The Killing Hour

The fire is on me and there isn’t a thing I can do about it. There has to be something I can say to stop all of this, to take all of this back, to make it as if it never happened, but it seems … seems that isn’t going to happen.

The flames chew my jacket, rising hungrily upwards, and I reach out to wave them further away from me. Jo is forgotten now, and Cyris, and Kathy and Luciana. The fire has taken me to another world, and this world looks a hell of a lot like hell. I know hell is other people, but it’s not – it’s just two people, Cyris and me. I flap my arms and pat at the flames, burning my fingers. The handcuffs keep digging into my wrists.

I drop to the ground and start rolling. I tear at the jacket, the pain in my stabbed shoulder and forearm doing nothing to slow me down. I manage to pull it upwards, sliding it and the fire over my head. It singes my hair and I force my eyes shut as the tears inside them seem to boil. Then the jacket’s off my head and on my arms where I’m able to push it only as far as the handcuffs. I start kicking at it, stomping it into the ground, the flames finding the lighter fluid on my jeans. I push my feet at the jacket. The fire has weakened it enough to tear apart. It leaves me with gloves that have huge tassels on the end. Tassels of fire. I kick at them, smudging them into the dirt. The technique works and the flames disappear. Red embers flicker from the material.

Cyris is laughing at me as if I’m the funniest thing in the world. Perhaps I am. But it’s hard to concentrate when you’re laughing, hard to stay focused. So I turn and run. I run hard and fast into the darkness where I quickly get lost. I can hear Cyris crashing through the trees after me. A moment later I’m flying through the air. I’m not sure whether I’ve tripped or been pushed, but my hands and jacket dig into the ground. I look over my shoulder. Cyris is holding my knife.

‘I prefer it like this,’ he grumbles, but I don’t think he does. I think he preferred back when he hadn’t been stabbed in the stomach or set on fire.

He starts dragging me back the way we came, probably so he can kill me in front of Jo. I dig my fingers into the dirt, looking for something I can use to fight him with. Leaves, twigs, moss, grass — nothing helpful. No branches, no rocks, just a whole lot of nature and …

My fingers wrap around a cold solid item, something L-shaped, something heavy and metal with a socket at one end. At the edge of the clearing Cyris lets go and leans down over me.

‘I’m going to enjoy this, partner.’

‘I doubt it.’ I swing the tyre iron, using my elbows and shoulders and wrists, getting as much momentum as I can. Cyris sees the movement and pulls back, which changes the target from the top of his head to his jaw. The socket hits him in the front of the mouth. In an instant both his burnt lips split wide open and blood splashes onto me. Teeth are shattered within his grin and splinters of them are pushed into his gums. His head rocks back violently. The knife hits the ground as his hands fly to his mouth, his fingers probing and assessing and trying to repair the damage. He seems to be trying to push everything back into place in the same way Landry tried to repair his shattered knee. He looks down at me and tries to say something but can’t. He spits a couple of teeth at me. A few more dangle from his broken lips on lines of bloody drool. His eyes are full of tears. He staggers back and collapses, his legs splayed out in front of him.

I crawl over to him. I turn the tyre iron around so the tip that pries off the hubcap is facing him. I stab it towards his chest, only he reaches up and wraps his hand around it. He tries talking, but I can’t understand a word he’s saying. He tries getting up. I fight to keep him down. With one huge effort he pushes me back and I fall away and hit my head against a tree. Cyris rolls over and starts coughing. Then he gets to his feet and this time it’s his turn to race off into the darkness. My instinct to follow lasts only a second before I change direction and head back towards Jo.

I grab the torch and can see only Jo. The night breaks up into clumps of light as the beam penetrates it, creating a thousand shadows behind every tree. I strain my eyes and I search but I can’t find him. I turn to Jo. She’s struggling against the ropes. I pull down her gag. My wounded shoulder is throbbing. My hands stinging. Yet I’m alive.

‘It’s me,’ I say, pointing the torch at myself. ‘Hang on while I cut the ropes.’

I have no knife and no time to find one. I clutch a hand around the rope and pull but it’s too thick. I turn around and see the black satchel on the ground. I pick it up and move back to Jo.

‘God, hurry up, Charlie.’ There’s panic in her voice.

‘Just tell me if you see him.’

‘I can’t see a damn thing.’

‘Well, just look, okay?’

‘What do you think I’m doing?’