The Killing Hour

Monday is ending and I’m as scared as hell. The air is heavy with hayfever – I can feel it crawling into the back of my nose. A light breeze comes through the open window but nothing is normal on this normal night because I know what’s really out there. I know about the Real World. I’ve seen some of its secrets, some of its pleasures, some of its evils. I glance at my watch and see I’ve been at Jo’s for an hour. My unfinished coffee is cold and its surface has developed a skin. The ghosts are back, and though I cannot see them I know they’re nearby. They always will be. I stand up and close the window.

Jo’s backyard begins to shimmer. The trees become Dali’s trees. The grass grows and turns brown. The flowers disappear and become patches of stinging nettle. Suddenly I’m back there trying to find a woman I didn’t know. I was halfway to the trees when she screamed. I ran forward, the keys in my pocket swinging back and forth. I put my hand down to mute them.



It’s easy to see where I went wrong. My first mistake was thinking I could help. I was still living in the same world where the tiny forest of trees had been planted, but the world they had grown into was the Real World. There were no flashing bells, lights or whistles to signify my crossing over, only darkness and a small forest where Death waited and Evil waited and where I would soon wait with them.

The screaming ended and I didn’t know why. I could hardly see a thing. Twigs snapped beneath my feet. Branches scraped my arms and tried to hold me back, tried to save me. My foot wedged beneath a root and I fell. The tyre iron bounced into the darkness.

The stillness among the trees carried his laughter to me and it took me a few seconds to realise it wasn’t directed at me. Behind the laughter came soft sounds of whimpering. I couldn’t see her but I knew how she looked. She would be bloody, her clothes torn and her skin grazed and ripped. It made me angry. I got to my feet and continued on until I came to the small clearing.

A torch leaning on the ground pointed at her. She was fully dressed, bound to a thick tree by thick rope. Her blouse was ripped open, revealing a bra with a broken strap. She wasn’t gagged but she wasn’t talking either.

The man had long black knotted hair, which covered the side of his face, and a tan that was comparable to a skeleton. He was a solid guy, maybe around two metres. On the ground was a satchel. He crouched and unzipped it. He pulled out a knife and tossed it in the air catching it by the blade. Then he dragged it from his fist so it sliced into him. He pumped his hand so that blood ran from the cut. Then he walked his bloody fingers over her face. He cut her remaining bra strap and the speed at which he handled the knife was frightening.



I was about to move forward when he started speaking, scratching at the side of his face with talon nails. He asked how she wanted it. She shook her head and tried pressing herself into the tree, tried to make herself invisible against the trunk. He grunted something, then bent down and returned the knife to the satchel before pulling out a metal stake and a hammer. I focused on his torch. It looked like it might weigh about the same as the tyre iron I’d lost. It was a long shot but it was all I had to work with.

He mumbled again before putting his hands on his hips and thrusting his pelvis forward. I felt an anger I’d never felt before building up inside of me. I wanted to hurt him. A lot. I felt like I was in some bizarre game show and up for grabs were all these prizes: heroism, fame, maybe even a movie. If I failed the fame would be unknown and short-lived, and I wouldn’t even be a dead hero. I would just be dead and the game-show host wouldn’t even pronounce my name correctly.

Then he started laughing. He told her she could scream all she wanted, that he wanted her to scream. He swore constantly. It was then that I heard his name. Cyris. It made me think of country singers and cowboy boots and bad haircuts.

‘You need to go to the police,’ Jo says, bringing her backyard into focus after I tell her what happened. I turn away from the window and stare at her. I’ve lost track of how many times she’s told me now. I just wish she could come up with a new angle. ‘You have no choice.’

I think about the way the bodies were found. I think about racing through the streets of Christchurch. ‘They won’t believe me.’

‘You think I do?’



‘Don’t you?’

Jo looks down at her coffee cup. It’s the kind of body language only a blind person could miss. Her cup is empty but there must be something awe-inspiring in it because she doesn’t look up at me for another minute. When she does her eyes are brimming with tears.

‘I believe you, Charlie. I believe you had something to do with their deaths.’