Bloodstorm (9 page)

“H
ICKS IS AT
court today, thank goodness,” said Wilson, accompanying Karl and Cairns down the narrow corridor. “We’ve only his assistant to contend with. Some kid from school on work experience. What a place to get work experience.”

“You’re very quiet, Cairns,” said Karl, glancing at the detective. A nasty-looking rash covered the young man’s face. “Nice rash. Looks like you and Bulldog must have been having unprotected sex.”

“Fuck you, Kane,” snapped Cairns.

“No, you can keep that for Bulldog, thank you. Speaking of Bulldog, I suppose it must be awfully hard for a dummy to talk when the ventriloquist isn’t here. Where is the loyal bloodhound?”

“What is it with you and winding people up?” asked Wilson.

“If they have a key sticking out of their arse, that’s what it’s for,” replied Karl, never missing a beat.

Disinfectant and cold meat stench was everywhere, mixing with the freezer-like conditions, as the trio entered Hicks’s lair. Despite steeling himself with a couple of glasses of
Hennessy
prior to coming, Karl was dreading this live encounter with the dead.

As soon as they entered the room, Wilson nodded to Hicks’s assistant. The young man pulled back the snowy sheet, exposing the contents beneath.

“
Ah fuck
…” Karl moved away from the body, slightly. “He’s just a scrambled mess …”

“Steady, Kane,” advised Wilson. “Take a good look. We’ve got to get this right first time.”

“Ha! Not so tough now, Kane,” quipped Cairns, smirking revenge. “I guess that’s a key I see sticking out of your own arse.”

“Enough, Cairns,” commanded Wilson. “Well, Kane? Is it or isn’t it?”

Chris’s emaciated legs were twig-thin, pulled up to his chest in a defensive mode, and shaped like two bony ‘Z’s. His face was no longer there, replaced with a jumble of pulped mass and cauterised blood. It resembled a hologram from Gray’s
Anatomy of the Human Body.
Congealed blood formed a seal over the wide gap that could have been an eye. Underneath all the red, black and blue, the skin was all transparently white. A protruding lip and parts of a chin were the only proof that this had once been a human face.

Karl wanted to puke.

“Well?” asked Wilson, impatiently. “Is that him or not?”

The dead stench was seeping down Karl’s throat, gagging all breathing. He stared at the body again. The muscles of the body’s arms were gone, but the tattoos were still there, only darker, like the drawings on balloons when the air goes out of them. The one-time intimidating Heavy Metal skeleton now looked as threatening as a featherless sparrow.

“Yes … that’s him … not the face … the tattoos. I recognise the tattoos …”

“You’re sure about that?”

“You’re starting to sound like a bloody game show host,” said Karl, trying to control his anger at Wilson’s seeming indifference. “I’m as sure as I can be. Ofuckingkay?”

Wilson nodded to the assistant. The cover was parked back in its rightful place.

A few minutes later, outside in the beautiful cold air, Karl said, “When you told me he had been shot, I didn’t realise just
how
fucking shot. Poor bastard.”

“I’ve seen worse, and I wouldn’t have too much sympathy for that particular gentleman, if I were you,” stated Wilson. “If he wasn’t shooting heroin, he was shooting people. Don’t forget, Chris Brown sent quite a few innocent individuals to this wonderful place without their permission, also. He showed no sympathy to the people he murdered.”

Karl spat out the taste of dead meat from his mouth. “You’re a hard bastard. It must run in your family, you and your sister.”

“No need for that tone with the boss, Kane,” quipped Cairns, dutifully, brown nosing.

“You’re right, Cairns,” replied Karl. “Too mild. And keep your nose out of my conversation.”

Wilson glanced at his watch, as if bored. “Anyway, I appreciate you coming over. It saved a lot of paperwork.”

Karl’s face reddened. “Paperwork? A man shot to fuck, and this was all about paperwork? Saving you a few minutes of filling in forms and keeping your fucking boss happy?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean all too well.”

“Look, if there’s nothing else, we’ll be going,” said Wilson, tightening his coat.

Clearly disgusted with Wilson’s cavalier attitude, Karl asked, “Any info on what happened to him?”

Wilson shrugged his shoulders. “No revelations, as such. Neighbours heard that dog of his barking its head off. Then silence. The intruder slit the dog’s throat, apparently. A few minutes later, what sounded like shooting. They found his body under the bed, riddled with bullets.
He had so many enemies, it’s going to be difficult, if not downright impossible, deciding where to start. He wasn’t exactly a popular figure. But then you already knew that.” Wilson looked accusingly at Karl.

“What do you mean by that remark?”

“You know what I mean. You shouldn’t have been associating with scum like Brown.”

“We can’t all be the hangman, Wilson. I’m not a judge; simply a private investigator trying to etch out a living and pay my way in this world. Someone needs my help? I try to give it, provided they can pay the fee. Shit, if you were in trouble, I would even contemplate helping you.”

Wilson shook his head and slipped his hands inside the pockets of his coat. The cold air was beginning to nip. “We’ve got to go. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know. But don’t forget: information is a two-way traffic.”

“
Quid pro quo
has always been my boy scout motto, sir,” said Karl, saluting with a two-finger gesture.

Waiting until the figures of Wilson and Cairns had shrunk in the distance, Karl eased carefully back into the building, quickly retracing his steps along the corridor. Thankfully, all lights had been dimmed – a hopeful indication that Hicks’s young assistant had sneaked upstairs to the cafeteria while his boss was away.

A few seconds later, Karl re-entered Hicks’s domain and quickly tried locating Chris’s belongings. Five long minutes later, he eventually found them, housed in a box not too far from the body.

Rummaging through the cardboard box, Karl’s fingers negotiated Chris’s clothing, checking a pair of jeans, trousers, and a collection of socks, just in case. A
Nike
jacket, rolled into a ball, was quickly unrolled, the inside pocket searched. It was in the jacket he found a key, hoping it was the correct one, but paradoxically terrified it would be, all the while wondering what the hell he was doing, getting involved in this madness?

“Mister Kane …?”

Startled, Karl dropped the key. Turned quickly to the voice.

“Detective Lewis …? What … what are you doing, this far down in the dungeon?” Karl’s face felt on fire.

Jenny Lewis looked as startled as Karl. Holding up a few sheets of paper, she said, “I’m … I’m here to ask Mister Hicks if it’s okay to make a few photocopies. Our copier, upstairs, is on its last legs.”

Karl’s heart was racing. “Well, you have my permission. Mister Hicks is gone for the day.”

A puzzled look appeared on Jenny’s face. “Should you be in here? I thought this was off-limits to all civilians?”

“Well, truth be told, I’m not exactly a civilian. More a borderline pseudo cop. They haven’t figured out where exactly I fit. Anyway, Wilson asked me to come here, today. There was no one to identify Chris Brown’s body.”

Jenny looked over Karl’s shoulder, in the direction of the covered cadaver.

“An appalling murder, Mister Kane. They’re all talking about it upstairs.”

“I’m sure they are. Not much else for cops to talk about, I suppose – except
Coronation Street
and
Emmerdale
.”

“In all honesty, there seems to be very little sympathy for Chris Brown. They’re making jokes of how he tried to get away but ran out of petrol,” said Jenny, her face hard to read.

“Very original. Sick bunch of bastards. Of course they didn’t seem to mind when they had him on their payroll as an informer. A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

Jenny’s reply was ambiguous. “I haven’t given it much thought. I keep clear of offending anyone upstairs. I’m still
persona non grata
, as far as all the men are concerned. I’ve enough on my plate.”

“Don’t take this as an insult, Jenny, but I think what you’re doing, the only woman in there, well … that takes balls in my opinion.”

Jenny’s face flushed, followed by a nervous laugh. “Thank you … I think, Mister Kane. I’ll try and remember that.”

Karl quickly glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to go. You take care of yourself. You have my card, if ever you need anything?”

“Yes …”

Karl could feel Jenny’s eyes on the back of his head as he walked unsteadily down the corridor towards the exit.
Breathe easy. Remain
calm. Do not look back. Do not
–

“Mister Kane!” shouted Jenny, suddenly running frantically towards him.

Fuck!

Stopping, Karl waited for her to catch up, all the while trying desperately to control his breathing, the expression on his face. He thought of a thousand lies. Readied them.

“Is this yours?” asked Jenny. “I found it on the floor.”

“What?”

“A key. I thought it could be yours. Perhaps it’s Mister Hicks’s?”

Fuck fuck fuck!

“A key? Oh yes! It’s mine … yes. I was … I was wondering where I had lost that damn thing. Thank you. My head’s away at the minute.”

“I’m forever losing keys all the time, myself. Very frustrating,” she smiled, handing him the key, before walking back down the corridor.

Karl listened to the click of her shoes fading steadily into nothing, before breathing again, believing that it was only a matter of time before his recklessness had him up to his neck in shit.

C
OLD CLAMMY SWEAT
camped itself on the landmass of Karl’s skin.
I don’t fucking care what caring people say. This is humiliating, having someone’s gloved finger shoved up your arse.

Karl had difficulty concentrating, of late, because of the bleeding. A frequent stab of pain, only last night, and he was sure that if he paid close attention he could sense it worsening, steadily, by the second. He realised that it was time to take his head out of the sand – or out of his arse, as Naomi had diplomatically put it. The nagging from Naomi was becoming unbearable. He had no other option – or escape – other than to honour the appointment she had made for him last week.

“If you don’t loosen up, I can’t penetrate any further,” claimed the annoyed voice of Doctor Jim Moore. “You’re acting like a big child, Karl. Now, for the last time, relax your buttocks. Good. That’s better.”

“How long will this take?” asked Karl, biting his lower lip.

“I’m just remembering.”

“Remembering how long this will take?”

“Remembering that last tip you gave me.” Jim’s finger slid further up the resisting arse.

To Karl, the finger felt like an entire choo-choo train going through a tunnel. Tears wet his eyes; his fingers gripped the edge of the examination table, tightly.

“Tip? What … about … it …?” asked Karl, through clenched teeth.

“It’s still running. You told me it was a certainty.” The finger stopped at the hilt, resting for a second before manoeuvring further inside.

Karl could fell the finger wiggling inside his arse like a nosey, vindictive worm. He felt queasy. “I’m certain … I didn’t use … the word ‘certainty’ –
oh!
What the hell are you doing in there, Jim? Searching for lost treasure?”

“
Lightning Streak
.”

“What?”

“That was the name of that horse.
Lightning Streak
.”

Karl attempted a feeble smile. It failed to materialise. His eyebrows became damp with sweat. “It must have lost its thunder on that particular day –
oh!
Will you watch it with that finger of yours? I can feel your damn wedding ring inside me, Hans Brinker. It’s like a speed bump.”

“How long have you had the pain or ache around your anus?”

“Isn’t that the seventh planet from the sun?”

“Unless you want a two-finger probe, you’d be best giving straight answers, Karl.”

“A few weeks … perhaps months.”

Jim let out a sigh of disgust.

“
Months?
And you’re only coming to see me now?”

“What can I say? If I’d known it was going to be this enjoyable, I’d have rushed here immediately. Unfortunately, I’ve been busy with all of my –”

“Too busy to look after your health?”

“It’s no big deal. Stop making a mountain out of a pile,” said Karl.

“Slightly funny. Not too smart, but slightly funny.”

A muffled sound suddenly floated in the room. The theme music to
The Rockford Files.

“That’s strange,” said Jim. “I’m sure I didn’t turn the radio on.”

“Oh … sorry,” said Karl, cringing. “Naomi’s idea of humour. That’s my mobile in my coat. Just let it ring.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Moore, stretching his free arm, successfully hooking the phone from Karl’s coat hanging on the coat stand. He handed the phone to Karl. “Answer it. Hopefully, it’ll keep you from moaning for a minute.”

Karl hit the button. “Hello? Fine, Naomi. Yes, I’m at the good doctor’s. No, you really don’t want to know what I’m doing at this moment. What? Don’t be silly. If you can’t trust … stop it, Naomi. Okay okay. Hold on a second.” Karl awkwardly manoeuvred the phone towards Jim. “Talk into that, please. Tell Naomi where
I
am – but not what
you’re
doing.”

Jim’s finger remained firmly imbedded in Karl’s rectum. “Hello? Yes, this is Jim, Naomi. Of course he’s behaving himself. Yes, he’s enjoying every second of it.” A little horsy laugh from Jim. “I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it, later. Yes. You’re welcome. Nice speaking to you.” Jim returned the phone to Karl.

“That’s not funny, Naomi. Look, I’ve got to go, right now. Someone’s knocking at the back door.
Hmm
. I know you do. Me too. Bye,” said, Karl ending the conversation. “Women. They all want me, Jim.”

“What a lovely person. So concerned about you. Where did you meet her?”

“The John Hewitt pub. I went there to hear a couple of local writers giving profound advice on how to be published, but they ended up talking the biggest load of shite I’d ever heard. Got pissed drunk out of my head. Hit one of the writers after he accused me of disturbing his reading and –”

“Which you would never do, of course.”

“Of course. Anyway, Naomi was up visiting from Derrybeg –”

“Ah, beautiful Donegal.”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Continue, please.”

“She heard one of the barmen calling for the police, and escorted me out, being the good Samaritan that she is. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“And that’s how she ended up falling into your nefarious clutches?”

“I simply opened my arms and she fell right in. That, plus my charisma, good looks and money. And if that wasn’t …”
The Rockford Files
played once again. Karl glanced at the mobile’s screen. A cryptic text:
U. R. Zzz. Opn Yr Iyz Whrs k9?
“Not you again?”

Leaning over Karl, but with his finger still firmly in place, Jim asked: “How on earth can you read that?”

“Do you mind? You’ve taken my virginity; now you want my privacy,” stated Karl, closing the phone loudly with a snap. “Are we near done –
argghh!
”

“Yes, all done. You can get dressed now,” replied Jim, extracting the offending finger, a tiny blob of bloody stool attached to it.

“So? What do you reckon?” enquired Karl, wiggling on his pants, sweat pasting his skin.

“You’re showing all the classic symptoms of haemorrhoids, but just to be on the safe side, I’ll send this sample away to be analysed.”

“What? Why the big fuss? Everyone gets piles. Right?” Karl smiled. His stomach jerked.

“Haemorrhoids are indeed very common. Most episodes of trouble come and go quite quickly. But I want to be on the safe side, in case it could be something else.”

“Such as cancer?” said Karl. Despite himself, he had managed to say the dreaded word, and for all his macho bluster it was a terrifying word to hear escaping from his mouth.

“Let’s not think negative, Karl. In the meantime, I want you to start eating a high-fibre diet and exercise regularly. That means walking as much as possible, not driving about in that old jalopy.”

“Watch it.”

“If all this doesn’t work, then I have a few other options: placing little rubber bands round the haemorrhoids, which will cause them to shrivel and wither away –”

“Are you serious? Me walking about with elastic bands up my arse? There’s no way I’m going to –”

“Or I could inject a substance into the haemorrhoids which causes them to wither away. This is known as sclerotherapy.
Or
, conversely, I could cut away the problem, usually under a general anaesthetic.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? That would teach me to give you a
bum
steer on the horses.”

“Hopefully, I’ll have the results in a week or so. In the meantime, I want you to stop smoking.”

“Stop?” Karl shook his head. “I doubt if I can stop smoking, just like that. How about if I begin next week? This has been a very stressful few days, Jim, and I’ve a funeral to attend on Friday.”

“I want you to take this seriously, Karl, otherwise it could be your own funeral you’ll be attending. You need to stop smoking. Now. It’s an order, not a suggestion. I’ll have nicotine patches ordered for you. They’ll help wean you off the cigarettes.”

“Patches are for jeans and wimps.”

“They’re a start. In the meantime,
no more smoking.
I’ll talk to you next week.”

Outside, on the street, Karl re-examined the mysterious text message.
U. R. Zzz. Opn Yr Iyz Whrs k9?
Hitting a small button on the handset, he searched for sender. Sender not found, came the reply. The message had made him uneasy, like something menacing in his blind spot.

He shifted in through the door of his car, and turned the radio on. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he studied the figure reading the newspaper at the far bus stop, across the road.

“The local bus service must be lousy. You’re the same person I spotted, over an hour ago, before going in for the examination,” he mumbled to himself.

From where he was parked, it was difficult for Karl to discern whether the figure was male or female.

He started the car. Did a U-turn onto the opposite side of the road, slowly passing the bus stop. By the time he reached it, the figure was gone. Only the pages of a hastily discarded newspaper were left fluttering in the wind like a seagull’s broken wings.