark and yellow and pungent. The foul smell reached his broken nose and he felt bile rise into his throat. She was psyching herself up to lunge at him, he could see it in her eyes, and knew he had to act quickly or he would die. He watched carefully, waiting for her to strike, knowing that this would likely be his last chance before he passed out due to blood loss. She slashed at him, and this time he was ready. He twisted away from the blade and leaned towards her, grabbing her wrist and biting down hard, ignoring the agony of the shattered remains of his teeth. She screamed, the sound was impossibly high-pitched, and she dropped the scalpel. He reached down and picked it up, almost losing his grip on the handle due to the hot, slick blood on his hands. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he jammed the blade into her shoulder and twisted, glaring at her and smiling his broken, crimson smile. Like the flick of a switch, he was the Alex of old, the violent, remorseless beast of a man he had worked so hard to bury away. He felt euphoric. With a defiant grunt, he shuffled forwards and lifted her frail body by the arms, slamming her into the side of the doorframe. He heard her head smash against the wood, and she went limp. Shoving her aside, he made for the steps, something so simple suddenly looked impossibly high, especially with legs that didn’t work. He began to drag himself up on his elbows, keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead.

His left leg was quite useless, but his right still partially worked, and he was able to get some purchase as he climbed. He focused on ignoring the pain, ignoring the wet squelch of blood with every bend of his damaged limb, ignoring the bloody handprints he left as he dragged himself ever up, so bright against the pale crème carpet.

He was halfway up the staircase when the world began to shift under him. He felt sick and black spots began to dance in front of his eyes. He tottered on the edge of consciousness for what felt like an eternity before the world came back into focus. He could hear her, stirring below him and he screamed at himself in his head. Why did you try for the stairs, you fucking idiot! Nobody in their right mind would head upstairs, but he wasn’t entirely sure he was in his right mind anymore. Breathless and dizzy, he made the small square landing area before the steps took a left. Just three more and he would be in the upstairs hallway. Down the hall there were only three doors, the bathroom being furthest away. He could see the edge of the bath, white and draped with a black towel. He looked back down the stairs, past the bloody trail he’d left, and saw her approaching on her knees, the scalpel still embedded in her shoulder. He chastised himself for not bringing it with him, then groaned when he saw what she now had in her hand.

Where did she get that?

It was a large butcher’s knife. Black handled, long and sharp.

“Bad puppet, Victor, you should control this pet of yours!” she gibbered.

She was glaring at him, eyes wild and defiant, face bloodied and frightening. She got to her knees and then stood shakily, brushing her hands at the wet patches on her blue skirt.

“I’ll clip you, puppet, then his puppet master. Organ grinder not the monkey, eh?”

He lunged for the hallway, ignoring the agony as he banged his wounded leg on the top step. She was coming—he could hear her babbling as she followed him up the stairs, and it was somehow worse than the pain.

“I told him about you, my dear. I told him his puppet was a bad one, but he didn’t listen. He never listens!”

He began to crawl faster, boosted by fear and the accompanying surge of adrenaline. He tried the first door, but it was shut and he could not reach the handle.

“Those meatballs don’t taste so good now, do they puppet?”

She was close, and stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, he could see her at the top of the steps, glaring at him. He turned and shuffled to the next room, knowing he would never reach the bathroom in time. He could see that the door was open and dragged himself in, slamming it behind him as she screamed again.

“Come out of there, puppet—eeeee eeeee!”

He leaned against the door, propping his good (or less damaged) leg against the chimney wall to hold it shut. She tried the handle, but didn’t have the strength to get in. He could hear her stabbing at the door with the knife, babbling and weeping loudly. He turned his attention to the room, hoping to find something to defend himself with, or a telephone so he could call for help. He had never been a fan of the police, and would normally refrain from having anything to do with them, but if there was ever a time, this was it.

His thoughts were interrupted as he looked around the room. It was ordinary at first glance. Pale green wallpaper, single bed pushed against the far wall. Clean and tidy. All was as you might expect, apart from the shrine that dominated the wall by the window. Set upon a large table, it was covered in photographs and candles and sprinkled with pink and yellow flower petals. The centerpiece was a large color photograph of a smiling man, perhaps twenty, with blonde hair and a crooked-toothed smile.

Recognition.

That horrible sinking feeling of recognition. He knew this face. He’d seen it before, only not smiling. When he last saw this face, it was terrified, its owner begging for his life. He searched his memory, trying to put a name to the face, and then he had it. Billy. Not William, but Billy. Billy Somers. He recalled the picture downstairs, the one that crazy old bitch insisted he had recognized, and thought he understood now. Of course he didn’t recognize Billy from the photograph. After all, Billy was just a baby, held between his loving mother and father. A mother and father who had no idea that Billy would grow up to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that he would one day turn to a man called Victor for help. And when he couldn’t pay his debts, when he couldn’t pay Victor back, Victor had sent Alex to pay him a visit. The memories flooded back to him now with sickening detail. Rough handling Billy into the Firebird, ignoring his pleas, ignoring the desperate tears.

He remembered meeting Victor by the docks at dusk, the air crisp and salty with the taste of the sea. He remembered thinking to himself how ridiculous Victor looked in his white suit, wearing sunglasses even though it was near dark. He remembered stopping the car and dragging young Billy to the end of the dock where Victor stood waiting.

Aleeeex,” he had said as they approached. “This is why they say you are the best. I ask you to bring the trash, and you do exactly what I ask.”

He had shoved Billy towards Victor, enjoying the stench of fear. Enjoying his own feeling of power and self-importance.

“Tell meee,” Victor had said to Billy. “Why do you fuck with me? Why don’t you pay back what you owe?”

Billy had begged, pleading for more time.

“You make a fool out of Victor Mallone, and then have the balls to ask for more time? You must be made an example of.”

Victor nodded, and that was all it took. Alex had tied Billy’s hand and feet. Not with rope, but with heavy-duty cable ties. It was quick, efficient. Hands bound in front of him, feet together. Secure. Inescapable. Victor had watched this appreciatively, enjoying Alex’s work almost as much as he had.

“Now Biiiilly, you understand that you give me no choice here? How can I run a business if people think they can fuck around with me, eh?”

Another nod to Alex, who shuffle-stepped Billy to the edge of the dock, the black water below frothing and crashing against the wooden pilings of the pier. Alex knew the procedure. He reached into Billy’s pocket, taking out his wallet and handing the cash and credit cards to Victor. And yes—that was where he remembered the photograph from. A much smaller, wallet sized version he had thumbed past to take out the MasterCard.

“Take this as a lesson, Billy. Nobody screws with Victor Malone,” Victor had said around his cigar, which he lit with an expensive looking gold lighter

With a barely perceptible nod from Victor, Alex shoved Billy hard in the back, watching him plummet into the cold, icy waters. He waited and watched until the air bubbles subsided, ever the professional, making sure that the job was done.

He blinked and was back in the present, the shrine looming ahead of him, a symbol of his guilt. He shuffled forward on his knees and prayed to God for forgiveness. Sure enough, Billy wasn’t innocent—he had debts he should have paid, but not at the cost of his life. Until that moment, he had never really understood the pain he’d caused over the years. He had moved on and changed his lifestyle, thinking it would be enough to bury the man he used to be. But what about them? The people he had hurt? The Billy Somers and Tony Valentines of the world? He felt sick and ashamed, and was about to call out to Mrs. Bendtner, when the doorframe exploded in a shower of splinters behind him. Even as he shielded his face from the deafening roar of the gunshot, he saw her standing in the doorway. She was still crying, the Russian-issue pistol clutched in her right hand.

“This is William’s room, puppet,” she cackled at him as she stepped closer. There was nowhere left to run, nowhere to go. It was over.

“What a cost for this life, eh?”

It was babble, and he was fairly sure she didn’t know what she was saying anymore, but this seemed a good question. What a cost for this life? What would he have to pay? How could he atone for his sins? She came towards him then, licking her horrible blood-red lips.

“Does the puppet remember now my William?”

“I remember, and I’m sorry… I truly am.”

He lowered his head and wept as she inched closer.

“Cry now, eh? I know how that feels, puppet. Many lonely nights I have wept!”

He knew now what he had to do. He lunged, tackling her to the ground. The gun came out of her hand and slid across the floor. He was on her, hands around her wiry throat, crushing down with what remained of his strength. She didn’t fight, she only watched him and glared at him defiantly.

“I’m so sorry,” he said as he watched her, and pleaded for her to die quickly. He thought at the end she understood, the insane glimmer in her eyes seemed to clear, if only for a second. Then she faded.

It was over. She was gone.

It took him until evening to finish cleaning himself up. His tendon wound would require medical attention, but he managed to remain mobile by using the old walking stick he retrieved from the sitting room. He patched up his other injuries using a first aid kit he found in the bathroom. The dog had been dispatched with a single shot from the old woman’s service revolver. He had tried to let it out into the backyard, but it had turned violent, and he was left with no other choice. He cleaned up the house as best he could, but knew his fingerprints and blood were in too many places to really do a thorough job. He laid Mrs. Bendtner in her late son’s bed along with the wedding photograph. It seemed fitting to him that they all be together in the end.

He knew he could no longer hide behind the fragile belief that he was free of his sins just because he believed in God. He had much to atone for, and passing out leaflets and spreading the good word was never going to be enough. He limped his way around the house, checking through the old woman’s records. She had quite the file on Victor, some of the information even surprising him. He found a half can of gasoline in the garage, and paying particular attention to the bloodied areas and the shrine room, had poured it through the house, leaving a trail to the front door. Pausing by the open door, he hesitated, listening to the house. He thought he could still hear that swish swoosh sound of slippers on carpet, but knew it was just his exhausted mind playing tricks on him. He took out the matches he found in the kitchen drawer and lit one, touching it to the rest of the pack and dropping it on the carpet, igniting the petrol with a satisfying whump. He quietly closed the door and made his way back down the ornate path, past the neatly trimmed lawn and out onto Sycamore Street. He was careful to close the gate behind him. Yes, this was a lovely street—although he no longer thought it could be a place for him. This was a place for the sin-free. For the happy people looking to retire after a good life of hard work. His work, his real work, had yet to truly begin.

He got into his car and watched the dull orange glow coming from the windows of the Bendtner house. It had dawned on him as he read through the wealth of files that in order to truly earn his chance at forgiveness, he would have to cut off the head of the snake. The snake that made him. The snake that was Victor Mallone. He had no illusions. He knew that it would be difficult—some might say impossible. But he would find a way. He would use his skills, the ones he had buried away over the years, and turn them against their creator. He would find his forgiveness, and avenge the Mrs. Bendtners of the world. He slipped the car into gear and rolled down the street. He glanced only once into the rearview mirror as the flames took full hold of No. 5 Sycamore Street.

THE BOX

1.

The box was outside her door. As she looked at it, she wondered why the delivery driver hadn’t knocked or left a note to say they had tried to call. She was just about to head out and meet Jane, when she had almost fallen over it. It looked innocent enough. It was wrapped in brown paper and had her name, Terri Browning, hand-written on top. There was no return address, no postmark. She wasn’t expecting a delivery. It had been months since she’d given in to the urge to browse the web for more books or clothes. She wondered if it might be from Mark, another desperate attempt to make up for the affair that had shattered her life. She had no intention of taking him back, and as much as the loneliness of living alone got to her, she had been hurt too badly to let anyone get close to her again. The box was maybe fifteen inches across and the same high, and as innocent as it looked, she still hadn’t picked it up. Shifting her weight and still holding her front door open with one hand, she glanced down the hallway of the apartment building, hoping to catch a glimpse of who might have delivered it, but the hallway was empty. Perhaps one of her neighbours might have heard something. She was sure that Mrs. Molde from down the hall would know who left it. She was a one-woman neighbourhood watch, and knew everybody’s business just as well as her own, if not better. Terri briefly considered knocking on her door, but couldn’t stomach the idea of having to listen to the nosy old trout ramble on about the gout in her leg, or the noisy students who lived upstairs in number thirty-two. With a final look down the hallway, she picked up the box, went back inside and closed the door.

The apartment looked empty now that it was devoid of Mark’s belongings. All that remained of them was a box of books, some old T-Shirts and a bottle of cheap aftershave he always insisted on wearing. She had told him he should come and pick them up, but through either stubbornness or unwillingness to accept that it was over between them, Mark had been putting it off for weeks now. They had argued frequently, the affair festering like an open wound. She wanted him out of her life so she could attempt to rebuild, and he was full of excuses; reasons why they needed to stay together and not let something ‘silly’ like cheating keep them from being together. Though she knew she would never allow him back into her life, she still loved him, and she feared that his persistence would one day break through her fragile defences.

She set the box on the dining table and went to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. As she waited for the kettle to come to the boil, she sent a text message to Jane explaining that she was running late but would meet her at the coffee house at ten thirty instead of ten. Setting her blackberry aside, she eyed the quiet apartment. It was open plan, and now that it was devoid of male clutter, it had a definite feminine (if minimal) look. Early morning sunlight streamed through the large balcony windows that ran across the far wall. She sometimes sat out there late at night, crying silently and hating herself for the rut her life was in. She cast a guilty glance towards her computer, silent and unused. Its black screen seemed to glare at her.

Hey, Terri, remember when we used to spend time together? When you used to write? Write all day, write all night. What happened? You haven’t written a word since Mark left. Come on, show me some love.

It was true. Her latest novel was supposed to have been handed over to the publisher two months ago, and not only was she nowhere near finished, she still hadn’t decided on an ending. It seemed that every time she sat down to try and work, her mind would go blank and she would simply stare at the screen, fingers poised over the keys. The couple of times she had managed to string a few paragraphs together, the results had been disastrous, the copy poor. Now with her deadline long past, her editor was giving her hell and had taken to calling her daily for progress reports, which had resulted in a frostiness between them. The kettle clicked off and as she poured her coffee, she realised that her life was a complete mess. At twenty-nine she really should have a handle on her situation, but the fact was she was struggling to cope. Her eyes drifted to the mystery box on the table. The more she thought about it, the more sure she was that it was from Mark, and perhaps that was why she was so reluctant to open it. She didn’t want his gifts to soften her and allow him to worm his way back into her life. She suspected the box might contain a new snow globe. He knew she had been collecting them since she was a child, and had over three hundred in her collection, some of which were extremely rare. It was a hobby she was slightly embarrassed of, and kept it secret from her small circle of friends. Mark knew well enough though, and it would be just his style to try and win her over with a glass dome filled with water and fake snow.

She took a sip of her coffee, set her ‘Little Miss Perfect’ cup down on the counter and approached the table. The box looked innocent enough sitting beside the fruit bowl and her half-finished John Grisham novel (unread since Marks departure). It was packaged differently than she would have expected. It was tied with string and wrapped in brown paper. It was how she imagined packages were sent in the fifties, before the days of UPS and DHL. She looked again at her name written in block capitals and had a strange, inexplicable feeling of dread. Deciding she was being ridiculous, that if she couldn’t manage opening a box then getting her life in order would be impossible, she pulled the knot on the string and peeled away the wrapping.

Beneath the brown paper was another box. This one was red and had the horrible velvet outer material that was designed to say ‘luxury,’ but to her said ‘cheap.’ It looked like some incredibly tacky, late Christmas present. Now that she had opened it, she wasn’t so sure Mark had sent it. He hated tacky stuff like this, and more to the point, knew that she hated it too. He was a dirty-cheating-lowlife-bastard, but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t send something like this to try and win her back. She was contemplating this when the phone rang. Her heart leaped into her throat and she cursed herself for letting something so stupid get her so jittery. She made it to the handset before the answering machine kicked in.

“Hello?”

“Terri? It’s Bob.”

Shit. Bob was Bob Greenwood, her editor. She wished she had let the machine pick up the call.

“Hi, Bob, how are you?” she said, forcing herself to sound cheery.

“Fine, Fine. Just had some time to kill and thought I would check in.”

Unlikely. They both knew the reason for his call. Her book should be long finished and in the advanced stages of the copy editing process by now—not three chapters from an end she hadn’t even conceived yet. He wanted a progress report. The agency Bob worked for wanted to cut the dead weight from their client list, and she was included in that category. He was under immense pressure to cut her loose, but had stuck with her in spite of this, which raised some speculative eyebrows within the company. Now they were both relying on the success of this unfinished book to justify the delay. She could imagine him sitting in his office, chewing his nails or running his hands through his thinning hair. Bob had a reputation of being hard to please, but she had always found him professional and more importantly unafraid to share his opinions on her work. Bob had a small nose and deeply set eyes, topped by large almost comically bushy eyebrows. She could see him now in her mind’s eye, frowning in his brown office chair, perhaps scratching his carroty beard as he considered the best way to approach the unfinished novel.

“Hello? Terri, are you there?”

She had drifted away while he’d been talking.

“I’m here. Sorry, Bob, you caught me at an… awkward time.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t disturb you working did I?”

She had to give it to him. As far as approaching a sensitive subject goes, he had done well.

“Not exactly. I was just heading out.”

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have called at all, it’s just—”

He trailed off, hoping that she would pick up the bait.

“You want to know about the book?”

“You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. It’s just that the powers that be are breathing down my neck and I need to tell them something. Can you at least send me a few pages so I can shut the damn pricks up?”

She felt sorry for Bob, and would have done as he asked without question if only she had something to send him.

“Look, Bob, you know I’ve been going through a tough time lately. I just haven’t been able to concentrate on my work as fully as I would like. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”

“I understand, really I do, but I need something from you, Terri. I hate to tell you this, but there have been serious discussions about cancelling your contract.”

She was stunned.

“Can they even do that?” she blurted, hating how whiny she sounded.

“They can and they will if we don’t move on this. I’m fighting for you, Terri, but I can only do so much.”

“Bob, I’ll finish the book, I swear to you I will, but you have to see it from my point of view—I can’t just pull it out of my ass. I gave them two books in the last year, surely they can give me a little leeway?”

“Hey, I know you and Mark breaking up has put you under serious strain, but they are already forty grand in the hole with the marketing campaign. They’ve had to push back the release date twice now. On top of that…”

“What?”

“Well, the fact is that although the first book sold well, Moonlight Shadows barely scraped up enough to cover the distribution costs.”

“They put me head to head with J.K. Rowling. What did they expect?”

“You and I know that, but they don’t see it that way. They paid you an advance for three books and only have two, now they’re already losing money on the third. They want this one finished and in print whilst they can still make some money off your name.”

“That makes me feel loved.”

“Forget love. This is business, and like it or not, it’s the nature of the game. I just want to help you get back on track here, ok?”

“You think I don’t?” she barked, cheeks flushed with anger. She instantly regretted her outburst. If he was offended, Bob didn’t show it.

“Hey look, I’m on your side here. I told them you would turn the book in and that there’s nothing to worry about, but they kept pressuring me for a deadline.”

She didn’t like the way this conversation was going. She sensed she was about to hear something she wouldn’t like.

“I know my damn deadline, Bob. You told me. Three weeks.”

There was an awkward silence whilst Bob carefully chose his words.

“That was the old deadline. I had to act, Terri—and believe me, I did my best for you.”

“Spit it out, Bob.”

“You have until Monday to turn it in; otherwise they are terminating your contract and will start legal proceedings against you for loss of earnings.”

Fear and anger erupted within her. She was squeezing the handset so hard her knuckles had turned white.

“How the hell could you let this happen? I thought you were on my side!”

“If you had any idea what I had to go through to delay this then you would be a little more grateful.”

“Grateful? Grateful? You don’t get it, do you Bob? It’s not that I won’t write, I can’t write right now! My fucking head is in pieces!”

There was silence apart from the steady sound of Bob’s breathing on the other end of the phone. He spoke calmly, trying to reassure her.

“I understand that, but it’s not just your ass on the line anymore here, Terri. Do you have any idea what I’ve had to sacrifice for you? It’s not for the pay check, let me make that clear. And it certainly isn’t for the stress it puts me under.

“Then why do it, Bob? Why not cut me loose like everyone says you should?” She was desperately trying to keep her voice from wavering.

“I do it because I have faith in you. I’m doing the best I can for you, and that’s regardless of my twenty percent fee.”

Her anger dispersed, and she realised that it wasn’t Bob’s fault. The blame lay at the feet of that sham of a woman in the mirror, the twenty-nine year old, red-haired, green-eyed girl from upstate New York. Unable to write, on the verge of being dropped by her publisher, and completely alone in the world. She closed her eyes.

What a mess.

“Are you going to be ok?” Bob asked calmly.

She was crying now, unable to control herself

“I’ll be fine. It’s just… a lot to take in right now.”

“I understand, believe me I do. I’d come over and see you in person, but I’m out of town right now meeting with another client.”

“That’s ok, Bob. I understand… I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Look, I’ve told you before, you are a great writer. You just need to get your head in the game. Now, bullshit aside, how much do you have left to write?”

“The last three chapters,” she said with a sigh.

“Ok, that’s doable. You have until Monday. Today is Tuesday. You have plenty of time.”

“It’s not the time that I’m worried about, it’s the writing itself. I don’t know what to do.”

“Look, let’s just get it done. Wing it, re-hash it, make it up. Hell, plagiarise it if you have to. Just hand something in on Monday and we can get this one behind us. After that, take a break and recharge your batteries. Maybe take a vacation.”

“I can’t do that, it wouldn’t be right.”

Bob laughed then, a hearty sound that made her smile despite her woes.

“I was only half serious anyway. Look I have to go. I have a meeting in twenty minutes and traffic will be hell. Seriously, though, do yourself a favour. Lock the door, take the phone off the hook, sit in front of the computer and write. I know you have it in you.”

“I’ll do my best, Bob. You have my word… Thanks for calling, and sorry for being such a bitch.”

He chuckled again and already she felt better.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll drop by on Monday to pick up the pages, ok?”

“I can just as easily email them to you. It’s not the dark ages.”

“I know that, but I’m passing through anyway and want to check in on you. We agents aren’t all the devil’s spawn you know.”

Now it was her turn to laugh, and it felt good.

“Ok, point taken. I’ll see you Monday when you pick up your rehashed, plagiarised pages.”

“I look forward to it. Take care, Terri.”

She smiled again as he hung up the phone, and thought about how she was going to finish her book. One thing was for sure, she would have to cancel her meeting with Jane. She had to get started straight away. She grabbed her phone and sent another text to Jane while mulling over the details of her conversation with Bob. Then she switched off the phone, walked to her computer and powered it up, watching as the screen illuminated.

“Now then, my old friend. It’s time you and I did some work.”

Despite the drama of the morning, she felt strangely optimistic. Perhaps this was exactly what she needed to kick-start her life. She forgot all about the red velvet box on the table, and dove into her work.

2.

Steve Reynolds had worked as a delivery driver for CASHCO for over seventeen years. He was considered by his colleagues to be one of the most experienced men in the fleet, and although he didn’t make much of a fuss about it, he secretly liked the attention. He drove the huge, snarling cherry red eighteen-wheeler down Grove Street, one tattooed arm dangling casually out the window. He turned left and changed gears, heading up the steep hill at Grove Lane, remembering the previous winter when the hill was covered in sheet ice and said to be impossible to climb. He had made it though, coaxing his truck up and over the crest, and on to his destination. As the truck ascended in low gear, the engine briefly protested with a throaty growl. He stifled back a yawn and began to fiddle with the radio tuner, searching for something other than the stream of modern pop music that seemed to fill the airwaves these days. He missed the days of real music: rockabilly or country, something with a real groove. He glanced into his rearview mirror, wincing at his reflection. The young twenty-something-year-old who first sat in this cab was long gone, and a grizzled, grey-haired man with heavily lined skin had snuck in at some point to replace him.

Finally he settled on KWLM East. Johnny Cash was on now, crooning about spending time in Folsom Prison. Steve thought that many of today’s modern musicians could learn a lot from the man in black. As he crested the hill, the road was straight for a few yards, and then rolled steeply down and to the right.

He set off down the hill, allowing the vehicle to coast as he always did, saving a little fuel in the process. This was one of his regular runs, at least twice a month he would drive the same route, and he was somewhat on autopilot when the accident happened. Later, there was speculation that he simply lost control, but the fault had been with the truck itself. The brake line had sheered loose as Steve had tried to slow his descent in order to make the turn onto Cabal Lane.

With no means to slow down, the eighteen-wheeler was a thirty-five ton missile. In the end, Steve’s skill behind the wheel had saved many lives, even though his own and that of Jane Steen would be lost. He had wrestled with the truck, narrowly missing a class full of school children out on a day trip, and somehow avoided the customers eating lunch outside Sam’s, one of his favourite burger joints. The truck ploughed into the brick wall between the Good Cup Coffee house and the town library at over sixty miles an hour. Not wearing a seatbelt, an old habit that quite literally died hard, Steve was thrown through the windscreen and later had to be identified by his fingerprints. The unfortunate pedestrian just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Having just received a text message from her friend Terri—cancelling their planned meeting for coffee—she was on her way home. She might have heard it coming had she not been listening to her iPod. Killed instantly, Jane would never hear about the mystery box left on Terri’s doorstep. Nor would she see ever see her daughter Mia again. By a bizarre twist of fate brought on by the arrival of a strange, hand delivered box, Terri’s best friend of twenty-two years was dead.

3.

For the last six hours, Terri had been sitting at her computer, and for the first time in weeks was writing. On a roll, she had reached that magical place where the story was writing itself, and she was no more than a passenger, hurriedly trying to keep up with the ideas as they formed in her head. This was the feeling she loved—the joy of pure creation. She had breezed through two chapters, and was well into the third, when there was a loud nock at the door.

Blinking away the tiredness, she checked her watch, and was shocked to see that it was just after five. Now, with the spell of writing broken, she was aware of her body. She was hungry and needed to pee. She wasn’t expecting any visitors and was crossing to the door, when a muffled voice shouted through the letterbox.

“Terri, it’s me. Are you there?”

It was Mark.

She couldn’t face him, not now when she had finally been able to get some work done. She debated staying silent and hoping he would go away, but she knew him. He was persistent and although the last thing she needed right now was to deal with him, she decided she would rather get it over with. She opened the door with a sigh of resignation, hating herself for the way her heart raced when she saw him.

Mark Fife was obviously coping with the separation better than she was. He looked to have come straight from the office, dressed in the grey suit she had bought him for Christmas. He was tan, and she noticed he had cut his hair, his previous long fringed style replaced by a buzz cut, which only emphasised his chiselled features. His eyes were blue, and he flashed her his winning smile.

“I hoped you would be home. Can I come in?”

“Now isn’t a good time, Mark.”

“Look, I have something that I need to discuss with you, and I’d rather not do it out here in the hallway.” He motioned to his left with his eyes, and as Terri looked out the door, she could see Mrs. Molde, watching them with a prune-sucking look of disapproval etched onto her old face.

“You have two minutes,” she said coldly before heading back inside. Mark followed, closing the door behind him to Mrs. Molde’s disappointment.

Terri stood by the window, arms folded defensively as Mark looked about the room as if he were seeing it for the first time.

“The place looks… barren,” he said as he flicked his gaze towards her and sat down on the couch, putting his foot on the coffee table.

“I like the minimalist look. What do you want?”

“How have you been?”

She felt anger rising, but held it. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I’m fine. I was actually working when you disturbed me.”

“Good, I’m happy for you.”

Here it comes she thought to herself as he looked at her intently. She broke eye contact, trying to ignore the flutter caused by his stare.

“I want to come back, Terri. We were good together.”

“Jesus, Mark, not this again.”

“Look, I know what I did was stupid, and you know I’m sorry. We both know that you need me.”

“I don’t need you, Mark. And I don’t want you. If this is all you wanted to talk about, then you have wasted your time.”

He stood and approached her, trying to grab her by the shoulders.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” Terri spat, shoving him away from her.

“Hey, take it easy,” he said, flashing his best puppy dog eyes.

“Just get out of here, Mark. This is my place. My life. It doesn’t involve you anymore, not since you fucked that whore!”

“Hey, come on. I already told you I’m sorry! Alicia meant nothing to me. I was confused! How many times do I have to say it?”

“Just get out of here. I don’t have time for this.”

He grinned, sitting back down on the couch.

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no. This is my apartment, Terri. I gave you time to get over what happened, but if you won’t take me back then you’re the one who’s going to have to leave.”

“I can’t believe you. This all happened because of you,” she said, trying to hold back her tears.

“Look, I’m not trying to be a dick here, Terri. You know that you need me, and it doesn’t make sense for us to live apart like this.”

She strode across to the door, opening it so forcefully that its handle dented the plaster as it slammed into the wall.

“Just go. Get out of here!”

He stood slowly, brushing the creases out of his suit.

“You had your chance, Terri. I did my best to make you see sense.”

“Out!” she raged.

“Relax. I’m going,” Mark replied, holding his hands up as he sidestepped her.

“Don’t forget your box of crap either. I don’t want you coming here again.”

She kicked the box by her feet, watching as he picked it up slowly and backed out the door.

“This isn’t over, Terri. I want you out of my place. Don’t make me take things further. You know what I can do.”

She did know. A lawyer by trade, Mark had many slimy friends in the legal profession. He even knew a few less than straight judges who would ensure he didn’t lose if he decided to take things further.

“That’s right, kick me when I’m down, you son of a bitch. You know I have nowhere to go.”

“Then take me back and we can put this behind us. You know it makes sense.”

“I wouldn’t have you back if you were the last man on earth. Even if it means I have to sleep on the damn streets. I hate you.”

He flashed that winning grin again and shrugged his shoulders.

“Your loss, Terri. I want you out by the end of the month.”

She wanted to scream, but restrained herself. Instead, she slammed the door closed, not caring if Mrs. Molde heard. She leaned on the door, and was doing all she could to hold back the flood of tears when she saw the box on the table. Fuelled by a fresh wave of anger, she stormed across the room, snatched the box off the table and returned to the door, barging out into the hallway. Mark was still there, waiting for the elevator.

“And you can stop sending me this shit!” she raged, and was about to throw it, when she saw the bemused look on his face.

“I didn’t send you anything. That’s not from me.”

Feeling foolish, she held onto the box and watched as the elevator chimed its arrival. Mark stepped in, then poked his head out the door.

“I meant what I said, Terri. End of the month.”

The elevator chimed once more and the doors closed, leaving Terri standing alone in the hallway.

4.

Back inside the apartment, her anger and sadness were replaced by curiosity at the red velvet covered box. She sat on the couch and set the box on the coffee table. She didn’t like the way the velvet felt on her fingertips; it felt fleshy and slick and somehow alive. It had an ominous aura about it in general, and gave the strange sensation that it was watching her just as she was watching it. It was ridiculous of course. Nothing more than her over-active imagination. She reached out, lifted off the velvet lid, and looked inside.

Inside was another box. This one made of wood with a hinged lid. She removed it carefully, reminded of those Russian Matryoshka stacking dolls.

Box in a box in a box.

She set this new smaller box down, eying it carefully. It looked to be made of birch or pine and the faint odour of old wood polish reached her nostrils. Other than the hinged lid, it had no other significant features or markings. She realised then that she had been holding her breath, and as she let it out slowly, wondered why her heart was beating so fast. Chewing her lip, she reached out to the box and opened it, half expecting something to leap out and grab her. It took a moment for her brain to process what she saw.

The box contained a button.

It was surrounded in the same red velvet as the outer box, and was circular with a red top. Below, printed in red on a white background was an instruction of sorts. It was comprised of two simple words.

Erase All.

She leaned forward to take a closer look, and saw a small folded piece of paper tucked into the underside of the lid. She fished it out carefully, anxious not to touch the button itself. The note had been hand typed, and she could see imperfections where the ink hadn’t fully printed onto the paper. She read the four lines, then read them again.

Terri.

This button does exactly as it says.

When you feel like you have had enough,

Simply press it and everything will go away.

She turned the box carefully on the table. There were no wires, no battery compartments, no visible means of powering it. She shook her head, wondering if she was the victim of an elaborate practical joke. She tried to guess which one of her friends would do something like this, but the more she considered it, the more unrealistic the thought became. None of her friends would have done this. She decided to call Jane about it, and to apologize for standing her up earlier.

Why not just press it?

She paused as the thought popped into her head and hovered there, waiting for a response. It was a good question. She didn’t believe anything would happen of course, but there was still the great what if factor that she, with her writers mind, was particularly vulnerable to. Without taking her eyes from the box, she took her phone out of her pocket. She had switched it off earlier in the day as per Bob’s suggestion, and now as she turned it back on, she saw the twelve missed calls and six voicemails that had been left. She looked at the box, and the box looked back.

5.

She hadn’t slept. As she stood in front of the bathroom mirror a little after five in the morning, at the time when the dark of the night and coming of the new day are balanced perfectly, she forced herself to look past the dark rings under her bloodshot eyes, and to ignore the pale white hue of her complexion. She tried desperately to look within, to find a way to pull herself together.

If I were a man, I would be starting a pretty good beard by now.

The thought made no sense, and its randomness frightened her. She felt as if she were clinging onto her sanity only by her fingertips. She closed her eyes, trying to rid her mind of the anguished voicemails left by Jane’s mother. Her words would haunt Terri forever, as would the guilt and the huge void that had had opened in her life. Unable to stand looking at herself any longer, she walked to the balcony, hoping the fresh air would clear her head. It was wonderfully quiet, and as she watched the contrail of an airliner arcing across the sky, she wished that she was on board, heading somewhere far away. Looking at the street below, she marvelled at how peaceful it was. Traffic was sparse, and aside from a few individuals heading off to start the workday early, it was graveyard quiet. She wondered for a split second if the world would miss her if she climbed over the balcony and jumped. Would it hurt? She shivered in the cool morning breeze, and tried to shake off the morbid train of thought.

Heading back inside, Terri was surprised to see the answering machine blinking, signalling a new message. She hadn’t heard the phone ring, and wondered if she might have actually dozed off during the night without realising. She quickly crossed to the machine, and played back the message.

“Terri, it’s Bob. I uh, I’m not sure what time it is there, damn time zones always confuse me. Anyway, just letting you know that this meeting was a damn waste of time, and I’m heading back early. I’ll swing by your place in around six hours, which will be somewhere between eleven and one on your time. So if you could have those new pages ready, I’ll take them with me and try to buy us some more time. See you soon, bye.”

She managed a small smile and switched on her computer. As it whirred and clicked into life, she made herself a fresh pot of coffee and decided she would at least try to appear human despite everything that had occurred. Once the coffee was ready, she returned to the computer, opening the latest draft of her novel, selected the new pages, and sent them to print. As the printer began to churn out her pages, she scrolled down to the bottom of the document, to the unfinished fifteenth chapter. Because she knew sleep would not come to her again that night, she thought she might as well try to get some work done, if only to forget about the horrors of the real world for a while. She would shower and get dressed, then settle down to try and finish the final chapter.

Thirty minutes later, and feeling infinitely better, Terri went to the thankfully now silent printer and picked up the pages, skimming through to make sure they were in good order. She was often unsure about the quality of her work, but on the rare occasions that she hit her stride, she felt immeasurably at ease. She slid the pages into a brown envelope and set it on the table for when Bob arrived. He eyes drifted to the wooden box, and that awful, cold, simmering feeling churned deep within her. With a frown, she turned her attention to the computer, grimacing at the screensaver and making a mental note to change it. It was a slideshow of photographs of her and Mark during happier times. Laughing together, holding hands on the beach, and various other snapshots of a dead relationship. She no longer had anything in common with the smiling woman in the pictures. She couldn’t stand to look at them anymore and moved the mouse, breaking the cycle of images.

At first, her brain didn’t register what it was looking at.

The page had been blank when she headed off to shower, but that was no longer the case. Now there were words—words she hadn’t typed. As she stared at the screen, she felt her flesh begin to crawl and her stomach start to flutter, and for a moment she felt as if she was going to vomit. She let her eyes drift across the words, so innocent in their composition, yet at the same time horrifically sinister.

Terri.

Don’t let the world get you down.

You know what to do to make it all go away.

She reached down to the outlet with a hand she couldn’t keep from shaking and pulled the plug on the computer, plunging the phantom words into darkness. Her skin was like gooseflesh, and once again she had the sick sensation of being watched. She turned slowly in her seat and looked at the box on the table. In her mind she imagined it looking right back at her, with a sick, sharp-toothed smile. Unable to hold it back any longer, she vomited noisily onto the carpet.

6.

The park was beautifully bathed in mid-afternoon sunshine as Terri fidgeted on the wooden bench. Still shaken, she couldn’t stand to be in the apartment anymore. She felt as if it had secret, hidden eyes and was watching her every move. She had partially convinced herself that it was the lingering smell of her vomit that had caused her to vacate, but knew deep down that wasn’t the case. It was the box. She didn’t want to be near it. It was as if the atmosphere around it was heavy and charged with some kind of unseen power. She had called Bob and asked him to meet her here instead of the apartment.

She was watching a young couple tossing a Frisbee for their enthusiastic Alsatian who chased it with determination. She enjoyed coming here. It was her haven against the harsh brutality of the city. The park itself was two acres of lush green, ringed by a path which was often populated by early morning joggers in their garish shades of luminescent spandex. Large birch and oak trees lined the outer side of the park, offering cool shade against the heat of the day. Bees hurried about their pollination duties, and the numerous species of birds seemed to be joined in endless song. She looked up and saw Bob striding down the pathway towards her. He had removed his jacket and was carrying it over his shoulder, three fingers hooked into the collar. He was covered in a light sweat as he sat beside her.

“Damn hot today,” he remarked, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

“Tell me about it,” she said, handing him a coffee.

She was debating whether to tell Bob about the box, and decided that under the present circumstances, it was probably a bad idea. There was a comfortable silence as they both sipped their coffees and watched the Frisbee loving Alsatian run back and forth with its owners. It was Bob who spoke first.

“How are you holding up, Terri?”

Not bad, apart from the psychological torture I’m being subjected to.

“Not bad,” she said, neglecting to add the rest of her thought. “How about you?” She was on autopilot, and had said it only because it was the protocol in such conversation. She didn’t expect the answer that she received.

“I’m not great, to be perfectly honest.”

She looked at him and saw that he was trying to hide his own fragile state with a show of normality. Terri’s heart sank a little for Bob.

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Marge. She… She’s not doing too well right now.” He fingered his wedding band nervously, then realising he was doing so, folded his hands into fists and set them on his knees.

“Is she sick?”

He looked at her, no longer able to hide the sadness in his eyes.

“She’s dying, Terri.”

She wasn’t sure how to react, and was fumbling for the right words to say when he continued.

“Damn Alzheimer’s. She hardly even knows who I am anymore.”

“Bob, I had no idea. You never mentioned it.”

“I didn’t want it to be public knowledge. I had hoped she would recover, that maybe she would be different… but over the last six months she has deteriorated.”

“Bob, I’m so sorry,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. She could see that he was fighting back tears as he opened up to her, this being one of the few conversations between them that didn’t revolve around business.

“I mean, she’s only fifty-one for God’s sake. I thought she might have the strength to hold on… It’s the blank stares that are the worst. The way she looks at me sometimes and doesn’t even know who I am… Sometimes I wonder if someone up there hates me,” he said, rolling his eyes skyward.

“Twenty-seven years we’ve been married. Can you imagine someone that you have shared so much with suddenly not knowing who you are? She called me Martin the other day. Martin was my brother; he died when he was a boy. I… I don’t think I can take this anymore.”

I wonder, Bob—if you had an Erase All button, would you push it right now? And here is the million-dollar question— if you did, what would happen?

“Look, Bob, I don’t know what to tell you… I’m sure you have done your best to look after her, but maybe it’s time to get some help?… Why don’t you take the advice that you gave me: take some time off work, recharge the batteries. You look like you need it.”

He snorted, shaking his head.

“I can’t… I’m up to my neck in work and I’m already struggling to keep up. I don’t know if I can do it anymore, I really don’t.”

Unable to hold them back any longer, his tears broke free, streaming down his round cheeks. Terri felt deep sorrow for Bob, and helplessness that there was nothing she could do to make him feel better.

“Listen, Bob, I really didn’t mean to contribute to your stress. I’m doing my best to finish the book, I really am.”

“No no no no,” he said warmly, managing a smile as he wiped his eyes.

“You are one of the few writers I’m proud to have on my books, and I really do mean that. I know you haven’t had a great time of it yourself, Terri. And no amount of makeup and hairspray can hide the exhaustion in your face. Something is troubling you, isn’t it?”

She almost told him then—about the box, about the writing appearing on her computer screen—but didn’t want to burden him.

“Not really,” she lied. “It’s just that on top of everything else, one of my friends was killed in a traffic accident yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

“Really close. It’s kinda hit me for six, if I’m honest.”

“Life has a strange way about it sometimes, doesn’t it?”

She couldn’t disagree there. She decided to change the subject, perhaps give Bob something a little more positive to think about. She picked up the envelope containing the manuscript pages and handed it to him.

“Here you go. Two chapters finished and ready for the ruthless editor’s pen,” she said, and even managed a small smile.

“Thanks, Terri. I knew you could do it…” he already seemed more in control as he opened the envelope and leafed through the pages.

“This is good… Really good… Should get those pricks in the office off our backs, at least for a while.”

“I should have the final chapter for you in a day or two. In truth, I can’t wait to finish it.”

“That great, Terri. I really appreciate you coming through for me on this.”

The relief was as evident in his face as it was in his voice.

“Same applies, Bob. You just make sure to take care of yourself, and please see someone about getting help with Marge.”

“I’d say I will just to please you, but you know me too well. I don’t want her to spend her last months in some sterile hospital bed. I appreciate the concern though, I really do.”

She hugged him then, and he awkwardly returned the gesture.

“Look, Bob, I have to go. I have some errands to run before I knuckle down and do some work.”

Unless somebody has done some for you whilst you were away

She ignored her inner monologue as she stood, Bob following suit.

“I have to be on my way too—need to get back to the office and turn these pages in. Traffic will be hell soon… I’ll be in touch in a few days. You take care of yourself, Terri.”

She nodded and smiled, then tossed her empty coffee cup in the wire waste bin by the bench.

“You too. I’m sure things will get better soon.”

“You know what I was just thinking, Terri?” asked Bob with a haunted and reflective expression on his face.

“What?”

“I was thinking that if there was a way to go back in time and start things from scratch, I would take it in a heartbeat.”

It was an innocent statement, the words meant reflectively, but inside Terri screamed. Her reply was automatic, and her split second of horror didn’t appear to have registered with Bob.

“I think we all wish that sometimes… You take care, and give my best to Marge.”

She turned and left, fearing that if she stayed he would see through her and know that there was something truly, terribly wrong. Fighting back tears of her own, she quickly glanced over her shoulder to see Bob standing by the park bench, finishing his coffee. If there was a greater power, she hoped it would spare Bob from his misery. He was one of the good ones.

7.

The I55 highway stretched out in front of the silver Mercedes as it headed towards Seattle. Bob had the window cranked open, and was enjoying the cool breeze as he made good time. Although still upset, he was happy to have met with Terri. He had no children of his own, and thought of her as a daughter in a way. He was pleased to find the road surprisingly clear, and accelerating to a steady sixty-two miles an hour, he activated the cruise control and took his foot off the pedal, allowing the car to do the work. Sunlight glinted off the traffic in the oncoming lane, which was far more congested than the run Bob was currently enjoying.

Glancing over to the envelope containing Terri’s manuscript pages on the passenger seat, he picked them up and began to carefully scan through them, making sure to check the road ahead every few seconds. He was happy she had managed to get some work done. He had worked with some fine writers over the years, but had never known anyone with her potential.

Out of nowhere he felt a migraine sluggishly begin to form—a thick pulse behind his eyes, which made him feel nauseous. Suddenly an agonizing pain surged through him, causing him to spasm and kick out his feet, flooring the accelerator as the car veered over the median and into the oncoming traffic, where it met a school bus head on. The impact was violent, the crumpled Mercedes rolling several times before erupting in flames. Bob was already dead before the crash—killed by the brain aneurysm he had carried with him for the last seven years without knowing it. As the flames took hold of the car, and Bob’s body began to burn, his dead hand released its grip on the envelope containing the manuscript pages, and soon they were engulfed in flames.

8.

The bottle of Smirnoff was already three quarters empty, and yet Terri still didn’t feel drunk enough. She was slouched on the sofa, watching the news with glassy, half-closed eyes. They had been circulating reports of Bob’s accident all evening. She swigged from the bottle and looked at the T.V. images of the twisted and blackened wreckage, shot from overhead by a helicopter. Every time Bob’s picture came up on the screen a fresh flood of tears would course from her sore and tired eyes, and she would take another drink to numb the pain. She had never been much of a drinker, but simply didn’t care at this point.

She glared at the box, still sitting on the coffee table, and thought that if it were able, it would be smiling smugly right now.

Don’t be stupid, Terri. It’s just a box.

The thought felt detached and alien, and even through the alcohol induced haze, she was aware enough to feel a flash of concern for her sanity.

“This is all your fault,” she whispered under her breath as she took another long drink, unsure if she were referring to the box, herself, or Mark. She turned her attention back to the television, concentrating hard to bring it into focus. Now her picture was on screen, the horrible publicity shot from her first book. Even though she was watching without sound, she knew what the report was saying. It had been the same for the last few hours, repeating and re-repeating the same information as they waited for a more exciting story to break.

“Free advertising. Thanks, Bob,” she slurred, taking another swig of the vodka. She was tired now, but knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She couldn’t even remember the last time she slept soundly. She was tired of stalking around the apartment in the dark, wandering from place to place, not quite knowing what to do with herself. She had lost the two people closest to her in consecutive days, and knew she couldn’t handle much more.

Push the damn button then.

She was in the habit of dismissing her ever-bolder inner monologue, but on this occasion, she hesitated. What harm could it do? It probably wouldn’t do anything anyway, and she would have spent the last few days stressing over nothing. But something in her wouldn’t let her go through with it. The box didn’t feel like a cheap trick or a hoax. Although she still wasn’t sure how or why, she felt there was some kind of power attached to it. She decided it was a decision best saved for when she was sober.

“There I go again,” she whispered to the television screen as she saw her smiling promo photo. She felt the drink starting to take a comforting hold, and she finally fell asleep.

She dreamed.

Dreamed of the end of the world. Of cities burning, the earth being wiped clean. Buildings flattened, billions simply erased from existence. The oceans were drained. In the end, all that remained was a barren globe of brown rock, and her. Terri Browning—standing alone on a barren plateau, the box in her hand, button depressed between her thumbs. She could see faces. Faces of the dead. Jane with her misshapen face, stitched together like a macabre jigsaw puzzle. She saw her cancer-ridden mother, no more than a hollow, skin-covered skull. And she saw Bob, now no more than a shapeless thing, blackened and scorched. They were not alone. Countless other shadowy beings she couldn’t make out lingered in the background. They were all chanting to her.

Push the button, push the button, push the button…

She awoke with a jolt, a short yelp escaping her lips as she knocked the almost empty vodka bottle to the floor, where it spilled onto the rug. She was immediately aware of the searing headache and dry feeling in her throat. Checking her watch, she saw that it was just after four in the morning. The room was illuminated by the flickering of the television, which was now showing the weather for the coming day. She had hoped her dream would fade away like nightmares often do, but this one stayed fresh in her mind, its vividness even worse now that she was awake. Ignoring the Smirnoff induced dizziness and headache, she dragged herself to her feet, flashing the box a quick glare as she staggered to the bathroom, then to her bed where she collapsed onto the welcoming covers. This time her sleep was dreamless.

9.

Awoken by a steady pounding she thought was her headache, she slowly realised there was someone at the door. Sunlight streamed through the windows now, which only served to increase the intensity of her hangover. Every time she moved, a fresh wave of nausea would sweep over her, and as she dragged herself out of bed she wondered what life would throw at her today. She unlocked the door with clumsy hands, swung it open, finally silencing the persistent knocking. It was Mark.

“Jesus, Terri. What the hell happened to you?”

She had no strength left to fight him, and motioned for him to come in. He had his suitcase, the one she had bought him to replace the tired old sports bag he used to carry. Striding into the room he turned to look at her, an expression of genuine concern on his face.

“Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong?”

As much as she hated to show him weakness, she couldn’t help herself and began to sob hysterically. He held her in his arms and although she initially tried to fight, she gave in, enjoying the safety of the embrace.

“I just saw the news about Bob. I came right over.”

He was stroking her hair, and she hated herself for being so weak. In the end, it came down to need. He was all she had left— her cheating lowlife boyfriend.

“Let’s stop this nonsense, Terri. Let me come back and I’ll help you through this. We can do it together.”

She was starting to believe his soothing words, and realised she couldn’t last on her own; she had tried and failed miserably. Burying herself deeper into his chest, she allowed him to keep up the sweet talk.

“We don’t need to be like this with each other, baby. Come on. Let’s finally put this behind us.”

She looked up at him then, and before she could stop herself she was kissing him passionately. He responded, and the next thing she knew they were in the bedroom, joined in frenzied lovemaking. Later as she watched him dress, she felt deeply ashamed; despite her best efforts to be strong, he had won.

“I have to run, or I’m going to miss my flight.”

“Where are you going, I thought you said you were staying with me?” she said, unable to keep the panic out of her voice.

“I have a business trip to Rio—I can’t get out of it.”

She nodded, too drained to get into any kind of argument. His shoes now tied, he picked up his jacket and shrugged into it.

“If Mr. Mashima goes for the deal, then I stand a great chance of becoming junior partner. I should be back tomorrow night if all goes well.”

She didn’t care, and now felt even worse for allowing him back into her life as well as her bed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Take care,” he said, and was gone without another word. She waited for the sound of the door closing, and feeling used and alone with her life in tatters, she wept.

10.

Jane’s funeral was held at Shady Oaks cemetery, with a few close family and friends in attendance. Although she was devastated by the loss, Terri found she had no tears left to cry. As the casket was lowered into the ground , she couldn’t get the Jane-ghost image out of her mind; the one with the put-back-together jigsaw face. She had gone through the standard pleasantries at the wake, making polite small-talk with people she didn’t know who all wanted the author’s opinion, and in one awkward case, asked for the details of Bob’s accident. As time dragged on, and the childhood stories became too much to bear, she made her excuses and went outside.

The air had taken a cold turn, and great rolling clouds of lead grey threatened to unleash their fury. She pulled her jacket around her, thrusting her hands into her pockets as she walked with her head down. Even though it was supposed to be about her saying goodbye to her oldest friend, all she could think about was the box. The box with the button that could set everything right in the world. As she approached her car, she was surprised to see a man standing beside it waiting for her. He was dressed in a suit that looked as if it cost more than the car itself. She put his age at around sixty, and he had fine white hair that shimmered in the wind. His eyes were pale green, and had hardness to them she immediately disliked. His face had unmistakeable waxy look of having undergone too many operations in the pursuit of youth. As she approached she noticed he was leaning on an ornate walking stick and noted that even money couldn’t buy good health.

“Miss Browning,” he said curtly as he held out a black gloved hand.

She shook it wearily.

“Yes. And you are?”

“My name is Sykes. I’m here on behalf of Webster & Fisher Publishing in regard to your current contract.”

“Mr. Sykes, this is hardly the time.”

“I do apologise for the timing. However, due to Robert’s unfortunate demise, we’re anxious to know if you’ve finished the manuscript as agreed.”

Careful here, Terri.

She didn’t like the old man. His eyes were keen and sharp, and he seemed poised like a coiled snake. She wasn’t sure if she should lie or tell the truth.

“Bob had the pages. He saw them.”

“My apologies, Miss Browning. I should be more clear. I’m afraid my reason for being here is to inform you that, due to the unacceptable delays and resulting losses, we will not be renewing your contract, and would ask that the remaining pages be turned in within forty-eight hours as per our previous arrangement.”

He reached into his coat and handed her a copy of the contract she had signed two years before.

“Look, this is completely unnecessary. Bob saw the pages, he took them with him.”

The old man paused, and smiled awkwardly. “Miss Browning, I apologise for my bluntness, but it is the only way I know. We can no longer afford the hefty costs involved with the irregular flow of your work.”

“But you just said you want the pages!”

“Indeed, but only so we might recoup some of the losses we have accrued.”

“Fine, ill re-print them and post them later today.”

“We would prefer it if you would e-mail them, Miss Browning. We wouldn’t want them to get lost in transit, now would we?”

There was a condescending tone in his voice that made her furious, but she somehow swallowed her rage. She couldn’t handle another confrontation.

“Fine. I’ll email them later today.”

“Very good. I look forward to receiving them.”

He walked past her, leaving a smell of soap and expensive aftershave.

“Miss Browning,” he said over his shoulder. “I would advise you to make haste in delivering those pages. We would have no qualms taking legal action against you for breach of contract.”

He left her standing there, furious and in shock. In her head, she could hear the disembodied ghosts of Jane and Bob from her dream.

Push the button, push the button, push the button…

11.

She usually enjoyed driving. She used to do a lot of thinking in the car, and many ideas had been born within its leather-seated confines. Usually she would be listening to music, maybe something by Coldplay. Or if she was feeling particularly nostalgic, she would whip out Meatloaf’s greatest hits and croon along to those epic ballads, even though her singing voice was atrocious. Today was different however. The radio was off and she travelled in silence. She was on the same stretch of road where Bob had been killed, and her mood was sombre. Despite her best efforts to divert them, her thoughts kept coming back to the Box. Although she couldn’t blame it entirely for everything that had happened, things had certainly deteriorated since it found its way to her door—she knew that much for certain. She wondered about its origins: where it came from, and more importantly, why it came to her. She moved the car into the outside lane and noted she was about to pass the scene of Bob’s accident. The wreckage had been removed, but the evidence was still on the blacktop. Several sets of tire marks were still visible where the vehicles had tried to stop. She stifled a yawn as she passed the site, and although she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help taking a quick glance in the rearview mirror as she rolled away from it. The burned image of the Bob from her dream appeared in her mind.

“Why don’t you push the button and give me my life back?”

Although she had said it out loud to the empty car, she guessed the words might be fitting coming out of the lipless face of dream Bob, the one who wouldn’t stop invading her mind and accusing her, blaming her, pointing his blackened stub of a finger at her. She was overcome by how alone she felt, and despite the fact that she still hated him, she decided to call mark. Frowning, she picked up her phone and pressed the speed dial for his number, balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could keep both hands on the wheel. She waited, and was about to hang up when the line connected.

“Hello?”

He sounded distracted, preoccupied.

“Hey, it’s me. I needed someone to talk to. I’m just on my way home from Jane’s funeral. How did the meeting go?”

“It went pretty well, actually. I think I’m close to closing the deal. How are you holding up?”

“Not great… I’m afraid to be alone.”

With the box, she almost added.

She got the impression that her call wasn’t exactly welcome, and it suddenly occurred to her that he might be with another woman.

“Well, I’ll be home tomorrow. We can talk about it then,” he replied irritably.

“Tomorrow?” I thought you said it wouldn’t take long?”

“I’m sorry, baby, but I have to look after these clients.”

“What about me? I need you to look after me right now.”

She hated how weak she sounded, but was now convinced he was up to no good. She could almost see the frown on his face as he tried to cover his tracks.

“This could be a big case for me. It’ll be worth it in the end if Mr. Mashima hires me.”

“I’m really struggling here, Mark. I need you. I think I’m losing my mind. When will you be home?”

She was crying now.

“I don’t know when I’ll be home. I may stay in a hotel tonight and head back tomorrow morning.”

She hated him for this, but hated herself more for needing him so much.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said, not hiding the fact that she was upset. Mark either ignored it, or didn’t notice.

“Ok, baby. Ok, love you. Bye.”

Before she could respond the line disconnected, and she tossed her phone onto the passenger seat in disgust. She saw a man on the side of the road just ahead—he had the classic unwashed and weathered appearance of the homeless. He was holding a crudely drawn sign, black marker on cardboard. She suspected his chances of hitching a ride were slim, and she certainly didn’t intend to pick him up. She could imagine how he would smell, like body odour and cheap wine. He flashed her a gummy grin as he held one hand out to the road, his filthy thumb poking out of a tattered glove. His sign indicated where he wanted to be. It simply read:

End of the road.

As she passed him, she felt icy fingers dance up her spine. The place the old hobo wanted to be was exactly where she felt she was heading.

Maybe you should stop for him. You can go together.

She wondered if the decrepit old man would push the reset button if he had the chance. She was considering doing so herself.

12.

Against her better judgement, she picked up another bottle of vodka on her way home, and tried to ignore the shame of being so weak. The rain had rolled in, pounding the windows with its maddening patter. For the last two hours she had been sitting in the near darkness of the apartment staring at the box. It would be so easy to just reach out, flip open the lid and press the button. But something in her restrained the desire, and it remained a standoff.

She knew she should at least try to do some work, but every time she thought about powering up the computer she remembered the message she had found, and wondered what might be waiting for her this time. Nonetheless, she had work to do. And since the weather outside matched her mood, she supposed this was as good a time as any to get the book finished.

She looked at the two evils on her coffee table, the bottle of vodka and the box, and with a surge of determination reminiscent of the old Terri, she stood quickly, crossing the room and plugging the computer back in at the wall socket.

What if there is another message?

She considered this, and then decided that the obvious answer was the best. If there was something there, she would simply delete it and then get on with her work, because that was all she knew how to do. No adulterous partner or mysterious wooden box was going to stop her. She pressed the circular power button on the computer’s silver tower, expecting the familiar sound of the system growling to life, but instead was met with a strained, ill-sounding internal chug. Her heart leapt into her mouth as she looked at the monitor, dismayed at the words on the display.

She thought it had said push the button, push the button, push the button. She was about to scream when she blinked, and saw that it read something else. Her trusty computer, the one she’d had for the last six years, was obviously sick. Now it displayed a blue screen with the words:

SATA HARD DISK DRIVE FALIURE. PRESS F1 TO CONTINUE OR F2 TO RUN SETUP UTILITY.

She felt sick to her stomach. Her work, her book, her life—everything was on that computer. Like a slap in the face, it hit her. You have no backup. No hard copy. Are you fucking stupid? What the hell are you going to do now?

She wasn’t particularly computer savvy. She knew how to use Microsoft Word, access her emails, and use the internet, but that was the extent of her knowledge. She poised her fingers over the keyboard, licking her suddenly dry lips as she considered how to proceed. She pressed the F1 key, hoping it would allow her to boot into the desktop and retrieve her files. She waited as the computer struggled to process her request. Next she was met by a new line of text, as straight to the point as the first.

NO BOOT DEVICE FOUND. F1 TO RETRY OR F2 TO RUN SETUP UTILITY.

She hated this one-sided binary communication with the computer, and wondered if it was finally getting back at her for the recent neglect. She could imagine it speaking to her, chastising her.

You really fucked up now, didn’t you girl? Who doesn’t back up their work, especially in your field? I bet Sykes is laughing his wrinkly old ass off right now and already calling the lawyers. They are gonna take you for everything you have and then some. They’ll own you until the day you die. Why not just push the fucking button and get it over with?

“Shut up!” she croaked to the empty room. Her voice felt too high, like an over-tuned guitar string. She pressed the F1 key again, praying it would work. Again the computer thought about her request, and spat back the same message.

NO BOOT DEVICE FOUND. F1 TO RETRY OR F2 TO RUN SETUP UTILITY.

You don’t listen, do you Terri? That’s always been your problem. You and I are similar: fucked up on the inside, not functioning properly. Go ahead, keep pressing retry. Round and round we go. This is all your fault anyway, pulling the plug on me instead of shutting down the proper way. EVERYONE knows that’s a no-no. There is only one-way out of this, but you know what that is, don’t you?

She was shaking now, her eyes hot with tears. She didn’t care. All she cared about was retrieving her work. She pressed F2, trying to ignore the imagined computer voice in her head. The rain on the windows was suddenly very loud, she could almost hear it singing to her—

Push the button, push the button, push the button….

“Shut up, all of you just shut up!” she shouted at the empty apartment. She knew how crazy she sounded, how crazy the situation was, but sometimes crazy felt right. Sometimes crazy fit like a fucking glove. She waited, hunched over in the darkness as she listened to the familiar rhythm of the computer’s internal clunking and whirring. The sound was not filling her with hope. The next message didn’t even provide helpful options, nor did it suggest any course of action. It simply read:

CRITICAL ERROR HARD DISK FAILURE.

She pressed the enter key, then the escape key but the message remained unchanged on the screen. Screaming with rage and blinded by tears, she grabbed the computer tower with both hands and picked it up, ignoring the sounds of the keyboard and mouse clattering to the floor, the sound of the monitor falling and landing screen first on the hardwood. Sobbing, she carried the tower awkwardly across the room, its wires and accessories snaking out behind it. She staggered to the balcony door, pulling against the resistance of the power outlet, which the machine was still plugged into.

It’s no coincidence that everyone around you dies, is it Terri? First Jane, then Bob, now me. What did I ever do to you? I was always there, always stood by you. And this is the thanks I get.

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!” she screamed hoarsely as the plug finally pulled free. She fumbled at the door handle, managing to open it. Wind and rain pounded her face as she staggered out, dragging the computer behind her.

What, you’re going to throw me off the seventh floor into the street? That won’t help the case for your sanity, and we both know there are more than a few question marks over that as it is. They’re going to lock you up and throw away the key, Terri.

“Shut, up! They won’t,” she sobbed, blinking rainwater out of her eyes.

And don’t think you can rely on Mark. He knows he can get away with whatever he wants to. Hell, I bet he’s balls deep in some older woman right now, because we both know that’s what he likes, don’t we?

“Stop it, just stop it!” she pleaded, as she heaved the tower over the edge of the balcony. She watched as it fell, its tail of wires fanning out as it smashed into the street below. Several passers-by looked up and pointed, but she didn’t care; she was just happy to be rid of it, rid of its maddening voice. She laughed loudly, pounding the air with her fists. It was liberating

Shivering from the cold, she walked back into the apartment and sat on the edge of the sofa. She opened the bottle of vodka, tossing the lid away and taking a large gulping drink, which burned her throat and caused her to cough. She could hear them knocking at the door now. Muffled voices asking if she was ok, if she needed help. She even heard Mrs. Molde, telling someone how something hadn’t been right for a while. She ignored them—she knew that their words would soon change. Soon the calls wouldn’t be out of concern. Instead, they would be to push the button, push the button, push the button. They were all in on it. How could she not have noticed before?

She thought of Mark, and knew in her heart that he was dead. Something inside her just knew it to be true. He would be just like the rest of them—like Jane, like Bob, like her mother and father, like her career. Like her life.

She heard snatches of voices at her door, probing, quizzing.

“Threw her computer out the window…”

“Are you alright, Miss Browning?”

“Her agent just died…”

“Always talking to herself…”

“I’m going to break down the door and come in…”

“Someone should call the police…”

She ignored them. She no longer cared. Taking another long drink of the warming alcohol, the burn not as bad on her throat now, she smiled to herself.

“You win,” she said softly as she flipped open the lid of the wooden box.

ERASE ALL

She liked the simplicity of those words. She liked the way they rolled off her tongue. Taking a final drink, she set the bottle down on the table. The pounding on her door was louder now, more intense.

“Don’t bother, I know what you’re going to say,” she whispered to herself. Reaching forward she picked up the box and set it across her knees. No longer afraid, she ran her fingers lightly across the cool plastic. She closed her eyes, then smiled as she pressed the button and waited to see what would happen.

EVERY LITTLE HELPS

Steven Grimes had known the Joneses, Alice and Frank, for almost fifteen years and they had always been the perfect neighbours. Yet as he watched the two of them from the edge of his bedroom window, he was certain that the large black bag they struggled to carry contained a dead body. He had only stopped by the house on Sycamore Street by chance to pick up a few more of his belongings—the place belonged to his ex-wife now. As he looked down into the garden of no. 9, Frank was sweating under the tattered red baseball cap that he always wore, the tufts of his white hair poking out from the back as he strained with the weight of the bag. Alice, with her liver spotted arms, held what looked to be the feet of the body as they shuffle-stepped their way towards the large compost heap, which Steven knew sat in a secluded corner of their garden.

He knew because a couple of years before, he and his now ex-wife Jane had been invited to a barbeque to celebrate Frank’s retirement. Forty-one years with the same company, and they thanked him with a golden handshake and an imitation watch and then sent him on his way. Word was that he didn’t want to leave, but the company had insisted. They had already found a younger, more efficient replacement, so with no real choice, Frank was retired. The barbeque also signified another milestone. It would be the last social engagement for Steven and Jane as Mr. and Mrs. Grimes. By that point, the cracks in their marriage were almost too large to cover, but they managed somehow. He turned his mind back to that day, his stomach tightening up as he remembered a conversation he’d had with Frank. It had seemed so trivial at the time that he wasn’t even sure why he recalled it with such clarity.

It was a blazing hot day in July and perfect weather for cooking outdoors. The heat was dry, the sky blue and cloudless, and the dozen or so guests were doing all they could to keep cool. He remembered that he was speaking to Frank about his garden, which was well maintained. The grass was always neatly trimmed, the soil always turned, and he had a small pond with two rosy-cheeked gnomes that they called Fred and Betty. As the two men stood by the grill (as men tend to do at these types of events) Frank had rubbed his forearm against his head as he looked Steven in the eye.

“You know, Steve, I’m not sure what the hell I’ll do with myself now.”

The old man’s eyes glinted in the sun, and in hindsight Steven should have seen something then, but at the time his attention was firmly on Jane, who was already well on her way to being a mess. He looked on in pained embarrassment as she tottered around the garden with a half-eaten cheeseburger in one hand and a large glass of wine in the other. Cringing inwardly, he decided that feigning ignorance would be better than causing a scene. He turned back to Frank, realizing with sadness just how old the man looked. His face was worn and leathery, deeply lined from years of working outdoors. His nose was a bulbous lump and he peered out from below his bushy white eyebrows with eyes of such a pale blue they were almost grey.

“I’m sure something will come up, Frank. Take some time to relax. Hell, after all the years you put in, you’ve definitely earned it.”

Frank had smiled then, just a curl of the lip but his eyes told a different story. Glassy. Reflective. Ponderous.

“You know me, Steve. I’m not one to sit around waiting for something to happen. I think that’s why people die sometimes, when they don’t have anything left to live for.”

Steven nodded, sipping his beer thoughtfully as Frank flipped the burgers.

“You’ve worked all your life, Frank. Maybe now you and Alice can spend some quality time together.”

“Quality time,” he chuckled dryly. “If I can tear her away from her damn bingo nights then maybe we would. We don’t talk much these days, Steve. But we are too old and too afraid to be alone, so we stay together.”

Steven felt his heart pinch a little. This old man had said exactly what he felt about his own relationship. There was a time when had loved Jane, but as he got to know her, really know her the way people who spend a significant amount of time together always do, he had started to notice the cracks, the flaws in her character. There was a darkness in her that had pushed its way to the surface over time Before they married she was slim and athletic, but during the last ten years she had really let herself go, both physically and socially. She had started to drink heavily, and was fond of voicing her opinion on anything and everything with cynicism and bitterness; particularly if it was a subject Steven himself was interested in. As time went on he developed a weary resistance to her brand of cynicism, and as the love died, so grew the indifference, which in turn gave way to hate. He shot her another quick glance. She had gained considerable weight and now saw the world through small, piggish eyes, which seemed to glare contemptuously at everything she chose to set them upon. It was as if the sweet, loving woman he’d fallen in love with had been consumed by some horrible, malicious imposter.

Frank had said something Steve didn’t quite catch.

“Sorry, Frank. I was in a world of my own. Say again?”

“I said at least I have my garden. My pride and joy. My solitude from a world I don’t really understand anymore. Worked my ass off to make it look good.”

Steven looked around appreciatively at the pristine surroundings.

“You certainly did that, it looks amazing. Makes me more aware of how my own could use a little TLC,” Steven said with a sheepish grin.

The two men shared a laugh as Frank continued to work the grill, earning them a disapproving glare from old Mrs. Bendtner from no. 5.

“It’s all about recycling these days, Steve—everyone is going green. Did I tell you we had a circular come through the door a while back telling us that if we don’t change our ways the planet will be beyond saving in just a few years’ time?”

“Yeah, we got the same letter, although I didn’t really read it. Too much damn junk mail. We threw it out.”

Steven glanced towards Jean, who had cornered some unfortunate guest in conversation. Steven didn’t recognize him, but felt sorry for him nonetheless.

“I read it,” said Frank, gently manipulating the chicken legs on the grill with his metal tongs. “Everyone on the planet leaves a kind of impression based on how much energy they waste, like an imprint.”

“Oh, a carbon footprint?”

“Yeah, that’s it, a carbon footprint—anyway, they say that everyone in the world leaves one, and if we don’t reduce it then the planet will be uninhabitable for future generations.”

Steven nodded pleasantly, not entirely interested in all the save the planet talk. He expected his own carbon footprint was pretty huge. He didn’t recycle, he didn’t try to save energy by turning off lights, and he didn’t pay any mind to his aerosol use. He was too set in his ways to change, yet it seemed to be important to the old man, so he went along with it for the sake of being polite.

“That’s pretty interesting, Frank. I never gave it too much thought.”

Frank nodded enthusiastically.

“I did. I like being outside, and the last thing I want is to be forced indoors or underground by acid rain or poison air. If a man can’t enjoy his own garden Steve, then what’s the point?”

“Thing is, Frank, not everyone takes it seriously. And unless the law changes, well… nothing is going to change,” Steven said with a gentle shrug.

“Ahh but every little helps. Every little helps. For me it didn’t mean too much of a change. We started off by recycling. Just plastic and glass from our groceries, and we put some of those new energy saving light bulbs all through the house. Hell, I even started out here. I got myself a good sized compost pile down the back of the garden there past the decking.”

Frank jabbed a charcoal smudged thumb over his shoulder. Beyond the wooden deck and chairs covered by a gazebo, there was a small stone path that wound out of sight behind the large pruned bushes.

“I keep it back there as it’s unsightly and doesn’t smell too good, but it’s pretty remarkable. Everything returns to the earth Steve. It takes us all back eventually.”

Steven had noticed a coldness in his eyes as he said this, but dismissed it as nothing. He didn’t want to spend his Saturday afternoon talking about saving the environment, so he started to change the subject.

“Did you catch the game last night, Frank?” he asked cheerfully. Either Frank didn’t hear or failed to acknowledge his question.

“Too many people, that’s the problem. The planet is overpopulated by people fucking. Fucking and then having kids they don’t want and can’t afford.”

Bitterness had crept into Frank’s voice. Steven had never even heard the old man raise his tone, never mind drop an F-bomb. He listened on, content for now to hear him out.

“Back when I was young, we didn’t have all these electronics. Laptop computers, game consoles, big screen TV’s. People have become lazy. They’re wasting space, wasting resources. We have to compensate for that Steve—so even if it’s not a world changer, it all helps. Every little bit of it helps.”

“Maybe I should look into it.” Steven said noncommittally.

Frank nodded. “Maybe you should. It’s worthwhile.”

Steven watched now as Frank and Alice put the bag down to catch their breath, and he wondered just how far they’d taken the recycling. Of course he had often seen Frank heading out in his blue Nissan on Saturday mornings to take his bottles to the recycling plant, waving and smiling as he passed. But he also sometimes heard the car go out in the middle of the night. Now for the first time, he asked himself why the old man would be heading out at such unusual hours. He watched on, careful to make sure he was out of sight as he peered around the corner of the bedroom curtains. He watched as the pair lifted the bag up again with some effort, then Frank lost his grip. He snatched at the heavy duty plastic, but couldn’t maintain his hold, and the bag tore free as the object they were carrying dropped to the stone path.

Steven recognised the girl. He’d seen her on the TV and on the front page of the local newspapers. She had been reported missing a few days earlier, after disappearing on her way home from a night out with friends. He tried to remember her name from the news report. He thought it might have been Lucy, but it escaped him. She looked quite different from the happy and smiling girl in the news pictures. Now her skin was almost grey and her blonde hair was partially matted with dried blood from the ugly, jagged wound in her throat. Her eyes looked lifelessly and accusingly into oblivion, perhaps asking why me. Why someone so young found herself here, rather than tucked up in her own bed, or snuggled up to a boyfriend somewhere. Steven looked on helplessly as Frank covered her, tucking the plastic underneath the body and getting a firmer grip, before the two shuffled down that small path beside the decking. If this were a movie, Steven thought, this would be the point where Frank would look up and see his nosey neighbour, and so would begin a deadly game of cat and mouse. But Frank didn’t look up; he was too preoccupied to worry about the next-door neighbour, who as far as he knew was at work. Trying to process a thousand thoughts simultaneously, Steven sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

“What have you done?”

He wasn’t quite sure if he meant Frank or himself, or if he had even said it out loud at all. He cast his mind to all of the missing persons reports on the news in the last few years, and it all made sense. It seemed Frank had found something to do with his days—or more specifically, his nights.

And at what point did Alice find out?

Was she too afraid to leave him, or just too afraid of him to contact the authorities? Perhaps it started off as just as using a different kind of light bulb, or turning off the plug sockets at the wall before turning in for the night, but at some point it had all changed. They had taken it to the next level, but Steven was sure that it all still boiled down to one thing—

Recycling.

A chill coursed through his body as he recalled the conversation about the compost heap.

“I keep it back there as it’s unsightly, and doesn’t smell too good, but it’s pretty remarkable. Everything returns to the earth, Steve. It takes us all back eventually.”

Frank was right, of course. It did.

Steven wondered how large that compost heap was now. What would be found if the topsoil were pulled away, how many—

An idea struck him, one which horrified him and thrilled him at the same time. She would be home soon, and wouldn’t expect to find him here. And why would she? She had thrown him out of his own house after all, and seemed to be enjoying making his life a misery despite his best efforts to keep things amicable. Maybe it was time he stood up for himself. He thought he could do it—sure he could—and more importantly, he thought he could get away with it. He would be doing the world a favour anyway.

After all, every little helps.

Every little helps.

A STRANGE AFFAIR

I

So much blood.

Harry blinked as his brain tried to process the violence in front of him. His wife’s eyes stared blankly, devoid of any semblance of life as the eight inch serrated knife fell to the ground. It was at that point, as it came to rest on a pile of soggy, slick entrails that he felt something in his mind snap. He tried to speak but instead only smacked his lips, a strange gurgling sound welling up from inside. He was sure he could have controlled it, had she not chosen that moment to speak. Her tone was both an accusation and a question—pleading and angry. It was that one word that sent him over the edge.

“Harry?”

As he turned and vomited noisily, he wondered how this could have happened. How his life could come to this.

Earlier.

Flicking impatiently through the news channels, Harry hoped for something to catch his interest. Anything at all to distract him from the horrible sticky humidity that seemed to hang in the room like a blanket. Wiping his arm across his forehead, he wondered just what was happening to the world. The news channels were as bleak as ever. CBS. NBC. CNN. All of them rehashing the latest atrocities.

Militants had killed two hundred civilians in some country Harry had never heard of.

An earthquake in Japan had flattened a village.

A suspected Serial killer was still at large in Ohio.

“Fucking world gone crazy,” he mumbled to himself, as he finally gave up on the news and switched over to Wheel of Fortune. He shuffled uncomfortably as the chair creaked under his weight. His shirt was ringed under the arms with sweat, and he made a mental note to call Daniels and chew him out about the broken air conditioning.

Ever since losing his job he’d been in a terrible cycle of depression. Initially headhunted by Daniels to run his company’s export division, he had been offered a rock solid job with great benefits and a house just off the beach. The only downside was that Harry would have to move from the family home in Atlanta, and relocate to Rio. The decision had strained his and Maggie’s relationship, as she had been reluctant to leave her job as a part time nurse, but she eventually agreed. So they sold the house and embarked on their new life in Brazil.

It became apparent rather quickly that it was not at all as they had been led to believe. The factory itself was ramshackle at best and staffed with locals who couldn’t speak a word of English. Their unrushed and relaxed work ethic was a frustration for Harry from the start, and on top of that, the beachfront house he’d been promised was actually a tiny two-bedroom apartment located right in the center of the tourist heavy area of town. It was boisterous in the evenings, and by early morning the streets were filled with empty bottles and half-eaten cartons of takeout food. Although the beach was within walking distance as advertised, it was also within close proximity to the Favelas—great ramshackle shanty towns stacked haphazardly on top of one another, covering the Rio hillsides. Instead of the dream job that would take him to retirement, Harry was confronted with humid, sticky evenings and intense arguments with Maggie, all set against the backdrop of gunfire and police sirens. All of it was just about bearable until Harry lost his job without warning.

Unable to adjust to Harry’s new regime of hard work and long hours, the factory workers had threatened a strike unless things reverted back to the way they were. Faced with losing either one man or a hundred, the company made Harry the scapegoat and he was released from his position after just three months. Maggie was furious and had demanded they go back to Atlanta, but Harry, as stubborn as he was, had refused to leave with his tail between his legs. He told her in no uncertain terms that they were staying where they were. He tried to find work but many local businesses were reluctant to employ a foreigner, and as the rejections increased, his confidence plummeted.

With a grunt, he tossed the remote onto the small coffee table, dragged himself with some effort out of his chair and moved to the window. Peering out in to the near dusk, he glanced at his watch. Almost seven thirty. It was time for them—the city’s night people—the pushers, the pimps, and the whores. Time for them to seep out onto the streets and go about their business. It was a world away from the picture painted for him by Eng. Tec when they had initially approached him. They had promised him clean streets, a peaceful environment in which to live and work. He should have done more research of his own, but the truth was he had been dazzled by the sales patter and accepted everything without question. With an irritable sigh he yanked open the window, praying for a cool breeze. Instead, sticky, humid warmth enveloped him he leaned out. Even at dusk the heat was oppressive.

“Hottest damn summer in years,” he muttered as he squinted off into the distance.

He was just able to see a blue grey smudge of ocean on the horizon, between the labyrinth of buildings and hotels that dominated his immediate view. He let out a deep sigh and surveyed the landscape, wondering if other people out there were as miserable as he was. He certainly hoped so. As dusk gave way to darkness he could see the sickly neon glow of the main town parade that was depressingly close to his apartment block. He’d learned quickly that Rio was a place split right down the middle. The days were for the respectable tourists—young families looking to see the sights or perhaps buy some souvenirs for friends back home. Maybe a postcard showing a crescent of white beach set against a perfect and cloudless blue sky.

He could see it now. Welcome to sunny Brazil. Enjoy your stay.

He’d been sold this image by Daniels. He hated him, but to his credit, Daniels was good at his job. Really good. Harry suspected he could sell sand to Arabs, or snow to Eskimo’s. Hell, he sold Rio to Harry Harris after all. Daniels aside, as soon as the sky began to grow dark and those sickly neon lights began to cast their harsh red and blue hues, the other half of the city began to crawl out of the shadows. The pimps, the pushers, the gangs. And of course the prostitutes. Many were old and broken, their bodies ravaged by life on the streets. Crack cocaine was rampant here, as easy to get as groceries from the local supermarket. Many of the prostitutes were painfully young. Thin waifs of girls with desperation and fear in their eyes as they touted openly for business—usually monitored from nearby by the gangs or their pimps who lingered in the shadows. It was clear that the night was theirs. When he first arrived he had ventured out to see for himself, to convince himself that he wasn’t afraid. He realized soon enough that the world had changed into one he no longer understood. As he walked, he would see them watching him with eyes that said—

Hey, old man, you better get the fuck out of here, ‘cos I’ve been sleeping off my hangover all day and now I’m ready to fight, fuck, drink, and maybe do some coke. This is no place for the likes of you.

They were right, and after that he rarely ventured out after dark. He’d seen enough and ducked back into the room, slamming the window closed. “Motherfucker!” he barked, overcome with rage as he snatched up the phone and punched in Daniels’s number. The air conditioning was supposed to have been fixed the week before, but the little shit had slinked away citing some lame excuse about a family emergency. Harry blamed him for this whole mess. He had sugar-coated the shit as it were, and at first he couldn’t do enough to help.

‘Anything you need, and I do mean anything, call me anytime night or day and I’ll make it happen. We at Eng-Tec look after our own,’ he had said, flashing his veneered salesman’s grin. Since Harry had been fired it seemed Daniels was gradually but unquestionably phasing them out. Taking the wireless handset with him, he stalked through to the small kitchen slamming open the fridge as he yelled over his shoulder.

“Damn it, Maggie. The damn air conditioning still isn’t working and Daniels isn’t answering the fucking phone!”

A disembodied voice drifted back from the bedroom.

“He’s not home, Harry. His mother died last Friday.”

Harry shook his head, squeezing the handset so hard his knuckles turned white.

“I don’t give a damn about his dead mother, it’s a hundred degrees in here!”

She came out of the bedroom, giving him a disapproving glance as she swept past, the smell of her perfume causing him to wrinkle his nose.

“Maggie, how much of that shit do you have to plaster yourself with? I can hardly breathe in here as it is!”

She didn’t rise to the bait, pausing instead to look at herself in the mirror over the fireplace

“Don’t start, Harry, I’m not in the mood.” Her irritation was undisguised. He snapped open a beer, tossing the lid into the sink rather than the bin.

“You aren’t in the mood? Fuck, Maggie, neither am I. Family emergency my ass. The son of a bitch is avoiding me, I just know it.”

She swept past him again, a vortex of perfume and hairspray as she grabbed her purse from the worktop.

“Come on, Harry, give the guy a break. I imagine our air conditioning is the least of his worries.”

He screwed up his face in disdain, throwing the handset on the worktop and taking a great chug of beer, almost draining the entire can.

“I don’t give a fuck, I just want my damn air conditioning fixed. It’s like a GOD DAMN FURNACE IN HERE!”

Ignoring Harry’s rage, Maggie checked the contents of her purse before spraying even more perfume onto her wrists and rubbing them together. Usually she wore her hair down to the shoulder, but tonight Harry noticed that she had re-styled it and colored it blonde, a radical departure from its usual auburn shade. She now wore it swept back and tied into a ponytail. He felt a stirring in his groin, but it quickly subsided. Getting lucky was no longer in the cards, and hadn’t been for some time. Although she was only six years younger than he was at thirty-nine, she could easily pass for late twenties. Her skin was flawless and without worry lines. Her eyes were blue and shone brightly. It was clear to him from the beginning that he’d struck lucky with her. They had shared a certain spark once, but its intensity had faded over the years. Now she seemed distracted and distant for the most part, and he found affection harder and harder to give.

He watched her now as she found what she was looking for—the earrings he had bought her for Christmas. She saw him looking at her as she clipped them in.

“Go easy on Daniels—he’s having a tough time right now, Harry.”

Before he could stop himself, he jabbed a finger at her accusingly.

“It’s ok for you,” he snarled. “You are never here, always somewhere with those damn friends of yours.”

She took a step towards him, opening her mouth as if to speak, but letting out a deep sigh instead. He was full of anger, and although he had never laid a hand on her, he had to restrain himself from lashing out.

“Whatever, Harry. I don’t have time for this crap. I’m going to be late.”

“You and those damn women. I don’t like them Maggie. You‘ve changed since they started whispering in your ear, telling you how to think.”

Maggie didn’t look at him; she was at the mirror toying with her hair.

“Harry, they’re my friends. You could go out too, you know. Get out of this damn room for a while.”

“I shouldn’t have to leave my own damn house because some lazy shit won’t do his damn job!” he bellowed, face flushed red with anger.

“Besides, you know I have no friends here. Do you expect me to go out on my own?”

“Betty’s husband is a nice guy—the two of you could go out for a beer or something. Just stop making me feel guilty for having a life.”

“Betty? The bitch with the buck teeth? Her husband is a prick. No thanks.”

He saw her reflection glare at him in the mirror.

“Do what you like, Harry. I’m sick of this shit.”

She turned and swept past him, her anger obvious. He grabbed her arm and spun her around, unable to ignore the flicker of hate and revulsion in her eyes. He let go of her and lowered his gaze.

“Look, Maggie, I’m sorry. I just worry about you. I know things have been rough since we moved out here. I’ll put it right, ok?”

She looked at him and nodded, but he could see in her eyes that it was a token gesture. He felt a pang of sorrow deep inside, which hurt more than he expected. Maggie smiled, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.

“Harry, please don’t worry. There’s a whole bunch of us and I’ll take a taxi back. I’ll be fine. But I meant what I said; you really need to start getting out of here. It’s not good for you to stay home all the time.”

He looked down at the floor, scuffing his feet on the cheap carpet.

“I’ve been in a god-awful mood all day, and this business with the air conditioning just sent me over the edge. I think I’ll make it an early night and wake up in a better mood tomorrow. You go out and have fun.”

She kissed him again on the cheek, flashing him a smile.

“No need to wait up, I have a key. Get some rest. You look tired.”

He sank into his chair and stared at the TV as she swept towards the door. She opened it and looked back.

“I love you, Harry”

“Love you too,” he responded, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the television screen. She waited for a few seconds as if she were thinking of something else to say, then left, leaving the smell of her perfume hanging in the sticky heat of the apartment. He waited for a full count of thirty before he switched off the TV and crossed to the window. He watched the street below and waited for her to appear. She left, walking unhurriedly away from their building and towards the center of the town. He pulled on his jacket as a fresh wave of anger flowed through him.

She’s having an affair.

Harry had ignored the voice in his head for some time now, but found he could no longer block it out.

Something isn’t right, Harry.

“No shit, chief,” he mumbled to himself in response to his inner voice.

You had better find out what’s happening before she has a chance to cover her tracks.

“Yeah, I know.”

Besides, it’s an excuse to get out of this apartment.

Harry moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “Say again,” he mumbled to the empty room

I said don’t forget the knife.

“Knife?”

Just in case you need it. For protection.

Harry grunted and went to the kitchen. He selected a medium sized steak knife, wrapping it in kitchen paper and slipping it into his pocket. The voice inside spoke up again.

Ready? Now let’s go.

Harry opened the door and set off after his wife.

II

It didn’t take long to confirm that his suspicions were more than the paranoid delusions of a depressed husband. For the last half hour he had followed her at a distance, and as he pushed his way through the crowded streets, his heart sank. His initial curiosity and anger had now given way to an overwhelming sense of sadness. For the first time in years, he craved a cigarette.

Just wait it out, Harry, old pal. Let’s wait and see what happens.

“Shut up,” he barked, drawing a few puzzled glances from the people around him. Embarrassed, he pulled his collar tight around his neck, even though it was still hot and humid. Shoving his way through the humid streets, head aching and drenched with sweat, he felt a rage boiling up within him. In a sudden shift, the anger melted away to sadness when he thought about what would happen once he confronted her.

He had met her by chance in a bar back in Atlanta. It was a busy night and the room was bustling and full. He noticed that the seat next to her was free and had approached to ask if he could sit. She nodded absently, her head buried in a notebook in which she was writing furiously. He was mesmerized by her natural beauty. The way her nose tilted upwards slightly at the tip and the way her mouth moved silently as she wrote. He saw that her glass was empty and asked if she would like another. She had smiled at him, and Harry sat and plucked up the courage to engage conversation. He had told bad jokes at his own expense and Maggie had laughed at him, gradually opening up. When the discussion turned to her notebook, she told Harry that she was a nurse by day, but also an aspiring novelist. She allowed him to read a few pages and Harry fell in love with her style. Her copy was punchy, the characters vivid and full of life.

Over the next few weeks they continued to see each other, and their relationship grew. The following summer they married. Their friends thought it was way too soon, but Harry and Maggie had no doubts. They wanted to be together, and for a while life was perfect for them. Maggie’s writing was evolving in leaps and bounds, and Harry continued to work hard so that she might leave her job and focus on writing. It seemed the world was theirs for the taking. Things got even better in the spring of 87’ when Maggie got pregnant. Harry was over the moon and couldn’t believe the lucky hand life had dealt him. But it was around this time that things began to fall apart.

He snapped back to the present, pushing his way through the throngs of people walking the streets. The faces were a blur, insignificant obstacles between him and his impending confrontation with his wife. The only thing that was clear to him was the back of Maggie’s head as she walked towards the seedier area of the town. The bars and nightclubs were just as numerous, but the lights didn’t shine quite as brightly, or penetrate as far into the recesses and darkened corners of the street. This was where the locals spent their nights, away from the tourists and within spitting distance of the Favelas. They sat on doorsteps or stood in groups on street corners, smoking huge acrid smelling cannabis joints that made Harry’s nose wrinkle. He tried his best to ignore the icy stares as they watched him. He knew he looked as out of place as he felt, and wondered if he would even survive long enough to confront Maggie. Every fiber of his being told him to run; to go back to the relative safety of his overpriced sweatbox apartment and forget about this—just go on living the lie. After all what good would it do to confront her? He would only end up alone. If he went along with it she would probably stay with him, and he would still have company at least. Besides, he could have it wrong. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation; he had simply put two and two together and come up with five.

Come on, pal, you know the score here as well as I do. Just take a look. She isn’t out with her friends, so she has already lied to you. Who knows what else is on tonight’s agenda.

“Shut up,” he muttered again, this time under his breath so as not to draw anymore needless attention. The voice inside responded with calm patience, as if explaining something to a child.

I just don’t want you to hold out hope. Let’s see where she goes from here.

He froze on the spot, his heart almost leaping into his mouth as it skipped a beat. He hadn’t noticed that she had stopped ahead of him to talk with two locals. To Harry’s horror, they seemed to know her, the three of them laughing and joking. Maggie handed them a roll of cash and was given a small plastic bag containing white powder in return. Harry was in shock. Drugs? He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. They had both smoked a little pot when they were younger, but cocaine?

Aren’t you glad you didn’t pussy out now, old buddy?

Harry ignored his inner voice and kicked himself for not concentrating on the task at hand. He looked around for somewhere to hide and ducked into a ramshackle news stand, turning his back to her as he pretended to browse the magazines. He kept a careful but watchful eye on her as she said her goodbyes to the locals and set off walking again. Harry relaxed, glancing at the wiry old man behind the news counter who was looking back with a bemused and somewhat distrustful look on his face.

“Can I help you, sir?” the storekeeper asked, the sketchy English rolling uncomfortably from his tongue.

“No, no thanks.” Harry turned to leave, but stopped short. “Actually, I’ll take a pack of Marlboros.”

On her tail again, he saw her go into a bar a little way down the street. Even from a distance, he could see how seedy it was. Its windows were grimy and covered with posters.

COCKTAILS 2-4-1! FREE SHOT OF VODKA B4 11PM!

Proclaimed the hand drawn poster board outside. A tired looking neon Budweiser sign hung in the window, flickering intermittently. He fumbled with the fresh pack of cigarettes, placing one in his mouth and then realizing he had no means with which to light it. He shoved the pack into his overcoat pocket, careful to make sure he didn’t catch his hand on the knife. He took the cigarette from his lip and wedged it behind his right ear, an old habit from before he’d quit.

Just like riding a bike.

Harry tried his best to peer through the grimy window, scanning the vague forms within for his wife. Maybe it was just a pit stop, perhaps to use the bathroom or the phone. His heart skipped as he saw her, the body language unmistakable. She was at the bar, legs crossed suggestively towards the man beside her. She was watching him speak, a half smile on her lips as she ran her index finger slowly around the rim of her wine glass. A succession of emotions overcame Harry: anger, sorrow, rage, and once again that overwhelming sadness. His eyes jealously scanned the man with her, watching him speak, his unheard words holding her full attention. Although he couldn’t see perfectly, Harry could tell the man was young. Maybe twenty-five, certainly no older than thirty. He was wearing a pristine charcoal suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. Harry watched him flash a smile at her, before stealing a quick glance at her chest, which threatened to spill from her dress every time she moved.

A wave of nausea hit him as he turned away from the window. He couldn’t decide what upset him the most, the fact that his suspicions had been correct, or that she looked happier than she had in years. Unable to hold back any longer, he vomited noisily, his vision dancing with bright white spots as he tried to compose himself. People walked around him eyeing him cautiously but keeping to themselves.

I don’t want to say I told you so, but…. I told you so.

Harry didn’t answer. He simply stared at the brown-yellow puddle of liquid he’d just ejected.

So, what are you going to do now?

He stood upright and reached into his pocket, feeling the wrapped handle of the knife still nestled there. The voice inside was silent, but Harry knew it was smiling.

III

For almost an hour, he waited across the street on a bench that was partially shrouded by trees. As he sat amongst the filth his anger grew. He was acutely aware of his stench, a heady combination of stale sweat, vomit, and perhaps sadness. Does sadness have a smell? He wondered.

If it does, it smells like puke and wino piss, chief.

Ignoring his inner voice, he wondered how he might look to the strangers walking by. He suspected he no longer looked quite so out of place. He felt tired. His brain had been working overtime, trying in vain to rationalize events as they unfolded. He let his thoughts drift again to the past. To a time before humid nights spent spying on his adulterous wife, to a happier time long before all of this happened. He let his mind roll back through the years, back to the day she told him she was pregnant. He tried to recall the utter joy of that moment, but over time it had been lost, eclipsed by the misery that followed.

The baby was a boy. He had Maggie’s eyes and Harry’s nose. Maggie took a break from writing to try her hand at being a mother, and she excelled at it. Harry himself, despite his initial struggles with changing nappies and getting used to the broken sleep, had loved every minute of being a father.

The baby died at seven months.

He could still remember every detail of that day. The way Maggie was still sleeping beside him even though he had woken early, his internal clock reminding him that a feed was overdue. He could recall the way the sun warmed his face, the way that dust swirled around the room, caught in the golden rays of the early morning. He remembered going into the baby’s room to wake him, warm bottle of milk in hand as he peered into the crib. He remembered the horror and fear of being unable to move, unable to do anything. He remembered his son—blue and lifeless, staring into oblivion. He remembered screaming.

It was crib-death, apparently not an uncommon occurrence, though they were later told that it typically happens within the first five months. There was a funeral, and Harry carried his son’s small white coffin by himself. For everyone else life went on, but for him and Maggie it seemed to stop. They didn’t speak about it, but it was always there. Harry came home one day to find that Maggie had completely redecorated the baby’s room, which had remained untouched since the funeral. He was furious and the ensuing argument was highly charged, both of them crying openly as they took out their frustration and sadness on each other. Over the course of the next few months the pain did ease, and although it would never truly leave, it became tolerable enough to allow life to continue. Harry adjusted adequately, going back to work, but Maggie was a different story. She was a mess, and refused to seek professional help of any sort. She would spend days staring into space, weeping silently. Work was out of the question, and her novel remained unfinished, even with Harry encouraging her. Something within her had broken, something Harry had hoped to mend but now realized was impossible.

Hey, Harry. Heads up.

He glanced toward the entrance of the bar. Right outside was the man his wife had gone to meet. He was talking on his mobile phone and pacing back and forth, the call seemingly an unwelcome intrusion. He watched as his wife’s date ended the call and shoved the phone absently into his jacket pocket. The man headed back inside but instead of turning right to return to the bar, he turned left and went into the rest room.

Looks like he’s going for a piss, Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered to himself.

He didn’t remember crossing the street, or even entering the bar, but now found himself outside the door to the rest room. His hand drifted absently to his pocket containing the kitchen knife. He glanced around, checking that Maggie couldn’t see him.

Remember, you have to see for yourself. You have to catch her in the act.

Harry took a deep breath and opened the door. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the harsh lighting. The smell of pine filled his nostrils as he looked around the long L-shaped bathroom. Harry was surprised to see Maggie’s date standing in the center of the room, once again on his mobile phone. The two made eye contact, Maggie’s mystery date tipping a nod in Harry’s direction as he continued to listen to whoever was on the other end of the line. Ignoring the gesture, Harry went into one of the stalls and closed the door behind him. He had a headache, but strained to hear the whispered conversation from the other side of the door. It sounded like the mystery man had a wife or girlfriend, apparently grilling him on his whereabouts.

“I’m sorry, baby, but I have to look after these clients…

“This could be a big case for me; it will be worth it in the end if Mr. Mashima hires me…

“I don’t know when I’ll be home. I may stay in a hotel and head home tomorrow morning…

“Ok baby… Ok, love you. Bye.”

He had apparently convinced her that he was indeed with Mr. Mashima, and not in a seedy Rio bar trying to screw Harry’s wife.

Let’s bleed this motherfucker and get out of here!

His shock at the directness of the thought turned to horror as he glanced down to find the knife already in his hand. He couldn’t remember taking it from his pocket. As he looked at himself in the blade’s reflection, his features twisted and warped into those of a stranger.

“Oh god, I’m losing my mind,” he whispered to himself. His stomach tightened and he let out a stale burp that tasted of the cheese sandwich he’d had for lunch.

You ok there, big guy? Don’t you go losing it now. Just relax and take it easy.

“What do you care?” Harry mumbled to himself under his breath. He couldn’t take his eyes from the blade. He turned it slowly, his reflection twisting and pulsing under the hash strip light above.

Hello? Anyone home? I’m starting to worry about you, pal.

“Fuck you,” he said distantly as he put the knife back into his coat pocket. He felt strange, like he was coming apart at the seams. Closing his eyes, he counted backwards from ten in his head, a technique he’d picked up in therapy to help with his anger issues. It didn’t always work, but he had to try.

Ten

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

He slowed his breathing and ignored the crescendo building in his head. He was used to the headaches, but this was a particularly bad one.

Six.

Five.

He was starting to feel more in control. More like the old Harry. But not the old Harry from Atlanta, the one who had an easy smile and a huge circle of friends, the one who took life in his stride.

Four.

Three.

No. Because that Harry was gone. He was buried somewhere deep, decomposing and festering with maggots. He was feeling more like the Harry of a few hours ago; the angry, estranged and lonely man who had tried his best and wound up in Rio-fucking-De-Janeiro for his troubles. Home of the pimps, dwelling place of the teenage prostitutes, murderers, gang bangers and drug dealers. Welcome to your new life in Sunny Brazil! Murder capital of the world!

Two.

One.

That Harry was a prick, sure enough. But make no mistake, he was nothing like this new Harry—the twisted, melt-faced Harry with rage bubbling under his skin. The Harry who feels no connection with humanity anymore. No empathy towards others. Who knows no limits.

He opened his eyes, his thoughts now clear and concise, but he could still feel the other Harry lurking in some dark corner of his mind with his twisted smile. Harry opened the door. At first he thought he was alone and that Maggie’s date had left, but then saw him in the mirrors that ran the full length of the wall, pissing noisily into a urinal. Harry went to the sink and started to wash his hands.

He looked in the mirror but couldn’t make eye contact with his reflection. He wasn’t sure which Harry would be staring back at him. His temple pounded heavily and he could feel his heart racing. Maggie’s date came over to the sink then and began to wash his hands.

“Hot as hell today.”

Harry grunted, unable to muster any words as he continued washing his own hands. The water was scalding, but Harry didn’t care. He felt detached from himself, like the hazy first few minutes after waking from a particularly vivid dream. He was vaguely aware of the burning sensation on his skin, but didn’t really feel anything.

“Hey, buddy, are you ok? You don’t look so good.”

The man had turned towards Harry, looking at him with genuine concern. Harry nodded.

“I’m fine…tough day is all.” He was surprised by how normal his voice sounded. The man laughed, and continued to wash his hands.

“I hear that. Did you see the news tonight? Police found another body. That’s seven in the last three weeks! Someone out there is on a spree. Damn city is going to hell. Fuckin’ gangs if you ask me.”

“I haven’t seen the news today,” Harry lied, not wanting to make small talk with this man

“Let me tell you, pal, this last one was nasty. Some kid got his fuckin’ head cut off and displayed in the street for all to see. I hear they found his dick in his mouth.”

Harry glanced up at the man, then back at his raw burnt hands. The pain was good; it kept the other Harry occupied.

“It’s kind of been the day from hell,” Harry said softly.

Maggie’s date nodded sympathetically.

“I had quite a day myself. Hell, I’d buy you a beer, but I’m with someone tonight.”

He flashed a half smile, one that expressed more than words ever could. It was a predatory smile. Harry nodded in response as he felt the seams of his mind fray a little more. On autopilot, Harry heard himself reply—

“Three’s a crowd. I get it.”

Harry felt a chill as the man smiled, showing a mouth full of perfectly shaped white teeth.

“See, I work away from home a lot, don’t get to see my girlfriend too often… Got my needs, if you catch my drift.”

Harry swallowed his rage, mustering all of his willpower to force a smile of his own. It felt like a mask, hanging loosely over his real face. He could now only faintly register the burning of the hot water on his hands as he continued to scrub them.

“How about you? Got a wife or a girlfriend?”

“Been married fifteen years. Just found out we’re getting a divorce. Like I said, it’s been a pretty shitty day.”

Maggie’s date nodded, flashing a sympathetic look that made Harry want to tear his eyes from his skull.

“Damn sorry to hear that, buddy. Really.”

Harry said nothing, finally shutting off the hot water and drying his raw, throbbing hands.

“Why the divorce, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He somehow managed to keep his anger in check.

“Adultery. My wife has been fucking around behind my back.” Harry looked him dead in the eye as he said this, pleased to see Maggie’s date squirm a little then lower his gaze.

“That’s pretty shitty. I’m sorry to hear it… Don’t get me wrong, I love my girl. I would do anything for her, but you know how it is, right buddy?” He flashed that grin again. Harry imagined ripping his throat out.

“I hear ya. So your date tonight… you just met?”

He had to ask. He couldn’t help himself.

“Not exactly. A buddy of mine set me up. A few guys I know have had the pleasure of her company. She’s a sure thing.” He grinned, and began to dry his hands slowly.

“I mean, I’m a busy man, I don’t have time to waste on someone who isn’t going to deliver. This way, I know I’m in for some action –”

He stopped speaking, the smile fading from his face.

“Hey, pal, are you ok…”

Harry knew he was going to do it. He was going to kill this man right here in this bathroom. He knew it with certainty.

He reached towards his pocket, and at that very moment another patron entered the restroom. Harry blinked and broke eye contact as Maggie’s date finished washing his hands, completely unsuspecting.

“Look I gotta go. Don’t want to keep my date waiting.”

He went to leave, and then paused at the door.

“Hey look. I may be able to help.” He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed over to Harry.

“I’m a lawyer, I specialize in divorce cases. Give me a call if you need representation. I’ll make sure you get everything you deserve.”

Not if I give you what you deserve first, you sick fuck.

Harry looked at the card, finally putting a name to the face. Mark Fife.

“Thanks, Mark. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Fife grinned—a lawyer’s grin—and once again Harry felt the urge to tear the man’s head from his shoulders.

“No sweat. I better go—my date will wonder where I am.”

Well that went well, didn’t it?

“Shut up,” harry whispered. “I need to think.”

He made his way outside and into the slightly cooler night air. It was then that it dawned on him: he had nothing left. Nothing to lose. Everything in his world was a sham, an illusion. The only thing he had left was revenge; revenge on Fife, revenge on her.

He’d given her everything he could, and she’d reduced him to this. He was sick of giving. It was time he started taking.

IV

Fife worked fast. Harry had been waiting across the street for no more than half an hour, when the pair left the bar arm in arm. They lingered outside, just another couple heading home after a quiet drink or two. At least that’s how it would look to anyone who passed them in the street. Maggie was leaning heavily on Fife. She appeared drunk, but knowing her as he did, Harry knew she wasn’t as loose as she was letting on. His heart sank as he watched them. Fife whispered something in her ear and she responded with a laugh, kissing him gently on the lips before the pair began to walk down the street.

This is it, Harry. Showtime.

“Yeah, showtime,” Harry mumbled, not caring who could hear him now. He took a deep breath before crossing the street.

They walked for a while away from the busy center of town, and Harry wondered where Fife was taking her. Suddenly the pair came to a halt up ahead, and he ducked into a doorway to stay out of sight. He watched carefully as Maggie leaned towards Fife and whispered something to him, then pulled away, holding his gaze. Fife smiled— that predator’s smile Harry had seen earlier. Maggie grabbed his hands and pulled him gently towards the alleyway they had stopped in front of. Harry’s heart raced and he could feel the blood surging through his veins as he licked his lips.

Ok, Harry, let’s put an end this.

He inched his way towards the entrance of the alleyway, his senses suddenly acute, aware of everything going on around him. He peeked around the corner expecting to see them, but there was nothing. The alley extended for around thirty feet and then turned sharply to the left. He was about to proceed, when he heard a noise ahead; a grunt from around the corner. He walked slowly down the alley on legs that felt like they were made of rubber, careful to stay in the shadows. He took the knife from his pocket, holding it tightly in his right hand as he inched across the wall. He was now at the turn of the corner, and could hear them grunting and fumbling in the shadows. He closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his cheek, and turned the corner.

So much blood.

Harry blinked as his brain tried to process the violence in front of him. His wife’s eyes stared blankly, devoid of any semblance of life as the eight inch serrated knife fell to the ground. It was at that point as he watched it come to rest on a pile of soggy, slick entrails that he felt something in his mind snap. He tried to speak, but instead only smacked his lips, a strange gurgling sound welling up from inside. He was sure he could have controlled it, had she not chosen that moment to speak. Her tone was both an accusation and a question—pleading and angry. It was that one word that sent him over the edge.

“Harry?”

As he turned and vomited noisily, he wondered how this could have happened, how his life could come to this.

Fife was sitting on the ground, his legs splayed apart, his stomach and internal organs pooled around him. His eyes stared lifelessly downward, his chin resting on his chest as Maggie crouched beside him, her own knife jammed deeply in his throat.

Maggie stood defiantly, pulling the knife free with a wet crunch as she now stared at Harry. He searched her eyes for anything, any semblance of the woman he had loved, but saw only darkness there. She walked towards him slowly, smiling without humor as she lifted the blade.

“Close your eyes, Harry,” she said seductively. Too shocked to do anything but cooperate, Harry did as he was told. Finally, he understood. Fife’s words echoed back to him from their earlier conversation.

‘Did you see the news tonight? Police found another body. That’s seven now. Someone out there is on a spree.’

“Yes they are,” Harry said under his breath.

He could smell her now—the expensive perfume mingled with the wet copper smell of blood. He felt his bladder let go and prayed it would be quick.

VICTOR

Mallone’s restaurant was located in the centre of New York’s Mulberry Street. Known as Little Italy, it was once a thriving neighbourhood of authentic Italian restaurants and stores, but since the influx of Chinese immigrants, neighbouring Chinatown had begun to grow and over time had absorbed much of Little Italy. Now only Mulberry Street remained—a single row of fine Italian restaurants determined to keep the tradition alive. Mallone’s was quaint, with warm red brick walls and large plate glass windows across its front. Their menu boasted the finest Italian meals in the city, and to those who dined there its reputation was entirely justified. A red white and green awning fluttered above the door, and the hand painted sign, which read simply Mallone’s in large red writing, had been the same since the fifties. On any given evening, the restaurant was a hive of activity, with tourists and locals alike keen to sample their excellent menu of traditional dishes. The daylight hours were quiet, and it was during this time that Victor Mallone ran his other business.

He sat at his private table at the back of the restaurant flanked by his personal bodyguards. Even though the only other people in the place were the waiting staff, already preparing for the evening rush of customers, he had learned not to take any chances. As the staff polished silverware and changed the red and white patchwork tablecloths, Victor ate his lunch, slobbering and grunting as he shovelled the Cannelloni down his immense gullet.

At three hundred and seventy pounds, he was the largest of the Mallone family, and also considered himself the smartest. The oldest of three brothers, his siblings had fared worse than he had. Joey, the youngest, was serving a twenty-year stretch for armed robbery and murder. His other brother, Salvatore, was never cut out to be a leader, and worked as his head of security. Victor glanced at himself in the mirror that ran down the side of the restaurant and smiled at the reach of his power. He was large and flabby, with thinning, greasy black hair he wore swept back and down to his shoulders. His eyes were small and piggish but incredibly cruel, and he had the hooked nose inherited from his father, Tino.

Tino had introduced Victor to the world of organised crime when he was only a teenager. At first it was just simple entry-level stuff. Money laundering, protection rackets and the like. But Victor had taken to it like a duck to water, and from those humble beginnings, he began to position himself to take over the Mallone family. Whilst his brothers were out chasing women and drinking, he was working closely with his father and getting his hands dirty, proving he was cut out for the job. He already had aspirations of his own, but they would have to wait until the old man finally decided to die or retire.

Victor eventually got sick of waiting, and in the spring of 94’ he smothered his frail old father as he slept. Nobody questioned the circumstances of his death—no one dared. Finally Victor had what he wanted. He was in control.

Over the next seventeen years he expanded the family business, turning a small operation into a sprawling and feared empire. Not content with protection rackets and money laundering, Victor had stepped up to drug smuggling, prostitution rings, extortion, kidnapping and contract killings. The business that initially turned over eight hundred grand a year, now turned over almost five times that amount, and there was no shortage of customers. Over the years, Victor had dealt with all manner of people, from all walks of life, who needed a little help here and there. Be it the woman who came to him looking to buy an American baby with no questions asked, or the lovers who wanted to rid the world of their respective spouses, or the crazy old recycling couple who wanted help getting away with murder. As long as they had the cash, they were all the same to Victor. He asked no questions. Everyone knew that Victor was a man without conscience, without morals, and without the capacity to forgive. And although he had homes in Madrid, Sicily, and Southern France, he chose to stay here in New York, close to the roots of his businesses. It was to show he had no fear of living down on street level with minimal protection (or at least to make it appear so). But the flipside was that it also made him a target. Several attempts had been made on his life, and apart from a narrow escape in the early part of ‘02, Victor was always one-step ahead of his enemies.

He finished his meal and let out a huge belch as Salvatore hurried out of the kitchen, wringing his hands. He was skinny with tight, drawn in features and prominent cheekbones. Like Victor, he had inherited his father’s thin hair, and was completely bald apart from a stubborn ring of black hair around the back of his head.

“Victor, I need to talk to you.”

Victor motioned for him to sit as he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“What is it, Sal?”

“More trouble with the Chinaman. He plugged Crespo.”

Victor tossed his napkin down in disgust. The Chinaman was Wang Li, a thorn in Victor’s side for the past seven years. Their paths had crossed many times, as they often found themselves with their fingers in the same lucrative pies. Like Victor, Wang Li was willing to do whatever it took to be successful. But whereas Victor was very much a public figure, Wang Li was something of a recluse and was rarely seen outside of his fortress like home above the restaurant he owned in Chinatown. People feared Wang Li just as much as they feared Victor, and since leaving such a rival alive was unwise, Victor had put a bounty on the Chinaman’s head for fifty grand.

The first to try was a Russian contract killer called Valuev. He came highly recommended to Victor as a man who could get the job done. Three days later Victor received a package in the mail containing Valuev’s severed head. Others tried, but had also either turned up in pieces or just disappeared altogether. The bounty on the Chinaman was now at an even two million dollars, but there had been no takers for almost two years. Word had spread of those who went before.

“Crespo? Ah, he was a nobody anyway. No loss.” He said this with a dismissive wave of his hand, but inwardly he was furious. Crespo was a major player in the weapons smuggling branch of Victor’s business, and this was a terrible blow to that particular revenue stream.

“That’s not all. The Chinaman wants to meet you.”

Victor felt a rare flash of fear, which he masked with a smile.

“I bet he does. Then what? An ambush? Does he think I was born yesterday?”

“Word on the street is he’s sick—that he wants out. Wants to end his days back in his homeland.”

“In my experience, Sal, the word on the street isn’t worth spit.”

“I thought so too, but he sent this.”

Salvatore reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out a DVD.

“It’s from him. I mean it’s personally from him.”

This was intriguing. Despite their on-going dispute, Victor had never actually seen the Chinaman. He turned the clear DVD case in his pudgy hands and considered his options.

“What are you thinking, Vic?”

“Let’s watch it and see what the old bastard has to say. Be in my office in an hour. And keep this quiet, Sal.”

“No problem. I’ll see you up at the house.”

The two brothers shook hands and Salvatore left. Victor wondered just what the Chinaman was up to. In his experience, people always had an angle, and rarely did anything unless they stood to gain something. He checked his watch, and right on cue the door to the restaurant opened and a man walked in for his appointment. He was one of Victor’s best, a real hard-ass with a vicious mean streak. He nodded to Victor and sat at the table opposite, hands folded on the tabletop.

“Alex, it’s good to see you.”

“Mr. Mallone.”

Cold. To the point. He was in the zone and ready to work. Victor wished he had more men like Alex. He briefly considered giving his assignment to someone else and bringing him in for the Chinaman situation, but Tony Valentine had been ducking his loan repayments for too long and Victor needed someone who could get the point across.

“I want you to do something for me, Alex. I want you to go visit Tony Valentine and get me my money. Whatever he doesn’t have in cash, I want you to bring back in body parts.”

“How far would you like me to go, Mr. Mallone?”

“Don’t kill him. Just make sure the lesson sticks.

“Understood. Where does he live?”

Victor handed over a folded slip of paper with the address scrawled on it.

“You are a great asset to my business, Alex.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mallone,” came the cold reply.

Victor nodded and was grateful to have someone so professional on his side. As the man left, Victor turned his attention back to the DVD, which sat beside his empty plate. This Chinaman business bothered him, but he was curious to see how it would play out. He slid out of his chair with some effort, and snatched up the DVD.

“Take me to the house,” he barked at the two men flanking the table who hurried on ahead of him. One opened the passenger door as the other rushed to the driver’s side of the bottle green ’63 Rolls Royce. Victor waddled out of the restaurant and clambered into the back of the car. He thought he might take a vacation soon, he was feeling drained and could do with a break. Stifling a yawn, he closed his eyes and dozed for the twenty-minute journey to his house.

Surrounded by twelve-foot high walls and situated on five acres of lush land, Victor’s home was more of a fortified compound than a living space. Boasting eight bedrooms and two swimming pools, it truly was the visual expression of the fruits of his labour. He employed a full time staff of cooks and cleaners, as well as a twelve-man security team to patrol and protect the outer perimeter of the property. As an extra precaution, all the windows were bulletproof.

Victor’s office was on the upper floor. It was panelled in oak, and the large, wall length window looked out over a great water-fountain that dominated the courtyard. The carpet was Persian and deep red, offset beautifully by the antique furniture. His desk was large and clean and as he sank into his oversized leather chair, he nodded to Salvatore to play the DVD. The pair watched as the fifty-inch television that hung on the wall came to life.

The screen faded in on a darkened room and a simple wooden desk. A black suited figure walked slowly into view and sat, looking directly into the camera. He looked to be anywhere between sixty and eighty. His white hair was thin and straggled, and his features were gaunt. His aged skin seemed stretched over his skull, and although he had obviously tried cosmetic surgery to mask the signs of age, the folds in his gizzard like neck were still visible. His slanted eyes were hard and cruel, and they appeared to look through the screen directly at Victor and Salvatore. He folded his bony hands on the desk and managed a weak smile. He then began to speak, his English vaguely tinted with his Cantonese dialect.

“Mr. Mallone, I’m sure this message has come as a surprise to you, and indeed I would not have sent it unless I had something of importance to convey.”

“It’s really him,” said Salvatore excitedly, Victor silencing him with a wave of his hand.

“I’ve grown old, Mr. Mallone—too old for this constant conflict between our organisations. I grow weary of the bloodshed, and as you can see, my health will not allow me the strength to persevere.”

Victor couldn’t quite believe that this old man was his great adversary. He shook his head slowly.

“I long to return home, to die in the peace of my homeland, and as I have no family to pass my business to, I have decided that—should you desire it—I shall turn control of my territory over to you.”

Victor and Sal shared a quick glance, then looked back to the screen.

“I know you are probably wondering why I would hand over my life’s work to you, Victor—and I don’t blame you. The fact is, despite everything that has transpired between our organisations, I have great respect for you. I respect your work ethic and I respect the ruthlessness with which you conduct your business.”

“Un-fuckin- believable,” whispered Salvatore under his breath. Victor watched on intently, a small amused smile on his face.

“I have only one condition, Mr. Mallone; should you accept my offer, you must retain my staff. I may be returning to China, but my men are not. They are hard-working and have families to feed. You will need the muscle anyway, as my territory is much larger than your own.”

The old man smiled but his eyes remained focussed and sharp.

“If you find this arrangement agreeable, I would suggest a meeting between you and myself at a secret location. To dispel any thoughts of deception on my part, I will allow you to choose the time and location, but I must stress the importance of keeping this arrangement confidential. There are certain parties that would be most interested in knowing we are in the same room together, and would greatly benefit from one or both of our deaths. Of course, you are under no obligation to accept this offer. If you do not, there are most certainly others who would be more than willing to take up the territory and business interests. If you would like to proceed, send one of your men to my restaurant with the time and location of the meeting. Tell him to ask for Lei Ling. She can be trusted with any information.”

The old man leaned forward. His face now out of the shadowy half-light, he looked even older and more tired.

“Let us put an end to this war, Victor. I have had enough of the bloodshed and simply wish to retire peacefully. You have three days to respond, after which I will assume you have declined my offer.”

The screen faded to black and Sal looked to Victor, his mouth open in shock.

“Did that really just happen, Vic? Did the old bastard just…give up?”

Victor smiled. He wasn’t convinced. Sure, the old man looked like hell, but he was still together upstairs.

“Don’t get too excited, Sal. This could be a trick to draw us out.”

“I’m not so sure, Vic. Did you see him? He looked sick. Like really sick.”

“Sick or not, it seems too good to be true. That usually means it is.”

“What if we use the situation to our advantage?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he said we can choose the place right? So let’s pick a spot where we can hide a few people, just in case things get outta hand. I know it’s a risk, Vic, but think of the gains.”

He nodded. Undisputed control of little Italy and Chinatown. It really was too good an opportunity to miss.

“You know what, Sal, you’re right. But we need to organize, do it up proper. The fewer people who know about it, the better. Bring in Joey and Franco.”

“What about Alex?”

“Nah, he’s working something else for me.”

“What about Marco?”

“I thought he was still in the cage?”

“Paroled last month. He’s ready for action.”

“Ok, sounds good. Make the arrangements.”

Sal nodded. “Any ideas where you wanna set up the meeting?”

“We need a private place that affords us the advantage if things turn to shit.”

“What about the waterfront?”

Victor considered for a moment and then nodded slowly.

“That’s not bad, Sal. We can use one of our boats. That way we don’t have to worry about an ambush.”

“Are you legit gonna meet him, Vic? No funny business?”

“It’s worth the risk, Sal. The benefits outweigh the risk.”

The Docks were situated just off Broadway. Split into three distinct sections, it was used for not only commercial import and export purposes, but also doubled as a naval shipyard. Millions of dollars’ worth of goods moved through here, going to and from all corners of the world. The ninety-foot vessel ‘Lady of the sea’ was tied to the dock and blended in perfectly with the other boats around it. Its white hull shimmered in the mid afternoon sun as the waves gently rocked it back and forth in its berth. Initially used for deep-sea fishing, Victor had purchased the boat five years earlier to smuggle weapons, drugs, and people on occasion.

The boat had been refurbished inside to Victor’s specifications. The usual maze of corridors typical of commercial boat interiors had been almost completely done away with. The lower decks had been converted into compartments (or cells when they needed to be used for the purpose) in which various goods were stored. Above this was the original crew’s quarters, and the upper deck had been completely opened up and split into three areas. There was Victor’s private bedroom and bathroom, next to which there was a large living space, and towards the stern of the boat was a long, windowless meeting room, which was to be the location of Victor’s meeting with Wang Li.

Nervous and not wanting to show it, Victor sat and sipped his double scotch whilst he waited for Wang Li to arrive. His people had shown up early to inspect the ship, and satisfied with the arrangements had cleared the meeting to proceed. Three guards from each family were stationed in the hall of the meeting room to deter any conflict that might arise. There were more men from each side stationed on the dock, watching one another carefully. Secretly, Victor had positioned a sniper on the large crane directly across the dock in the event that things went south. Although there was no line of sight into the meeting room, the sniper had instructions to kill Wang Li as he exited the vessel, should Victor give the signal—which would be sent via the red panic button under the conference table.

Victor sipped his drink thoughtfully as Salvatore ducked his head into the room.

“He’s here.”

Victor nodded and drained his glass.

“Show him in.”

He looked even older in the flesh as he shuffled into the room. He was walking with a cane and his hand shook with the effort of supporting himself. Victor suppressed a small smile as Wang Li was assisted to his seat by one of his aides who then left, closing the door behind him. Victor looked Wang Li in the eye, and was met with an equally icy stare that made him uncomfortable. He was used to people breaking eye contact, too intimidated by Victor’s reputation. Wang Li folded his hands on the table, and Victor fought the urge to grimace at how thin and wiry they were.

“Welcome, Mr. Li,” Said Victor sincerely.

“I am happy that you agreed to this meeting, Mr. Mallone. As you can see, I am quite unwell and desire a quick end to this matter.”

“If what you said in your message is true, then I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

Wang Li smiled at this. Victor couldn’t imagine him having very many years left. He looked frail, weathered. He thought this would be an easy negotiation.

“Mr. Mallone, you are no fool, and neither am I. I desire an end to this pointless battle. For many years, we have fought over territory, over business dealings, and both of us have lost people we care about.”

Victor nodded, although he personally didn’t care about those he had lost. Sure it was an inconvenience, but there was always a good turnover of down on their luck, willing to do anything scum looking to join his organisation. He said nothing and allowed the old man to continue.

“I no longer desire these things, Mr. Mallone. I am too old, too tired. I’m sure you have noticed my health is poor.”

Victor nodded. Indeed, the old fuck looked like he was ready to drop dead at any second, but he wouldn’t say that. Not when it looked like he was about to inherit a huge stake of territory without lifting a finger. He lived for days like this.

“Mr. Li, I don’t believe in extended negotiations or wasting people’s time, so I will tell you exactly where I stand and we can make this deal happen. I’m sure you are aware of the dangers to us both in meeting this way. Now—in regard to the condition of retaining your staff, I am prepared to accept this. But my concern is their loyalty.”

Li looked offended, but only for a second.

“Mr. Mallone, the loyalty of my men is unquestioned. They will do as I instruct them.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but how can I be certain that when you have retired they will remain loyal… and do as I tell them?”

Li smiled and sat back in his chair.

“If I command it, they will do it. Let me give you an example of their unquestioned loyalty… Two years ago, I needed a transplant—my liver was failing me. Of all of my men, only one was suitable; but he himself was in excellent health, a young man of just twenty-two. He gave me his life, Mr. Mallone. Without my asking he committed suicide, demanding that his liver be given to me. That is loyalty that you cannot buy.”

“Loyalty to you, Mr. Li. Not to me.”

Wang Li leaned forward and appeared angry, but then smiled.

“Mr. Mallone, there is no question that they will do as you ask, or they will answer to me.”

Victor decided to let the point go. The bottom line was, if they didn’t do things his way, they would disappear never to be seen again. It was crunch time. Victor wanted to see if the old man was genuine. It was time to put the cards on the table.

“Ok, Mr. Li, I think we have a deal.”

“Very good. You will assume full control of my business assets and my territory upon the transfer of three hundred million U.S. dollars into my account.”

Victor chuckled, but then saw that the old man was dead serious. He licked his lips nervously.

“Uh, Mr. Li, I was under the impression that no money would be changing hands in this deal. I assumed you were looking for someone to take over for you.”

“Indeed I am, Mr. Mallone. But to simply give away everything I have worked for? Oh no. That won’t do at all.”

“Then we have nothing further to discuss,” Victor said and stood.

The old man laughed.

“Victor, my friend, sit your fat, greasy ass down and listen to what I have to say.”

It was like someone flicking a switch. Gone was the frail appearance, the shaking hand. He still looked like hell, but he had an air of supreme authority about him that made Victor’s confidence falter. Shocked, he sat back in his chair as Li leaned close, spitting his words venomously.

“I have something to show you, Mr. Mallone.”

Li shouted over his shoulder in Chinese and the meeting room door opened. Victor could see his men, or what was left of them, smeared over the walls. He wondered how they had managed to be so quiet. They were all dead apart from Salvatore, who was on his knees, hands behind his head and mouth gagged. Their eyes met for a split second before the door was closed. Lei Ling, the courier, brought in a laptop computer and set it in front of Mallone, then opened a video on screen. Victor glanced over to Wang Li, who looked on expressionlessly.

The video was shot in Victor’s house, but it wasn’t the pristine and clutter-free space he would have expected to see. The walls were riddled with bullet holes and a thin haze of smoke drifted across the screen. There were three chairs lined up in the centre of the frame, and tied to them were Victor’s wife and two daughters. Victor glared at Wang Li, who was now smiling.

“Your home is very well protected, Mr. Mallone. My men had some trouble gaining access.”

Victor felt sick, but kept his expression neutral. He knew that if he had any hope of escaping this boat alive, he would have to be at his absolute best. He discreetly reached under the table and pressed the panic button.

“Mr. Mallone, the sniper has already been taken care of. It is now just you and I, so please, relax.”

Victor slumped back in his chair and glared at Li. He was suddenly hot and the air felt thick and heavy. His eyes drifted back to the jittery video of his family. He could see his cousin Francisco lying face down on the crème rug, his throat cut and pooling blood.

“I must say, I’m surprised you fell for such an obvious ploy, Mr. Mallone. When you actually agreed to this meeting I almost felt sorry for you.”

“You fucking chink! You never planned on making a deal!” spat Victor, finally losing control.

Wang Li smiled.

“Actually, you are wrong. The deal still stands, Mr. Mallone. I’m retiring and will be leaving once you pay me for my territory.”

“I don’t have that kind of money, you dumb chink!” roared Victor.

“You lie, Mr. Mallone. Between your various accounts you are worth two hundred and ninety-seven million dollars, which you will transfer to my account using the computer in front of you.”

“Are you fucking insane? That would wipe me out, leave us with nothing.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Victor,” said Wang Li with a cruel smile. “I would worry about where you intend to find the remaining three million dollars to complete the transaction.”

“Are you insane, you old fuck? There is no deal!”

“You have already agreed. To change your mind now would be very disrespectful. I urge you to think carefully about your next words.”

Victor bit his tongue and folded his hands on the table.

“Fine—let us negotiate. But I ask you to let my family go, Mr. Li. I have acted in good faith in arranging this meeting.”

“Apart from the sniper on the roof, of course.”

“Yes…but still…”

He trailed off, trying to think of a way out. For him it was all about self-preservation.

“How about this, Mr. Mallone: for the outstanding balance of three million, I will allow you to pay by other means.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want your family. More specifically, your wife and two daughters.”

Victor could no longer hide his terror as he glared at his nemesis, then back to the grainy video of his wife and children.

“There is no way. Surely you understand that. Family means more to me than anything in this shitty world, you old prick!”

Li continued, acting as if he hadn’t heard Victor’s protests.

“I think it’s a fair price, Mr. Mallone. Three million for three human beings… Though it is a higher price than you typically charge.”

“Fair price? I’m supposed to sell you my fucking family?”

Wang Li chuckled and shook his head

“Don’t preach to me about family, Mallone. You have no concept of family values. You have no honour, no respect, and this time it’s going to cost you.”

“How about we negotiate, come to some arrangement…”

“No. The time for that has passed. The offer is non-negotiable.”

“Then there is no deal. You will have to kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you, Mr. Mallone. What would I want with a fat, greasy shit of a corpse like you?”

Victor lurched to his feet. “You fucking prick!”

Wang Li didn’t move as the door to the meeting room opened, and three armed guards burst through, training their guns on Victor.

“Sit down, Mr. Mallone, before you get yourself shot. A man of your size is hard to miss.”

“Why my family? What do you want with them?”

Victor flopped into his seat, wiping his arm across his sweaty brow. His eyes darted around the room, scanning for a way out. He realised with dismay that his attention to security meant he had inadvertently trapped himself. Wang Li motioned to Lei Ling and whispered something in her ear, then turned back to Victor. She left the room and closed the door, leaving two armed guards flanking Wang Li’s seat.

“In my culture there is a legend, Mr. Mallone. A story that my family has told for generations. I want to share this with you now, and please listen, for you are the first person outside of the Li family to hear it.”

Victor remained silent and Wang Li continued.

“Sometime in the early sixteenth century, my ancestors found a way to enrich their lives by the drinking of human blood.”

A chill ran down Victor’s spine as he watched the old man. He tried as best he could to ignore the intensity of his twisted stare.

“It is not unlike the basis of the vampire legend, but not as dramatic, I’m afraid. The legend says that he who sacrifices and drinks from the body of another will earn the years that they themselves had yet to live…”

Wang Li leaned forward, watching Victor carefully.

“… and it is said that the blood of a rival’s family, his immediate family, is the most valuable of all… You, Mallone, are indeed my greatest rival.”

He knew he had to act, to call the old man’s bluff. The only thing left was to go all in.

“I’ll tell you what I think, Mr. Li…”

Victor stood, and although Wang Li’s guards sprang into action, he held them off with a wave of his hand as Victor continued.

“I think this is all bullshit. More to the point, I think YOU are full of shit. You think I was born yesterday, Chinaman? Well let me tell you right now: that old wives’ tale bullshit doesn’t scare me. Now I am going to leave this room, get my brother, and get off this boat. Then I’m going to bring the hammer down on you and every other slant-eyed gook in this damn city.”

Although he had intended to walk around the table and leave, he knew his legs wouldn’t allow him to. They felt like jelly, and it was taking all of his effort just to stand upright. Wang Li simply looked on with his knowing smile.

“A fine speech, Victor, but pointless all the same.”

He barked a command over his shoulder in his native tongue and Salvatore was bundled into the room by Lei Ling. His nose was bloody and Victor could see defiance and fear in equal measure on his face.

“It is unfortunate you have chosen to respond to my offer with your typical narrow-minded arrogance. Now it will cost you your brother’s life.”

Victor watched as Wang Li stood, no longer frail or slow-moving. Salvatore was forced to his knees and Wang Li moved beside him, placing a bony hand on his bald head.

“Out of respect for you as a rival, Mr. Mallone, I’ll give you one last chance to agree to my proposal and save your brother’s life.”

Victor forced himself to meet Wang Li’s gaze, but couldn’t help glancing toward Salvatore, who was watching him with a pleading look in his eyes. Victor was sweating now, his heart thumping so hard he thought everyone in the room could surely hear it. He licked his lips and then smiled, showing his slightly yellowed teeth to Wang Li.

“Fuck you, Chinaman.”

“Very well,” said Wang Li softly as his guards held on to Salvatore, who was now struggling to free himself. Wang Li reached into his mouth to remove his dentures, and as he did so, Victor nearly screamed aloud.

Wang Li’s teeth, his natural teeth that is, were sharpened into points. He was grinning now, showing as many of the horrific, bony daggers as he could. He licked his lips, his tongue looking incredibly bright, incredibly vivid as he began to salivate, the spit dribbling down his chin. Salvatore tried to push himself away, but was held securely in place as Wang Li crouched and grabbed his head, trying to get at his neck. Victor knew it was now or never. Willing his legs into action, he launched himself across the table, tackling one of the guards. He slammed his elbow into the guard’s throat, wrestling his gun free. With a roar of fury, Victor rolled onto his back and sprayed gunfire towards Wang Li, peppering the walls with bullet holes as his intended target threw himself to the ground, narrowly avoiding the storm of bullets. Salvatore had rolled out of the line of fire, but Lei Ling and the second guard were both shot dead. Only a few seconds had passed, and the guard on the floor, although wheezing from his damaged throat, was again wrestling for control of the weapon, trying to pry Victor’s fingers away.

Victor managed to turn the gun towards the guard’s face, and seeing the terror in his eyes, managed a smile.

“Fuck you, gook!” he roared as he squeezed the trigger. An explosion of blood and bone erupted as the guard’s face disintegrated. Victor’s triumph was short lived however, as he felt Wang Li leap onto his back, sinking jagged teeth into his shoulder. Throwing himself backwards, Victor smashed Wang Li against the edge of the table, but like a rabid dog he wouldn’t release his grip, shaking his head from side to side as he sunk his teeth deeper. Victor cried out in pain

He slammed his head back in blind hope, and felt it connect with Wang Li, who let out a surprised grunt and released his grip, allowing Victor to roll free. His shoulder burning in agony, he whirled around to see the Chinaman crouching on the floor, his lower face now covered with blood. Wang Li was babbling in his own language and glaring at Victor, but Victor wasn’t looking back. His eyes were on the discarded semi-automatic machine gun lying on the floor. He lunged for it and a split second later Wang Li did the same. Victor’s hand momentarily touched the metal casing before Wang Li’s fangs sank into his forearm, tearing away a huge flap of skin. Victor screamed, still groping for the gun. As he found a grip he rolled to the left, whirling and firing blindly toward where he thought the Chinaman would be, but he missed his target. Wang Li leapt over the table to the other side of the room as Victor emptied the magazine.

So much for being a frail old man, Victor thought to himself as he tossed the empty gun to the floor. He struggled to his feet and staggered for the door, glancing down at the ugly tear in his arm. He could hear Wang Li scurrying unseen around the underside of the table, but Victor’s main concern was getting out of there. He was almost at the door when he tripped over Salvatore’s leg—Sal who was still incapacitated and moaning softly. Victor felt his ankle twist under the full weight of his three hundred plus pounds. He crunched to the floor, smashing his head against the polished wood and almost knocking himself unconscious. Exhausted, he rolled onto his side and could see Sal looking at him—afraid, pleading. Victor froze as Wang Li spoke, unable to spot him from his prone position.

“You know this is pointless, Victor,” came the soft voice. It sounded different somehow, yet more natural. Victor knew he was vulnerable and exposed, and wiping the sweat from his brow he saw that his hand was covered in fresh blood from where he had hit his head on the floor. It was then that he saw Wang Li, naked and crawling on all fours around the bottom of the table. His wrinkled old body had the leathery appearance of a mummified corpse as he snaked his way towards Victor, grinning his horrific red dagger smile.

“I’ll give you credit, Victor, you put up a good fight.” He was by Salvatore now, and rested on his haunches, arms in front of him, fingers splayed out on the floor.

“You know it’s too late, don’t you Victor? For your family, I mean. They are already dead.”

Victor said nothing. Deep down he knew it to be true. If their positions had been reversed, it was exactly what he would have done. Victor struggled up to his elbows, panting and staring at Wang Li with a defiant look. He spat on the floor, and despite trying his best to hide his fear, there was a definite tremble in his voice as he spoke.

“It was always going to come down to this, Chinaman. It was always going to come down to the two of us. One of us was always going to die.”

“Yes, a pity it has to be you, Mr. Mallone.”

Victor laughed and flipped Wang Li the middle finger.

“Fuck you, Gollum.”

Wang Li grew serious, and in an inhumanly fast motion, he bit into Salvatore’s throat, tearing it away with a great wet ripping sound. Wang Li gorged on the flesh, rubbing the blood all over himself as Salvatore convulsed and gurgled.

Victor struggled to his knees and began to crawl, desperate to get away from Wang Li and the sight of his dead brother. He pushed through the door into the main room of his quarters, trying to ignore the dead bodies of his men; loyal men who had worked for him for years. He struggled to his feet, gingerly hobbling and trying not to put too much weight on his ankle, which was already swelling and terribly painful. The doors swung open behind him and Victor looked over his shoulder to see Wang Li standing there, naked and streaked with blood.

“Leaving so soon, Victor? I don’t think so. We have business to attend to.”

Wang Li scrambled forwards, upright yet partially on all fours as he closed the distance between himself and Victor. A searing bolt of agony shot through Victor’s ankle as he tumbled to the ground. He was now crawling backwards, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and Wang Li. He felt his bladder let go, a dark patch spreading out from his crotch as he watched the monster approach. Wang Li sniffed the air, and then pointed to the spreading wetness on Victor’s trousers.

“Such a wonderful smell that is, Victor!”

Victor felt the back of his head touch the wall and he knew that he was out of options. Nowhere else to run, nothing left to fight with. Wang Li came towards him in his half-crouched, gargoyle-like manner, and now Victor could smell the blood on him.

“I’ll make this quick, Victor, out of respect.”

He grinned and Victor tried to push himself into the wall, anything to get away from that mouth, those teeth that were still stained with clumps of shorn flesh.

“And then,” Wang Li added with a smile, “I’ll fuck your dead wife and eat your children while I’m at it.”

Victor sobbed as Wang Li came towards him, opening his mouth wide. Their eyes met and Wang Li had only a split second to register that Victor was smiling. Victor grabbed the back of Wang Li’s head with one hand and pulled it towards him, at the same time shoving his free hand into Wang Li’s open mouth. Wang Li tried to bite down, but Victor’s arm was too big. Gritting his teeth, he pushed as hard as he could, his arm sliding past Wang Li’s teeth and down his gullet into his throat. Wang Li’s eyes bulged out as he began to suffocate, his airway completely blocked. Victor lurched forward, and now had Wang Li on his back. He tried to ignore the horrible, leathery feel of the outside skin, and the hot, slick feel of the innards. Instead, he concentrated on pushing his arm deeper, ever deeper into the old Chinaman’s mouth. Eventually Wang Li stopped moving and Victor slumped forwards, now completely exhausted. His arm was buried almost up to the elbow in the old monster’s mouth. For some time, he simply lay there and wept.

Epilogue

Two weeks had passed since that day on the boat. The death toll for Victor’s organisation had been devastating, with over thirty lost including his brother Sal, his wife, and two children. Victor had managed to contain the details of the incident, and put word out that anyone who mentioned it would be dealt with severely.

As with most Friday nights Mallone’s was busy, and as Victor walked into the restaurant, his eyes hidden behind his Armani sunglasses, he smiled. He always loved the sounds and smells of the place when it was running at capacity; there was a certain comfort in it. He strolled towards his table at the back, pausing to say hello to his regular or to take praise for the excellent service.

“Hey, Victor,” came a voice from the table nearest the window.

Victor approached and smiled, shaking hands with the retired police chief and acknowledging his wife with a courteous nod. Former Chief Wigelow had been on Victor’s payroll right up until his retirement, and even though they no longer maintained a professional relationship, the chief and his wife still dined there at least once a month.

“Chief Wigelow, Mrs. Wigelow. I hope you’re enjoying your evening.”

“As always, Victor. Those boys in the kitchen really outdid themselves.”

“I’ll be sure to let them know. Did you try the special?”

“Yes, it was delicious! What was it?”

Victor smiled and rubbed his left arm, still bandaged up the elbow, then leaned close in mock whisper.

“Special imported steak, from China. You won’t find it anywhere else,” he said with a wink.

“I must say, it was really excellent. Maybe the best I’ve ever had.”

Victor simply smiled and nodded.

“Thank you, Chief. I appreciate the compliment.”

Victor excused himself and headed to his private table at the back of the room. He liked to sit there. It offered him an unobstructed view of his customers as they enjoyed their food. He sat in his usual place and let out a deep sigh, thinking that he might well take a holiday. Somewhere warm and quiet where he could heal and unwind. The waiter approached to take his order, and after some consideration, he thought he would try the special too. The Chinese steak, extra rare. After all, it would be a shame to waste it. The waiter scurried away as Victor set his napkin on his knee, took a sip of water, and waited for his meal to arrive.

THE LAST MAN

“Magic is the sole science not accepted by scientists,
because they do not understand it’

~ Harry Houdini

I

The world was empty. He was now certain of that as he walked down the center of the deserted street. It was the same walk he had made for the last twelve months and during that time he hadn’t seen a single living person, animal, or other living thing. He had always thought it would be a nuclear war or an asteroid impact that would be responsible for wiping out the population of the planet, but in the end it had come down to one man. One man and his greed. One man and his petty desire to one up his rival. That man was him.

Guilt was too weak a word to describe what he felt. He had never intended any of this, none of the hurt, none of the death. He was a simple man at heart, who only wished to entertain by doing what he loved. But as he walked he could hear them, somewhere in the distance and coming closer. Coming for him. He wouldn’t let them take him, that much was certain. He would do things his own way and let God judge him.

He shouldered his way into the building, walking down the empty hallway and bypassing the elevators. There had been no power for weeks now, but it didn’t matter. The stairs would serve well enough. He ascended, ignoring the feeling that he was being watched. Seven floors, eight, nine. Still he climbed, breathing heavily, enjoying the exertion. He reached his destination, the twentieth floor penthouse, and opened the door. The magnetic locks were no longer functional so he simply pushed his way inside. The room was large and priced way above anything that he would ordinarily be able to afford—but money was useless now, and luxury was just a word from a world that didn’t exist anymore. He paused to catch his breath, looking around the huge apartment. Deep red carpets, marble walls with gold trim. Someone rich lived here at some point, but for now, it was his. He went to the bathroom, striding past a huge marble tub big enough for five people and looked at himself in the mirror.

Gaunt face, long, unwashed hair, heavy beard, haunted eyes. Always a man to pride himself on his appearance, at least before the incident, he had certainly let himself go. Such trivial things didn’t matter— not anymore. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small Dictaphone and held it to his lips, pressing the record button.

“My name is Rick Jones, and I am the last man on earth.”

He hesitated for a moment, licking his lips, and then went on.

“It’s my fault. Everything that happened is down to me. I interfered with something that I didn’t understand and couldn’t control and…”

He pressed the stop button, overcome with emotion, tears welling. He often got like this. Some days were better than others, but often the guilt became too much to bear. Composing himself, he depressed the record button again.

“I tried to put it right, and if anyone should happen to find this, if anyone is out there, then please know that I’m sorry.”

He switched off the recorder, and walked to the main room to the huge glass fronted wall which leads out onto the balcony. He slid it aside and stepped out, the cold air biting at his body. He looked down at the streets below and for a second imagined he saw a thriving hive of activity, of cars honking and jostling for position, people scurrying to and from their places of work. But the illusion lasted only a split second; the cars were still and silent, husks of dead steel, and of course there were no people. The wind died down briefly and he thought he could hear them again, that horrible high pitched sound— the sound of his coming death. He hurried back inside, closing the sound out and sitting on the large white sofa. He set the recorder on the table and pressed the record button.

“I don’t have much time. I want to tell it, to tell it my way, how it happened. You might wonder what I am— am I a terrorist, or some kind of crazed world leader with a demented vision? The answer would be no. But I am a murderer. And the scale of my crime goes far beyond terrorism or genocide. Before all of that, before the death and the guilt, I was just like anybody else. A normal man with a gift to entertain. But I lost sight of it, I lost sight of what was important; and because of that, we are here now… I was an illusionist—a magician, an entertainer, and I was good. Really good. I say it not with arrogance or ego, but with honesty… You need to understand, you need to know what happened. This is the story of how the world came to an end.”

II

The stage was hot and the lights shone into his eyes too brightly for him to see the audience that waited with bated breath. He flicked his eyes to his rival, then to the show presenter who stood poised with his microphone, indulging in the long overused extended pause. The show was another brainchild of some too wealthy executive who didn’t think the public had seen enough reality shows. It was much the same format as others of its kind, only this wasn’t for singers, or variety acts. This one was for illusionists. For the last twelve weeks, Rick and fourteen other hopefuls from the thousands who applied had been whittled down week by week, and now in front of a global audience of millions it had come to this moment, the announcement of the winner. He was quietly confident, his trick, a variation on the great Harry Houdini’s famous Chinese Water torture cell, had been met with rapturous applause and glowing praise from the judges. He was sure it should be enough to win, but as he cast his eyes to his rival, a young, gangly Yorkshire man called Andy Levine, he felt shiver of uncertainty. Andy’s trick had also been impressive, his own version of the famous Penn & Teller bullet catch trick. It was good, but Rick was certain that his was better. At last the show presenter was ready to put one of them out of their misery.

Rick lost.

The crowd booed and the judges shook their heads, but the result stayed the same. Andy Levine won, and it catapulted his career to the stratosphere. Rick slipped off the radar. He still worked, he made a decent living playing clubs and pubs, but whenever he saw his gangly rival on the television, he felt a stab of rage and jealousy spike within him. It should have been him. He knew it, and he was sure Andy Levine knew it too. For the next year their lives grew further apart. Andy became one of those celebrity faces that seem to be on every television program under the sun. Rick on the other hand struggled to make ends meet and was close to losing his one bedroom apartment, which was far from luxurious as it was. Just when he was about to hit bottom, Rick was commissioned to write a serialized newspaper article about the history of magic from its inception to its modern day status. He didn’t want to do it, but he was offered enough money to pay his rent for another month and reluctantly agreed. Although he knew the common history of the business, he was determined to give a full and in depth report, so one warm Saturday morning in June of 2011 he made his way to the public library and set about his research. For the next week he read and researched and was beginning to form the basis of an excellent article, when he stumbled upon an old, leather bound book.

He looked at it on the shelf, pushed back into the corner and covered in a thick layer of dust. Something within him, a quiver of uneasiness, made him reluctant to touch it; but he found himself reaching out anyway, taking the huge book and laying it on the table. The binding was a deep maroon color with faded gold edging. The cover read simply one word, embossed in gold.

Heka.

Suddenly hot and uncomfortable with his heart racing in his chest, he opened the book. That ancient, secret aged paper smell filled his nostrils as he began to look at the words, or more accurately the symbols that filled the page from edge to edge, margin to margin. Some looked like Egyptian hieroglyphs, others like ancient Greek or Latin. The words seemed to be a jumble of the three. Part of him realized that any attempt to translate it would take even an expert on languages a lifetime, never mind an ordinary man of average intelligence. But a voice deep within him compelled him to at least try. He looked at the book again, and noticed it had no library binding, nor did it have the paper index stuck to the inside front page. Rick glanced around the cavernous library, filled with paranoia and a giddy cocktail of fear and excitement, and quietly slipped the book into his knapsack.

III

The deadline for his article passed, and even though he had written half of a very articulate piece, he barely noticed. Much in the same way that he barely noticed when his telephone line was disconnected and when the final reminders and notice of legal action letters began to fall through his letterbox. He was lost.

The main room of his apartment now resembled a huge and impressive research space. Charts of hieroglyphs and ancient symbols were pinned to almost every wall, and the large corner desk, which until he had discovered the red book had housed only his telephone, was now buried under papers. Here was where he spent his days, hunched over the desk, ignoring the unwashed smell of his own sweaty body, and doing his best to ignore the dull headache from the efforts of his research. The first days had seemed like an impossible task, translating the symbols one at a time, trying to put them into some kind of coherent order. Six weeks passed, then twelve, and still he worked, sometimes spending twenty or more hours hunched over the desk. During that time Andy Levine performed what was called the world’s greatest illusion when he made the White House vanish. It was televised to a global audience and after it was done (and the presidential property restored) Andy received a handshake and thanks from the President himself. Rick barely noticed, however. He was lost.

Five months had passed, and Rick’s apartment was more like a hovel. Papers and books filled every surface, and flies buzzed and dived around the overfilled waste bins and plates of moldering, half eaten food. But still, Rick barely noticed, because finally he was beginning to understand. Certain symbols and phrases were beginning to make sense to him. Some passages he could read without referring to his myriad of textbooks and research material. It was only when he began to put the words together that he started to understand their meaning. Exhausted after a ten hour stretch of translating, Rick stood and stretched, rubbing his tired eyes. He had become gaunt from weight loss, and his face now sported an itchy, patchy beard. Moving aside a pile of papers and notes from the arm chair, he sat and closed his eyes, trying to will away a headache looming in back of his head. He wasn’t getting enough sleep, and despite barely leaving the house for months he felt exhausted. As he stared at the wall, trying to digest the stream of information from his work he saw a mouse. It was small and brown, and was walking gingerly across the back of the room, keeping close to the skirting board as it sniffed at the fleshy remains of a brown, discarded apple core. He smiled to himself for the first time in what felt like an age and watched as the mouse continued to examine the core. As he watched his eyes begin to feel heavy, his exhaustion catching up to him. He closed his eyes but still imagined the mouse, standing in the endless space of his mind’s eye, whiskers twitching as it sniffed at the vast empty void.

The symbols came quickly. They swirled and skittered, ducking and diving and exploding into glorious colors, forming new words and symbols which then interlocked, and pointed to other symbols and shapes and phrases. They danced around the mouse, which continued its oblivious sniffing. He began to read, snatches of the phrases he understood, others he found he could read even though he didn’t consciously know them. Euphoria overcame him, being pulled along by some great, prima force of nature. The words swirled around the mouse, enveloping it and then like switching off a television. His mind’s eye went blank, symbols and mouse gone. He woke with a start, heart thundering in his chest.

The apple core was still exactly where it had been when he closed his eyes, but the mouse was gone. Leaping out of the chair, he flicked his gaze from corner to corner, looking for any possible escape route, but couldn’t see one the mouse could have taken so quickly. He contemplated the enormity of what he may have done, but immediately stamped it out. He couldn’t be certain. He realized he could be getting over excited about nothing. Still, he knew a way to be certain. With an enthusiasm that had been absent for some time, he grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

IV

The second mouse was larger than the one that had (or had not) vanished from his room, but he thought it would do the job just fine. Housed in a large plastic enclosure, he was satisfied that the mouse would remain suitably contained for the duration of his experiment. He set the enclosure on the table, sat in his chair and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. This time the symbols came almost immediately—just as quickly and with the same intensity as before. He concentrated on keeping the mouse in the blank space of his mind’s eye, holding it in place as the words ducked, dived, and swirled. Then as before, it went blank.

He kept his eyes closed and counted to five, knowing that the next few seconds could define his future. Taking a deep breath, he dared to look.

The plastic enclosure was on the table exactly as he had left it. Circular blue food container, a layer of sawdust in the bottom, water bottle clipped to the side. All was present apart from the enclosure’s resident. He looked blankly about the empty sitting room, wondering if it had somehow escaped. But the lid of the container was still securely closed and escape would be completely impossible. Not quite able to believe his own eyes he opened the lid of the container, combing his fingers through the sawdust. He knew of course that the mouse wouldn’t be able to hide itself in such a thin layer, but he checked anyway. He needed to be sure. Satisfied, he closed the lid and took a step back. There was no question about it. The mouse had disappeared. He had expected the eureka moment to be accompanied by excitement and elation, but for him the enormity of what he had done made his legs feel weak, and he could do no more than flop down heavily in his favourite chair by the fireplace. It dawned on him that he had achieved the impossible. Even he didn’t believe what he had done. He didn’t know how he had done it exactly. He tried to recall the symbols, the numbers and the words but they were already gone—fading away like a dream at the moment of waking. Although he wasn’t sure what he had tapped into or how, he knew that he had somehow blurred the line between possible and impossible. Already he was thinking about how he could use it, and how he could now finally develop the illusion that would get him the recognition that he deserved.

The mouse reappeared an hour later. Rick had been deep in thought about the enormity of what he had done when he heard it scurrying around in the plastic container. He lunged up and hurried over, lifting the mouse out carefully and almost dropping it due to his hands shaking so much, but he managed to keep it in his grasp. It appeared to be perfectly healthy and although he was no vet, it looked to be showing no ill effects of its disappearance. This time he did whoop and cheer and carefully placed the mouse back in its container. (He retired it from a life of experimentation and kept it as a pet, naming it Houdini.) Although he was optimistic by the reappearance of the mouse, he was dismayed to find that upon trying to repeat his experiment with a second rodent (third if you counted the initial escapee) he couldn’t do it. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, to will the words into existence to no avail. The next two weeks were an exercise in frustration, as no matter what he tried to do to replicate the incident he was unable to will the numbers and symbols into existence. His frustration gave way to depression, and he was close to giving up altogether when he made the breakthrough that would change his life forever. Following another failed attempt to make the symbols and words appear, he had wilted down into his chair and took a long sip of coffee, then glanced over to Houdini, who had since been upgraded to a much larger enclosure.

“Help me out here, Houdini. Tell me what to do,” he had said to the mouse, which was far too busy cleaning itself in its nest area to pay him any attention. He glanced back to the other mouse, who he had named Herman, still on the desk in his enclosure. Herman looked at him, sniffing at the air and wondering when he too got to retire to a life of luxury like that of his fellow rodent Houdini.

“I’m working on it, Herman. I’m working on it,” Rick said in response to the unspoken question. He leaned back and closed his eyes allowing his body to sink further the seat. He was close to sleep when they reappeared. The symbols, the words. They began to flow. Slowly at first and from left to right across his closed eyes, then they started to veer off, come in from different angles, words writing on top of words, symbols interlinking and pointing to other words that exploded into kaleidoscopes of colour, which in turn formed their own words and symbols. He began to read, forming sentences, speaking them under his breath. Just as before, he felt pulled along by some unseen force, the words and symbols building to a crescendo before suddenly stopping. Heart racing, Rick opened his eyes.

Herman was gone.

He leaped from his chair and danced around the room.

“Ha-ha! I get it now, Houdini! I know how to do it! I was trying too hard! The key is to relax—relax and let the mind do the work!”

Ecstatic, he waited for Herman to return, and exactly as expected he reappeared an hour later. Rick actually saw it happen this time. The air in the cage seemed to twist and warp and buckle, and then there he was. It looked like a cheap Hollywood special effect but it was quite real. With his adventure complete, Herman too was retired to chez’ Houdini and Rick was left with what to do with his new found gift. The process became easier the more he did it. Buoyed by the excitement of his antics with the mice, he had started to test the method on larger animals. Cats and dogs went and reappeared just as easily and seemingly with no ill effects. The process wasn’t just limited to living things either, as he found he could shift static things too. His television, his chair. Each time he drifted into that strange, pulled along state driven by the symbols and numbers, he felt that he understood a little more—even though every time he opened his eyes he would always be overcome with that forgetful waking dream feeling. He had even tried to write some of them down, but the half-remembered words and shapes seemed wrong on paper and held neither meaning nor power.

He set up two video cameras and began to record his experiments, watching the tapes play back in awe as he made various things in his home vanish and reappear. Excited, he began to draw out plans for his master illusion, quickly realising that the previous limits no longer applied. As he grew bolder, he began to focus on vanishing increasingly larger and more complex objects. First a horse grazing in a field, then his beaten old Ford, (which he half hoped wouldn’t re appear.) In every instance they would return exactly an hour later, showing no ill effects of their journey to wherever it was that they went. The word vengeance began to pop into Rick’s mind, and over the next days was joined by other words. Retribution. Justice. Power.

Confident in his new ability, he started to think of the best way to showcase it to the world. He would be bigger than Houdini, More famous than Copperfield. He would finally show everyone that he was just as good, if not better than Andy Levine. He knew that in order to do it, he would need an illusion so spectacular that there could be no doubt of his power. But first he had to do one more thing. He had to perform the experiment on himself.

V

He wasn’t quite sure what would happen when he pictured himself in his mind and willed the symbols to come. But sure enough as the intensity and speed of the process increased, he began to feel a lightness in his stomach and a tingling of his fingertips. The symbols intensified and as they approached the crescendo he felt his stomach lurch—it was the same sort of feeling as when you drive a car over a dip in the road too quickly, then his ears popped and he knew he had arrived. He wasn’t sure what to expect when he opened his eyes, but the reaction wasn’t one that he had anticipated. He was decidedly underwhelmed.

The world was much the same, yet different at the same time. The air had a distinct dry, coppery taste and everything seemed dull and washed out. He had made himself vanish inside his apartment and he guessed that he had arrived in the other world in the exact same place, although the apartment in this world (or dimension if that was indeed what it was) didn’t exist. Instead he arrived on a barren plateau, which dropped away to a thin, dirty looking river through what would have been the main road leading to the centre of town. The breeze ruffled his hair as he stood in a new world, which so far as he could tell was empty. He walked aimlessly, but never straying too far away from his starting point. It was twilight and as he looked to the skies he saw constellations that were unknown to him, and marvelled as the moon drifted into view from behind the cloud cover. Unlike the regular moon of the other earth, this one sported two small moons of its own. He saw no plant life, and no sign of anything living. As the hour approached and full darkness came with it, he heard the sound. It was a horrific high pitched noise like fingernails scraping down a chalkboard, or an errant knife scratching against a plate. Unease prickled within him and he glanced over the broken and craggy horizon towards the direction the sound was coming from—and he saw them. Winged things silhouetted against the moon, moving towards him with the undulating motion of snakes. Those sounds again, enough to raise gooseflesh on his arms and sweat to run down his forehead. They were coming towards him, as if they could sense him, or smell him. His hour was up, and he waited with clenched fists as his fingers began to tingle and his stomach vaulted. The atmosphere grew bright and he closed his eyes, and then he was back, back in the world he knew. The sound of the winged things stayed with him for many days, and he knew he could never again send anything to that place. Not with those things, even if it meant he would never have his revenge, nor his time in the spotlight. But time makes things seem less dangerous, and as days gave way to weeks, he had gone from not ever doing it again, to performing the feat only on an inanimate objects during daylight hours. He suspected that the winged things were nocturnal. Besides, he reasoned to himself, he would only need to do it once in order to get his well deserved recognition. He was set, and after shaving and cutting his hair, he called his manager to make the arrangements. He had something spectacular planned.

VI

When the press release was issued stating that he was going to make a section of the Great Wall of China disappear, the world went crazy. The red tape had been difficult to wade through, but with the help of a hot shot lawyer named Fife and a thoroughly unpleasant broker who managed to swing the insurance called Robinson, contracts were signed and authority given by Horoshimo Mashima, who was the senior president of the Chinese Heritage Management Bureau. Internet forums buzzed with speculation, and Rick was thrust from obscurity back into the limelight, suddenly in high demand for TV interviews and radio appearances. Slowly he released more details. After the section of wall had been vanished, a number of volunteers chosen at random would be able to walk from one side to the other through the space the section once occupied. During the entire media circus Andy Levine’s representatives had remained silent, apart from releasing a short statement saying that they would be watching with great interest to see what his respected rival was able to accomplish. It was standard public relations stuff of course, and Rick would have bet his life that they were privately furious. The day rolled near and the excitement built.

The section of the wall selected was a fifty-foot length in the northern Juyongguan region, and with assistance from the Chinese government, it had been cut off by makeshift barriers behind which a huge crowd had gathered. Down at the base of the wall, a temporary scaffold floor had been put in place on both sides of the structure. It was here that people would have the opportunity to cross through the empty space once the wall had been vanished. Although they weren’t needed for any reason other than to add to the drama, giant red curtains had been set up and draped over the selected section of wall, covering it completely. Finally after months of preparation everything was ready.

Though nobody knew it at the time, the last day on earth had arrived.

Back in the present from his vantage point high above the city, Rick glanced at the Dictaphone which seemed to glare back at him, the red recording light casting its accusing eye towards him. He looked to the window, and shivered as he realised how late it had become. The last sliver of light was falling below the horizon, and the room was now cast into deep, angular shadows.

Now that he’d had time to think it over he was sure he knew what had happened and what had gone wrong. Everything had started according to plan. The crowds were hushed, and the television cameras poised as he stood by the base of the wall, eyes closed and arms extended out to the side. A dramatic, orchestral score played as subtly hidden smoke machines covered the stage and wall in artificial mist. He had the section of wall firmly fixed in his mind and was waiting patiently for the words and symbols to begin to dance their unique patterns in his mind’s eye. Maybe it was the nerves or the excitement, he wasn’t sure. But as the words increased in speed, he found his thoughts drifting, his concentration breaking. He thought about the public, the worldwide reaction to his incredible feat, he thought about how popular and famous he would become. The section of wall in his mind began to warp and shift, and then vanish altogether like a bad TV signal. Instead he saw himself in the centre of the words in his head, receiving the praise of the world, shaking hands with millions, more popular than the Pope. If he had only been able to stop then, to take a moment to compose himself and try again he might have been able to fix it, but he knew the process didn’t work that way. He knew that once it began he would simply be a passenger, dragged along to the conclusion. He forced himself to concentrate on the wall and push everything else out of his mind, but he couldn’t rid the selfish images of his worldwide fame and the glory of his vindication. He panicked, and instead of letting the words flow naturally he tried to make them move, to manipulate them, to give him time to get himself together. It was an intense struggle as he tried to undo what was happening, the image in his mind shifted repeatedly from the wall, to him, to the population of the world, each melting and fading into each other. He shifted symbols, pulling them away when they tried to interconnect, wiping away the brightly coloured explosions. There was a high pitched whine, one that seemed to come from deep within the centre of his head. It was almost unbearable, and he was on the verge of screaming when his mind’s eye went blank, and he knew that something had gone horribly wrong.

Silence.

His stomach flipped and he swallowed down an acid tasting burp. He didn’t want to, he didn’t want to see what had happened, but he forced himself to open his eyes. The first thing he saw was the wall. It was mostly still in place apart from a large diagonal section which was missing. The red curtains had been sliced through and were hanging loose, fluttering in the gentle breeze. He could see the cross section of the ornate stonework which looked like it had been cut away with laser precision. It was then that the noticed the silence. He looked around and screamed.

VII

Maybe it was because he tried to mess with the symbols or change something that had already been set in motion, but whatever it was, something had gone horribly wrong. The two thousand people who had been on and around the stage were gone. He waited an anxious hour for them to reappear, and as each moment ticked agonisingly by, he was unable to shut the image of those winged, flying things out of his mind. The first hour came and went, and then another. It was only when dawn broke the next day and he awoke cold and bleary eyed on the temporary stage floor that he realised that they weren’t coming back. He had broken the process and cast two thousand people into some bizarre mirror earth with no way of bringing them back. But it wasn’t just them. Almost a year had passed since that day and he hadn’t encountered a single human being since. There was nothing left. No bodies, no sign of anyone ever being there at all. It seemed that people had been going about their daily lives one minute, and had simply been…erased from existence the next. He had spent months knocking on doors, criss-crossing the country and searching for some sign of life other than his own, but eventually had to concede that it was pointless.

How many people were in the world? His mind wandered as he chewed on the number and tried to put it into a perspective he could comprehend.

Seven billion.

Such an overwhelming number. He had tried to bring them back of course, but he had only ever learned to send things. He had no idea where to start when it came to bringing things back. He couldn’t even refer to his research, as his books and other notes were thousands of miles away on another continent… One thing he knew for certain, however, was that whatever he had broken in the symbols when he sent the seven billion inhabitants of the world to that dry, washed out place, had left some kind of doorway open. Not open to him—but to those flying, winged things. And although it had taken them a while, they had finally found him.

He stood and picked up the Dictaphone, carrying it with him outside to the balcony. The wind had picked up and he could hear it even louder now, the horrific high pitched screeching. They were close. He held the Dictaphone to his lips, somehow able to stop them trembling.

“And so, that is the story of how the world came to an end. I make no excuses, and no words can ever express my sorrow for what I have done.”

He hooked his leg over the balcony, lowering himself gently to the other side. Hanging on to the rail with one hand, he clutched the Dictaphone to his face with the other as an immense shadow passed screeching overhead.

“My name is Rick Michael Jones, and I am truly sorry. Please, forgive me.”

He depressed the stop button, and tossed the Dictaphone through the open balcony door. To the sound of beating leathery wings, he took a deep breath and stepped out into oblivion.

He was snatched out of the air, having fallen only fifty feet.

The last man is dead.

About the Author

Michael Bray has been writing horror fiction for over fifteen years. He is also a musician and a father, and resides in his home city of Leeds, England with his wife Vikki and daughter Abi.

About the Publisher

Dark Hall seeks to promote a diverse body of quality works, advancing the tradition of Horror storytelling as well as providing exposure for up-and-coming writers.

Visit us online at
www.darkhallpress.com

Table of Contents

- Title
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Acknowledgments

- OBSERVATION ROOM 5

- January 14th
- January 15th
- January 15th (continued)
- Sunday
- Sunday (pm)
- Monday
- Monday (pm)
- Tuesday
- Wednesday
- Thursday
- Friday
- Sunday
- Wednesday ???
- Thursday
- Friday ???

- NO REST FOR THE WICKED
- THE PRANK
- YURPLE’S LAST DAY
- TINA
- THAT GNAWING FEELING
- NO. 5 SYCAMORE ST.

- THE BOX

- 1.

- 2.

- 3.

- 4.

- 5.

- 6.

- 7.

- 8.

- 9.

- 10.

- 11.

- 12.

- EVERY LITTLE HELPS

- A STRANGE AFFAIR

- I
- II
- III
- IV

- VICTOR

- THE LAST MAN

- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII

- About the Author

- About the Publisher