Past Darkness
Authors: Sam Millar
‘An ingeniously frightening page-turner with just the right amount of dark humor,
Past Darkness
is Millar’s and Kane’s finest collaboration…nothing will prepare you for the shocking denouement…’
New York Journal of Books
‘Sam Millar’s latest Karl Kane thriller places him alongside such genre greats as Harlan Coben and Lisa Gardner. The aptly titled, neo-noir
Past Darkness
is a taut, twisty and terrific tale about people pushed to their emotional limits forced to battle demons that refuse to go away, including the darkly heroic Kane himself who confronts his own painful past while investigating another family’s. Powerful and told at break-neck pace, this is Millar’s best and most telling Kane yet. Don’t let this one get past you!’
Jon Land,
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of
Strong Darkness
‘Sam Millar is Stephen King with a sense of humor, a writer at the height of his powers in this, the fourth Karl Kane thriller,
Past Darkness
, a sly and sinister page-turner that is at once chilling and suspenseful, and equally insightful and entertaining about the nature of good and evil. Kane, the pestered private investigator, is a cool character, intensely human, a denizen of Belfast, tough at times, but also charitable and morally conflicted at others. Brilliant storytelling.’
Richard Torregrossa, bestselling American crime writer,
Terminal Life: A Suited Hero Novel
‘Sam Millar’s Karl Kane series is one of the high points in crime writing today. Millar can string words together like diamonds on a necklace and craft a hell of a good tale, but Kane, his protagonist, is what makes the series a gem. Childhood trauma damaged him so severely that it was like a napalm strike on his psyche. Kane is kind to his friends, a blight on those who threaten the people he cares about. Kane is the kind of guy you’d call up for a beer and a good chat, or if you needed help dumping the body of the guy you just shot in the head. Who could ask for more? Totally addictive and brilliant.’
James Thompson, international bestselling author,
Snow Angels
and the
Inspector Kari Vaara
series.
‘If Charles Dickens were a thriller writer,
Past Darkness
would be his masterpiece. But Sam Millar beat him to it with his latest can’t put down Karl Kane noir thriller. Millar’s acclaimed descriptive powers once again fashion some of fiction’s darkest characters, ones your soul wishes did not exist even though your mind knows are out there.
Past Darkness
is another winner from the very gifted Millar.’
Jeffrey Siger, international bestselling author,
Sons of Sparta
‘Karl is Everyman, forever walking wide-eyed into trouble but always managing to avoid disaster. In previous books Karl merely faced death. In
Past Darkness
he also has to face down the horrors of his own childhood. A grisly tale grippingly told by an author whose words burrow down into the most squeamish parts of our psyche.’
John McAllister, critically acclaimed author,
The Station Sergeant
and
Barlow by the Book
DEDICATION
Past Darkness
is dedicated to two great friends. Steve McDonagh, my original publisher of the Kane books, for giving me the idea to write a series of novels based on a Belfast PI. And best-selling American crime writer, Jim Thompson, who died so tragically and so young, and an inspiration to me. Both friends stood by me through thick and thin, never giving up on me, even when I wanted to. Always remembered.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special thank-you to all the crew at The O’Brien Press, especially Eoin O’Brien for his patience and dedication to
Past Darkness
.
- Reviews
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Acknowledgements
- Prologue
-
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Chapter Thirty-Eight
- Chapter Thirty-Nine
- Chapter Forty
- Chapter Forty-One
- Chapter Forty-Two
- Chapter Forty-Three
-
- Epilogue
- About the Author
- Also by Sam Millar
- Copyright
Did you ever have to find a way to survive and you knew your choices were bad?
Irving Rosenfeld,
American Hustle
D
ark thunderclouds hung low over the fortress-like building on the outskirts of south Belfast. Trussed up with razor wire and security cameras, the bleak, pre-war institution looked more like a medieval prison than a place supposedly dedicated to the care of rebellious children.
The administration liked to boast that the grim walls were there to keep bad people out, and to protect the building’s adolescent inhabitants, and that God’s work was being done within.
The boast was a running joke among the staff…
Pastor William Kilkee appeared out of breath as he stepped from the tiny room into the narrow, dimly lit corridor. His wrinkled brow was newly damp with sweat, and his upper lip glistened like a snail-trail on a garden stone.
He looked up and down the corridor, nervously adjusting the dog collar resting on the folds of his skinny neck. Adjusted his fly. Subconsciously ran his bony fingers through the sea of thick grey hair atop his large skull, before proceeding cautiously up the corridor.
The lateness of the hour seemed amplified by the wooden ticking of a large grandfather clock standing like a sentinel in the centre of the grand hall, near the end of the corridor.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…
He approached the grand hall, the ticking becoming louder, more insistent. It unnerved him slightly, though he made the same journey continually, night after night, in adventures filled with sodomy, rape and cruelty.
Loud thunderclaps sent silvery blue light careering around the dark corridor, unsettling him even more. He hated stormy nights, wind and rain, especially thunder and lightning. They put him in mind of the god he had abandoned a long time ago, and how, one day, he would have to answer for all his depraved deeds to that same forsaken god.
He stopped. Glanced behind. Looked deep into the corridor’s sombre greyness. Thought he saw a chalky figure, way off in the distant haze. He wanted to shout out,
who’s there?
, but feared he would betray his nocturnal transgressions.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…
Just about to move off, his ears picked up the sound more acutely. It wasn’t the sound of the great clock he was hearing, but something else, something more sinister. Not tick, tick. But…
Click, click, click, click, click…
He moved quickly down the corridor, almost at a trot.
His room was at the end of the hallway, a few seconds away. Safe harbour.
Click, click, click, click, click…
The clicking was becoming louder. It had attached itself to the inside of his skull. Tapping on it,
tap, tap, tap, tap
, like some tormented woodpecker.
Click, click, click, click, click…
He fumbled for his key. Inserted it into the door. Practically fell into the room, slamming the door too loudly behind him.
For the longest time, all he could hear was the sound of his laboured breathing ghosting in the room.
Knock-knock!
The knock on the door frayed what little nerve he had left.
Knock-knock!
More insistent this time.
He crept to the door, and peeped out through the spyhole.
She was standing there, naked, in all her fleshy glory, smiling that sweet, innocent smile of seduction and want.
His saggy cock moved, stirred from its slumber.
‘No, not tonight…’
he finally managed to whisper, through the closed door.
‘Too dangerous.’
‘But you like danger, Pastor. You always said it keeps you young, keeps your cock fit.’
He felt his face redden at the coarseness of her words, even though she spoke the truth.
‘Tomorrow night. We’ll–’
‘I can lick all wee Rhonda’s juice from that big cock of yours.
I saw you leaving her room, back there. I bet you haven’t dried it off yet?’ She made a slurping sound at the side of the door.
‘Hmm. Yummy
. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, having Mister Cocky all nice and dry?’
He felt faint with lust and desire. His knees were trembling, threatening to buckle. He leaned his back against the door, as if fearful she would get in. He closed his eyes, but she was there still, in the leathery under-garment of his lids, all wet and ready.
With his back still tight against the door, he turned the door handle, then stepped away.
The door slowly opened. She stood there, smiling. Two knitting needles in her hands, drumming them off each other.
Click, click, click, click, click…
‘What…why’ve you knitting needles in your–
aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’
She reached up quickly, then applied pressure, squeezing the needles down into his eyes, twisting and turning them with delighted satisfaction.
He staggered back, blood oozing from each eyeball in spurting hiccups. Instinctively, he tried to pull the needles out, but despite her smallness, she was too strong for him, her youthfulness forcing his ageing body onto his knees. A matador grounding a bull.
The needles journeyed onwards, tunnelling their way through rock-bone and pliable meat. With a final thrust of
her wrists, the needles pierced his brain in a brutal yet elegant
coup de grâce
.
She kicked the door shut. Sat down on his favourite chair. With a mild curiosity, she watched his death-knell spasms on the ground, as he intoned the help of God, Satan, any other underworld creatures roaming the bloody twilight. His mouth was filling with blood, forcing him to splutter and gag, as if drowning underwater.
It was over in less than ten minutes. Despite the satisfaction of ringing in his death, she felt robbed. All those long years of abuse for ten minutes of pain – it seemed small change in the pocket of justice. She sincerely wished for the power to bring him back from the dead, so that she could kill him again, over and over.
She fled the room, twenty minutes later, hoping never to see that terrible place again. That was when the alarms rang out…
