Authors: Michael J. Malone
He doesn’t know what the feeling is; only that he doesn’t like it. He compares it to walking around with a space beside him, a tear in the fabric of the energy field we are all part of. In any case, recognising it for what it is may well be beyond him. That would require some emotion, an ability to tap into the experience the rest of humankind shares. He recognises that it needs to be filled, but how? There are few things that satisfy him. He watches others watching children and is amazed at the energy they receive from what are simply human beings with smaller legs. So why are other men and woman so easily affected by them? They smile and laugh and cry while watching their behaviour, while he looks on with numb curiosity. Perhaps if he were to have one of his own, it might fill the space, he might learn the emotional reaction that brings the physical reaction of a smile?
Could he learn it? Might it be the saving of him? He is undoubtedly intelligent, but it is an intelligence bereft of the experience of warmth. It functions best in the dark and looks for darkness to keep it company. Occasionally he touches it with his mind, sends out the probe of a thought, pushes against the membrane and then recoils as if burned. Heat and black nothingness is the only way he can describe it.
He managed to touch it and enjoy the burn, the day he killed the old man. Then the heat welcomed him, sent energy coursing through him. The heat he now knows, from watching others, is emotion. Emotion is feeling.
But the feeling is fading. He needs to get it back. He needs to chase away the darkness with more dark. With another death.
Soon.
Not yet, but soon.
Then he might enjoy again the heat of a smile.
I’m sitting up in bed in complete darkness, the quilt tangled around my feet. Every cell in my body is sparking with adrenalin. What the fuck was that? I’ve been dreaming again. Someone was walking towards me. Streetlights were shining off the puddles, but they weren’t strong enough to highlight his face. All I could see were two pale stripes on his jumper. His movements were quick and assured. Feral. I was his target. Frozen words formed a lump in my throat. I wanted to shout a warning at this man. Fuck off. You don’t know who you are messing with. I needed a weapon.
I needed to move. Sheer terror held me tighter than rigor mortis. As he passed, his face turned to me. His features were encased in shadow, but I could sense his smile.
Then it began to snow. White flakes floating down to coat the earth in a chilled cushion. Except they weren’t cold. They didn’t melt when they landed on my skin. I looked up into the sky and watched them fall. Something tickled my nose. This wasn’t snow. It was feathers. Small and white and unmistakeably feathers. They are falling, falling, falling. I looked at my feet and kick through the mound of feathers I see there. Something catches. It’s a man. He’s old. His eyes are accusing. Staring in death at his killer.
Me.
I forced my eyes away from his silent accusation. Guilt and shame pulled me to my knees. What had I done? I screamed at the sky. My mouth filled with feathers. One caught in my throat. I choked. Coughed. Need to breathe. Need to breathe. Need to…
I wake up. Chest heaving. Christ that was vivid. The old man. His eyes. The guilt. I could feel each feather in my mouth. They were clogging my airwaves. I was choking. It went on and on. I couldn’t move my jaws to spit out the feathers. I couldn’t breathe.
The alarm clock burns green into the dark. Five-thirty. God, that was scary. I am still breathless and my skin prickles with an adrenalin after-burn. I need to get up and shake off the dream. I throw my legs to the side of the bed and stand up and almost fall back on to it. My legs are drained of energy. The dream must’ve taken a lot more out of me than I thought.
At the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in my hands, my arms are resting on the table. My hands are shaking too much to allow me to hold it without spilling the stuff over my arms. McBain, what the fuck is going on?
On the way into work, an hour early, with an empty stomach and frazzled with caffeine, I review the dream again. The details remain clear, particularly those dead eyes and the choking sensation of the feathers.
There was blood. Christ, I’ve just remembered, there was lots of blood. Feathers were in red and white clumps at his wrists. His ribs. I could see his ribs through an open wound.
I want to gag.
And hide in the dark soothing of an empty confessional box.
I’ve never been convinced about the importance of dreams. Symbols and portents my arse. The subconscious just likes to play tricks on us. But I’ve never had a dream so vivid. I’ve been in a lot of dangerous situations and I’ve never felt terror like that in my life. My limbs were solid with fear, my hair was on end and my heart… it still hasn’t slowed down. Need to get a grip, McBain. There’s work to do. A real killer to catch.
In the office, Peters has been busy. The brother of a victim we discussed yesterday has been brought in for questioning and Peters finds it difficult to hide his disappointment that I’m here.
‘You want to sit in, Ray?’ he asks. His expression reads he’d rather I go and lie in front of a combine harvester.
‘That would be nice,’ I exaggerate a smile. ‘Give me some detail on the guy.’
‘Paul Crichton. Age 25. Unemployed. Lives with his girlfriend. She’s pregnant with their second child. The first one is ten months old.’
Peters’ words set up a picture that is fulfilled when I see the man in question.
He in turn eyes me up and down as I enter the room. Something flits across his eyes. Could it have been recognition? He looks vaguely familiar to me. Wonder if I’ve arrested him before.
‘So it’s the heavy mob, is it?’ He looks at my gut and smirks. What a piece of work, only twenty-five and looking like he belongs in this room. Occupational hazard, don’t you know. His head has a ten o’clock shadow, obviously needs another shave. His body is medium height and thin like a railway sleeper, his cheeks are hollow and his eyes haunt his face. Pockmarks on his cheeks tell of teenage years ruined with explosive acne. Surprisingly, he is expensively and fashionably dressed,
a la
Matrix, complete with long black leather coat. A packet of cigarettes lies unopened on the Formica tabletop. In deference to the public smoking policy? I would think not. Looks like the kind who wouldn’t give two fucks about someone else’s discomfort. Besides, if we want information from someone, this is one regulation we are happy to play with.
‘I want a lawyer.’
‘Why? Something to hide, Paul?’ asks Peters.
‘I’m saying nothing without a lawyer.’
Peters sits on a chair facing Crichton. ‘Been watching
The Bill
, big man?’
I sit beside Peters and decide I’ll let him do most of the talking.
‘Don’t patronise me, you prick. I know my rights.’ Obviously, he’s happy to help us with our enquiries. This will be interesting. I peel the clear plastic film off the tapes and insert one in the recorder’s drawer.
‘Don’t worry, Paul. You can see a lawyer. You are entitled to free and independent legal advice.’ Now that the tape is running Peters issues the caution quickly, anxious to get to the interesting bit.
‘You are not under arrest. You are free to leave, Paul. We just want to ask you some questions.’
‘Is that right? I’m free to leave?’ He speaks the last sentence in a high camp voice, as if he is mimicking Peters. Trying to piss him off.
‘What do you know about Patrick Connelly?’ Peters is unmoved.
Crichton leans back on his chair and folds his arms, ‘He’s dead. Seen it in the papers. Can’t say I’m chief mourner. Know what I mean?’
‘Did you want him dead?’
‘Every fucking day of my life, mate.’ He sits forward, his eyes bright. ‘He was worse than scum.’ He picks up the cigarettes, unwraps them and pulls one out. He waves the cigarette at both of us in turn, his way of asking for a light. ‘Is that what this is all about? You think I did it?’ Pleasure dances the length of his smile. ‘Believe me, I would love to have done it. But hey, you know how it is with your goals,’ he shrugs, ‘life gets in the way sometimes.’ He sticks his cigarette in the flame of a match held out by Peters and breathes in deep. Deep with hunger. He closes his eyes and takes the nicotine hit. ‘Fuckin’ magic.’ He regards us both, his gaze frank and fearless.
‘Didnae do it, guys. Wish I did. But ah didnae.’ He leans back in his seat as if he’s in his favourite pub. Usually I can ignore this, but today, for some reason it really pisses me off. Keep a lid on it, McBain, this is Peters’ interview. I take a deep breath, force my shoulders down and sit back in my chair.
‘Where were you on the night of September 23rd?’asks Peters.
‘Damn, would you look at that?’ He sits up and pats down his pockets. ‘I’ve left my diary in the house.’
‘Keep your cheap sarcasm for your mates, son. Just answer the question.’
‘I was in the house,’ he fidgets with the cigarette packet, like something just occurred to him, ‘with the wife and wean.’
‘How long you been married?’
‘A few months.’ He takes a deep drag, his eyes squinted against the smoke. Or was it something else?
‘Did you guys have a long engagement?’
‘What the fuck is this? An interview for daytime TV? Am I going to be on
Jeremy Kyle
or something? We shagged, she got pregnant. I wanted to do the right thing by her. Didn’t want a wean of mine being brought up a bastard.’
‘Was your wife grateful?’
‘What the fu…’
‘I’d bet most of the lassies on the scheme, when they got caught, would be left on their own. They’d be left to carry the baby.’
‘Well, I said,’ he preens a little, ‘…that I would stand by her.’
‘So she’s grateful?’
‘Leave my wife out of this.’
‘Grateful enough to lie for you?’
‘You calling my wife a liar?’
‘You religious, Paul?’ I ask. Time to change the pattern of the interview. Keep him on the hop.
He snorts. ‘No thanks. The opiate of the masses? I prefer my drugs to be more… literal. If you get my drift.’
He’s got a brain then, I think. ‘You don’t believe in Jesus?’
‘Listen mate, I was brought up in a home where he was used as a role-model, ’cept them that taught it, forgot it. Do as I say, and all that shite. Most o’ they bastards wouldn’t know a Christian thought if it came up and fucked them.’
Inwardly, I nod. This is a sentiment I share.
‘Nice clothes, Paul.’ I say. Time for another change of direction.
Smiling, he looks down at himself and gives each lapel of leather a quick tug. ‘Not too shabby, eh? Got this down the market.’
‘You do know that reset is a crime, don’t you?’ I don’t give him enough time to answer. ‘That means buying stolen goods. You’ve been in trouble before, haven’t you, Paul? It wouldn’t do to get another crime on your sheet, would it?’
‘Piss off and prove it, tosser.’ He crosses his arms.
‘Previous. You’ve got previous. Got a bit angry, didn’t you, Paul?’
‘Aye. So? Bastards deserved…’
‘Quite a brutal crime, eh?’
‘Like I said the…’
‘A lot of hate bottled up there, Paul?’
‘Ah didn’t dae Connelly.’ He unbuttons his leather jacket.
‘A lot of anger. Mr Connelly died violently, Paul. He died screaming. Did you enjoy it?’
‘What is this?’ He sat upright. ‘Fucking bad cop, bad cop?’ His eyes. There’s something about his eyes. Where have I seen him before? Then he stands up. ‘I’ve seen the papers. I know what you guys do. Can’t find the killer, so you’ll stitch somebody else up. You said I was free to go. I’m leaving.’
As he turns towards the door, his jacket swings open, revealing a sweatshirt with two white stripes across the middle.
‘No you’re not.’ I stand up. I’m aware of Peters’ questioning stare —
whose interview is this
— but there’s something about this guy.
‘Going to stop me, big man?’ He throws his shoulders back and chest forward in the classic pose of the ned. ‘I know my rights.’
I lean over to the tape recorder and switch it off. ‘You know fuck all, pal.’ I want to punch his smug smile through to the other side of his head. I want to jump on his head until it is pulp. I am so fucking angry and I don’t know why.
‘Ray,’ Peters warns.
‘Come ahead.’ says Crichton.
‘Sit.’ I bark. He obeys me, with a look that says,
for now, asshole
. I sit down and stare him out.
As I look into his eyes the world shifts. I’m back in the dream. This time the fear won’t beat me. This time I will act. The room is suddenly colder and darker.
I can see the outline of a cross in shadow on the far wall. I hear the discordant note of chair legs, as they are forced across the tiled floor. Crichton and Peters are staring at me from their seats, so it’s me who stood up. I’m having difficulty reading their expressions. It’s like I’m looking at them through a gauze curtain.
‘
Not yet, but soon
.’
‘What did you say?’
Crichton stubs out a cigarette. Is that a smile?
‘
I know where you live
.’ Who said that?
My hands are round Crichton’s neck and my breath is scouring his face. ‘Nobody threatens a police officer,’ I hear my voice from the far end of a tunnel. There’s fear and anger in it and an absence of light.