“Fisk.” He stood over the emaciated wreck of a man, staring, daring him to look.
Fisk’s eyes opened slowly. They looked blurred and bloodshot. He widened them, trying to focus, shuffling into an upright position.
“Remember me?” Cowan tried to keep his voice low and threatening, but he was afraid it just sounded weak.
Fisk blinked slowly. He appeared to be under the influence of something; probably drink, by the smell. He pulled a sour face.
“I’ve come to kill you,” Cowan said quietly. He shuffled his feet.
Fisk smiled wanly and rolled onto his side, moved to a sitting position. “You were Rosie’s bit on the side. I remember you.” His voice sounded dead. Listless.
“I wasn’t a bit on the side. I tried to help her after you two split up.”
“So you say.” Fisk laughed hollowly. “How’d you find me?”
Cowan made a fist. “I made a promise to Rose before she died.”
Fisk shrugged. It was an unsightly gesture. Cowan marvelled again at the man’s appearance. He looked ravaged. Close to death.
“Go on then.” He sat up and put his head in his hands. “You’ll be doing me a favour.”
Cowan stared at him, clenching his teeth. He fought to suppress the rage that ached inside. “You piece of shit. He was six years old, for fuck’s sake. A good kid.”
“Should I tell you something … what’s your name?”
“Cowan.”
“Cowan, that’s right. Cowan.” He rolled the word around his mouth. “Let me tell you something — he’s not a good kid anymore.”
“You selfish bastard. Why couldn’t you just kill yourself and leave him with his mum?”
“With you and Rosie, you mean? That would’ve been nice.” His breath hitched. A change seemed to come over him. He looked detached. “Don’t you think I’m sorry for what I done? Don’t you think I wished I’d died that day? I’d end it tomorrow if I thought it would all stop.”
“This place is a shithole. Why’d you move here?”
Fisk shrugged. “Why not? I lived ’round here as a kid. Till we moved to Sheffield when I left school.”
Shit. Jimenez must have known about the lies. He must have known Fisk hadn’t attended school in Sheffield.
Cowan glanced around. There was a cushion on the sofa. He could hold the gun against it and shoot through. It should muffle the shot. The crying kid nextdoor might mask the noise. It could give him sufficient time to get away.
Fisk looked up, wrongly interpreting the pause. “You can hear him too, can’t you?”
“That kid?”
Fisk nodded and grimaced, revealing yellow teeth. His next words chilled Cowan to the core. “That’s Alex.”
Cowan peered in the direction of the sound. He’d assumed it had been from the neighbouring flat, but he realised it was coming from the next room. Heart hammering in his throat, he approached the door and pushed it open.
The sound stopped instantly. He could see similar signs of disorder in the room — an unmade bed, clothes strewn on the floor, boxes of things stored in the corner.
“It’s not so bad in the day,” Fisk said. “The nights are worst. I can’t get away. He’s changed. He doesn’t love his dad no more.”
Cowan turned back.
“You should see his face at night. Fucking terrifying.” Fisk stood with a groan and switched off the music. “That’s why I have that on — drowns him out a bit.” His foot knocked an empty can of Tennent’s Super across the floor. He slumped back onto the sofa, the movement causing a hole in the upholstery to gape like a hungry mouth. He stared at a spot in the corner of the ceiling.
“Sometimes at night I see him watching me from up there.” He motioned with his hand.
Despite himself, Cowan glanced into the empty, mildew-stained corner.
“He grows spindly legs like a spider. He creeps around quiet, daring me to watch. If I close my eyes, he’ll pounce. It’s just a game to him. Without the booze, I can’t sleep.”
Cowan rolled his eyes. “Maybe the booze makes you imagine things.”
“The fuck it does.” He suddenly lifted the sleeve of his t-shirt, revealing a pattern of angry scabs. “Trouble is, I’m so out of it, I can’t feel him slashing me.”
Cowan winced at the rawness of the wounds.
“Stanley knife,” Fisk said. “Fucker likes to have his fun.”
Cowan studied the boxes for the first time. They were stuffed with children’s toys, videos, wooden jigsaws. “You need help.”
Fisk laughed again, that horrible sound. “I’m past help.” He slumped back onto the sofa. “I need to drink—that’s what keeps me from seeing him. That or the gear.” He ran his fingers through his hair and belched. Cowan could see the forearm was scarred with circular marks like burns. The man looked wrecked with exhaustion.
His anger was beginning to dissipate, replaced by a modicum of pity. It seemed like Fisk was existing in his own self-induced hell. Tormenting himself. The guilt must have tipped his mind. That or the booze.
“If I carry on drinking, I know I’ll die. I’ve already seen signs. Liver’s knackered. Be a blessing when it comes.” He motioned with his hand. “Benny from over the way brought me a couple of bottles of absinthe back from his last trip. That’s good stuff, let me tell you. Good stuff.”
“Why do you keep these?” Cowan tapped the side of one of the cardboard boxes. “You should let it go. You’re just torturing yourself.”
Fisk shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? He brings them.”
“You think Alex brought this stuff?”
“Uh-huh. He leaves me … little gifts. From the other side.”
Cowan felt the skin on the back of his neck prickling. He lifted a soft toy out of the box. It was a cloth mouse wearing a gingham shirt—something from Bagpuss? Cowan’s memory faltered. It looked old. Some of the stitching had come loose. One of its eyes looked wonky. As he held the object, a foul stench seemed to emanate from it. An intense feeling of revulsion struck. He tossed the toy back into the box, almost recoiling.
Little gifts. Cowan knew enough to understand the correct word even if Fisk didn’t—apports. Fisk believed the toys were reminders from his dead son. Reminders of what damage he’d done. He had clearly lost his mind. The self-harming was just another symptom of the madness. Cowan supposed guilt could do that.
Fisk was speaking. “Remember that film with Bruce Willis’s wife and the crazy black woman? And him — Lundgren?”
“Swayze.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Well that’s what it’s like. Twenty-four hours a day. He’s there taunting me, trying to hurt me. Reminding me that he’s angry. At night he sometimes burns my skin.” He rested his head back on the sofa. “And he set fire to my hair once. But it’s no more than I deserve.” His voice seemed stronger now, less slurred. Maybe he was sobering up.
Cowan became aware of the gun’s weight again. He looked around the squalor, considering Fisk’s situation. His physical condition was pathetic. Dishevelled. The mementoes, the cans of booze, the state of his mind. Ending Fisk’s life would be doing him a favour, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Why not kill yourself then? Proper this time though.”
Fisk blinked slowly. “You a religious man?”
Cowan shook his head.
“Neither was I before all this shit.” He swallowed. “But in hospital I was encouraged to find God. So I’m hedging my bets — this might be His test. I need to endure my punishment. Anything else would be to face eternal damnation. And — like I said — my liver’s on its way out anyway.”