Past Darkness (6 page)

N
ext morning, despite a buzz-saw hangover, Karl phoned his best friend, forensic pathologist Tom Hicks.

‘Tom? How’re things?’ Karl stationed his mobile between shoulder and ear, attempting to read the obituary page in the morning newspaper, killing the myth that men can’t multitask, at least some of the time.

Hicks’ voice sounded tired and raw. ‘Apart from dying with flu, migraines and backache, I’m still breathing. I haven’t been able to get out of bed in days. I can’t even–’

‘Okay, enough about you. Time is money. I need a bit of info, on the fire last week in the New Lodge, where the entire family died.’

‘The Reilly family? What about it?’

‘I’ve a client seriously doubting the official version. He’s the father of one of the victims. Was there anything strange, anything out of the ordinary, about the case?’

Karl could hear Hicks move slightly, as if trying to get comfortable in the bed.

‘Apart from some irresponsible person stacking over fifty bottles of propane gas beside a wall and causing an explosion?’

‘Apart from that, yes.’

‘I haven’t read the full report. Barney Blaney is standing in for me. But from what I
did
read and was able to discern, the fire started in the kitchen, or in the proximity to it, and was probably caused by a cigarette that wasn’t fully extinguished.’

‘Could the fire have been started maliciously?’

‘All things are possible, but let me give you a few statistics before you start making assumptions and getting yourself into trouble. Kitchens are
the
principal area of origin for home fires, and smoking is a leading cause of fire deaths. Eighty percent of all fire-deaths occur when people are asleep. Put alcohol into the mix, and you’ve an invite for disaster. Those are the hard facts, and appear to be cohesive in this scenario, as well as backing up Blaney’s report.’

Karl thought for a moment. ‘Do you rate Blaney’s judgement?’

There was a slight pause. ‘Well…he’s a highly qualified and competent pathologist. He knows his stuff. Foul play was ruled out, more or less.’

‘More or less?’ Karl added a suspicious tone to his voice.

‘Nothing has been conclusively established, because of the sheer ferocity of the fire caused by the explosion. The house practically disintegrated, along with the adjacent building, a grocery shop. Not all the bodies were accounted for, or what was left of them.’

‘Why do you think that was?’

‘Instantaneously vaporised, is one appalling explanation. Or pure incineration. Coupled with this were the gale-force winds that morning, and throughout the day, creating extreme conditions that would have hindered finding all particles from the bodies.’

‘I see…’

‘When you say it like that, you clearly don’t see at all. Look, if it makes your client feel better, ninety-nine percent of the time, friends and family are wracked with guilt at not having been able to prevent the unpreventable. They end up conjuring conspiracy theories about fires being started deliberately. Ninety-nine percent of the time they are wrong, of course.’

‘What about the other one percent, who
are
proven right?’

There was a five-second stony silence before Hicks replied.

‘That’s why they hire people like
you
, Karl, hoping to prove people like
me
wrong.’

‘D
o you want to see something?’ Tara said, grinning at Dorothy.

‘What?’

‘A secret.’

‘What kind of secret?’

‘The best kind. The dangerous kind.’

Dorothy didn’t want to be part of any secrets this strange girl might have, especially dangerous secrets, but she also didn’t want to insult her.

‘What is it?’

Tara turned, edged up to the top of the old horsehair mattress. Slid her hands inside. When she extracted her hands, she was holding three items: an ancient cutthroat razor; a busted cigarette lighter; and a miniature, moth-eaten teddy bear, encrusted in dirt, most of its face missing.

‘I’ve been chipping beneath the boarded-up window with this old razor. I’ve already made a wee spy-hole to see outside. If we make it bigger, we can escape. The wood isn’t very strong. It’s
filled with woodworm. This whole shitty place is falling down.’

‘Won’t that take forever, using that rusty razor?’

‘Not now that there’s two of us. Don’t you see? I can work away at the wood, while you listen out for Scarman.’

The mere mention of Scarman’s name made Dorothy’s stomach percolate with nerves. ‘But…what if he finds out? Won’t…won’t he punish us?’

‘The trick is not to let him find out, isn’t it? Any wee bits of wood from the cutting, I shove it out through the hole. That’s what I’ve been doing, every chance I get.’

‘But how are you able to reach the window from here? It’s so far away.’

‘Not when you can do this.’ Tara arched herself downwards towards her ankles, her hands pulling slowly on the manacle. Within seconds, she had slipped her bare foot out of the metal enclosure.

Dorothy looked on in amazement.

‘How…how did you do that?’

‘I’m double-jointed. It comes in handy when I break into houses to steal. Give it a try. You might be double-jointed as well, without even knowing it. Go on. Try it.’

‘Okay…’ Dorothy took a deep breath before reluctantly carbon-copying each of Tara’s moves. She slowly pulled on her ankle. Her face cringed. ‘That’s sore! My skin’s coming off!’

‘Can’t you stop fucking moaning for a second? It’s only a scratch. Try it again.’

Gritting her teeth, Dorothy reluctantly attempted the manoeuvre again. This time, blood appeared beneath the shredded skin. ‘Arhhhhhhhh! I’m bleeding!’

‘It’s nothing. A wee speck.’

‘It’s not a wee speck. And it’s sore.’

‘It’ll toughen you up. You’ll need that, if you want to get out of here, and beat this bastard. You need to keep trying it, every chance you get, wee bit by wee bit. Eventually, you’ll be able to get your foot free from the chain.’

‘I…I’m sure there are people looking for me, right now. My mum and dad won’t give up until they find me. They’ll rescue me.’

‘Stop fooling yourself. No one’s gonna rescue you, except you. Get that through your thick head.’

‘Why are you being so nasty to me? I didn’t do anything to you, did I?’

‘Shut the fuck up!’

‘Okay…I…I don’t want to make you angry. I’ll keep quiet, if that’s what you want.’

‘Just stop getting on my nerves and messing up my head! I was fine until you came here, asking question after question.’

Watching Tara pace up and down, mumbling, tightened Dorothy’s stomach like a taut spring. There was something unpredictable, malevolent even, about Tara that frightened the life out of her.

After a few minutes of pacing, Tara said, ‘I saw an old man
walking along the grass-way, the other night. I think he was a farmer, the way he was dressed, and walking like a duck. I flicked the lighter a few times, you know, like Morse code, hoping he’d see me.’

‘What’s Morris code?’

‘Morse, not Morris. Don’t you know anything? I can’t be arsed explaining everything to you. Morse code is like secret signals.’

‘How would the farmer know if it’s secret?’

‘You really are daft, aren’t you? C’mere. Let me show you something.’

Tara walked to the door. Dorothy hobbled behind her.

‘Do you see that metal box inside the door?’ Tara said, pointing.

‘Where the keyhole is?’

‘Behind that is a large bolt. That’s what Scarman locks the door with. Not a key.’ Tara placed her shoulder against the wall, and began snaking her arm through the tiniest of gaps in the plaster. A moment later, Dorothy could hear metal scraping against metal.

She watched in horror and amazement as the door creaked, opening a sliver.

Tara smiled at the look on Dorothy’s face.

‘I don’t blame you for looking scared. Sometimes even I get the shits, putting my arm out there, as if he’s waiting with a big butcher’s knife, ready to slice my arm off.’

‘Won’t…won’t he…see it open?’

‘No, I can slide it back in place without him knowing. A couple of times, when I heard his van drive away, I sneaked down the stairs, looking for grub.’

‘You didn’t, did you? You’re mad for doing that.’

‘Mad…?’ Tara seemed hypnotised by the word. ‘Yes I am, aren’t I? That’s what they said about me in Blackmore.’

‘Aren’t you terrified, putting your arm out?’

‘Shitting bricks, but I get a real strange thrill in my stomach, as if it’s being tickled from inside. It’s like, don’t do it, but the more I tell myself not to, another part of me is daring myself to do it. Like a devil and an angel, on my shoulders.’

‘What’s downstairs?’

‘Rooms. Lots of rooms. All the windows are boarded, with wood and metal bars across them. The front and back doors can only be opened from outside. I tried getting out, but it’s no use. I found some hard bread, though, in a filthy cupboard in the kitchen. Rats had been feeding on it, but it was delicious.’

Dorothy made a puke face. ‘You ate filthy bread touched by rats?’

‘You think you wouldn’t? Just wait until you get pains in your stomach from the hunger. You’ll wish you had a slice, even a crust, anything to stop the pain and cramps.’

‘I don’t care how hungry I was, I’d never eat it.’

‘You said that about the bucket…’ Tara put her arm back out through the gap, securing the bolt in its rightful place.

A wobbly smile of relief appeared on Dorothy’s face, seeing the closed door.

‘Why do I feel safer now that it’s closed, Tara?’

‘Fear. You’re filled with it. You’ve got to overcome it, face it. That’s how I survived in Blackmore.’

‘Blackmore? You keep saying that. What is it?’

‘The orphanage I was in, until I escaped. They used to scare the girls in there, with talk of the devil taking them away if they didn’t do what they were told. There was an old tower in the centre of the yard. It was black with age, like something out of a horror story. Pastor Kilkee always told us, that’s where Satan comes at night, watching. If we didn’t do things for him, Satan would take us away with him, to Hell.’

Dorothy shuddered involuntarily. ‘Don’t talk about…you know, “S”. I don’t like hearing his name.’

‘Satan? Ha! Know what I did when they told me Satan was in that big dark tower?’

‘I don’t want to know.’

‘One night, I sneaked right over there in the pitch dark, a black candle and a deck of cards in my hands. I lit the candle, and spread all the cards out in front of me. It started raining, thunder and lightning, the entire fucking show. Then I called Satan up from–’

Dorothy placed her hands tight against her ears, trying to block the sound of Tara’s words from her head, hobbling back to the mattress.

‘Please, Tara, stop talking about–’

‘–Hell, told him to take me away.’

‘Stop it!’

‘Next thing I knew, footsteps started coming up the stairs. Really weird footsteps, like a goat would make. The footsteps were getting closer and closer. Then I saw him – yellow eyes, fangs, tail, face all hairy…’

‘Stoppppppppp it!’

‘It was Bonzo.’

Dorothy slowly took her hands away from her ears. ‘What…?’

‘Bonzo. The cook’s shaggy dog.’

‘Dog…?’

‘That’s right. Not Satan, but a stupid dog. Next thing I know, Bonzo’s licking my face and wagging his tail, like I’m this big dog biscuit. That was when I knew, there’s no such thing as Satan. That was when I knew, I had the power to overcome my fear. That was when the staff began to fear
me
, especially Pastor Kilkee…’

K
arl’s car rolled to a slow halt outside the Naughton home. He looked out the side window, disbelieving the scene before his eyes.

‘What the hell…?’

The street resembled a war zone. A large gap conspicuously glared at him from across the street, where the house and the grocery shop had recently been. Windows in other houses were boarded up with wooden shields.

As Karl emerged from the car, Tommy Naughton came out of the house, greeting him with an outstretched hand.

‘Thank you for coming, Karl.’

‘Not a problem, Tommy.’

‘My goodness, that’s some car you’re driving,’ Tommy said, staring at Karl’s most cherished possession. ‘Is that a Ford Cortina GT?’

‘You have the eye, Tommy.’

‘They don’t make them like that any more. A classic.’

‘You’ll never believe where I got it,’ Karl said, beaming with pride.

‘Where?’

‘Remember
The Sweeney
TV show?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Tommy’s eyes lit up. ‘One of my favourite shows, from the seventies. Regan and Carter, John Thaw and Dennis Waterman?’

‘Well, that beauty of mine was one of the original ones used on the show. I bought it from a man who worked in the BBC. They were actually going to scrap it. Can you believe that?’

Tommy shook his head. ‘Sacrilege.’

‘Exactly. Cost me a fortune. I’ve had it restored, bit by bit, over the years.’

‘I can see that, and what a job you’ve done on it. A beauty, as you say.’

Karl was quickly warming to Tommy. Few people – notably unappreciative Naomi – truly understood the appeal of the car, or the dedication needed to maintain its beauty and longevity.

‘I could talk all day about the car, Tommy, but unfortunately I have to change the subject.’ Karl cast his eyes across the street. Kids were chasing each other across the stark gap in the streetscape. ‘When you told me about the fire, I didn’t realise just how devastating it’d been.’

‘I know. Shocking to look at. And what remained of the two buildings has already been pulled down, for safety reasons.’

‘I can see the kids are taking no heed of that.’

‘It isn’t for the kids’ safety. It’s for the safety of the peelers. The kids have been throwing bricks at them, so they’ve had the remains demolished and all the bricks removed. The Housing Executive is refusing to replace the broken windows in the other houses – ours included. They only replace broken windows caused by rioting, not by gas explosions.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘You know, people in this area don’t have a lot of money. Replacing widows is expensive.’

Karl shook his head in disbelief. ‘Only in Belfast would they encourage a riot to have broken windows replaced.’

‘Come inside. I’ll get Theresa to make some tea.’

As he was about to enter Tommy’s home, Karl hesitantly asked, ‘I don’t mean to offend you, Tommy, or the good people living here, but…well, do you think my car’ll be safe? I’d hate to see anything happen to it.’

Tommy smiled. Winked. ‘Don’t worry about that. No-one in this area will mess with your car when they see whose house it’s parked outside. Guaranteed.’

Inside the small, terraced residence, Karl was ushered into the parlour by Tommy.

‘I’ll be back in a sec, Karl. Got to get the boss.’

The parlour was spotlessly clean, filled with knick-knacks, alongside religious pictures adorning the walls. Small, framed photos of Pope John Paul II and John F Kennedy sandwiched
a larger one of the Sacred Heart. Across the room, resting atop a fireplace, a group of family photos was displayed. A china cabinet in the corner was packed with Capodimonte porcelain figures, and for a brief, melancholy moment, Karl thought of his father giving such figures to his mother, home from trips around the world as a merchant seaman.

True to his word, a few seconds later, Tommy returned along with a small woman with piercing eyes.

‘Karl? This is Theresa, the wife and boss.’

Theresa Naughton’s hair was proudly grey, with no cover-up dye. Despite the passage of time, her striking good looks were still prominent in the bone structure of her face, all captained by that pair of commanding eyes.

‘Mister Kane. I’ve heard so much about you. Thank you for coming.’ Theresa extended her hand. Karl shook it, gently.

‘Not a problem, Theresa, and please, just call me Karl.’

‘Karl it is. Let me get you a nice cup of tea.’

‘If I’m not being too cheeky, Theresa, would you have any coffee?’

‘I love a cheeky man, Karl. Coffee you shall have. Sit yourself down, take the weight off your feet.’

Tommy waited until Theresa had left the room. ‘She’s taken a shine to you. It’s not everyone she makes coffee for.’

‘I seem to have that hypnotic power over all beautiful women, Tommy. I just can’t help myself. I’m a wee bit puzzled, though.’

‘Puzzled?’

‘For such a sickly woman, she looks very healthy, if you don’t mind me saying?’

‘I’ll go give her a hand,’ Tommy said, quickly leaving the room.

Outside in the street, a Mister Whippy ice-cream van had pulled up. Its Pied Piper jingle almost instantly conjured up zombie-like children out of nowhere, drawn magnetically towards it.

‘Freezing out there, and they still want ice cream,’ Theresa said, entering the room a few minutes later, followed by Tommy carrying a tray laden with goodies: coffee in a Shelley fine-bone coffee pot; sugar and milk occupying small silver containers; an army of assorted biscuits overflowing the plate.

‘She only gets this out if the Pope’s coming to visit,’ Tommy grinned.

‘Behave yourself, Tommy Naughton,’ Theresa said, smiling. ‘Don’t be shy, Karl. Get tucked in. A big man like yourself needs his grub.’

Karl poured himself a coffee, and took a biscuit out of politeness. He sipped the hot liquid.

‘This is a great cup of coffee, Theresa. Haven’t tasted one like it in ages.’

Theresa smiled, and Karl swore she was blushing. Theresa reached over and removed one of the photos on the fireplace. She began pointing out the people in the picture.

‘This is our daughter Pauline, and son-in-law Charlie. And those two wee angels are Dorothy and Cindy. All gone to their reward now.’

Karl took the photo and nodded. ‘A beautiful family, Theresa.’

‘Do you have any grandchildren, Karl?’

‘Not for another few years, I hope.’ Karl laughed nervously. ‘I’ve one daughter. Katie.’

‘Katie. That’s a beautiful Irish name. Katherine, meaning pure and clear.’

‘Well, she certainly has made me financially
poor
over the years, that much is very
clear
.’ Karl handed the framed photo back, his cynical nature suspecting Theresa of wanting him to see the family as real people – people he would begin to care about, rather than just names in the newspapers.

‘Do you genuinely think you’ll be able to clear Pauline and Charlie’s names, Karl? Tommy seems to think so.’

Karl looked at Tommy, then back at Theresa.

‘What I told Tommy was – and I was quite clear on this – I would look into it, but
couldn’t
promise any results. There’s not a lot I can do unless someone tells me something they didn’t tell the police. From what Tommy tells me, no one around here would tell the police anything. But they’ll probably regard an outsider like me as some sort of cop as well, and give me the cold shoulder, if not a hot fist in the mouth.’

‘We have a saying around here: It’s often a person’s mouth that breaks his nose. But word has been sent out that you’re okay, Karl.’ Theresa’s voice spoke with authority. ‘You’ll be getting no punches. If anyone knows anything, word will come back to me and I’ll see you get it.’

‘That helps, but I have to be honest. I spoke to a good friend of mine in-the-know, a highly respected pathologist. He’s looked at the report, and according to him, everything seems above-board. He reckons the cops have it right.’

Just then, in walked a beautiful mackerel tabby cat, the distinctive ‘M’ stamped across its forehead. The cat had attitude and was having a bad fur day. It looked maniacal, like it had just escaped from a cat asylum, or had forgotten to take its medication.

It stared up at Karl, its green eyes narrowing like Clint Eastwood confronting an adversary in a spaghetti movie. Around its neck, a tiny bauble dangled.

‘That’s Tiddles. You’re sitting on her seat,’ Theresa said, smiling. ‘She’ll try to intimidate you by dead-eyeing you, but just ignore her. Whatever you do, don’t stroke her. She hates being stroked by men.’

‘That’s something Tiddles and I have in common then. I don’t like to be stroked by men either.’ Karl returned the smile, even though the damned cat was making him nervous with its hypnotic stare. ‘To be honest with you, I’m not the greatest of cat-lovers.’

Theresa shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s okay, not everyone is. Cats aren’t like dogs. They do as they see fit. Bet you’re a dog lover?’

‘No, it’s got nothing to do with that. A few years ago, my ex-wife threw her…’ Karl almost said ‘pussy’, but quickly corrected himself. ‘…cat in my face.’

‘My goodness!’ Theresa looked horrified. ‘What a horrible thing to do. Poor thing.’

Karl knew for certain that Theresa’s words of sympathy were directed squarely towards the cat.

‘I still have a few scars its claws gave me, above my left eye.’ Karl shifted his head slightly, where dull sunlight was coming in through the window, but Theresa didn’t seem interested in his wounds.

‘Did the RSPCA get their hands on the dreadful woman?’

‘No.’

‘Scandalous. Surely to God they could’ve charged her with something?’

Having an affair with another woman, whose dick was bigger than mine?

‘Unfortunately, no, Theresa.’

After a few more minutes of small talk, Karl finished his coffee and stood to leave. ‘I’ll start checking out some of your neighbours tomorrow, see if they can add anything to what you’ve already told me. Other than that, you have my card. Call me if you can think of anything.’

‘Thank you for coming, Karl. It really is appreciated,’ Theresa said, standing.

‘I hope you enjoy your holiday, down in Donegal,’ Karl said.

Theresa looked puzzled. ‘Holiday? What holiday?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve let the cat out of the bag, so to speak. Didn’t Tommy tell you about the holiday he has planned for you?’ Karl smiled wickedly at an uncomfortable-looking Tommy.

‘Huh! It’ll be a first, him taking me anywhere.’

‘Well, a little bird named Naomi told me that’s all about to change.’ Karl turned his attention on Tommy. ‘Isn’t that right, Tommy?’

Tommy’s face was performing nervous ticks. ‘What? Oh, yes. Of course…of course…it was my little surprise, darlin’.’

‘More a shock than surprise,’ Theresa said, eyeing Tommy suspiciously.

Outside, rain was coming down in thick, dirty grey pellets. Karl gave the car a good once-over, dreading the prospect of nail-lines or dents. Nothing. He smiled with relief. Quickly got in. He adjusted the mirror, momentarily framing a man, seemingly staring at him from across the street. Tall. Stocky. Defiant.

Karl started the engine, and then spun the car around, slowly passing the man. He was dressed in a dark, heavy raincoat, buttoned to the throat. A hat hung low, its brim covering
most of the forehead and the hedges of eyebrows. Something black loitered in his right hand, and for one heart-stopping moment, Karl thought it was a gun, until he realised it was a camera.

Probably just one of the local hard men keeping an eye out, doing a bad Humphrey Bogart
, thought Karl.

But there was something disturbing about the man’s face. He wasn’t hiding it with the pulled-down hat, as Karl first thought; he was
highlighting
it, using the hat to force one’s eyes to focus on
that
part of the face, almost as if he wanted to make sure Karl saw it. A large ‘Z’ stencilled into his face.