Bloodstorm Page 3

  “Suzy …?”

  Joseph’s breath sounded hard in his throat at seeing Suzy sitting on the far chair, nude, watching him. His tomcat, Mac, was nestling in the soft bush of Suzy’s pubic hairs. She stroked the cat gently, lovingly.

  A million puns ran through Joseph’s head. But instead of being turned on, a slight shiver ran up his spine. He instantly felt like a bird being watched by a hungry cat – two hungry cats. His rubbery cock quickly deflated, retreating inside itself.

  “Was I that bad – or good?” he smiled, forced and feeble. His eyes traced over the thin, snake-like ligature on each of his wrists. “Shit, we must have had the time of our lives, last night?”

  She did not respond.

  It had become very cold in the room, and Joseph became lucidly aware of the extreme oddness of his situation. “A bit tight, Suzy. Can you untie me, now? I’ve work to go to. Plenty of time for more fun and games later. Okay?”

  Still she didn’t respond, simply staring a rather eerie stare. Behind her, photos of Joseph’s children peered down at the bedroom scene. They seemed to be judging him, making him feel even more uncomfortable. He looked away.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked. Then suddenly, the realisation hit home. He wanted to laugh. He of all people being caught by the oldest trick in the book. “Okay. You got me, Suzy. You really did catch me with my pants down, didn’t you?” He tried smiling again. “Look, there’s not much in the house. I’ve just gone through a bitter divorce with my wife. She’s taken everything worthwhile.”

  Suzy stroked Mac and the cat purred like an asthmatic. Its eyes went lazy. Sleep preparation.

  “Suzy, love, take any money you see. There’s still a few quid in my pocket from last night. Take it, but for fuck sake, untie at least one of these ropes before you go. I’m late for work as it is.”

  “You go to your local pub, twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays. You drink Heineken in a glass. You like to pour it yourself.”

  “What?” A puzzled look. “And? You saw me do that last night. What’s the big deal?”

  “But you didn’t drink whiskey, last night. Did you?”

  “What? What are you on about?”

  “Occasionally, you chase your Heineken with Johnny Walker Black, neat, one good gulp, because you’re ‘a man’s man’.”

  The only way to drink Johnny Walker Black, Paul, is straight down the old gullet. I’m a man’s man, my friend. No sissy water or ice for me …

  “What’s … what’s this all about, Suzy?”

  “About? You, of course, Joseph.”

  He suddenly detected a smell in the room. Wet hay? Where was it coming from?

  “Okay, this joke is wearing thin, Suzy. Take what you want – but just get the hell out of here. You really don’t want to play fucking mind games with me.” His anger made him pull inadvertently at the ligatures, causing the thin ropes to burn his skin. “Fuck! Get these off me now!” he hissed, a challenge in his tone.

  Mac’s lazy eyes suddenly opened. Startled, the cat jumped from its warm comfortable niche, landing expertly on the floor. A few seconds later, it disappeared beneath the bed.

  “You’re divorced; accused of infidelity. You have two kids, Lisa and Jack. You work in the prison service. You’ve been there almost twenty-five years. Your rank is assistant governor. You believe you should be governor. Bitterness is eating your insides.”

  “Ha! You really are chancing your arm. I probably told you all that last night, before you spiked my drink.” Confident.

  “You like to play golf on a Saturday – weather permitting – and then head into Bangor to liaison with a woman you’ve been having an affair with for over four years.”

  “That was in the divorce papers …” he lied, confidence slowly ebbing.

  “Kathy McClinton.”

  It startled him, hearing that name.

  “How … how do you know about Kathy? About me …?”

  “I’ve known all about you forever, Joseph. I’ve known your prime, dark secret ceaselessly. I know who you are, what you are.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, confidence completely gone. “Who are you? Why are you doing this? Why me?”

  “You know. Think. Figure the first answer, and the other two will follow like a stagecoach behind horses.”

  Joseph swallowed hard. “I really don’t have a clue …”

  “Such a fibber.”

  “I don’t …”

  “You do. It’s not like the hard disc on a computer, Joseph. You can’t simply erase it from your memory. It’s haunted you, and no amount of alcohol can chase it away. Can it?”

  “I …” He no longer heard his breathing. Had it stopped? His face felt on fire. Worms, red-hot poker worms were tunnelling up his veins, from his ankles, biting viciously at his bones. “I need you to untie me … please … I can’t breathe …” A panic attack was beginning to build.

  “You go to church, asking god for forgiveness even though it wasn’t god you sinned against. Isn’t that strangely perverse? Imagine if you will, that I kill one of your children, and that I –”

  Joe’s body stiffened. Her words suffocated him. “Leave my kids out of this!”

  She smiled, making his stomach knot. Mac returned, disloyally rubbing its furry head against Suzy’s left ankle. Suzy scooped the cat up, placing him back in the warmth of her womanhood. The cat curved into a ‘C’ and dozed.

  “I said imagine, Joseph. You’re not listening. Now, pay attention. Imagine that I kill one of your children. Say it’s Lisa, the pretty one who looks just like her mother. Should I then go to Paul the barman and ask his forgiveness? Of course not. That would be silly. Wouldn’t it Joseph?”

  “I … I can’t … breathe … something is crawling inside of my body – arrgh! What’s … what’s happening to me?”

  She held a finger to her mouth. A mother telling a child to be quiet. “I’ll have to gag you if you panic. We don’t want to panic, do we?”

  While Suzy continued with her monologue, Joseph suddenly became fixated on her delicate, long fingers alternating between caressing the slumbering Mac and running through the expanse of her blonde hair.

  “No …” he finally said, squeezing fingernails deep into his palms to lessen the mysterious acid-like pain touring his body.

  “Good man, yourself. Just take a deep breath. Let it out … slowly. Easy … nice and slow … there. That’s better, isn’t it? Good. Now talk, Joseph. Tell me what you think, right now at this moment in your life as you gaze into regret?”

  Joseph opened his mouth to talk, but had lost control of his tongue. A sensation had started in his gut, stabbing down into his bowels like a bayonet. His bowels moved. He shit himself. Watery. The stench was horrifyingly humiliating.

  Suzy’s nose twitched slightly. “Shit is not the only stench coming from you, Joseph. You have the stench of a dead man.”

  “Please … please … I beg you. Please … don’t kill me.”

  “You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.”

  A mass of hurt began assembling in his lungs, moving up to his throat. Something was cutting his insides apart. He held the pain there as long as he could, trying not to breathe, trying to think about anything other than the pain. His ribs slowly tightened, squeezing taut against his heart. His entire body was now resigned to the fact that everything had changed.

  “Soon, paralysis will take over your entire body, Joseph. You’re not wearing a straitjacket in one of those white, soundproof rooms at your local psychiatric ward, but the end product is the same. It has already begun with your involuntary bowel movement. You will piss yourself dry within the next thirty to forty minutes. Desiccation will slowly take over, mummifying your entire living apparatus. Finally, all usage of your tongue will be gone. These are the signs you must be vigilant for. After them comes silence. Then death. In that order. But only if you are lucky.”

  He hadn’t noticed those things befor
e, but he was paying attention now to her words. He wanted to remember everything while trying desperately to force his mind from the edge of panic.

  Suzy glanced at her watch, while fluently scooping Mac from his warmth, kissing the cat’s furry head tenderly.

  “You’re a lovely boy, aren’t you? Yes you are …”

  The cat purred with pleasure.

  Joseph’s lungs suddenly felt damp and leaky. His pulse quickened and time rushed forward with no restraint. He could feel the beat of his heart slowing in his chest. He tried to talk, but his lips held no direction. He saw Suzy standing, glancing at her watch, once again. She walked closer to the bed. Looked at his face. Checked his eyes, his pulse. Placed Mac on the bed beside him, gently, almost lovingly.

  Mac sniffed suspiciously at the condom-covered flaccid penis, at the thick milky cum held within the condom’s translucent skin. Gallantly, it nibbled its way through, causing leakage. It licked. Tasted. Purred. Closed its eyes with satisfaction.

  “You boys enjoy yourselves,” said Suzy, closing the door.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Friday, 12 January

  ‘Loyalty is still the same,

  Whether it win or lose the game;

  True as a dial to the sun,

  Although it be not shined upon.’

  Samuel Butler, Hudibras

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR MARK Wilson sat reading a paragraph from a local newspaper concerning a murder trial in the town of Bally mena. Only a slight beer belly marred the poker-straight frame of his body. His cropped marine-short haircut was shaped like a smoothing iron. The extreme haircut accentuated a face badly pitted with pockmarks not caused by acne, but by a shotgun blast to his face, many years ago.

  Three other detectives occupied the room: Peter Cairns, the youngest person ever to make detective; Edward Philips, a soon-to-be-retired old workhorse, and Wilson’s right-hand man, Duncan ‘Bulldog’ McKenzie.

  McKenzie’s head was so clean-shaven that dull sunrays floating through the shabby window bounced off it. His entire body was blocks of muscle, with little wastage to interfere with what those blocks were specifically built for: extracting statements from unwilling suspects. Known throughout the police world as a treble B of a cop – Big Brooding Bastard – he delighted in violence, believing the world would be dead without it.

  In Bulldog’s hands rested a badly scuffed, hard porn magazine – so-called evidence from an upcoming trial of a trader in Smithfield market.

  Wilson’s crew all shared the collegial remembrance of on-the-edge wariness and their banter was casual misogyny, mixed with non-PC racial and religious jokes and blue soundbites.

  “Why don’t we get breaks like this?” asked Wilson to none of his men in particular, but directing his voice at any willing to listen.

  “Like what?” replied Cairns.

  “Like this,” stated Wilson, reading out loud the annoying article in question. “A man from Ballymena was convicted yesterday of murdering his aunt. The court heard how James Copeland dumped her torso into the local river in a suitcase weighted down with rocks.”

  “And? What’s the big deal? We’ve had a few of those, over the years,” stated Cairns.

  “He forgot to remove a label from the suitcase bearing his name and address …”

  Laughter suddenly filled the room.

  “What do you expect from Ballymena? It’s all that inbreeding those burn-again Christians do,” mumbled a groggy voice from the doorway.

  Wilson turned, and glanced at Karl.

  “It’s born-again; not burn-again, Kane.”

  “Aren’t those good, god-fearing Christians of Ballymena always burning their neighbours out? That’s when they’re not rubbing crack-cocaine on the gums of their teething, breast-sucking babies.” The shadows under Karl’s eyes were the colour of dead coffee.

  “You look like shit, Kane. An improvement,” quipped Cairns.

  “Well, who’d have believed it? Cairns can actually speak without Bulldog’s hand being shoved up his arse,” responded Karl, never missing a beat.

  “Fuck you, Kane,” responded Cairns, weakly.

  “The kid’s only telling the truth, Kane. Too much Hennessy, by the looks of it,” agreed Philips.

  “Don’t mention that word. It’s on my list of unmentionables, at the moment. I was legless last night. Now I’m paying terribly for it. My head’s being pulped. Where’s the coffee?”

  “You’ll get no sympathy here,” said Wilson. “All that drinking into the wee hours, pretending you’re a teenager. Pathetic.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” replied Karl, approaching a battered coffee machine encrusted with dirt and hardened grease. “This is filthy. Bunch of lazy bastards. And they say this is my tax money at work?”

  “Funny how each time you walk into this room, the place smells like shit,” said Bulldog, not even glancing from his porn magazine.

  “Good to see you’re progressing with your reading material, Bulldog,” smiled Karl. “Next week we move on to Dick and Dora.”

  “You couldn’t make it as a real cop, Kane, so you think coming in here, mixing it with the big boys, will make you one. Some fucking hope,” snarled Bulldog, giving a contemptuous curl of the lip, as if smelling sour milk.

  “Your observation is as keen as ever, Bulldog,” said Karl, deliberately stretching the smile. “When I look at you, it depresses me to think about that missed opportunity I once had to become a cop. Then again, looking at you would depress anyone.”

  “Always the smart mouth, Kane. Always the smart mouth. Watch out that someday it doesn’t bite you, right on the arse.”

  “I’ll watch out for that.”

  “Enough, the two of you,” commanded Wilson. Then, staring at Karl, he dropped the newspaper onto his desk, and said, “Can’t you stop winding people up, just for a minute, Kane? What are you here for, anyway? Want me to try and do go-between for you and Lynne, again?”

  “Suddenly, the circus is in town. Your sister is top of my list of unmentionables, also. Want some good advice? If you’re after a loan from her, now is the time to ask. Her thieving so-called lawyers have been sucking me dry.”

  Wilson smirked. “So, that’s why you were out drowning your sorrows? They finally managed to squeeze something from your tight wallet?”

  “Infamy infamy, you all have it in for me,” said Karl, doing a bad Kenneth Williams. “Be a good friend, and see to these.” Karl placed a pack of unpaid traffic tickets on the table.

  “Why don’t you just use the bus – or god forbid, walk,” said Wilson, glancing at the tickets. “Those tickets are worth more than that piece of shit you drive.”

  “Piece of shit? How can you sit there and talk such sacrilege? Do you know where I got that car?”

  “It’s the original Ford from The Sweeney TV show, of course,” retorted Wilson. “More likely Smith’s scrap yard.”

  “Jealousy will get you nowhere,” answered Karl.

  “And neither will that rust bucket,” cut-in Cairns, garnering laughter from the crew. “It has more mileage on it than Apollo Thirteen.”

  “What do you expect from a moon man?” added Philips.

  Ignoring the jokes, Karl poured two cups of coffee, placing them on Wilson’s table. Coffee dregs – no larger than full stops – haplessly rearranged themselves in dodgy oily patterns. “What info have you on the man found dead at Botanic Gardens?”

  Wilson’s forehead creased. “What makes you think the corpse was male?”

  “Fifty-fifty guess? Intuition?” said Karl, shrugging his shoulders. “Or perhaps I had a visit with a psychic, lately.”

  Removing a sheet of paper from a tower of files to his right, Wilson read the report while sipping the coffee. “Male.”

  “And?”

  “Caucasian …”

  “Very funny,” sighed Karl. “His name?”

  “Mister Bowling Ball,” supplied Cairns.

  Laughter in the room.

  “What?”

>   “Three bullet holes in the back of his skull,” continued Wilson. “Looked like a bowling ball. That’s what they tagged him down in the morgue, when he first showed up at their door.”

  “That means you can rule out suicide, Kane,” quipped Cairns. “Not unless he was a double-jointed masochist.”

  “His name is Wesley Milligan,” said Wilson, finally.

  “How long had Mister Wesley Milligan been there?”

  “Probably a week, perhaps a bit longer. Had weeds growing out of every hole in his body. The local animal community must have thought Christmas had come early, devouring most of his flesh and bones. Very little of him left. Eyes gone. Most of the brains. Probably a delicacy.”

  Karl’s stomach did tiny flip-flops. “Thanks for those interesting details.”

  “Don’t ask if you don’t like the bloody answer.”

  “Why are you so cagey, not your usual happy, warm self?” asked Karl, sipping the coffee for the first time. “Nasty stuff, this so-called coffee.” Making a face, he pushed the cup to one side.

  Wilson closed his eyes before speaking. “Well, apart from Chief Constable Finnegan coming in on an inspection later today, they’ve gone and put a woman – a police constable – in here to join the squad. Can you believe that nonsense?”

  “That’s shocking.” Karl shook his head. “God help her, sitting with a smelly bunch of overweight, over-paid, over-the-hill cops. What did the poor girl do to earn such a promotion to hell?”

  Wilson swallowed a gulp of coffee, before replying. “It’s all political correctness gone mad. The Police Ombudsman says we have to balance the gender scale. Bollocks. We’re expected to cover some raw recruit’s smooth arse? No way. I don’t give a damn what the Ombudsman says.”

  “Much better you cover your own hairy arses,” interjected Karl. “My heart’s bleeding for you and the rest of the Keystone gang.”

  “Let me tell you something, Kane,” stated Wilson, pointing his finger accusingly. “I worked my way through the ranks all the way to DI. In my day, hard work, dedication and balls got you promoted – not tits.”