The Killing Hour

Killing out here where nobody can see him is the perfect way to end all of this, but it’s also a cheap way. His mind races for another solution, a solution that equals gain, a solution that isn’t so cheap or slippery. He’s aware he’s just stood on a hedgehog but it wasn’t really his fault, not really, not when it’s so dark out here.

He starts to laugh. Stupid hedgehog. Stupid thing deserved to die.

He starts to cry. He can’t help it. The hedgehog was innocent but maybe it died happy, so he starts to laugh again. Maybe it died doing what it loved most – getting stood on. He laughs and starts to think of the two dead women. He thinks back to Monday morning and things were going fine, so fine, and the night was nicer than this, there was no rain and plenty of night, plenty that couldn’t go wrong but seemed to anyway, and Monday came before the drugs could take away the pain of it all. Two pills a day became two an hour, but thank God, yeah, thank God they’re not damaging his mind, but he can’t be sure, not sure at all, and he pictures his mind working like a washing machine, the thoughts tumbling, no, spinning — it’s the dryer that tumbles, and then Charlie came along and ruined everything. Things weren’t fine at all and the plan had to change and he isn’t one to enjoy change, but things worked out in the end, oh yes they did. Only he has to take all these painkillers and the headaches come and go but they never really go, but things are working out. Right now things couldn’t really be any better. It would be better if he could remember what star-sign he is and this bothers him more than anything else. His stomach hurts too. Cancer?

No. Gemini.

You are in control, he tells himself, you are in control, Cyris, so now what? He counts one policeman here who needs to die so maybe he ought to start there because there’s no use for the policeman. In fact the exact opposite is true because there are several uses for a dead policeman. He looks at Charlie and he looks at the woman and he smiles his smile of relief. Everything’s under control, everything’s going to work out fine, but he should never have doubted that, and he never will doubt it again, and his stomach is throbbing, and he can feel the duct tape across his skin and the duct tape is grey, but it’s red too because of the blood.

He tightens his grip on the shotgun. He doesn’t know the brand and doesn’t care. It could be Russian or American but they all do the same thing at this range. He doesn’t pull the trigger because he wants to gain something, though he doesn’t know what it is. He has a feeling that he was meant to be given something after killing those two women and he’s forgotten, even though he wrote that reason down and stored it inside his pocket the moment he realised his thoughts weren’t what they ought to be. At least he thinks he wrote down the right thing because he wrote it on Monday afternoon after he started taking the pills. He wants to get it out and read it but the rain will soak it. He needs to think. He needs to remember. Having ink running down his fingers won’t help at all.

He covers the three people with the shotgun and the policeman doesn’t look that healthy. Perhaps the painkillers Cyris has been taking will help the policeman, but Cyris only wants to help himself, and he keeps trying to tell himself to think things through, to think things through, to think about a gain, a goal, and a small voice in his mind suggests this could all be for money.

He opens his mouth to talk and cold air rushes down his throat and for a few seconds his mind starts to focus. He has to concentrate now so he can form the words but maybe he ought to just shoot everybody instead.





26


Cold rain. Cold wind. One psycho with a gun. Then another psycho with a gun.

Is there something here I’m missing?

‘You remember me, part … partner?’

I remember everything while saying nothing.

‘What a show. I would clap but my hands are blue.’

He looks at the package I’m carrying and all I can think about are his blue hands. He must mean they’re cold. I guess.

‘Caught yourself a pig?’

Landry starts to moan.

‘Put, down, put him down, down, down,’ Cyris says.

I get the point. I crouch and hoist Landry over my head so he lands in front of me. I don’t really try to be gentle but I make sure he doesn’t land on his head. I stand up but don’t back away. Instead I slowly move towards Jo. Cyris doesn’t ask me to stop. He seems to be enjoying himself. Why wouldn’t he? I’m the only guy out here tonight who hasn’t actually had any fun. When I’m next to Jo he scampers over to the cop and kneels next to him.

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ he says to Landry. ‘Funny hah, hah, funny you brought him out here into the summer, funny because you forgot me, forgot all about me.’

‘Cyris,’ Landry says, and it’s all he can manage.