Past Darkness (19 page)

K
arl stood outside Francis’ house, in a reflective mood. The countryside silence was a balm to his soul, a welcome break from the constant mêlée of Belfast. All around, smells were targeting his nostrils: damp leaves and tree bark mingled with oil and diseased sacks of seed gone to rot; dried diesel smells from the leakage staining a tractor’s side, like a wounded beast.

He imagined he could see Francis, working on the tractor, wiping the sweat of hard work from his brow with a blue-and-white handkerchief, freshly starched by Nora.

For a second, the industrial countryside smells were replaced by home cooking and laughter. He saw Nora rapping on the window, beckoning for Francis to come in for dinner, only be sure to take off those muddy boots before daring to set foot inside.

Karl smiled at the memory. Many’s the time, he had been given the same command, before feasting at her table.

‘Good people…damn good people…’

He ambled around to the back of the house. Police tape fluttered in the wind like weather kites, marking out a rectangle of muck and weeds. The plastic yellow strands seemed to be reaching out to him, like Sirens whispering doom.

Police had determined that the burglar or burglars had entered through the basement. Karl stood at the remains of the door, examining the shattered boards and wedging. A lot of trouble taken to enter a house.

Karl had acquainted himself over the years with burglars, for numerous reasons. One thing they all had in common was the easy approach. He remembered one old hand, Victor Harris, a master burglar, saying to him, if you need to break sweat to break in, then you’re doomed to failure – you will end up breaking everything, including your neck.

He stepped into the basement. Dank. Cemented with the stench of neglect. He hit a light switch. Nothing, the naked light bulb dangling from a wooden beam like a hangman’s noose. This was giving him the shits. He quickly moved on and through. Three badly constructed concrete steps ushered him into the heart of the house: the kitchen.

He saw himself sitting there at the table, happily chatting with Francis, never realising what cruelty fate had in store, just a few days later.

‘Fucking life…’ he muttered angrily, seething at the injustice of it all.

In the living room, the forensic cleaners had done a decent job, but he could clearly see the stain of Francis’ last grasp on this earth, engrained into the stinking carpet.

Karl peered around the gloomy room, beating himself up psychologically until he was punch-drunk with guilt, contemplating the what-ifs of life, the could-have, should-have, would-have-been scenarios of missed opportunities; he stood there until he was drained and chastened, and a modicum of redemption entered his battered spirit.

Darkness had fallen. Almost two hours had slipped by, unaccounted for. The strange coldness in the room enveloped him in a wary warning, auguring something he could not quite put his touch on.

He shuddered, and made haste to leave, going out the front door this time like a guest, instead of out the back like a thief in the night.

As he closed the front door, behind him, a sound, somewhere from the trees and out-of-control growth of bushes and wildness. Crows began cawing a warning. He stiffened. The sound was almost imperceptible to the human ear, unless that ear was trained to discern danger very quickly.

He craned his neck. Stared out into the gloom of night. He could see nothing, but he knew something was there, watching.

He glanced at Francis’ Massey Ferguson tractor, over to his far left. Tried to keep his breathing under control. Edged over
to the venerable vehicle. Opened the side door, hoping Francis hadn’t let him down. Beneath the driving seat, one of the many shotguns scattered throughout his kingdom.

Karl let out all the pent-up breath. Eased the shotgun out from beneath the driver’s seat. Checked its metal stomach. Two shells. Two chances. No more. No less.

The shotgun was aged, with better days seen, but despite this, it made him feel good, its oily smell of self-assurance balancing the odds somewhat.

The bushes directly facing him moved slightly. A ripple made by a night breeze? He cocked the weapon. Dropped to the ground behind the tractor’s large wheel. Aimed, more in hope than expectation.

Waited.

The bushes suddenly parted. Someone came running at him from the overgrowth to his right.

‘
Fuck! King, you bastard.
’ Karl lowered the weapon as King approached, tail wagging enthusically. ‘Almost blew your damn tail off.’

Nerves gnawed his spine. He felt like puking. He needed to get home. Get a stiff drink before he ended up a stiff.

His mobile shattered the air. He answered it.

‘Naomi? What’s wrong?’

‘You’re not here,
that’s
what’s wrong.’ Her voice sounded on edge. ‘Where are you? You told me you’d be back shortly. That was hours ago.’

‘I’m sorry, love. Lost track of time. I’m finished here at Francis’. Heading to the car right now, as I speak. I’ll make it up to you when I get home. How about a nice meal out?’

‘I’d much rather have your nice arse
in
.’

‘Well, I have a special on at the minute for beautiful women. You can have both. A meal out,
and
my nice arse in.’

She laughed, but there was a nervous quiver of desperation to it.

‘Karl?’

‘Yes?’

‘Come home. Right now. Please. I…I don’t know, just some sort of bad feeling’s come over me. Like dread…’

‘Don’t be worrying. Nothing’s going to happen. I’ll be home soon.’

He blew kisses down the mobile, before disconnecting.

The whole time Karl was on the mobile, King hadn’t stopped barking.

‘Hungry, boy? Let’s go inside, see where Francis keeps your–’

But King was backing away, barking, its head tilting up and down.

‘What’s wrong, King?’

King turned, and walked back towards the forest, looking over towards Karl at the same time.

Reluctantly, Karl started following. ‘If this is to show me where you buried your last bone, King, I can tell you now you’ll be in the shit. Big time.’

As Karl moved further into the interwoven maze of hedges and thickets, he realised they were on some sort of unused road. A stream curled itself along the path, bad smell seeping upwards from it. Sewage or something equally unsavoury. Death in its aquatic sediment.

He quickened his pace, trying to keep up with King, all the while ducking and leaning to avoid the menacing thorns and branches. Rain was coming down now, making navigation more difficult.

As he came out into a clearance, a
déjà vu
dread attacked him. There. Staring at him. In defiance and arrogance. Cycles within cycles. Death born of death.

His mobile rang again. This time, Chambers.

‘What the hell do you want?’

‘The disc you gave me?’

‘Don’t tell me you clowns lost it?’

‘We pulled a few good stills from it, and used facial-recognition software on the person in the Reilly’s backyard. We’re almost one hundred percent certain it’s Walter Arnold.’

An invisible fist rammed itself against Karl’s kidneys. He felt dizzy with concern but also acceptance.

‘You still there, Kane?’

‘Yes…that’s brilliant. Well done to all involved. Now you have the target. Get the bastard.’

‘We will. We’re hoping to catch him off-guard.’

‘Where exactly would that be?’

‘I suppose I can tell you now without compromising security. Two Greenway Lane, over in the–’

‘North of the city…’

‘Oh, you’re familiar with that part of town? You know the place?’

‘I’m looking at it right now, standing a few feet away.’

‘What? What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s where I used to live…’ Karl said, much too calmly.

‘Kane, don’t. Don’t go in there. For your own safety.’

‘Concerned about my safety? Very touching, Chambers.’

‘Don’t be doing this, Kane. I know how you must be feeling, what you want to do, but–’

‘I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up. Bad reception, up here in the hills.’

‘Kane! For Heaven’s sake, don’t be–’

Karl turned off the mobile completely. No more calls. No more voices. No more excuses.

He looked at King. The rain was easing now, and a waning half-moon cast a theatrical silver sheen over the old house.

‘Coming with me, boy?’

King refused to budge, as if sensing something unpleasant lurking in the building.

‘Not as stupid as I look, eh, boy?’ Karl said, patting King’s head before moving towards the door.

T
he front door was unlocked. Ajar. Karl pushed it open apprehensively with the barrel of the shotgun. There was nervousness in his movements. He felt hollowed out from tension, like he had scraped the bottom of his adrenal glands. He didn’t know if he had any more fight, or flight, in him. He peered in. The darkness within was diluted by tiny beads of moonlight, leaking in to expose an upturned chair in the hallway. The blood-soaked chair had dried out in whorls and dark knot patterns. It looked like a left-over from the Turner Prize.

Karl studied the chair with wary puzzlement in his eyes, as his peripheral took in everything else around him.

He stepped inside, as if approaching a landmine.
Breathe, just keep breathing
. The deadly silence was drilling into his ears, as if he was submerged in thick, viscous fluid. The shotgun
moved to his left, then to his right, as if waiting for a hail of bullets to come storming out of the darkness.

I’ve been watching too many fucking movies – and bad ones at that…

Newspaper clippings and snapshots wallpapered every conceivable space. Some of the clippings told of Karl’s mother’s death; others of the murders of Ann Mullin and Leona Fredrick, and the subsequent trial of Walter Arnold.

Karl recognised himself in quite a few photographs. There were four or five of him entering and leaving the Reilly household. Karl’s mind flashed back to that day, to the man standing there with the camera. Shit. If only he had realised, back then.

The house was a coalition of feelings he thought he had long ago excised. Smells were flocking all around him, like feeding seagulls. He could smell damp and aged washing powder, and bleach spillage. It made him think of his mother filling the washing machine with dirty clothes, while he played out in the glorious sun. Her smile. Her voice filling the house. Roots here in his very bloodstream.

Other smells here also. Overwhelming and sinister. He could smell excrement, piss spillage glazed with rotten vegetables, unwashed bodies. But topping this menu of wretchedness was the unique perfume of death.

He didn’t want to think negatively, but Dorothy instantly, automatically, sprang to mind.

‘Please don’t let it be her…please…’

He advanced cagily down the corridor. The stench was more pronounced down here, the darkness more complete. He glanced into the room to his left. Entered.

Karl didn’t recognise Butler’s corpse initially, but once he saw the carved-up and bloated forearm, he knew. Death in all its brutal nakedness can make hot blood run cold, make one more reflective of past thoughts and deeds.

He pitied Butler, lying on the floor naked, dead and alone, tortured and humiliated and ultimately snuffed out. If someone had told him a few days earlier that he would one day feel sympathy for the crime boss, he would have laughed. Yet, here he was, feeling exactly that.

But why in the hell was Butler here? Had he partnered Arnold, joined forces to snare Karl? Had it all gone awry, for some reason known only to the duo? He wouldn’t have pictured Butler – despite his faults – as wallowing in child abduction and abuse. Still, you can’t judge a book by its cover. No doubt it would all come out in the wash. Karl hoped he would still be around once that wash was done and the wrongdoers were hung out to dry.

He made his way up the stairs, easing each footstep down gently in the hope of not making too much noise. Even after all these years, he still remembered which wooden steps squeaked, which didn’t.

The rain outside was gathering momentum again. The emptiness of the great house multiplied its sound. He could barely
hear himself thinking. Then thunder filled the air, unnerving him further. He stopped for a moment, just to steady the boat. Lightning hit the top of the house, sending slates rattling off the roof in a mad stampede.

Instinctively, he ducked his head, as if they were raining down on him. He pointed the shotgun towards the roof.

‘
Fucking bastards
…’ He laughed nervously.

Lightning struck again, momentarily giving brightness to the suffocating dark. A ghostly figure of a woman looked down at him from the top floor. She seemed to be pointing to the master bedroom, jabbing her finger in an urgent indication. The eerie sight took what little breath he had left.

‘What the…?’
She was attired in her favourite sweater of teapots.
‘Mum…’

The figure disappeared as the gloom settled again.

He blinked a few times, trying to clear his eyes, rally his thoughts. He began to tremble. A heroin addict in the depths of cold turkey. The pills. He needed the damn pills.
Now
. Help to calm the situation. Regain his composure. Help him think straight. Not see ghosts. Not see dead mothers long turned black-boned and empty-eyed.

He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Nice and slowly. Repeated. Let the oxygen go to the brain. It slowed the hammering in his chest a touch.

No ghosts. Only a monster, and you need to slay it before it slays you…

He inched onwards, strangely feeling more confident, but also more reckless. A cold calm began to assert itself. If he was to die, then fuck it. But he wouldn’t die until he had killed Arnold, this night, in this house.

Outside the master bedroom, he pushed his back against the wall, and listened. He could hear a sound. Someone hiding in the dark, waiting to ambush him? Is that what the woman was pointing at? He berated himself for such puerile thoughts. No. There was no woman. No mother. Lightning playing tricks. Still…

He brought the shotgun up to his waist. Poked the barrel into the darkness. Placed his finger on the trigger. He would fire one shell into the room, towards the ceiling. From the gun’s flash, he would have a microsecond of advantage, might see where the bastard was hiding. The flash would hopefully confuse Arnold as well. That’s all the advantage he would have, a microsecond. With the second shell, he would blow Arnold’s head clean off his fucking shoulders.

Karl slowly inhaled. He did a countdown in his head.

Three…two…o–

Whimpering. A heart-breaking whimpering.

Karl stopped counting. Brought the shotgun down to his side.

‘Who’s in there?’ he hissed.

The whimpering stopped.

‘I said, who the hell’s in there?’

Nothing.

‘Dorothy? Is that you, Dorothy? Say something to me, love.’

Nothing.

‘I…I’m a friend of the family. Your granny and granddad sent me to find you. Theresa and Tommy Naughton. Say something, Dorothy. Please, love.’

Nothing.

Then.

‘I’m…in here…please don’t hurt me,’
a small voice finally sobbed.
‘I don’t want to be hurt any more. I’m sorry for all the bad things I did. Just don’t hurt me…please…’

Karl stepped in. Quickly scanned the room. Dorothy was curled up in the far corner, knees up to her bowed head. It was pitiful to behold. Karl could feel his heart clench into a hard knot, then fill with such anger he silently cursed a god who turned a blind eye to such evil. He quickly knelt beside her. She was shaking.

‘It’s okay, Dorothy. You’re going home. Tiddles is waiting for you.’

Slowly Dorothy brought her head up, daring to peep out over her knees.

Karl was shocked by her scrawny, emaciated appearance. An urchin from a Dickens story. He would never have recognised her from the family portrait. He thought of his beloved Katie. Tears began to form in his eyes. He quickly brushed them away with the sleeve of his coat. Took the coat
off and wrapped it around Dorothy’s shaking shoulders.

‘Tiddles? You…you know our wee Tiddles?’

‘I sure do know Tiddles, Dorothy. She’s the queen of all cats. She found you. Not me. Tiddles.’

‘How? How did she find me?’

‘It’s a long story, but I’ve got to get you out of here first, before telling you all about it.’

‘Will…will you take me home to my mummy and daddy, and our wee Cindy?’

Karl couldn’t look her in the face. Tears were threatening in his eyes again. ‘I’m taking you home.’

A feeble smile appeared on Dorothy’s face. ‘What’s…what’s your name, Mister?’

‘Karl.’

‘Karl? Just like my bear.’ Dorothy held out the old, mangled teddy bear. In a flash, Karl recognised his bear. Remembered the day his father bought it for him. He forced a smile. Patted the bear’s head.

‘That’s a great bear, Dorothy. Many’s the night he helped to get me through the dark. Come on. Time to go…’ Only then did he see the chain attached to her tiny ankle. His blood started to rise again. ‘You…you’ve been chained all this time, to this damn wall?’

Dorothy nodded. ‘Yes…me and Tara.’

‘Tara? Who’s Tara?’

‘She escaped. Scarman did terrible things to her.’

‘Scarman…?’
Arnold
.

‘She pretended to be my friend. Said she was going to take me with her, but she didn’t. I hate her now.’

He rested the shotgun against the wall. ‘I need you to turn your head away, Dorothy, and close your eyes. Just for a few seconds, in case the dust gets into them. I need to try and pull this chain from the wall. Ready?’

‘Okay.’ Dorothy turned her head, squeezed her eyes shut. Hugged the bear tightly. ‘We’re ready.’

Karl wrapped the chain around his wrist twice, then a third time for good measure. He began pulling. Nothing. Attached too firmly to the wall. He gritted his teeth. Pulled. Nothing.

‘C’mon! You can do it!’ This time he thought of Arnold, of all his degraded, malevolent deeds. The chain became Arnold’s neck. Karl pulled again. His face bulged, turning red with pressure. Dust started to tumble from where the chain was esconced. He could see Arnold’s smirking face on the wall, laughing at him in defiance. ‘
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
oooo!
’

A link in the chain snapped, shooting into the air. Karl slipped onto the floor, landing on his arse, winded.

‘Karl!’ Dorothy shouted, rushing to him. ‘Karl! Are you hurt?’

Karl smiled, despite everything. ‘My pride, Dorothy. That’s all.’

‘Look! You did it! The chain snapped. You’re Superman!’

‘I’ll have to remember that in future.’ He quickly stood, and scooped her up in his arms. He grabbed the loose chain on her ankle and gathered it up. ‘We’ll get this off once we get outside. No time to do it here.’

He took the stairs as quickly as he could without tripping over anything, his eyes and ears hunting the darkness for sight or sound.

Outside, the torrential rain was creating tiny nomad streams, passing the side of the house as if trying to flee. King waited. Motionless and soaked. Only when he spotted Karl did the tail wag slightly.

‘I thought you were smarter than that, boy.’

‘Oh, he’s beautiful, Karl. What’s his name?’ said Dorothy, staring down at the dog.

‘King.’ He put Dorothy down.

Immediately she started to pat King’s head and hug his neck. Karl straightened up to his full height. ‘Can you do something for me, Dorothy? Something very important?’

‘What?’

‘Can you look after King for me, just for a few minutes?’

Dorothy’s face suddenly became fearful. ‘You…you’re leaving me. I don’t want to be left alone.’

‘You won’t be alone. You’ll have King. He’s a great guard dog.’

Dorothy slowly nodded. ‘Okay, but you’re coming home too, aren’t you?’

Karl smiled. There was a sadness to it. ‘Of course I’ll be going home…I just need to go inside for a few moments.’

‘Okay. I’ll look after King. But don’t be long.’

He ruffled her hair, then turned and went back inside.