The Killing Hour

‘Just like a baby through a windscreen,’ I say.

I make to punch him with both hands but instead I kick him in the balls. He doubles over and now I do throw my fists into his face. Into his mouth. I feel a few more things go crunch and I savour the sound. I cup my hands behind his neck and pull his face into my knee. The damage is far greater than I could have achieved with my fists. He takes a step back. I stare at him – he’s not a monster, he’s a machine – but then he collapses into a heap.

I crouch next to Jo and put my hand on the handle of the knife. I need it.

‘This is for you, Jo.’

‘Charlie?’

‘Jo?’

‘It hurts, Charlie. It hurts so much.’

‘Thank God. You’re going to be okay. Okay? God. You hear me? Jo?’

‘Charlie?’

She needs medical attention and I need to stop wasting time looking at her. I begin examining the knife. I want to pull it out but basic first aid tells me that’s a hell of a bad idea. Never remove the foreign object unless absolutely necessary. So I find the tyre iron instead. I turn it over in my hands as I walk over to Cyris. I don’t bother to offer him a smile or a last request or a final witticism.

Action Man, do your thing.

I crash the socket into the front of Cyris’s face, then into the side of his head, over and over and over. This man, so much bigger than me, so much stronger, so evil, now lies shuddering in front of me. I feel no pity for him. Only revulsion. He lurches upwards, his throat gargling as blood bubbles from his mouth. He starts to convulse. I hit him again. The wound on the side of his head looks like a sliced oyster.

Death is in the air. He has been here all night, perhaps all week, but now he touches my sweaty face and whispers farewell. Don’t lose yourself. Kathy’s words come back to me. Don’t lose your humanity.

I hit him again, and again, and again. Harder each time. His skull cracks open loudly in several places. The tyre iron on occasions gets lodged in a hole. Blood arcs in the air, and when I’m done I’m covered in it; it’s warm and sticky and the stench is all around me. I search his pockets for the handcuff keys. He doesn’t try to stop me. Doesn’t try to do anything, because it’s all over for him now.

Don’t lose your humanity.

I use the torch and find the rest of the lighter fluid. I empty the tin on him, then use his own lighter to set him ablaze. He starts popping. Like meat on a spit. I guess that’s all he is now.

Jo remains silent the whole time. I see a woman who shows no disgust at what I’m doing. We watch Cyris burn and it feels good. He doesn’t move. We say nothing. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The game show is ending. The purple light of the killing hour is here. Evil has gone. He is not dead, but he has forgotten my name.

I look up, sensing that Kathy and Luciana are watching me, but I can’t see them as I carry Jo to the car.





ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


Things have been crazy — in a good way — between the time The Cleaner went to print and the time I’m writing these acknowledgements. I have many wonderful friends who have supported me along the way, and this is my chance to let them know how grateful I am — plus with their names in print they’ll buy more copies as family Christmas presents.

Again Dan Myers takes most of the credit for shaping The Killing Hour to its potential. Dan is my number-one fan and critic, agent, and friend. His sick humour and pep talks have kept me functioning as a writer over the years. I’ll substitute him with alcohol over the remaining ones. This book, and the following ones, all stem from the work he has put into the novels. I’d like to thank Rebecca Kary for her help, and Anna Rogers whose editing helped me avoid a huge hazard.

Paul Waterhouse and his wife Tina have read my manuscripts at various stages and have stayed my friends anyway. Daniel and Cheri Williams have kept me encouraged from afar. And I thank David Batterbury, whose encouragement encroaches on stalking as he comes by the house to pick up writing that is only hours old. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if you guys weren’t in it. Also Amanda Harris, who explained a few things to me about women so I could write from their perspective — but it all seemed a little complicated so I made it up.

I’d like to thank Nathan and Samantha Ambrose who were at the bookstore to buy The Cleaner before it was even out of the box. Aaron Fowler, Joseph Purkis, David Mee, Kim McCarthy and Philip Hughes (Dr Phil) for reading various pieces of writing in various forms. Nicky Covich and Gill Watson for bribing their friends to buy more copies. Jo Richards (Oddgy) who would crinkle up the manuscripts and return them all out of order and who took an author photo that everybody says makes me look ‘psycho’. Ray-Charles Smading, whose disturbed humour makes him the sickest (and funniest) man I know.