The Killing Hour (25 page)

I wonder if I should test it. I could go over to the paddock where I buried the cardboard box and fire off a few shots if nobody is around, but I decide against it. I can’t squeeze the drama of being caught into my schedule. I would be charged, fingerprinted and my fingerprints would quickly match those found at the two dead girls’ homes. I put the gun and the magazine back in the box and hide it in the ceiling with all the cash.

I change into shorts and a T-shirt before hitting the phonebook and finding a carpenter who can come out today. I only have to wait an hour for him to arrive. He’s a young guy, maybe only twenty, who talks like a teenager and thinks I must be one too. He calls me ‘man’ every few minutes or so and talks about surfboards as he fixes my back door. I guess I ought to be flattered that he thinks I’m young enough to understand. I pay him in cash and he gives me an invoice. I realise the very act of having my door fixed means I think there’s a chance I’m going to live through this.

I lock up the house and head outside. The day is still young, I have time to kill and I know how to kill it. I drive out to New Brighton, the radio off the whole time because nobody can say or sing or advertise anything that’ll make me feel any better. I listen to the traffic and to my thoughts and don’t really like the sound of those either. I park as close as I can to the pier. The sun has peaked and is coming down. One day hopefully it’ll just fall right into the Earth. Probably won’t be today. The breeze is warm but the temperature has dropped down to around twenty-five.

I’m not a big fan of New Brighton. It has a great beach, but the air tastes of salt and boredom. The houses are mainly bungalows and cottages that are stained with sea salt. Anything made from metal is either rusting or in danger of rusting. The gardens that make Christchurch famous don’t extend their roots out here. What little greenery there was has dried up and turned to brown weed that crackles underfoot, each piece a potential matchstick. The mall has more empty shops than sales assistants.

A few years ago they built a three-hundred-metre concrete pier out here, as though that would bring people back to a dying suburb but so far the only thing it has attracted are fishermen. They renovated the surrounding blocks, threw up palm trees and slapped paint on the storefronts and footpaths. The pier stands two storeys high with flights of concrete stairs leading up from the footpath. A library and cafés are built onto the base of it. I climb the stairs and the warm breeze from below disappears, replaced by air currents that are several degrees cooler. With the library behind me, its thousands of books offering no solution to what I have to do tonight, I head out over the incoming tide, passing people who have their lines over the side to catch whatever fish are dumb enough to still be hanging around. There are lampposts every twenty metres: their lights will help me out tonight. Up here the smell of seaweed is gone, replaced by the smell of blood, fish guts, rotting skin and cigarette smoke. People gut their fish directly onto the asphalt. Teenagers throw fish heads at their friends.

I walk out to the end, past wooden seats with peeling paint and rusting rubbish bins. I walk to a small non-fishing zone where people are fishing, lean against the railing and look out over the water. I watch the waves crashing into the concrete foundations below and feel them shake through the pillars. The shattering rollers spray plumes of water into the air like dust. The wind, colder out here, is coming from the east, and it reaches me without picking up the scent of dead fish on the way. The water near the shore is grey, but blue beyond the breakers. I look for shapes moving beneath the surface but see nothing. The cool breeze snaps my clothes back and forth.

I savour the moment, though I keep it short. It’s immoral to enjoy anything at all while Jo could be dead or about to die. I turn around and look at the unemployed punks. Cigarettes dripping from their mouths, stolen fishing lines hanging into the water. A sign next to them says no overhead casting. But signs are like rules for these guys; there to be ignored, and they take pleasure in the knowledge they can do something illegal even in the simple act of fishing. A guy wearing a T-shirt that says
Tonight I’m going to party like you’re nine
stares at me as if deciding whether or not I’d make good bait. Head down, eyes down, unmolested I reach the library. I head back to the sand and head north.

Swimmers and sunbathers and kids throwing around a ratty old football make this just another trip to the seaside. A guy throwing a red Frisbee high into the breeze and catching it as it flies back gets in the way of people trying to relax. On the weekend this place will be packed. I walk a hundred metres, then turn around and study the pier. I study the foundations below, the angle where the beach hits the base of the pier where a concrete wall climbs between the two. This is where I’m going to be tonight. I want to know my ground. I need to know my escape routes.

I drive around the surrounding warren of streets to become familiar with them. When I’ve absorbed all I can I head home. I make sure my house is secure, then attach pieces of string to the doors and windows, tying the other ends to an assortment of pots and pans. It’s a cheap alarm system, but effective.

I bring down the gun. I grab a handful of ammunition and load it into the magazine, slap the magazine into the gun, then sit it next to my bed. The day isn’t as young any more but it still has a long way to go. Knowing I’ll need all the energy I can get I lie on top of my bed and set my alarm clock for seven. The sun streams through the window directly on top of me. I put on a pair of sunglasses, prop a pillow beneath my head and close my eyes.

The sun feels great. Relaxing. It seems easy to forget that another killing hour is on the way. It will be the last.

44

The basement is cold, and Jo can’t stop shivering. She’s tired but can’t fall asleep. She’s lost all track of time. It could be noon or it could be dusk. Down here it’s all the same. In this dark place on this concrete floor where the cold seeps slowly and forcefully into her body it’s easy to imagine that it’s permanent midnight. It’s also easy to give up. For a long while now she’s been trying to think of reasons why she shouldn’t, but so far has come up with none. If she just accepts her fate then dying might not be so difficult. Her wrists are hot from where the rope has been chewing into her skin. Will the pay-off come soon? Or has it already happened, and Charlie been killed? Could be Cyris is just keeping her now. Of course if Charlie’s been to the police then there may not be a pay-off at all …

A sound from upstairs: the basement door being unlocked. It opens slowly and light spills into the room. She tries to shield her eyes but rope is holding her hands down. She has to twist her head away and squeeze her eyes shut as a figure makes its way towards her. She knows it’s Cyris —— it can’t be anybody else. She keeps looking away because to look at him is to hate him, and hate only makes her angry, makes her believe she can fight this man, makes her believe she can escape with her life.

The scent of soap and sweat overpower her as he leans down, and a moment later a knife touches the ropes that bind her. He tells her to stand, but her legs give way and she falls on her side. He hisses the command at her again, this time adding the sight of his knife as an incentive. It works, and when she gets to her feet he tosses something at her that she can’t identify until they hit the ground. Handcuffs. Maybe he has a whole drawer full of them. When he tells her to pick them up she doesn’t refuse. The refusal begins when he tells her to put them on. Handcuffed she will be no match for him. He takes a step towards her and she watches his face as anger and insanity blossom behind his eyes, and she realises that handcuffed or not she’s in the same situation. She clips them onto her wrists. The cold metal ratchets into place.

He leads her up the stairs into the hallway. She can hear a radio going somewhere, and in the distance a neighbour is mowing lawns, and somewhere between those two noises a chorus of barking from several dogs. The curtains are drawn but around the edges she can see the dull fading of sunlight. It has to be around six-thirty, maybe seven o’clock, she thinks. Could be the wife has gone out, or has been stuffed into a metal drum and buried in the garden.

He leads her through to the adjoining garage, which looks clinical white under the glow of eight fluorescent tubes. Brand-new tools are hanging neatly on a pegboard. Some, still wrapped in their boxes, are on the bench. It’s as though the tools are for display only, as if Cyris is pretending to a life he doesn’t really have. She wonders who this pretence is for. Then she notices that one of the tools has actually been used: a hacksaw lies on its side, next to a pile of metal shavings. An open box of shotgun shells has been spilled onto its side.

The car is a dark blue four-door sedan, the same type the police use, she realises. Where is her car? He opens the passenger door and orders her in. As he moves around to the driver’s side she contemplates locking the doors, but it’d only keep him out for a few more seconds before he smashed his way in. He climbs in, immediately telling her to shut up, even though she hasn’t said a word. He tells her to be still while they wait for the darkness to arrive. She slowly nods. She’s more scared now than she’s ever been.

Scared of the dark.

Scared of Cyris.

Scared of Charlie.

She says nothing as she waits beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights.

45

The problem with sleep is you never quite know whether the nightmares are real. Bad things are happening. People are dying and I’m the reason, and I can’t seem to wake myself.

I sit up and stare at my bedroom wall where a few slivers of sun rise slowly towards the ceiling. I try to shake the tiredness off but it begs me to stay. My sunglasses have fallen off and are resting on the floor. I use my T-shirt to wipe away sweat that’s layered across my body. I glance at my buzzing alarm clock and the red numbers say it’s time to go to work.

The tiredness starts to fade as I dress in my fatigue gear but the nightmare remains. I put on my vest and load up the pockets. A quick scan in the mirror to make sure everything looks okay tells me nothing is okay. If I show up dressed as GI Joe he’s going to know something’s up. I strip back down and dress more casually. The night is warm but I put on a jacket to conceal my gun, and anyway, it’ll be cold up on the pier. I tuck the Swiss Army knife into my jacket pocket. I drag the money from the ceiling and rest it on the living room table.

Our meeting is over two and a half hours away so I get something to eat. I grab a packet of instant pasta from the cupboard. Just add water and a microwave and eight minutes of my time. My sort of cooking. I sit down at the table in the silence of my house and slowly eat it, thinking of dead men walking towards gas chambers after their last meal. Maybe I should have cooked something better. A roast dinner, or I could have ordered pizza or Chinese. The pasta tastes okay, but I think with my current appetite even a gourmet meal would taste bland. I dump the dishes in the sink and I’m about to wash them when I realise it’s pointless. I could be dead by tomorrow.

I grab the gun and slip it inside my jacket, sliding the magazine in next to it. I take a handful of extra bullets and drop them into a different pocket. They click against each other as I walk. I probably won’t need the extras. If I can’t kill him with the first seventeen shots there won’t be much hope of killing him with the following seventeen. I grab the rest of my gear, including a torch, some rope and Landry’s handcuffs. For a few moments I picture Detective Inspector Bill Landry’s corpse turning grey in the dirt somewhere between the river and the cave where he tried to shoot me. Only he probably isn’t turning grey. He’s probably turning a colour I don’t ever want to see. Something between white and purple. His eyes open and milky white as the sun beats down on him. His skin will be slipping off, his body bloating, the insects will be …

I can feel my pasta starting to move in my stomach. I turn my imagination away from Landry and turn my attention to Cyris. I’m planning on killing Cyris, for sure, that’s Plan A, but I’m also planning on getting him tied up and taking him to the police. That’s Plan B. I don’t know which I like more.

I load the money into a dark blue canvas bag, which I put into the back of the car. It’s still early, but I can’t bring myself to wait around here. I leave for New Brighton over an hour ahead of schedule. I drive slowly but still get there early. The sun is a dying ball of liquid orange.

I lock the money up in the car, then head up the sandy steps towards the pier. The library is closed, the lights off. There are few fishermen still on the pier, some punks. I walk among them, making eye contact, strolling boldly. They look at me and look away. They can feel, as I do, the change within me, and they sense this the same way a dog senses fear. These creatures only pick on unarmed individuals, and then only when they’re in a bunch.

I stand at the end of the pier and gaze out at the water. It’s rougher than it was this afternoon and the vibrations through the concrete are stronger. The air tastes of salt, and the cold breeze tastes of forgotten times. I turn my back to the water and lean against the rail. I watch the sun as it tries to hang onto the day, but it can’t defy nature; it slips away and then it’s gone. I make my lonely way back to the car.

Beware: Action Man is here.

At five minutes to ten I grab the canvas bag and the rest of my gear, and head back up the sandy steps. The brief thought crosses my mind that this could be my last time walking up here, that tomorrow somebody will have to carry me down, or fish me out of the water. The wind is stronger now and the waves are smashing below. At the top I rest against the railing and stare out at the lights of the city. They represent life and activity —— and so much ignorance. The pier is empty now and this suits me fine. It will also suit Cyris. I walk to a rubbish bin a hundred metres away and stuff the rope and torch into it on top of half a dead fish. I keep the gun in my pocket. The wind is making my eyes water. I turn towards the road and I wait.