The Book of Isaiah

The Book of Isaiah

David Murray

Published by David Murray at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 David Murray

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

There were people in this business, Eyes thought, who were in it for love, and Dean was one of them. It was more than a job to him. He really enjoyed his work, couldn't think of anything else he'd rather be doing: you could tell it thrilled him. This, Eyes did not like. Also he was loud. All flash, no style. Dean’s idea of understatement was a thumb in the eye, a punch in the nuts. Why was he teamed up with a wanker like that?

Dean, my friend, how you been?

Good, my friend, very very good. Dean fingered the lapel of his suit jacket, each finger a pork sausage with a heavy gold collar. Silk shirt, loud tie, shoulder pads. Gross.

Yeah, you're looking good...What's the job, then?

"Bit of debt collection, you know: man fronts a bit of gear, but the proceeds go astray. It happens from time to time, but it's not to be encouraged, which is nice cos that means we get to play." He rubbed his hands, twitched his eyebrows. Eyes blinked once.

So why two of us? Sounds like everyday stuff.

Information received. They reckon there might be some resistance. Better to put the frighteners on than to have to apply physical pressure. Dean's fingers interlaced, the thumbs squeezed together like lovers. Nice manicure. Anyway, Danny says.

They left the pub and got into Dean's car. They drove for 30 minutes. Onto a dual carriageway, through a town centre, into a housing estate designed and built in the 1960’s. There weren't any streets, the houses being laid out around flagged courtyards. The architects called them machines for living in, and got an award. The locals call it Alcatraz, a machine for destroying people: they got to live there. It all depends on your point of view. On the way over, Dean listened to the radio. A disgraced ex cabinet minister fielded telephone calls about corruption in football. As the rounded tones of the radio voices dropped into the background, things were turning over in Eyes's mind. Something was up. As far as Eyes was concerned he lived by one simple law: Nobody fucks with me. He remembered the occasion on which he had made that law. It made his scalp crawl whenever he thought of it.

He was brought up by the local authority; a coffee coloured boy in mostly white Children’s Homes. White coffee.

Ey, brown boy, wanna come nigger 'untin'?

It was Travis, the boy at the top of the pecking order at this particular home. Eyes had only been here a week and he'd sussed that on day one.

Eh?

Everyone's comin', even Oz

This was an invitation to join the gang, and in the claustrophobic world of the Home, the only alternative was to be its target. Eyes’s eyes searched the face of the boy who stood, all friendly and smiling, in the bedroom doorway.

Yeah, let’s go. He followed the 16-year-old Travis down the stairs. Where we goin’, Trav? He asked.

Not far, you’ll see.

As they breezed out of the front door and joined the others, Eyes looked for Oz. Oz caught his look and grinned back at him, thumbs up. They strolled purposefully up the road, then, led by Trav, they ducked through a hole in the chain link fence surrounding a plot of waste ground. Eyes was the last through. Jugs, a fat kid with sticky out ears, pointed at him.

Ey Trav, we've found a nigger.

They picked up handfuls of the gravelly dirt that passed for soil and pelted Eyes with it. Half blinded, he backed out of the hole. The gang rushed the fence, springing up to hang from the chain link. They were throwing themselves about like baboons and making monkey noises.

Fuck off, nigger. Trav spoke for the gang. Through dirt and tears and a little blood Eyes saw Oz hanging from the fence with the rest of them. His skin was blacker than Eyes’s would ever be. Eyes was 14.

You carrying a shooter, Dean?

I certainly am.

What for?

To make holes in people, what else?

The opposition got one?

Nah, I don't think so, I always carry these days. I mean I prefer using my hands, but there’s a lot of funny people out there.

Yeah, can't be too careful these days.

Yeah, you never know who you're going to be up against.

Right.

You carrying a weapon, Eyes?

Eyes looked at him, his face blank, wordless, his bottomless eyes filled with an inscrutable malice. I am a weapon, you prat. Dean swung the car into a sodium lit parking area. The two men got out of the car. Dean strode confidently into the deep shadow of a walkway tunnelled into one of the low-rise blocks that topped and tailed each courtyard. Eyes followed. Time to meet the client.

Dean knocked on one of the 6 doors facing onto the courtyard. A shaggy blond head, showing black at the roots, bobbed and disappeared at the kitchen window.

Come on Mandy, we know you're in there. Dean didn't shout through the closed door, but projected his voice like a teacher or a social worker addressing a group of problem kids. He could have been taken for a policeman, but for the fact that the police never came out here. After a short delay full of the muffled sounds of panic from the other side, the door opened. It was restrained to a 6-inch gap by a chain. A kid's light brown face appeared in the gap. He was about 14.

Me mum's not in

If Dean heard him he showed no sign of it. He pushed strenuously at the door, the security chain tautening with a metallic crunch.

Give it a kick, Eyes, he said. With an economy of movement that belied great power, Eyes took a short step forward and planted a kick on the door, where the chain was attached. Its anchoring point popped smartly out of the doorframe amid a small flurry of splinters and Dean was in, smacking the boy in the face with the door as he went. Eyes stood aside as Dean ejected the boy into the square.

Fuck off, Spliffy.

The kid sprawled on the paving stones, his clothes dishevelled, his face adopting the crumpled folds of humiliation. His hand had slid along the ground in a 12-inch smear of dog shit. He looked at his hand and then at Eyes. Eyes had a face with features but without expression. The kid tore his gaze away, scrambled to his feet and took off, running clumsily through the walkway leading on into the estate, holding his own right hand away from him in disgust. Eyes paused, then turned and walked in the door.

It was an ordinary living room. There was a comfy three-piece suite from the catalogue. It matched the stripe of the wallpaper but not the pattern on the carpet. In one corner with a commanding view of the room a large screen telly sat in an antique television cabinet; it had a slot for a video with no video in it. Gladiators was on. On a shelf unit against one wall sat a few ornaments, a couple of photographs, and a spider plant. There was no one in the living room or the kitchen that was only nominally separated from it by an arch and a change of floor covering. There was a door from the living room into the back yard. The drapes next to it were hanging off, as if from a savage tug. Out in the yard an overweight black and tan dog was barking hysterically, leaving flecks of spittle on the double-glazing that muted its frenzied cries. It leapt at the glass in the door with renewed fervour when it caught sight of Eyes. She must have tried to let it in, but Dean had been too quick for her. From upstairs Eyes heard the distinctive sounds that come only from the impact of the human body on walls, floors, furniture, the landing of kicks and slaps and punches: grunts, shrill cries, some swearing. Something stirred inside Eyes. This was all wrong. The stairs led directly into the living room. Eyes sprang up them noiselessly, three at a time.

Where's the fucking money, bitch? Dean was red in the face. Mandy cowered before him in a corner of the bedroom. She held up her thin forearms, crossed in front of a face which was livid in places from recent slaps against a background of terrified pallor. Her mascara had been chased down her cheeks by tears.

I thought we had a deal, Dean.

You are presuming upon our friendship, Mandy, his voice dripped with sarcasm,

How many blowjobs do you think it'd take to pay off your debts, ey? He fumbled with the front of his shiny trousers and pulled his dick out. If you started now, how long would it take? His angry cheeks took on a new shade of arousal. Come on bitch! he was starting to shriek. His left hand fished in his jacket pocket and came up with a gun. He gestured with it to his fat, floppy dick, reaching with his right hand for Mandy's bleached out topknot. Come on, Come on!

As he started for the stairs Eyes was trying to work out exactly what was not right. Mandy was obviously just a neighbourhood dealer with her fingers in the till. A neighbourhood like this would cane all the gear in creation - given the chance - but they didn't have the money for it mostly: strictly penny deals of low-grade shit. In other words, whatever kind of trouble Mandy was in it was only a grand's worth or so - max. Eyes considered himself the best in the business and even so was not above a job of this size, but as an assistant to Dean? Against a woman with a kid and a stupid dog? It felt very wrong, but all the same Eyes was not normally in the business of righting wrongs: in his own mind what he did next was in order to find out what the fuck was going on.

When Eyes got to the top of the stairs he saw Dean, as crazed and glassy eyed as the dog out in the yard, waving a pistol around, jabbing at Mandy's face with his erect penis.

The gun is for you.

As cold as a snake, Eyes was upon Dean in two steps, behind and to the left, close enough to embrace him. Eyes took the man by the wrist and elbow of his left arm and, with force and skill, pitched him into the wall, face first. The gun dropped from Dean's inert hand. Eyes maintained the tension he had put into the joints of Dean's arm and used it to force him to his knees. He pressed the side of Dean's face into the carpet, and placed his heel on Dean's neck under his ear.

What the fuck's going on, dickhead, what's all this about?

Not answering, Dean flapped his free arm uselessly against the carpet. His legs flailed without result. Mandy, bewildered by this turn of events, crawled into a corner and made herself small. Growling and blowing bubbles of spit, Dean continued to struggle. Peeved, Eyes reached down and grabbed the loose end of Dean's tie. He pulled it. Dean's struggle assumed a new, but futile, urgency. Eyes demanded again,

What's the fucking crack?

Don't kill me, man, don't kill me, Dean choked, still not answering the question. It was the wrong thing to say. Eyes recalled Travis's bloody mess of a face from all those years ago. Blubbering through snot and blood and broken teeth.

Eyes had bided his time. For days after his humiliation he had withdrawn into himself. Under a penetrating drizzle of jibes and insults he became like a stone, no longer capable of being hurt, but not inert, oh no: full of potential energy. Eyes had made plans. He'd seen Trav sneaking off to the boiler room for a crafty smoke, and had decided to check it out. It was a dusty dirty hole, nothing there except the oil fired boiler and some broken chairs. Eyes took the leg from one of them, 18 inches of tubular steel. Perfect. The next time Trav crept off, Eyes was not far behind: long enough to go up and get the chair leg from under his mattress and stick it up his sleeve. On the way down he felt the strength go out of his legs. He was bursting for the toilet. He started to feel a bit sick. By the time he tiptoed down the steps to the boiler room he felt as if he'd fall apart if someone so much as breathed on him. Travis was obviously surprised to see him, stooping to recover the dimp he'd secreted behind the boiler when he'd heard approaching footsteps,

Oh, its the nigger, I thought somebody was coming

Eyes saw Trav's mouth open and shut and heard the sounds that came out, but his mind was occupied and he could not identify the words. Stiff-legged, he marched to within striking range of the older boy. He swung clumsily and connected with the crown of Travis's head as he came up with the remains of his spliff. It made a dull clang that was almost comical.

Ow!

Travis wore a pained expression and reached up to touch his head, like someone who doesn't get the joke. Terrified that he'd had no effect, Eyes let him have the punch line again, and again. Reverberating from these insults, Travis 's nervous system struggled to keep him upright. He lurched forward, like a drunk in the street that wants to tell you something. Eyes was forced onto his back foot. He stepped back on his wobbly legs, and with a two handed grip on the chair leg took a wild swipe at Travis's face. A face is a very delicate thing. The chair leg took out Travis's front teeth like a hammer on a teacup. Trav thought of something to say,

Don't, kill me, man don't kill me

Eyes rained a panic of blows on Travis's face and neck. He felt an involuntary dribble of piss escape down the leg of his pants. When Travis finally hit the deck, Eyes dropped the weapon and fled shakily up the stairs.

Don't kill me

Silk is very strong. You can make ropes out of it. Dean's tie was made of silk. After Dean was dead Eyes would remember a voice in his ear.

Make him shut up.

Don't kill me

The stony calm of Eyes's face disappeared under a terrifying grimace.

Don't kill me

Make him shut up.

Putting the strength of his whole body into it Eyes pulled on the end of Dean's tie, still standing on Dean's neck.

By the time the ambulance came to take Trav to the hospital, Eyes was up in his room, waiting. He was sure to be punished. Travis was really messed up, and Eyes knew they sent kids to special places for doing that sort of thing. It was not to be like that, though. He heard footsteps outside. Oz stuck his face round the door, an apprehensive smile on his face. Jugs was right behind him, looking as though he was about to piss his pants. He remembered that he had pissed his own not so long ago and was filled with contempt for the two boys.

The fuckers are scared of me!

"Can we come in, er, Iz, er Eez, er? used to calling him nigger or just nig they weren't sure how to pronounce Isaiah", his given name. He beckoned them in. As Jugs came in the door Eyes jumped up and, trapping him between the door and frame, he slapped him on the face, not hard, but not soft. Oz hovered ineffectually.

From now on you call me anything, you call me Eyes.

Sure, Eyes, no problem. he let the boy go.

Right, what you know? Travis grassed me up?

Nah, nah, everyone knows you done him, but no one can prove a thing

Right, thanks, now unless you got something for me, fuck off. They scurried away. Over the next few days and weeks Eyes found ways of unsettling every bastard he came across, from the snottiest little bed wetter to Mr Bradley the ex army type who thought he kept discipline within the home. Laughable. This was so different from being the target. Eyes was too busy cultivating a nonchalant way with cold menace, with violence, to even wonder whether it was better. What Eyes got at the home was known as care. When he left care no one asked him what he was going to do, everyone knew. Eyes scared people.

When Mandy was at school she had heard a bible story about a woman who nailed a man to the ground with a tent peg through his head. It was brought to her mind by the way Dean's body thrashed and convulsed, Eyes all the while pinning his head to the floor as he choked the life out of him. Horrified, she fought for breath, wheezing rhythmically. I could never do that, she thought. After a while Dean stopped moving. Mandy had concluded that she might die soon and did not know what to do next. To her surprise she saw the tension drain out of Eyes's face and body. He sat on the bed, the picture of a man who's just been given some very bad news. Mandy started to crawl towards the door. Eyes went for the gun, picked it up and blocked her path.

Where you going?

I've got to get out of this room, away from that.

She indicated the dead lump that had been Dean.

She can't go.

Sit down and shut up.

Mandy suddenly remembered her son. With her back to the wall she scrambled to her feet.

"Ivan!" It was a querulous shout.

Your kid's OK, we kicked him out.

Are you going to let me go? Somehow she kept the tremor in her voice under control. Eyes looked at her, he wasn't entirely sure why he had killed Dean and certainly did not know what he was going to do with this woman.

I bet she knows.

Eyes showed her the gun

Was this meant for me?

Mandy started to cry. What the fuck was he on about?

Ask him yourself, I thought he was going to kill me. She couldn't take much more of this, and fell to her knees, sobbing. I can't live like this. Just let me go, mister, and I am out of here. I'm gone, no - one round here will ever see us again. Whatever's going on between you and your friend, mister, its nothing to do with me.

Leave her, take the body and dump it.

Cover its face

What with?

How the fuck should I know? Just do it.

Mandy took a pillowcase from its pillow and approached the body with it, gingerly, trying not to look at its face. She held her breath as she clumsily dragged the pillowcase over its head. She glanced at it once to see the job done and then sprang away from the body. It smelt like shit. Eyes whipped a sheet off the bed, intending to wrap the body in it. As he rolled the body over its penis flopped into view, at once ridiculous and horrifying. Eyes didn't know whether to laugh or be sick.

Put it away, he ordered Mandy. Gagging with fear and disgust she shoved it back into Dean's pants and zipped him up. Eyes rolled him up in the sheet, making a long parcel of him. He was going to carry him to the car. Before he dragged the body down the stairs he turned on Mandy.

This fucking never happened, right? His voice was an animalistic growl that came from the back of his throat, You tell anyone what happened here and I’ll… he leaned over to whisper into her ear. Mandy’s face went green, she gagged, coughed and then puked a little bit of stringy slimy stuff into the corner of the room. Eyes summoned up an expression of implacable ferocity and beamed her with it. Mandy held up her hand, her face filled with a desperate sincerity,

Me and Ivan, we are out of here, we are gone, we are talking to nobody.

Fear was Eyes's profession and he could tell that Mandy was so scared that she would promise anything to get out of her immediate trouble. As a professional he knew that he needed to throw an extra scare into her, something for her to remember when the pressure was off. He should kill the dog, hurt the kid, or maybe break some of her fingers. He was shocked to discover that he couldn't bring himself to do any of these things.

Eyes dragged the bundle down the stairs, bumpety bump. At the bottom he took the body in a fireman's lift and lurched across to the front door. After opening it he shifted the position of the corpse with a shrug and walked out into the courtyard, not quite staggering under the dead weight. In the dark, each sodium lamp had a halo of insects in its grubby yellow orbit. Moving with great deliberation under his heavy load, Eyes went into the walkway, towards the car park.

As he emerged he heard a scuffling to his left. A series of shapes detached themselves from the shadows and formed up in front of Eyes. It was Ivan and his mates. They weren't very sure of themselves, 4 or 5 kids, nervously clutching sticks and bottles. Eyes fished the gun out of his waistband and flashed it.

Time to go home, boys.

Except for Ivan, they were gone before he got all the words out.

What you done to my mum?

The sappy little fucker was about to cry, thought Eyes.

I haven't touched your mum, you sappy little fucker, now get out the way

Ivan snorted back some tears, took a firmer grip on the stick he was holding and inched forward,

What you done to her? there was a hysterical note in the kid's voice. Eyes didn't know whether he'd be able to use the gun. He refused to admit that that scared him.

He thinks it's her, show him the face.

Glad to be told what to do, Eyes dropped his bundle.

It's not your mum, kid, look.

He unravelled a bit of the sheet and pulled off the pillowcase. It wasn't Dean. It was a purple mass mottled with dark blue, the eyes were wide open, yet had no whites, the orbits were flooded with congealed blood. The surface of this thing was crazed with broken blood vessels, the tongue was a bloated extrusion of the whole horrifying mess. It looked like Dean's hair though, and it was definitely Dean's suit. The kid backed off, gagging, and disappeared in the same direction as his mates. The body twisted its head around and said to Eyes,

Take me to the car, I'm cold and tired.

Terrified, but knowing that running away would not do any good Eyes dragged the body to the car. The body dug in its trouser pockets for the car keys and handed them to Eyes, who popped the boot, aiming to put the thing that had been Dean there. He needed some time to work out what was happening to him, some time on his own, some time without the voices, please. As the light in the boot came on Eyes jumped and started to breathe heavily. There was a man in the boot of the car.Eyes slammed the lid of the boot down again.

"I don't like it here, take me away, said the body. Somehow it got into the car and lay down on the floor in the back for a sleep. Eyes got into the drivers' seat. He drove aimlessly through the roundabouts and along the carriageways of the town, its features neither familiar nor unfamiliar. There were voices in Eyes's head. To drown them out Eyes turned the radio to a music station. This is the darkest sound." said the DJ with bitter pride. A frantic and unhinged snare drum rattled around the inside of the car, scolding furiously as a predatory bass pulled at Eyes's guts. He turned it up, loud. No matter. The voice, though never raised above a conversational tone, came through the din as clear as the nine o'clock news. Eyes did not want to know.

"They want you dead, Eyes. They're too scared of you to let you live. You're not like them, they're full of contamination. You did right to kill Dean," said the voice..

"You saw the crazy fuck, he was psyching himself up to kill you. He was going to enjoy it." the voice was so lascivious. The worst was, he knew it was true. Everyone knew that Dean was a sick fuck; you could practically smell it on him. Eyes was not aware of