The Killing Hour

My wrists are hurting. I try to make myself more comfortable but it’s impossible. Time starts slipping by. Just a casual drive through the city. But maybe we’re taking the long way because we don’t seem to be arriving anywhere. I recognise the streets but we just seem to be going around and around in circles, looping the edges of the city as if Detective Inspector Bill Landry of the Christchurch Police Department doesn’t know where he’s going. Or he’s stalling for time, trying to figure something out.

‘Why are we driving in circles?’ I ask, but he doesn’t answer. ‘Hey? Are we going somewhere or not?’

‘I haven’t decided.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I haven’t decided.’

‘Decided on what?’

‘You have the right to remain silent. You ought to use your rights.’



I start to use them because the alternative is pissing him off. We begin another run around the city. We skirt the edges of town where property looks rough but is usually expensive because of its location. The loop starts to get wider. We begin hitting the outer edges of suburbs. Different economic diversities. Nice homes. Nice people. Bad homes. Bad people. We keep driving. We end up going west, right out of the city.

‘Where are we going?’

He doesn’t answer. The bright lights of the city start to dim the further we get.

‘Come on, Inspector. Where in the hell are we going?’

‘You have the right to remain silent.’

‘You said that already.’

‘Then I must really mean it.’

‘Are we going to a different police station?’

He doesn’t answer, just stares ahead.

‘Hey, are we going to a different police station?’ I repeat.

‘We’re skipping that part, Feldman.’

I pull at the handcuffs but the only thing I achieve is pain in my wrists. Surely nothing in this direction can possibly relate to this homicide investigation.

‘Skipping what part?’

‘We’re heading straight to trial.’

Away from the city trial has an ominous kind of sound to it that could see me hanging from a tree and swinging in the breeze. I keep looking out the window, trying to figure out where we’re going – as if it actually matters, as if the location is the relevant point here and not the fact that Landry is crazy. Twenty minutes pass silently. Just the hum of the motor and the slight clinking coming from my handcuffs as I change position. I can’t lean back because the pull on my wrists is too strong. My lower back starts to get sore. The first drops of rain splash lightly on the roof, slowly, at first, then in a constant thick patter. Landry turns on the wipers – wubwud, wubwud.

I wonder what was in that box.

Soon there isn’t much to see out the window. We’ve been driving for an hour now, and all I’m looking at are black hills. The only sound is the constant, cruising drone of the engine. We hit the hour fifteen mark. An hour thirty. I try making conversation, but Landry keeps telling me to shut up. Two hours and it’s just long straight roads and no car lights ahead or behind us. I close my eyes and ride it out in silence. It’s all I can do. Finally the tyres start bumping over a gravel road and we come to a skidding halt. Landry steps out, shifting the weight of the car so it bounces up slightly. He swings open a chain-link fence. I can hear its hinges squeak over the noise of the rain. They sound like a coffin lid being pried up. I have large red indentations around my wrists visible under the car’s interior light. As the skin swells the cuffs get tighter.

Landry comes back, water dripping from his jacket and ears. He throws me a curious glance before climbing into the car, looking at me as if I’m nothing but shit. He continues to drive, not bothering to stop and shut the gate. The gravel peters out as the surface becomes dirt. The back wheels spin occasionally as they fail to find traction in the mud. The driveway becomes bumpier and painful because every small bounce is amplified through my wrists. Soon we come to another stop. He kills the engine and the only sound is the rain. I peer out the window. Ahead of me are trees. To my left and right only darkness.

Landry climbs out. He leaves the interior light on, making it difficult for me to look outside as my reflection continually gets in the way. I stare at it as if it’s another person who can help me, but it’s only somebody else who’s letting me down. Landry disappears. I keep glancing at my watch as if time is suddenly my greatest ally. My arse is sore, my back is throbbing and my neck is stiff. My arms and legs are cramping, especially my shoulders. My headache is back.