The Dark Place (4 page)

K
arl revisited the note handed to him this morning by Alison. The young girl’s handwriting was difficult to decipher, but with Naomi’s help and patience, they eventually managed to decode it. Martina, apparently, had been living with a group of homeless people over at Custom House Square, not too far from the hostel. Alison had managed to speak with Martina on a couple of occasions, bringing her some smuggled-out food from the hostel’s kitchen. Ominously, contact stopped when Martina no longer showed at the prearranged meeting place.

“I’ll be back in about an hour,” said Karl, pocketing the note.

“Where’re you going?” asked Naomi.

“To the going place.”

“Don’t be flippant.”

“Don’t flipping ask, then,” said Karl, gathering keys and wallet from atop the kitchen counter. “I’m cranky enough in this bastarding heat wave without you cranking me up further.”

“You’re not serious about going out in the heat?”

“How about if I wear a clown costume, look less serious?”

“Didn’t you hear the weather report? The weatherman issued a warning, telling people not to go out unless absolutely necessary,” retorted Naomi, folding her arms impatiently.

“The weatherman. What would he know about weather? Besides, it
is
absolutely necessary. Anyway, it’s only over to Custom House and the surrounding area. Probably my dog of a mind chasing after a cat of an idea.”

“Please be careful.”

“Am I ever anything other?” he replied, smiling, before kissing her on the lips. “Did I tell you Peter Mullan is doing a book signing at Eason’s, Donegal Place, this Wednesday?”

“Who’s Peter Mullan?”

“Who’s Peter Mullan, she asks. That proves you never listen to me. Peter Mullan has had about six bestsellers, to date. Three of them have been made into movies.”

“That’s great. But I don’t remember you ever reading any of his books.”

“Er … well, they’re not exactly my sort of book, to be honest.”

“Why the big interest if you haven’t even read any of his stuff?”

“Because Peter and yours truly went to the same school when we were kids. I’m going to ask him to have a look at my manuscript, see if he’ll do a blurb for it. That could go a long way to getting the manuscript accepted by potential publishers.”

“That’s great, Karl!” exclaimed Naomi, giving him a full kiss on the lips. “I have a feeling this will be your year for publication. Honestly, I do. You’re going to prove all those silly rejection slips wrong.”

“I love the way your eyes light up when you fib, but I love you anyway. See you in a couple of hours.”

“Oh! In case I forget, there’s a do on at Billy Holiday’s for Ivana’s birthday, Friday night. We’ll have to get her something.”

“I’m not really in the mood for any party.”

“I promised her that we’d be there. She’s expecting us. We can’t let her down. How much money do you have? I’m going to buy her something nice.”

“Won’t a bottle of cheap wine from Tesco and a card from Oxfam
suffice?”

Smiling, Naomi held out a hand, chanting, “Give, give, give, give, give.”

“Okay, okay. No need to rip the arse out of it,” said Karl, reluctantly producing his wallet before removing two twenties.

“I’ll need a bit more than that. I saw a lovely necklace in Lunn’s. It cost two hundred.”

“Two …? Are you out of your head, Naomi? It’s Ivana’s birthday, not Elizabeth bloody Taylor’s.”

“Stop your moaning. She’s my best friend. She was the one who looked after me and gave me shelter when I first came to Belfast, way before you came on the scene. Just give me another two twenties and I’ll put the rest to it.”

“Bloody rent due at the end of the month,” muttered Karl, surrendering the money, before quickly exiting the room.

Stepping into Hill Street and the afternoon heat, he immediately felt as if a plastic bag was hugging his face. Hot. Suffocating. Above, the sun was floating on a ghostly haze. He considered the air. It tasted like exhaust vapours. Everywhere he looked, people were sucking on the toxic traffic fumes like stranded fish.

People said this muggy, claustrophobic weather made Belfastians strange. Sometimes it made them do
strange
things. Karl’s retort to that sweet idiom was that the people of Belfast didn’t need excuses to do strange things.

Only supposed to be mad dogs and Englishmen who venture out in this type of madness,
thought Karl, wiping his brow with a damp handkerchief as he strolled by the palatial Merchant Hotel in Waring Street.
You’re neither, so what the hell are you doing, joining them, you big eejit, getting your loaf toasted by the baking sun?

Despite it being a mere five-minute walk from where he lived, the oppressive heat was making him exhausted and even crankier than he had been in the apartment. To exacerbate matters further, his sinuses were killing him, making his eyes feel sandpapery each time he blinked out sweat. Thankfully, despite the heat, his haemorrhoids weren’t arsing about.

Quickly cutting across Victoria Street and into Custom House
Square, he spotted a parcel of homeless people shadowed outside an old derelict church, not too far from the impressive Italian
Renaissance-style
Custom House building. The homeless all looked skinny, lined up against the church walls like pencils in some cheap stationery shop before suddenly disappearing inside out of sight.

“What an existence,” muttered Karl.

The abysmal conditions of the homeless in his hometown never failed to shock Karl. He had always believed that their growth had been cultivated by an obscene dichotomy where, a few streets away on the Waterfront, the affluent helped to fill the coffers of corrupt, greasy politicians and city councillors, backing their plans to make the homeless invisible with the help of thugs in and out of uniform.

To Karl, the old church seemed to be swelling in the heat, casting shadows further down the street. Long gone were its begging tongues and burning candles, but somehow it still infused his atheistically inclined imagination with agonising angels, their alabaster faces all majestically attuned to a vivid tapestry of concrete heaven.

“Hello? Anyone in?” he asked loudly, tentatively poking his head in through the large, ornate door of the church. “Hello? Anyone –”

“Get yer big fucking head out of our house!” screamed an intimidating voice, making Karl step backwards quickly.

A bear of a man appeared from the mouth of the door, his massive face covered by a forest of unruly beard, eyes flat as flint. What skin could be seen was jaundice yellow – matching his sporadic teeth. A bruise as big as an infant’s fist lamp-posted his forehead. The man was wearing history clothes – someone else’s history – with a wine bottle protruding from his pants like a pickpocket’s arm.

“I … I was wondering if I could ask a few questions?” asked Karl. “It’s about a young girl who’s been missing –”

“Want to dirty my skin with bruises, punk?” asked the homeless man, motoring unsteadily towards Karl. “Ye better kill me – cuz I’m coming for ye! See?
See?
Whaddya hear, whaddya
sssayyyyy?
” Like lightning, the man produced something long and shiny from his coat pocket.

“Let’s not do anything silly, or hasty, friend,” urged Karl, tracking the man’s eyes, simultaneously watching for any sudden movement
from his hand.

The man growled a howl not unlike a wounded animal. He appeared to be preparing to leap with the weapon in his hand. Karl readied himself.

“Leave that man alone, John-Jack,” said the voice of another homeless man, suddenly emerging from the doorway of the building. “What’s this stranger done to offend you?” The man had dozens of tiny metal hoops implanted in his ears and some in his nose. His grey hair was a long, ropey ponytail.

“He’s poking his big nose in, uninvited to our home, that’s what he’s done. Probably trying to steal our grub, Michael,” stated John-Jack, tightening his grip on the item in his hand. “How would he like any of us poking our heads into his kitchen without permission?”

Karl flashed his palms up, saying, “You’re one hundred per cent correct, John-Jack. My apologies for that. To be honest, I couldn’t see any other way of alerting someone to my presence.”

“Okay, John-Jack? See? The man apologised. Now, go back in and finish your dinner.”

Slowly, John-Jack eased back towards the entrance, but not before sticking out his tongue at Karl. The tongue was carpeted in baked bean sauce and sores.

“He’s harmless,” explained Michael, as John-Jack disappeared out of view. “Just a bit paranoid. One of the risk factors of being homeless.”

“I wouldn’t call brandishing a knife harmless.”

“Knife? Oh … you mean this?” replied Michael, producing the offending item: a piece of sagging rubber wrapped in tinfoil.

Karl felt quite foolish.

“It looked so real …”

“Fear can make many things look real. Don’t feel bad. One of the benefits of being homeless is that people
expect
you to be half crazy. It’s a myth that helps us create illusions, such as rubber strips transformed into deadly metal knifes. That way, people leave us alone.” Michael laughed, a touch nervously, before offering his hand to Karl. “Michael Graham.”

“Karl Kane,” replied Karl, shaking Michael’s hand while studying the man’s features. Older-looking than his years, Michael’s face sagged,
as if the dogs of poverty and depression had stolen every bone from it. His nose was knotted, like a boxer’s. To Karl, Michael’s entire face was a map of hardship.

“What can I do for you, Karl? If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look like you’re ready to join our nomadic family.” The eyes in the ruined face sparkled.

“I’m a private investigator,” stated Karl, extracting a business card from his wallet before handing it to Michael. “I’m looking for a young girl, missing for almost two weeks.” Karl produced the photo of Martina Ferris. “Ever see her about this place?”

From his shirt pocket, Michael produced a pair of thick eyeglasses before scrutinising the photo.

“My eyesight isn’t the best. This looks quite grainy.”

“Granted, it’s not the best of pictures, but it’s all I have at the moment.”

Michael looked at the photo again. “She looks vaguely familiar. Do you have any money on you?”

“Very little with me. You’re not going to run off and get a drink?” said Karl, regretting the last sentence as soon as it emerged.

“Ah, another myth. All homeless are drunks and thieves. Actually, I’m a boring teetotaller and one of the leftover petals from the flower people.”

“I didn’t mean the way it sounded.”

“I’m well used to it by now,” responded Michael, a forced smile appearing on his face.

“How much do you want?” Karl tagged a ten spot from his wallet.

“It’s not for me,” smiled Michael. “Probably about twenty quid.”

“Twenty …” Against nagging doubts, Karl replaced the ten spot with one of the few twenties left in his possession, reluctantly handing it to Michael, along with the photo of Martina.

“You wait here, Karl. I’m going to talk to someone very special. Give me about five minutes.”

While waiting, Karl sucked in the history of the adjacent Custom House, picturing the Victorian novelist, Anthony Trollope, sitting at his desk in the local post office section of the grand building in the
nineteenth century, labouring away until finally getting his big break as a writer.
Bet you had your fair share of rejection slips, Tony, old lad. Though not in the same tonnage as yours truly, of course
.

Five minutes turned to ten, and the oven-like heat had transformed into a microwave. Sweat began trickling down Karl’s back, pooling between the cracks in his arse. He felt like he had pissed himself. Hated the thought that he might have been taken for a fool. Considered entering the dimly lit building, go searching for boring teetotaller Michael weighed down with his twenty spot.

“Sorry, it took a bit longer than I expected,” exclaimed Michael, re-emerging suddenly from a side door. “Cathy enjoys her sleep. Behind her back, they call her Cathy the Cat because of her nocturnal ways. She’s our
de facto
leader.” Michael’s smile broadened mischievously. “Follow me. Watch your footing. It’s a bit treacherous in places.”

“How on earth do you survive?” asked Karl, stepping over discarded boxes of rotten fruit.

“Being homeless, you mean? It’s the freest you’ll ever feel. You can walk through this town at midnight and not worry about getting mugged, because you have nothing worth stealing,” smiled Michael.

The vast interior of the building was an organised shambles, with makeshift tents scattered chaotically like oily puddles. Pews – the few that had escaped being burnt as firewood on cold nights – were pyramided like marooned canoes against a far wall. Adorning the many other walls, a coterie of carved angels and classical deities remained remarkably unscathed, looking down upon the huddled masses. The outstretched arms of forsaken saints, though, had met a more mortifying end, being used to dry tattered clothing as well as holding a small army of TV antennas that somehow managed to pick up signals for the contingent of discarded black and white television sets flickering eerily in the charcoal light. A large crucifix with a tortured Christ dangled precariously above, looking down upon a badly chipped Madonna, most of her face gone.

To Karl, the entire scene resembled something out of
Apocalypse Now
, and as Michael furthered him to a one-time sacristy now converted into a rickety semblance of a bedroom, Karl hoped that Cathy the Cat wasn’t going to turn out to be a shaven-headed Colonel Walter E. Kurtz.

“Cathy?” whispered Michael, tapping meekly at the door. “Cathy …?”

“I heard you the first time,” hissed the scissoring voice. There was a sound of movement coming from inside the room before permission was finally granted to enter.