Bloodstorm (6 page)

K
ARL PRESSED THE
doorbell but could not hear any sound coming from either it or the inside of the house. He rapped on the door twice. No answer. He waited a few seconds before trying again.

“What the fuck’s with all the noise!” screamed an angry-looking young man, suddenly pulling the front door wide open. “We aren’t buying anything. Now blow, before I get pissed off and have to slap you about, pops.”

Mister Young Angry, noted Karl, was built like the proverbial brick wall. He was wearing a greasy T-shirt two sizes too small to accentuate his Sylvester Stallonesque torso. Leprous tattoos covered his unreal, Popeye-the-fucking-Sailor-Man arms.

“Is your mother in?” asked Karl, his voice calmly professional.

“What?” Young Angry’s face screwed slightly.

“Your mother? Would she be –?”

Without warning, Young Angry took a swing at Karl’s head. Thankfully, steroids had impeded Young Angry’s speed, and Karl ducked easily, grabbing the swinging arm in midair, turning slightly before jerking the arm up along Young Angry’s back.

“
Easy, sonny
,” hissed Karl into Young Angry’s ear-ringed ear.

“Let go! You’re in for it, once I get free –
arghhhhh!
”

“I need you to calm down,
sonny
. Otherwise, the arm goes further north. Understand?” Karl gave the arm a slight push.

“
Arghhhhhh!
Bastard!”

“Understand?”

“
Yesssssssssssss!
”

Suddenly, a woman came rushing down the hallway, wearing an off-white bathrobe, exposing cleavage. Hair was hidden in a turban-like towel, and her skin was glowing from hot water and anger.

“Thomas! Cut that out now! Do you hear me?”

Thomas mumbled under his breath. Something about this bastard starting it, catching him unaware.

“You can let him go now,” said the woman to Karl, her voice insistent.

“Are you sure? I’d really hate to see Thomas bust his knuckles on my craggy face.”

“Let him go,” she reiterated, folding her arms uncompromisingly, waiting to be obeyed.

Karl could smell residue of talcum powder and shampoo oozing from the woman as he pushed Thomas towards the hallway.

Thomas speedily turned and glared at Karl. His face told Karl he was contemplating retaliatory action.

“I really wouldn’t, Thomas,” insisted Karl.

“Go inside, Thomas … please –
now
,” instructed the woman, her face getting redder by the second.

“He started it, Margaret,” mumbled Thomas, sauntering down the hallway, a continuous stream of jargon pouring from his mouth. “You just watch your back, hard man. I never forget a face.”

“I never forget a face, either, Thomas, but in your case I’ll gladly make an exception,” responded Karl.

“Who the hell are you, and what do you want?” asked Margaret,
easing behind the front door, covering her bathrobe as if suddenly realising how she must look to this trouble-making stranger standing at her front door.

Producing one of his business cards, Karl showed it to Margaret. She looked at the card but refused to take it.

“Karl Kane. I’m a private investigator, investigating your husband’s murder, Mrs Milligan.

Visibly annoyed, Margaret retorted icily. “
Ex
-husband. And the name is no longer Milligan. It’s Boland.”

“Sorry about that, Ms … Boland,” said Karl, producing a small black notebook. “Would it be possible to come in? I’ve a couple of questions I’d like to ask.”

“No, you can’t come in. Whatever you have to ask, ask it now, and leave. It’s bloody freezing standing here.”

Undeterred, Karl opened the notebook, glancing at the designated page. “Did your hus – did your ex-husband have any enemies, ones you were aware of, Margaret?”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

“About five hundred.”

“Huh?”

“Prisoners. Ex and those still incarcerated. He was a prison officer, as you are probably aware. You don’t make friends in that profession. Only enemies.”

Karl quickly scribbled something onto a page, and then looked at Margaret. “Did he receive any threats from any of the prisoners, that you know of?”

Margaret’s lips tightened for a second, then opened. “Oh, he got them. Deserved every one of them, the bastard. Wesley Milligan was a brute who loved brutalising both inside and
outside
the prison.” She laughed forcefully.

Believing that it’s often in laughter where true revelations emerge, Karl stared into Margaret Boland’s eyes and immediately saw the wariness of a woman marked by endurance. “I’m sorry to hear that … Margaret.” He flipped the notebook shut. “I think I’ve asked all the relevant questions
I need to ask. Sorry for causing that wee scene, at your door. You take care.” He turned to leave.

“Hold on,” said Margaret, unexpectedly, opening the front door fully, her hand tight against the throat of her bathrobe. “You may as well come in. I’m sure you’ll not say no to a hot cup of tea?”

Karl smiled. “That would be great. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Only after I’ve told you all about Wesley Milligan …”

K
ARL KEPT TYPING
while relating the encounter with Margaret Boland to Naomi, when he returned to the office later in the evening. “Of course, everything was going swimmingly until I put my size ten in it, telling her I thought Angry Thomas Blackburn was her son.”

“You weren’t to know. Besides, it’s no longer a big deal, the age gap. Is it? Look at us.” Naomi grinned. “What exactly was her young lover in jail for?”

“Manslaughter. He killed a fellow drinker in a brawl, four years ago. Beat him to death with a bottle of wine. The parole board believed he was a reformed character, and released him, three months ago.” A cynical smile appeared on Karl’s face. “If he’s reformed now, I’d hate bumping into him down a dark alley. He’s like a prowling
testosterone-induced
lion. Apparently, while in prison, he was on very friendly terms with a gentleman who likes his sausage dipped in ice-cream.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just a sick joke.”

“What did Margaret Boland tell you about her late husband?”

“Jekyll and Hyde. That’s how she described him. More Hyde than Jekyll, actually. When she indicated she was leaving him, a few years ago, he shoved a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger, telling her the next time there would be no empty chamber. But why would she go from one extreme to the other? A prison officer to prisoner? Doesn’t make sense.”

“The ultimate revenge, no doubt. From what you’ve said, Wesley Milligan wasn’t the nicest of people, physically and mentally abusing her for years. This was her way of getting back at him – big time. She went full circle against all that he stood for. Hell hath no fury is a mitigating factor. If you ask my personal opinion, she should have waited until the bastard was sleeping, then sliced his balls off.”

Karl instinctively felt his crotch, making a cringing face, as if feeling the pain. “Don’t mince your words, whatever you do. You sound like one of the characters from one of my yet-unpublished novels.”

“Okay. Perhaps that’s a bit extreme, but she should have stuck the gun in
his
mouth, checked that the chamber
wasn’t
empty, shot him twice for good measure.”

“Someone did shoot him – though three, not two times. Where were you on the night of his murder?”

“Shacked up with an old perv, twice my age. When did she finally find the courage to leave the bastard?”

“Last year, according to her. Same time as Angry Thomas came into her life.”

“Oh …”

“Oh, indeed. The very word that entered my head when she told me. Very convenient. Apparently, she had been doing some charity work, and was asked to do a workshop for an ex-prisoners group. She claims she was reluctant at the beginning, but decided to give it a go. Before she knew it, she was on the road to Damascus – though she probably meant the M1, heading in the direction of Woodbank prison.”

“You think her young lover was involved in the killing of Milligan, that somehow she manipulated him into it?”

“The more I hear about Milligan, the more I’m inclined to detest the man – dead or not. Was Angry Thomas involved? It’s not implausible …”

Karl suddenly noticed the large envelope leaning drunkenly against a lamp on the far table.

“That looks familiar.”

“It came when you were out …” Reluctantly, Naomi handed Karl the envelope.

Three chapters from his latest manuscript, returned, its wrapper barely disturbed.

“By the looks of things, the bastards didn’t even open it,” said Karl, throwing the envelope on the sofa. “Good job I’ve the skin of a rhino.”

Naomi kissed him gently on the cheek. “Could have fooled me. Besides, perhaps it never reached its destination? You know what the postal service is like. Remember getting that Christmas card in July?”

Karl smiled. “You’re a darling, a net for when I fall. You shall be richly rewarded with a drink. Get your coat, my dear. The meeting with Margaret Boland, coupled with my rejected manuscript has left me dejected. Time to wallow in self-pity. Let’s head to
Billy Holidays
.”

Considered by many to be Belfast’s best gay/transsexual bar,
Billy
Holidays
was situated near the main gateways into the exciting Cathedral Quarter, close to the city centre. It was also conveniently located just a one-minute walk from Karl’s office/apartment.

The night had suddenly become crisp and silent, with only the tiniest whisper of traffic in the background. The diseased kerbstones, avoided by Karl and Naomi, were getting a well-serviced facelift from a nightshift working crew. Puddles of water darkened the gaps in the tarmac leading directly to
Billy Holidays.

Outside the pub, a blackboard with a scribbled menu of coloured chalk proclaimed upcoming karaoke and bingo events: Sing like Georgina Michael every Wednesday! Bungo Bingo! See our world-famous balls every Tuesday and Thursday – and in between if you’re brave enough!

The queen of
Billy Holidays
, a shapely transsexual known as Ivana
Trampp, was staring wantonly at a towering, athletically-built young man laced in leather and pretty looks, just as Karl and Naomi walked through the door.

“Naomi!” sang Ivana, sweeping towards the duo, hips swaying provocatively for all to consider, the sex appeal bordering on physical intimidation.

“Hello, Ivana,” smiled Naomi warmly, as she and Ivana kissed-kissed falsely, cheek-to-cheek.

“How are you, Ivana?” asked Karl, while indicating to a waiter at the front of the bar.

“I feel like shit. Not that you care.”

“Would you like a drink?” continued Karl.

“Are the Hulk’s balls green?” retorted Ivana. “One never,
ever
, asks a lady if she
would like a drink
. One instructs for it to be brought close to her graceful hand for her consideration.”

“The usual, then, I take it? Vodka and orange?” said Karl.

“No. Not tonight. I’ll have a whiskey –
straight
. Transgression is permitted at least once a week. Besides, I’m tiring of the resident homosexuals imposing themselves unsolicited, advertising their notches of triumph on their willowy willies – all three inches. Their cruelty is becoming too much like that of women – present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” smiled Naomi.

“Why don’t you try a real man for a change? You never know …” suggested Karl, with a grin.

“I
was
a real man once. Remember?” responded Ivana, frostily. Then, turning to Naomi, she said, “I don’t know what you see in
him
, darling. His lack of good looks is substituted with too many craggy lumps. He is balding, middle aged and has the dress sense of Attila the Hun.”

Naomi’s smile took a rather wicked turn. Karl immediately thought of a smart retort, but decided to leave well enough alone, knowing he was on a no-winner trying to defeat the verbal queen of acerbic repartee.

The waiter arrived, and quickly departed without a tip. Ivana, eyeing his wiggle, said, “Fresh, and such a tease … legs like anacondas.”

“How
is
your love life, Ivana?” asked Naomi.

“At one time, darling, I was getting more ass than the average toilet. Now it’s simply become a toilet. Always ending up with shit.”

“Thanks, Ivana, for such a wonderful thought,” cut-in Karl, sipping his brandy before asking, “Has there been any new talent in town, lately?”

“Talent? O
hhhhh
. Are you poking or hoping?”

“Simply groping, thank you. Anyone strange?”

Ivana laughed, sweeping a rough hand about the packed room. “
Strange?
How strange do you want it? You won’t have to search too far.”

“I’m talking about new faces. Could be a transvestite. Lovely looking. Slightly muscular, possibly. Into fitness, perhaps. Keeps to his or herself. Has a predilection for older men. Bit of a loner. Drinks
Drambuie
.”

“My perfect fuck – with the exception of the older men thing.” Ivana’s voice held an air of impermeable boredom. “Sounds like you’re after a bone smuggler.”

“What’s a bone smuggler?” queried Naomi, sipping her
Bacardi
and
Coke
.

“A drag queen, darling, you daft dear.”

“No,” replied Karl, shaking his head. “I don’t think it’s a drag queen we’re looking for. Not this one.”

“How about that Gestapo bastard, McKenzie?” smirked Ivana. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Bulldog? What about him?” asked Karl, inexplicably feeling a thumb of coldness entering his stomach.

“He’s been here lately, harassing everyone at night. The filthy beast actually felt me up, claiming he was searching for concealed drugs, and then had the gall to ask me if I regret having my meat and two vegetables replaced with a purse. He’s such a creepy cretin. Why is he like that, Karl?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Karl replied, “I suppose effeminacy is considered repugnant to all of Wilson’s crew. Espousing masculinity is an essential element of their rules and membership into The Hardman Club. I wouldn’t give them a second of your thoughts, Ivana. They’re simply not worth it. Tell you what. The next time he harasses you in
here, make a quick phone call to me. Okay?”

Ivana wrapped her arms around Karl’s neck, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek, loudly proclaiming for all to hear: “I love this big hunk of a man. If only all men were like him, I would have stayed one!”

“Karl’s right, Ivana. Don’t let McKenzie annoy you,” soothed Naomi, holding Ivana’s hand. “People like McKenzie always get their comeuppance. Isn’t that true, Karl?”

Ordering another round, Karl skilfully ignored the question, believing that creatures like McKenzie never received their comeuppance.

“Have you ever seen that creep smile with his inky gums and rotten teeth?” continued Ivana, shuddering, glancing warily about, as if expecting Bulldog to be watching somewhere in the dimly lit room. “His ugly face is like a
piñata
: should be whacked as hard and as often, as possible.”

“Unlike you, Ivana,” encouraged Naomi. “You’re a beautiful person – inside and out.”

Ivana loved the attention, and suddenly softened her voice and words, making them into an invitation, being quite flirtatious by touching Naomi’s face. “If only I
were
masculine again, darling. The things I would do to you.”

“Let’s not get too friendly, Ivana,” advised Karl, ordering another round before time was called.

Less than an hour later, Karl and Naomi left the warmth and friendship of
Billy Holidays
for a full-mooned night. The cold air had become more forceful. The streets were darker, carrying with them the indefinable sense of creeping dread. It was a dread Karl had learned over the years never to underestimate. He respected it.

“That was an enjoyable night, wasn’t it, Karl? I could have listened to Ivana all night. She’s a pisser,” said Naomi, clinging closer to Karl. “
Brrrrrrrr
. It’s freezing. Can’t wait to get home, get some of that manly body heat pouring over me.”

“Me too. If I can find a man to pour some of it over me.”

“Thinking back to how you described Wilson’s crew to Ivana, why on earth did you ever apply to be a policeman, Karl? You’re not like them. The opposite in fact.”

“Not this argument again, Naomi? Please …”

“We’re not having an argument.”

“But it usually turns into one,” sighted Karl, before relenting. “I was naïve, probably watching too much
Kojak
on TV, thinking the good guys were really the good guys, never realising that they could also be the bad guys. Okay?”

“Who’s
Kojak
,” asked Naomi.

“Now you’re making me feel my age. He was a bald cop, always sucking on a lollipop and saying,
who loves ya, baby
.”

“That’s sick. He sounds more like a paedophile than a cop. And they showed that on TV?”

“Prime time. I have a dark secret I’m going to tell you, Naomi, but you must promise never to tell anyone. Promise me?”

Naomi’s voice went serious, into a whisper. “You know I’d never divulge anything between us.”

“Okay, but if this gets out, I’m finished.”

Naomi nodded. “Okay.”

“I always wanted to be Telly Savalas – but with hair. There. I’ve said it,” smiled Karl.

“Telly what? Karl, how may of those brandies did you actually have when I was away to the loo?”

Karl’s mobile suddenly sounded in his pocket.

“Who the hell could be calling at this time of night?” Removing the phone, he glanced at the screen, and with difficulty pronounced,
Thyre wotchnu. Bcful. Wochyr bac. Dnt trust NE1
. “It’s one of those bloody text nuisances, all mumbo-jumbo. I haven’t a clue how to read these damn things – and the brandy isn’t helping, either.”

“Let me see it,” said Naomi, grinning, taking the phone from Karl.

Slowly, Naomi’s smile lessened.

“What is it, Naomi? A dirty message from a secret admirer?”

“A hoax, probably. One of those wind-up messages.”

“What does it say?”

Glancing at the screen again, Naomi deciphered the message. “‘They’re watching you. Be careful. Watch your back. Don’t trust anyone.’” She shuddered. “Very creepy.”

“Don’t let it bother you. Probably some pimply adolescent with nothing better to do but bust balls on a cold lonely night,” replied Karl, the making of a smile on his face. “C’mon. Let’s get home and find us that manly man.”

“Yes,” said Naomi, hugging closer to Karl. “Let’s do that.”

“Who loves
ya
, baby?” said Karl in his best Telly Savalas voice.

“Don’t, Karl. That’s creepy.”

“All I need now is a lollipop …”