The Killing Hour

Sometimes Cyris makes sense, but it’s the random comments that frighten her most. When he asked if she knew how his hedgehog was feeling she had sat silently, confident that any reply would be the wrong one. Occasionally he would clutch at his stomach, and she wondered if there was a chance of grabbing the gun off him, but if she tried and failed then failure around a guy like this was certainly going to be unpleasant. He is sick, wounded – Charlie was sure he’d stabbed him, and the way Cyris has been clutching himself is evidence of that. Is he doped up? His eyes are bloodshot and his hands have been shaking a lot. If he’s on medication it might mean he’s ready to snap at any moment, but it might also mean he could forget he has her locked up in his basement.

The house she’s tied up in, the house she could die in, isn’t the run-down hellhole she’d thought it would be. She’d conjured up images of a Unabomber shack, a dilapidated slum property with flaking paint, holes in the plaster and the windows boarded up. There would be the smell of death and decay and of countless others who had breathed hard with fear near the end. That’s what the house would be like – and she’s frightened that it isn’t. Frightened to find normality in a home that’s five years old at the most. Coming through the house looking at the carpets and the walls and the general décor she could see it had a woman’s touch. A few nice paintings. Small knick-knacks. And everything was tidy, like a show home. Is it possible Cyris doesn’t live alone? It would explain why he wanted her to be so quiet. Or maybe he has women tied up in all of the rooms. Or perhaps this isn’t even his house.

The basement is cold – the concrete floor is uncarpeted. She’s resting in the corner with her hands tied behind her and her feet tied ahead of her. There’s a coil of rope wrapped around her body. It holds her against a large drum that she prays isn’t full of human body parts or the acid to dissolve them. Maybe that’s the smell she can’t identify. Tossed over her is a blanket from which she can draw no warmth.

The ropes bite into her wrists. She can feel blood. Are there any rats down here with her? The scent of her blood will have them creeping along, creeping along, their noses twitching and their tiny paws scratching at the concrete. Any second now whiskers are going to brush against her hands, little claws will dig into her legs, small teeth will chew at her fingers, gnawing away skin, tearing through flesh …

She squeezes her eyes shut, she forces herself to think of Charlie, to forget about the rats, to forget about Cyris.

To forget about what might happen over the next few hours.





36


I wake up in the afternoon into a dark world full of sunshine and without the aid of ghosts. My room is stuffy with stale air and my head is full of bad dreams. I climb from beneath the blankets. The cold hot water bottle is on the floor. I have slept on a bed that less than a day ago held a body part. The storm has passed and when I look out my window, it’s as though it never happened. I wish I could say the same thing about everything else in my life. I stare out at the warm day and wonder how much longer summer is going to hang around. It’s a question nobody can ever answer.

My body feels okay until I try to walk. When I do, my jaw starts throbbing. I can barely turn my head, my neck is so stiff. Every muscle in my arms, legs and chest is tender. I turn on the radio and tune into a news bulletin. Some woman talks about the police investigation but she says nothing new. The same old guy who gave yesterday’s weather report comes on and says it will be fine all day. I wonder what he means.

I stagger through the house and head for the bathroom. I stand in the shower for twenty minutes trying to loosen up. I’ve been spending way too much time lately showering. Too much time in the woods. Too much time bitching about why life can’t be better, why the Real World must be so goddamn real. I study myself in the mirror when I get out. My jaw is puffed up and swollen. My neck is dark blue on the left. My eyes are bloodshot. The bump on my forehead isn’t looking any smaller. I have dozens of tiny stone chips on my face from the boulder that Cyris shot. I study the back of my head with my fingers. Several valleys and mountains there from my journey down Cold River. It’s like following a map to hell.