The Killing Hour

I pull the jacket closer and reach into the pocket. The knife is slippery from the vomit, but I manage to dig my thumbnail into the small groove of the blade. I think of the game-show host. He tells me if I’m good enough I can still get hold of one of the few remaining prizes up for grabs. He asks me if I’m man enough to do any grabbing.

I extend the blade. I tighten my stomach muscles and reach for the sky. The blade touches the rope and a second later I hit the ground. I gag for air as I try to roll away. My jacket rights itself so I’m wearing it again. Cyris is on his feet coming towards me. I pull my knees to my chest and slice through the noose, separating my ankles. I jump to my feet and land on unsteady legs. I point the knife ahead of me but it’s only a pocket knife and offers little in the way of defending myself. I wish I had the K-bar. The sight of the knife slows him down. He realises he has nothing in his hands except pieces of my vomit. He’s about to change that, though, because he reaches behind his back and I know he’s looking for my Glock. I run at him. The gun appears at the same moment we collide. It goes off, but the bullet fires into the darkness.

My momentum carries us into a tree, just like it did with Detective Inspector Bill Landry moments before he died. Cyris thuds into it, I thud into Cyris and the gun ends up on the ground. He pushes me backwards and catches me with an upper cut. The fresh stars I see make the ones above look pale. He squeezes at my wrist to get the knife. What little strength I have left isn’t enough to stop him wrenching it away. He swings it at me, slicing through the side of my left forearm, exposing the flesh to the warm air.

I take a step back in time to avoid him getting me in the chest, but he gets me in the shoulder instead. The blade is six or seven centimetres long but it feels like I’ve been stabbed with a sword. He turns the blade in the wound. It flares with fresh pain but also makes me feel more alive. I must live. I must save Jo. With the thought of Jo comes more strength.

It’s difficult to swing a fist because my hands are cuffed together but I manage to club him under the jaw. He rocks backwards, leaving the blade in my shoulder. I reach to it and pull. My screams are muffled because my throat is raw, and as the blade drags out the Real World shimmers and darkens, then darkens some more but doesn’t disappear. He punches me in the wound and the knife falls from my hands. My only comfort is that this could all be over if I just close my eyes.

But that’s not the way it’s going to be. Fuck that. Right now, I’m all out of failing.

Or maybe not, because he touches the lighter against my lighter-fluid-soaked jacket.





53


The forest pulses in and out of focus. It’s like looking at the world from inside a water balloon while somebody is pushing and prodding against the sides. Her head aches from the blow she took from Cyris as he dragged her to the car: the epicentre of the pain is the back of her skull. The rope holding her to the tree is also holding her on her feet. When she looks down her brain feels like it’s lying against the back of her eyeballs. But hopefully the rope won’t be around her for too much longer because Charlie has escaped. Thank God.

She holds her breath and wriggles back and forth again, trying to loosen the rope, not prepared to leave her fate up to Charlie and his fighting abilities. The tree tears at her but she doesn’t care. Her vision clears for a few seconds and she watches the two men fight, and then her vision blurs and she tilts her head down as pain washes through her. For a moment she doesn’t know where she is. The waves are arriving every few seconds, washing over her, making her feel ill.

On Monday Charlie told her how he felt walking through these very trees, and now she imagines how it must have been for Kathy. A strong wave hits her, more pain, and her thoughts become muddled beneath the surface. The pain holds her tightly, and when it finally lets go for another handful of seconds, she looks back to see the scene is the same. The outcome of the fight will determine whether she lives or dies. She struggles harder, and when that doesn’t work she tries once more to slip beneath the rope, but it’s too tight and cuts into her breasts as soon as she bends her legs. She moves her feet, trying to rotate further around the tree looking for a hollow that will take the tension away, but she can’t even do that. Her head tilts down. The throbbing is deep inside. The nausea returns. She grits her teeth and waits for it to pass. When it does, the two men are so close to each other it looks like they’re dancing. Charlie’s face is covered in vomit.



Another wave of nausea, and she’s forced to look down as the ground beneath her sways. Through her tears the twigs down there look as though they’re moving, all twisting about and blending into one. When she looks back up, when the pain is gone and she can see again, the scene is no longer the same.

This time Charlie is on fire.





54