Prologue
Indigestion
I
By the time
the service ended and Herbert returned to his car it was 10.30 p.m. As usual he
hung around for a while, talking to the priest and other notaries about church
business. Even though it was a week night the car park was stuffed full of
cars, vans and ambulances. It was the same after every monthly healing mass;
there was mayhem, as friends, relatives and nurses loaded up their sick and
disabled charges ready for the drive back home (or back to the Home as was often the case).
This made
leaving a hazardous and frustrating procedure, giving Herbert an excellent
opportunity to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes; helping other “less
worthy” people than himself to learn the gentle art of patience.
After making
certain he hadn't forgotten to talk to anyone important, he said goodnight to
Father Kennedy and slowly walked back to his car. He got in and made himself
comfortable before starting her up and carefully, deliberately, manoeuvring his
pride and joy out of its parking space and into the main thoroughfare where he
stopped dead, blocking everyone's exit.
Once in
position he collected himself together and went through all his usual
pre-journey checks, oblivious to the inconvenience he was causing to the other
churchgoers. While this was going on some of the less Christian worshippers
started sounding their horns impatiently. This didn't worry him though, far
from it, he found the sound gratifying, a sign of how necessary his little
lesson really was.
No, these
protests didn't concern or bother Herbert, after all the Lord taught patience
and he was a patient man. If others were less so than he then perhaps they
would benefit from his example; praise be the Lord.
When he was finally
satisfied everything was in order, he eased the white Pinto into drive and
moved gently towards the exit. As he snuggled comfortably into the fleece
lining of his car coat, he thought how dark and unusually cold for the time of
year it was. The thought of all the poor unfortunates in the world who didn't
have a nice warm car coat, or a nice warm car for that matter, added
considerably to the smug self-satisfaction he already felt, which he always
felt, after one of these services.
It had indeed
been most uplifting. He particularly liked going to healing masses, there were
so many unworthy people to feel sorry for. Many were ill, only returning to the
church in desperation but Herbert knew these people weren't true believers and
could expect no help from the Lord. In spite of this belief, he always made
sure he was among the worthy who stood and helped catch the souls “struck by
the spirit” at the end of the service.
He would stand
there waiting as the minister first prayed over them, then touched their
foreheads lightly, (or sometimes not so lightly if the case demanded). Over
backwards they would go, “struck by the spirit”, into his waiting arms or the
arms of one of the other good people of the parish. It never ceased to amaze
him how most of them had the gall to come to church in the first place, some
weren’t even Christian and there they were expecting to be healed, no questions
asked; fat chance. But he would smile comfortingly anyway and do his duty like
he always did. Yes, he'd been going to the church and doing his duty rain or
shine, three times a week minimum, for the last twenty three years. Twenty
three years of service guaranteed a few favours when you needed them; oh yes,
when he needed the Lord’s help he got it and he always would, no question.
It was true,
the Lord had been kind to him. He'd never needed to call on too many favours
though, his life had been mostly uneventful, shielded by the Lord's mercy he
liked to think and he was grateful for it. As he drove home that night he let
his mind wander through the past, counting his many blessings until, as always,
he ended up thinking about “the incident”; the one blot on his otherwise
unblemished copybook, the one thing he most wanted to forget.
He'd moved
twice since coming to the city. The first time was for the right reasons, he
was doing well at work and there was no longer any need to stay in the little
rented apartment in James Street. He still remembered the thrill of buying, of
going into the Realtors’ office to give the agent his requirements. No doubt
they charged a small fortune in commission but as it wasn't him paying, it was
worth every penny. He really made them work for their pieces of silver, going
to see at least fifty properties before making up his mind (for the third time
that is) and nearly driving the agent mad in the process.
In the end, he
chose a modest neat little house in a good neighbourhood within easy reach of
the museum where he worked as a curator, it was perfect, just perfect. The
previous owners had no children or pets and the place was in truly lovely
order, they'd really looked after it. He gave them hell when it came to working
out the price though; he heard they were in financial difficulties, the man had
lost his job and the bank was about to foreclose on the mortgage. Well that was
their problem not his, he had certainly never seen them at the church and he doubted they attended any other, so few
did these days, more’s the pity.
Buying that
house was a real milestone, after fifteen years at the museum he'd finally
arrived. He was a respected member of the community, he earned a decent five
figure salary in a respectable job, and owned a respectable but modest house in
the suburbs. Yup, he had it made all right, he had everything he wanted to
satisfy his needs.
Well, most of his needs anyway.
Never a
particularly sexual person, some people didn't even hide the fact they thought
he was gay, but he wasn't. Men, or women for that matter never really
interested him, not like that anyway. Throughout his teens the other kids were
obsessed with sex whereas he could never really see what all the fuss was
about. Then one day he found out there were
things that could turn him on,
harmless things, though as he was to
discover, others didn't share his view.
It had been in
order to pursue these harmless fantasies that he signed up to help out at the
local Children’s Theatre. Being an English Lit major, it was easy to convince
the Principal of his earnest intentions
and his intentions were after all very earnest indeed; even if they weren't
the same ones he talked about at his interview.
Despite never
having acted or directed in his life he threw himself into his role in the
group, quickly establishing his status as a stalwart member of the behind the
scenes crew. Nothing was too much for him, he worked tirelessly, putting
everything on the line for those kids.
And what
thanks did he get for all his hard work, huh? That was a joke; thanks! Even the
thought of what happened made him feel sick to his stomach.
Who'd always
been out there backstage making sure the props were put out (and put away) on
time?
Who would sit
there for hours listening to them recite their lines over and over again till
they were right?
Who was always
there at every first night and most performances?
Herbert
Miller, that was who! And what good did it do him in the end? No good at all.
The reverse actually, if it hadn't been for the Lord’s help after the
unfortunate incident, he would have had to do more than just move house. The
mere thought of the possibilities sent shivers down his spine, partly out of
fear but mostly out of righteous indignation at the way he was pilloried after
all he'd done for those kids.
The incident
itself was unplanned and to his mind totally harmless, he would never hurt
anyone, much less a child and it was shameful for anyone to think that he
could. Even now he could feel his cheeks flush red with temper as he remembered
what happened and the brutal way he was treated.
It was early
September, they'd been rehearsing for six weeks. The kids, mainly aged between
ten and thirteen, were going to put on a showing of Peer Gynt. It was by far
the most ambitious production ever undertaken by the youth theatre and it
needed a lot of organisation. There were a lot of people who said the idea was
a stupid one, saying that if it went ahead it would be an embarrassing
disaster. He and a few others dug their heels in though, insisting it could and
should be done.
Maggie
Weismuller was especially insistent that the show go ahead as she was keen to
do all the costumes. She knew it would be a bit much for the kids but just
couldn’t resist the opportunity to indulge her passion for dressmaking and
design. This hobby of hers was quite surprising considering the way she looked.
She was a big woman, at least a hundred and eighty pounds and to say she wasn't
very glamorous was like saying Attila the Hun wasn't very friendly. Her
shoulder-length hair was usually dirty and unkempt looking, she bought all her
dresses in the outsize department at K Mart and they were invariably too small,
failing to disguise the fat hanging from her midsection in great blubbery
rolls. But the two things that made Maggie particularly unattractive were her
heavy facial hair, which had become so bad lately she'd been forced to take up
shaving, and the fact that she constantly smelt like a lumberjack on a hot day.
Designing and making beautiful clothes had become a fantasy outlet for Maggie
and one she loved to indulge at every possible opportunity.
Her voice on
the other hand was a revelation, it was warm and melodious with perfect pitch,
it was a voice that caused many men to make suggestions on the telephone that
they would soon forget if they ever were to meet her face to face.
But she and
Herbert had developed a kind of understanding; it was unspoken, they simply
recognised each other as kindred spirits, different from others, “special”. He
never socialised with her away from the theatre but he knew that if she was
around he was safe to indulge himself and his little fantasies in the dressing
rooms without fear of being interrupted unexpectedly, or of things being
misunderstood by one of the meddling busybodies who passed for helpers.
On the day of
his “mishap” rehearsal had gone badly, the children were disorganised, none of
the links came off right and there was a disruptive element in the show that
needed to be dealt with. This disruptive element went by the name of Gregory
Fisher. Gregory was twelve years old and small for his age, he had dark curly
hair and a cheeky smile which he quite often relied upon to get him out of the
trouble he had a habit of getting himself into.
Maybe it was
the long summer evening that was responsible for the restless atmosphere but
whatever it was, Gregory took every opportunity to ambush the rehearsal by
distracting other members of the cast. He made rude remarks about the girls’
costumes, he made cracks whenever someone fluffed their lines and generally
orchestrated the kind of havoc likely to drive a grown man to tears.
Now everyone
knew that you couldn’t put on a half decent production without discipline. If he'd said it once, he'd
said it a million times, these kids needed a strong hand from time to time if
the best was going to be got out of them. Although he was never actually asked
to do the job, after a while it had become accepted that when a child played
up, he would deal with it.
It was
certainly true that after he'd spoken to a child they rarely gave any further
trouble; a few of the more sensitive creatures had even chosen to leave the
group as a result, but if that was the price that had to be paid to maintain discipline, then so be it.
He always
handled these situations the same way, never scolding or chiding in public; he
would simply ask the offending child to see him after rehearsal. These meetings
would invariably take place in the Props
Room that doubled as a kind of administration office. The Props Room was a place where he could be very stern indeed, often reducing the child
to tears but always making sure they had dry eyes before their parents arrived.
For that same reason he always kept a few packets of sweets and the kind of
small junky trinkets that children liked in the Props Room; you never knew when they might come in handy.
A couple of
times, when he may have been a little over zealous, a small bribe made sure
there was never any come back. If he was honest, he'd had a few scares in the
early days before he worked out how far he could go without attracting
unwelcome attention. What particularly appealed to him about Gregory was the
fact that his foster parents had hit hard times and were recently forced to
give him up, so for a while he'd been living in a Home. From experience he knew
he could afford to go a lot further with a Home boy without fear of repercussions,
so Gregory's antics that day received his special
attention.
Nevertheless
the child was given fair warning; he fixed him with a deliberate stare at least
three times before informing the young man that he required to see him after
rehearsal in the Props Room. He
remembered how Maggie had thrown him a knowing look which reassured him they
wouldn't be interrupted. At the time he felt very happy at the prospect of
administering the naughty boy with some much needed discipline, he was confident that it would do the lad good (and he was sure as hell it would do him
good as well).
The rest of
the rehearsal seemed to drag on endlessly, there were several more total
breakdowns before it was finally over. The youngsters’ already short attention
spans had been further reduced by the prospect of playing outside in the warm
evening sun. They knew if they carried on playing up eventually the adults
would give up and let them go early. Unusually, given his predicament, Gregory
was as annoying as ever, perhaps even more so. Kids who were asked to see him
after rehearsal normally had the good sense to keep their heads down afterwards
lest they incur his greater wrath.
Gregory
however appeared to be totally unconcerned at the prospect, if anything he was
playing to the crowd who found his antics even funnier because of their
disrespectful implications. He remembered thinking how that type of behaviour
could not be tolerated, it really incensed him. He felt like his entire
authority and reputation was being undermined by a kid and he wasn't about to
overlook it. No siree, he was going to teach that kid a lesson he wouldn’t
forget in a hurry he surely was.
He remembered
the bittersweet feelings of anticipation that built up inside him that day, and
how when the time finally came for the kids to pack up and go, he could hardly
contain his eagerness to get on with it. Then there was a despairing moment
when he looked around and there was only Maggie and a couple of stragglers left
behind, no sign of Gregory Fisher. Surely the little tike didn’t have the
temerity to leave without seeing him? The thought burned him even more, he
started to entertain bad thoughts
about the boy, much worse than in the past and those bad thoughts made him feel stronger and more powerful than he could
ever remember.
By the time
Gregory finally appeared he'd worked himself up into a bit of a frenzy which he
found difficult to conceal. His top lip was shaking, small beads of sweat had
broken out on his forehead and even better, he had one of his rare erections.
The boy, who had merely gone to the men's room, probably because he was scared
and needed to relieve himself, stood before him looking hopeful. He'd changed
back into his everyday clothes and carried his bag over one shoulder as if he
were about to leave.
His expression
was easy to read. It said, “Do I have to stay behind? If you let me go this
time I promise to be good in future”. That’s what the expression said but the
eyes, those eyes, they said something different. They said “I've been bad today, very bad and if you let me go I’m going to be bad
tomorrow and the day after and there’s nothing you dare do about it”.
Nothing he, Herbert Miller dared do about it? Well they were going to see exactly what he did dare do about it and
Gregory Fisher was going to learn never to mess with him again.
He gave one
final glance at Mary who was still clearing the stage, she nodded in
understanding and he motioned the boy in the direction of the Props Room. They arrived at the door
with Gregory slightly in front which further irritated him as he was forced to
shuffle the boy out of the way in order to get the key in the lock to open up.
Once he'd unlocked the door, he stood back and stuck out his arm indicating
that Gregory should go in first.
There was still
that teasing look in the boy’s eyes, he'd been wrong about the fear, there was
no fear, just an insolent cockiness. It suddenly struck him that this boy
wasn't taking matters seriously enough. In the past all the children he'd disciplined had been vulnerable and
supplicant. This had somehow always taken the edge off the experience because
deep down he wanted them to put up a
fight so he could demonstrate how truly powerful and dominant he really was.
This one on
the other hand was more challenging than the others, his teasing attitude
goaded Herbert to go further than he ever had before. At first things went as
usual. He sat the boy down on the stool at the back of the room where he'd made
a clearing between the rows of costumes and boxes full of props. This measure
was designed to ensure his little interviews were well screened should some
busybody decide to poke their nose in where it wasn’t wanted at an
inappropriate moment. There was also a chair for him but at first he chose to
stand, he always started off this way, it showed the child who was the boss and
made Herbert feel more masterful, more in control of what was happening.
Even once he
was seated the boy still wouldn’t show any signs of nerves or apprehension. He
didn’t smile or laugh outwardly but there was a smirk in those eyes, a smirk
which seemed to imply they knew something that gave the boy power over him. All through the lecture that
followed he kept that same look in his eyes, refusing to show due respect, or
take things seriously, never mind be intimidated.
Finally
Herbert really began to lose his temper (get
excited) his cheeks had flushed and his body began to shake slightly. He
sat down on the chair in front of the boy, who seemed to find his reaction
amusing, and steadied himself.
‘Gregory,’ he
said in the most menacing tone he could manage ‘I can see that nothing I say is
going to have any effect on you, so I'm afraid you are forcing me to resort to
more extreme measures, I am going to have to administer corporal punishment.’
Now that got
the boy’s attention at last; it was amazing the way the look in his eyes turned
so rapidly from insolence to fear, he started to squeak in protest but by now
Herbert was all out of patience, he wanted some action. He made a grab for the
boy who was too frightened to move or cry for help, his jaw just moving up and
down soundlessly. This reaction filled Herbert with excitement, he was finally
in control, now they would see who the real boss was around here.
He twisted him
over his knee bringing one arm down on his back so he couldn’t move. He
remembered being surprised at how little he struggled, all his previous
cockiness gone, like a cornered deer, frozen as the lion prepares to move in
for the kill.
Like a lion,
he felt the need to toy with his prey a little; surprising himself at how
deftly he managed to slide the boy’s trousers and pants round his ankles. He
started to spank those bare buttocks with exquisitely light strokes which were
almost (but not quite) caresses. Suddenly and violently the boy did start to
struggle, catching him unawares, making him lose his grip for a moment,
enabling him to wriggle free and shout out loudly.
Almost
instantly the door to the Props Room
was flung open without warning and two cleaners burst into his inner sanctum.
It all
happened far too quickly to have been in response to Gregory's call for help
although it may as well have been, the outcome was the same. The cleaners took
one look at the scene, the adult seated, red faced and out of breath, the minor
semi-clothed and now crying with relief and confusion. They knew what'd been
happening and given the rumours about Mr. Miller, they weren't surprised, or so
it seemed, particularly concerned. There was something else on their minds,
something important enough to override their natural outrage, for a while at
least.
It was a cruel
irony that it was Maggie, his soul sister who was responsible, at least
indirectly for his disgrace. In another way though it was only the melodrama
surrounding her death that enabled him to escape without losing his job,
gaining a criminal record and quite possibly a jail sentence as well.
They said it
was Maggie’s weight that was responsible for the heart attack that killed her.
She didn’t die straight away, but at the state hospital a few days later. The
stupid woman had forgotten to take her medication and her blood pressure had
soared out of control popping the major artery in her head. Even if she'd
survived, she would never have been able to walk or talk again.
As far as he was concerned, the only
tragedy about her death was it meant she didn’t have to pay for what she'd done
to him, the fat bitch. He could feel the bile coming up in his throat, the
feeling he always had whenever he recalled those events, it always put him in
such a bad mood, something he didn't deserve, especially coming back from doing
good work at the church; life could be just so unfair.
II
He was so
engrossed in his own thoughts, he almost didn’t see the man standing in the
middle of the road until it was too late. He could have sworn he came out of
nowhere, one second the road was clear, the next there was this crazy guy
trying to commit suicide in front of him. There could be no doubt that he was
trying to do away with himself either, he wasn't scuttling across the road
having misjudged the oncoming traffic, in fact he wasn't moving at all. He just
stood there facing the oncoming car, looking him directly in the eyes,
challenging him to drive on and run him down.
Herbert wasn't
a violent man, he abhorred violence, he was also very squeamish, the thought of
all that blood and the damage the impact would do to his beloved car was too
much for his gentle nature. It was therefore a knee jerk reaction that caused
him to swerve to avoid the man, for all he knew he could have been turning into
a brick wall. Although he was only doing thirty, the effect of hitting a brick
wall head on would have been the same as if he were going eighty. His car was
old and somehow he never had got the habit of wearing a seat belt, very out of
character given how cautious he was in most other things.
He was never to know that it wasn’t the
impact of a collision that killed him, his last memories would have ended as he
entered the side road. It was possible, though unlikely, that he may have
regained consciousness for a moment later on. If he did, the thought would
probably have crossed his mind that he was wrong again, when it came to the
crunch God wasn't there to protect the righteous, all his good works were for
nothing, it just wasn’t fair.
III
Wilbur had no
difficulty dragging Herbert’s limp body from the car and carrying it to his
own. Ever since he met Proctor his strength seemed to have multiplied, giving
him a power that belied his size and age, never mind the amount he smoked and
drank.
This was a
routine affair for him, he found the whole thing quite ordinary, after all Proctor needed a constant supply of
bodies, correction, live bodies and it was his job to find them.
They say
honesty and fairness is its own reward, well he wasn’t sure about that, but he
did find his work rewarding, Proctor was
good to work for, he made him feel important, part of something bigger than
himself of something extraordinary.
Before he met
Proctor he'd been at rock bottom, involved with the mob spending his life on
the make, hustling, pushing and sometimes killing to get what he wanted. He'd
controlled one of the biggest Italian restaurants in Miami, a front for drug
dealing and a particularly vile human trade. They would ship in young girls from
South America, usually Costa Rica and use the rooms above the restaurant as a
kind of halfway house before finding profitable homes for them in the
specialist paedophile brothels of Miami.
Judged in
dollars business was going well; he was amassing a fair sized fortune, he had a
young wife and all the material things he could ever want but it wasn’t enough,
nothing was enough to fill the empty void inside him. The only thing he had
that could touch that void was hate, he hated the people he did business with,
he hated the people he met in bars, in supermarkets, he hated everything and
almost everyone, even his wife.
The only
person he didn't hate was his only son Ronnie, and of course Ronnie had hated
him. It didn’t seem to matter what he did, that boy wouldn't give him a break.
He'd sent him to the finest private schools, given him a generous allowance,
bought him a new car every year but it hadn’t mattered. Ronnie didn’t like the
way his old man spoke, didn’t like the people he associated with, didn’t like
the way he treated women and above all didn’t like the business he was in. Of
course these finer feelings never stopped him taking the money but they did
lead to fights.
Eventually,
they had one fight too many and Ronnie had gone away taking his mother with
him. At least that was what Wilbur told everyone and what everyone had come to
believe. The truth was more bitter, the truth was he'd murdered them both.
Wilbur always
had a terrible temper and the boy knew it, what he never knew was when to back
off for his own good. Oh no, he'd just keep on pushing... push, push, push; the
day it happened he just pushed too far. He was twenty one years old and they'd
been at home arguing as usual about something or other, Wilbur couldn’t even
remember what it was. Oh yeah; it was coming back to him now.
It was all
caused by Margarita not being able to account for the housekeeping money. It
wasn't the first time either, the dumb bitch was always running out of cash
halfway through the week and it drove him mad. That day he'd had enough and he
was going to teach her a lesson she'd never forget.
Of course
Ronnie had to get involved, taking her side like he always did, accusing him of
having double standards, of taking out his gambling losses on his family. He'd
been drinking heavily all day and wasn't in the mood to be lectured by anyone,
least of all his son. The bottom line was he ended up losing his temper and
working him over pretty bad. Even then the boy wouldn’t leave it alone, he kept
needling and needling, saying anything he could think of to make him madder;
accusing him of being an impotent psychopath, a sadist, a homosexual, anything
to get a reaction.
What made him
pull the gun he still wasn't sure, it might have been an automatic response to
being pushed so hard, all he could remember was feeling disappointed, let down,
all he wanted to do was to shut him up. Here was his only son, the only person
on earth he had ever loved and he was just like everyone else, just as weak,
disloyal and pathetic. He had to kill him, he had no choice and even after he
did it he felt no remorse, just more emptiness, more disappointment and more
hate. Then of course Margarita came running in screaming and crying and he shot
her as well, although that was no great loss really.
The feelings
of being empty, unfulfilled and disappointed didn’t go away after Ronnie's
death, just the reverse, they grew and grew. No matter how much he drank or
gambled, or how many people he killed, there was nothing that would make those
feelings go away. It would only have been a matter of time before he got
careless and either ended up in some stinking jail, or just like his father
before him, the cell of some sanatorium for the criminally insane. Even more
likely, he'd be taken out by one of his business partners, if the hate and
bitterness in his heart didn't totally consume him first.
He went
through three women before he married his second wife, a Costa Rican beauty
less than half his age called Maria. The first had survived but the second
wasn’t so lucky, he sometimes thought about the first woman and wondered where
she was, what she was doing. There was even the thought that he may one day
hunt her down and kill her, or pay someone else to do the job.
Then one day
something happened, which although he didn't understand it fully gave him back
the meaning to his life in spades. He was given a second chance, a reason to
live.
He'd been at
the restaurant, a place he tried to avoid these days. Too many people, too much
noise, too much life. The reason he was there was simple, he had a deal to do,
a big deal, the biggest he'd ever done and it involved a lot of money. There
were always going to be risks, the kind of business partners he was involved
with weren't above avoiding a debt by eliminating their creditor, if they
thought they could get away with it. As with all things though there are
degrees of risk and levels of craziness. That night he descended to level zero,
the lowest level around, the one where the craziest characters lived and the
chances of escaping with your life were slimmest.
Life really
didn't matter to him any more, he already felt dead and he wasn’t going to be
worried by a few drugged out grease-balls no matter how well connected they
were. It even occurred to him that he
might be the craziest cuckoo in the nest, and it was the grease-balls not him
who needed to watch their backs if they wanted to see the dawn of another day.
The stuff he was buying was uncut heroin.
The price was too cheap and there was a reason for it. The grease-balls had
already sold it to his biggest rival. His information came from an
unimpeachable source, one of his own people on the inside of their
organisation, so he knew if he made the buy it was liable to start a war. Now
ordinarily he wouldn't necessarily be put off by a little conflict, provided he
could see himself coming out on top at the end of it. But over the past months
he'd let things slip in his own organisation, if there was a showdown now he
would almost certainly lose and end up dead in the process. Somehow though, the
prospect of death made him even more determined to go ahead; the way he looked
at it, if he was going down it might as well be sooner rather than later and it
might as well be in flames.
After the deal
was done and the money and drugs safely exchanged, he decided to go outside for
a walk. This was possibly the stupidest thing he could do. There was a good
chance that someone would be out there waiting for him in an unmarked sedan,
ready to put a few bullets into him as soon as he put a foot onto the side
walk. So what? he thought, what the hell! Perhaps after killing him they'd raid
the place and steal back the drugs. Who knew? Who cared? Not Wilbur Kohn that
was for sure.
Once he got
outside the night air was colder than expected, there was no black limo waiting
for him, no rat tat tat of machine gun fire to finally put him to sleep. The
street was empty and quiet; uncannily so. In addition, the cityscape was
blurred by a mist that seemed to be erupting from across the street in front of
him. The whole scene kind of reminded him of a magic show he'd seen when he was
a kid, when the magician appeared on stage in a puff of smoke.
He reached
into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cheroots; there was one left,
so he removed it and cast the empty packet onto the sidewalk. As he lit the
cheroot, in the flame of the match he caught a glimpse of a dark figure
standing across the street. The mist made it hard to make the figure out but it
vaguely crossed his mind that this could be it.
He could have
just seen his killer waiting patiently to do the job he'd been paid to do. The
match burned out but he could still see the figure, perhaps even a little more
clearly now. He looked up at the sky and noticed a bright crescent moon shining
through the mist. Slowly reaching into his jacket he gently withdrew his
Beretta part way out of its holster, thinking, if this was to be his encounter
with death, then the least he could do was to make it an interesting one.
He spat the
cheroot into the street and started to walk slowly towards the figure. As he
got closer he could see it was a tall man dressed in a heavy black coat (any
amount of weaponry could have been hiding in that coat). What did he have to
worry about though? One cap from his little B and it wouldn’t matter if the
fucker was carrying an anti-tank gun under there for all the good it'd do him.
He stepped off
the sidewalk and onto the empty highway, this was a commercial part of town and
most of the buildings were run down, in any event at this time of night they
were deserted. The stranger hadn't moved from his spot, he stood about twenty
five metres away, between two old monolithic factories dating from before the
war. They weren't tall but their tops were hidden by the mist which seemed to
be getting thicker by the second, threatening to obscure or absorb everything
around it.
As he
approached, the man made a movement with his left hand, reaching deliberately
inside that heavy coat, finally confirming his mission that night. Wilbur knew
what would be in that hand when it emerged and whose name it was that would be
written on the bullet that would follow. Well he was real sorry to ruin the
plan and everything but he was going to have to end the party before it began.
He withdrew his own gun, taking the time to notice how the Beretta felt
natural, comforting before he opened fire. He hesitated for a moment when the
stranger didn't react at all, the thought even occurred to him that he may have
got it wrong, that he may be about to shoot an innocent man. Then the thought
evaporated, there were no innocent
men, just hunters and their prey, killers and their victims. Then he realised
that although the stranger’s expression hadn't changed nor his movements
speeded up, they hadn't stopped either, if he didn't stop thinking and act he
would pay the price for his indecision.
The gunshot
crashed through the night, it was a comforting noise, something you could
always rely on, the flash momentarily forcing back the mist and bringing the
skyline into sharp relief.. He didn't fire again, why waste the bullets? He was
a great shot and he'd aimed carefully, the guy was dead, end of story. Slowly
though, it dawned on him that the man in black wasn't doubling up in pain
or recoiling with the force of the impact. He wasn’t writhing around on the
ground and dying like a good little fuck; nope, he wasn’t even reacting, he
just kept on reaching for whatever he was reaching for as if nothing had happened
at all.
He felt a
little put out by this behaviour, it threatened his perception and shook his
faith in the fundamentals of life. There was only one thing for it, he had to
re-establish the order of things and to do this was going to be simple. He
raised his aim away from the man’s body up to his unprotected head. There was
no more holding back either, no more Mr. Nice Guy as he unloaded the remains of
the clip right into the stranger’s face.
The explosions
seemed to go on forever and with every one he felt a little better. When the
clip was empty he carried on pulling the trigger oblivious to the impotent
sound of the hammer falling onto empty chambers.. When the smoke finally
cleared and he saw the man was standing holding out his hand towards him, he
stopped firing and dropped the gun. It was impossible, he should've been lying
on the floor without a head, not standing there for all the world as if he was
greeting a long lost friend.
The thought
struck him that perhaps he'd finally crossed the frontier between sanity and
insanity. I mean here he was standing in the street, having just unloaded his
Beretta into a man who seemed not to have noticed. Yup, the men in white coats
couldn’t be far away now.
‘Wilbur, come to me. I have something for you.’
He wheeled
round when he heard the voice, he'd been watching the man carefully and the
sound definitely hadn't come from his mouth, there had to be someone else in on
this, an accomplice who was watching the whole farce and laughing at him.
‘Come to me now Wilbur, don’t keep me
waiting.’
Eventually he
accepted that there was no-one else around, which left only two other
possibilities, either the man in black
was some kind of magician, or the
voice was coming from inside his own head.
Somehow,
without being aware of it, he'd crossed the distance between himself and the man
in black and stood before him holding out his hand ready to accept the
gift.
‘Wilbur,’ said the voice. ‘I am not your master and you are not my
slave, do you accept this gift willing?’
He shouldn’t
have known what the voice was talking about but somehow it all made sense. This
man was his master and he was his slave, he didn’t need to be
coerced into accepting the gift, he wanted it, he wanted it so bad it hurt. The man in black smiled and withdrew his
hand, watching the expression on Wilbur's face change from wonder to despair as
he realised the offer was being withdrawn.
‘I see’ said the voice, as if confirming
whether or not it had made the right choice.
Wilbur was
sure he'd been rejected and for some reason the thought was too much to bear,
the emptiness had finally won, there was no longer any point in living. If his
Beretta hadn't been empty he would have finished it right there in the street
in front of the man in black.
‘Don’t be sad,’ said the voice. ‘I mean to redeem you’
Redemption;
the word had no meaning to him but the sound of that voice put his despair on
hold, he realised he needed that voice now more than he needed life itself. If
that voice had commanded him to jump off a bridge he would do it, if it asked
him to save his own life, he would even do that too.
‘Take this gift and wear it as a sign of our
friendship.’
The hand was
outstretched again and now he could see that it held a silver ring. The ring
was simple in design but a closer look revealed the emblem forged on to its
surface, was in the shape of a crescent moon.
He extended
his hand to receive the gift and the man in black took hold of his wrist and
slipped the ring onto his left forefinger. There was a moment of searing pain
as it seemed the ring was welding itself to him, becoming part of his body. He
smelt the burning flesh and imagined the smoke curling up from around the edges
of the ring, then the pain was gone and his head was clear, clearer that it had
ever been. More to the point, the emptiness had gone and since that day it had
never returned.
He had a new
mission and meaning to his life, one that he pursued with enthusiasm and
carried out proficiently. His job was to make sure the man in black was
supplied with a steady stream of .... of, he didn’t know how to describe them,
victims, sacrifices, or just fuel he would use in his own unique way. Herbert
was just the latest in a long line and he wouldn’t be the last.
IV
It didn’t
matter how many times he went out to the Island, he always felt the same
feeling of awe as he entered the mist, knowing that just before him lay a land
other mortals would never know, could barely even comprehend. The thrum of the
twin engines of the motor launch took on a deeper note as if the mist was
harder to ingest than normal air. He felt sorry for his quiet passenger who
couldn't appreciate the honour that was being bestowed upon him. He looked
across at Herbert sitting beside him looking straight ahead, vacant, the lights
were on but no-one was home. It was a look he'd seen many times before and one
with which he'd become only too familiar.
‘So old buddy;
enjoying the ride?’ He paused as if he was really waiting for a reply. ‘Cat got
your tongue huh? Never mind, you just relax and let me do the talking for both
of us, after all this is your day.
You see, I've
seen all this before, whereas you....you need a chance to take it all in. Just
one thing old buddy, don’t take too long getting used to things because you may
not have as much time as you think.’
He laughed out
loud at his private joke, and gunned the launch towards the Island’s shore.
As they
emerged from the mist that surrounded it, the south side of the Island was
revealed. It didn’t matter how many times he made this trip, Wilbur was always
filled with wonder at the sight of it. If there is a heaven on earth, then it
would probably look like Proctor’s Island. Even from five hundred metres
offshore it was easy to see that here was a very special piece of terra firma.
The Island
didn't conform to any natural laws. By rights it should have looked much like
all the other Islands in the region, Key Largo for instance which was a long
thin piece of land, its shape determined over millions of years by the
sometimes tiny, sometimes catastrophic movements of massive continental plates.
There was no high ground, no forest, and the tallest tree was the palm.
Proctor’s Island should have been much the same but it wasn't.
As the launch
drew nearer, it became clear just how impossible the Island really was. A
perfect sandy beach was flanked by white cliffs rising a hundred feet above the
ocean. Along the tops of the cliffs you could clearly make out the edge of a
rain forest. At various points waterfalls cascaded into unseen pools sending up
great spumes of spray; sunlight turning the droplets into shimmering rainbows
which danced in the air, making the Island look as if it were set within some
fantastic precious stone.
Wilbur felt
his breathing quicken with excitement as it always did every time he saw the
Island. For a few moments he just gazed at it, totally enraptured until his
eyes could take no more of its excruciating beauty.
He aimed the launch straight at the
entrance to the cove, throttling back at the last minute and letting the vessel
coast silently towards the shore. As they moved in closer he headed towards a
small jetty, bringing the launch up alongside and making her fast before
turning to his prisoner who had given no sign of having registered anything at
all.
‘OK old buddy,
this is your stop,’ he said taking Herbert by the left hand and guiding him out
of his seat, up the ladder and onto the jetty. Even the smell of the Island was
different from any other place on earth, There were hints of cinnamon, lime,
and vanilla in the breeze, overlaid with the scent of exotic flowers, as if
someone had spent hours choosing exactly how they wanted the Island to smell.
Underneath the fragrant facade though there
was something else, something disturbing lurking beneath the surface speaking
of secrets dark and dangerous.
Often Wilbur
would go up onto the beach and wait for his master. When he came they would
talk and Proctor would let him know anything special he wanted him to do. Over
the years their interests on the mainland had increased although it seemed they
didn’t really interest Proctor at all. Gradually he also lost interest in these
mundane pursuits, delegating the everyday running of their operation to well
paid underlings, becoming more and more captivated by the Island and its
development. When he thought back to the first time he set foot on these
shores, it was hard to believe they weren't completely different places. There
was hardly a trip he would make when he didn't notice some new feature and
there was no doubt about it the Island had grown, it was a lot bigger these
days. He took great pride in these changes, maybe he wasn't the architect of
them but at least he could claim to be his main assistant.
Today however
he didn't stop, he was pre-occupied with something else, a search that was
taking up more and more of his time lately, a search important enough to make
him impatient to return to the Keys as soon as possible.
He walked down
the jetty, Herbert needing only a little encouragement to trot along in front,
seeing nothing, feeling nothing, totally unaware of his fantastic surroundings.
One of the things that tickled him the most was the way he could take a person
and make them like Herbert. It was one of the things he learned from Proctor
early on. Not everyone was susceptible to the influence but he quickly
established how to choose his subjects wisely and he hadn't made a mistake in
years. Sometimes he wondered whether the effect would eventually wear off, he
didn't know because he'd never seen anyone he'd brought to the Island ever
again. He left his latest victim sitting on the white coral sand and turned
around without a backward glance. A few moments later he was powering back to
the mainland leaving Herbert to await his doom.
V
Herbert didn’t
have long to wait, within seconds of the launch disappearing over the horizon and into the mist Proctor appeared to
claim his prize. Herbert found himself being led through the impossible Island
a silent witness to all its miracles and follies. Of course he could appreciate
none of it, nor would he ever understand the contribution he would make to its
destiny.
Proctor had
made this journey innumerable times before, the fact that he still personally
guided each of his new guests to their destination was out of ritual not
necessity. If he desired it his victims could have been delivered to him
wherever he wanted but that would be to deny himself the symbolic transition
from light into darkness.
He would walk with them through the
Island appreciating as he went all the wondrous marvels he'd created. It helped
to remind him of the inestimable value of his work and the enormous privilege
he was bestowing on the one who accompanied him. If he had spoken to Herbert at
all, it would have been to tell him how greatly honoured he was to be allowed
to make his small contribution towards such a wondrous place. Of course there
was no point in talking to Herbert so he saved his breath, instead hurrying
onwards towards the Island’s centre where it hid its blackened heart.
The moonlit
walk took about half an hour during which the strange pair travelled through a
land of many marvels. It was as if someone had gone round the world shopping
for the right animals and plants to complement the habitat and where none could
be found made them up to suit. But as they started to approach the centre of the
Island, things started to change. At first it was hardly noticeable, the odd
tree infected with some wasting disease, a dead bird lying untouched by
predators, a small patch of land where nothing grew. The further they walked
the more evidence there was of decay and rot until it became clear something
was drastically wrong.
From a
paradise on earth, the surroundings had gradually metamorphosed into an earthly
hell in which all living things were either dying or dead. The smell which had
up to now lurked beneath the fragrant air leapt unbounded to the fore, finally
revealing itself for what it was, the stench of evil decay and death. At the
centre of the dead plain like an open sore on the landscape lay a sinister
oasis, a Dark Lagoon, towards which
Proctor led Herbert Miller. It was to be by its blackened shores that he would
meet his destiny.
When they
arrived at its edge, Proctor stood absolutely still and looked across the oily
surface of the waters. His expression was one of intense meditation, as if he
were in communion with a monstrous deity lurking beneath the depths. After a
time the waters seemed to sense their presence and began to send small waves
rippling slowly to the shore. He seemed
happy with this and turned to Herbert who was still waiting patiently by his
side, looking quite dishevelled now, his clothes crumpled and torn. It was many
hours since his abduction, hours during which he’d had nothing to either eat or
drink, although from the stain on his pants it seemed his body’s desire to relieve
itself remained intact. His face was tired and drawn and he stood with a
pronounced stoop, only the forces controlling him keeping him on his feet at
all.
Proctor looked
across at this sorry looking individual and allowed himself to indulge in a
brief moment of sentimental reminiscence. He could remember in the old days how
these human offerings were so much more robust, spiritually as well as
physically. There was a time when the positive life force he drained from a
simple peasant would satisfy him completely, leaving little to add to the
waters. Over the years though things
had changed. Man was becoming more civilised, more sophisticated. In a way,
these changes made his job easier as his victims became less wary of him and
his servants but they also brought with them an unwelcome side effect. People
seemed to contain less and less goodness and more and more badness. Lately he
could almost see the level of the dark waters rising after every new sacrifice
and often he would be left feeling unnourished and unsatisfied. He cut short
his lament for the good old days, knowing the time for the transformation was
approaching.
He felt Herbert’s mind opening to him, the
night darkened, blotting out the stars, the only thing saving them from inky
oblivion was the half light of the silver crescent moon.
He tilted his face skywards, acknowledging
the moon extending his arms upwards and outwards in a gesture of welcome. The
diffused moonlight began to waver and break up, patches of darkness appeared,
hanging in the air eating the light, rendering the world putrid and rotten. But
the light was itself gathering together, light with light, concentrating its
strength as if preparing to launch some unimaginable counter-attack against the
invading darkness.
Finally the remains of the light, surrounded
and under siege made a last ditch bid for freedom towards the moon. The beam
became a flood lasting less than a second, then it was over and the only thing
that prevented the land being overcome totally by the darkness was the faintest
of glows from the crescent moon.
Herbert’s body had begun to shake and
contort struggling vainly with an unseen force, the struggle didn’t last long,
his already weak spirit had no stomach for the contest. When it was over his
facial muscles relaxed and his jaw fell open in surrender. A luminous glow
appeared in the centre of his chest, brightening first to burnt umber, then
red; orange, yellow and finally to a dazzling white which threatened to consume
his body, leaving it a charred sacrifice on the banks of the dark lagoon. No human could have stood that light, yet
the brightness intensified still, until within the incandescence there could be
seen the seeds of unborn stars, the furnace of creation revealed in all its
awful glory.
The place where they’d been standing had
turned supernova, the nucleus which started in Herbert’s chest now rose and
spread out to hang like the sun above the dark lagoon. Just as it seemed the
whole Island would be consumed by this cosmic inferno, the light began to wane.
Whereas it started in Herbert it ended in Proctor, the fading glow disappearing
into his chest with a symbolic finality that left no doubt as to the fate of
its prior owner. The moonlight had returned, perhaps a little brighter,
revealing the two figures standing as before but no longer the same, no subtle
transformation this but a terrible change leaving one stronger and one drained
of all that saves a man from damnation. Around them the Island had grown a
little stronger, a little larger, perhaps a few new features had been added, or
a strange new species would be found flourishing in a newly created habitat.
Herbert, though still standing and breathing
had changed. He was a charred and blackened shadow of his former self, a hulk
whose life force had been stolen leaving him only with the unspeakable part of
his nature for which Proctor had no use. No use, true, but a place certainly.
Yes there was a place for him, a cold place where he could share his fall with
the others who had gone before him. That place even now sensing his changed
nature, beckoned to him. Proctor watched dispassionately as the latest source
of his increasing strength and power turned sightlessly and walked on guided
feet towards the edge of the dark lagoon where he paused and looked down. But
the look became a stoop and the stoop a fall. There was no splash as his body
hit the water, no splash and no sound.
Proctor looked deeply into the blackness for
a long moment after Herbert disappeared, contemplating his own doom. In over a
thousand years he’d witnessed countless endings such as this and after each
there was always the shadow of insecurity, a feeling he only ever felt at these
times. Insecurity because he didn't know the price of his ascension or how it
must be paid. Insecurity because as his power grew and the Island flourished,
so too did the dark lagoon. Even now its banks groaned under the weight of the
swollen waters. There must come a day when it could hold no more; he couldn’t
help thinking about that day, how soon it would come and what its consequences
would be.
For a thousand years he'd watched it grow as
he grew wondering when it would try to consume him. He turned to walk away,
knowing that when he returned it would be just a little bit deeper, just a
little more swollen, just a little closer to breaking point.
VI
He had less time to wait than he thought. At
first the vibration was hardly noticeable, a trembling emanating from deep down
in the earth's centre, gathering strength, working its way slowly but
inexorably towards the surface, seeking the lines of least resistance, always
returning to its chosen course. He made no attempt to run or find cover, for
this was the long awaited moment. Soon he would see if his nightmare or his
dreams would be realised.
The ground started to shake, in the silver light of the
crescent moon the still black waters began to dance and jump in tune with the
vibration. Ripples were forming, ripples that grew quickly into small waves.
The waves travelled in all directions, colliding into one another and sending
great splashes into the air which fell back to the surface in a fetid stinking
rain.
The trembling in the ground developed into a
full blown quake, one which would go unregistered by any Richter scale. The
ground was rocking and rolling like an enraged bull trying to dislodge an
impudent rider and trample him underfoot. Proctor though was not to be
dispatched so easily, he stood his ground, moving fluidly with each new
convulsion as if he were part of the fabric of the Island itself. As the
shaking grew to its climax, the air responded also, the elements had decided to
have a party and all were welcome. The wind came suddenly and violently,
whipping the waters into a frenzy of foam and dark spume which rose up in a
doom-laden mushroom cloud to be carried away on the infected air.
Then the pain started. In a thousand years
he'd never experienced pain but now he experienced a thousand years of pain
compressed into a single second. Every poisonous drop of rain that fell to
earth, felt like acid burning his flesh. Everywhere the waters dealt out decay,
corruption and death. He was the Island and the Island was him as they suffered
their destruction together.
Confirming his despair a giant geyser
erupted from the centre of the lagoon. It rose over three hundred feet above
the Island in a dark column forty feet across and hung there in defiance of
nature. His vision was blurring but in his mind’s eye the column had become a
monstrous hand, reaching out for him. It was a hand made up of all the hate,
revenge and evil that lurked within the dark lagoon, put there by him... and
now coming to destroy him.
He could see the waters bursting through
their banks, rivulets were forming, taking the gushing black waters out through
the Island to destroy everything they touched until there was nothing left to
destroy. The acid rain burned the flesh from his upturned face. The crescent
moon stared down, mocking the grinning porcelain whiteness of his skull as it
reflected moonbeams over the boiling waters. He could feel himself
disintegrating with the Island, all his power unable to save him, until finally
he succumbed and with a cry of despair dissolved into the screaming earth.
More suddenly
than it began, the holocaust ended. The winds died, the ground was still again
and the dark lagoon returned to flat oily blackness. All was quiet on the
Island, all was still, there was only the silent emptiness of the dead.
It was a long
time before Proctor awoke once more. He didn't yet know how much time had
passed since his downfall. At first there was no thought, no understanding,
just agony; an agony that reminded him that he still existed, that he had
survived. Then came understanding of what happened and the knowledge of his
vulnerability.
Proctor
contemplated his ruined domain, considered the countless years of toil taken to
build the Island, how all his works had been snuffed out as if they were
meaningless, insignificant. He considered these things and he brooded.
VII
Time was suspended, what were in reality
merely the fleeting hours of a single day became aeons during which he searched
for an answer. When it came the answer stood out amongst the lies and false
trails, so obvious as to be hidden by its own simplicity. He had to find a soul
of absolute purity and persuade them to enter the dark lagoon of their own free
will. Only such an act of selfless sacrifice could redeem him, give him back
all that was lost and more, so much more. The thought of redemption washed
through his mind like the cooling waters of a mountain stream, stinging him
into action.
He stretched out into the world, scanning
countless minds, forever searching for the one to save him. But no-one would
serve, all were too blemished by life. There was no priest, or holy man, no
child or peasant in all creation who wasn't in some way rendered imperfect for
his purpose. Eventually he gave up his wanderings, sinking into a deep dark
despair. Then, as all seemed lost, the answer revealed itself.
A deal would
have to be done, a pact made and a favour granted. That was all right though;
he was used to granting favours and there was always a price to be demanded in
return. He would have to be patient though, the planning would need to be
meticulous and the timing perfect. That was all right as well, time he had, and
patience he could learn. The game had begun and soon the first move would be
made. To confirm this last thought in the distance the sound of twin engines
could be heard and soon the shape of the launch could be seen coming through
the early morning mist.
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