The Dark Place (11 page)

S
tanley Lennon pushed open the door to his Lisburn Road home, shortly after midnight, placing his briefcase on a small mahogany table residing in the hallway. Bending, he retrieved the morning’s mail languishing on the mat. Bills, mostly, mixing with the unbearable wastage of junk.

“Damn junk mail. They should get a –”

“Hello, Stanley,” said a voice, emerging from the living room.

“What the –!”

The blackjack slipped expertly down the sleeve of Karl’s coat, into his curved fingers. The blow struck Lennon on the side of the head as he turned, sending him spiralling to the ground.

“My father always said that the mightiest oak can be felled by the tiniest of blades,” said Karl, admiring the jack in his hand while towering over the moaning Lennon. “He obviously wasn’t bullshitting.”

“
Oh
,” groaned Lennon, hand instinctively touching the side of his large head.

“Don’t worry. No leakage of blood –
yet
.”

“Kane? Have you … have you gone insane?”

“You can call me Karl,
Stanley
. Everyone does. And to answer your question, yes, I’m insane in the membrane,” replied Karl, whacking Lennon again, this time on the shoulder.

“
Argghhhhh!
… God the night … You fucking mad bastard!”

“Language! Didn’t your parents – if you had any – teach you about swearing, you fucking bastard?”
Whack! Whack! Whack!
Lennon’s legs the target.

“
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
”

“You got everything in reverse, Stanley. The carrot and the stick. You were supposed to offer me the money first; then the beating.”

“I … I don’t know what you’re fucking blabbering about.”

“You said this morning that the money in your briefcase would take away my pain. Remember? Well, I kind of like my pain. Over the last few days, I’ve actually grown quite fond of it. Even given it a name. Want to know what I call it?”

“No. Just keep away from me, you sick bastard.”

“Can’t-wait-to-find-the-prick-who-done-this-to-my-face-so-that-I-can-kick-
the-shit
-out-of-him pain,”
hissed Karl. “I know it sounds kind of longwinded, but I’m working on an abbreviation.”

“What … what’s this all about?” Lennon’s anguished face was quickly imploding within itself. “This … fucking pain’s unbelievable.”

“I never did see the prick who attacked me that night, but he had obviously taken a swim in Brut aftershave. Funny, but isn’t that the same shit you almost suffocated us with in the office this morning? Also, he suffered from halitosis. His breath stank like rotting battery acid. My intuition tells me the attacker wasn’t a kick-in-the-arse off six two, weighing in at about two hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle. Big Coco the Clown shoes, just like the ones you’re wearing right now. Probably had a seven o’clock shadow dripping from his face, and a grin of a paedophile.”

Lennon’s face tightened. “I wouldn’t sully a man’s reputation by accusing him of being a fucking paedo, Kane.”

“You’re
working
for one, scumbag. Want some more information? You used to be a cop. One of the so-called heavy-squad from Glenfield, in Carrickfergus. See? I know everything there is to know about you, Stanley,
even have your new home address in Ballymena.” Karl whacked Lennon across the ankles.

Lennon screamed like a banshee with its hair caught in a mangle.

“Scream like that again and I’ll stuff a pair of briefs in your mouth, tough guy.”
Whack!
The left shoulder blade.

“
Ohhhhhhh
…” groaned Lennon. “
Please
… why are you doing this? Money? You want more money?”

“Listen carefully, Mister Moy Park. You made a trilogy of errors the night you attacked me. Don’t compound them now by lying. Otherwise, I’ll have to get serious,” said Karl, producing the .357 Colt Python before pressing it tight against Lennon’s quickly perspiring forehead.

“Please … don’t …”

“I want you to inform Mister Anonymous that I’m coming for him. I know the scumbag murdered Ivana, and I won’t rest until justice is done – one way or the other.”
Whack!
The back of the neck with the jack.

Lennon bit down on the sleeve of his coat, groaning, his fingers curling inwards.

“What’s wrong, tough guy?” asked Karl, perspiring badly, bending on one knee while inspecting his handiwork. “Don’t mind dispensing it, but hate being the recipient?”

Blood was flowing from Lennon’s mouth. He spat, and a thick wad landed at Karl’s feet. “You better … better kill me, Kane … you bastard …”

“Oh,
I
don’t need to kill you, Stanley. Do you know what profession my brother-in-law represents?”

“He … he’s a cop.”

“A cop?” Karl laughed. “That’s a bit like saying the pope’s an altar boy. No, my dearest brother-in-law isn’t simply a cop. He’s the chief of fucking detectives, and unfortunately for you,
Stanley
, my brother-in-law loves me like a brother-in-law. If you want to stay healthy, my advice is to pack all your earthly possessions and get the hell out of Belfast –
pronto
. Go back to Ballymena or whatever hillbilly town you now reside in.”

“Fuck you,” moaned Lennon.

“That’s appreciation for you. Do you know that I had to do everything in my power to stop my brother-in-law sending a couple of his associates to have a less-than-friendly chat with you? Trust me. This is a picnic in Utopia compared to what their chats are like. The River Lagan can be a very lonely place, Stanley, and rats like you gnawing recklessly at mousetrap cheese have only one place to go.”

“
Fuck you!
”

Turning Lennon over, Karl inspected the defeated man’s face. For all his bravado, Lennon appeared edgy, assessing. Karl did not need to be a psychologist to detect, in the face of another, terrified eyes struggling desperately to anticipate what was coming next.

“You don’t look
too
bad,” said Karl, menacingly running the warm jack over Lennon’s sweating face. “Just be grateful I don’t leave you the way you left me.”

He whacked Lennon over the head, for good measure.

Lennon never saw it coming …

“Good night, sweetheart,” whispered Karl, standing, before exiting the house.

Outside, the night air was cool. Soulless. Soundless. Karl walked steadily to the car.

“You okay?” asked Willie, watching Karl get in.

Karl nodded. “That was called a transfer of pain.”

“You did what had to be done. Bet he had no qualms about the beating he gave you. End of story. You’ll not see him again.”

“I hope you’re right, Willie, my friend,” replied Karl. “Here. Put this in the back.”

“A briefcase? What’s in it?”

“My medical expenses,” replied Karl, starting the car. “And briefs.”

T
he phone rang just as Karl began pouring some early morning coffee. He hated early calls. They never brought good news. He hesitated before picking up the phone. The incident with Lennon, two nights ago, suddenly flashed in his head, but he erased it quickly, believing Lennon would not want cops poking their noses into his messy business dealings despite the beating.

“Tom? What’s wrong?”

“The body of a young girl was washed ashore three nights ago in Scotland, over beside the Mull of Kintyre. Been in the water for some considerable time, apparently. Scottish police believe it’s Martina Ferris. They’ve asked me to send her dental records to confirm it.”

“Ah shit.”

“They’ve faxed me photos of the body. I would say it’s her, Karl. The eye wound is prominent in the pictures. I’m sorry.”

“Did … did they say how she died? Was it an accident? Drowning?”

There was a momentary silence before Hicks responded.

“No. No accident. She was murdered, the same way the other young girls were murdered.”

Karl felt blood rise all the way from his feet, before settling in his eyes.

“Karl? You still there?”

“What? Oh … yes. Still here … listen, thanks for calling me. I won’t tell Martina’s sister, until you confirm everything. Will you call me as soon as the body is returned, or if you hear anything relevant?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Thanks, Tom. Talk to you later,” said Karl, ending the conversation with a push of a button.

“What is it, Karl?” asked the groggy voice of Naomi, blinking out the early morning tiredness from her eyes. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Tom Hicks. The police in Scotland have found a body. Possibly that of Martina Ferris. Not yet confirmed.”

“Martina … oh the poor girl,” said Naomi, shaking her head with disbelief. “Did they say how she died?”

“More than likely murdered.”

“Oh my God … how?”

“We’ll have to wait and see the autopsy report,” said Karl, not wishing to disclose the grisly details to an already distressed Naomi.

“What about Geraldine? She’ll have to be told.”

“We’ll wait until we get a definite answer from Tom. No point jumping the gun.”

Naomi nodded in agreement. “You’re right. There’s still the possibility it’s not Martina. Isn’t that right?”

Karl did not answer.

L
ate afternoon, and Karl tapped aimlessly at the Royal Quiet DeLuxe’s keys, trying desperately to finish the chapter of his latest manuscript. The phone call from Hicks this morning had unsettled him. Each time he tried typing a word, Martina’s face appeared on the page, derailing his train of thought.

“It’s no use,” he sighed, loudly, hoping to catch Naomi’s attention. He needed a bit of comforting and used the oldest excuse in the book. “Writer’s block.”

She ignored him, her face glued to the TV set.

“It’s no bloody use,” he repeated, louder. “I can’t focus.”

“Huh? Did you say something, Karl?”

“I said … forget it.”

The doorbell began buzzing just as Karl placed his fingers back on the keys.

“It’s okay. You sit there, Naomi. I’ve nothing else to do,” he said, lightly sarcastic, journeying downstairs.

Opening the door, Karl was greeted by Sean, his regular postman.

“On time as usual, Sean. I could set my watch by you – if it had six hands.”

“Definitely not my fault today, Karl,” replied Sean, sheepishly. “The queue in McDonald’s was terrible. You’d think they were giving the Big Macs away, the crowd in there.”

“Aren’t you supposed to deliver the mail first?”

“On an empty stomach?”

“Okay. You win. What goodies have you for me?”

“It’s what I haven’t got for you.”

“I love cryptic postmen. What have you
not
got for me?”

“A bulky big package representing one of your rejected manuscripts.”

“Hilarious. Everyone in this town is a comedian. Just give me the mail and go back to your Happy Meal. Make us all happy.”

Upstairs, Karl checked the mail, junking the junk, wishing he could follow suit with the three bills weighing heavily in his hand.

“Anything, Karl?” asked Naomi, taking her eyes off the screen for a few seconds.

“Yes. Three letters for you from a guy called Bill, and one big mysterious brown envelope for me,” said Karl, ripping the head off the large brown. It took Karl less than ten seconds to read the letter contained within:

“Who’s it from, Karl?” enquired Naomi.

“From this wanker,” said Karl, holding the large black and white photo for Naomi to view.

“Who’s that?”

“That is the bastard I stopped from getting a good hiding in school, numerous times. I wish now I had joined in. This is Mister Bestseller himself, Peter Mullan.”

“Why’d he send you a photo of himself?”

“Probably because he hadn’t one of me to send.”

“Isn’t he the writer you went to see down in Eason’s?”

“Yes, well … let’s not linger on the past,” said Karl, ripping both letter and photo up before making his way to the kitchen area. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Huh?” said Naomi, returning her attention back to the screen.

“I said would you like … what the hell is that you’re watching? Are you crying? What the hell are you crying about, now? I hope it’s not because of that wanker’s letter?”

“I’m not crying!” snapped Naomi, dabbing a Kleenex at her eyes.

“Must be a weepy you’re watching, then. Please don’t tell me it’s
Titanic
, again?”

“It’s … it’s the highest cruelty on earth,” stated Naomi, indicating the screen, while scribbling on to a notepad.

“What is?”

“That horrible torture.
Foie gras
.”

“I love it when you speak with a French accent. Which reminds me.
Wee wee, Mademoiselle. I must go to zee lava-tor-ee
,” grinned Karl, doing a
terrible Peter Sellers.

“This isn’t funny. I’m writing a letter to the papers about it,” scolded Naomi. “
Foie gras
should be made a crime.”

“I fully agree with whatever it is you’re talking about. What did you do with the
Belfast Telegraph?
There’s a couple of horse racing results I need to check …” Karl’s voice suddenly trailed off. A goose on the screen was being roughly manhandled, a ten-inch steel tube being forced down its throat. The bird was making an almost-human sound of anguish as the tube went further down its throat. It was appalling to watch, but like the scene of a car wreck, Karl’s morbid curiosity refused to allow him to draw his eyes away. “What … what’s happened to that goose?”

Naomi sniffed. “The poor thing is being force fed with filtered corn through a metal tube placed in its esophagus.”

“Why? Is it sick?”

“No, of course not. The inhumane technique of gavaging – or
foie gras
– dates as far back as 2500
bc
, when the ancient Egyptians began keeping birds for food, deliberately fattening the birds through force-feeding.”

“What’s the point?”

“Do you know the translation for
foie gras?
”

“Fat liver?”

“That’s right. The rich livers enlarge three or four times their normal size. It’s a supposed delicacy loved by so-called chefs and greedy connoisseurs.”

The goose was screaming a high-pitched
herr-onk onk, herr-onk onk
of distress. To Karl, it sounded almost frighteningly human. It was starting to give him the shits.

“Can’t you turn that bloody sound down just a tad, Naomi?”

“Does it upset you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Good,” she replied, pushing the volume up via the remote. “Everyone should hear this before they sit down to a meal!”

Herr-onk onk, herr-onk onk, herr-onk onk, herr-onk onkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkk
.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“This torture goes on for the last twelve to twenty-one days of the
birds’ lives, before they are finally slaughtered. Can you imagine being tortured like that, screaming when no one gives a shit? Horrible horrible horrible …”

Luck sometimes followed Karl like a dog. Sometimes it ran a little too far ahead. Other times it fell a little too far behind, but it was always within calling range, and if he paused long enough, he knew it would eventually come. Without warning, his doggy luck suddenly hit him, like a rubber band snapping against his forehead. The idea grew so large in his mind that he could think of nothing else.

“I’ve got to go out, Naomi. Shouldn’t be long,” he declared, quickly grabbing his coat.

“But … it’s late. Look, I’ll turn this off, if it’s upsetting you, and –”

“No! No, just keep watching it. I’ll need to ask you some questions when I get back.”