Past Darkness (3 page)

T
he inside of the large house stank of the festering human leakage of urine and excrement, coupled with dampness and the particular flavour of coldness associated with loneliness and despair.

Death, also, in the godless gloom.

Murder, specifically.

Oh such a horrible murder.

The master bedroom remained practically bare, except for the years of yesterday strewn everywhere: old newspapers browning and curling like autumn leaves, and once-happy clothes turned to sad-rags of moth-fodder.

Practically bare, except for the thin, diseased mattress in the middle of the floor, and the young girl’s body curved into a foetal position atop the bedding. Her body resembled a straw doll left out in the evening rain for too long. She was adorned
in a long, flowery dress from an era long forgotten.

At the entrance to the room, Scarman stood like a medieval giant, naked, muscles framed powerfully in the door. His face was arrogantly chiselled like a great, pale wolf. His eyes were those of the departed, and he focused those dead eyes on the girl.

In the claustrophic darkness, the girl’s skin gleamed like a ghostly beacon, more an apparition than something tangible and breathing.

Stalking silently to the mattress, he knelt down and brought his nose close to her, inhaling deeply. A cloying onion odour of unwashed skin filled his nostrils. Coupled with that smell, which never failed to arouse the darkness in him: the smell of the young.

For such a thin little thing, she had struggled gallantly, punching and kicking. But now she was silent and still. As still as fallen snow in the breaking of winter’s twilight; so still, he thought she could be dead.

But she wasn’t dead. Not yet. Not until
he
was ready. He needed one more to accompany her on the journey ahead. He had been unsuccessful up to now in finding the other special one. The next couple of days, he hoped, would be more fruitful.

He left the room as silently as he had entered, and only then did the girl abandon her pretence, opening the curtains of her eyelids slowly.

Her gaze was filled with caution and weariness, but also something else; something not quite right, carried deep down inside her: a sinister darkening slowly awakening, revealing a provenance of past horrors. Perhaps a warning of terrible things to come; terrible things about to be unleashed into the murderous madness being prepared for those about to die, or those about to kill.

‘L
ook at the state of you,’ Naomi said, placing a steaming cup of coffee barely within arm’s reach of the sofa Karl was stretched out on. ‘What time did you get in at this morning?’

‘About an hour ago,’ Karl replied, yawning while supinely reaching for the coffee. Black circles were developing under his bloodshot eyes.

‘You’ll choke on that if you don’t sit up right.’

‘Wishful thinking on your behalf.’

‘Couldn’t you’ve at least phoned, let me know where you were? I was worried sick when you didn’t come back.’

‘Is that what’s biting the arse off you? You know I left in a hurry. I forgot the damn mobile. Okay? Now, can I drink this coffee before it gets cold?’

Naomi ignored him. Sat down at the breakfast table. Clicked on the digital radio. Leafing through the morning newspaper, she stopped at a small article on page two.

‘They still haven’t found that wee girl, Tara Kennedy.
Remember? The one who ran away from that foster home, Blackmore, over in south Belfast. It’s been almost three months since she went missing.’

‘That’s why I don’t read those rags anymore. Nothing but bad news in them. And you wonder why people living in Belfast are depressed? If its not tablets, it’s tabloids they’re on.’

Naomi stared sadly at Tara’s photo. ‘Such a lovely wee thing. It says she’s fifteen, but she barely looks ten in this picture.’

‘Can you please keep all that grim news to yourself? I don’t want to hear about it.’

‘Why are you being so ill-tempered this morning? Are your haemorrhoids acting up?’

‘No, that’s not the
bloody
reason. If you really must know, I’ve had very little sleep. Been waiting in a sardine-filled emergency room with Lipstick, up in the Mater.’

‘Lipstick in the hospital…?’ Naomi immediately placed the newspaper back down on the table, looking troubled. ‘For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say something earlier?’

‘You didn’t give me time, did you, with your interrogation?’

‘I just thought she was looking for some money from you, and you didn’t want me to know.’

‘That’s your suspicious mind working.’

‘What happened?’

‘A steroid-swollen scumbag beat the crap out of her, over in the Europa. That’s what the phone call was about this morning.’

Naomi looked horrified. ‘God the night, Karl. Is she okay?’

‘Her face looks terrible, but the doctor said she should be fine in a couple of weeks. She’s lucky not to be scarred for life.’

‘What about the lowlife who did it? Did the police arrest him?’

‘How the hell could the cops be brought into it, knowing Lipstick’s form? I even had to make up a cock-and-bull story to the nurse in the Mater, who probably thought I was the one who did it. Sitting in the waiting room soaked to the skin and wearing pyjamas didn’t help either. The looks I was getting, as if I was some sort of perv.’

‘The thug got away, then?’

Karl made a grunting sound. ‘Let’s just say I had a ball of a time with what little balls he had to boast about. By now, though, they’ve swollen to the size of Space Hoppers. He’ll be pissing glass for weeks, hopefully. If it hadn’t been for Lipstick appealing to my gentler nature, he would’ve had more broken bones than Evel Knievel.’

Naomi’s forehead furrowed. ‘Where’s Lipstick now?’

‘In the spare bedroom.’

‘In the…? Damn you, Karl.’ Naomi stood angrily. ‘Couldn’t you have told me this before now?’

‘Don’t start all that again. Anyway, taking her back to her place wasn’t an option, in case the scumbucket went looking for her. The doctor in the hospital administered a couple of heavy-duty painkillers. The last time I looked in, they were
doing the trick. She was sleeping soundlessly.’

‘I’ll check on her,’ Naomi said, walking quickly towards the landing.

‘I’m going to get a wash and shave before we open up for business.’ Karl waited a few seconds before easing his tired body off the sofa. He took a deep gulp of coffee, letting the dark oily liquid spark his battery. ‘I just hope this day gets a lot better than this morning started.’

Little did he know, things where about to get a lot worse. A
hell
of a lot worse.

S
carman watched covertly from the house’s back entry. Waiting with the patience of an apostle attending vespers. Cloaked appositely in the cowl of a monk, a nylon stocking pulled tightly over his face. He glanced at his luminous watch. Just gone four in the morning.

Those in the house had drunk their way through the evening with friends, screaming and cursing at each other like a bunch of wild apes, the jungle booze slithering down their monkey necks.

Earlier, cruising by in his van, feigning a lack of interest, he had witnessed an adult handing one of the children some sort of alcoholic beverage. The adult sniggered as the child made a disgusted face, before quickly puking out the liquid. A large dog quickly lapped up the vomit.

A fierce wind was blowing dustbins and their contents all about the small space where he stood. The dispersed bin
lids rattled, clanking against walls and back doors, blending into a wintery cacophony. From an upturned bin, the carcass of a dead rat spilled out next to his boots. The rodent was shrouded in a shitty pair of knickers, shrivelled up like a piece of
papier mâché
. He kicked it down the alley, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

For the last thirty minutes or so, the vomit-eating dog Scarman had seen earlier in the day, was guarding the yard, snarling at him lurking in the darkness.

Fortunately for him, no-one seemed to care. A little while earlier, someone had drunkenly shouted from a window for the dog to shut the fuck up, but other than that, not a soul ventured outside into the freezing night air.

Despite the icy wind cutting to his marrow, he was certain the long wait would be worth it. Then, almost as if his thoughts contained magic, the last remaining lights were extinguished on the second floor, bringing total darkness inside and outside the house.

He waited a few minutes more. Then, from beneath his full-length overcoat, he removed a miniature crowbar, and began working it patiently around the weathered wood housing the galvanised backdoor bolt. Five minutes later, two twists of the wrists and a small amount of his unique brute force quietly splintered the designated area.

Easing the yard door open an inch, he watched the snarling beast looking up at him, its ears pinned back, exposed fangs
now ready for action. The dog was some sort of half-breed mutt, ribs protruding cage-like from neglect and cruelty. There was madness in its eyes: a madness mirrored in his own.

‘Good dog…good dog…’
he whispered, removing a large piece of bloodied beef from a sealed bag in his pocket.

The dog continued snarling, but softer now, a low, suspicious growl, eyes flicking indecisively from food to intruder, before finally focusing on the food.

He slipped the beef halfway through the gap in the door, dangling it between his finger and thumb. The dog’s nostrils widened, sniffing guardedly at the meat, before snapping it quickly from his fingers. In seconds, it was chewing hungrily on the rare manna from heaven.

Waiting until the creature was on the verge of swallowing the delicious substance, he struck like a cobra, entrapping the creature’s throat in a vice-like clasp between powerful hands. Lifted effortlessly into the air in a fluid motion without thought, the dangling dog struggled, legs kicking out like a marionette with tangled strings.

He twisted the neck without fuss, hearing a watery snap, and then dropped the carcass where he stood, before moving towards the house.

From his pocket, he removed a skeleton key, grounded down to bypass the levels and wards inside the lock. The key had helped him a few times in the past, but nothing was guaranteed. He hoped he didn’t have to use the crowbar.
That would slow down the building adrenalin rush of expectation trafficking his veins, and could also inadvertently alert those inside to his presence. He didn’t mind killing, but he preferred it when everything was under control, moving at a tempo of his choosing.

He needn’t have worried. The key’s movement was silky-smooth, entering the dark passages of the chamber uninterrupted. He turned the key. It rotated fully.
Click
. The sound made his heart tighten slightly. He removed the key and turned the door handle ever so gently.

No resistance.

The door opened with just the tiniest of squeaks, and he invited himself inside, closing the door silently behind him. From a sheath on his belt, he removed a serrated hunting knife, gripping its carved ivory handle tightly. The knife’s tiny teeth seemed to grin at him in the deadly dull darkness.

Pausing a few seconds to train his eyes to the house’s structure, he proceeded inwards. From the living room, heavy snoring could be heard. He followed it, his great weight soundless. A man in a drunken stupor was sprawled out on a sofa, like a beached whale. The stench of stale booze, dead cigarettes and greasy soup filled the room. An ashtray struggled under a mound of cigarette butts resembling spent gun cartridges. The sleeping man farted loudly, rattling the sofa. He was sewer-stinking.

Pig…filthy drunken pig bastard…

Scarman’s fingers gripped the knife’s handle tighter. He wanted to use the blade. Gut this whale of a pig. Badly. Perhaps crack his skull. Work the crowbar into his brain, spoon out some meaty matter, shove it down the pig’s throat.

No. Get in and out. He’s not worth it. Keep focused. The prize is almost within reach. Yours for the taking.

He turned reluctantly, and began to make his way silently upstairs, thankful for the frayed carpet beneath his feet. Anticipation moved his heart up a notch. Even though he had never been in this house before tonight, his actions contained an unexplainable feeling of familiarity.

The first room he came to was a small bathroom, reeking of piss and a drunk’s sour vomit. Someone hadn’t flushed the toilet – possibly Mister Pig downstairs – and a large, cigar-coloured turd, the size of a baby’s arm, floated helplessly, trying to escape its enclosure.

Dirty smelly pig…

He moved with purpose to the room at the end of the corridor, letting his emotions guide him, bring him home. The door was ajar. He stood outside. Listening. Heard breathing. Soft. Like a susurrus of insect wings in summer heat.

Inside the dull, moonlit room, the floor was scattered with dolls, mixed with little girl clothing. He knew that gold had been struck, and he the beneficiary.

My sweet lord…

He could hardly restrain his excitement at what he was
viewing. Two young girls in the bed, side-by-side, bedclothes scattered haphazardly. For a moment, he was overcome by the abundance, and had to steady his breathing and shaking hands. The feeling of iron in his penis made his teeth clench, his ballbag tighten. A plethora of unholy urges drilled deep into his body. He quickly erased them. For now.

Do what you came to do and get out. There’ll be plenty of time for that, later.

Walking to the bed, he knelt down as if preparing nightly entreaties to a voyeuring deity. He could smell the girls’ hot-body smells. Taste them. Exquisite. The richness touched the inside of his mouth, dusting his tongue with a taboo flavour. He almost wept with joy at this wealth of fleshy riches.

Take both? Impossible. One only. But which one?

They both seemed age-identical, but it was the one with red hair that his eyes kept returning to. Blood red, crowning an alabaster skin so beautifully white. A divine seraph from Heaven. Why did tormenting gods make them so beautiful; so teasingly beautiful? How was he, a mere mortal, supposed to resist such temptation?

Expertly shepherding the knife back into its enclosure, from his pocket he produced a silk handkerchief and a glass vial of chloroform. Dabbed the handkerchief with the colourless liquid, before gently tenting the girl’s face in the damp silk. Applied pressure with his hand. Felt her hot, urgent breath mist the plummy flesh of his palm.

Her legs jerked violently, then quivered into serenity. The other child beside her had not moved, but mumbled in her sleep: stop kicking and taking all the bedclothes, Dorothy.

Dorothy…my beautiful Dorothy…

He quickly wrapped his prize in a blanket, before making his way back down the stairs. At the door, he set the limp little body down. Edging back into the living room, he stared down at the snoring pig on the sofa. His fingers touched the knife. He wanted desperately to gut him, ease the knife into the fleshy blubber. He wanted to hear Mister Pig grunt in agony.

But something made him hesitate. Just for a second. He stared at the full-to-the-brim ashtray. Smiled. The gods were good. They had given him the perfect cover-up.

Stepping outside a few minutes later, Scarman re-cradled Dorothy in his arms. Covered her in the custody of the cowl. Held her tightly, lest some thief in the night try to steal her from him. He moved across the yard as quickly and quietly as he had entered.

Just as he neared the busted yard door, a eucharistic moon bloomed forth from behind inky clouds. The moon’s magnesium glow limned over him, tingling every bone in his taut body. He felt exposed, but in a sexual, all-powerful way. That was when he realised he was being watched.

He stopped. Corpse-still. Deadly-silent.

Where? Who?

Still cradling Dorothy, he slowly eased to the ground, kneeling, a demonic version of the
Pietà
, his eyes methodically scanning the darkness.

Something. What?

Then he saw the watcher. Eyes peering from behind a wall, a sentinel of the night. The face seemed to be grinning, mocking him in righteous judgement.

Placing Dorothy gently on the ground, he silently eased out the knife. Anticipation filled his nostrils and mouth. In the speed of an afterthought, he flung the knife into the darkness at the watching eyes.