The Dead and the Dying (9 page)

Paula Clarke

The crowd is huge tonight. There must be close to a thousand people on the grass opposite the gates of the prison, waiting for the news that Sam Gazade has finally been executed for his crimes. The atmosphere is a strange combination of anticipation and fear, as if some of these people don't even know why they're here. I guess some are just tourists, coming so they can feel that they're part of something; others, maybe, are victims or friends of victims, people who actually have a stake in Gazade's death.

And then there's me.

I have no business being here, of course. I'm not kidding myself. Sam Gazade never touched me, never hurt me, never even came anywhere near me. I know of him only through articles, interviews and news reports, plus a few essays I've written for college where I've touched upon his case. There's a part of me that worries I've allowed myself to get too close to the whole thing, like all the other vultures who've flocked here tonight for a shot of adrenalin. Then again, my interest is purely academic. I'm not like all these breathless, panting idiots who want to share in the moment of Gazade's death.

I'm different.

For most of these people, tonight marks the end of Gazade's story. To me, it's just the start of the next phase. From my point of view, Sam Gazade is a fascinating cultural phenomenon, and that fascination will continue past his death. It'll twist and mutate, and change and morph, but it'll still exist long after the vultures have gone home. None of these idiots could actually kill someone in cold blood. They're coward, mostly, but they're drawn here so they can share in the mob's blood-lust. They'd love to have the courage to pull the trigger or slide the knife into someone's gut, but at least this way they can make themselves feel as if they're participating in a murder. It's human nature to kill other humans. The people in this crowd are trying to reconnect with a side of their lives that has been washed away by conformity and blandness, but which they're too timid to grab for themselves.

"Water?" asks a voice nearby.

Turning, I see a friendly-looking man holding out a plastic cup of water. I check over my shoulder, assuming he's addressing someone else, but finally I realize that the water's for me. It's a gesture that seems both generous and demeaning at the same time. I should probably be grateful, but instead I want to punch the guy to the ground.

"I don't..." I start to say, feeling intensely uncomfortable. "I mean..."

"It's free," he says earnestly. The top of his face doesn't quite match the bottom: he's smiling, but his eyes are fearful and expectant. "I'm from St. Mary's on Sycamore Street. We're providing free refreshments for people tonight." He waits for me to take the water, but finally he puts the cup back on a small portable table that he and a couple of colleagues are using as their makeshift base. "If you change your mind," he continues, "just come and let us know. The Lord wouldn't want anyone to go hungry or thirsty out here."

I stare at him for a moment. "Go fuck yourself," I say eventually.

He opens his mouth to reply, but finally he realizes what I just said to him.

"If you offer me any more of your water," I continue, keeping my voice low so that no-one else in the crowd can hear me, "I'll fucking hurt you."

With that, I turn and hurry away. God, I hate people like that. He seemed so earnest and so desperate to please, but that simple cup of water was symbolic of a far deeper kind of paternalistic desire. He probably saw me as some kind of hopeless, helpless little woman who couldn't be trusted to look after herself on a cold night. As I hurry across the grass, I can't help but look back at the idiot and stop to watch as he hands out more cups of water. He's a perfect example of the way society tries to control people like me, forcing us into narrow definitions. The world would be a better place if people had to think for themselves, rather than basing their actions on pre-existing paradigms.

"I don't know why they don't just get on with it," says a woman standing nearby, rubbing her arms for warmth. "Why wait until midnight?" They know they're gonna kill the bastard, so they should just do it."

"You know what bugs me?" replies a man, probably her husband or lover, as he puts a controlling arm around her. "They spend so much money on these executions. Why not just put a bullet in the back of the asshole's head and be done with it? It's not like the budget's overflowing."

"I heard they're running short of the drugs they need for executions," the woman says. "Apparently they held the last batch specifically for this asshole, just to make sure there wouldn't be any problems."

"It sucks," the man replies. "They should just slit their throats and toss their corpses into a pig pen."

I stop near this couple, figuring that it'd be useful to listen to them talk crap for a few minutes. It's not that I hate everyone in the world; it's just that I recognize stupidity in all its forms, and I can't blind myself to the many examples on display tonight. These people are pathetic. I've always felt, ever since I was just a kid, that the vast majority of people are completely worthless. In every generation, there can only be a few people who exhibit any kind of real individuality or any sign of being remarkable.

"Sam Gazade's a monster," the woman mutters, sounding so safe and secure in her beliefs.

"A monster who'll be dead soon," the guy says, checking his watch. "Just fifteen minutes to go. I hope he's scared. I hope he's fucking terrified in there. I don't care how much he wants to be some kind of defiant asshole, he knows what's coming to him. I just wish they had cameras in the room so we could watch as they fill his body with drugs."

"He's probably having his final meal," the woman says, with contempt in her voice. "He's probably having a feast, all paid for by the rest of us idiots. He's probably laughing as he tucks into all that gourmet food."

"At least he'll be dead within an hour," the man replies, giving the woman a paternalistic hug. "The world'll be a better place without that monster. We'll all be safer."

"And what about all the other monsters?" I reply, unable to hold myself back any longer. "What about the monsters you don't even see? What about the ones you think are safe, the ones who walk our streets without harm?"

They both turn to me, seemingly shocked by my outburst. They obviously feel so safe and certain in their little world that a dose of reality brings their delusions crashing down. I'd pity them, if I wasn't so horrified by all the damage that they allow to happen around them. They're part of the rot that's infecting our world.

"Excuse me?" the man asks, his face a vision of blank incomprehension and stupidity.

"You're a monster," I spit back at him. "Everyone who supports a cruel, unequal society is a monster."

"Come on," the man says, leading the woman away from me. They obviously think I'm some kind of idiot, but I'm only telling them the truth. The word 'monster' is so broad, it could apply to almost anyone. I've always felt it's more appropriate to describe Gazade as a kind of cancerous growth that became swollen and started to cause maximum damage. Unfortunately, just because Gazade's going to die tonight, there's no guarantee that his threat hasn't already spread. Just like a tumor, he could yet prove to have left behind a reminder of his danger.

"Fuck it," I reply, turning and hurrying away through the crowd. I don't know why the hell I just spoke to those idiots, but I'm starting to feel a strange, growing sense of nausea in my belly. By the time I get to the back of the crowd, I'm almost dizzy and I have to kneel on the ground. Someone comes over to check if I'm okay, but I push them away. Taking a series of deep breaths, I try to force myself to stay calm, and finally I feel my body returning to normal. Damn it, I wish I didn't react so badly to simple conversations. Bringing up some phlegm from the back of my throat, I spit it out onto the ground before a strange, tightening sensation starts to grow in my head. Crawling further away from the crowd, hoping to get out of sight, I finally stop and let out a gasp of pain.

It's as if something's burning in my gut, destroying my body second by second. I hold my breath, hoping that I might be able to make it stop, but this time nothing seems to be working.

It feels worse this time.

Joanna Mason

Staring at me from behind the glass screen that separates us, Sam Gazade seems amused by my presence. He doesn't look to have changed much since the last time I saw him; he has that same grin, and those same dark, ringed eyes. Still, at least the fact that he recognizes me means that we don't need to bother with a formal re-introduction.

"I wasn't expecting a visitor," he mutters finally, before cutting off a piece of stake and putting it in his mouth. He chews slowly and thoughtfully for a moment. "You'll forgive me if I continue my meal. Time's a little pressing tonight. I trust your presence doesn't mean that there have been any changes to the schedule? I've become rather accustomed to the current plan, and I abhor uncertainty." He pauses. "You've got a slight limp, Detective Mason. Is that from our last encounter? I didn't think I'd gone deep enough to cause permanent damage."

"We think someone found your diary," I say, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. "There have been certain... developments that could only have occurred if someone had access to the pages you warned us about. There's already been one death, with all the pieces in place, and it looks likely that there'll be more." I wait for him to reply. "Obviously it's unlikely to be a coincidence that this has started up on the anniversary of your first attack, and so shortly before your scheduled execution."

He stares at me for a moment. "Huh," he says finally, before eating another mouthful of steak. "And how are you doing these days, Detective Mason? You look good. A little older, but that's only to be expected. Youth's vigor can't last forever, and you have wiser eyes. For a woman, anyway. I'm sure age and gravity have caused some parts of your body to sag a little, though. I hope you don't mind the question, but have you fully recovered from our last encounter? Physically, I mean. Obviously it's impossible to recover mentally. I know
I
haven't. You're the same, aren't you? You're struggling. You're in pain. By the way, how's your hip?"

"Go fuck yourself," I say, before I can stop myself.

He smiles.

"I need to know where you hid the diary," I tell him, carefully regathering my composure. I just let my mask slip, and I can't afford to do that again. "If we can work out how the new killer found it, maybe we can get some insight into his or her identity."

"And how do I know it's really been found?" he replies. "How do I know this isn't just a last-minute attempt to get me to give up its location? I was expecting you to try something long ago, you know. I was certain you wouldn't be able to ignore that last little piece of the mystery. Going to be hard to convince me. Going to be very hard. Going to be impossible, maybe."

"He carved the symbol into his first victim's flesh," I tell him. "The symbol that you told us about. No-one else ever knew it existed, so the only way anyone could replicate it would be if they had the diary."

"Huh," he replies, clearly taken aback for a moment. "I suppose that's rather conclusive, is it not?"

"The body was mutilated in exactly the same way as your first victim," I continue, "apart from the fact that it was more rotten, which we put down to the fact that perhaps the killer got his or her timing wrong. This leads us to believe that she's someone who's unused to killing, perhaps someone who doesn't relish the act itself."

"Her?" he says, raising an eyebrow. "You don't seriously think a woman could do this kind of thing, do you?"

"As a matter of fact," I reply flatly, "I do."

"So I have a protege?" he asks with a faint smile. "How fascinating. It's a shame I won't be able to stick around and watch his work, but at least I can take some comfort from the knowledge that my work will continue." He pauses. "I've come to terms with my imminent demise, Ms. Mason. I've been able to see it as merely a part of the way the natural world works. In fact, I was hoping I might bump into you sometime. I was meaning to ask if you had a similar epiphany all those years ago, when you thought you were about to die. Did you come to terms with your imminent death?" He pauses. "
Have
you come to terms with it? To know your death is coming? To know the end is here? To know it's all over?"

"It's my belief," I continue, carefully ignoring his attempts to get me riled, "that someone is copying your original murders, but with men this time instead of women. Someone's switching the genders."

"So that's why you think it might be a woman wielding the knives?" he asks, with a hint of curiosity in his voice. "How delightfully reductive."

"It's quite possibly," I reply. "I'm hoping that you might decide to help us find out for sure. Where did this person find your diary?"

"Where I left it, I imagine."

"And where was that?"

"Where do you think?"

"Cut the games," I reply firmly. "In case you've forgotten, you don't have a lot of time left."

"I don't?" he replies, pretending to be shocked for a moment. "Oh, of course. I almost forget."

"So where did you hide the diary?" I continue. "Where did this person find it?"

He smiles, before cutting off another piece of steak and placing it in his mouth. Once again, he chews slowly. "The most disappointing part of life in this prison," he says after a moment, "is that there are so many women working here. When they asked me what I'd like for my final meal, I said I didn't really care, but that I didn't want it cooked by the bitch who normally runs the kitchen. I told them to ditch her for the night and get her male assistant to take over. Can you believe that a man accepted the position of working beneath a woman? He must have some serious self-esteem issues. Either that, or he's after some pussy." He pauses. "Anyway, they accepted my request, and now I have a very well-prepared steak. Cooked by a man, of course. Die with a full stomach. Die satisfied. Die before my next bowel movement."

"Where did you hide your diary?" I ask again, already starting to tire of having to ask that same question so many times.

"I feel as if I'm being studied," he says eventually. "It's quite a compliment, in a way. I feel as if someone is taking an academic interest in my work. To be honest, all those years ago, it never occurred to me to kill a man. As you know, it was women I wanted, and it was women I took. The thought of cutting up a man's body is somewhat disturbing, but I guess it takes all sorts to make a world. If it's truly a woman who has started copying my actions, Detective Mason, you'll have no problem finding her. He'll, she'll probably fuck the whole thing up pretty quickly."

"I have cancer," I say suddenly, surprising myself with my honesty.

He stares at me.

"I'm having a double mastectomy soon," I continue, my voice trembling, "so in a way, twelve years later, the cancer is completing the work you started." I pause for a moment. "The scars
have
healed," I add eventually, "but they're still there. And now I guess they're going to get opened up again. And yes, sometimes I do have a slight limp, mainly when it's cold. Another reason to fucking hate snow."

He continues to stare at me, and slowly a smile spread across his lips. "How wonderful," he says eventually. "It's as if the world itself wants my work to continue. Perhaps your body was excited by the prospect of my knife, and has found... other, more respectable ways to get the job done. I assume the surgery is something you've chosen, Ms. Mason? No-one's going to tie you down and force it upon you, are they?"

"It's the only chance to stop the cancer spreading."

"And you
want
to stop the cancer spreading?"

"I'd rather not die."

"Everyone dies," he says with a smile. "As I'm very,
very
aware right now."

"Not of cancer," I point out. "Not rake-thin with yellow skin in a hospital bed, eaten away on the inside. I'd rather -"

He waits for me to finish. "Rather what?" he asks eventually.

"I'd rather find your diary," I say firmly.

"So the surgery
is
your choice," he says. "My God, do you realize what that means? If you'd just let me cut off your breasts twelve years ago, and
then
got free, I'd basically have saved your life. How's that for irony?" He pauses. "Damn it, I can't help wishing tonight's events could be postponed. If it were possible, would you have let me see them after they'd been removed? Your breasts, I mean. I'd like to see them on a slab. Would you have let me have that honor. I'd like to -"

"Where did you hide the diary?"

"What's wrong?" he replies. "Can't your female brain work it out? Bitch of a puzzle, huh? Bitch of a trick. Bitch of a game."

"Where did you hide the diary?"

"Are you okay, Detective Mason?" he asks, leaning a little closer. "You look rather green around the gills."

"I'm fine," I say firmly. "The point is..." I pause. Moments ago, I felt as if I had a perfectly good reason to tell Gazade about my cancer, and about my upcoming operation. Suddenly those reasons have dissipated and I feel as if I made a terrible mistake. I guess the pill I took is finally kicking in, but as well as taking away the pain, the drugs have also clouded my judgment. It's getting harder and harder to think straight. "The point is," I continue slowly, "I can't force you to help me, but I hope you might see that you have one final chance to show that you're sorry for everything happened."

"I'm
not
sorry," he replies. "This copycat, or whatever it is, doesn't interest me very much.
You
interest me, though, especially now that -"

"This isn't about me," I say firmly, interrupting him. I swore I wouldn't let him get under my skin, but right now I feel as if I'm losing control. The problem is, this fog in my mind is causing me to get frustrated, and I need to find some way to calm down. I should never have taken that pill. I was weak. I should have just accepted the pain and kept my mind clear. "This is about saving lives."

"Since when did I ever give a damn about saving lives?" he asks. "Face it. You can't give me one good reason to help you." He glances up at the clock. "I'm going to be taken out of here in a few minutes' time and executed, and there's nothing you can offer me that could ever make me give you any information. I want to die, Ms. Mason. I'm happy with it." He smiles. "What about you? You must be thinking about your own mortality, mustn't you? Have you achieved the comfort that I've achieved?" He stands up and walks over to me, stopping just a few inches away on the other side of the glass. "Do you envy me?"

"Please help me," I reply, aware that this meeting isn't going too well. Without the cancer drugs in my system, I'd be able to think better, but I feel as if I'm struggling to remain coherent. "You killed those women because you thought they were beneath you," I continue. "You killed them because you wanted to prove your superiority. Now there's a woman out there. A weak, pathetic woman, with
your
diary in her hands, and she's using it to kill men. Doesn't that make you sick, Sam? Doesn't it make you sick to your stomach to think that a woman is going around, killing men? It should be the other way, shouldn't it? It's an abomination of nature, so why don't you help me stop it?"

He stares at me, and for a moment it looks as if I'm getting through to him.

"What drugs have they got you on?" he asks eventually. "For the cancer, I mean. Your pupils are very small right now, Ms. Mason. Whatever you're taking, it looks to be affecting you mentally."

"It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" He smiles. "You used to have such a strong reputation. I've kept up with your career, you know. I spotted your name in newspapers now and then, and I always got the impression that you were regarded by your peers as something of a genius. I doubt your faculties are able to withstand a generous dose of chemotherapy, though, and those pupils look awfully small."

"Help me stop this killer," I say firmly, trying to hide my anger. The truth is, he's right. I
am
struggling to keep my head together.

"You're on chemotherapy, aren't you?" He leans closer to the glass and sniffs at the small holes that are supposed to make it easier for us to hear one another. "Your breath smells pretty funky. Somewhat... chemical. You're on something to help keep the cancer from spreading until the operation. You've probably got some dull, jobsworth doctor who's promised you surgery in the next few weeks, and until then he wants to retard the spread of the cancer as much as possible. Am I right?"

"This isn't about me," I say firmly.

"Those drugs'll kill you if you give them long enough," he continues. "Just like the drugs they're gonna pump into me tonight. We're in kind of the same boat, except I assume your doctors are still claiming they can save your life." He smiles. "Is it worth it? Lose your tits, fill your body with poison, and... what? Live? Die? Are you so desperate to cling to life, that you'll let them hack away at you until there's nothing left? Even if it means that you're barely alive at all?"

"Help me stop -"

"The old Joanna Mason," he continues, interrupting me, "the woman I remember from twelve years ago, might have been able to persuade me. She was smart. She scared me, a little. I'd never met a truly intelligent woman before, and I have to admit, she made me question my beliefs." He pauses. "But now? The new Joanna Mason, the one doped up on cancer drugs, has lost her edge. You're just another dumb whore. I don't need to help you in this case. If some stupid bitch is trying to copy my murders, she'll soon fail. No woman has the mental capacity to operate at such a high level. The only exception to that rule, and I mean the
only
exception, was you. Once. But that was an aberration, and one that is clearly being corrected."