Blood Whispers

‘Have you ever woken in the middle of the night and reached out for someone who isn’t there?’

The guy didn’t have to think too hard before shaking his head and saying, ‘I can’t say I have.’

‘It’s not something you’d forget . . . the feeling.’

‘What sort of feeling?’

‘Longing, regret . . . isolation, I don’t know. It’s an emptiness, like your soul is missing something.’

‘Are you alone when this happens?’

‘Usually, but not always; it’s got nothing to do with loneliness or being on my own.’

‘What do you think your soul is missing?’

Keira Lynch shrugged. ‘I don’t know?’

‘Is it the “dream” that wakes you up or the “longing” feeling you’ve just described?’

‘The dream exists on its own, it’s separate: they’re not connected . . . they happen at different times.’

‘So it’s not the dream – the girl screaming – that wakes you?’

‘It can, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m asking if the emptiness, the “reaching out” thing, is something you’ve come across before, that’s all.’ Keira felt exposed, vulnerable, like the guy hadn’t been listening. ‘And in the dream, it’s not a girl screaming, it’s a young woman, there’s a difference,’ she corrected him. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong.’

‘What am I thinking?’

‘It’s me screaming . . . my younger “self”, making the sounds . . . but it’s not me.’ Keira’s teeth set against each other. ‘They’re not a product of my imagination, they’re a recollection – the memory of something that happened – an actual event.’

‘The screams?’

Keira nodded her head. ‘A young woman howling and shrieking like an animal being slaughtered: much worse and far more sickening than could simply be described as a scream.’

‘In your dream do you know who this young woman is?’

‘In real life I know who this woman was . . .’

He waited for her to continue, but could see she was reluctant and changed the subject.

‘Is it connected to the thing with your wrists?’

Keira glanced down and saw that her hands were crossed and her wrists were pressed firmly together.

‘I suppose . . . yes.’

‘Do you rub them together like that often?’

‘Only when I’m stressed.’

‘Are you stressed now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to stop?’

‘No.’

‘How does rubbing your wrists help with your stress, d’you think?’

‘It reminds me not to take life for granted.’

‘Why would you take life for granted?’

‘I don’t . . . I rub my wrists together and it reminds me not to.’

‘Okay, why that particular action?’

‘It helps me remember: no matter what situation I’m in, nothing could be worse than this . . .’ Keira held out her upturned palms to reveal two, thin scars, one across each wrist just above the line of her cuffs. ‘Sometimes I wish the scars would disappear; sometimes I’m glad they’re there. They remind me that life is precious, and trying to make it shorter than it is already is a dumb thing to do . . . I’m lucky that I
can
remind myself.’

‘Do you want to tell me how you got the scars?’

‘No. Not right now . . . I will . . . but not right now.’

‘Okay, sorry . . . let’s rewind.’

The psychiatrist looked down at his notes. ‘You were going to tell me what you remember about the house.’

‘Every detail . . . even what it smelled like. A two-up-two-down tomb. It was damp, musty, stale; like it had been abandoned, left empty for a long time, the doors and windows never opened. Like the air inside had been there for ever.’

‘Where did it happen, where was the house?’

‘Where it happened isn’t relevant.’

‘I’m just trying to get a picture . . .’

Keira cut in on him, ‘It doesn’t matter
where
it happened. What matters is that it happened.’

He shrugged and continued, ‘Had he assaulted you?’

‘No . . .’ She thought for a second, then added, ‘Do you mean physically or sexually?’

‘Sexually.’

‘No. My hands were tied behind my back and my mouth was taped – except when they were feeding me. I guess you’d call that assault.’

‘Who are they?’

‘There were two others.’

‘How long were you held for?’

‘The room was in total darkness the whole time I was there – the windows boarded over – so I had no way of knowing. I found out later it was three days.’

‘How old were you?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Too specific.’

‘Roughly how old?’

‘Less than ten.’

This revelation stopped him.

He sat, slowly shaking his head from side to side, his eyebrows raised. ‘You must have been very frightened,’ he said eventually.

‘That’s one thing I don’t remember . . . how I felt at the time. I know what I feel about it now, but when I think back it’s like watching a movie with the sound turned down. I can describe everything I saw, or smelled even, but not what was going through my mind. I feel somehow detached from my younger self, as though she were someone else.’

‘Like it happened to someone else?’

‘No.’ Keira was adamant. ‘I know it happened to me, but I have no recollection of what I was feeling . . . emotionally.’

‘What do you feel about it now?’

‘Guilt . . . mostly.’

‘Why would you feel guilty about being kidnapped and held against your will?’

‘I don’t. I feel guilty about what happened . . .’ She paused once more, choosing her words carefully. ‘. . . How the situation was resolved.’

‘How was the situation resolved?’

Again she took her time before answering.

‘The way most problems were solved in those days . . . with a gun.’

‘The situation was resolved with a gun?’

‘That’s what I’m saying.’

‘Who had the gun?’

‘I did.’

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘My dad . . . though I didn’t know that at the time.’

A look of confusion flashed across his face. ‘Didn’t know that he’d given you a gun?’

‘Didn’t know that he was my dad. I’m still not sure. And he didn’t
give
me the gun . . . I took it from him.’

He was staring back at her, like he wasn’t sure where to take it next.

‘Why would you not know he was your own father?’

‘He wasn’t around when I was growing up. I had an uncle who was always over at our house. For whatever reason, I just assumed that
he
was my dad: that he and my mother had split up when I was born, or some shit like that, and it was easier for my mum not to say anything. Then one day his older brother – who everyone assumed was dead – showed up out of the blue and it seemed to make more sense that it was him. I’m still not sure if that’s the case. But it seems the most likely scenario. We’ve never discussed it. I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think he even knew I was his daughter. It sounds complicated, but complicated is my normal.’

The psychiatrist wrote something in his pad, but didn’t comment. Instead he asked another question.

‘Who is “we”?’

‘My mum . . . and my gran.’

‘Why d’you think they didn’t discuss it with you?’

Keira shrugged. ‘Who knows! Too painful, maybe? I really don’t know.’

‘So what happened with the gun? Can you tell me?’

‘I went back into the house, along the hallway.’

‘Back?’

‘My dad and I had managed to escape.’

‘Why didn’t your dad go back inside?’

‘He couldn’t. He was injured. He’d been shot in the leg. He could barely stand.’

The guy nodded for her to continue.

‘There was a fight at the top of the stairs . . . on the landing, between my uncle and the main guy.’

‘Did you know him: the main guy?’

‘Not at the time, but I overheard my dad and uncle talking about it afterwards . . . I heard his name then, but that’s something else I need to keep to myself.’

‘You said there were three men altogether: what were the other two doing at this point?’

‘Nothing . . . they were already dead.’

‘So this guy was attacking your uncle?’

‘Yeah. He was screaming and howling, his arms flailing around, punching out. There was blood everywhere.’

‘Were you trying to get the gun to your uncle?’

‘I said a moment ago that I don’t remember what I was feeling at the time. That’s true, but I do know what I was thinking. From the moment I had the gun in my hand I knew what I was going to do. There was never any doubt. If I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve been as certain of anything in my life since.’ Keira stopped talking and stared at the floor.

After a while the psychiatrist said, ‘Are you okay?’

Keira nodded, but didn’t speak.

‘D’you want to leave it there?’

This time Keira nodded her head and said, ‘I don’t think I can say the words out loud. If I keep them inside I can almost pretend to myself that it never happened.’

‘Have you ever discussed this with anyone else?’

‘No. There were only four of us – including myself – who knew what happened that night.’

‘What about the other three?’

‘They’re dead. There’s maybe a fifth,’ continued Keira, ‘a priest . . . but I’m not sure how much he knows.’

‘Maybe we should leave it there for now.’

‘I’ve tried everything else: drink, drugs, suicide. The only thing I haven’t tried is talking about it. But now that I’m sitting here, and it’s real . . . I don’t think I can.’

‘It’s okay . . . another time.’

‘This thing is hollowing me out. It’s time for me to take control of it. I need a different perspective.’

‘Do you think that by talking it through you’ll achieve solace or redemption? How do you see it changing your life?’

‘I see it filling the emptiness.’

Tonight her name was Lisa.

Kaltrina Dervishi had read the tag in a magazine and even though she couldn’t pronounce it properly, liked the way it looked written down: a scrawled, looping signature, across the chest of some minor celebrity.

The red silk dress she was wearing was on loan – shared amongst the other girls whenever they had a date – as were the bootlace-strap heels that showed off her arched, stocking-clad feet and long shapely legs. The dress was backless and had a plunging neckline that revealed the cup of her bare breasts every time she leant forward. The man she’d just had dinner with started the evening trying to avoid looking at her cleavage, but as the night had worn on and the alcohol had started to loosen him up she’d caught him – plenty of times – sneaking a glance. He’d also started leaning on her name every time he said it: letting her know he was smart enough to realize it wasn’t her real name, but doing it in a really dumb way. All he had done was piss her off.

‘What would you say if I invited you back to my room for a nightcap?’ asked the fat guy who’d told her his name was Nicolas, sliding his large, sweaty hand along the bench-seat and on to her thigh.

‘Only nightcap?’ she’d replied in a thick Balkan accent. ‘Why not we fuck?’

The Radisson Blu standard guest room overlooking the River Clyde looked much like any other hotel bedroom. It had everything necessary for a comfortable stay except a feather pillow. Kaltrina could sleep on a slab of concrete if she had a feather pillow; but even the most luxurious pocket-sprung mattress could be ruined by the foam and polyester versions available in most hotels these days. It was the first thing she checked if her work involved an ‘overnight’.

Kaltrina came out of the tiny bathroom to find Fat Guy had turned off all the lights and closed the curtains. He was either trying to set the mood or he didn’t want ‘Lisa’ to see what shit shape he was in. Kaltrina figured she wouldn’t win any prizes for guessing which of the two it was.

There was a bottle of champagne open on the table next to the mirror with two glasses sitting alongside.

Fat Guy had removed his jacket and tie and was standing at the foot of the bed looking awkward. ‘How long have we got?’

‘The driver, he wait in lobby for me till finished. You do good business with Mister Abazi, I do good business with you . . . as long for as you like.’

‘Wee glass of champers?’ he said in a cod Scottish accent that made her want to slap him.

‘I’m not sure what you say,’ she said, messing with him.

‘Champagne, would you like a glass?’

‘Oh, I not allowed to drink.’

‘Don’t worry about that. I can square things on that front. If you want a glass you should have one.’

‘Okay, make it a double!’

‘Treat the whore, she’ll give you more.’ Fat Guy had a grin on his face that made her want to punch him on the mouth this time. Instead she strolled alluringly towards him and planted her full lips on to his mouth, kissing him passionately while fumbling to undo his belt.

‘Maybe I’ll order another bottle.’

Kaltrina unzipped his trousers and – hooking her thumbs between the top of his underpants and his flesh – slipped them down over his buttocks revealing his rock-hard erection.

‘Someone pleased to see me,’ she said, breaking free from the kiss. ‘You’re a big guy, I gonna be sore.’

It was a line she threw at all her johns. In reality the guy was below average, but it always put a smile on the assholes’ faces. Fat Guy was no different.

She took hold of his cock with one hand and steered him backwards on to a chair in the corner of the room.

‘You like I’m in charge?’ she asked, giving him the full fuck-me smile.

‘I like.’

‘Put your hands behind back, you not need them for now.’

Fat Guy did as he was told, then let her tie his hands together using the belt from his trousers.

‘Where you from? You have nice accent.’

‘A little place called Silver Spring, near Washington . . . You?’

‘Me . . . from nowhere.’

‘From heaven, I’d say.’

‘You say nice thing. You’re cute!’ replied Kaltrina, keeping up the bullshit.

‘Man, you’ve got everything pointing in the right direction,’ he said as she moved round to stand in front of him. He watched as she put a hand up under the front of her dress, then, wiggling her hips from side to side in a slow provocative movement, pulled her lacy pants down till they dropped to the floor and she could step neatly out of them. Fat Guy didn’t say much, but he was obviously enjoying the show. Still standing, she straddled his legs, making sure she pushed her cleavage into his face as she delicately placed her pants on top of his head then pulled them down over his eyes like a blindfold.

She leant down – letting her long, brown hair brush against his face – and whispered in his right ear, ‘I’m to fuck you good,’ her hot breathy voice sending a shiver of anticipation over his naked body.

This time Fat Guy replied with a long, low moan of appreciation.

‘Mister Abazi want to say thank you,’ whispered Kaltrina as she knelt between Fat Guy’s legs and – pursing her lips – gently blew a jet of warm air across the top of his penis.

She reached over and picked his tie off the bed, then used it to secure his right ankle to the leg of the chair. Taking her thin leather belt from round her waist, she tied his other ankle. ‘You like kinky?’

‘Whatever you’re selling, babe.’

She lifted the edge of the pants up a little from his eyes to let him watch her taking off her stockings. She sat on the edge of the bed and slipped off her shoes, then slowly rolled each stocking in turn down the length of her leg, taking care to let him get a good view of her bare crotch. At just over twenty years of age she knew all the tricks: all the right things to say. ‘You making me so wet baby,’ was just another example.

‘You let me gag you with my stockings?’

‘What’s the difference?’ asked Fat Guy, trying to keep his voice low and in the mood.

‘You nice and quiet, I’m nice and gentle . . . take my time. You are making lots of noise, I’m to get rough: could be all over before you know what’s happened.’ Kaltrina gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, ‘Up to you.’

‘Why don’t you come and sit yourself right here and we can discuss it?’

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, playing it cute like she was thinking about it, then said, ‘Okay, move your ass forward on the chair and spread your legs, cowboy.’

She sat on the edge of the bed and slipped her shoes back on then stood up. Fat Guy edged forward and opened his legs so that his balls were hanging over the front edge of the chair.

Taking a small step back, Kaltrina swung her right leg up as hard as she could, catching him between the legs with the full force of the blow. He let out an agonized yelp and tried to stand up, but in the same movement Kaltrina swept the champagne bottle off the table next to him and slammed it hard into the side of his face.

The force of the blow knocked him sideways on to the floor. The end of the bed broke his fall as he glanced off it, screaming, ‘Fucking whore.’

He was writhing around, his ankles still tethered to the chair, desperately trying to free his hands from behind his back.

‘Keep it down, you noisy son-of-a-bitch,’ said Kaltrina, raising the bottle high in the air and slamming it down on the back of his head again, ‘Next time you see Abazi,’ and again, ‘tell him I quit,’ and again. Each sickening thud punctuated by a loud agonized grunt until eventually Fat Guy stopped moving and the room fell silent again.

He was lying face down on the floor with blood seeping from a mess of hair and gore on the back of his skull.

Kaltrina was breathing heavily and her hands were shaking.

Fat Guy’s trousers were gathered in a twisted bundle round his ankles. Kaltrina picked her way through the folds and pulled his wallet from one of the pockets. His credit cards were of no use to her. Moving quickly, she removed all the cash – almost two hundred pounds – then tossed the wallet across the room.

She grabbed his coat from the wardrobe and pulled it over her shoulders, then, stepping gingerly over his body, she headed over to the telephone sitting on the bedside table.

It took a few moments for someone to pick up. She didn’t want the guy to die.

Fat Guy started to groan.

Finally, a voice at the other end said, ‘Reception.’

‘Please can you send someone. My husband he is taking very ill. Please, you send someone straight away.’

Kaltrina replaced the receiver and made her way back over to the door.

‘Hey Fat Guy,’ she said over her shoulder as she left the room, ‘you really fucked now.’