Past Darkness (12 page)

T
he Northern Whig bar and restaurant stands at the corner of Bridge Street, in the heart of Belfast’s cathedral quarter. Dominating the opulent interior are three impressive granite statues. Rescued from the Communist Headquarters in Prague after the fall of communism, they depict the muscular socialist proletariat, steadfastly working for the glorious revolution.

While Karl and Naomi sat waiting patiently for their meal in the lavish surroundings, Graham Butler wasn’t too many miles away, also sitting.

However, Butler’s surroundings weren’t so friendly, or filled with ambient music and the mouth-watering aroma of good food. He was completely naked, strapped to a rough wooden chair, surrounded by walls adorned with a forest of photographs and newspaper clippings. He was somewhat unnerved to see his own face staring down at him from the wall, on pages from the
Sunday Exposé
and other newspapers.

It had been a long, brutal night for Butler. Or had it been night, at all? It was hard to discern between night and day right now. He was sliding in and out of hallucinations, his disorientation caused by fatigue and pain. At times, he thought he was home, in London, at his abode, eating the fine food and expensive wine that he was accustomed to. Then, just as quickly, he was transported to a castle’s keep, tormented by some sadistic guard, laughing in his face, forcing him to eat pigswill.

Despite the pain ravaging his body, however, he was still alive – at least for now – and that’s all that mattered.

He dearly wished that he had never come to this accursed shit-hole of a city, regardless of how lucrative the prospect had once looked. His photo peering down at him from the wall seemed to be berating him for such negative thoughts, and for the situation he had allowed himself to become entrapped in.
Sitting here wallowing in self-pity isn’t going to get you out of this mess. Get off your fucking good-for-nothing ass, and do something – and quickly, before it’s too late!

He began rocking the chair to and fro, all the while expanding and releasing his massive muscles, applying pressure to the fetters compressed against his battered body. The leather straps incised his skin, flaying and burning. He gritted his teeth, trying to block the pain. He felt on fire. He felt cold. He felt dizzy. It was only a matter of time before he passed out with pain once again.

The photo on the wall began laughing at him.

The beam from a small industrial lamp was directed straight into his eyes, forcing him to squint each time he glanced about his surroundings, or tried conversing with the human shadow lurking behind the spotlight’s glare. Despite the horrendous heat emitting from the lamp’s close proximity, he felt nothing but a chilliness sheeting his skin. ‘Can’t you shine that fucking light somewhere else, instead of into my eyes?’ Butler said for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time he was greeted with dead-man’s silence.

Who the hell was holding him captive, and for what reason? To kill him? But why go to all this trouble, when they could simply have shot or stabbed him as he left the Spaniard pub, in the city centre? Was it a rival drug dealer, sending him a message? He hoped to God it wasn’t paramilitaries. He’d seen enough in his short stay in Belfast to know what the bastards were capable of. Unthinkable horrors, things even he would shy away from.

He could handle all sorts of beatings, but not much can be done when someone pops a bullet in your head, and dumps your body in the street like a sack of rotten bones for the dogs of Belfast to devour.

However, the survivalist in him wasn’t going to allow himself to go to the grave quietly. No fucking way. He’d sent enough men to early graves, without wishing to join them at this stage in his life.

The last thing he remembered was pissing all that lovely Guinness up against a graffiti-scarred wall, in some godforsaken entry close to the holy of holies, Saint Anne’s Cathedral.

Even before he had managed to get his cock out to relieve his bloated bladder, he’d been approached by at least three prostitutes – one of whom he suspected of being a male in some sort of bizarre drag – offering to hold his cock for him while they did strange and wonderful things to other parts of his body.

He had declined, reluctantly. The spirit was willing, but his languid fleshy member was weak and feeling woefully ineffective. He was no use with booze in his blood. It always killed his libido.

Something had happened when he was urinating, but what? He tried to remember, to bring his mind back to that very moment. Was it a black out? He’d had a few of those in his time, though none recently. Then it came to him: a Belfast-style blowjob: a powerful blow to the back of the head with some blunt weapon, something flat and heavy.

Now that he thought of it, he could feel the back of his skull throbbing; could sense dry stickiness mapped on his neck. Head wounds always bleed profusely. Re-focusing, he could hear individual noises behind the spotlight. A sinister cornucopia of sounds: something metallic being dragged? Small drawers being slid open? Items being removed from the drawers?

He inhaled very slowly, almost imperceptibly, trying to stretch out the leather straps criss-crossed on his massive chest. There was very little give, but he kept trying. He was sure he was gaining some tiny movement. A fraction. Hope.

His patience wore off again. ‘What do you intend doing with me? Eh? Can’t you fucking talk? At least be a man and face me, instead of hiding behind shadows, like a wanker.’ Silence greeted his demand, infuriating him further. ‘For fuck sake, you lousy bastard! Say something –
anything
!’

The spotlight moved a few inches to the left. The glare deadened slightly.

‘Sorry about that,’ a muffled voice said in the darkness. ‘Didn’t know it was bothering you so much. My apologies.’

Butler squinted. Despite blue afterglow spots dancing in his eyes, he could now make out the figure of a man, draped in what looked like a scuffed and bloody butcher’s apron, a surgical mask covering half his face. The leather apron brought a quick-flash memory to Butler of when he was a lad of fourteen, working in the filthy tannery, waiting for the hides of slaughtered beasts from the nearby abattoir.

‘Who the hell are you? What’s this all about?’

‘It really doesn’t make a lot of difference who I am.’ Now he could make out the man’s unblinking eyes, drilling into his own, as if peering into the brickwork of his soul. ‘Knowledge of my name will not change the outcome.’

‘What fucking outcome? What the hell’s all this about?’

‘I need you to answer some questions. Nothing difficult.’

‘Are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?’

‘Perhaps in due course. For now, though, you need to accommodate me. Why are you harassing Mister Kane?’ The man was now walking around behind him.

Kane? The bastard. He should have known he was behind this, somehow. That cowardly fucker couldn’t do his own dirty work.

‘What makes you think I’m harassing that scumbucket?’

‘Don’t answer a question with a question. It’s one of my pet hates.’

‘
Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
!
’

Butler’s left nipple went shooting across the room like a miniature champagne cork. He screamed so loud, the crown works of his teeth rattled in his mouth. His head dropped to his chest, breath caught hard in his throat. ‘
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
’

His hair was pulled back violently, bringing his head back to face the ceiling with a snap.

‘Pay attention, Mister Butler.’ A small, polished item was held between finger and thumb of the man’s hand. He tapped the tip of Butler’s nose with it. ‘This is a Swann-Morton Number Ten surgical blade. A beautiful piece of singular metal, used for making small and accurate incisions. Be thankful I don’t believe in inflicting needless pain. I could have used a pair of rusted pliers, and twisted the nipple off, but I’m not a barbarian – although I can be if pushed.’

Butler gritted his teeth. His eyes bulged like a wild animal pushed beyond endurance.

‘Okay, okay. Look, I…we, Kane and me…we had a bit of a run-in. Nothing serious. It…it just got a bit out of hand. That’s it, really. Look, I know you’re Kane’s friend, and you’re probably pissed off about me threatening him in his office, but…for fuck sake, I just lost my temper. Nothing came of it. It was just a bit of mouthing from me. That’s all.’

‘The newspapers reporting the incident in the hotel didn’t seem to think it was “nothing serious”, did they?’

‘Come on! You know those bastards will say anything to sell their rag. A few fisticuffs, and they turned it into an all-out battle. Truth be told, Kane kicked my ass good and proper, and I deserved every bit of it. I was just angry when I went back to his office to threaten him. Stupid macho shit.’

‘And you threatened to do what, exactly?’

‘It was nothing. Just a bit of messing about –
arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
’

The other nipple went flying, bouncing off the lamp’s metal face before resting on the floor.

‘You don’t learn very well, do you, Mister Butler? Don’t try diluting the truth with me. I don’t like people insulting my intelligence.’

An alarm went off on the man’s wristwatch for a few seconds, and then went dead. From a metal table, he picked up
a roll of silver duct tape. Sliced a section off with the surgical blade, and secured the tape to Butler’s mouth.

‘There. You can scream all you want now. We’ll recommence our conversation when I return.’

He brought the surgical knife close to Butler’s face. Droplets of his blood hung from the glinting surface.

A
t about the same time as Scarman was leaving Butler to his thoughts, Karl was excusing himself from the table, and making a beeline for the toilet. Once inside, he checked the place was empty, before locking the door behind him.

He hit Ciarán’s number. Two seconds later, a voice answered at the other end.

‘Karl?’

‘Ciarán, just calling to say job well done on the rodent.’

‘You being sarcastic?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I haven’t been able to do anything about it, at least not yet.’

A puzzled look appeared on Karl’s face. ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘The rodent disappeared, just as I was setting a trap with some poison in it. One minute it was there, next it was gone.’

‘But I’ve just received news to the contrary.’

‘I don’t know anything about that. I was going to call you
this afternoon, but I decided to wait another day, just in case it showed up again. I didn’t want to disappoint you.’

For a few seconds, Karl stood still. Thinking. Wondering. ‘That’s…that’s okay. No harm done.’

‘I’ll give you your money back when I–’

‘Forget about it. One way or the other, the job’s done. We’ll talk later.’

Karl clicked the phone off, and stood there digesting what Ciarán had told him. Did Butler leave on his own accord, or had something spooked him? The cops? Rival drug dealers? Or had he fallen foul of the thugs he was hoping to partner with, to extend his empire? Whatever the reason, Butler had left in a hurry, and that was a big bloody Belfast blessing.

The thought cheered Karl right through to the marrow of his bones, as he returned to the table and Naomi.

‘What’s the big smile for?’ said Naomi.

‘I needed that. A
load
off my mind.’

Naomi made a face. ‘Don’t be disgusting. Spoiling the night with toilet humour.’

‘You’re right. My apologies, my lovely lady,’ said Karl, reaching for his brandy. ‘Want me to order dessert?’

‘No need to. I’ve got something back in the apartment.’

‘You have?’ Karl said, trying to sound all-innocent. ‘I hope it’s something very hot and sticky. That would finish off a very perfect night.’

T
ara was crouched in the darkness, listening at the door. She hadn’t moved in an hour. Cat-like stance.

‘Tara?’
whispered Dorothy from the mattress.
‘What was all that screaming?’

No answer from Tara.

Dorothy waited another full minute before trying once more.

‘Tara? What…what was all that horrible screaming? It sounded like a banshee with its–?’

‘Shut up!’

Tara walked away from the door. Stood towering over Dorothy, chest heaving, as if she had run a mile. In the gloom, her eyes had the intimidating presence of a sawn-off shotgun.

‘You can’t do anything you’re fucking asked, can you, Bucket Mouth? That mouth of yours never stops.’ Tara made her hand into a mouth. ‘Yakkety-yak, yakkety-yak, yakkety-fucking-yak. On and on and on. Tara this, Tara that. You wouldn’t last
five fucking minutes in Blackmore. If the staff didn’t fix you, the other girls would do you in.’

‘I…didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry–’

Tara’s face began morphing into something, her skin like rubber being melted. It was no longer Tara, but an entirely different person, a Jekyll/Hyde transformation.

She slid up to the end of the mattress, and removed the cutthroat from its hidden niche. Opened the cutthroat, and knelt down beside Dorothy. Placed the blade against Dorothy’s neck.

Dorothy felt the cold dullness of steel on her neck. She began shaking. She wanted to scream, but fear locked her tongue. Then, something strange took over. Her body suddenly became light. She was having an out-of-body experience. She seemed to be floating on the ceiling, looking down at the horrific scene, her throat being cut, blood everywhere. Tara was kneeling beside her, laughing that maniacal laugh of hers.

‘I warned you about saying sorry.
Didn’t I?
’ Tara’s nostrils flared in and out, breathing more pronounced. Her eyes had lost their pupils.

Dorothy blinked in answer, fearful of nodding with the blade at her neck.

‘You think I won’t slit your worthless throat?’

Dorothy felt faint. Tears began wetting her eyes.

Tara pierced Dorothy’s skin with the blade. A drop of blood
the size and shape of a fish’s eye oozed from her neck. It rested on the blade, gleaming in the dull darkness of hopelessness and despair.

The pain was excruciating, but Dorothy uttered not a sound. She stopped breathing, silently praying to God to take her away from this Hell, and Satan’s queen imp.

For the longest time, the blade rested on her neck. Then into the room came a soft sound, a mechanical droning, like a million flies with clipped wings: a van’s overworked engine.

The sound seemed to waken Tara from her murderous trance. She stood. Closed the blade. Returned it to the mattress. Made her way to the door, once again standing statuestill and listening, as though she had never left.

Dorothy’s eyes were closed, lips quivering in a silent entreaty.

At the door, Tara now manoeuvred her hand into the niche, edging her fingers along the lock system. Her index finger touched the bolt. She hooked the finger over the curved metal ending, and eased the bolt from its enclosure, sliding it quietly to freedom. The door opened.

Without another word, or a glance back at Dorothy, she slipped out of the room and onto the shadowy landing, her ears fine-tuned to the tiniest of noises emitting from downstairs.