Bloodstorm Page 10

  “Let’s not think negative, Karl. In the meantime, I want you to start eating a high-fibre diet and exercise regularly. That means walking as much as possible, not driving about in that old jalopy.”

  “Watch it.”

  “If all this doesn’t work, then I have a few other options: placing little rubber bands round the haemorrhoids, which will cause them to shrivel and wither away –”

  “Are you serious? Me walking about with elastic bands up my arse? There’s no way I’m going to –”

  “Or I could inject a substance into the haemorrhoids which causes them to wither away. This is known as sclerotherapy. Or, conversely, I could cut away the problem, usually under a general anaesthetic.”

  “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? That would teach me to give you a bum steer on the horses.”

  “Hopefully, I’ll have the results in a week or so. In the meantime, I want you to stop smoking.”

  “Stop?” Karl shook his head. “I doubt if I can stop smoking, just like that. How about if I begin next week? This has been a very stressful few days, Jim, and I’ve a funeral to attend on Friday.”

  “I want you to take this seriously, Karl, otherwise it could be your own funeral you’ll be attending. You need to stop smoking. Now. It’s an order, not a suggestion. I’ll have nicotine patches ordered for you. They’ll help wean you off the cigarettes.”

  “Patches are for jeans and wimps.”

  “They’re a start. In the meantime, no more smoking. I’ll talk to you next week.”

  Outside, on the street, Karl re-examined the mysterious text message. U. R. Zzz. Opn Yr Iyz Whrs k9? Hitting a small button on the handset, he searched for sender. Sender not found, came the reply. The message had made him uneasy, like something menacing in his blind spot.

  He shifted in through the door of his car, and turned the radio on. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he studied the figure reading the newspaper at the far bus stop, across the road.

  “The local bus service must be lousy. You’re the same person I spotted, over an hour ago, before going in for the examination,” he mumbled to himself.

  From where he was parked, it was difficult for Karl to discern whether the figure was male or female.

  He started the car. Did a U-turn onto the opposite side of the road, slowly passing the bus stop. By the time he reached it, the figure was gone. Only the pages of a hastily discarded newspaper were left fluttering in the wind like a seagull’s broken wings.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wednesday, 21 February (Afternoon)

  ‘Remember, man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.’

  Genesis 3:19

  “‘You are SLEEPING. Open your eyes. Where’s the dog?’” said Naomi, translating the message on Karl’s mobile.

  “Are you sure that’s what it says?”

  “‘U. R. Zzz. Opn Yr Iyz Whrs k9?” repeated Naomi. “U R is short for you are. Obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Zzz means sleeping. Opn Yr Iyz means open your eyes.”

  “How silly of me not to recognise that.”

  “Keep the sarcasm up, Karl, and you’ll do the deciphering yourself.”

  “O.K. G.O.”

  “Very funny,” said Naomi, before continuing with the deciphering. “Whrs is where’s, and k9 is short for dog. You are sleeping. Open your eyes. Where’s the dog? That’s what it means in text world language.”

  “What kind of shit is that? Doesn’t even make sense. I don’t even have a dog,” said Karl, flopped out on the sofa, mentally and physically drained after his encounter with Jim’s probing finger earlier that morning.

  “Could be a scam,” suggested Naomi.

  “What?”

  “A scam. Easily done. They text you, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you naturally answer it. Next thing you know, you’re being charged prime rate phone calls. It’s an old trick. You didn’t answer it, did you?”

  “How could I answer it, when I can’t even understand what the bastards are talking about, for fuck sake?”

  “Hey! You asked me to decipher it for you. Remember? No need to bite my head off.”

  Karl closed his eyes, sucked in air, before slowly breathing out.

  “I’m sorry …” he finally managed to say.

  Sitting down beside him, Naomi placed her hand in his. “It’s me who should be sorry. I know you’ve had a stressful day at the doctor’s, but at least it’s all over. Wasn’t it worth going, just for the peace of mind?”

  Karl nodded. “Yes. You were right, insisting that I go. Thankfully, Jim reckons that it was nothing more than me sitting about on my useless arse all day.”

  “I won’t have you saying that about your arse. I’m quite found of it, to be honest.” She kissed him gently on the right cheek. “You are telling me everything, Karl, about the doctor? There was nothing? Just haemorrhoids?”

  “I love it when you talk like that. Haemorrhoids. No one else says it quite like you do.” Karl forced a smile. “Now, end of conversation concerning my arse. It’s off-limits for the rest of the day, thank you very much.”

  The mobile phone rang.

  Naomi reached and answered it.

  “Hello? Oh. Yes, Katie, your father’s here. Hold on a sec.”

  Her face expressionless, Naomi handed the phone to Karl.

  “Katie? How is ma wee bonny lass doing in Edinburgh?” pronounced Karl, in a heavy Scotch accent.

  “You’re still with that woman, Dad,” accused Katie’s voice at the other end.

  “And I love you too, my wee lovely. How are things at school?”

  “It’s not a school; it’s a university, and I’m doing crap.”

  “Cut that cursing out. You know you’re not allowed to use any swear word with more than one letter.”

  Despite her initially confrontational voice, Katie did a soft laugh, and Karl’s face suddenly lit up with relief.

  “Stop trying to make fun of a serious situation, Dad.”

  “Okay. I’ll try. So what have you called for? But I must warn you, if you say money, I’m going to scream.”

  “How loud?”

  “How much?”

  “One hundred.”

  Karl screamed very loudly, making Naomi jump.

  Katie giggled.

  “If that is pennies you’re talking, Katie, then I’ll sell something and get it sent to you for your fiftieth birthday.”

  Loud laughter from the other end could be heard flowing from the phone.

  “Don’t laugh. I’m serious, Katie.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “Not half as much as I love you. The usual address?”

  “Yes …”

  “I’ll send it first thing tomorrow morning. Okay – oh, Katie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Keep away from those Scotchmen. I don’t trust any man wearing a skirt.”

  Laughing, Katie replied, “Love you, Dad. Bye.”

  The sound of kisses being blown at the other end of the phone brought the conversation to an end.

  “Katie sends all her love,” said Karl, half smiling at Naomi.

  “I know. I could detect all that love in her voice.”

  “Give her time, Naomi. She’s young, torn between loyalty for her mother and me. It can’t be easy for –”

  The buzzer to the front office door sounded.

  “Can’t they read we’ve gone to lunch?” asked Karl.

  “C’mon. Let’s go downstairs. You’ll never make your first million ignoring business.”

  Making her way downstairs, Naomi saw clearly the silhouette of a stocky figure standing outside the frosted part of the outside door, and that the Gone To Lunch sign had fallen from its nail.

  Opening the door, she quickly apologised.

  “I’m sorry, normally we –”

  “Good afternoon, Naomi,” said Bill Munday, with a slight nod of his head. “No need to apologise. I was just in the area, and thought I c
ould kill two birds with one stone. Is Mister Kane available?”

  “You can go straight in. He’ll be with you in a minute or so,” replied Naomi, leaving Munday standing at the doorway.

  Munday entered the tiny office, and sat down. Less than a minute later, Karl appeared through a side door, the sound of a toilet flushing in the background.

  “Ah, Mister Munday. How are you on this unusually warm day?”

  “For all its warmth, I felt a distinctive coldness from the usually friendly Naomi,” replied Munday.

  “You know what they say? If you want something with a permanent smile on its face, get a duck.”

  “That’s a good one, Mister Kane. I must remember to keep that one for my duck friends.”

  “I think you missed a spot, when you were washing this morning,” said Karl, smiling, tapping his forehead. “There’s a large black smudge on your forehead.”

  Munday’s face suddenly tightened. His eyes darkened into knots. “Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.”

  “Remember, man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return?” smiled Karl, proudly.

  “Your Latin is flawless.”

  “Next to English – though I was crap at spelling – Latin was my favourite subject at school.” Then the revelation finally hit home. “Hold on a tick. Today is Ash Wednesday, I think? Of course! I was wondering why Naomi was feeding me all that crumpet, yesterday. And there’s me thinking it was my sex appeal.”

  “You shouldn’t mock redemption or repentance, Mister Kane. They might come knocking at your door, one day.” Munday’s face relaxed, only slightly. “What have you got for me?”

  From a drawer, Karl removed an envelope. Pushing it across to Munday, he said, “I think this is yours.”

  A watered smile appeared on Munday’s face. The smile quickly disappeared as soon as he opened the envelope.

  “Money?”

  “Count it. You’ll find it’s all there.”

  “Why?”

  “Must be getting old, but I don’t think handing over a list of working girls can lead to any good. Hope I haven’t offended you, but there you have it.”

  “I thought I knew you, Kane. Obviously I was wrong.”

  “That makes two of us. I thought I knew me.”

  “Are you sure about this? In your predicament, that’s a lot of money to be saying no to.”

  “Or a lot of trouble to be saying yes to. Either way, you leave here a bit richer than you came in.”

  “It leaves you poorer,” said Munday, pocketing the envelope.

  “No. Not in the least. Good day, Mister Munday. It’s been … interesting.”

  Waiting until Munday had left, Naomi entered the office.

  “Satisfied?” asked Karl.

  Naomi smiled. “We’ll soon find out. I’ve put the Gone To Lunch sign back on the front door. Firmly this time. Let’s hit the sheets …”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wednesday, 21 February (Evening)

  ‘The soul that has conceived one wickedness can nurse no good thereafter.’

  Sophocles, Philoctetes

  THE LATE EVENING Belfast traffic was thinning, making driving semi-bearable, as William McCully’s Merc pulled into the privately owned car park, two streets away from the prestigious Odyssey Arena. Most of the city workers had headed home, creating pockets of calmness in the surrounding streets. In less than two hours, the madness would return with people flooding back for entertainment and the savoury taste of the unsavoury: the city’s thriving nightlife and dark underbelly spiced with drugs and prostitution.

  Just as he emerged from his car, a dazzling display of streetlights came on, performing their nightly task of showcasing the impressive waterfront area. There was something magical about this time of evening in winter, thought McCully, as rows of soft golden lights encased in fat-belly glass lanterns guided him along the pathway to the apartment.

  The two-bedroom apartment – although located in a prime area – had remained mystifyingly unsold for almost six months. Rumours of a homeless shelter being built two streets away had hindered a sale, even though McCully’s well-greased cronies on Belfast City Council had assured him of their success at blocking the shelter’s building permit.

  Ten years ago, it would have been impossible to sell an apartment like this at such an extortionate price. The area had been as dead as the habitual corpse floating on the greasy, polluted water of the foul-smelling River Lagan. Even the rats turned their noses up, deserting the area, in their shiploads. Now, where once scenes of neglect and dereliction had fermented, new buildings and innovative public areas had been developed and refurbished, giving the area a cosmopolitan skin and overdue confidence in the future economic performance of the city. Even the river, it seemed, was coming up smelling like roses instead of corpses.

  McCully gave the place a final once-over, checking that everything was picture-perfect for the client, a Mister Peter Stapleton, an eccentric millionaire artist.

  Almost five o’clock and on cue, the doorbell rang a gentle soothing tune.

  “Sell sell sell …” whispered McCully, seconds before opening the door. “Mister Stapleton! Come in, please.”

  Forewarned on the phone by Stapleton’s secretary of the artist’s aphephobia, McCully barely resisted the urge to offer a handshake.

  “Is it always this cold?” asked Stapleton, slapping gloved hands against his legs.

  It’s not cold at all, thought McCully, slightly baffled. But I should have had the heating on, anyway. Mistake number one.

  “Er, this winter has been a record-breaker in the city,” responded McCully. “Normally, it isn’t quite this cold. My apologies for not having the heat on, Mister Stapleton. I should have remembered.”

  Stapleton waved his gloved hand, slightly. “Shall we proceed with the tour? And please, let’s be less formal. Peter will suffice.”

  “Yes … yes, of course … Peter.”

  McCully walked down the spacious hallway, followed by Stapleton, into the roomy reception/dining room with its excellent views of the waterfront.

  To McCully’s relief, Stapleton looked impressed.

  “Lovely view of the Albert Clock. How times have changed …” commented Stapleton, gazing out the window.

  “A great view, indeed,” encouraged McCully.

  Being situated close to the docks, the impressive Albert Clock was once infamous for being frequented by prostitutes plying their trade with visiting sailors. Now, the most dodgy visitor the old clock could expect was a manic-depressive clown or a slightly off-balanced juggler on stilts, when the circus came to town.

  “Did you know that the classic film Odd Man Out, starring James Mason, had the Albert Clock as a central location?” asked Stapleton.

  “Really?” replied McCully, hoping to sound interested. He studied the grand clock quizzically, as if it were a curious abstract painting he was now trying hard to interpret. “You can’t beat the city lit up at night, Peter. Beautiful. To be honest with you, I almost bought this apartment for myself. Five-minute car ride to the airport, five-minute walk to the train station …” McCully’s sales pitch flowed fluently. He had good vibes about the prospect of closing the deal. Then things suddenly went belly-up. The pain was excruciating, unbelievably so, sending McCully into involuntary, bone-shattering spasms. He could smell his skin burn; could hear it sizzle like bacon on a well-greased pan.

  The pain. Oh dear lord, the pain …

  Every molecule in his body was exploding at the speed of light.

  Thankfully, the darkness came, and he no longer cared about pain …

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Thursday, 22 February (Early morning)

  ‘There is a kind of horror, which may be infused into the mind both by natural appearances, and by verbal descriptions, and which, though it makes the blood seem to run cold, and produce a momentary fear, is not unpleasing, but may be even agreeable.’

  James Beattie, Disser
tations Moral and Critical

  MCCULLY’S INSENTIENT BODY stirred sluggishly as his vision emerged from total darkness into a yellowish glow. Something acerbic rushed his nostrils. He scrunched up his nose, shaking his head violently. Smelling salts? The salty pong was overpowering.

  “William? Wake up, William.” Two hard slaps to either side of his face felt like vindictive whips. “Wakey-wakey, sleepy head. Rise and shine.” Two more slaps.

  His surroundings blurred and grew indistinct. Someone was kneeling over him, staring directly into his face. The person’s features were wavy, almost rubbery. He squeezed his eyes tight; reopened them, hoping to focus. A woman? She looked like a junkie needing a fix, badly. He tried to move, but his hands were tied behind his back. His ankles bound, also.

  “Oh … my neck …” The pain was unbearable. His neck felt like someone was standing on it, slowly crushing.

  “Let me see,” said a voice.

  He could feel her fingers touch the raw patch of purple skin camped on his neck. He jerked as she pinched the skin.

  “Oh, did that hurt? It’s nothing, really. Looks like a large hickey. You’ll be able to boast to your friends about it. You like boasting. Don’t you, William?” There was laughter in the voice. Not jolly. Sinister. “Actually, you got more voltage than I anticipated. The carpet’s static components did that, adding an extra mule. There’s usually numbness after the shock, but in your case this has dissipated very quickly.”

  “What … what’s this all about? Where’s Peter? What have you done with him?”

  Her expression darkened. “He’s no longer with us. Be more concerned about your own situation, not his.”

  “You … you’ve killed him, haven’t you? Why? What did he do? What’s this all about?”

  She said nothing, studying him, in her eyes a predatory curiosity, unnervingly cold.

  “A … drink … can I at least have some water … please?” he pleaded.

  “Hmm,” she eventually muttered, but made no move to grant his request. “Later, perhaps. If you’re good, William.”