Heffernan Interior People

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-922565-79-2
Verlag: Vivid Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 200 Seiten

'There are gods here on earth, Magnus. But not all of them know they are gods. Some are lucky enough to be born knowing what they are. Others have to figure it out for themselves along the way.' Magnus, a hired killer desperate to atone for the things he has done, is visited by the ghost of his first hit, a mysterious man named Byrd. Byrd offers Magnus redemption, a journey into the lives of the people left behind after he killed their loved ones. Byrd tells him it is not too late to save these lost souls. One of these souls is Sam, slowly destroying herself after the murder of her fiancé. As Magnus and Sam drift closer together, the world around them begins to fall apart, and Magnus realises the one soul he wishes most to save may just end up saving him.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Heffernan, Thomas

Leseproben

2 Magnus drove to a small convenience store, found a spot right outside, parked and took two long strides from the curb to the entrance while he tried not to look at a bright neon sign above the door. Neon gave him migraines. He walked to the large refrigerator which took up one wall at the end of the aisles, and scanned the racks of beer. He enjoyed the minutiae of the labels: hand-crafted, small batch, finest hops. He settled on a six-pack of finest hops, tucked it under his arm and let the fridge door close with a thwap as he turned and headed for the magazine rack. Magnus was thirty-seven, with a dark complexion. He looked vaguely Native American, with his jet-black hair, angled features and sharp nose, until people got close enough to notice that his dark brown irises were ringed with bright bands the colour of polished emeralds. He was, relatively speaking, roughly the size of an oak tree. He stood six-foot-five inches tall and weighed just under two-hundred and seventy pounds. His muscles were solid, a result of the thousand push-ups and thousand sit-ups he performed dutifully every morning, before an hour of Tai Chi. He was big but not clumsy. He had the coiled, quick look of an experienced martial artist. You got the impression he could move faster than most people can think. He was not the type who wins fights, he was the type people don’t pick fights with in the first place. A vaguely familiar man stood at the magazines, flapping through a Legal Teens glossy, and greeted him with a dull nod. He lifted his chin at the man before turning his attention to the magazines. ‘Hell of a thing you did,’ the man said. Magnus looked at him. He stood a few inches shorter than Magnus, and he looked shrewd and wiry, a little hunched at the shoulders. He wore a dark grey suit beneath an old brown raincoat, like a hard-boiled detective from the cover of an old pulp fiction magazine. All that was missing was the hat. ‘For the girl, you know,’ the man said. ‘Alice, I think her name is.’ He put down the magazine and flicked the corner of the cover. ‘Slightly less lucky than these girls,’ he said. ‘Only slightly, though.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ Magnus asked. The man rolled his eyes. ‘This is going to get interesting way sooner if we skip the getting-to-know-you bullshit,’ he said. ‘I know who you are. I know what you are. That is to say, I know how you make a living.’ He lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘Come to think of it, there’s one thing I don’t know, but hope to find out, and that is, why.’ Magnus took a step toward him. ‘Who are you? Who sent you? I figure if it was someone who wanted me dead, we wouldn’t be this far along. So, start talking or I’ll kill you here and now. I’ll kill the cashier over there too and be on my merry way.’ The man raised his eyebrows and looked over at the cashier, a young Somali guy with his nose angled into a thick textbook. ‘No, you won’t,’ he said, looking at Magnus. There was something unnerving about his eyes. ‘That’s sort of why I’m here.’ He took a breath. ‘Alright, I’ll answer in order, best I can. My name is Byrd. I only have a vague idea of what sent me, and a slightly less vague idea why. But you are correct, I don’t want you dead.’ ‘Okay then, why?’ Magnus asked. The man laughed, once and quick. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ ‘Should I?’ ‘I would hope so. After all, you killed me.’ * * * * ‘That’ll be twelve-eighty,’ the young cashier said, eyes still on his textbook as he tapped a green highlighter against the side of his head. A plastic name tag on the breast of his lime green bowling shirt read William. A shiny button pinned to his lapel suggested that Magnus should ask him about the world-famous beef jerky. Magnus did not ask him about the jerky. Instead, he dumped a handful of bills and coins onto the plastic mat on the counter in front of him. One coin rolled off the counter and clicked to the rubber floor. ‘Sorry,’ Magnus said. ‘No problem,’ William said, stooping to retrieve the coin. He stood and scanned the money on the counter. ‘You’re short, like, a quarter.’ Magnus frowned at Byrd, who stood beside him with a smirk on his face. ‘What’s that grin for?’ he said. ‘This is some kind of fucking joke.’ William shrugged. ‘I don’t set the prices, sir.’ ‘No, I didn’t mean . . .’ Magnus looked at William and leaned in close, not wanting to ask but unable not to. ‘You don’t see him, do you?’ He tilted his head toward Byrd. William’s eyes narrowed. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged again. Byrd leaned close to Magnus’ right ear and whispered, ‘He doesn’t see me, because I’m dead.’ He stretched the word dead out and smiled as he finished it. Magnus threw another dollar onto the plastic mat. ‘Keep the change.’ As he got back into his car he closed his eyes, knowing Byrd was in the passenger seat though the passenger-side door never opened or closed. ‘Maybe you’d be better off in a bar,’ Byrd said. He tapped the cardboard flap of the six-pack in Magnus’ lap. ‘Someone like you shouldn’t drink alone.’ * * * * They crossed the city in silence. The 2006 Lexus passed under yellow, orange and white streetlamps and slushed through puddles on the side of the highway. The car was a dark metallic grey because Magnus had read somewhere that grey cars blend in with their surroundings. Something about the human brain recalling some colours more vividly than others. Inside and out, the car was immaculate, but rushing air whistled through a small hole in the rubber seal around the windshield. He had meant to inspect the seal with a flashlight but kept forgetting to do so. Magnus pulled up outside his house, a small, nondescript bungalow in South Heights. ‘What do you want?’ he asked as he shut off the motor. ‘You should open one of those.’ Byrd gestured to the beer. Magnus popped a top and drank almost half in one gulp. He held the neck of the bottle and watched the foam bubble up to the rim, stop, and recede back into the green depths. ‘I want to take a drive,’ Byrd said, looking out the window, ‘but not tonight. Tonight I’ll let you sleep. I’ll be back tomorrow.’ Magnus waited. ‘A drive where?’ he asked, impatient. ‘Through the wreckage,’ Byrd said, and looked at him. Again, Magnus was unnerved by his eyes. They were a very bright blue but somehow transparent, like tinted cellophane over a halogen bulb. They were glassy and artificial, devoid of emotion, something created rather than natural. ‘The wreckage of the lives you destroyed by taking away an integral part of them.’ ‘What?’ Magnus frowned. ‘A part of them? Look, I only kill crooks, okay?’ ‘That thought lets you catch eight hours, does it?’ Byrd said, looking away with a snorted laugh. ‘Well, whatever works for you.’ He looked at Magnus again. ‘Look, it ain’t the folks you killed. It’s the ones you left behind that matter. Those ones we can help. Those ones we can save.’ Magnus took the rest of the beer in another long swig. He dropped the empty bottle over his shoulder into the back seat. ‘I don’t want to sleep,’ he said. ‘I want you out of my life. Let’s start now.’ Byrd nodded. ‘That’s the spirit. I like a good bit of decisiveness. Let’s do this.’ * * * * They pulled up outside Kitty’s Kats and Magnus cringed at the neon. It was much worse than the convenience store. A bouncer stood in shadows beneath the blinking red sign. The tip of a cigarette glowed from within the dark mass of his face. ‘I take it we’re not here so you can have one last lap dance,’ Magnus said. ‘Not my thing, never had much time for the tease,’ Byrd said. ‘I prefer the actual fucking.’ Magnus stared at the doorway. ‘Her name’s Stephie,’ Byrd looked toward the place. ‘She’s new. You killed her father. Kid was going to be a stand-up gal. Nothing profound, we’re not talking Surgeon-General here, but happy, you see. And now, because of you, she’s . . . well, this.’ ‘They’re not all hard-luck cases,’ Magnus said, but his words felt feeble, like tiny pebbles in his mouth. ‘Some strippers are happy, I’m sure.’ ‘Some are,’ Byrd agreed. ‘Stephie’s not.’ ‘So what do I do?’ Magnus asked. ‘Break that bouncer’s nose, storm in there and carry her off like some kind of goddamn knight in shining armour?’ ‘No.’ Byrd stared through the windshield. ‘You just go in there, get a drink, watch her show, pay your cheque, and leave.’ ‘That’s it? What about saving her ....