Hellbound: The Tally Man (6 page)

With the streets becoming crowded and hot, Obadiah returned to the bench he had originally sat on and once again studied the passers-by. Their movements and actions reminded him of flies trapped behind a window, struggling to find a way out of their prison of glass. Their behaviours were random and manic, as they haphazardly flitted from one window to the next, never appearing to stop long enough to take in any information at all. Within this abstract chaos, Obadiah noticed the red-haired woman again.

Carrying bags of shopping, she was more focused than the others, seemingly set on a particular destination. Obadiah stood and proceeded to copy her route, weaving between parked cars in the lot like a Great White honing in on its prey. She fished a set of keys from her bag, as she approached a shop currently empty and cloaked in darkness. He realised she was either opening up or she owned it - most probably the latter.

His footsteps light as though cushioned, Obadiah steadily made his way towards her, using her blind side to avoid acknowledgement of his presence. His mind was focused, the initial caprice of his arrival here now tempered by the opportunity presented to him.

Who was he to deny his true nature? In the absence of the reason for his being here, why not test the boundaries.

She saw Obadiah’s approach reflected in the window and turned to face him, her expression one of curiosity as to the approach of a handsome stranger. Using the opportunity to get close, Obadiah smiled, flicking his tongue across the front of his teeth before bringing his elbow round and catching her directly on the jaw. He caught her as she slipped to the floor, gently guiding her down. He glanced around, ensuring no one had witnessed his actions before plucking the keys still gripped in her left hand and locating the one that opened the door. He dragged her into the cool, darkened shop and positioned her against a wall, closing and locking the door behind him. He scanned outside a second time before carrying Red’s body towards the rear of the shop, propping her in a chair in such a way so she didn’t fall off in her unconscious state.

Obadiah grabbed another chair and sat opposite Red, studying her face. Her complexion was like porcelain, almost alabaster in contrast to her fiery hair. The V shape of her lilac sweater trailed a path to a suprasternal notch that delved deeply into the border of her sternum, her breasts below rising and falling gently in her cataleptic state.

He could have watched her all day and night, the perfection of her face a direct contrast to the sights he had seen for so long at Absolom. But he had a job to do. If the answers he required wouldn’t come freely to him, he would use his new environment to entertain him instead.

Obadiah gently slapped Red’s cheeks to bring her round. She murmured slightly as reality slowly dawned on her, her body tensing with the veracity of her situation and how she had arrived here came flooding over her in waves. She worked her aching jaw from side to side, suddenly noticing the throbbing in her head. As she spoke, she tried to hide her fear, but the slight tremble in her voice seeped through.

“Please, you can take the money. Just don’t hurt me. You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t have to, no.” Obadiah smiled a baboon’s smile that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. “Forgive my manners. I didn’t ask you your name.”

Red’s eyes began to moisten, but her voice became steadier. “Susan. Susan Sheridan. Please, let me go. I haven’t seen you. I won’t say anything to anyone. This isn’t necessary.”

Obadiah’s green eyes flashed with intent as he stood and wondered over to the counter, randomly opening drawers and cupboards. Red glanced feverishly toward Obadiah and then the door, trying to calculate if she could make the distance. Obadiah sensed her intent.

“I didn’t tie you down. Therefore, I would strongly advise you don’t try to make the door. Stabbing someone in the back is so…uncivilised.” His voice was playful, yet menacing as he continued scanning the area. Opening the drawer behind him, he smiled before grabbing the knife and closing it again.

Obadiah returned to his seat, not at all surprised to see her still sat there. She could have possibly made it, if she had seized the moment.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda, he thought, playfully pricking the ends of his fingers with the knife as he looked upon her.

He had to admit, the smell of her fear was exhilarating. He hadn’t experienced it in so long, not in such a raw, unbridled fashion. Tears silently streaked her face.

“No crying please. It’s a waste of suffering.”

Susan sniffed repeatedly before finding her voice. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

Obadiah simply smiled, his eyes appearing to glint, despite the absence of any direct light. His expression caused Susan’s breathing to become more rapid, as though suddenly deprived of oxygen. The realisation of what was about to occur was the most surreal sensation she had ever experienced.

“Please…I’ll give you anything you…”

Already bored, Obadiah’s hand snapped out like a coiled snake. The knife he held swung in an upward arch, effortlessly slicing through the soft of her neck. Susan gasped quietly before the blood began to flow freely from the now gaping wound. Her eyes developed a peaceful, distant gaze as her head slumped down to rest on her chest.

Obadiah wiped the blood that had splashed his face with the back of his hand. The coppery smell of Susan’s blood slowly filled the air. Whatever the reasons for his emancipation from Absolom, why had he been returned here - to the place where his torture had begun? The country, never mind the town, was a constant reminder of who he could have been if his childhood circumstances had been different. Had he been destined to become this way, or did his father take a child and manufacture a monster?

He was saddened that the two souls he had liberated so far could not be part of his now absent tally. Obadiah found himself wondering what Dr. Franklin would have to say concerning this disappointment. At the time, he had found it amusing, though interesting, that someone would want to devote so much time and effort trying to understand what made him tick. Franklin had believed Obadiah was a loner, suffering from a narcissistic personality disorder with the potential for explosive violence that could all be linked back to his childhood. Obadiah didn’t doubt any of that. But as far as he knew, Franklin had missed the one key understanding that made his crimes special. Obadiah Stark had killed for no reason more complicated than he chose to. His liberation from Absolom had not changed that aesthetic.

He looked at Susan’s motionless body for a few moments with an expression devoid of emotion, wondering how long it would take for someone to find her before moving towards the door and stepping outside, the knife in his hand.

The sun appeared to be maintaining its persistent campaign of attempting warmth through the cold chill. The wind had risen slightly, stirring the leaves on the trees, the current ignorance of Obadiah’s campaign of horror ensuring the morning remained as motionless as a painting.

Here, Obadiah was obviously an unknown quantity, his history unrealised by the people living in the place he was born. That, compounded with his lack of understanding about his purpose here, did not sit well with him. He had been ready for death, had prepared himself, and someone had stolen it from him. Therefore, by his reckoning, he didn’t really have anything to lose. He hadn’t wanted a second chance. After all, you only felt guilty if you thought you had done something wrong.

His mind focused, he decided that if he couldn’t understand this place, he was going to make damn sure it understood him. Denying him his death had been a grave mistake and one that many would now suffer for.

He randomly approached a lady trying to get into her car, grabbing her by the hair. Swinging her around by her ponytail, Obadiah slammed her into the neighbouring car. As she slipped to the floor, she began screaming.

Ignoring her cries, Obadiah leaned over and sliced the knife across her face, neatly popping her right eyeball and severing her nose in half. She squealed and grabbed for her face as he cut across her neck, her body going limp almost instantly.

A couple ahead of her had already started their car having witnessed Obadiah’s actions and were accelerating away. He picked up the woman’s body as though weightless and threw it into the car’s oncoming path. The driver of the car swerved to avoid it, acting on instinct despite knowing that she was already dead. The front of the car crumpled as it ploughed in a parked Mercedes, the red automobile sliding sideways before striking the car next to it.

In his dazed state, the driver didn’t notice Obadiah coming up beside his window, his hand holding a stone that was subsequently launched through it, striking the man in the face. Obadiah reached in and roughly pulled him through the shattered glass, its serration slicing a wound in the top of his head. The female passenger was slumped forwards, her head bleeding from the impact to the dashboard. Obadiah knew she was already dead.

The knife in hand, he brought it up towards the man’s hands pitifully trying to protect his face, slicing the man’s fingers off neatly below the knuckle. Its journey continued on and came across his cheek, widening his mouth into a clown’s grin. Obadiah quickly stabbed it into the other side of his face, the muscles making a soft sound as they met resistance with the knife. His mouth severed wide, the man shuddered as he passed a final fluid-filled breath, losing his fight against Obadiah’s claim of his body.

Obadiah paused for breath, considering his next move whilst surveying the panic that had ensured. Coupled with the buildings around him, cathedrals of shimmering glass and brick and shining with life in the bright sun, the whole situation was almost heavenly.

Restoring his focus, he scanned the streets. He could see people, pitifully trying to barricade themselves inside shops and cars. Many souls were hurriedly trying to leave the location on foot, not looking back in case they caught his attention.

Tightening his grip on the knife, he began to run towards the nearest pedestrian, gathering speed as the woman with the pram tried to flee Obadiah’s charge. He wasn’t interested in finesse or meticulous detail. He just wanted them to die. Their only crime being in his presence.

The woman with the pram didn’t get very far as Obadiah bounded up with dancer-like precision, grabbing her by the throat from behind. Kicking the pram out of the way and ignoring the cries from within it, he brought the knife down in an overhead motion. It entered the woman’s stomach just below her sternum. Sliding to the floor, she tried futilely to hold her stomach and protect her head at the same time, failing to intercept the foot traveling to her face. Obadiah’s kick to her head shattered her skull. She tried to call out for someone to protect her baby from between the disjointed fragments that had once been her jaw. Obadiah’s final kick broke through her fragile latticework of ribs, puncturing her lungs in the process and forcing blood to explode from the wound in her abdomen. The pram remained stationary on the path. The newly orphaned baby continued to cry, sensing the fractured emotion in the air.

A man altruistically charged Obadiah from his left side. Gesturing towards the pram with a bow, as though encouraging him to pursue it, Obadiah kicked it again, this time into the road, the baby’s screams rising with the sudden violence of movement. Twisting to the side as the man tried to shoulder-barge him, Obadiah grabbed him by his hair and began stabbing in a brutal frenzy. The knife penetrated his lower abdomen and groin area repeatedly, some of the incisions so deep, his ileum poked out through various apertures. The man cried out, from shock more than pain, before falling silent. His eyes slowly collected a glazed expression of bewilderment and peace in equal measure, before stilling themselves and staring towards the sky.

Obadiah’s heart was racing with the exertion of his actions, but he quickly managed to slow it to its normal rhythm. Looking around, he realised that little more was necessary for what he wanted to accomplish. Keeping hold of the knife and ignorant of the receding sounds of terror around him, he scanned the now emptying streets for somewhere he could wait for the authorities. Somewhere less fussy.

Spotting a pub just a short distance ahead he began a leisurely walk towards it, wiping his hands lazily on his jeans. The few people who remained on the street ahead parted with his coming, as though he were Moses waving his staff. He knew they were wondering if they were next to die, but Obadiah was passed his desire for inflicting suffering. Now, he simply wanted closure.

Ahead on Main Street, he noticed The Laurels. A traditional Irish pub, Obadiah remembered it from his childhood. His father had known one of the O’Leary’s, drinking with him often before coming home to meter out his alcohol-fuelled rage on his wife. The red signage emblazoned with yellow lettering was enticing to Obadiah. Though he had never drank in there, having left Ireland before he was old enough to legally drink, the memories it sparked were so powerful he felt almost obliged to have a drink there.

As he made his way through the doors into the virtually deserted pub, the tiled floors and beamed ceilings spoke of rustic Irish heritage, an obvious nod to the old ways. Approaching the bar, he noticed the numerous alcoves and dimly lit corners, their offers of seductive seclusion inviting to the new customer.

But not Obadiah. He wanted to be in plain sight for when they arrived to take him.

The red-faced proprietor approached the bar in front of Obadiah. The smile on his face began to fade and was replaced by one of fear as his eyes registered the blood on his T-shirt and the knife he had placed casually on the bar.

“Barkeep, a pint of Guinness, please.” Obadiah’s tone was cordial and light.

The man continued to stare at Obadiah, uncertain of how to respond to his pleasant request.

His reply was preceded by a long pause. “…certainly.”

As his Guinness was being pulled, Obadiah glanced around the pub. The few customers it had contained were hurriedly leaving, the muted televisions on the walls now the only signs that the place was actually open for business. They needn’t have left on his account. His moment had passed and now he simply wanted to wait for the Gardaí in peace and have a quiet drink whilst he did so.