Verismo Bliss - Chapter 21

21.

Harry felt hot. That was his first physical sensation. Then the acceleration and deceleration – the sensations of travelling - and the unmistakeable engine hum of being in a car. Either side of him he could feel bodies pressing against him. He couldn’t see anything, just a little light - enough to know he was blindfolded. His feet were free, but his hands were tied behind him. Those were the first sensations, all crowding over themselves in his mind. But then came remembrance. Not just of the room (that room) - he remembered Falsham.
When he had pulled back the curtain and Falsham was sitting there he had seen red and thrown himself at him. But the pen-pusher was quick on his feet and dodged Harry, getting a punch to the side of Harry’s head for good measure. Harry stepped back and was ready to throw another punch when he was grabbed from behind and felt a needle thrust into his neck (fuck, drugged again) and then…he woke up in the back of a car.
‘I think he’s awake, Mr Falsham.’
The voice was on Harry’s left. It was a male voice, polite, with a suppressed Yorkshire accent. There was a smell of cheap cologne.
‘How are you feeling, Harry?’
He recognised Falsham’s accent, the slight Scottish burr. From the direction of the voice Harry figured he was in the front of the car. He doubted he was driving though. Rich people didn’t do anything that they could pay somebody else to do.
‘We had to drug you, I’m afraid,’ Falsham continued. ‘To get you out of the hospital. We didn’t want you causing a fuss and upsetting the maternity ward.’
‘Maternity ward? More like an abattoir, you bastard.’
Harry felt a punch in his side and gasped.
‘No need for that, Murray. He can’t do anything to harm us now.’
Harry didn’t like the certainty in Falsham’s voice and suddenly, for the first time, he realised that he was in a very bad situation. He had seen the babies, tried to steal incriminating documents and now he was blindfolded in the back of a car being driven to…where? His final destination? He tried to listen harder to see if he could tell where they were. There was a lot of other traffic, and a lot of stop-start motion so he guessed they must still be in the city.
‘I think, Harry, you have already decided that what we do at Raf-Med is somehow, what would you say, evil?’
‘What would you call it?’
‘You are coming at it all from the wrong way. Business and the market are very much maligned but, really, they do much more good than harm. And you know, morality can have no place in business. The market must be cold, indifferent. When you see those babies, you are repulsed, but what I see is a greater good, a cure for fertility. The cure for fertility is driven by the market. It is success driven, and 99% of the time success in the market place brings benefits to everybody.’
‘What about the 1%? The mother’s whose babies you kill?’
‘Harry,’ Falsham said, using a tone you would employ on a child, ‘are you referring to those mothers of great virtue who sell their children? And, believe me, I don’t blame them for selling their children: it makes good business sense. Imagine what sort of life those children would have if they were raised by those women?’
‘At least they would have a life.’
‘Sure, sure, a life that would have been a burden on society. Statistics show that the children born to the skin-sellers are proportionally more likely to end up claiming welfare, getting in trouble with the police and/or becoming drug dependant. But with Raf-Med in a just a few hours they have made a bigger contribution to society than they ever would have in all the years of their ruinous lives.’
‘But who the fuck are you to decide who goes to America to get a great life and who ends up on a slab?’
‘I am not a monster, Harry. We only need boys for our research and we only take as many as are required, the rest are sent off to better lives. You will be pleased to know, however, that we have learned all we can from the specimens and that side of the research is coming to a close. I think, very soon, you will hear good news coming from Raf-Med. Not that it matters to you. You’re fertile, aren’t you? And what a useless member of society you’ve been. Do you know how many men long to have what you have? Perhaps that’s why you don’t understand: those who don’t have need, never do understand need.’
The sounds of the city faded. Harry only heard the occasional car passing them now and they had picked up speed.
‘What about your own daughter? What have you done with her?’
‘Gwen is fine. She’s having a girl. The girl will go to America. A deal is a deal. My first grandchild and I will never see it. But I respect business. I respect the market. Gwen will go to Bristol University, as planned.’
‘And if it had been a boy?’
‘I told you, that side of the operation is winding down now.’
‘But what if it wasn’t?’
‘A moot point. I don’t deal in what-if’s.’
‘What about Ramona?’
‘Don’t worry about Ramona.’
‘And Barry Penny? He’s the one I don’t get. Why have him killed?’
‘Penny was a mistake. It wasn’t business, it was blood. I thought he was the father of the child; turns out he wasn’t. Funny, I never thought of myself as a jealous father, but when I found out she was pregnant I felt disgusted at somebody touching her that way. I got mad. It doesn’t happen very often.’
‘Oliver got mad and see what happened. But of course he only got mad on Bliss, didn’t he? Another drug you’re testing for future profit. You must know about the side effect it has on fertile men.’
‘Of course, that’s why we test. You put a label on it: not for use by men. Oliver made his choices. I grieve for him as any father for a child, but he was a man with his own mind. What happened to him was better than a trial and imprisonment, which would have heaped more scandal on me. As it is, the story will blow over, especially when cracks can be papered over with cash.’
‘What about me?’
‘You?’
‘I’m guessing you don’t want me going to the press or the police.’
‘Indeed. Of course, you have no evidence, and I am a powerful man, but the public just love their scandals and mud does have a tendency to stick…’
‘So?’
‘It’s just up here, on the left. That’s it.’
Harry felt the car make a sharp left and the smooth road turned into a bumpy one.
‘Excuse me, Harry. There are some places even now where sat-nav does not penetrate. Yes, the problem of you. I’m presuming that money would not silence you.’
‘You could try,’ said Harry hopefully. ‘Don’t they say every man has his price? You work in the market, you should trust that.’
Falsham laughed. ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt that you would take my money and promise me you wouldn’t say a word, but you would always remain a rogue element, a loose end. I don’t like loose ends. We need a more permanent solution, I think.’
‘Just here, Mr Falsham?’ said a new voice, presumably the driver.
Falsham thought that here was just fine. The car stopped and the two bodies either side of him got out. Harry was dragged to the right and found his footing. He stood, his limbs aching. He breathed deeply and took in fresh gulps of air sweetened with pine. It was so quiet now: no traffic, just birds twittering. As he shifted his feet he heard and felt the crunch of twigs and leaves. He could think of worse places and times to die. A forest, at the start of fall.
He figured no man could foresee his own death, or how he would react to it. All Harry knew was that he wanted more life now. He’d always felt he wanted to go quickly – die in his sleep or a bullet in the back of his head – but now he didn’t want to go quickly, he wanted it to last a long time and he wanted to see, he wanted to see the trees and he wanted to see the sky. Yeah, there were worse places to die than in a fall wood under a clear sky. He just hoped he wouldn’t beg or shake. He may not always have been brave in life, but he wanted to die bravely.
‘Kneel down,’ said a voice.
Harry’s brain was trying to make music; think of music, think of a song: he wanted to go out listening to music. He didn’t want his body to start shaking but his legs were feeling weak.
Miles Davies, Flamenco Sketches, started playing in his head.
A hand, heavy on his shoulder, forced him down. His knees crackled on dry, crisp branches and leaves.
Miles Davies. The fall. A forest. The Cure. The blue sky. Looking at the big sky.
‘Take off the blind. I want to see. Let me see,’ he said, moving his head from side to side. He could hear them walking around him, making him disorientated.
He felt somebody standing behind him, their knees touching his back. Then his head was gripped. He started praying, even though he had never been religious in his life. His jaw was gripped and his mouth prised open. Somebody was forcing something into his mouth. Shit, they were going to make it look like suicide. The cops would never believe it. Carr wouldn’t believe it. Carr bent the rules. Carr was a slime. But he was a good copper. He felt something in his mouth.
Miles Davies stopped playing in his head.
It wasn’t a gun.
Charlie Mingus. Give me some Charlie Mingus.
Goodbye Pork Pie Hat.
Tablets. They were putting tablets in his mouth. Two? Three. They clamped his jaw short. Held his nose. He swallowed. Shit, was he going to die slowly after all? Not a bullet, clean and quick, but poison, slowly, painfully.
There was silence for a moment. They let go of his face. He fell forward, his face in dirt. His breathing was all over the place. His heartbeat racing against the earth. He began to feel numb. His limbs heavy. Was the poison having effect? Well, at least paralysis meant no pain, didn’t it? But he wanted the blindfold off. He wanted to see as he died.
‘Harry, soon we’ll be quits. You have my secret and I have yours,’ Falsham said.
What the fuck did that mean? Weren’t they killing him? What were the bastards doing?
He felt his bonds untied. He tried to move but his arms felt like dead weights.
Was it a trick? Bastards. They’d fucked with him all along. Falsham had hired him as a dupe. He’d thought he was useless, that he wouldn’t find Gwen, but he’d found her. He’d found her, alright. Fucking whore. Even the daughters of the great and the good were just whores when it came down to it, selling themselves for favours.
Harry felt a burning rage inside him. All his life people had pushed him around. He wasn’t going to take it lying down anymore. And women? They had just played with him. Teased him. Used him. They only showed him attention when they wanted something.
The rage made him move his arms. He was feeling powerful now. Strong enough to move his muscles. To pull off the blind and sit up.
He was in a clearing, surrounded by trees. The light made him squint. Everything around him was fuzzy, out of focus.
Cunts. That’s what they were. Even Mary. She was a cunt. She loved booze more than him. But who cleaned her up and cared for her after her nights with booze? Harry the fucking sap, that’s who. Then she’d fucking died. That was the best thing she could have done.
He was dizzy. Everything around him was tinged with redness, like a hair dye, Rita Red, had been poured over the forest.
Rita goddamn red. She was the biggest cunt. Ramona Noche. Oh how she had taken the piss out of him. Teasing him. Leading him on. He’d been a jerk. She was fucking with him. Protecting herself. She’d killed Gloria Isles; he was sure of it now. Fuck. Yeah, killed her and kept him and Carr close, playing them against each other, so she could find out what they knew. She’d probably given Carr a blow job to blow off the Barcelona lead. He’d lied about that. Sure, Carr would lie about anything if you were a woman willing to suck his dick.
He began banging his fist on the floor until blood began to spread across the knuckles. He had so much hate inside him. He had to get it out. There was a flash of light. He shook his head. There was a knife. A large knife. Right in front of him. He picked it up. He started stabbing the dry earth with it. Harder and harder.
She’d fucked him. Ramona had fucked Carr. The fucking cunt. He thought she’d liked him but she was just a cunt like all the rest. She’d used him. Let him put his hands between her legs and, when she thought he might be about to get close to the truth, she’d let him fuck her. He bet she’d worn the nurse outfit for Carr first. And how many other men?
Whore. Cunt. Bitch.
Thunk, thunk, thunk, went the knife in the earth.
He had to let it out somehow. He was bursting with aggression. His muscles felt like they were going to explode. His brain was on fire. His eyes couldn’t see straight. He rubbed them. Looked around him. There. There was somebody there. Sitting against a tree. Staring at him. A woman. Skin of caramel. She was laughing at him. Shit, no, she wasn’t, was she? Think of Miles Davies. Come on, Harry. Kind of Blue. There was a buzzingbuzzingbuzzing in his head. Not his head. Something buzzing. His smart. He stared at it. Buzzingbuzzingbuzzing. A name flashing. He said he’d be there for someone. A girl. A whore. A bitch. Why should he be there for her? Bitch! Buzzingbuzzingbuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.......
He staggered to his feet and swayed over to the figure. She looked up at him. Brown eyes. Black hair. Dark skin. She was teasing him. Bitch. No! Harry, come on.
‘Cunt!’ he screamed and the sound echoed through his head.
Why did she just sit there, laughing at him, not speaking? Not moving.
Bitch. Thinks she’s won. Oh, but he knows about Gloria. Yes he does. She’s not in Barcelona.
‘You and Carr. You killed her. You killed her. Both of you. Then you fucked on her grave. You put his dick in your mouth. You let him eat your pussy. You let him fuck your arse.’
He began screaming, slashing with his knife at the mocking face of the woman. Blood arced across his vision. His hand was wet. He slashed at her.
‘Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.’
He stabbed and stabbed at the woman until he knew nothing more except the smell of vanilla and blood.