Perdition street, p.8
Perdition Street, page 8
“I never had anyone to call my own, who loved me, until Varie. And no one since. So when she dumped me, it just affirmed every notion I had about being a worthless human being. I knew that everyone I ever loved would leave at some stage, either by themselves or taken by someone else. Because that is what happened every time.
“I crashed my car into a wall one night outside Dalkey, full speed. I can’t remember the moments before it or if it was on purpose or not. But thinking back, it probably was. I wanted to die. My life meant nothing to me. When they got me to the hospital, I was in really bad shape. I died on the operating table, and they brought me back, but when I woke up, Ma was standing at my bedside in the dress she died in. I told the doctors I could see her, that I could hear her talking to me. They said that it was because of the head injury I sustained. A hallucination. They gave me medication, but she didn’t go away. She never left me after that.
“And that’s when I met Gabriel. You know, the angel? He told me that I’d been given a second chance, but I had to work for it and help people find peace. People like you.
“When I left the hospital, I saw more murdered people. They would come to me at all hours of the day or night, asking for help. I’d wake up and they’d be at the end of my bed, just like standing there. It took me a while—and Gabriel and Ma nagging ceaselessly—to realize that it could be something good. It could be a gift, or a curse, or whatever you want to call it, and that I could help people, do something good.
“So I suppose, yes, all of that stuff makes me a bit of a dickhead at times,” Atlas finished and sighed.
Caliber .22’s eyes widened. “That's a really mad story there. I know I get mad about being dead and all, but I also know I had people who loved me in life. Your father being a bastard, your mother being taken from you, Varie walking away. No wonder you get pissed off sometimes.”
“Yeah,” said Atlas. “It can get a bit heavy to carry, but it’s grand. It doesn’t affect me that much. I just get on with things. I’m fine.”
Caliber smiled, an oddly unnerving sight. “Do you feel a bit better sharing it?” he asked. “I always think it’s better to get things off your chest, things that are bothering you. Things like that just eat you up from the inside if you don’t let them out. I think you’ve done good work here; we’ve maybe even bonded a little. Do you feel a burden has lifted?”
Atlas gripped the steering wheel again, his face darkening. He had that poisonous feeling again, coming from his core. “No,” he replied firmly. “What do you want me to do, fucking cry or something? That would make you happy, wouldn’t it? Me sitting here sobbing like you. Then we can hug. What about that? Big hugs all around. Maybe I can tell you I love you, and you can say it back. You’ll be going for Oprah’s job next. You’d look great on the screen with a big hole in your head. Just shut up about it, alright?”
Caliber rolled his eyes and turned his head back to the window. “Honestly, Atlas, you’re such a dickhead.”
They traveled on, not speaking for the rest of the journey.
“We’re here,” Atlas said abruptly about an hour later, piercing the silence as Belfast’s bright tapestry of mesmerizing, twinkling lights came into view. The moon hung round and heavy over Belfast Lough.
Atlas pulled over and took out his phone, searching for the article about the dead teenager’s funeral. Dollops of rain hit the windshield as they sat in the shadow of the iconic Harland and Wolff gantry cranes. He looked out the window at the mammoth structures, their rustic hues of yellow and brown still bright in the night skyline over the city. They were the giants of this post-conflict city, having spent decades standing tall, weathering the elements, and looking down on a city emerging from the darkest days of violence and hatred.
The corpse didn’t speak as Atlas took off again, navigating the dark and rainy streets. They passed rows and rows of terraced houses, the eyes of gunmen staring down at them from gable walls, a throwback from the Troubles era. They sped past other murals of smiling children painted on other walls—more friendly, colorful attempts to look to the future. People walked hurriedly through the streets, heads down and hunched over against the elements. Despite it having been twenty-five years since the paramilitary ceasefires, Atlas always thought Belfast’s inhabitants looked strained, like some invisible force weighed them down. Maybe it wasn’t them; perhaps it was because he was incapable of seeing the good in anything or anyone anymore and always gravitated toward the grim and the dark.
They drove over an ornate Victorian-style bridge, across the River Lagan that weaved like a ribbon of darkness beneath them, and into the city proper, through clusters of high-rise buildings standing tall like luminous sentinels, their windows aglow with a multitude of colors. They passed late-night revelers, arms around each other, singing, laughing, and shouting their way to the next pub. There was a vibrant energy pulsing through the heart of this city, Atlas mused. But there was always some asshole waiting in the wings to try to drag it back to the bad old days of death, darkness, and misery.
The rain poured down ceaselessly, only reinforcing Atlas’s sour mood.
“How will you know where this guy is?” asked Caliber. “How will you find him?”
“Where would you have gone if you hadn’t seen my light?” asked Atlas.
“I don’t know. I probably would have followed my family,” he replied. “Or the graveyard. It’s weird. You kinda know you’re dead, but you’re not quite sure. Seeing your body in the ground is a dead giveaway, but you still think it’s not real. It’s been more than a week since this guy was killed. He probably went to his own funeral, too.”
Atlas took his eyes from the road and looked at the corpse.
“Don’t even say anything about that,” warned Caliber. “Don’t you dare say a fucking word, dickhead.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” replied Atlas mildly. “I was just hoping you weren’t going to cry again.”
The dead man tutted, rolled his eyes, and sighed.
“Heartless bastard,” he said. “And there was me thinking we had made some kind of breakthrough back there, with our heart to heart. I shouldn’t have been so stupid.”
Atlas started. “You tell anyone what I said, and I’ll…”
“What?” asked the corpse, smiling. “Kill me?”
“Yeah,” said Atlas. “And I’ll do it right this time.”
Caliber .22 snorted.
They approached a weathered, moss-covered stone arch that framed a vast cemetery. As they drove along its winding driveway, the car’s headlights danced over ancient gravestones that rose like crooked teeth from the earth.
Perched atop the solitary hill, the headlights carved a sandstone church out of the darkness. Its spires stretched skyward, punctuating the heavens and meeting the rain before it reached the ground.
The headlights and the rain combined to make the stained glass windows shimmer.
Atlas switched off the engine, and the cloak of darkness returned. It was silent, except for the rain on the window and his tense breathing.
“What are we doing now?” asked Caliber nervously.
“We’ll go to the grave first,” Atlas replied. “We have to start somewhere.”
In the darkness and pouring rain, the church and graveyard felt ominous and unfriendly. Atlas could see less than ten feet in front of him before the gloom consumed everything. As if in a concerted attempt at creating an utterly foreboding atmosphere, the wind howled bitterly outside the car’s windows.
“Are you coming?” Atlas asked.
Caliber grimaced and peered up at the church spires.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark?” said Atlas, turning to look at the corpse. “Wait. Are you really?”
“No,” he replied defiantly. “I’m just going to sit here. I don’t want to get wet. It’s raining horribly out there.”
“You’re dead,” said Atlas. “You have a hole in your head. You won’t feel the rain.”
Caliber reluctantly began to take off his seatbelt. “You always have to keep rubbing it in my face, don’t you?” he snapped, swinging open the passenger side door. “You can’t leave a dead man in peace, can you? You’re always saying something horrid.”
Atlas was already walking up the steps toward the church. The rain was harder here on the hill and the wind had picked up, roaring down the more modern graveyard behind the church towards them. Atlas checked the mammoth wooden doors, the brass handles freezing to the touch. He knew they would be locked.
He pulled up his collar against the wind and walked toward the graveyard, the corpse following along behind him, muttering under his breath.
“The fresh graves are somewhere up here,” Atlas said, taking off at pace into the darkness. “There! I can see a big patch of undug grass: it’ll be around there somewhere. Let’s see if we can find him. Otherwise, it’s back to his Mum’s house, and that could be awkward.”
He took off, jogging past the simple headstones, then along stone pathways between lines of larger, more elaborate headstones, under which the more affluent rested in the cold soil. He then traversed a baby graveyard in which teddy bears and flowers did their best to keep their heads up against the howling wind. They arrived at an area where mounds of fresh earth were settling over newly-occupied graves.
Atlas held his hand up and gestured for Caliber to stop. Up ahead, an unnatural blue light illuminated a newly erected gravestone.
“Wait,” he said. “We don’t want to spook him.”
“Spook him?” said the corpse, barging past Atlas. “Are you serious? He’s dead. I’m also dead. You’re… I don’t know what you are. But I think he’ll be past the point of no return in that particular area.”
Atlas caught up with Caliber, and together, they approached a man sitting with his head on his knees beside a freshly dug grave.
The young man was tall and well-built, his body honed by the gym. He had recently cut hair, short at the sides and a little wavy at the top, albeit drenched in the rain, a strong jaw, and a heavy brow. His snug purple hoodie lay open, revealing a once-white t-shirt that was now stained blood red.
“Hello,” said Atlas softly, but the wind and the rain carried his voice away.
“Oi!” shouted Caliber, and the dead man looked up, startled.
“Don’t be alarmed,” shouted Atlas, pushing past Caliber again and walking toward the dead man. “My name is Atlas Bishop. I’m here to help you.”
The dead man stood up quickly, his faded jeans also stained with blood. His stature exuded youthful confidence, yet beneath his casual attire was vulnerability, fear, and sadness. His face was bruised and looked sore. “Can you see me?” he shouted, staring earnestly at Atlas.
“Yes,” roared Atlas, battling to be heard over the building wind. “I know what happened to you. You are no doubt afraid, confused, and angry.”
Caliber poked Atlas in the arm. “Hey! How come you didn’t say any of that to me?” he said. “You told me to fuck off!”
Atlas looked disapprovingly at him, then back to the other dead man. “I am a Soul Binder,” he roared. “You are stuck. I want to find the man who did this to you, make him pay, and send you on to Heaven and peace. Is that okay?”
“Can you bring me back to life?” he asked, moving forward excitedly.
Atlas shook his head. Why did they always ask him that? “No,” he replied. “I can’t do that, but I can make the man who killed you suffer. Do you want him to suffer?”
“Yes, I do,” said the dead man sadly, then more determination, “I do.”
He walked nearer to them, and Atlas could see the wounds on his chest and neck, his collarbone shining in the blue light of the orb floating beside him. “You were hit with a shotgun blast, yes?”
“Oh, here we go!” sang Caliber .22, throwing his hands into the air.
“Yes,” said the dead man in a thick Belfast accent. “Blew me right down my hallway like a bomb blast. And now my body is in the ground, down there, under all that soil.”
He turned around and looked at his grave. “Just there, under all of that,” he said, his voice growing quieter. “There’s no air down there, no light or anything. It’s, like, really dark. I’m probably getting eaten by worms or something.”
“Okay, Shotgun,” said Atlas, noticing the trauma in the young man’s tone. “There are no worms. Your body is in a cozy casket, so nothing will be able to get in. Look, we want to help. Come with us.”
“Where do you want to take me?” he asked.
“We are going to find the man who murdered you,” said Atlas. “Come on; it’ll be alright.”
The rain was falling sideways now, hitting Atlas hard on the face as they began walking back down the hill toward the car.
The two dead men shook hands and exchanged introductions as Atlas walked on ahead, looking over Belfast’s blanket of lights below. He hoped that he would be able to find the dead man’s killer, as he wasn’t keen on collecting corpses. He longed for the day when he wouldn’t have one hanging around him at all. He might actually get five minutes of peace then. But for now, death was a constant companion.
He reached the car and opened the glove compartment, fishing out the Quaesitor. He looked to the heavens, murmuring a silent prayer that it would work this time.
“Hey, Shotgun,” he called. “Come here and put your hand on this.”
The dead man did what he was told. The Quaesitor lit up and Atlas breathed a sigh of relief as it emitted a slow, steady hum.
“Okay,” said Atlas, his spirits rising. “Get in the car. This hopefully won’t take long.”
The trio tumbled into the car, and Atlas turned on the ignition. He was soaked through. He looked in his rear-view mirror at the young man’s face. Although it was battered, bruised, and swollen, he could tell that he was, or had been, very young.
“How old are you, Shotgun?” he asked.
“I’m nineteen,” he said solemnly. “Well, I was nineteen when I was living. I suppose I will always be nineteen now; is that how it works? Do I stay nineteen forever? Or do I still age, now that I’m…” He trailed off.
Atlas stared at him. There was no way this sad kid would be fit for the binding in his current state. He needed him to want revenge more than anything, that all-consuming desire to clamber onto his murderer’s back and stay there until the bitter end.
“Who killed you?” asked Atlas. “Who did this to you?”
Shotgun looked down at his blood-stained shirt. “It was a gang of men who beat me up,” he said. “They told people I was breaking into houses, but I never did that. I would never do that. I had a job: I’m a welder; I had my own money. I went out with one of their ex-girlfriends, but I didn’t know she had been seeing him. She called it off with him a few weeks ago, and then we got together. I saw him in the bar, and he started a fight. I’m a boxer, see, so I can fight. I got the better of him—embarrassed him in front of the whole bar. He hated that, the skinny prick.
“The next night, they kicked in my ma’s door, threw her on the ground and beat her, then beat me. Five or six of them. I got a few digs in, busted a few noses and heads, and pushed them back out the door. Nearly had them, too. And then this specky prick Jonny comes in with a shotgun and blows me down the hall. Last thing I remember is my back hitting the stairs and my ma screaming.
“I woke up in the hospital. Well, I didn’t wake up, but I got up. Everyone was around my bed crying and wailing. My ma, she was making this noise; it was like an animal, almost. It was really scary. My family couldn’t hear or see me, no matter how loud I shouted. I walked home and sat in the corner of my ma’s living room during the wake. That was really weird, sitting there looking at myself in a casket, everyone in there gawking at me. And then I went to my own funeral. I never thought I’d do that. That was the worst bit. Very weird.”
Atlas and Caliber shared a glance and looked back at Shotgun.
“People were coming in and telling my ma they were sorry. People I hadn’t seen in years, people I didn’t even like. Some people I didn’t even know!”
“That’s rough, brother,” Caliber interjected. “I know where you are coming from. I hear you.”
Shotgun sighed. “And then I just stayed here, day and night for ages. What else could I do? And then you came. That’s my story, I suppose. It’s tragic, isn’t it?”
Atlas nodded. “Right,” he said. “What was the name of the prick who shot you?”
Time to poke the bear.
“His name is Jonny Hallahan,” said Shotgun. “He’s one of the bosses of a paramilitary gang near my housing estate.”
Atlas rolled the car across the gravel driveway. “Well, let’s go and get him then,” he said.
The young man laughed softly. “I don’t think you understand,” he said. “He’s untouchable. You’ll not be able to get anywhere near him. He’s dangerous, and he’s always got a crowd of henchmen around him with guns. They’re thugs. He doesn’t give a fuck, he’ll kill you too.”
Atlas smiled. “No, he won’t, son. I have powerful friends on my side. My job is to get revenge on this bastard for what he did to you, and nobody, absolutely nobody or nothing, is going to stop me.”
Shotgun perked up a little at this, sitting up straighter in the back seat. “Who are you?” he asked.
“As I said before, I’m Atlas Bishop, the Soul Binder. I am going to take you to this Jonny, and I’m going to bind your soul to his. Life for life. You are going to torture and hurt him like he hurt you, and you are going to drag his sorry soul to Hell because that is where he belongs. And then you, my young friend, are going to Heaven. No more sitting in rainy graveyards for you. Heaven is beautiful, full of blissful and gentle things and the people you loved who went before. Full of happiness and love. You deserve to go there.”
