The Killing Hour

She flashes me her first genuine smile since I tied her up and kidnapped her. ‘Exactly.’


I gun the engine, put the duffel bag in my lap and start my three-point turn. It takes me around six or seven points to do it. We head back up the track and quickly come across Cyris’s car – a white Honda. Seeing my car tells me two things. First, when Cyris went through my house he learned about Jo. Second, he figured out what our plans were for tonight. He went to her house, possibly ransacked it, and found my car in her garage. He somehow got my car started, then watched the watchers.

I try to imagine his state of mind when he saw me being arrested. Was he happy or pissed off? I don’t know. I don’t even know if Cyris has a state of mind. What I do know is his plans were altered. With nothing else to do he followed.

‘What if he’s in there?’ I ask.

‘He won’t be in there. If he’d made it back he would come to the cabin.’

‘I guess.’ I open my door. ‘Lock up behind me.’

‘Charlie?’

I lean down and look back in. ‘Yeah?’

‘Don’t forget what we discussed earlier.’



‘The police. Right. We’ll go right there. I promise.’

I close the door and run to my car, fishing for my keys, which I’ve taken from my wet jeans. The rain starts to soak me but I don’t care. I pause and look back to make sure she’s locking her doors. She is. Her headlights blind me, leaving coloured flashes streaking across my vision. I fumble my door open, rubbing my eyes with my fingers, trying to arrange the colours back into some type of sensible order. I lock my door. There’s a generic-looking Honda key in the ignition. I pull it out and use my own to start the car. I turn the lights on, shining them at Jo. Hers are shining right back. I turn my heater on full, aiming the air at my feet and face. I try to get into reverse gear but my hand is wet and it slips off. I wipe it across the passenger seat, then try again. This time it works. I twist around to look out the back window.

At the same time Cyris pops the back seat down and crawls out of the boot.





32


Money makes the world go around. It makes it, yeah, it makes it, yes it does, and money is the reason he’s here doing this, doing any of this, and if he can focus on money then this situation can end up exactly as he planned. It can be different from this nightmare he’s been trapped in since the knife tore up his innards.

Money.

His head hurts, the world spins quicker than he can, and his stomach throbs. The duct tape pulls at the skin and he wonders if he’s infected, yeah, infected, and he needs to take the medication but the medication is … The medication is somewhere, but it only helps to numb the pain. It doesn’t heal the wound, it doesn’t cure him or make last Monday go away. He wants revenge, revenge and money, and it’s hard to know which he wants more.

‘Start driving,’ he says, and pushes the gun towards Charlie.

His head seems to be clearing. Not much, but enough to know this isn’t all about killing people. He knows he’s capable of speech, capable of command, knows that with the shotgun he has the power to get exactly what he wants.

‘I said start driving, arsehole.’

He hid in the back of the car like a bug, out of sight, with the shotgun, and boy, what a good plan, a great plan, and he’s so pleased with himself he’s smiling and starting to laugh, but he must hold back the laughter, must cling to the excitement but not let it take him over.

Charlie starts to nod and he wonders what sort of mess he would make inside the car if he were to start shooting people. People? There’s only Charlie. Anyway, the shotgun won’t shoot anything in its current condition.

Something digs into the side of his hip. He adjusts his position and digs his fingers into his pocket. Bracelets? Metal ones. With a chain running between them. And blood all over them. A key is sitting in one of the locks. A key that was in his satchel that he’d left on the passenger seat.

He thinks about the money. He wonders what a suitcase full of money would look like if he were to shoot a hole in the middle of it. Would it turn into confetti? Would it turn into loose change? A suitcase of money. Just think … just think how it would feel to run his fingers through all those loose bills …

And then he remembers! Money. He has a suitcase full of money at home! No, no he doesn’t, but he does have a suitcase full of money owing to him. Or maybe a briefcase. All of this was for money. Money is the reason he got stabbed, it’s the reason he wants revenge. In his mind he can picture part of the note he wrote to himself and he remembers that he has to pick up the money, so really he doesn’t need Charlie at all.

Charlie is reversing now and he finds a spot where he can turn the car around.

‘Don’t try anything,’ Cyris says, and Charlie shakes his head. Does that mean he doesn’t understand? Or that he disagrees? Or that he won’t try anything?

When they reach the motorway he tells Charlie to put his foot down.