Specter's Gamble - 11. Chapter 11

It was almost eleven in the morning when he woke up. At first, he couldn’t figure out where he was, and then he remembered last night. The cook, he thought and started to shake. The cook and his monocle... Desmond gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. “Stop this,” he ordered himself silently. “Stop this right now!” To his enormous surprise, it worked and he opened his eyes. He saw another white door in the corner and remembered what Jason told him last night. There was a bathroom in here as well. Suddenly, Desmond craved a hot shower so much that he became slightly dizzy. He bit his lip and sat on the bed for several minutes, thinking. Finally, he got up, grabbed another chair, and went into the bathroom. To his relief, the bathroom door had a lock on it as well. He repeated the whole ordeal with the lock and the chair before stripping off his clothes and turning on the water.

The hot shower felt beyond amazing. Usually, Desmond would wash himself off in the little lake in the park where he slept; the water in that lake was surprisingly crisp and clean, although it was quite cold. Therefore, this shower felt heavenly. He stood there, his eyes closed, face lifted up, enjoying hot water running down his body, feeling like he was being reborn. He stood like that for almost an hour before finally deciding to get out.

He grabbed a towel that was sitting atop the toilet and dried himself off, his body almost singing from the glory of the shower. There was indeed a new toothbrush in one of the drawers, and Desmond furiously brushed his teeth, trying to get rid of the shadowy taste of bile in his mouth. He knew that it was only in his head -- there was no way he could taste bile by now, but he worked that toothbrush for almost ten minutes before finally feeling satisfied.

He put both chairs where they belonged and walked out of the room, carefully glancing around. When he came into the kitchen, he was surprised to find it empty; he thought Jason would be here. Desmond walked closer to the counter and grabbed one of the bigger knives off the rack. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and brought the knife down in a short, stabbing motion several times, testing its weight. Then he imagined stabbing that cook with it, and suddenly, something clicked in his head. That’s it, he thought in astonishment. That’s it! He is going to kill that son of a bitch! The thought almost made him laugh, and he brought the knife down again.

“You are holding it wrong,” the voice behind him said, and Desmond was so startled that he almost dropped the knife. He whirled around and stared at Jason. “You are holding it wrong,” Jason said again, and Desmond blinked and looked at his hand.

Jason walked closer to him, ignoring Desmond’s involuntarily flinch.

“Here,” he said. “Give it to me.”

Desmond silently handed him the knife.

“Like this,” Jason said and demonstrated the hold. “This way you are not limited to just stabbing, and it also gives you much more flexibility in the wrist. Wanna try it?” he handed the knife back to Desmond who just stared at him in bewilderment.

Finally, he took the knife and imitated Jason’s hold.

“Yeah,” Jason nodded with approval. “Like that, good. I am going to make coffee, move over, will you?”

Desmond stepped away from the counter, his fingers still clutching the handle of the knife.

“So who is it that you want to kill?” Jason asked indifferently while working the coffeemaker. Desmond froze.

“What...?” he squeezed finally. “Why would you... How did you...”

Jason shrugged without turning around.

“I know the look when I see one,” he said.

Desmond remained silent for a while.

“I don’t know his name,” he said finally in a low voice. “He is... He is a cook at Pig Under Umbrella...”

That made Jason turn towards him finally.

“Tomah?” he said with surprise in his voice.

Desmond shrugged.

“I don’t know his name,” he said again. Jason slightly squinted his eyes.

“Tall, bald guy?” he said, and Desmond’s shoulders immediately tensed up. “Wears a monocle?”

“Yeah...” Desmond whispered, his throat tight. “That’s him, all right...”

He expected Jason to ask why the hell would he want to do that, but Jason never did.

“He is a good cook,” he said instead.

“Yeah,” Desmond whispered again. “Bloody brilliant...”

Jason turned towards the cupboard and opened it.

“He used to be a part of militia force around here for quite a while before he was discharged,” he said after pulling out two cups. “He is well-trained. You won’t stand a chance against him. You will end up getting hurt... Or killed,” he added and filled one cup with coffee. He handed it to Desmond, who carefully set the knife on the counter, and took the cup. “However, there is more than just one way to kill someone,” he said, and Desmond almost spilled his coffee.

Is he mocking him? He has to be! People don’t just mention nonchalantly that there is more than one way of killing someone after finding out that some kid wants to waste a local cook. Desmond felt anger pushing the back of his head with short, stabbing kicks.

“Don’t mock me,” he said slowly.

“I am not mocking you,” Jason said seriously. “Tomah...” he sighed. “He is a great cook, but he is also a class-A bastard. Everyone knows that. The reason he was discharged from the force a couple of years ago was that brutality of his... Long story,” he shook his head and looked at a wide-eyed Desmond. “I am not going to ask about your reason, but I am pretty sure it’s a good one.”

Desmond had no idea what to say to that.

“You could play it safe,” Jason continued. “And kill him from the distance...”

Desmond immediately shook his head, the weirdness of the entire conversation slipping away faster than sand through someone’s fingers.

“No,” he said in the same low voice. “No. I want to see his eyes while he is dying... I want him to look at me... I want him to know who killed him...”

Jason looked at him silently for a long while. Finally, he said:

“I could help you with that... I could teach you if you’d like.”

Desmond couldn’t speak for several minutes.

“Teach me,” he said at last.

****

It was a couple of months later, and Desmond was standing next to the man, who was spread out on the ground, his eyes hazy with drugs that Jason slipped in his drink an hour earlier, his fingers twitching involuntarily. The man looked up and his mouth stretched in a loopy smile when he saw Desmond.

“Hey, precious,” he said slowly, his speech slightly slurred. “Came back for more?”

Desmond was surprised that he didn’t feel anything right now; no anger, no fear – nothing. He felt frozen again, the same way he felt after he left his Grandmother’s house. He pulled the knife from underneath his jacket, and the cook’s eyes slightly widened.

“Wanna play it rough, huh?” he said in the same slow, slurry voice.

Desmond went down on one knee.

“Look at me, Tomah,” he said, and felt like he wasn’t the one saying the words. It felt like someone else was doing it for him. “Look at me... Because I want to be the last thing you see before you die.”

The cook’s eyes went even wider, his drugged-up mind getting an idea of what was going to happen.

“Precious,” he said, trying to move, trying to get up, but his efforts were futile. Jason sure knew his drugs, Desmond thought indifferently. “Precious, what are you doing?”

“I am doing the world a favor,” Desmond said and brought the knife down.

He looked at the blood that gushed out of the slit throat, and then he locked his gaze on the dying man’s eyes. He watched them turn glassy, life slowly slipping out of them, as the cook was trying to say something in a desperate, futile effort. Finally, the man convulsed, one last breath escaped from his slashed throat, and his eyes were death-still, locked on Desmond’s face. Desmond reached out with his left hand and carefully pulled the monocle off the dead man’s face. He looked at it thoughtfully for several minutes, then dropped it on the ground, swung his right arm, and brought the knife down one more time. The tip of the knife smashed precisely into the middle of the dully-shining circle, and the glass shattered almost immediately.

Desmond slowly got up, fingers curved around the knife handle. He looked at whatever was left of the monocle for several long seconds, and then smashed the heel of his boot onto it, grinding the remains of the glass into a fine dust. Finally, he stopped moving, and simply stood there, a frozen expression on his face.

“Did it make everything better?” Jason asked him, leaning on the wall, a cigarette clenched between his teeth.

“No,” Desmond said unemotionally. “But I feel satisfied.”

“That’s good,” Jason nodded. “I could teach you a hell of a lot more if you’d like.”

Desmond turned his head and looked at him.

“Teach me,” he said calmly.

“All right,” Jason nodded again. “On one condition though...”

Desmond kept looking at him, saying nothing.

“You have to promise me that you will not kill for your own revenge or pleasure ever again,” Jason said seriously.

“I promise,” Desmond said in the same unemotional voice. “Teach me.”

****

Ever since that night, the nightmare that's been torturing him for the last several months, had simply stopped. Desmond never dreamt about it again.