The Killing Hour

‘Look, I’m not a killer. You have to believe me.’


‘He tied her up and put her in the boot of his car. That’s a long drive in that condition. A real long drive. That alone could have killed her. There used to be a bath right there,’ he says, pointing to the far corner behind me. ‘No plumbing, just an old tub that suited the décor of this place. He kept her in the boot while he carried buckets to the river that runs about a minute west of here. It had to be close enough so he wouldn’t have to walk far. He filled the bathtub with freezing cold water and he held her down in it. You want to know why?’

‘This is a mistake,’ I say, but he’s off somewhere, living in the past.

‘He didn’t like the fact she was moving on without him. So he drowned her. And then he revived her. And drowned her again. He had her up here for six days, drowning and reviving her until she couldn’t be revived any more. We found him when he came back into the city. He led us here. He’d put her back in the bath. He said he was cleaning her. We took the bath away as evidence and left this cabin standing. You want to know why?’

‘Please, listen to me, you have to let me explain what happened. I didn’t kill them, I tried to save them. I tried to …’

‘It wasn’t cost-effective. That’s what they said. Didn’t want to pay anybody to drive up here with a sledgehammer and knock this shithole down. I haven’t been here since then. And I haven’t seen anything as sick until now. So when you say you understand, that’s bullshit. You don’t understand anything other than how it feels to cause pain.’

He’s wrong about me. Yeah, sure, the world has gone to shit. Everybody hates somebody, nobody likes anybody, people fight for no reason or for every reason. We hear it all the time. The media drums it into us every single day. Only right now I’m in the process of becoming one of those statistics. Sure, Landry feels justified in killing me but I don’t feel justified in dying.

‘Listen, if you’ll just …‘

His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. ‘You’ll get your chance to explain things, Feldman, you’ll get your chance when I’m good and ready, but for now I just need you to be quiet, okay? I need to think.’

‘About what?’

He grits his teeth, and for a moment looks down at his feet. When he looks up again I can see confusion in his eyes. It lasts only a second because he sees me and the anger returns.

‘Q and A, Feldman. You get that? I ask, you answer. So let’s start with a fairly simple one. You think you can handle that?’

I say yes and he seems happy.

‘Who has the gun?’ he asks.

‘You do.’ It’s a big gun. No missing it.

‘Who here is the officer of the law?’

‘You are,’ I say, though at the moment that’s a rather fine distinction to make.

‘Who’s wearing the handcuffs?’

‘I am.’

‘Who’s on trial?’

‘I am.’

‘So who’s asking the questions?’

‘You are.’

‘So you would be?’

I shrug. ‘Answering,’ I say.

‘Are things clear enough?’

‘They’re way too clear.’

‘Good, so you’ll shut up unless I’ve asked you something.’

He lifts the shotgun, crosses his legs, then replaces it. The barrel points at the wall. His hands are shaking slightly. We both notice this at the same time. I want to tell him he’s not only drawn the wrong conclusions, but also painted an entirely wrong picture. I want to tell him he’s a lunatic.

I raise my left hand to my jaw – my right follows because of the handcuffs. I move slowly because I don’t want Landry misinterpreting any movement as a violent attempt to attack him. My jaw is throbbing. I’m lucky he didn’t dislocate it. After a few minutes of silence he continues.

‘I’ve brought a Bible along, Feldman. It’s in my bag. I’d offer it to you to swear upon but I think it would be pointless.’ His eyes narrow and he sweeps his hand through his grey hair. ‘I know what it’s like to no longer believe in God and I can’t imagine you ever did.’

I’m thinking the same thing. My life seems to have gone back to that game show, only now up for grabs is the opportunity to kill me, and it seems everybody is banging on their buzzer to have a turn. I wonder who the game-show host is then realise it’s my new friend Evil.

He crouches forward in his chair. ‘What do you believe in, Feldman?’

‘A fair trial.’

He gives what sounds like a nervous laugh, then starts picking at a stain on his right knee but only smudges it wider. He keeps itching at it then looks up at me, expressionless.

‘You’re nothing more than a stain, Feldman.’