WARNING: Contains explicit language and deals with adult themes
Rain cascaded from the dark, dismal heavens as if all the angels were releasing their sorrows. Huge droplets exploded onto the cooling bitumen, causing steam to rise as twin headlamp beams entered what looked like a scene from Hades. The source of the light coasted along, its wipers struggling to clear the windscreen until the vehicle slipped into the last remaining space among the line of parked cars. After a brief pause, the driver scuttled out, clutching a worn leather satchel over his head as he ran to his front door. Juggling the bag, he wrestled with his keys and stumbled into his sanctum.
But as he hurried to close the entrance, he could sense something was wrong. Instead of the usual welcome, the darkness within his house felt threatening, as if harbouring a brooding evil. The hairs on his neck raised as the latch hit home with an ominous click. Then a gruff, synthesised voice broke the silence. “Don’t turn on the light.”
He squealed and swore, placing a hand on his chest, before squinting into the darkness. “Oh, my God! Who the hell are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is I’m pointing a gun at you. It’s a SIG Sauer P226, to be precise, complete with a suppressor, so nobody will hear if I need to use it.”
The threat caused paralysis, fixing the man to the spot where he had dumped his bag and swung the door shut.
The seated silhouette in the distant unlit corner continued to talk. “Did you know this impressive piece of hardware holds fifteen 9mm rounds? Whilst each one packs enough punch to end your life, should any be fired, they won’t leave a mess on your soft furnishings. Once they penetrate, the bullets tend to just rattle around within your body.”
The man found his voice. “What do you want? I’ve no cash here, and nothing worth…” His words trailed off, mouth desiccating as sweat streamed from every pore. There was no need to spell out the obvious fact: he was the most valuable thing in the property, other than… “What have you done with my cat?”
“Calm yourself, Don. May I call you Don? Or would you prefer me to remain more formal? Donald? Mr Gellar?”
The man regained control of his muscles and thrust out his small chin. “You can call me Donald. Where’s my cat?”
“He’s here, with me, on my lap. It’s amazing how fickle felines can be. Show them the slightest bit of affection and they’re all over you. At least if you had a dog, it might have barked.”
He let out a sigh. “I’ll ask again. What d’you want?”
“Take a seat. Over there. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
Donald hesitated, then off to his right a small lamp blinked into life, its weak glow illuminating the coffee table on which it sat. His forehead creased before he surmised the intruder must have brought the light, along with a remote.
“Please, sit down. As you can see, I’ve made our chat worth your while.”
Donald took a few steps towards the table, but once again stopped when he saw what was there. A glass of wine was perspiring onto a coaster, but it wasn’t what caused his alarm. Two lines of white powder sat atop a small mirror, next to a rolled 50-dollar note.
“I’m sure the Bar Association of Queensland wouldn’t approve of your recreational choices, but we don’t have to tell them, do we?”
Donald’s eyes narrowed, but he controlled his indignation. “So, what is this? A blackmail attempt?”
His vision was becoming more accustomed to the poor light, assisted by weak rays filtering through from distant streetlights, shading the edges and providing some semblance of structure to the familiar shapes in his living room. He could now make out the figure seated in the wing-back chair over in the corner, and what appeared to be a gun pointed his way.
“Donald, please don’t be so cynical. I thought I’d bring something along to facilitate our discussion. It’ll loosen your tongue, or at least buy me some goodwill. I was surprised to discover someone your age would still be partaking, but each to their own.” There was a tone change of the electronic voice as it became more abrupt. “Now sit.”
Donald stared into the shadows, then gave a slight shrug and sat on the sofa in front of the coffee table. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s not be so hasty, Donald. Have a drink, indulge. Enjoy what’s on offer, then we’ll talk.”
After considering his options, Donald lifted the glass and inspected it, his chunky gold watch glinting as his wrist twisted. “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”
There was a short laugh. “What would be the point of that? I have no wish to poison you. I need information. In all honesty, those offerings are not really mine. The wine is from the open bottle in your fridge. A very nice Pinot Grigio, I do believe. And the coke’s from your own stash. The one you keep in the false can of shaving foam in your bathroom cabinet.” Once again, there was another tone change. “Now drink and snort.”
Donald squinted into the far corner, his night vision ruined by the light on the table. Taking a tentative sip, he paused, then nodded, before raising the glass towards the source of the voice and swallowing the contents in one swig. Wiping his mouth, he picked up the rolled note, and using a finger to close one nostril, sniffed up each line of cocaine, dabbing up stray grains and rubbing them into his gums.
He blinked as the rush hit home, leaning back into the sofa, his head giving a slight quiver. “Right. It’s done. So what the hell do you want?”
“There’s no hurry, Donald. Relax, enjoy your high. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Donald leant forward, elbows on his knees, eyes wide, pupils dilated. “You obviously don’t know how cocaine works. I can see you now, hear my cat purring. What’s with the mask? Do I know you? Is this some sort of set-up?”
“Oh, I know exactly how cocaine works. The way it stimulates the sympathetic nervous system, increases your heart rate, improves your senses, and releases all that lovely dopamine within your brain. But I’m sure you’re not in the mood for a pharmacology lecture. And as for the mask, it’s to ensure my anonymity. You might know me, you might not. But either way, I don’t want you describing me to the police. What I do want is to know more about you. Tell me, what’s your login password?”
Donald frowned and twisted his head to look at the figure sideways. “What?”
“The password you use at work. What is it?”
He looked both aghast and confused. “You want to hack my B-CAS account? What the hell for?”
[ IDENTITY REDACTED — SPOILER ], shrugged. “Donald, this isn’t a discussion. My interest in the Brisbane City Ambulance Service is none of your concern. I ask the questions, you supply the answers. That’s how an interrogation works. And if I’m happy with what you say, you get to live.”
He flinched, but tried to sound nonchalant. “Whatever. It’s RainyDay145, capital R, capital D.”
[ REDACTED ] shot up and approached him, eliciting a yowl from the cat as it landed on the floor and slunk off into the shadows. The gun was now levelled at Donald’s head. “Don’t lie.”
His mouth dropped opened, eyes wide, hands gripped into fists, knuckles white. “But…”
“I’ll give you one more chance. I advise you not to waste it.”
He stared at the intruder who was covered head to toe in black attire. The matt-plastic full-face mask was strapped over a balaclava. There were slits where the eyes should be and a microphone grille over the mouth. Every bit of skin was covered by a baggy outfit, and a gloved hand was holding the gun.
“Um… it’s FuckBcas814. Capital F, capital B.”
The weapon lowered, and [ REDACTED ] returned to the seat in the corner. “That’s better. Now we have a level of trust.”
“You know my password!”
“Of course. I know a lot about you, Donald. So keep your answers truthful. You’ve wasted the one transgression I’ll allow. Now, tell me about your colleagues.”
The questions came thick and fast, and, realising there was no choice, Donald released the lock on his verbal floodgates. But while talking, his mind was spinning, fuelled by both adrenaline and the stimulant. Who was the intruder? What did they really want? What was their endgame? Why him? Would he survive the night?
Ten minutes later, he began to slur his answers.
“What was that, Donald?”
“I… I’m… what was… the question?”
His eyelids were drooping, and he blinked to open them, shaking his head.
“That’s alright, Donald. I’ve got most of what I need from you. You can sleep.”
“Wha… what did… you do?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I added a slow-release sedative to the cocaine. It’ll be kicking in about now. I couldn’t have you calling the police on me as soon as I left, could I?”
He slumped back in his seat. “No… I… suppose… not.” His eyes closed, facial muscles relaxed, wrinkles smoothed, as his breathing became slow and rhythmical.
After a few moments, [ REDACTED ] stood and opened a bag beside the chair, dropping the gun inside. “Donald?”
There was no response.
[ REDACTED ] approached the sleeping man and retrieved the battery-operated lamp from the table, using a cloth to wipe the surface. The light was then used to search the area for clues, anything that may suggest foul play.
Happy there was nothing, the glow was directed onto Donald’s face. His skin had turned a pale blue after his breathing had stopped. His silence was now assured.
The light clicked off and, like the cat, [ REDACTED ] melted into the shadows.