Life Sentence

LIFE SENTENCE

Knuckles white, Blake gripped the automatic pistol in his left hand and listened to the waves sucking the shore. An inward rush followed by a moment of burbling calm. The loud clatter of pebbles as the waters receded. Then the roar and rumble as another wave came rushing in. The repetition of tides rolling in above hidden depths.
What the fuck am I looking for out here, he thought, face numbed by the strong, chill wind as he stood atop the cliff. Vivid images filled his mind. There seemed to be no escape from them, even when surrounded by scenes from his youth. Their maddening repetition was like that of the waves on the shore below.
He'd journeyed hundreds of miles in an attempt to find peace, but the images remained. They tainted this childhood haunt with their presence. The rugged cliffs on which he'd once played now gained a sinister quality that was locked within him.
Head in hands and fingers grasping his black, cropped hair, Blake put the gun hard against his skull. A shudder ran through his body, the nerves in his spine prickling.
'Shit!' he spat.
He moved the gun's snub nose to his temple, felt the cold metal against his skin. Its clip was full and ready to unload into his brain. This is what he wanted. There appeared to be no other way to find release from the violent images of what he'd done.
The clip had been recently emptied, bullets sent speeding into their bodies. Curls of grey-blue smoke had risen from its barrel as he'd stood in momentary shock after taking three innocent lives.
It had been dark in the small, cluttered apartment. Blake had smashed the bulb in the hallway and stood waiting in the pitch for his intended hit to return home. If he hadn't burned his nostrils with lines of coke before the phone call relaying the instructions then maybe he'd have got the right address. If he hadn't smashed the bulb¦
A mother with two young children, two girls with long, blonde hair and pale faces, they'd all taken the bullets and hit the floor, dead. It had been a quick death, but this didn't change the fact that they shouldn't have died at all, at least, not by his actions. Blake had fucked up bad. The hit was supposed to be a small-time dealer who'd been stepping on the toes of the big boys, not a small family.
He'd called himself a pro, taken pride in good work and the good money that went with it. How had he let it all slide so easily? All his previous work meant fuck-all now. Killing the kids and their mother was the kind of dumb fuck-up made by a dope fiend robbing to get money for their habit, not by a hired killer.
Since that rainy night Blake had woken in cold sweats after recurring nightmares. The dead girls had played ring-a-roses around him, held each other's hands so that their arms encircled him. They sung the rhyming lyrics and when it came to 'they all fall down' his dream-self raised the gun and took their lives. With mouths wide and high-pitched, ear splitting screams, they fell into the arms of their mother, whose body already lay upon the floor in a pool of blood, half her face blown off.
Standing on the Cornish cliff-top, Blake lowered the muzzle of the gun, moved it down his forehead, followed the contours of his left cheek, and then brought it to rest beneath his chin. Now he would turn it on himself. Blake wanted release from the torment of memories and twisted nightmares. He wanted to make the final move in what he perceived as the game of life.
Blake closed his eyes. His index finger applied gentle pressure to the trigger. He imagined the first, golden bullet resting in the chamber. It, like him, awaited sudden release. The bullet would mark his exit from this world and entry into the eternal vacuum. There he'd find infinite forgetting, nothingness.
His body was tense, muscles quivering slightly as his trigger finger remained still. Blake felt the hard metal against his soft skin. He could feel the handle in his sweaty palm. His fingers continued to grasp tightly, index waiting with iron-bolt stiffness. The gun was more real and threatening than ever before. Death was close.
Blake slowly knelt on the damp grass and took hold of the gun with both hands. He raised his haggard face to the bright half-moon, eyes closed, shadows filling their deep sockets. Long moments passed. Time stretched out. Eventually he opened his eyes and they were filled with the reflection of high, cirrus clouds passing quickly across the moon. He couldn't pull the trigger.
Blake suddenly stood, the movement filled with anger and frustration. His long, black coat whipped in the wind, snapped behind him as he looked out over the undulating ocean.
He raised the gun and fired it in frustration into the night sky, at the stars that winked between the thin fingers of cloud. The shot echoed along the cliffs. Standing motionless for a few moments, Blake then lowered the pistol and caught the metallic scent of its recent discharge.
'Fuck!' he exclaimed brutally.
He'd taken the lives of countless others, but couldn't take his own. The victims had been names or mere addresses scribbled on scraps of paper. They had been all but anonymous. The last three, the ones that haunted him, hadn't even had the meagre identification of inky lines. It was familiarity and knowledge that now caused his index finger to remain motionless. Blake the hit man couldn't take the life of Blake the man. He was too close to the intended victim, far too close.
The wind continued to wrestle with his long coat as the waves below the cliff crashed against the shingle with increasing fury.
'Fuck!' he repeated miserably.
*
Car headlights shone in the night. The vehicle's dark, glinting bulk moved slowly along the coastal road and then stopped at the entrance to a small car park on the cliff-top.
'What did I tell you?' said the passenger triumphantly as he turned to the driver with a wide grin on his chubby, middle-aged face.
The young, shaven headed driver didn't respond, simply turned off the engine and lights, allowing the moon to illuminate the scene as it shone through thickening cloud. The passenger shook his head and snorted.
'Shut the fuck up you smug bastard,' said the young man finally. 'You got somethin' right for a change, so fuckin' what?' He turned and glared at his companion, eyes filled with anger.
'Don't get your nappy in a twist, Ian,' the bulky man replied, ignoring the young man's glare while looking at the car parked opposite them, dark and still.
'Fuck off!'
'I'd love to, but it seems like I'm stuck here with you for the moment.'
Ian's right hand reached inside his black leather jacket. 'If you say another fuckin' word I'll¦'
'Oh, grow up, you little turd. I've had nothin' but bullshit from you all night. Three hundred miles filled with you spouting crap.' He shook his head. 'Jesus! You're such a dick-head Ian.' He leant forward and pressed play on the tape deck. The screech of an electric guitar filled the car's interior.
Ian pressed stop. 'What did I tell you earlier, Ray? This ain't fuckin' r and r. We're 'ere to do a job, just in case you've forgotten.'
Ray sighed. 'I don't see us doin' shit for the time being.' He paused and scratched his bulberous nose. 'So why don't you do somethin' that'll make everyone happier.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'I mean, dip-shit, that you should try takin' your head outta your fuckin' arse.' Ray turned the stereo back on.
Ian drew the pistol from inside his jacket and pointed it at his partner. 'Turn that fuckin' racket off.' His words were hard, voice steady.
Ray ignored Ian and began to drum his fingers on the dash before him.
'I'm warnin' you.'
'I'm quaking in my size twelves.' Ray turned to face Ian. 'Now shut the fuck up so I can listen to me music.'
They glared at each other for a few, long moments while the song reached a crescendo of drumming, bawling, and guitar riffs. Then Ian huffed and moved to press the eject button.
'Don't do it.'
'Fuck you, Ray.'
*
The wind howled as it rushed against the cliff face and brought storm clouds across the restless waves. Blake's coat ruffled, marking the wind's passage. His dark eyes were still turned skyward as he stared at the low bellies of the clouds. Soon they would bring rain.
As the first, hesitant drops fell upon his numbed cheeks, Blake suddenly turned on his heels. Before him stood a woman with ghostly skin and dark, flowing hair. She was wearing a simple, white dress, its hem at her ankles as it clung to her emaciated frame. She stared at him as the rain became a steady downpour.
'Blake.' The word was barely audible.
The hair on the back of his neck tingled and his arms became covered in goose bumps. He recognised the woman. She was the mother from his nightmares. Her steely gaze held his, pupils mere pinpricks in the centre of glowing whites. Her expression was empty.
'Killer.' A look of sorrow flitted across her drawn face and then was gone.
'What do you want?' His question was filled with fear, despite his attempt at self-control.
The woman did not answer.
'What the fuck do you want from me?' The words were firmer this time, but couldn't hide his deep feeling of uneasiness.
Blake raised the pistol and pointed it at her head.
She laughed, a sound like the distant tinkling of breaking glass.
He fired a warning shot over her head.
The laughter abruptly stopped. Her stare drilled into him as she frowned and wagged a finger as if admonishing a naughty child.
His body began to tremble as adrenalin pumped through his veins. Blake could feel the pounding of his heart as the rain became heavier and gusts of wind blew it harshly against his back.
She slowly lifted her right arm. The storm seemed to abate, the sound of the wind becoming hollow and vague. Her bony index finger uncurled towards him as he watched transfixed.
'You have judged yourself. I am here to pass sentence.'
His legs gave at the knees and Blake sank back to the sodden grass as her laughter echoed in the darkness of his mind.
*
The car door slammed.
'Great! Why don't you just use a fuckin' loud hailer, Ian?'
'Shut up lard arse. You made enough noise with that shit you call music.'
'As opposed to the shite you listen too, I suppose,' scoffed Ray.
'It's drum and bass, and I wouldn't expect an old fart like you to appreciate it.'
'You're such a twat, Ian.' Ray began to walk towards the other car, large, black shoes crunching on the gravel of the car park, the sound ushered quickly away across the cliff-top by the strong wind.
Ian, with brows creased in anger, followed after him to the car. He nonchalantly walked up to it and peered in through the driver's side window, gun in his right hand. Using the silver rings on the fingers of his left hand, he then tapped the glass.
'No one's at home,' he commented dryly.
'And here I was thinkin' that Jay was waiting to throw a surprise party after watchin' us pull up.'
Ian glared at him. Ray sneered and started to walk into the growing darkness as the storm clouds moved overhead and the first drops of rain began to fall.
'Where the hell are you goin'?' Ian called after him.
'To find 'im, if you haven't scared him off with the shoutin' and door slammin',' replied Ray over his wide, right shoulder. 'Why do I have to be in the arse end of nowhere with this prick?' he mumbled to himself as he continued walking.
The two shadowy figures made their way along the cliff-top path in silence, Ian a couple of steps behind his taller and much larger companion. Each held a pistol at the ready as they scanned the bleak landscape with narrowed eyes. Meadows lay to the left and the drop to the shingle lay in darkness to the right.
'At least we're not going to have to shoot the bastard,' said Ray.
'What?'
'No risk of the cops sniffin' around and askin' lots of stupid fuckin' questions,' expanded Ray.
'We're 'ere to kill the fucker, Ray, not smack his arse. Jay's gone AWOL and can't be left on the streets.'
'You don't say. God, you really are a bloody idiot, Ian.' Ray stopped walking and Ian came to a standstill beside him.
'Look kid, there's a goddamn cliff right next to us, just in case you hadn't noticed.'
'So fuckin' what?' Ian snapped back.
'Jesus! You really are as stupid as you look.' Ray shook his head. 'We push Jay over. No shootin'. No murder inquiry. It's a simple suicide. Do you get it now, Ian?'
Ian didn't reply, only stared at the white crests of waves out at sea, blurred by the increasingly steady rain. The storm reflected the rage that he was trying to contain.
Ray moved off at a steady pace. Behind him Ian turned from the ocean and pointed his pistol at the back of Ray's head. He wanted to pull the trigger so much, imagined flexing his index finger and felt the erection grow in his tight, blue jeans. He loved killing, enjoyed the power of holding a gun in his hand and wanted so much to use it.
There was a loud crack followed by a faint thud as Ray's bulk fell forward and hit the ground.
'Oh shit!' gasped Ian as he ran over to the twitching body, wisps of smoke curling from the barrel of his gun.
He looked down and stared at the profile of what remained of Ray's face, right side visible and streaked with blood and rain. The rest of his face was a mess of glistening shadow.
Ian breathed deeply in order to calm himself.
'I didn't pull the trigger, Ray. I know I didn't,' he said aloud, as if some last, fading remnant of Ray could hear him.
The hands and arms twitched once more and then the body became still. The rain beat ever harder as Ian stood looking down at the corpse.
'Fuckin' hair trigger.' Ian shook his head. He tried to concentrate his thoughts on ways to explain what had happened, there was no way the truth would work, his corpse would be found in some back alley if it got out that he'd killed Ray. There was only one thing for it, he'd have to blame Blake.
'Don't worry Ray, I'll get the bastard,' he whispered, as if already convinced by his own deception. He quickly stepped passed the body and jogged along the path, desperate to get the job over with.
As he went over a rise he saw the figure of Blake kneeling beside the cliff's edge. Any thoughts of making the hit seem like a suicide were forgotten as he approached.
Blake watched Ian come towards him, resigned to his fate. The pistol hung limply from the fingers of his left hand, arms loose at his sides. The mother from his nightmares stood to his right, a thin smile upon her face, bloodless lips curled up at the corners.
'So this is how the sentence will be carried out,' he whispered as ocean spray billowed into the air from below and to the left. There was a loud boom and a judder rose through the ground as the high tide and storm combined to bring the waves crashing against the cliff face.
Blake's sagging face glistened. There was no desire to fight or flee, only to get the inevitable over with. This was his end and he had accepted the certainty of death. Soon he would be released from the torment of memories and bad dreams.
Coming to a halt twenty yards away from Blake, Ian then raised his gun. The two men gazed at each other across the cliff-top. The rain fell in blurring sheets and the wind howled.
'Goodbye, Jay,' Ian's finger touched the hair trigger.
There was a bright, almost blinding flash. Blake's heart leapt in shock and he blinked to clear the residual image of the lightning bolt from his vision. He looked up and saw Ian's dark form collapse to the ground. There appeared to be smoke and steam rising from the motionless heap. Thunder sounded above, rumbled across the sky, an almighty crack that caused Blake to wince with its volume and power.
He bowed his head, thoughts in confusion. His mind spun as he tried to grasp what was happening. The bolt of bright electricity had destroyed his expectations, death seemed to have withdrawn.
He looked up and found that the woman still stood to his right. Her index finger curled up after having been pointed in Ian's direction.
'My sentence?' His question was drowned out by the sounds of the storm.
She slowly turned to him, face aglow, skin translucent. 'It has been passed,' she replied, the sound of her voice clear and close.
Blake felt a chill arise within him, something deeper and more penetrating than the coldness of the night and rain soaking through his clothes. Then, as if in slow motion, Blake pushed against the ground and toppled over the edge of the cliff into the waiting darkness.
*
His eyes snapped open. There was a cold sweat covering his body. He could feel pressure around the top of his head as he stared at the plain, white ceiling above.
'Welcome back.' It was a woman's voice with a soft Cornish accent.
A rounded face came into view, hovered over him amidst a fall of thick, golden curls. 'I'm nurse Nichols.' The words were light and cheerful.
'Where¦?' he croaked, finding his throat too sore and constricted to continue.
'Hospital. You've been unconscious for a couple of days. You're lucky to have got away with only a skull fracture and broken arm and leg.'
'How?'
'We were rather hoping you could fill us in on the details.' She smiled, full lips parting a little to reveal sparkling, white teeth, a small gap between the front pair.
'You were found washed up on the rocks at Fisherman's Cove. It's a miracle you survived the storm we had that night. I think maybe you've been saved for something special.' Her smile grew.
He tried to rise and she moved to his side in order to help him. Once settled with pillow behind his back, he looked down the bed at his plastered left arm and leg.
Blake searched his mind for memories of what had happened, but found no clue. His memory was blank. His life seemed to have only begun at the moment he woke in the hospital bed. There was no trace of his having existed prior to opening his eyes.
'Who am I?' he asked in a whisper while staring into the nurse's grey eyes, trying to catch the slightest glimpse of his reflection in their sparkle. He could make out nothing.
'You don't remember?' Her smile faded.
Blake shook his head gently, forehead wrinkled as he tried to concentrate, to find the smallest hint as to who he was. His jaw clenched as he sought out even a glimmer of memory, but found only a fearful emptiness.
'Anything?' asked nurse Nichols in a soft voice, noting his obvious frustration and confusion.
'No.'
'Well, as far as we can make out from your driving license, your name is Jason Blake.'
He waited for some internal response, for his thoughts to lurch in recognition, for the words to trigger his mind into recollection. Nothing.
Nurse Nichols could see that he was still unable to remember his past. She was unsettled by the vacant look in his eyes, their lack of depth. Windows to the soul, she thought.
'Don't worry,' she said while stepping back towards the ward's aisle. 'Your memory should return in time.' She forced a smile, turned and left.
Blake watched her go, sensed her tension and wish to get away from him, as if his condition was somehow contagious. Pushing the white pillow back into its original position, he then lay down and closed his eyes.
'Jason Blake,' he said quietly to himself.
There was a flash in his mind; uttering his name had awakened a snippet of memory. He saw two young girls and a woman illuminated by sudden light, their expressions filled with shock, eyes wide as they stared in his direction. The right side of the woman's face was suddenly ripped away, blood spattering onto the children's pale faces. Then their chests erupted. Their clothes were quickly stained crimson as the air was filled with a metallic scent that he couldn't initially place. Then he saw the gun held out in his motionless right hand as the bodies tumbled to the floor and knew the scent to be that of death.
The scene repeated itself, as if on some loop of neural pathways. It wouldn't leave his mind. Blake tried to shut it out, to end the tortuous repetition, but all his efforts proved futile. The image kept returning. His entire life was reduced to these few, terrifying moments.
A chilling scream stirred the stale air of the hospital ward. Sentence had been passed.