The Killing Hour

Our meeting is over two and a half hours away so I get something to eat. I grab a packet of instant pasta from the cupboard. Just add water and a microwave and eight minutes of my time. My sort of cooking. I sit down at the table in the silence of my house and slowly eat it, thinking of dead men walking towards gas chambers after their last meal. Maybe I should have cooked something better. A roast dinner, or I could have ordered pizza or Chinese. The pasta tastes okay, but I think with my current appetite even a gourmet meal would taste bland. I dump the dishes in the sink and I’m about to wash them when I realise it’s pointless. I could be dead by tomorrow.

I grab the gun and slip it inside my jacket, sliding the magazine in next to it. I take a handful of extra bullets and drop them into a different pocket. They click against each other as I walk. I probably won’t need the extras. If I can’t kill him with the first seventeen shots there won’t be much hope of killing him with the following seventeen. I grab the rest of my gear, including a torch, some rope and Landry’s handcuffs. For a few moments I picture Detective Inspector Bill Landry’s corpse turning grey in the dirt somewhere between the river and the cave where he tried to shoot me. Only he probably isn’t turning grey. He’s probably turning a colour I don’t ever want to see. Something between white and purple. His eyes open and milky white as the sun beats down on him. His skin will be slipping off, his body bloating, the insects will be …

I can feel my pasta starting to move in my stomach. I turn my imagination away from Landry and turn my attention to Cyris. I’m planning on killing Cyris, for sure, that’s Plan A, but I’m also planning on getting him tied up and taking him to the police. That’s Plan B. I don’t know which I like more.

I load the money into a dark blue canvas bag, which I put into the back of the car. It’s still early, but I can’t bring myself to wait around here. I leave for New Brighton over an hour ahead of schedule. I drive slowly but still get there early. The sun is a dying ball of liquid orange.

I lock the money up in the car, then head up the sandy steps towards the pier. The library is closed, the lights off. There are few fishermen still on the pier, some punks. I walk among them, making eye contact, strolling boldly. They look at me and look away. They can feel, as I do, the change within me, and they sense this the same way a dog senses fear. These creatures only pick on unarmed individuals, and then only when they’re in a bunch.

I stand at the end of the pier and gaze out at the water. It’s rougher than it was this afternoon and the vibrations through the concrete are stronger. The air tastes of salt, and the cold breeze tastes of forgotten times. I turn my back to the water and lean against the rail. I watch the sun as it tries to hang onto the day, but it can’t defy nature; it slips away and then it’s gone. I make my lonely way back to the car.

Beware: Action Man is here.

At five minutes to ten I grab the canvas bag and the rest of my gear, and head back up the sandy steps. The brief thought crosses my mind that this could be my last time walking up here, that tomorrow somebody will have to carry me down, or fish me out of the water. The wind is stronger now and the waves are smashing below. At the top I rest against the railing and stare out at the lights of the city. They represent life and activity —— and so much ignorance. The pier is empty now and this suits me fine. It will also suit Cyris. I walk to a rubbish bin a hundred metres away and stuff the rope and torch into it on top of half a dead fish. I keep the gun in my pocket. The wind is making my eyes water. I turn towards the road and I wait.

The killing hour is coming early tonight.





46


He likes to drive in silence because silence is golden. His mind is humming a bunch of thoughts he can’t decipher, and they’re being hummed in a tune he doesn’t recognise, a tune he thinks could possibly be from some sitcom he watches with his wife, the type of show where all the characters recycle the same plot every six months. He hates the sound, it hurts, and there’s nothing golden about that at all.

He pulls the car over and kills the ignition. When he looks at the woman he wonders how she would taste if he bit into her. The hate between them would surely make her taste sour. She’s looking at him, looking at him, looking at him as if he’s crazy, and he hates that look. He raises a hand to his head and he squeezes his fingers into the bone just above his ear, and the headache softens for a moment, only a moment. There’s a high-pitched sound in his ears that he can’t seem to shake. When he pulls his fingers away the headache comes back, as it always comes back. His stomach is okay, his stomach is fine, and though his head may hurt at least it’s clear enough for him to do what he came here for. He can remember everything. Better yet, he can understand it.

He pulls the woman out of the car and locks it before pushing her into the Mazda. He hates this car: maybe when all this is over he’ll burn it. Maybe he’ll burn it with her in the boot. Or tied to the passenger seat. He’ll mull it over. He’ll have time.