Stolen Souls

48

THE THING UPSTAIRS had been howling for an hour or more when Billy Crawford finally climbed the stairs to quiet it. His preparations were done and he was ready to start, but the incessant crying from above could not be tolerated while he set about his work. No, not at all. So he climbed to its room and opened the door.

It gaped at him from the bed, its pale and wizened face raised to him.

“Quiet, now,” he said as he approached it.

Still, it wailed.

“If you won’t be quiet, then I’ll make you quiet,” he said. No good, it would not listen to reason, so he took the syringe from his pocket. The thing shook its head, tried to shrink from his grasp, but it could not. He gripped its hair and pressed the needleless syringe between its lips. With no teeth to block its path, the plastic point slipped between the gums. He pushed until he felt the thing try to resist with its tongue, then he pushed harder. It gagged as the syringe reached the back of its throat.

He depressed the plunger and listened to the gargle of the liquid in the thing’s throat. When the syringe was empty, he dropped it on the pillow and placed his hand over the thing’s mouth. Its body bucked, claws dragging across his shoulders, but eventually it weakened. Its pupils dilated, eyelids fluttering as its body went soft and pliant.

He returned its head to the pillow and wiped the drool from his hand onto the blankets. The silence slipped over him like a cloak, and he relished it for a few seconds before leaving the thing to its slumber.

He knew that one day the thing would not wake, that its body would no longer be able to cope with the sedative, but he did not mind. Sometimes he wondered why he kept it alive. Perhaps, in an odd way, he regarded it as a pet that has lost favor in a household. Like a hamster or a fish that has long since ceased to amuse the children of the family, but the parents continue to feed it, quietly hoping for its demise.

Returning to the kitchen, he began preparations for his work. A large bowl for hot water, a kettle, washcloths, soap, a toothbrush, a box of sodium bicarbonate, several cable ties, his torch, and another syringe full of sedative.

But this one had a needle.

He had secured a good supply of barbiturates by breaking into a veterinary clinic almost three years ago. The place stood in the countryside between Lisburn and Moira. It smelled of disinfectant and dog feces. He had walked through its corridors and rooms, gathering the things he needed, until he found a room lined with cages.

Dogs stared at him from their prisons. Three of them, their tongues lolling as they panted. He put his fingers against one of the cages, let the animal lap at his glove. It was an odd sensation, the wetness once removed by a thin membrane of rubber. It triggered an image in his mind that launched up from the black depths like a shark. He recoiled, closed his eyes against the memory before it could fully take form.

Some things were best left forgotten to the waking world. They would come at him in his dreams, he couldn’t help that, but he found it best to keep a wall between his old self and his new self while in the present moment.

He left the dogs there in their dark cages, made one last tour of the building to make sure he’d left no trace of his presence, and let himself out.

The police had made an appeal on the news about the missing drugs, said they were dangerous in the wrong hands. But his were exactly the right hands, so no need to worry. He had put them to good use in his work, and would do so again this evening.

God willing.

He carried a chair—the same one he had found toppled when he returned home earlier—into the hall and left it by the door to the cellar, then went back to the kitchen to fetch the other items. When everything was in place, he put the syringe, its needle protected by a plastic cap, into his pocket. He took the torch in his right hand and put his left on the door handle.

The door swung inward, and he felt the dark reach up to him. He flicked the torch on and shone its beam on the steps so that he could see his way down. Listening as he descended, he heard her panicked breathing somewhere below.

Clearly she knew the time had come. He had to be ready for her to try something. But she was small and light while he was solid and heavy. She would not get the better of him again.

He stopped at the midway point of the stairs and moved the beam around the cellar, touring its corners and crevices. To his surprise, he found her crouched by the open cabinet. She had not tried to hide, perhaps realizing it would be futile. Instead, she had spent her time attempting to open his toolbox, which lay on its side as her fingers worked at the lock.

“Leave it,” he said.

She looked up, her teeth bared like an animal caught feeding on a carcass. But she had such pretty teeth, and he immediately regretted the association.

“Stand up,” he said, taking two more steps down toward her.

She pulled at the toolbox’s lid, letting out a low growl from her throat, the cords of her neck standing out. She turned it on end, gripped it with both hands, strained to lift it from the floor as the weight of the tools shifted inside. She let it drop to the linoleum-covered concrete, trying to somehow break the lid open.

“That won’t do any good,” he said as he neared the bottom step. “It’s a good box. You won’t break it.”

As he stepped onto the linoleum, she hauled the toolbox from the floor again and tried to hurl it at him. It traveled only inches before it slammed and clattered on the ground.

She hunkered down, curling herself into a ball balanced on tattered feet, covered her head with her hands. She muttered something in her foreign tongue, and he wondered if it was a prayer. The only word he could pick out was “Mama,” whispered over and over again.

“Please stand up,” he said.

Still she crouched, rocking on her feet, her head clutched between her hands, her mouth moving against her knees.

As he moved behind her, he switched the torch to his left hand and took the syringe from his pocket with his right. He pried the plastic cap from the needle with his teeth and spat it on to the floor. “Please,” he said. “One last time. Stand up. Don’t make this any harder.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around her head.

He bent down and placed the torch upon the concrete, soft so as to make no noise, then straightened. The torch rolled a few inches, sending her shadow fleeing across the wall. He reached down, grabbed her hair, and pulled her upright.

She screamed as the needle pierced the flesh of her buttock. He pressed the plunger before she could squirm away from him, then pushed her across the cellar. She hit the far wall and dropped to the floor, still crying.

“Quiet,” he said. “It didn’t hurt, did it?”

She spoke only to herself, her rambling prayer continuing in that strange language of hers.

“You could’ve had it with some coffee, maybe a bite to eat, if you’d listened to me earlier. And now look.”

Her speech slowed and her head dipped toward the floor.

“But it works quicker like this,” he said, taking a step closer. “You’ll be under in no time. You can sleep, let me take care of everything. Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. You’ll be home soon.”

She lay still and quiet before he finished speaking, so the man who called himself Billy Crawford set about his work. He did not anticipate any interruptions. It was Christmas Eve, after all.