Hellbound: The Tally Man

HELLBOUND

D
AVID
McC
AFFREY

First published in 2014 by:

Britain’s Next Bestseller
An imprint of Live It Publishing
27 Old Gloucester Road
London, United Kingdom.
WC1N 3AX

www.britainsnextbestseller.co.uk

Copyright © 2014 by David McCaffrey

The moral right of David McCaffrey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

Except as permitted under current legislation, no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

All enquiries should be addressed to Britain’s Next Bestseller.

ISBN 978-1-906954-90-1 (pbk)

Acknowledgments

THIS will be me thanking almost everyone I know, so bear with me.

You would not be reading
Hellbound
if it wasn’t for Steve Alten. This is an unequivocal fact. An international bestselling author himself, the world you are about to enter only flows, entertains and exists as it does because, as one of Steve’s writing coach clients, he pointed me in the right direction when my brain ceased to work and provided me with the insight as to where I need to grow as an author. There is no one to whom I owe more gratitude than Steve and I will forever owe him one.

Simon Magin at The Writer’s Bureau was invaluable in the beginning. His advice and guidance were exactly what I needed and he provided me with some essential advice I will never forget.

Thank you to Vicky. She encouraged me on this path when I decided to pursue writing again and did so without mocking or disbelief. Vicky helped me with initial ideas for
Hellbound
, suggested the name Obadiah and was instrumental in my deciding to pursue a writing career. She believed I could do it and, in the beginning, that made all the difference.

Rachel Carrera, Charl (A Place on the Bookshelf), Bonita (Writer’s Be Seen), Ian Harm (Redcar Observer) and Chris with Refresh Teesside were kind enough to provide me with the opportunity to promote
Hellbound
through their websites, blogs and events. Their support was fantastic.

My girls in Infection Prevention and Control at James Cook University Hospital. From my boss (Alison) to my lead nurse (Jules) to my colleagues (Clare, Jodie, Josie, Heather, Alison L, Red, Helen, Sharon, Tom, Angie, Gill, Amy and Claire); you were excited for me from the moment I mentioned I was writing a book right up until I made it (though hopefully you’ll stay slightly excited from this point on too!). Thank you.

My family, particularly my Mum, Dad, Enid and brothers Bryan and John. Thank you for all you did and have done for me.

Andy, Paul and Kev – you taught me the most and have always been there for me. It is an honour to call you my friends.

Thanks like no other must go to Lou at the Crime Book Club. From reading a draft copy, Lou supported
Hellbound
immediately, allowed me the opportunity to promote it on her website, helped me tirelessly with promotion and shouted about it from the rooftops! I couldn’t have done it without her and owe her a lot.

My beautiful Kelly, without whom I would be lost and empty. Her belief, advice and wealth of red tracked changes were invaluable, lifted me during moments of doubt and kept me focused. My muse and goddess, whose strength humbles me and whose love keeps me going. You never left my side and believed all the way. Thank you turtle!

Jakey and baby Liam. An inspiration and constant source of joy, my two sons are quite simply awesome. Jakey inspired me onto this path, so thank you piglet. And Liam will be only two months when you read this and have no idea what is going on, but remains fantastic nevertheless.

Special mention must go to Simone who is a web genius. Make a note of this lady from my website…she is amazing!

Thank you to Jo Tait, John Sheridan, Rebecca Sill and Claire Kilpatrick for their kind words and tireless promotion of
Hellbound
, Jill Hope Weinstein for her help with some final editing suggestions and to Rob (altereality), Shelby (congoblu) and AJ (eijeimeyou) at
fiverr.com
for the excellent trailers and superb cover they designed for
Hellbound
.

The biggest thank you goes to Britain’s Next Bestseller. Without Murielle, Claire and the whole team, you would not be holding
Hellbound
in your hands now. This is also an unequivocal fact. It was rejected over 60 times until Murielle was kind enough to provide me with the opportunity to promote it on BNBS. Her support and that of her whole team never wavered once and allowed me the chance to hold my dreams in my hands (or rather, you hold my dream in your hands!). Britain’s Next Bestseller is redefining the relationship between author and publisher and I’m proud to be a part of that journey. I will never forget what they did for me.

And finally you, the readers. You pre ordered
Hellbound
, and you bought
Hellbound
. Your support and encouragement is without measure. Thank you and know this author only exists because of you.

With Special Thanks to You For Supporting Hellbound

Kelly McCaffrey, Wendy Lindsay, Catherine Lee, Jemma De Boer, Beverley Brown, Wendy Large, Holly, Susan, Helen Brown, CJ Tait, R Ritchie, Jules, Karen Rowland, Lindsey Rowland, Lynn Davies, Jo Charlton, Tamsin Graham, Rebecca Boal, Maz, Karen Harwood, Jo Kelsey, Thomas Michael, Katie Stanton, Clare White, Simone, Shenton, Sharon Lance, Paula Atkin, Chrissie Brown, Gill Postgate, Jo Carter, Robert H. Gibbons Jr., Graeme Salmon, Karen Tate, Pam Martin, EnricoB, Rebecca Woolford, Matthew B. Kushner, Bernard Walker, Pam Rowland, Sue Wooding, Jennifer Boddy, Margaret Duffy, John Sheridan, Crime Book Club, Julie Timlin, Rebecca Sill, Lynsey Currie, Rosalind Porter, Joanne Beech, Linda Forster, Gareth, Angie Boyes, Alison Peevor, Paul Clarke, David Clarke, Julie Haines, Claire Kilpatrick, Tess Eagles, John Williams, Mum, Auntie Angela, Uncle Michael, Bryan, John, Lynda, Dad, Enid, Karen Sidgwick, Joshua Rollason, Ellen Rollason, Hannah Tunley, Ian Harm, Alison Soroka, Kathryn, Dikki Finn, Jill Wingham, Claire Milburn, Colin, Dean English, Bekki Pate, Stacey Brown, Val Davies, Gemma, Hillary, Andy Phillips, Paul Helm, Alison Lonsdale, Tracy Jane Warne.

For my Piglet and Terrapin

The whole course of human history may depend on a change of heart in one solitary and even humble individual – for it is in the solitary mind and soul of the individual that the battle between good and evil is waged and ultimately won or lost.

M. Scott Peck

Prologue

September 7th
18:38

Inishtooskert, The Blasket Islands (Na Blascaodaí)

County Kerry, Ireland

ADX Absolom was unofficially referred to as Alcatraz of the Blasket Islands. The maximum security prison was situated on the Dingle Peninsular, an archipelago at the most westerly point of Ireland. Known to the Irish as An Fear Marbh, the land mass resembled a sleeping giant. To the guards who worked behind its stone walls, it was simply called “The Dead Man.”

The prison covered thirty-seven acres and contained four hundred and ninety cells, each one reserved for men convicted of the most violent crimes in need of the tightest control. Each inmate would spend their life sentence in their cell – essentially a concrete box with a four-inch wide sliver of window. Furnishings were limited to a concrete bench built into one of the walls, a toilet that stopped working if blocked, a shower that ran on a timer to prevent flooding and a sink missing its plug to prevent it being fashioned into a weapon. In return for good behaviour, the prisoners had the opportunity to have a polished steel mirror bolted to the wall. A radio and a television – all controlled remotely so the inmate did not actually come into contact with them – were additional rewards to be earned. Only recreational, educational and religious programming was permitted.

Richard Sabitch, the warden of Absolom, entered the death house, a €300,000 lethal injection facility located in a nondescript building outside the main compound. Looking around, he verified that everything was prepared. This afternoon’s execution was a big one, and the last thing Sabitch needed was a subpar performance in front of the media.

Lined with green tiles, the death house had the sterile appearance of a hospital bay, bare of equipment except for a stainless steel sink in one corner and a white folding screen. Soon it would contain a large gurney equipped with five Velcro restraints designed to pinion the prisoner, along with four guards.

The curtain remained closed across the windows of its three viewing rooms. Intravenous tubes passed through a small opening in the wall, which led into the executioner’s chamber. A camera recorded everything, ensuring that the prisoner would not purposely be subjected to any pain during the procedure.

The two men who would perform the execution flanked the warden. “Sir, I’ve just got the call. We have a go.”

The warden took a deep breath. A direct line with the Department of Justice was always maintained during executions. The Prime Minister retained sole authority to grant a last minute stay of execution. In the case of the death chamber’s impending prisoner, the warden knew none would come.

The man he was waiting for was being prepared in a room adjacent to the death house. He had been transferred from Sector 17 – a group of cells designed to hold the most dangerous of Absolom’s prisoners. It currently held two prisoners. After this day was over, there would only be one.

* * *

Obadiah Stark is strapped to a gurney shaped like a crucifix, his bare arms secured onto the boards projecting from its sides. The blue, prison-issue trousers and top stencilled with his identification number contain a clean-shaven forty-four year old with emerald eyes. A doctor and nurse prepare both his arms with a 2% Chlorhexidine solution, ironically intended to reduce the risk of an infection. Two fourteen-gauge cannulae are inserted into the prepared brachial areas and covered with clear, adhesive dressings to hold them in place. Flushed with a heparin/saline solution, the nurse hangs a 1,000 millilitre bag of normal saline from a stand, connecting it to the cannula in his left arm, and hurries away. Throughout all of this, Obadiah’s eyes never lose their silent annoyance at these intrusions into his personal space.

As the Irish Medical Organisation forbids medical staff from participating in executions, the doctor and nurse will stand behind the white folding screen in the death chamber and monitor Obadiah’s heart rate via the ECG electrodes attached to his chest.

Three of the guards exit the room, leaving one at the head of the gurney. Obadiah’s slim, muscular physique strains to look at the doctor’s handiwork. Nodding his haughty approval, he turns his attention to the other man in his presence.

Father Michael Hicks has been delivering Holy Communion to death row inmates for more than twenty years. He has been in the worst of them: Tadmore Military Prison, ADX Colorado, Bang Kwang, al-Ha’ir, Katingal. Throughout all his years in service, he has often been in the presence of evil, but today is the first time he has ever felt it.

Casting a glace towards the warden, who nods approval, Father Hicks steps towards Obadiah and begins the Apostolic Pardon and Viaticum. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures and leadeth me beside the still waters.”

The doctor attempts to administer Ativan and Paxil, sedatives intended to ensure that Obadiah remains relaxed.

“No,” Obadiah states, shaking his head.

“It’s protocol, Mr Stark. It will make the process more comfortable.”

“I said no,” Obadiah repeats.

The doctor looks over at Sabitch to seek instruction.

“It’s his choice,” the warden advises.

Acquiescing, the doctor moves back behind the folding screen.

Father Hicks continues. “He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff comfort me.”

Under the intensity of Obadiah’s stare, the priest’s self-assured tone begins to falter. He feels like an insect under scrutiny in a jar. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over.”

“Hey Padre,” Obadiah interrupts calmly. “Let me take this one. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Father Hicks tries to hide his disquiet at the sarcastic recital of the 23rd Psalm, silently calling on his faith to strengthen his resolve.

The strap-down guard shifts uncomfortably at Obadiah’s indifference towards his impending execution. By this time, death row prisoners are usually pissing in their prison-issue pants.

“May I ask who you ticked off to get stuck in this hell-hole?” Obadiah enquires.

“Faith brought me here,” the priest replies assuredly, surprised by the question.

“Well, can I be so bold as to offer you some advice? Consider it a parting gift. Think of this place not as a prison, but a leviathan. Your faith alone won’t cut it. The beast himself will come along and rip it from your soul. You have to fight to keep it in here.”

Unsure how to respond, the priest simply smiles and nods his head.

Silently indicated to do so by the warden, the guard approaches the gurney from behind and pushes Obadiah’s head roughly down against its surface, placing the final Velcro strap into place and testing its security with a gentle tug. The prisoner gives no indication that the restraint bothers him.

“Are you afraid, Father?”

“Only for your soul, my son.”

“My soul?” Obadiah’s quizzical tone is genuine, despite its cold, emotionless delivery. “You believe my soul is tainted with evil?”

“I do.” The priest moves closer to Obadiah’s side, trying to prove his absence of fear. He does it more for himself. “But through no fault of your own. There are people in this world who simply respond with hatred in the presence of goodness. They do so, not with blind malevolence, but simply because they lack awareness of their own evil and wish to avoid understanding it.”

“You believe I’m this way because I made a choice to extinguish the light in people’s lives? Because it revealed my darkness, therefore my pain of self-awareness? Au contraire, Padre. Think of me as an inevitable stage in human evolution. My pure entropy simply conflicts with your naive vision of goodness. Extremes such as you and I have to be locked in combat. It is as natural for evil to hate good as it is for good to hate evil. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Father Hicks counters with what he feels is a convincing argument to Obadiah’s rhetoric. “That may be so. But for every soul you destroyed, you offered yourself as an instrument of salvation in another. Your evil deeds therefore only served as a beacon, warning others away from its shores.”

Obadiah’s smile gives his youthful face a disarming appearance. The three guards re-enter the room, ready to shuffle the gurney into the death chamber.

The condemned man’s voice is laced with dark promise as he continues. “Remember Father, evil is simply ‘live’ spelt backwards. It’s a presence more ubiquitous in the world than you realise. Do not the international relations of realpolitik advise politicians to disavow absolute moral and ethical considerations in politics in favor of a focus on self-interest, political survival, and power? We live in a world where world leaders justify their perspectives by laying claim to a ‘higher moral duty’, under which the greatest evil is seen to be the failure of the state to protect itself and its citizens. Even Machiavelli believed that it is safer to be feared than loved. He knew there are traits considered good that, if followed, will lead to ruin, while other considered vices, achieve security and well-being.”

The priest retaliates. “But refusing to acknowledge the weakness in your own personality made it easy for evil to take hold.”

“Possibly, but acceptance of that ignorance would have had to be meant or my soul would never go lightly. Is that not true, Padre?”

“So, what of guilt? Remorse?”

“Guilt? What is guilt, other than a sack of bricks to be set down when you deem it necessary. To acknowledge my guilt when that curtain opens would be to admit I regret the things I have done. I don’t. If God was so concerned about it, he wouldn’t have given man free will, allowing him a ‘Get out of jail free card’ to commit the most atrocious acts, sometimes in his name, and then provide him the opportunity to repent. The man is obviously a sadist. I simply took my free will, laid down my sack of bricks and freed those individuals from a pointless existence.”

“And on whose authority was it pointless? Yours?”

Obadiah considers the curt reaction an achievement. “Well, seeing as this moment is all about me, no one else’s authority matters, does it? You know as well as I do, that if God is responsible for everything, then he is ultimately responsible for evil. That’s not my burden to bear, nor is it yours. But bear it you will, as it’s your vocation to do so. To compensate, your primitively feeble, religious mind will attempt to explain away the unknown. You’ll try to convince yourself that they do not exist, these people you mention, who respond with hatred in the presence of goodness. By the same measure, you’ll never accept there are some who exist to destroy light, simply because it’s in their power to do so.

“Smug offerings of redemption hold no meaning to me, Father. Take a good look in the mirror when you get home. I’m the antithesis of you, and you of me. Wrap that thought around you tightly when you are alone in the dark. Close your eyes and you’ll see me there.”

Unable to find an appropriate retort to the compelling argument, Father Hicks simply stares at Obadiah with a sorrowful look on his face. He wonders where his impressions of such a malevolent world came from, surprised if his sentiments were not directly related to his experience of family. If that is the case, then Father Michael Hicks weeps for Obadiah Stark as a child.

“Do you wish to stay, Father?” Sabitch asks from the doorway as Obadiah is wheeled passed him towards the death chamber. “I can have one of the guards escort you to the witness room.”

The priest shakes his head. “No thank you, Warden. If the man has a redemptive path, it lies elsewhere. His soul now rests with the Almighty. May he have mercy on it.”

Making his way to the exit, Father Michael Hicks never looks back.

* * *

Obadiah’s appearance is one of someone relaxing in the sun as his gurney is secured into place. The guards give the prisoner one final check before taking their place outside the door.

The witness room is full of representatives from CBS, 60 Minutes, Sky News, BBC, France24, CBC, Al Jezeera, Telesur and other news outlets from around the world. The execution of a man considered a superstar in the netherworld of crime is something that will command a great deal of airtime.

Also present are the relatives of Obadiah’s victims. They take up the front four rows of chairs, wishing to see his death up close. They are all bound by the hope that his death will be a painful one. They know however, it will be merciful compared to the suffering he inflicted upon their loved ones.

Sabitch checks his watch and nods, indicating his desire to begin. At that moment, Obadiah’s eyes spring open, his smile gone. His green eyes reflect the light from the death chamber, giving him the impression of a possessed soul.

The curtain opens, presenting the execution room to the witnesses. Some women begin to pray, others cry, their husbands and partners pulling them close to provide comfort.

The warden instructs the technician to raise the gurney on its hydraulic until it’s positioned almost vertically, allowing Obadiah to view his audience. The execution begins.

“Obadiah Stark, you have been found guilty on multiple counts of murder and have been sentenced to death by lethal injection. Have you anything to say?” Sabitich waits patiently for a response.

Staring through the viewing window to the faces beyond, Obadiah’s expression is steady, as if carved from stone.

“I provided a blessing to those people,” he replies, his voice tinged with a cold, metallic quality. “A blessing from the pointlessness of existence. You should be thanking me.”

Through the speaker in the death chamber, Obadiah smiles upon hearing the weeping caused by his comments. He sees a few men rise to escort their wives from the witness room, expelling expletives and desires for him to suffer in his direction.