The Killing Hour

The basement is cold, and Jo can’t stop shivering. She’s tired but can’t fall asleep. She’s lost all track of time. It could be noon or it could be dusk. Down here it’s all the same. In this dark place on this concrete floor where the cold seeps slowly and forcefully into her body it’s easy to imagine that it’s permanent midnight. It’s also easy to give up. For a long while now she’s been trying to think of reasons why she shouldn’t, but so far has come up with none. If she just accepts her fate then dying might not be so difficult. Her wrists are hot from where the rope has been chewing into her skin. Will the pay-off come soon? Or has it already happened, and Charlie been killed? Could be Cyris is just keeping her now. Of course if Charlie’s been to the police then there may not be a pay-off at all …


A sound from upstairs: the basement door being unlocked. It opens slowly and light spills into the room. She tries to shield her eyes but rope is holding her hands down. She has to twist her head away and squeeze her eyes shut as a figure makes its way towards her. She knows it’s Cyris —— it can’t be anybody else. She keeps looking away because to look at him is to hate him, and hate only makes her angry, makes her believe she can fight this man, makes her believe she can escape with her life.

The scent of soap and sweat overpower her as he leans down, and a moment later a knife touches the ropes that bind her. He tells her to stand, but her legs give way and she falls on her side. He hisses the command at her again, this time adding the sight of his knife as an incentive. It works, and when she gets to her feet he tosses something at her that she can’t identify until they hit the ground. Handcuffs. Maybe he has a whole drawer full of them. When he tells her to pick them up she doesn’t refuse. The refusal begins when he tells her to put them on. Handcuffed she will be no match for him. He takes a step towards her and she watches his face as anger and insanity blossom behind his eyes, and she realises that handcuffed or not she’s in the same situation. She clips them onto her wrists. The cold metal ratchets into place.

He leads her up the stairs into the hallway. She can hear a radio going somewhere, and in the distance a neighbour is mowing lawns, and somewhere between those two noises a chorus of barking from several dogs. The curtains are drawn but around the edges she can see the dull fading of sunlight. It has to be around six-thirty, maybe seven o’clock, she thinks. Could be the wife has gone out, or has been stuffed into a metal drum and buried in the garden.

He leads her through to the adjoining garage, which looks clinical white under the glow of eight fluorescent tubes. Brand-new tools are hanging neatly on a pegboard. Some, still wrapped in their boxes, are on the bench. It’s as though the tools are for display only, as if Cyris is pretending to a life he doesn’t really have. She wonders who this pretence is for. Then she notices that one of the tools has actually been used: a hacksaw lies on its side, next to a pile of metal shavings. An open box of shotgun shells has been spilled onto its side.

The car is a dark blue four-door sedan, the same type the police use, she realises. Where is her car? He opens the passenger door and orders her in. As he moves around to the driver’s side she contemplates locking the doors, but it’d only keep him out for a few more seconds before he smashed his way in. He climbs in, immediately telling her to shut up, even though she hasn’t said a word. He tells her to be still while they wait for the darkness to arrive. She slowly nods. She’s more scared now than she’s ever been.

Scared of the dark.

Scared of Cyris.

Scared of Charlie.

She says nothing as she waits beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights.





45


The problem with sleep is you never quite know whether the nightmares are real. Bad things are happening. People are dying and I’m the reason, and I can’t seem to wake myself.

I sit up and stare at my bedroom wall where a few slivers of sun rise slowly towards the ceiling. I try to shake the tiredness off but it begs me to stay. My sunglasses have fallen off and are resting on the floor. I use my T-shirt to wipe away sweat that’s layered across my body. I glance at my buzzing alarm clock and the red numbers say it’s time to go to work.

The tiredness starts to fade as I dress in my fatigue gear but the nightmare remains. I put on my vest and load up the pockets. A quick scan in the mirror to make sure everything looks okay tells me nothing is okay. If I show up dressed as GI Joe he’s going to know something’s up. I strip back down and dress more casually. The night is warm but I put on a jacket to conceal my gun, and anyway, it’ll be cold up on the pier. I tuck the Swiss Army knife into my jacket pocket. I drag the money from the ceiling and rest it on the living room table.