Angel Eyes by Mark G. Pennington

Robert Samp looks down at his hands. There is no blood, but he sees it anyway, like a daymare in technicolour. The dust from traffic sprays up over mudflats, and the windblown sands of the bay furnish the high spring tide like the motion of perfume on skin. Robert watches a young girl across the busy hustle of the main road. She is not much older than twelve. A man appears at her side, and from what Robert Samp has just witnessed, he doesn’t trust the obvious connection that anyone else may make – that the man is the girl’s father. For all around him, their world now seems different than his, there are no monsters except those who appear on late night television, or those who bomb cities to rubble. And even those are still deeply human. The man that Robert has been chasing for eight months is no longer a man; he is only known as Angel Eyes.

The man takes the girl’s hand and together they disappear through the debris of the crowd. It is hard to focus on one thing. Robert takes a seat in the stone jetty, watches the seafowl take apart the litter like a chaotic murder scene he remembers from not that long ago. A waiter appears from the mouth of the entrance, a white apron wrapped around his skinny waist, notepad in hand. Robert orders coffee with milk, no sugar. The promenade is heaving on this particularly hot afternoon. Dogs are bounding upon the beach, children are everywhere, ice cream sellers blare their sirens into the sun-kissed air. Robert thinks about Carrie-Anne and the way her eye sockets are now dark caves, lifeless and streaked in gore. He ponders the look on her mother’s face once again, at least she didn’t see the crucifix. At least there was some comfort in that. But not much. He recoils at the memory of telling her that he would find Carrie-Anne. That Angel Eyes had taken his last child. ‘Some private detective,’ he says to himself.

The waiter comes back holding a plastic tray, sets it down. ‘Thank you,’ Robert offers, but it is weak – rather like a broken talking doll. Yet the coffee is hot and it tastes good. Small graces. A newspaper blows around the pier. He can see the headline from where he is sitting. It’s not good. Angel Eyes is centre stage, on the nationals now. Their happy seaside town overlooking the Lakeland fells has come into tabloid hell. Robert expects the vultures any day now. They will trample over them for the juice, for the story of the sensational exploits of a devil.

The mobile rings. It comes up as Sandbag. Robert hopes for no more bad news today.

‘Erin, what is it?’

‘Shultz has a man in custody. He is asking for you.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He’s calling himself Angel Eyes.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

Robert thinks he can hear his heart battering away in his chest. He drives toward Poulton Square with a million things gnawing at his fevered head. It has to be a hoax, some nutcase off the street, probably a homeless man aiming for some publicity. Maybe he gets his name in the papers. Perhaps he gets a free bed for the night and a hot microwave meal thrown in for good measure. Robert is sweating. ‘The fucking aircon is useless,’ he says to the wheel. ‘What if it’s him?’ he asks the dust. He thinks about his little nickname for his researcher: Sandbag. Only because of how she handled the Bryant case. Suckered him in with her weakness, treaded carefully, then made the sting. All in all, a good month’s work.

Detective Shultz holds Robert by the shoulder. Squeezes as though he is sending him out to war. But it feels more personal than war. The only crossover is the bloodshed of innocence. ‘He isn’t talking to me,’ says Shultz. ‘Only wants the private dick who’s been chasing him.’

Robert stands on the other side of the half-silvered mirror. He can see him for the first time. He is a clean man. No scars or pock marks on his skin. No remarkable features. Slim. Crew cut hair. No stubble. Strong, sharp jawline. ‘He doesn’t look nuts,’ Robert says. ‘Whatever that looks like.’

‘I’ve seen my fair share, and believe me when I say there is never one who looks like they nail kids to a wood cross after they’ve carved out their eyes,’ says Shultz. He gives Robert another slap on the shoulder, harder this time. ‘I’m going to speak with him,’ Robert says.

‘He said he’d only do it off tape. Then I get the confession afterwards,’ Shultz says. He waves him through.

Robert thinks like an octopus. He can change colour, he can change texture, he blends with the sea floor. In this little sweatbox room, he is the killer’s kin. He sits down opposite Angel Eyes. ‘I hear you want to speak with me,’ he says. ‘Well, it better be good because I’m having a real shitty day.’ He takes out a carton of Marlborough lights. Offers one out. Angel Eyes takes one, smiles. Robert produces a flame, lights them both. They drag on the cigarettes and produce wisps of ghost smoke.

‘You’re him,’ Angel Eyes says. ‘The hotshot quote-unquote detective.’ It irks Robert to the point where he considers beating the hell out of him. But the question remains in his mind: why has he chosen now to spill his guts?

‘Let’s get one thing straight. It’s over for you. This is the start of your repentance. So, play nice and give the police what they need to lock you up for the rest of your miserable life. But first, tell me why. Why those girls?’

‘You can be a real bitch when you want,’ Angel Eyes says. Robert swallows a lump the size of a basketball. His mouth is bitter, and dry. Beneath the desk his fists tighten so the knuckles sting with their white fury.

‘They’re not special or anything,’ Angel Eyes says, as casual as a Sunday morning. ‘So I’m told.’ When he smiles at Robert the mirror shakes. The whole room is filling with formaldehyde. Robert removes a file from the desk. He takes out photographs. Places them down on the table, slams his forefinger onto each one as he reels off the names of the victims. He comes to the latest: Carrie-Anne. Angel Eyes stiffens slightly. He shifts his weight in the seat, rattles his handcuffs, holds the cigarette close to his narrow lips.

‘She was my favourite,’ he says.  ‘She screamed the loudest. But her eyes… her eyes were lost. They were missing some important part. Like they were begging to come out and play.’

Robert stretches out, grabs him by the throat, the chair drops to the ground with a smack. Angel Eyes laughs. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ he says. ‘Or you’ll never find the last one.’

Robert eases off. ‘You’re lying,’ he says.

‘So many ways to tell a lie. So many ways to tell a truth. So many ways to die.’

‘Where is she?’

‘But your favourite way to end it all has always been so bad.’

‘Tell me where she is,’ Robert says. ‘You’re done. It’s over.’

‘It’s not all over. It’s just the beginning. It’s going to be so beautiful.’

Robert jumps up, pulls him to the ground, sits atop of his chest, feels the air shoot out of the madman like a burst balloon. He shouts at him. He asks and asks. Then in the silence, when he is beaten, there is an answer.

‘The very first one…remember, Rob?’

He is driving, cutting up cars on the road, ignoring red lights. He is arriving at Jackson’s Farm. It is vast wasteland, desolate and barren. There is a cross dug into dry earth. A cornflower dress is nailed up and ripples in a slight wind. It is from behind and as he creeps up, he notices a white flag. But it isn’t a flag when he gets there, it is a note. And the dress covers a vinyl doll.

He reads: I am you and you are me.

He drives home. The house smells of crayons and basement air. He moves through each room like he is remembering. The little room in the attic is warm. He touches the door. It opens a sliver, creaking into the soft day like an old man. To her he is the old man. As she wakes from her hot slumber, she rubs at her eyes.

‘It’s just me,’ Robert says. ‘Go back to sleep.’ The girl pulls the sheet over her head.

‘You’re very special.’

‘I am?’ she says from under the cover.

‘Because you are the last one.’

Robert Samp sits on the edge of the mattress. He lands a hand on the lump underneath the sheet.

‘You’ve got pretty little angel eyes,’ he says. He closes the curtains and the corners of the room become ink-stained. He walks his fingers over the wood grain. Flinches as a splinter digs into his flesh. He never liked the moniker the journalists gave him: Angel Eyes. As if he were staring at his mother again, as she lay stricken underneath the bad man, crying and telling him that it was going to be alright. Until she stopped breathing and the man had emptied himself. Then he closes his eyes and waits for someone to come as he clutches the cross of safe travels in his small, dimpled hands. And in the end, all he wants is the view of an innocent child. All he wants is angel eyes.