The Killing Hour

Cyris is more than a mere monster. He’s a paid killer. A man who takes his job seriously enough to take on a completely different role. As horrid as it is, I can appreciate the cleverness in his process. The police are looking for some deranged lunatic because Cyris was a deranged lunatic in those early Monday hours.

What role is he trapped in now?

We pass a reflective sign extended out over the highway from a large white pole. Christchurch is only sixty kilometres away. We’ll be there in well under an hour. I slide the heater control to the little picture of feet and kick off my shoes. I jam my toes as far as I can towards the air while still being able to push on the accelerator. I’ve thawed out slightly. The ice in my veins is melting. The fear isn’t.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing.’ I keep on driving.



‘You’ve got two days,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Didn’t I make myself clear? Are you an idiot?’

‘Humour me.’

‘Two days. Forty grand. I’m sure you can arrange that.’

‘Sure.’

‘Speed up, I don’t want to be out here all night.’

I speed up and the headlights in my mirror get smaller.

‘Faster!’

I push my foot down and Jo’s headlights soon disappear. Ahead of us the two eastbound lanes of the motorway narrow into one. The road winds around a bit but the view doesn’t change – just paddocks and more paddocks. When Cyris tells me to pull over I don’t question him. I slow down, braking and changing down gears. I need more time to think. I can’t let him out of the car. Can’t let him get hold of Jo.

The car slows to a crawl. I start steering into the left lane.

‘Pull over off the right lane.’

I do just that. A moment later I bring the car to a complete stop. Jo’s maybe half a minute away. I twist in my seat, ready to unclip my seatbelt and fight for survival, and I’m just in time to see his big hairy fist coming at me. My head rocks back but the seatbelt stops me from going anywhere. Everything goes dark; the colours flare behind my eyes for maybe the hundredth time this week and I’m left to wonder if those colours will ever go away. When they dissolve I start looking for Cyris. He’s already outside, slamming the passenger door closed. I go to open my door and my right arm stops painfully short. Handcuffs hold me to the steering wheel.

Landry’s cuffs.



Christ. I’m living in a world of déjà vu.

Cyris taps on the window with the barrel of his gun. I look out and see him waving my car keys at me. His scraggly beard moves as he grins. I swear at the windscreen spraying a fine mist of obscenities across the glass. At the same time I tug on the handcuffs, going through the same motions I went through earlier tonight and getting the same results. My wrist is already swelling.

I unclip the seatbelt and reach for the door handle with my left arm, pulling on it, then push the door with my foot. I turn my body so I can stand. My right arm stays inside the car, the handcuffs stopping me from standing straight. Cyris is moving off the opposite side of the road just as Jo comes around the bend. Past the shoulder is some long grass that he ducks behind. I stand as tall as I can, the handcuffs pulling my skin and hurting the bone, and I wave erratically at her so she knows there’s trouble. But she’s thinking maybe flat-tyre trouble, or engine trouble. Just not Cyris trouble. Because she pulls over and stops. She can’t hear my yelling over her idling car and the falling rain. She unbuckles her seatbelt and climbs out.

‘Go!’ I shout, waving at her with my left arm. ‘Get out of here!’

She’s facing me and there’s enough light from our two cars for me to see her face. Puzzlement turns to horror because she suddenly knows what’s happening. Horror turns to indecision because she doesn’t want to leave me here, but nor does she want to face Cyris. She takes a small pace forward but not enough to commit herself to running over and helping. Any further decision she could make is taken away from her as Cyris explodes from the long grass behind her.



‘Looks like we’re having ourselves a reunion,’ he shouts. He moves slowly towards us, then stops between the headlights of Jo’s car. ‘Your boyfriend here owes me money,’ he says. ‘Forty grand to be specific. He said I could look after you until he can get it. It’s like layby.’ He takes a few steps towards me. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘Fuck you.’

He says nothing, just turns towards Jo with the barrel of Landry’s shotgun pointing at her face. She doesn’t look scared or intimidated but I don’t doubt that she is.

‘The plan’s simple,’ he says. ‘You give me the money and she gets to live. You take too long with the funds, I teach her about suffering. You get my point?’

I want to kill him so badly that it hurts. I grit my teeth and my eyes are burning and I see a shade of red that can only be blood. I want to take the gun from his hands and use it to club his head into the motorway. I want to run over his twitching corpse.

‘For forty grand,’ Cyris continues, ‘you can have her back. It’s the money you owe me, partner, for screwing me the other night.’

‘I’ll get it, okay? You can let her go and take me instead. We can go to the bank in the morning and I can get you the cash.’