call them.
‘I’m nude. You?’
‘Same, except for a pair of cowboy boots and a sheriff’s badge pinned to my hairy chest.’
She giggled.
‘I’ve been thinking of that lovely arse of yours, Naomi. Making me feel very sporty.’
‘How so?’
‘I’d love to be playing handball on it.’
‘I think you need to get a good sleep, Mister Kane.’ Naomi yawned loudly.
‘Okay,’ said Karl. ‘I get the hint. Goodnight, darling.’
‘Come home soon. Keep safe. Love you.’
He gave a loud kiss into the phone, and then clicked it shut, wishing now he had brought his Royal Quiet DeLuxe portable typewriter. He could have finished another chapter of his latest manuscript, hoping to have it completed before year’s end. Ironically , the dodgy motel and some of its even dodgier characters had given him some new ideas; ideas he hoped to convey onto paper when he got home.
‘Colin, barman by day, serial killer by night…’
Before long, though, fatigue and Hennessy sent him hurtling into disturbed nightmares of a dead mother, dead cops, and a monster with a bloody knife and grin. His father was there, also, crying in the dark.
Help
, he kept pleading, over and over again.
Please help me get out of the darkness
.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ANGELS AND DEMONS
‘Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains.’
Raymond Chandler,
The Big Sleep
K arl arrived in Princes Street early the next morning, parking the car a little down the way from the address given to him by Sandy. The brothel was squeezed between an antique shop seemingly selling everything but antiques, and a bookie’s selling more than it promised. A peeling poster outside the bookie’s stated:
‘Things to do in Ballymena.’
The remainder of the poster was blank, with the exception of a red pen scrawl from a local wit:
Fuck all to do in Ballymena.
In the car, Karl’s breath kept making a blush of cold vapour on the windshield, so he rubbed a clear streak at eye level with bare knuckles, while negotiating the car’s dodgy heater.
Heater on, he began checking the digital camera loaned to him by Naomi, trying desperately to remember the arcane instructions she had given.
‘Whatever happened to the simple push-the-button days?’
Frustrated but finally finished, he brought the camera to hisface and zoomed it at the brothel. The clarity both startled and amazed him.
‘I can see the bloody splinters on the door…’ He shook his head with delight, instantly becoming a convert to modern-day ingenuity and technology.
Making himself comfortable, he opened a McDonald’s bag, extracting a greasy hash brown and large coffee. Removing the lid, he sipped contentedly, while watching any activity in and around the brothel.
By all accounts, it appeared to be quite popular with the male population of Ballymena – mostly balding, big-bellied bruisers – coming and going. Occasionally, young women would emerge from the doorway, kissing the dodgy clients before waving them on their merry way.
‘Home from bloody home. All they need is “Ernie the Milkman ” to deliver some of his famous–’
Someone tapped on the side window, startling him. Karl turned to see a pretty young woman with stringy fair hair staring in at him. She wasn’t dressed for the freezing weather, wearing skimpy summer clothing instead. Her face – like the rest of the amorphous body – was emaciated, like one of L.S. Lowry’s anorexic stick people.
She was shaking terribly. Mostly from heroin withdrawal, Karl suspected. Hatchings of small scars covered her arms. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, yawning continuously while indicating for Karl to crank the window down.
‘Yes, love?’ he asked in his gentlest voice, complying with the window.
‘What can I do for you?’
She forced a smile. ‘I’m Rosie, and it’s what
I
can do for you, love. A blowjob or handjob for a fiver. Full fuck for ten. Cheapest and best in Ballymena – or Antrim, if you care to know.’
Karl
‘I’m nude. You?’
‘Same, except for a pair of cowboy boots and a sheriff’s badge pinned to my hairy chest.’
She giggled.
‘I’ve been thinking of that lovely arse of yours, Naomi. Making me feel very sporty.’
‘How so?’
‘I’d love to be playing handball on it.’
‘I think you need to get a good sleep, Mister Kane.’ Naomi yawned loudly.
‘Okay,’ said Karl. ‘I get the hint. Goodnight, darling.’
‘Come home soon. Keep safe. Love you.’
He gave a loud kiss into the phone, and then clicked it shut, wishing now he had brought his Royal Quiet DeLuxe portable typewriter. He could have finished another chapter of his latest manuscript, hoping to have it completed before year’s end. Ironically , the dodgy motel and some of its even dodgier characters had given him some new ideas; ideas he hoped to convey onto paper when he got home.
‘Colin, barman by day, serial killer by night…’
Before long, though, fatigue and Hennessy sent him hurtling into disturbed nightmares of a dead mother, dead cops, and a monster with a bloody knife and grin. His father was there, also, crying in the dark.
Help
, he kept pleading, over and over again.
Please help me get out of the darkness
.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ANGELS AND DEMONS
‘Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains.’
Raymond Chandler,
The Big Sleep
K arl arrived in Princes Street early the next morning, parking the car a little down the way from the address given to him by Sandy. The brothel was squeezed between an antique shop seemingly selling everything but antiques, and a bookie’s selling more than it promised. A peeling poster outside the bookie’s stated:
‘Things to do in Ballymena.’
The remainder of the poster was blank, with the exception of a red pen scrawl from a local wit:
Fuck all to do in Ballymena.
In the car, Karl’s breath kept making a blush of cold vapour on the windshield, so he rubbed a clear streak at eye level with bare knuckles, while negotiating the car’s dodgy heater.
Heater on, he began checking the digital camera loaned to him by Naomi, trying desperately to remember the arcane instructions she had given.
‘Whatever happened to the simple push-the-button days?’
Frustrated but finally finished, he brought the camera to hisface and zoomed it at the brothel. The clarity both startled and amazed him.
‘I can see the bloody splinters on the door…’ He shook his head with delight, instantly becoming a convert to modern-day ingenuity and technology.
Making himself comfortable, he opened a McDonald’s bag, extracting a greasy hash brown and large coffee. Removing the lid, he sipped contentedly, while watching any activity in and around the brothel.
By all accounts, it appeared to be quite popular with the male population of Ballymena – mostly balding, big-bellied bruisers – coming and going. Occasionally, young women would emerge from the doorway, kissing the dodgy clients before waving them on their merry way.
‘Home from bloody home. All they need is “Ernie the Milkman ” to deliver some of his famous–’
Someone tapped on the side window, startling him. Karl turned to see a pretty young woman with stringy fair hair staring in at him. She wasn’t dressed for the freezing weather, wearing skimpy summer clothing instead. Her face – like the rest of the amorphous body – was emaciated, like one of L.S. Lowry’s anorexic stick people.
She was shaking terribly. Mostly from heroin withdrawal, Karl suspected. Hatchings of small scars covered her arms. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, yawning continuously while indicating for Karl to crank the window down.
‘Yes, love?’ he asked in his gentlest voice, complying with the window.
‘What can I do for you?’
She forced a smile. ‘I’m Rosie, and it’s what
I
can do for you, love. A blowjob or handjob for a fiver. Full fuck for ten. Cheapest and best in Ballymena – or Antrim, if you care to know.’
Karl
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