Darren McCormick

Stumbling from room to room, whisky glass in one hand, bottle in the other, switching lights on and off as he went, Keller grasped feebly at denial. The house had never felt emptier, even when it was a whistling shell of breeze blocks on a muddy construction site. Fiona had looked so funny then, in a cute way, walking around in a yellow hard hat, describing in meticulous detail just how she envisaged each room would look.

He gulped the whisky. Fiona was hiding somewhere, he convinced himself. That body they’d shown him couldn’t have been her. Why had he said that it was? He hadn’t even recognised the face beneath the sheet. No, Fiona had baby-fat in her cheeks, more colour in her skin; that woman’s hair was different, darker, not as straight as hers.

Back in the living room, the lingering stench of afterbirth and death hung in the air like wisps of smoke over an ashtray of stubbed-out cigarettes, singeing Keller’s nostrils. He slumped to his knees, pretence ebbing away with an agonised whine.

He was onto his second bottle—the whisky flavouring the tears very effectively—when the front door-knocker rattled like gunfire; Raka – Raka – Raka, strangely distant at first and scarcely rousing him from his melancholy stupor. But it continued, gradually louder, eventually shaking the flimsily built house like a wrecking-ball. The vibrations travelled through his body, juddering his numbed heart. Whoever it was had no intention of leaving without an audience…

The two men standing in the doorway were indistinguishable, tall, dressed like undertakers. Wide-brimmed hats shielded their faces from the flickering porch light.

“You damaged our business, boy!”

“Rendered our merchandise un-saleable!”

Keller uttered no greeting, didn’t question their identity. He knew why they’d come. He almost said, “Please don’t tell my wife about that girl,” instead he recited the words mentally like a prayer, just in case anyone was listening. The biggest fuck-up of his life, his sole transgression towards Fiona, was back staring him in the face, not twenty-four hours after it happened.

“Situation necessitates a little negotiating!”

“Care to negotiate?”

Leather-gloved fingers grapple-hooked Keller’s shoulder and spun him around. A firm hand on each forearm slowly guided him along the hallway, his sweaty feet sucked on the parquet as the clicking heels either side of him echoed in unison.

“What’s this about, lads?” he stammered with forced innocence; his voice, weakened by grief, emerged in a strained whimper. “You’ve caught me at a bad time…”

He was ushered into the living room, seated on the couch before the coffee table where his bottle and glass stood side by side. The Negotiators settled themselves either side of him, smoothing down their suits and crossing their legs, kicking the heels of their snakeskins. Keller sat mute as they spoke in turn:

“You pay for the bitch’s services, right? But, you’re generally expected to return her in a reasonable condition.”

“How can we sell her ass now?”

“I wouldn’t touch it for nothing.”

“Wouldn’t return a library book with the cover torn off would you?”

“So we had to, uh, remove her from the payroll. Heh, heh.”

Keller listened reluctantly as two distinct images flashed through his mind: his tearful wife and the sniggering prostitute. He wished they’d both disappear; he yearned for darkness and silence.

“Now, we understand you may have had your reasons, that girl had one filthy mouth. Real bad mouth, even after we took her under our wing.”

“You can drag the bitch outta the gutter, but you can’t…”

“Exactly! Though we figured taking her to England would help some…”

“It was worth a try…”

“You appreciate,” a gloved hand patted Keller’s knee, “our feeling a little aggrieved over this?”

“Sure he does. Look at his eyes!”

Keller brought his hands to his face, forcing his fingertips into his scrunched eyelids. The girl had insulted him. No, worse than that: humiliated him. Fiona had never commented on his body that way; he was unprepared for the constant criticism. What was he meant to do, just take her abuse? He’d flown into a rage, hardly helped by the cocaine they’d shared. It wasn’t something he was used to.

A Negotiator rubbed his hand across Keller’s face. “Now don’t go thinking we’re a couple of hoodlums.”

“Nah, he don’t think that. This guy likes us.”

Keller rubbed his forehead. “I can’t think straight. I need another drink.”

He reached for the whisky but was held back with two strong arms across his chest.

“Later, boy. It’s been a bad time, sure.”

“We know all about that.”

“Ya! We know all about it!”

“Let’s see; time of death, uh, 10 pm yesterday. Just after she made the emergency call…”

“In this very room? Right around the time he was slapping our bitch, I’d say…”

“Uh-huh.” The Negotiators giggled in the backs of their throats as Keller wept into his hands.

“Hey, look! The baby’s crying! Heh, heh.”

“Oh, he’s taking this real bad!”

“Listen,” sniffed Keller. “I’m sorry about the girl. I shouldn’t have gone to see her in the first place. I was drinking heavily after work. And my wife wouldn’t…” Keller paused briefly, then swallowed. “My wife hasn’t been the same all through the pregnancy. Oh, God!” A gush of tears fell from his eyes. “I’m talking like she’s still here… I was stupid and selfish, yes. But I just wanted to blow off steam.”

“Oh, you blew off steam all right. I never saw a face so messed up.”

“Uh-uh.”

“I don’t remember much about it, what memories I have seem unreal, more like a movie. Then I came home, and the police were here…”

“Betcha thought they’d come about our girl, huh? Betcha got a big surprise, heh, heh.”

Keller inhaled deeply. “Look, whatever it is you came to do, can we get on with it?”

“Hey, slow down. Things ain’t nearly so gloomy as you think. You wanna see your wife and baby, right?” The Negotiator reached inside his pocket, then rattled a bottle of pills in front of Keller’s face. “Take a drink, a good long one to wash these guys down. Then everything will be just like you always wanted it to be. Forever.”

“So this is my punishment…? An overdose?”

“Shit, you hear that? This dude’s calling us killers!”

“We don’t kill, boy. Only negotiate.”

“Negotiate, right. Hey, you’ll even have a place to live!”

“Exactly like this one. Yup. So what you say? Why not have a little drink and think it over…”

Keller reached over and filled his glass. Closing his eyes, he poured the burning liquor down his throat, whilst all he could hear was the bottle of pills shaking in a repeated rhythm, exactly like the rapping door knocker earlier, Kshh – Kshh – Kshh …


He woke suddenly behind the wheel of his Mercedes, the gear stick in neutral, hand-brake on, engine running. He stretched, rubbed his eyes then looked around for some sign of The Negotiators. There was none. He entertained the idea, for a fleeting moment, that he had dreamt the whole horrific episode: he’d pulled over for a rest after a tough stint at work. Fiona would be waiting for him, laying out a bountiful dinner, smiling in all her child-bearing radiance.

The notion faded when he wound the window down and surveyed the neighbourhood, bathed in sparse daylight. The area was familiar, only a few miles from his, but different. There were no other vehicles around, no children playing, dogs barking, no passers-by, rumbling stereos or loud televisions. The world seemed devoid of inhabitants, human or otherwise. It reminded him of miserable Christmas Days back when he was a kid. A light mist frosted the windows.

A fuzzy shadow glanced across the rear-view mirror. The passenger door opened and Fiona stepped in. She sat cradling the baby in her lap. It was a glorious sight, despite her bedraggled appearance.

“Don’t you want to kiss your daughter?” she whispered.

When she opened the baby’s shawl Keller put his hand over his mouth and gagged; the umbilical cord was entwined around its neck.

“No? Suit your-fucking-self. Suppose we’d better get going?”

He took a deep breath, nodded, and smiled at Fiona. As they sped away, the sky darkened and the rain battered the roof of the car.

Keller spun the car into the drive and yanked on the handbrake, lashing a wave of rainwater over the garden path. He exhaled then reached over to kiss Fiona. She pulled her chin into her chest and twisted her face disgustedly. “Don’t put that fucking mouth anywhere near me! How do I know where the fuck it’s been?”

The baby hissed though her nose.

Keller leaned back closing his eyes. “Fiona, please. Not in front of the baby. You never used to talk this way.”

“What morals you have,” Fiona laughed. She held the baby to her face and kissed its forehead. It gurgled back at her; small lumps of congealed blood seeped between its lips. “You know, I can’t even tell whose eyes she’s got…”

“What’s important is that we are together, as a family, for good. Aren’t you glad I decided to join you?” He gently touched her thigh, covering a patch of dried blood just below her skirt’s hem. “Didn’t I prove my devotion?”

“All you proved was your guilt.”

“But nothing happened, all I did was talk to that girl.”

“That’s not what I was told.”

Keller sighed. “Can we at least go inside?”

Fiona cradled the baby to her breast, flicked the door open and stepped into a puddle. Keller got out and back-heeled his door shut.

The familiar, ultra-modern houses looked drab and grey through the rain; the windows dark and undressed. There were ‘For Sale’ and ‘To Let’ signs everywhere. Lawns had been planted but showed no signs of sprouting. The whole place was drenched in abandonment; heavy clouds accentuated the deadening atmosphere.

The rain plastered Fiona’s hair flat to her scalp and the baby’s diluted blood trickled over her wrist, blotting in her cashmere sleeve. Keller said nothing; her clothes were already stained beyond rescue.

Fiona looked around. “Are we the only ones here?”

“I didn’t think to ask about neighbours. There must be some, surely.” He shook a bunch of keys. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

Fiona fingered the skeletal branch of an elm sapling, one of many that stood like simple grave-markers in gardens and on verges. She bent a sodden twig between her thumb and forefinger. “No hope this’ll ever grow…”

Keller slid the key into the shining Yale lock. The door was stiff and took a hefty shoulder push to open.

“The Negotiators promised it would be identical to our other place.” He led her inside with an affectionate arm around the waist. She shivered. The air was musty with a hint of fresh paint and wood shavings.

“What about opening some windows?” Keller smiled. “A through breeze is what this place needs.”

“No. I’m taking the baby upstairs. We should be resting.”

He rubbed her shoulder and smiled. “Okay, you go ahead. If there’s anything you need…”

Fiona silently turned away.

Keller walked along the hallway to the kitchen, turning to catch her pale legs climbing the stairs. He wondered if the bruises would ever clear.

He walked out the back door onto a block-paved patio, then beyond to a muddy patch of ground, where children’s garden apparatus were arranged—slide, swing, climbing frame. A perfect play area for when their child grew, they’d agreed. Now everything would lay redundant in the rain. As he wiped the water from the metal bars, his gaze was drawn to the upstairs window. Fiona stood there staring vacantly, with the baby sprawled over her forearm; he’d swear the baby was laughing at him. He lowered his head, walked back inside and wiped the mud from his shoes, thinking the best thing would be to keep all the curtains drawn, forever.