The Devil

22

How to dress for murder?

Neatly.

I put on me finest suit. That it is me only suit is a minor quibble.

Nice clean shirt (charity shop) and a Masonic tie I’d…er…acquired.

Cloud the issue.

Some gel in me hair. Slicked.

The Sig in me waistband.

Dropped two X, muttered,

‘Time to kill.’

John Grisham needed the promo.

Bought a bottle of Moët.

See, you can teach an old dog new tricks, albeit expensive ones.

I entered the hotel, asked for Carl and was told,

‘Penthouse, top floor, you are expected.’

The Masonic tie?

I wasn’t sure if he’d meet me as the elevator opened. Me experience of penthouses is a little limited.

He didn’t.

Long as I live, and that’s always up for grabs, I was surprised the penthouse had a number.

101.

Most hotels – forget the stuff about not having a thirteenth floor – never have a room with that number because of Orwell’s 1984. That room is where you find the thing you are most afraid of. There is even a TV show based on it, where celebrities get to dump their pet hates.

The door to the penthouse was open, so I went in.

I had no fixed plan as to how this was going to go down. Basically, shoot the bollix and run.

Company.

Not in me plan.

Two gorgeous girls.

Snorting coke, lines of it on a beautiful glass table.

Washing it down with bubbly.

Carl appeared, in a silk dressing gown that the Hef would have been proud of. Beaming, he said,

‘Jack, meet the girls.’

Ingrida and…yes, Tricia.

Hookers.

East Europe’s best.

I handed over the Moët, he slapped my shoulder, said,

‘You kill me.’

The guy had style – repellent, but fuck it, he had the moves. He said,

‘Room service is about to provide us with a veritable feast.’

Did I do the decent thing?

As in leave?

No.

I did the coke, had the amazing food, the more amazing hooker, and come two in the morning,

sated,

drunk,

doped,

the girls left.

Carl/Kurt, sprawled on the white leather sofa, his legs spread, eyes afire, said,

‘Une nuit excellente.’

I took out the Sig, levelled it.

He smiled, said,

‘Ah Jacques, you disappoint. Is this the gratitude you express to your bon ami, votre frère?’

I said,

‘I was going to ask you to do the trick with the blond locks, but you know? Who the fuck cares.’

He gave that wild laugh, was mid sentence,

‘Ah, the hair that is-’

I shot him in the balls.

First.

Then, moving over, I shot him in the guts, said,

‘Sorry, all out of dogs’ heads.’

I swear to Christ, he was smiling, so I ended that by opening his mouth, shot him right in those terrific teeth.

I checked his pulse, none.

Then moved to his bedroom, took

the Rolex,

the Mont Blanc,

a damn nigh mountain of coke,

a wadge of cash such as I’d never seen,

then got the fuck outa there.

Took the emergency stairs, met nobody, and once I was out on the street, I exhaled.

Jesus.

I’ve killed before.

I still have dreams about it, about them.

Back in my apartment, sure, I did some fine coke, tried on the Rolex.

Does that sound cold?

Hello, it’s fucking unreal, is what it felt.

Murder and sex.

Pure noir.

The last time I got sex, the Titanic was a viable option.

Instead of being wired, I was out of it, like this happened in a bad B-movie.

I did some X to chill.

Put on the TV, Living channel, and no, the title wasn’t wasted on me.

They were showing series two of Supernatural.

The two brothers, they killed the demon in the three episodes I watched.

Maybe in series three, they’d get it right.

I hoped to fuck I got it right in the only series I’d get.

*

I waited the next morning to be arrested.

Even dressed for it.

No watch.

Just jeans and a T-shirt.

When the Guards came crashing through my door, macho shite at the fore, I’d be ready.

The Sig, unloaded, sitting on the table.

Me on the other side of the room, so they wouldn’t have to shoot me.

I wouldn’t even plead, just go, take the shite. Whatever sentence they imposed, I’d been serving it for years anyway.

I could at least read in relative peace.

Bottom line, as love was out of the question, it was all I ever really wanted.

They didn’t come.

And I waited.

They didn’t come.

Drank some strong black coffee, smoked more cigs than I intended, but then you always do, and finally grabbed the phone, rang the Meyrick.

An Irish receptionist.

The recession was truly biting.

A year ago, an Irish person working in a hotel? Nope.

I asked for Carl and was told,

‘He checked out.’

I wanted to scream,

‘I know, I fucking checked him out permanently.’

Kept it together, asked,

‘You checked him out personally?’

Keeping it light.

She said patiently,

‘No, automatic checkout, the bill is put under the door and all the client needs to do is drop off the key.’

I clicked off.

What the fuck was going on?

Did his minions sneak him away?

I did a few lines of his coke, the Rolex sliding nicely along my wrist.

The coke was primo.

Christ, that ice drizzle down the back of your throat, the world literally crystallizes and you can do what-the-fuck-ever you ever dreamed.

Like the God-awful song, ‘I Can See Clearly Now’.

I rang Stewart, didn’t bother with the ‘How yah doing’ shite, launched,

‘Carl checked out this morning.’

His relief was evident. He said,

‘Jack, I’m so glad you saw sense, didn’t do…you know.’

Holy fuck.

I said,

‘Listen up, you Zen-besotted eejit, he checked out this morning but I checked him out at two a.m.’

Long silence, then,

‘Jack, you need help, you have seriously lost the plot. I know some people…’

I cut in,

‘I shot him three times, and right now I’m sampling his coke, wearing his Rolex…’

He hung up.

I paced.

A lot.

Coke zig, fear, exhilaration, disbelief, Xanax, touch of the Jay.

Didn’t help.

I switched on the TV. Moved quickly past the Jerry Springer show, stopped for a brief moment at the sitcom Rules of Engagement as the guys outlined the specifics for a real guy weekend.

The one I liked, or the coke loved, was ‘Never, never admit to having seen Brokeback Mountain.’

If ever a sentence nailed the Irish male psyche, there it was.

Moved on to the news.

Liam Neeson’s wife had been tragically killed.

I couldn’t handle that.

Moved on.

More awful tidings.

‘The Real IRA claimed responsibility for murdering two young British soldiers.’

And I thought I’d killed the Devil.

Two young engineers were heading for Iraq.

I dreaded the retaliation this would bring.

And local news: more jobs being lost, redundancies daily.

I muttered,

‘The eighties are back.’

Duran Duran were highly successful all over again.

Oh fuck.

U2 were pissed as they’d hit Number One in every country save Finland.

Those Finns, eh?

I sat at the kitchen table, the Zippo clicking in my hand, the Sig, I swear still warm to the touch, close by.

There was a tree right outside the window, almost overlooking the nuns’ convent, and I watched a tiny bird flit from branch to branch.

Saint Martin’s little bird, they called him.

I was, I know, deferring.

Great word, means you’re trying like the be-jaysus not to dwell on the topic that is dominating your every thought.

I got out an A4 pad, tried to list all the stuff that had gone down since my first meeting with Kurt/Carl.

Took me close to an hour.

I timed it on the flash Rolex.

That was real.

Right?

Had me some pit stops, as opposed to pitfalls.

One double espresso,

a Xanax,

three cigs,

and what had I got?

Not a whole lot.

Was he the Devil?

Did I kill the Devil?

I know, it’s as crazy as it sounds and looks.

So…what to do?

The sun came blasting through the window.

Lit up the whole apartment, and right then I knew.

Let

it

go.