The Killing Hour

If the clouds still look like bruised candyfloss the darkness hides it. Night has arrived and with it my fears. I have to hold my watch up to my face and twist it to get some illumination from a streetlight flooding across the hands. It’s quarter past nine.

I move around to the back of the car, open the boot and borrow a stake. I tuck it into the waistband of my jeans. I carved a weapon out of a broom handle and now it’s all I have to protect myself. I’m not sure if I can get any crazier. I close the boot, glance in at Jo and cross the road towards my house.

I step past the gate and climb the two steps to my back door. The first thing I do is turn on the light, then draw the curtains. I head from room to room closing up the entire house, leaving several of the lights burning. When Cyris arrives he’ll think I’m home. I try to put myself into his mind, subjecting myself to his dark thoughts. He’ll figure I’m thinking it’s safe to return since he’s already been at my house.

The last room I close up is my bedroom. I look at the cardboard box and try not to feel intimidated by it – but fail. I can feel it calling me a coward for not opening it. The temptation is there, but so is the fear. The corner of a piece of paper is sticking out from under it. I reach down and tug it out. It’s covered in patches of dried blood. Written across it in Kathy’s handwriting is my name and number. I’d completely forgotten about this. I don’t know whether to feel relieved that it was Cyris who found it and not the police.

A car pulls up outside and a door opens, then closes. I stand motionless, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. I’m like some mindless bunny caught in the headlights of a car, paralysed with confusion and fear. A few moments later knuckles are banging on my door. I pull out the stake and step into the hallway but I don’t want to answer the door because my mortality is going to leave through it. Then the knocking comes back. I’m now Action Man, ready to defend my home and castle. I keep the weapon behind me. Cyris is here.

With my free hand I turn on the outside light.





16


One moment Landry’s sitting in his car watching Feldman’s house, looking at the almost sunset, listening to the fading sounds of the day, and the next moment it’s dark and the streetlights are on and so are all the lights inside Feldman’s home. He sits up and rubs his hands at his eyes. He’s never fallen asleep on a stakeout before. Never. Then again he’s never been on medication either. Jesus, the day turned warm and he got sleepy. What sort of detective is he? The worst, and one who’s tiring easily because he’s dying.

He scrapes tiny pieces of wet gunk from the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep and he can’t remember ever feeling so disappointed with himself. He’s mentally chiding himself when he realises that Feldman is home – that’s all that matters. The killer has returned to continue living the safe life he thinks he has. A life full of urges and freedom.

He guesses he ought to be thankful he didn’t sleep through the night while Feldman came and went. He starts the engine and slowly lets out the clutch, allowing the car to drift up the street. He stops outside the house, grabs his jacket and climbs out. His anger is pulsing like a beacon in his mind as he walks over the grass verge to the footpath. He tucks his keys into his pocket. He can feel the adrenalin coursing through his veins and it worries him because he can’t afford to lose control of his emotions. He looks up and down the street. There are lights on in most of the houses but nobody around. People have settled in for the evening. They’re watching TV and drinking coffee and the realities they face every day are different from his.

He pauses outside the house and sucks in a deep breath, then another and another. He needs to stay calm. He can’t afford to make a mess of things. He straightens his jacket, but doesn’t spend much time trying to get it looking tidy – he isn’t here to sell this man a jail sentence.

He clenches his fists, takes in another deep breath, then walks up the narrow pathway to the front door. When he reaches out to knock he notices for the first time that his hand is shaking. Excitement? Or nerves? He hopes it’s one of those and not the alternative, because the alternative comes with nausea and vomiting. He turns his hands over and watches his fingers as he makes a fist then loosens it off. Something deep inside him feels different to the other times he’s come to haul away bad men for bad deeds. Something he can’t quite recognise. He suspects it arrived last week in his doctor’s office as he watched the minute hand of the clock on the wall shift six degrees closer to the end of his life.

He knocks. Then waits. A minute goes by before he knocks again, then, a few moments later, he sees the shape of somebody moving down the hallway to greet him.





17


Action Man: hold no fear. Action Man: save the world.

‘Who’s there?’ I ask, feeling nothing like Action Man.

‘Mr Feldman?’