Blood Tears (24 page)

I push a pile of clothes on to another cushion and remove a pile of CDs and books from the sofa arm and place them on the floor. A mug that had been white in an earlier life is ringed with coffee stains. A ring perhaps for each time it has been used since its last wash. I’m beginning to regret being here. When did young women get so lazy? Even when I was a student I didn’t live in such a muddle.

‘The name’s Sue, by the way.’ She sticks her head back out of the cupboard she has just entered. ‘This is my kitchen, in case you’re wondering. The cupboard has a sink, a kettle, a small fridge and a microwave.’

‘You’re lucky. All I had was a kettle when I was studying.’ I aim for the Great British tradition of comradeship in having a moan. See, I was even worse off than you. ‘The name’s James, by the way.’

We’re both cradling hot mugs. I’m on the sofa and Sue is sitting on what I now realise is the bed, after a mound of clothes and coats was pushed aside to reveal a duvet.

‘Is it really bad news then?’ She is holding her coffee with both hands, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. I can’t make up my mind whether the note of concern or anticipation in her expression is for the suffering due to Joseph or whether she is genuinely worried for him.

I nod soberly, ‘The worst kind, I’m afraid.’

Her head stretches forward. ‘Oh dear.’ A correction then enters her tone as if she realises that revenge is misplaced in such circumstances. ‘Poor Joseph.’ She examines the disc of brown liquid steaming between her thin hands.

‘Does he know yet?’

‘Afraid I still have that to come.’ Time for some questions. ‘How long have you known Joe?’

‘Don’t let him hear you call him that. He hates being called Joe.’

‘I know,’ I push out a laugh. ‘I used to call him Joe all the time. To piss him off.’

‘Good for you,’ she laughs. And then sobers as she remembers the new attitude she should foster, given the circumstances. ‘I moved in here last October. Joseph was the quiet one in the building. He was very nice to me. Helped me settle in. Should have known it was a ruse to get into my pants. The bastard.’ A red tinge is developing on her neck. ‘Sorry. He’s your relative. I shouldn’t call him that.’

‘If he did the dirty on you, Sue, you call him what you like.’

‘He was such a nice guy. At first. We were friends for ages, going for a drink or to the movies. Then about a month ago everything went funny. He was in love with me, he told me,’ she pauses and takes a fortifying sip of coffee, ‘and I thought, what the hell, Sue, you’re only twenty-one once. So I let him… sleep with me.’ She whispers this. ‘Then as soon as he gets a shag he’s all ignorant,’ her voice is raised in volume, ‘and rude. And he acts like I’m something that got stuck in his shoe. Well I don’t need you Joe McCall. You’re just a… little boy.’ This is the worst insult she can think of.

‘Bastard,’ I offer. ‘A month ago you say.’ That would have been not long after the murders started.

‘Yeah. Just after we came back to Uni after the hols. He came back all groin and Glasgow. I should have known he was just like the rest of you men.’

I raise an eyebrow in response.

‘Anyway,’ she ignores my weak attempt to stand up for my gender, ‘I’ve had my fill of him.’

‘What do you mean about being all Glasgow?’ The “groin” allusion is less troublesome.

‘Sorry, I don‘t mean to offend. Are you from Glasgow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry, but what I meant was that he was acting like a… big man.’ Her line of sight is aimed at the coffee, but I’m certain she sees nothing of the external world. ‘He used to be so nice and quiet and thoughtful. A little lacking in confidence. But you know, when I think about it, after the hols he was very different. Almost like he just didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care what people thought of him.’

I say nothing. Let her fill the silence and something vital might slip out.

‘Bastard.’

So much for that theory then. I look at my watch.

‘Sorry. I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ I stand up.

‘Not at all.’ She stands too.

‘I’ll just…’ I point to the door.

‘Okay.’ She smiles then a pair of contrasting thoughts twists in her eyes. ‘I probably shouldn’t do this. But fuck it. He needs to get his key back sometime. Might as well be a relative that gets it.’ She lifts a set of keys from her satchel and removes one. ‘Here. Make sure you tell him I gave it to you and that he can have it back. Forever.’ Her chin moves up in defiance.

‘And tell him I’m keeping the Bob Marley CD.’

McCall’s room is about the same size as Sue’s, his a good deal tidier though. But a lot colder. I cross my arms and try to keep some heat within my jacket. This room is cold and not just temperature-wise. He has a bed against one wall; the duvet cover is a plain dark green, there are three dining room chairs dotted about, a bookcase and a tall wardrobe against the far wall. That’s it, apart from a TV/DVD combo mounted on a wall bracket.

I approach the bookcase for ideas of what kind of person McCall is in his private life. There are textbooks, a few fantasy novels, a book on Stalingrad and a couple of SAS-type thrillers. The bottom shelf holds all his movies; a couple of football films; a couple of standard horror movies and the expected sci-fi. Nothing remarkable here. Just like any young man his age. Mind you, if he is a good Catholic boy, he must have a stash of wank mags somewhere. That would show any signs of deviance. I look under the mattress and there they are in all their lurid splendour. Must be about half a dozen. I have a quick look, for research purposes. Just the usual big tits and neatly shaven pussies. None of them are very recent, the dates on the front are all from the last century. Okay, so it wasn’t that long ago. Maybe he is too shy to buy them for himself and inherited them all from a pal.

A red light is winking in the corner. There’s a bedside cabinet here, bearing a lamp, an alarm clock and a mobile phone charger. There’s a drawer underneath. I slide it open to find that the drawer is empty. Not a thing. Is that not unusual? If I was staying in a room like this what would I keep in this drawer? Keys and wallet. He’ll take those with him. Toiletries, a packet of condoms (unopened, probably), a favourite book. There must be all sorts of things that people like to keep close beside them while they sleep. Trusted objects that they reach out for in the morning to ground them in the coming day. But this guy has nothing.

All this thinking is tiring me out. I run my hands across my head. I could just have a wee lie down while I wait for McCall. Might as well get under the duvet, ’cos it’s freezing in here.

A light blazes. Too close. Step back from it. There are more of them. Throwing light into the dark room, but there are corners where no light could reach. Corners with low moaning sounds and the sound of nails being pulled slowly across the hard floor. Stay near the light.

The lights surround a mirror. He looks into it and sees nothing, save for the dark ocean of space behind him. Only when he pulls the mask from the drawer and places that over his face does anything reflect. Light beams catch the white of the mask and throw an image on to the glass.

Now he can see his eyes. They look like the eyes of someone he knows, a distant acquaintance perhaps? Without the usual flesh and hair surrounding them… without a frame of reference… it is difficult to tell who they belong to.

The scalpel knows its way, its blade drawn to the flesh like a mosquito to the pale, sweet skin of a child. It knows to cut just enough to release a drop. A drop that will glide down the side of the nose, follow the swell of nostril and the downward curve of lip. It will reach the last part of its voyage — the chin — and pause for an eternity… a moment. From there will it drop into… darkness? Into a universe of space and dust and create its own sun. Or will it have shed too much of itself on the journey, leaving a pale line in its passing, a trail of torment and glory? Perhaps it will be too weak and cling to the skin, reluctant to leave its host.

No matter. It has been shed. There will be more.

The suffering is not over yet. Joy snaps his head up. Eyes again meet eyes. Fingers find a nipple and twist and pull at the pin piercing it. Just enough to register pain, just enough not to pull it right off. He ignores the insistent flesh that throbs in his groin. He can’t touch it again, that would mean losing control. He looks down at the tight, purple flesh, at the tear of semen glistening from the eye-shaped hole. No. He mustn’t. No release until it was over. Not long now. He hooks a finger under the crown of his penis and slides it down its underside. Enough, a voice barks. Enough.

He pulls his hands away and examines them as if they belong to someone else. They are square-shaped and strong and taper into slender wrists. The skin is a scoured pink, pink as a fresh steak. Even at a microscopic level it would be difficult to pick up any dirt, but still he scrubs. Just in case. His fingernails are a different story. No matter how much he scrubs them there is always some dirt that remains, as a reminder. They are forever filling up with dirt, but he likes that, the squeeze of loam as it presses in and lifts the nail from its bed. The smell of the earth and compost. Decay and renewal. Autumn and spring. Sin and rebirth.

The Crucifixion and the Ascension. 

‘James! James!’

Who the fuck is James and who the fuck is shouting like that? My head. Fucking hell. I feel like shit. I’ve just had the worst nightmare since the repeat one I used to get at the seminary: that I was having sex with Sister Mary.

Dear Therapist, figure that one out.

My mouth tastes of metal, like somebody layered my tongue with old pennies. I sit up and lean against the headboard. Oh my head. Hurts. I can barely open my eyes. What a dream.

An odour that is a combination of coffee and vomit coats the hairs of my nostrils. I place my hands to the side to push myself back and up. What the hell is that? My left hand falls on to a patch of wetness, I instantly recoil as my brain registers what the stuff is and I lose my balance and pitch face first into my own puke. Fuck!

Can’t remember being sick. All I can remember is the dream. The voice scraping through my mind. I sit back up and pull my knees up to my chest and hug myself. This must be how women feel when they have been raped. That voice had complete power over me. I was his puppet. I would have done anything he asked me. My legs and arms felt like they belonged to someone else. I tried to open my mouth and shout for help, but it was like a pair of fingers was stuck down my throat compressing my larynx so that no noise would issue from it. Every hair on my body was on full alert.

His hands were rough. Working hands. His fingers trailed across my forehead and down the side of my face. From one nipple to the next they arched, giving each a painful twist, then they slowly followed the line of hairs that link up with my pubes. There he stopped and twisted his fingers to gather some hair. With a heave he pulled some out. A scream stuck in my throat and echoed in my ears. The soft flesh felt as if someone had poured boiling wax on it.

Blood gorged in my groin, and to my utter shame and horror I realised I was aroused. Fed by fear, my prick pulsed for a touch.

He knew the effect this was having on me. The betrayal my body was dealing me. I couldn’t see a face, but I knew he smiled. A smile bright with the need to be cruel.

His face was born from shadow; first the tip of his nose appeared, then the lips, cheekbones, lashes and then eyes. It was McCall. No, it was Connelly. But the part of my brain that hadn’t shrunk in fear registered something. Like an itch it persisted. Something wasn’t quite right about what I was seeing. Something about the eyes.

A voice sounded far in the distance. It came closer and closer. The words were becoming more intelligible. The voice was mine. I was telling myself to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe, I repeated time and time again. My chest rose in an anxious search for oxygen. None came in. I tried again. Something soft was over my face. Something cool to touch and cushioned. A pillow? I pulled it off and tried to fill my lungs. Nothing. Adrenalin surged. Pins and needles of energy pricked at the entire surface area of my skin. My hands moved inches to the side before they were blocked. I lifted them up and again the same thing.  I was in a box. A long thin box. And there… was… no air.

Nostrils and lungs expanded, craving air. The darkness was total.

My fingers tore at the roof. Twisting, I kicked at the walls, the floor, the roof. There was no give.  Breathe. I had to breathe.

Suddenly the face appeared again. He pressed his lips against mine and his tongue probed. It slid across my teeth and met my own tongue. I wanted to send my conscious mind away. I wanted to fold it in deepest, darkest velvet and protect it from the sights and sounds I was experiencing.  My flesh shrunk from his, shrunk as it would from ice, without conscious thought.

Then pain bloomed in my forehead. A ring of spikes. My hands would have shot up to nurse but they were pierced themselves. My fingers splaying out, tendons tight in agony.  Then a blade pierced my side, scraping the bottom rib as my weak flesh welcomed its steel. This new pain barely registered in the kaleidoscope that sparked in my brain.

Insistent among the jumble of fears is my struggle for breath. Can’t breathe. I’m going to die. Something is lodged in my throat. It tickles. A half-cough, half-retch forces it on to my lips. I can feel the tiny, hard spine of a feather. I spit it out.

Just as quickly as it started, it stopped.

No pain, no panic.

Nothing.

‘James! James!’ A door was being knocked somewhere. Who the fuck was James?

‘James, are you all right? James open the door.’

James. That’s the name I gave to Sue downstairs.

‘Sue,’ I croak. ‘Sue,’ louder now. ‘I’ll just be with you.’ Avoiding the pool of puke on the floor I make for the door and open it.

‘James. Are you okay?’ Sue’s face is white and her eyes large with worry. ‘I didn’t know what was happening, what to do…’ she pulled her long hair back from her face. ‘I heard some shouting and… your face… the smell. Have you been sick?’