The Killing Hour

Only at the end of the day the house always wins.

I vault the low railing that separates the carpark from the footpath and land without the embarrassment of tripping. I break into a jog. Like the mall I was at this afternoon there are diggers and cranes and other building equipment lying around. Skeletons of more carparks and more shops to come look like macabre playground equipment. Mounds of shingle and dirt form small hills. It takes me half a minute to reach the turn where the car disappeared. I crouch down and peer around the corner. I can see Frank’s car but no Frank. Has something happened? The car has its headlights facing me but they’re not on. I keep watching and a few moments later Frank appears from behind his car. He climbs into his seat, pulls the door shut and, keeping the lights off, begins rolling forward. With nowhere to run I lie flat against the ground and watch the car arc around at least fifteen metres away from me so I’m out of sight. It passes and accelerates away. The headlights flick on. He leaves the carpark and pulls out onto the street.

I count to twenty, eager to rush out there but not stupid enough. After spotting no movement I count out another twenty seconds, then make my way to where the car was parked. There is nothing to see and I know I can’t afford to spend much time here. Ahead the neon letters of the supermarket have been switched off to save power. To my left the wall of the mall has been freshly painted, covering up a recent attack by graffiti artists – if you can call somebody who scrawls capital letters across a wall with spray-paint an artist. To my right at the end of the carpark is a neighbouring fence. The supermarket runs almost the entire distance from the mall wall to that fence, except for a service alley at the far end. None of this inlet can be seen from the road. I walk up to the large glass doors of the supermarket. Hundreds of trolleys are parked inside, boxes and bags, the sort of stuff you should see when you look through supermarket windows. Frank got out of his car, moved behind it and came over here. Somewhere.

It only takes me a minute to find the briefcase. It’s sitting in a rubbish bin that’s bolted to the ground a few metres to the left of the supermarket doors. I don’t bother opening it but run back to my rented Holden and spill the contents onto the passenger seat, creating a pile of cash in different denominations. Fresh brand-new bills. A lot of money looks great. It makes you feel rich, like you’ve achieved something. Even if you haven’t. So that’s how I’m feeling. I’m feeling rich for achieving little. I’m feeling rich for achieving a lot of fuck-ups over the last few days. I’m also feeling smarter than Cyris and maybe that’s dangerous. Maybe for once the house isn’t going to win.

But I’m also feeling angry, more at Frank than at Cyris right now. Frank is the reason the two girls died, and therefore the reason that Jo has been kidnapped. It all stems from him squirrelling away this pile of cash and saving it up so his wife could be sliced up and killed. I feel like driving after Frank and running him off the road. Feel like punching and kicking and even stabbing him, over and over and over till he’s dead, at the same time asking him how it feels. What a bastard. What a piece of trash. I can feel myself burning up.



Does it bother me?

Not in the least. The killing hour doesn’t allow for it.

I pop the glovebox and grab hold of the pen the car rental agency guy gave me. Withdrawing a single hundred-dollar note from the pile of cash, I write on it, having to go over the same lines a few times to make the letters dark enough, then place it inside the briefcase. I close the lid and click the latches. It’s much lighter now.