shooting the messenger / Pete Donohue
tonight he’s going equipped. screwdriver. small jemmy. shank. swag bag. shooter just in case something weird goes down. & his miniature bible. an inseparable talisman. an unlikely comfort since childhood. it’s a strange moon. full muddy. dark clouds sail the sky. winds rock temperamental. unpredictable. he’s out of his comfort zone. miles away from his postcode. the whole area stinks of nature. it unsettles him.
the house is low rise by his standards. its footprint sprawls the length of his own estate. social housing stomping ground standing firm in the darkness. a statement in naked chiselled stone. castellated & turreted. no toxic cladding. watchtowers & spires stabbing the purple skyline remind him of city views from northbound trains in southeast london. but this is no capital. not even county lines. this is somewhere alien. unknown territory.
it makes no sense to him this architecture. no sign of concrete. oak framed leaded windows all shapes & sizes. some clear. some opaque. some stained with patterned glass in colours he can’t name. roof tiles are darker than any he knows. acres of lead on undulating rooves are a wonder to him. he once heard the word gothic. doesn’t know its meaning. he thinks gormenghast is german lager. this is his first nighttime view of the house. he googled it endlessly. it’s off the internet radar.
crouched at the edge of damp woods he counts lit windows. only seven. amongst dozens. the only outside lights straddle the main entrance. riveted oak beyond a cloistered porch. shadowed in flicker by flaming torches. in daylight reconnaissance he found no evidence of alarms. crumbling perimeter walls seem entirely undefended. this lack of security baffles him. it leads him into temptation.
before chancing his hand he steadies his nerves. a small rock of crack & half a hipflask of good brandy do the trick. he crawls commando style through overgrown gardens. hooded & bandana-masked. wearing black. rucksack on his back. shank concealed in left boot. loaded revolver tucked into waistband. at the back. all he hears is a distant owl. some restless crows. a gentle rustling of exotic grasses & poisonous herbs. he shuffles forward. head full of dreams.
before the porch he veers right. sneaks around the dark side of the house. plagued by bloodsuckers. scratches a mosquito bite. feasting tics clamp onto his fleshy calves. heart racing he craves weed. stands up in a shadow. sucks a little more brandy. something claws at his hood. he reaches behind for the gun. but is trapped in a blizzard of bats.
driving them off with windmill arms. he catches his breath. clouds seem lower. blacker. stalking. a lightening fork confirms his fears. thunder following. then the deluge. drenching him before he realises. thieves’ instinct leads him to a small side window. left an inch ajar. no obvious light behind. he eases it open. outwards. slips into the room. pulls it back to its original position. shivers in darkness. dripping raindrops onto a cold stone floor.
he stifles a sneeze. fumbles for his crack pipe. packs it by feel. fires it up. finds a sense of whereabouts through the lighter flame. the room is shelf-lined. four walls covered floor to ceiling. only doorway & windows are exempt. a bank of glass-fronted display cabinets occupy the centre. contents a mystery. surrounding shelves are full of archaic books. dusty glass jars & bottles. substances unknown. the cocaine hit kindles confidence.
stroking his phone torch into life. surveying more carefully. nothing of value here. he concludes. beyond the door a wood-panelled corridor. following it to the end. ignoring side doors en route. he emerges into a great hallway. recognising the other side of the main entrance. a vast unlit space. stealing feint illumination from whatever lies beyond the landing. of a great carved-hardwood double staircase. he pans his torchlight. symbols of magick etched into the marble floor mean nothing to him. nefarious faces in stone & wood leer down at him. he has never seen gargoyles before.
creeping up the right wing of the staircase he eyes portraits in oil. expressions of iniquitous intent rising up through generations. faces are thin & sinister. almost skeletal. each shows a hand held to chin. riddled with metal & rock. fingers boasting the same three rings. knuckledusters of rare grade gold diamonds emeralds & rubies. to die for. better bling than he’s ever witnessed. & he knows this is the money shot. a one-off opportunity. if those jewels are anywhere within this house he’s having them. greed is all there is left to live for.
on the galleried landing he vacillates. unsure which way to turn. there is light here. but weak. an eerie incandescence. he shudders at something unknown. fingers the butt of his pistol. a security thing. skulls of animals decorate this walkway every which way. all of them horned. some resemble human skulls. he doesn’t notice. he hears distant music. not grime or bass or anything to rap to. there is a cello. a discordant harp. some kind of shrill pipes. & a horn of bone. he doesn’t know any of these instruments. yet follows the sound anyway.
the closer he tries to get to the music the further away it seems. this doesn’t make sense to him. through tall & elegant double doors. black red & gold lacquered in the oriental style. he tentatively slips into a well-lit room. relieved. it’s bigger than his local fried chicken shop. looks like chinatown. a massive wood fire burns at the far end. there is no sign of anyone else here. he holds out the gun. his hand shaking.
there are candles alight. dozens. over a hundred. various lengths & thicknesses. decorated with incomprehensible symbols. all black. the air thick with incense smoke. unrecognisable smells to him. the uncanny music floating all around him now. source indiscernible. it seems otherworldly. he spots a long thin pipe discarded atop a side table of ornately carved bone. he’s unaware it is human bone. he lifts the pipe. it is still warm. half-smoked. he raises a flame to the bowl. draws deeply. the inhalation comes sweet & sickly. not the harsh crack he’s used to. this is his first taste of opium.
almost instantly he relaxes. the gun back in his waistband. at the front now. the shaking ceases. elation ensues. pure excitement. he has come so far in his purpose. if only his homies could see him now. he lowers his head. drops his mask. slack face muscles shape an ironic smile. suddenly shudders from nowhere invade his reverie. something has changed. a new presence commands the room. this isn’t paranoia. he is convinced. bad trip maybe.
from beyond unseen shadows a human form emerges. he sights it with the barrel of his revolver. whipped out instinctively. catch off. cocked. the figure glides in front of the fire. embroidered silk dressing gown. chinese shoes. arms extended in welcome. hair thick. inky blue. long. matted. concealing the secrets of the underworld. non-binary. its laughing eyes red. sunken like a fire pit. burning coals of full intensity.
now unsure how to react. his sense of self fucked. he holds the gun with porridge fingers. a milky trigger. the figure introduces itself. as mistress & master of the house. confusing him. gender fluidity. sex neutrality. none of it computes. in his mindset. he moves closer. points the gun at the mug. a face before the world began. the floor-length gown of the mistress & master alive with insects. cockroaches spiders & scorpions. scuttling a script of dark messages. & then he notices the winning hand. a jackpot. looming from this rotting abomination. the three rings of his desire. his heart pirouettes. all to play for.
steeling his heart he demands the bling. or he’ll shoot. the mistress-master laughs. waves her-his hand like a witch-magick man. shamaness-shamen. taunting him with jewels. it has a message for him. he’s going to die. one way or another. he laughs. gun in hand. not yet bro. you can bleed. he lunges forward. fires three times. all headshots. almost point blank. hollow points. the mistress-masters’ face explodes. blood & brain tissue flesh & bone fragments scatter around the room. the deed is done. extra cards dealt & played out. the rings are his.
he claims his prize. extracting gold & precious stones from bony fingers. as generations of hijackers have before. but this stiff is not yet done. corporeal melts into ethereal. a swirl of flesh & blood & all things vile & physical surrounds him. the dead stranger is besting him. his bladder unloads unexpectedly. pants bulge with liquid shit. projectile vomit decorates the room. blood bursts from every orifice. his brain scrambles into action. with little effect. breath is impossible. choking inevitable. the it in the fancy garb has bested him.
here is the message. from the diabolic horned one. i will kill you all. inevitably. live & die in a good way. or in a bad way.
Ireland born and London raised Pete Donohue works in community mental health in amazing Hastings on the dirty south coast of England. His poems and short stories have been published by numerous underground and alternative small presses in the UK and USA. After three sold out chapbooks, his first full collection of poetry, swallowing paregoric babies, is published by UnCollected Press (available from: www.therawartreview.com). He is currently working on a collection of short stories. Instagram: petedonohuepoet / Twitter: @petedonohuepoet / Facebook: pete donohue
