The Killing Hour

‘And?’


‘This sadistic lunatic thing is just a facade to hide what you really are.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘A cold-blooded killer. A paid hitman.’

He puts the hammer and stake onto the ground and starts clapping. A slow patronising round of applause that would make stage actors sick to their stomachs. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says, ‘the one and only Charlie Feldman.’

‘I just hope my handwriting wasn’t too messy on that hundred-dollar note.’



The clapping stops as if some invisible force has just grabbed his arms and frozen them in the air. His lips become a thin scar. They stay that way for a few more seconds before forming into a grin. It becomes the sort of smile I’d expect to see on a demon.

‘You took my money?’

I nod and my body begins to swing around in a small arc.

‘You took the money.’ He starts to laugh, but I doubt he finds it that funny.

‘You killed Frank for nothing,’ I point out.

He seems to think about this. ‘His bad luck, I suppose.’

I guess it was. Just like it was Kathy and Luciana’s bad luck. Just like it’s Jo’s bad luck, and mine. What can you do against it? Carry a four-leaf clover? A gun?

‘Do you know what I had to go through to earn that?’ he asks.

‘I know.’

‘You think it was easy?’

‘I think you enjoyed it.’

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette lighter. He runs his thumb over the metal wheel; it strikes the flint, a few sparks appear, then a flame. He seems pleased with himself. The look on his damaged face suggests he’s taking all the credit for inventing fire. He stands up and walks over to Jo. Her eyes widen and she tries to push herself further into the tree. The miracle of camouflage is no kinder to Jo than it was to Kathy.

‘Leave her alone.’

He doesn’t answer.

‘Leave her alone, you piece of shit.’

He lets the flame go out before stroking her down the side of her neck with the lighter. ‘Your boyfriend here said I could have you any way I wanted, and I doubt your boyfriend is in any position to lie to me.’ Cyris turns to me and winks. ‘As a final favour to you, partner, I’ll let you watch.’

‘I’ll fucking kill you.’

‘You think?’

Yeah, I do think. I start twisting my body. I manage small circles through the air while my arms thrash around ahead of me. I bend from my waist and try to reach my feet, but even if I could there’d be nothing I could do. I throw my limbs back and forth, forcing my joints towards dislocation. My head feels as though it’s about to pop.

Cyris puts the hammer and stake down. ‘This is no good. With you wiggling all over the place, partner, you’re gonna distract me.’

He sparks and revives the flame on his way over to me, swaying it from side to side like a drunken teenager at a rock concert. I keep struggling against the rope.

‘You can’t save her,’ he says.

I know. And it hurts like hell.

He raises his shirt, revealing wet padding and duct tape around his stomach. The padding is red in the middle. ‘You ought to be more careful in the future.’

‘In stabbing people? Or making sure they’re dead?’

‘You think this is a joke?’ he shouts, and I pray that somebody driving by might hear him and come and help. Just like I did the other night. ‘You want to know what dead looks like?’ He sprays more lighter fluid into my nose. ‘Huh?’

My head starts to pound, and seconds later vomit erupts from my mouth, spraying over my nose and eyes, onto my forehead and into my hair. My nose becomes full of it and the taste consumes my mouth, ridding it, at least, from the taste of lighter fluid. I choke as lumps of digested pasta and coffee flow from me, but pieces get lodged in my mouth and throat and stick beneath my tongue. I wipe my hands at my face and, digging my fingers into my mouth, I grab what I can and scoop it out. Cyris pulls himself away and stumbles onto his butt to avoid the mess. He sits there, one hand across his wounded stomach, the other wiping at his face.

I swing in a bigger arc and my limbs come close to breaking. Even though I’m upside down, my hanging jacket isn’t, and vomit starts to pool into the creases and drip into pockets. I can see it pooling in the inside pocket, on top of the Swiss Army knife I bought from Floyd.