The Killing Hour

His trip into the ocean was a painful one. The bulletproof vest got waterlogged and nearly helped him to drown, and probably would have, until a wave picked him up and threw him onto the sand, only metres away from the woman. It was the luck/destiny he’s been thinking about. He doesn’t know, though, how the pain fits into either of those. When he gets back home, he’s going to have to start taking the painkillers again. He can’t recall seeing any at his house so he’ll have to go to a pharmacy, and they’ll look at him funny so he may have to consider killing more people.

The tin of lighter fluid is half empty and he wishes he had brought along more. He wishes he had several litres so he could make Charlie cook for hours, but all he had access to was the last tin in the car. Maybe he ought to just burn a limb at a time. Or maybe he ought to burn the bitch first and make him watch. Setting them alight at the same time would be a waste, and anyway, he doesn’t have enough fluid for both. His hands shake at the prospect of having so many things he can do, and he has plenty of time to decide. He’s experiencing something he hasn’t felt in a long time – excitement.

His mind is throbbing and he raises a hand to the side of his head. When all this is over he will go home and take more painkillers. He doesn’t know where he’ll get them, but he’ll find a way. He’ll take them and he’ll write a note to remind himself that everything has been taken care of, that everything is okay. He can start recovering in a state of bliss. What could be better?

His mind is wandering. He looks at Charlie, then down at the lighter fluid in his hand. It would be a waste of money if he didn’t use the entire tin.

So many options. Life is good.





52


I remember seeing those contraptions on TV where you can hang upside down from a bar, clipped on with special shoes. It’s supposed to be relaxing, to do something positive for your body — maybe realign your spine or soul or consolidate your positive energy. It’s pretty obvious the person who invented it wasn’t soaked in lighter fluid at the time.

Cyris has his eyes fixed on me but he’s not really seeing me. I think he’s gone somewhere, he’s gone to whatever place his mind sometimes takes him. Could be a happy place, but I hate to think what a happy place for a guy like this could be. I wipe at my eyes again and look up at the rope, but no matter how I see things, I’m just as screwed. When I look back at Cyris he smiles at me.

The fluid smells like eroding batteries. It comes at me in sharp little streams, splashing onto my face. My nose begins to burn. It leaks into my sinuses as I cough. The back of my mouth feels like it’s been ripped to shreds. My eyes are burning a hole through to the back of my skull.

The pain spreads like ripples in a pool of gasoline. I cry out and clutch my hands to my nose. I start shaking my head, hard enough to become disorientated. I’m desperate to suck in more air but I can’t. Cyris keeps spraying more fluid at me. I wriggle around on the rope like a worm on a hook, knowing the more I scream, the more fluid he’ll get into my mouth. Then suddenly he stops. He’s either got tired or he’s thought of something else to do. He moves over to his satchel and sits down, cross-legged. He appears calm, as if he’s meditating or waiting for an inner voice to dictate his next move. He picks up a hammer and a metal stake. They appear to be the same ones he used the other night.

‘Hey, arsehole. How does it feel?’

My breath tastes of fire and feels ragged, as if I’m swallowing a well-used chisel.

I start to choke. He starts to laugh.

‘It’ll hurt more once I’ve lit it. You do know that, right?’

I say nothing.

‘They say the true torture is in the anticipation. I’m interested in your opinion.’

I look over to Jo. I blink away the tears but more keep coming. A sharp pain continues to race back and forth from behind my nose to my brain.

I grit my teeth, then spit out a sentence. The words come out cased in lighter fluid. ‘I know why you killed them.’

He shrugs. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Frank McClory paid you to kill his wife.’ If this surprises him he doesn’t let it show. ‘He had a life insurance policy.’ I’m confident this is a good guess, and even if I’m wrong I don’t see how Cyris could know. ‘He wanted to be rid of her. It was financially better for him to kill her than divorce her. It was probably worth half a million or something.’

‘Carry on, Sherlock.’

My head is throbbing. Just how long can a person live hanging upside down? Before being set on fire?

‘Frank knew he’d be the prime suspect so he wanted you to kill Kathy in a unique way. Killing Luciana diverted focus away from Frank because it made the women look like they’d caught the attention of a complete psychopath. He didn’t want them killed at home because he didn’t want to be the first one on the scene. He wanted them found together, but I ruined your plans.’

‘The plans,’ he says, his burnt face contorting so he can fit the words out in one large clump. ‘You-ruined-more-then-just-my-plan, you-ruined-my-fucking-life.’ Then, relaxed all of a sudden, he’s waving his hands like a conductor, as if his small outburst never happened. ‘Go on.’

‘At Kathy’s house you could have killed me, but you knew I couldn’t go to the police because they’d think I had done it. You saw your opportunity to blackmail me.’