Read Bedlam Online

Authors: B.A. Morton

Bedlam (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen
 

 

As always he is near - Jacob, my nemesis. He watches and waits with delicious anticipation for me to perform, to dance to his tune and ultimately fall. That is his greatest pleasure, to witness the act of failure, the dread, the up-swelling of hope which transforms quickly to remorse, defeat and finally fear. He feeds greedily upon it, and to date I have been his star performer. I am nothing if not consistent. It seems that I have fallen repeatedly, though the memories fade, each time replaced and overwritten by a nightmare more terrible than the one before. Each time it is he who has reached out his chill hand and empty heart, and pulled me back. This time fate has diverted the natural order, the play of the game, and I have taken a step, albeit unwittingly, and connected with one who is poised to fall far further than I have ever known.

I await Jacob’s response with equal measures of trepidation and exhilaration. My fear is spiced with the thrill of holding the wild card in an insidious game of truth or dare. I am not a truthful person, it goes against my very nature to reveal my inner core, but I do thrive on risk, the insatiable roller coaster of life and death. In this venture, success, as always, is stacked in Jacob’s favour, but there is a chink in his plan, and that chink is Joe McNeil.

I am certain Jacob observed our first meeting from the darkness he inhabits, if not in person then he will have learned of our allegiance via his minions, those who seek his pleasure and fear his wrath. He will know how we touched, Joe and I, beneath the viaduct’s giant, iron canopy, adrift amongst the flotsam and jetsam that is Bedlam, our lips finding each other, sealing our fate, connecting us for the challenge to come.

A kiss of life, love or death?

The intent immaterial, the outcome catastrophic, for together Joe and I have ignited the touch paper, the deadly fuse which, if allowed to burn, will set alight a pyre that not even Jacob in his arrogance can escape. To remain the victor he must snub out the flame. We must therefore guard it jealously.

I know Jacob. I know the myriad of twisted logic that inhabits his foul mind, and because of that I know he will underestimate my saviour, my fallen knight in tarnished armour, my talisman. It takes no stretch of the imagination to assume the depth of Jacob’s amusement as I strip the layers of protection, one agonising level at a time, from a man who is already flayed by loss and despair. He will assume Joe’s retreat is indicative of fear but he is mistaken. A lesser man would indeed have stepped away long before Joe, but Joe has a need which I can fill, whether he wishes it or not. It may seem to some unnecessarily cruel, but he must be laid bare before he may see his future fully. I have learnt everything I know about cruelty
from Jacob - emotional torture and more besides. And it is the more that Jacob should now fear.

I allow a secret smile to play across my lips as I consider the depths of Jacob’s complacency. He laughs prematurely. I play the long
game, have been doing so for what seems an eternity. Each time I have fallen, I have risen anew and better equipped. I have no doubt that Joe McNeil will come to understand the importance of his role, eventually. He must, or I will surely cease to exist, and he is set for oblivion. Until then we must engage in the cat and mouse games which Jacob lives to play.

My ears, attuned to his sound above all others, hear his soft footfall long before he arrives. He is prowling, as he is wont to do. I close my eyes and inhale softly, preparing for what is to come. I imagine the smile which hides the snarl, and the sweet talk which sugars his bitter bite. He will charm those in his path and discard those in his wake. A tsunami of evil approaches and I am powerless. I take another shallow breath and call silently to Joe. I sense his confusion and his pain. Sadly, both are necessary and I gather them greedily to my breast.

He does not understand.

Ultimately he will.

He seeks his lost love as I seek him.

Eventually he must choose.

 

Chapter Fourteen
 

 

The door to the tattoo shop was heavily reinforced with a metal shutter welded in place. The grill was daubed in graffiti, some obscene, most unintelligible and all contributing to the rundown image of the shop and surrounding buildings. McNeil sat awhile in his car and watched from across the street as clients came and went, the heavy bell above the door announcing their presence. The armaments seemed a little excessive for a few pots of ink and an electric needle.

After half-an-hour of plummeting temperatures in a car with a broken heater, he decided it was time to stretch his legs and pay Curtis a visit. He’d have preferred to surprise him, catch him on the back foot, and maybe deliver a swift retaliation for the black eye he was still nursing, but a glance at the sky dissuaded him from delaying any longer. It would soon be dark and he had no desire to spend any longer than necessary in this part of town. As
Minkey had rightly pointed out, this was not a desirable location. Second only to Bedlam, these streets were a policeman’s worst nightmare. A warren of interconnecting alleys and derelict buildings, the area was home to a subculture who considered the law only in the context of how to stay beyond it rather than within it.

He’d never worked this part of town, but the McNeil of old would have relished the challenge to break down some iron clad
doors and close a few cases in the process. He’d been successful in many similar raids before transferring to his current post, a golden boy, earmarked for fast track promotion. As Dennis had been at pains to point out, he’d been a good detective, but lately he’d been less interested in breaking cases and far too keen on breaking heads in his search for Kit. Today he felt his own head was split in two. It pounded mercilessly, steadily worsening since his visit to the canal. There was a storm brewing and little by little he was being drawn into the eye.

The shop interior was poorly lit and it took a moment of squinting on McNeil’s part before his eyes adjusted and he could fully appreciate the amount of fantastical artwork on display. It was everywhere: walls, ceiling, backs of doors. Everything that could be decorated, was, some of it beautiful, some the stuff of nightmares, like stepping into the pages of an X-rated graphic novel and having someone slam the book closed behind you. It certainly wasn’t the place for a mind infused with paranoia. His pounding temple agreed. He let the door go reluctantly and allowed the bell to announce his arrival.

Two youths lounged insolently on a ripped leather sofa. Bedecked with piercings, earlobes heavy with adornments, they followed his progress to the desk with glassy eyes. The air was heavy and sweet. A layer of smoke hung just beneath the ceiling. There was more than body art on sale here. Opposite, a young girl sat nervously chewing the ends of her hair, her make-up thick, her wrists criss-crossed with scars of distress and disharmony. He caught her eye and a swift glance at the door was sufficient for her to forgo her place in the queue and leave.

“Well,
looky here. You back for more?” Curtis drew back the beaded curtain that restricted access to the rear of the studio and leaned heavily against the door frame. His bulk filled the space, his face and arms further advertisement of his services. He was bigger and uglier than McNeil recalled, and he carried a jagged wound across the bridge of his nose. Trade-off for the black eye. McNeil felt a little less aggrieved.

“I need some information.”

“And?”

“And I was hoping you’d supply it.”

“Hope is for losers.”

“Losers?
You’re the one who assaulted a police officer.”

“An off-his-face-with-booze police officer.”

McNeil shrugged. “Assault is assault.”

Curtis snorted. “Prove it. You think anyone in
Minkey’s is going to stand up for a copper?”

“I don’t need proof. My word against yours, mate, and I’m the respectable one. I could arrest you, close down Archie’s business, basically make your life as shitty as mine, or you could just tell me what I need to know.”

“Yeah, I s’pose you could try, but then the press might get wind of drunken coppers picking fights. I read the papers, maybe you should too, mate. If you did, you’d know the law-abiding, tax-paying public is getting sick of policemen and public servants who don’t know how to behave.” He angled in closer. McNeil focused on the abundance of stubble erupting through a cross hatch of indigo ink as Curtis’ jaw worked and the words kept coming. “Apparently last year they even had a detective under suspicion of murder … now, what was his name?”

McNeil looked to the smoky ceiling and sniffed loudly. “You want to play that game, it’s your choice.”

Curtis followed his gaze with narrowed eyes, his mouth turning down in an ugly grimace. He turned to the youths. “Do one. We’re closed.”

They lumbered to their feet scowling. “We’re waiting for a ...”

“I said, do one. Come back in an hour. I’m doin’ some business here.”

The youths took their time shuffling to the door, lethargy rather than insolence slowing their retreat. McNeil waited patiently; Curtis less so. The spider inscribed across his left cheek flexed its web as he tightened his jaw in response to their dawdling.

“Bloody kids!” he muttered as he slammed the door shut and dropped the latch behind them. “So, what is it you need to know that’s so important you’d risk a false arrest, detective?”

“I’m looking for a tattoo.”

Curtis angled his broad face and smiled slyly. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay,” continued Curtis “I’ll run with that but you’re on the clock. I have a business to run. What kind of tattoo would you like, Detective McNeil?”

“You know my name?”

Curtis’ laughter bubbled out of him like his lungs were drowning in crap. “I make it my business to know everything about tossers who think they can break my nose and walk away. Everyone in Bedlam knows your name and all about you. You should be more careful, detective. Should’ve kept a tighter hold on your lady, shouldn’t you?” He stepped closer and the humour darkened. “What would you like? A heart tattooed on your chest with ‘Joe loves Kit’?”

McNeil stiffened, his stomach tightened and a sudden rush of rage flooded him. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not here. The whole point of coming was to try and understand what had happened at the hospital, to attempt to put another piece in the bizarre jigsaw that currently occupied his mind. His head was full of images which he believed were connected but didn’t know why. He recalled
Minkey’s words, took a breath and started counting.

“Or maybe that should be ‘Joe
loved
Kit’. Gotta get the tense right. I’m a stickler for literacy. You wouldn’t think it, I know.” He leaned in close and McNeil stood his ground and kept counting. He was up to seven and his fists were already clenched so tight that the tremors were up to his elbows. “Just for the record,” continued Curtis, "I know nothing about your girlfriend’s disappearance, if that’s what this visit is all about, but hey, if you want my opinion, it’s little wonder she up and left. You have an attitude problem, pal, and next time you decide to get antsy and start a fight, you’d better make damn sure you’ve got some back-up, because I’m telling you now, copper or not, you’re headed for serious trouble.”

McNeil got to ten and stayed silent. It was all coming back. He’d gone to
Minkey’s looking for John Bales, the water bailiff who had discovered Kit’s car all those months before. He’d hoped if he applied a little persuasive pressure, he might recall something, anything that could throw light on Kit’s last movements. But the guy failed to show, frustration got the better of him, and he’d sought solace as always in the bottom of a glass. Maybe Curtis had every right to be pissed, but he’d made a mistake in goading him about Kit.

“Don’t.”

One word of warning, quietly spoken, but the look that accompanied it was sufficient for Curtis to re-evaluate McNeil’s tolerance level. There was a moment of charged silence as each man tried to second guess the other and when the testosterone mist finally dissipated, McNeil fixed his eyes on the elaborate python wound around Curtis’ thick neck.

“Let’s get back to tattoos, snake’s, serpents, that kind of shit?”

“What about them?”

“Are they popular? Have you done many?”

“One or two.” He flexed his neck muscles and the python came alive. It was a trick, but even so it took a few seconds before McNeil’s concussed brain caught up with it, and he failed to hide the confusion that flashed across his face. Curtis curled his lips in a knowing smile. “What’s up, detective? Under the weather? Desperate for a hair of the dog? Or, something a little stronger?”

He leaned his meaty forearms on the counter and flexed his bulldog-illustrated biceps. The resulting canine grimace was accompanied by Curtis’ wet laughter. McNeil caught an updraft of perspiration and muscle lubricant. The guy worked out and by the smell of him he’d been busy in the back shop. McNeil ignored the jibe and stepped away to avoid the stink.

“Do you keep a record of your snake designs?”

“Sure. I have an A4 glossy brochure of all my favourite designs. I send it out monthly to all my clients. You want me to add you to my mailing list?” He shook his head. “What do you think? Do I look like I keep
fuckin’ records?”

“So, say someone walks in off the street and says ‘my mate had a dragon tattooed on his arse and I want the same design’, how do you know which one he means?”

“On the walls,” Curtis gestured to the designs before tapping at his head, “and in here. You don’t see what you want, then you draw me a picture.”

McNeil scanned the walls again. Some of the designs seemed familiar. Maybe he’d seen them before on suspects or bodies. But the twin-headed serpent was nowhere to be seen. He took a shallow breath, in through the nose out through the mouth. It was a coping strategy. Already the place was getting to him, the walls pressing in, the images distorting despite his averted gaze. He thought of the blue pills at home in a drawer, then he checked his pockets and pulled out his notebook and pencil.

“It’s a two-headed snake.” He attempted to replicate what he’d glimpsed on Nell’s wrist. He gripped the pencil tightly to prevent the tremor which came out of nowhere. “Kind of like that, entwined, one black snake and one white.”

He passed the sketch to Curtis and stepped back. His hand tingled and he flexed it slowly. He ignored the cold that seeped through his chest wall.

“Never seen it before,” grunted Curtis, his words at odds with his expression. “And your time is up. I have clients waiting and a living to earn. So unless you want me to put that baby on your hide right now, I’m going to have to ask you to leave."

He pushed past McNeil in an attempt to force him out of the shop door, leaving the private rear room exposed. McNeil sidestepped Curtis’ bulk, swept aside the bead curtain and
found himself in a treatment room. The walls here were covered in yet more graphic art. Some strangely compelling, others disturbing. All those that possessed eyes seemed to have them trained on him, the images warped, teeth bared, talons flexed. He felt a wave of nausea and steadied himself with a hand on the treatment couch.

“I said it’s time to go. Come back with a warrant and maybe we can talk.” Curtis’ snarl dragged him back.

“The two-headed snake, have you seen it before?”

“I just told you, no.”

“I’d think about it if I were you. You want me to check your operating licence, your outstanding warrants, or maybe just bring a dog in here and see what he can sniff out? Because I can and I will do all of those things unless you tell me what you know about the serpent.”

“I already told. I don’t know anything. I’m an artist not a
fuckin’ zoologist. You still pissed or just plain stupid?”

“Not pissed, just persistent. You see, Curtis, every time you lie to me, the snake round your neck squirms like it’s just swallowed a rat. Now that’s what I’d call a design fault on someone who has honesty issues.”

Curtis scowled. “Look, it’s not one of mine or Archie’s.”

“Go on.”

“All I know is what everyone else does, including you. It’s a symbol. Black and white - good and evil …”

“Yin and yang …” muttered McNeil.

“Yeah. I get kids, gang members, coming in here getting tats which show their allegiance. You know the kind of thing.” McNeil nodded. “Well, the two-headed serpent is kind of like that, only it’s not kids. More like a members club. Like I said, it’s not one of mine. It’s just what I’ve heard.”

“So, where will I find out more?”

Curtis shrugged. “Why do you need to know more? You want to join?”

“It’s part of an on-going investigation.”

“Police investigations aren’t my problem.”

“I can make it your problem.”

“Big man, huh?” Curtis sneered.

“You want to find out how big I am?” McNeil pulled out his phone “One call and the ball starts rolling. All that red tape, it’s a bugger to unravel. Might have to close you down for
… who knows … weeks, months even.”

“Okay, okay. You so short of mates that you
wanna play dib-dib-dib with a new gang, that’s up to you. There’s a kid who comes in here. Runs a few errands. He hangs out at a squat in Bedlam. He might be there, he might not. He might be able to help you but don’t hold your breath. If he comes in, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

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