The Killing Hour

‘Forty will only get you eighty per cent of her, and I decide which eighty.’


At least he’s sharpening up. ‘Fine,’ I finally say. ‘Fifty grand.’ This isn’t going to come down to money. It’s going to come down to me killing him.

‘Meet me back out at the cabin.’

‘No way.’

‘What?’

‘We three go out there and only you come back. Tell me if I’m wrong. It has to be somewhere more public.’ I’ve been giving it some thought. ‘The pier. New Brighton.’

It seems like a good location. Not too many people, but enough so Cyris won’t try anything. He says nothing as he thinks this through. Jo could already be dead and he just wants the money. Or she could be alive and he’s thinking about the location, about how he has to change his plans. He’s thinking that maybe he won’t be getting the chance to kill us tomorrow night after all. So he’s still saying nothing. But now he’s realising he knows my address, my details. He’s figuring he can kill me later on. In his own time. At his own leisure. He can afford to drive on over one night after mowing his lawns, rip me apart and pick up dinner on the way back. So the idea of a public place isn’t looking too bad. In a public place I can’t try anything against him. In a public place we all walk away alive.

‘Midnight,’ he says.

Only he’s wrong. I’m happy to try something in a public place. I have more to lose than him. Everything to gain.

‘Ten o’clock,’ I counter. ‘More people.’

I wince as I wait for a reply or for the phone to hang up.

‘Don’t forget the money, arsehole. I’ll cut her pretty little head off no matter how many people are around.’

‘Let me talk to Jo.’

‘She’s busy.’

‘I need to know she’s okay.’

‘She’s okay, arsehole.’

‘Let me talk to her or there’s no deal.’

‘Then you’ve just signed her death warrant, partner.’

And with that, he hangs up.





38


Agitated. He knows he’s agitated, and the phone call hasn’t helped. His stomach hurts but so does his head and he wants to lash out, wants to strike out at everything and anything. He grips his stomach and wonders why he ever threw away those painkillers. He contemplates smashing the phone against the edge of the desk but that would accomplish nothing.

In the bathroom he soaks his hands in water, then raises them to his face. He wipes at it, wipes and wipes and his skin is sore, yeah, then wipes those same hands at the mirror. The image remains and he can’t get rid of the pain. The headaches are getting worse. He opens the medicine cabinet but nothing lives in there except aspirin, so he grabs hold of a few, even though they will do little to help. Clenching his fists, he sits on the side of the bath and lifts his shirt. The duct tape across his stomach is covered in dried blood. He chews the aspirin and the taste makes his head spin, but at least he’s focused now on the job at hand, and from his back pocket he takes out the piece of paper with his instructions, with his goals, and the piece of paper helps to remind him that tonight he’s going to be a wealthy man. A wealthy man. Oh yeah.

He tugs at the edge of the duct tape but it’s fastened down, and he wishes he had put some padding beneath it first because now the wound will smile open when he pulls the tape away. He squeezes his hands across his ears. Never in his life has he suffered from headaches, not until Monday. Feldman will have to pay. He’s going to pay in more ways than one.

Cyris pushes himself up from the bath and moves down the hallway. The TV in the lounge is going and his wife is sitting in front of it, like she always does at night. Sometimes she’s oblivious to life. He wonders how she would react if he were to take her into the basement and show her his investment. He wonders how both women would react. He moves past the lounge, his hand pressing against his stomach. He might have to go and get some more pain medication after all but he hates what great amounts of it do to him. He wishes he could go to the hospital.

‘Honey? While you’re up, can you grab me another coffee?’

He turns towards his wife and tells her that it won’t be a problem.

‘Don’t be too long. You’re missing our favourite programme.’