15.7

Solomon struggled to sleep, in spite of his over-indulgences after Tia’s funeral.

He got up out of bed and paced back and forth a little. Through the threadbare curtains he could see it was still dark outside.

May as well go now, he thought with a sad smile. Get it over with.

He took his time dressing, to avoid disturbing Davey who was still sleeping in the next room.

He’d always been able to move quietly for a man of his size, so he wasn’t surprised to be out of the district and on his way to Rick’s cloud without being discovered. The darkness had been a welcome ally.

As the Grims standing guard ordered him to raise his hands, he told them he was here to see Rick and meant no harm.

They allowed him through, keeping their makeshift weapons on him the whole time.

He made his way through the crowd and bellowed a greeting to Rick; ‘Rick lad, happy days to ya!’

He noted once more than Rick was eating fit for a king. Again he noted the generous paunch that Rick and some of his cloud were carrying.

Rick smiled, hugged him in tight.

‘Happy days right back atcher, Solomon, brother. Nice to clap eyes on ya again. How are ya, me lad?’

‘Been better. But always pleased to lay me peeper on you, lad.’

‘What can I do ya for?’

‘I need you to hand me over to Craven, Rick lad.’

Rick’s cheerful demeanour left him as though kicked out of him. His mouth hung open like he was catching flies.

‘Solomon, brother, you got the wrong end of the stick. I’m –’

‘Cut the shit. I know you’re working for him. Ain’t no Grim around here carrying a kite like that from the scraps they dig outta the bins.’ He poked a finger into Rick’s protruding belly.

Rick was speechless.

‘I know he’s giving you food in return for keeping an eye on things out here for him.’

Rick went to say something but Solomon raised a hand to cut him off.

‘And I get it. It’s hard out here. I get it. If you got a way of getting food you gotta take it. I understand. There’s no need to hide it.’

Rick relented and nodded sadly. He bowed his head as though ashamed.

‘So I know you can get someone here to pick me up. But before you do that I want ya to do something for me.’

The Cull Crew was there as quickly as Solomon had expected.

They patted him down and ran the metal detectors over him but they found nothing.

There was no fight in him anymore, so there was no need for knives or guns.

Solomon’s ride to the Mayor’s home was short and quiet.

The Cull Crews didn’t seem to want to talk.

‘Come on it’s like a fucking funeral in here,’ Solomon beamed.

‘It’ll be your fucking funeral soon, so laugh it up,’ one of the cullsman said.

‘Ah that’s more like it,’ Solomon grinned. ‘Although your banter could do with some work, lad.’

The cullsman shook his head.

Solomon’s hands were cuffed together, but he had them tightly closed up.

The Mayor’s tower appeared out of the rain and they went through the various checkpoints.

He passed the Geiger test and another run through the metal detectors.

‘Mayor Craven is going to be so pleased to meet you again,’ Squeaky grinned.

‘And I him. Be nice to settle the score.’

‘I can’t believe you’re giving up this easy.’

‘I’m dying anyway. May as well make it quick.’

‘You’re finally seeing things the way they really are,’ one of the cullsmen said.

Solomon nodded wisely. ‘That I am, lad.’

Solomon was hosed down as he went in.

Dripping wet and cold as the grave, he moved into the entranceway.

Driers blasted him, searing all the moisture from his eye.

Too dry to even sweat, he moved out into the hallway.

The floor was a vast expanse of black marble, polished to such a high shine that Solomon could see himself and the Cull Crew reflected in it.

A pale and emaciated crew of workers, clad in filthy white rags, worked tirelessly at cleaning the floor, waxing and polishing, polishing and waxing.

Mirrors and ornate pictures stared out from the glistening walls.

The centrepiece, a portrait of the mayor, was a full twenty feet high.

The frame around it was gold.

‘Solid gold,’ Squeaky said, beaming.

‘Don’t it stick in your craw?’ Solomon said.

‘What?’

‘All this shit? I mean these workers are on the brink of starvation and this prick’s carrying half a dozen chins and having big, fuck-off gold frames hung up everywhere. He’s probably wasting more food than these poor sods are eating.’

‘He deserves it for everything he’s done for us.’

‘Are you fucking crazy, Squeaky, man?’ Solomon spat.

Some of the workers looked round, their anxiety manifest on their faces.

‘He’s ran us all into the ground, myself included. We’d be thriving if he wasn’t taking all the food for himself. Hell, for all we know it may have been him who pressed the button in the first place.’

‘What button?’

‘The one that fired the fucking nukes.’

‘Oh no, you’re waaay off with that internet chatroom bullshit. The attack was from a foreign nation.’

‘Get your head out of your ass, Squeaky. There were too many mouths to feed so they started filling some of them with bullets. Then some genius decided to drop a nuke on his own people.’

Squeaky looked horrified at the revelation, but it was a bad act.

‘That’s enough of that talk,’ one of the servants said, standing straight up and eyeballing Solomon. ‘I won’t hear a bad word about the man who puts a banquet on my table every morning, noon and night.’

‘A banquet? A fucking banquet?’ Solomon snorted laughter and shook his head, apoplectic. ‘Open your fucking eyes, every last one of you. He’s living it up while you people break your backs. And he’s the one who gets the real banquet at the end of the night. Ain’t none of you sorry bastards had a decent meal in months, by the look of ya.’

One of the cullsmen jabbed the gun into the back of Solomon’s head.

‘Enough,’ he said to Solomon. He turned his gun to the servant. ‘And you get back to work. Enough talk.’

The servant bowed and went back to his duty, seemingly polishing ever harder to make up for lost time.

An ornate gold staircase led up to the huge portrait of the Mayor.

‘Jesus wept,’ Solomon muttered under his breath.

They went towards a lift on the left hand wall.

Squeaky scanned his forearm ID barcode on a panel set into the wall and the golden doors opened.

As they closed, a couple of servants raced to clean them.

‘You seen this shit?’ Solomon exclaimed, upon seeing the bartender in an immaculate tuxedo and bow tie standing behind the polished white marble bar on the right hand side of the lift. ‘You gotta be shitting me.’

The bartender was hard at work, making cocktails and pouring champagne from vast bottles into crystal glasses atop a gleaming tray.

He winced when he spilled a drop down the side of one of the glasses.

Squeaky tutted.

‘Please don’t tell him,’ the bartender pleaded.

Squeaky pointed to the camera above the doors and gave a sad shake of his head.

The lift went up at a dizzying speed.

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Then jolted to a sudden stop.

‘All this wealth and you guys are starving,’ Solomon said, trying to pick at the scab he’d opened in Squeaky. He could tell he was pissed, even though he hid it well.

‘Shut up willya,’ Squeaky said, glaring at Solomon.

The doors came open to reveal half a dozen armed cullsmen.

Again they patted Solomon down.

Again they ran the metal detector over him.

Again there was nothing for them to find.

They were ushered into a room which was lined from floor to ceiling with gleaming white marble.

The ornate paintings of the hall were recreated up here too, only on a slightly smaller scale.

Solomon was told to sit on a leather settee which looked to have cost more than he had made in his entire career.

The cullsmen kept the guns in his face.

‘He’s just finishing off with Beatrice,’ Solomon heard one of the cullsmen mutter.

Squeaky grinned at Solomon and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Solomon was too tired to be tense so he lay back on the settee while he waited.

‘I’ll take it from here, thank you, Squeaky,’ said a man in the sharpest grey pinstripe suit that Solomon had ever seen.

‘Think about what I said, Squeaky lad,’ Solomon said. ‘And you remember this: it’s never too late to do the right thing. Whether it’s this time next week or this time next year. You just fucking think about that.’

Squeaky scowled at him. Turned to Westlake.

‘You’ll see that I get my extra banquets for this wontcha, Ivan?’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Westlake said, waving him away.

‘Who’re you then?’ Solomon said, already bored of waiting.

‘My apologies, Mr King. I’m Ivan Westlake. I’m Mayor Craven’s personal assistant. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Aye, I’ll take a coupla cold ones if y’can spare ’em. May as well enjoy myself while I can.’

‘My thoughts exactly, Mr King,’ Westlake nodded.

He was already on it, his plummy tones reciting Solomon’s request into the lift’s control panel.

The bartender from the lift came in, clutching two big green beer bottles.

‘Cheers, lad. Happy days to ya,’ Solomon said, as he took them from his white-gloved hands.

The bottles were ice cold, beads of water carving thin trails through the condensation frosting the green glass.

Cool drips of water landed in his lap as he savoured his first mouthful.

‘I’ll allow you a moment of reflection while you wait for the Mayor,’ Westlake said. ‘But don’t try anything.’ He pointed to the half a dozen Cullsmen surrounding Solomon.

‘Course not,’ Solomon beamed. ‘But before you go, can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘Don’t all this stick in your craw?’ Solomon began with a grimace.

Westlake listened to his rant – a carbon copy of the one he’d given Squeaky earlier – without responding then excused himself and left Solomon to his thoughts.

‘Say, I gotta take a leak,’ Solomon said when he’d finished his beers.

The cullsmen accompanied him to the toilet so there was no funny business but he locked himself in the cubicle for privacy.

He took what he felt sure was to be his last piss.

He enjoyed the moment, finding enjoyment in something so routine.

When it’s the last time doing something you really find the joy in it, he pondered idly.

He neglected to wash his hands.

As they led him back into the Mayor’s penthouse, he noticed the concrete figures suspended in frozen agony on Craven’s staircase.

‘What’s the story behind this twisted shit?’ he said, scowling in bemusement.

The cullsmen declined to answer.

He dozed idly while he waited for Craven.

Solomon was woken by heavy footsteps punctuated by the clacking sound of a cane hitting the marble floor.

Heavy breathing gradually joined the footsteps and the tapping of the cane as they grew louder.

Finally, Craven entered.

He was still flushed, breathing hard.

His fly was down, Solomon couldn’t help but notice.

‘Flying low there, fat man,’ he smiled.

Mayor Craven was still too exhausted to reply.

He merely glared.

He wore a perfect but ill-fitting suit.

A blood red tie.

His tan brogues were highly polished, as was the gleaming silver skull on top of his cane.

His silver rings reflected the light and clinked against the head of the cane as he approached.

Westlake returned, clutching a crystal glass containing a rich amber liquid.

Craven’s rings clinked against the glass as Westlake passed it to him. His cane tapped on the floor as he adjusted himself.

‘My oh my,’ Craven grinned, his jowls lifting a full half-inch.

The smile went all the way up to his piggy little eyes.

‘I’m finally going to get my top step,’ he beamed.

Solomon stared at him blankly. ‘Say what?’

‘You, Mr King,’ Craven said, running the tip of his cane around Solomon’s face, ‘are going to be here forever as a testament to how far I have come. Do you have any idea how many people I had to step over to get to where I am today?’

Solomon shrugged. ‘You don’t look like you do much stepping, you don’t mind my saying so.’

Craven hissed and drew back his hand.

He backhanded Solomon hard, his rings bursting his lips against his teeth.

Solomon spat blood onto the marble floor.

‘You’ve besmirched my beautiful floor,’ Craven lamented.

‘So how’s this going to go down? You gonna kill me already?’

‘Why are you so eager to die?’

‘Boredom. Despair. Guilt. Pick one and run with it, fat man.’

Craven turned away and shook his head. ‘Something about this doesn’t quite smell right.’

‘OK, I may as well tell ya, I suppose. I knew your guys would find me eventually. I’m sick of being on the run. I’m coughing up blood so I’m on my way out anyway. Like the old Grim phrase goes… When you see blood appear the Reaper’ll soon be here. I just want to join my daughter up there with the Gods.’

Craven pursed his lips.

He seemed to be thinking carefully.

Then he nodded.

‘Westlake. Go and prepare the cement tank.’

Solomon smiled sadly.

‘I guess this is it then.’

The Mayor limped over to him.

‘Say, y’know that old saying,’ Solomon began. ‘In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king?’

‘I’m aware of it. What the bloody hell has that got to do with anything?’

‘Well it just strikes me as funny. Cos I’m sitting here with my one eye and yet I can see more than you can with your two peepers.’

‘Speak sense, you bloody idiot.’

‘You’re blind to what’s right in front of you.’

The Mayor was so exasperated he shook his head.

‘You can’t see what’s going on all around you. You can’t see what’s happening on your own streets. You can’t see what’s going on in here,’ Solomon tapped his own temple. ‘And, more importantly, you can’t see what’s in here.’ He smiled smugly as his finger tapped on his own breastbone.

‘Are you quite finished talking this poppycock?’ the mayor spat.

‘In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king,’ Solomon repeated. ‘And this one-eyed king always finds a way to win.’

‘Well I guess it’s time for the death of the one-eyed king.’

Solomon nodded.

Something struck Craven as being strange about Solomon’s face, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

‘Allow me a brief prayer before I depart. No funny business. I promise.’

Craven thought about it for a second, nodded.

Solomon slowly got up from the sofa and knelt down on the floor. The marble was like ice on his shins.

The king had his hands clasped tightly together as if saying a prayer.

When he’d finished, Craven raised the tip of his cane to Solomon’s throat.

‘One second,’ Solomon said, getting off his knees and sitting flat on his arse.

‘Now what are you bloody well doing?’ Craven said.

‘I always said I’d never die on my knees.’

Craven nodded.

‘Any last words then, King Solomon?’ Craven said.

Solomon smiled deeply. ‘Thanks for the memories. And I’ll see ya real soon.’

Craven furrowed his brow, but he’d already pressed the right eye socket of the skull on the top of his cane.

The blade had already shot out into Solomon’s throat, piercing his carotid.

His eye was glassy and wide, his face disbelieving.

Craven pulled the blade loose, grimaced at the sight of blood on his shiny cane and carefully wiped it on Solomon’s hooded robe.

Solomon’s left hand scrabbled at his throat as blood ran thick between his fingers.

His beard was stained with it.

He gurgled, blood pouring over his lips.

His final words were crimson.

And as he fell onto his side, convulsing, his right hand stayed clenched by his hip.

Craven smiled as he watched the life ebb away from his old enemy.

A thick pool of blood spread out from beneath the king’s body, gleaming on the white marble floor.

Craven looked down into it, seeing his own reflection smiling back at him from the rapidly growing puddle of gore.

‘This is the consequence of disrespecting Art Craven,’ he smiled.

Solomon was still breathing, barely, so Craven flipped him onto his back again.

‘I just want my face to be the last thing you see,’ Craven said. ‘And I want you to understand what a grave mistake you’ve made.’

Solomon seemed to nod ever so slightly.

More blood came out with this small movement.

Finally, he fell still. And as he looked down on Solomon’s face, Craven finally realised what was wrong with it.

As he leant in closer, he noticed there was a blinking red light reflected on the king’s throat and the underside of his chin.

Craven saw that the king’s right hand was still clamped shut.

As if it was holding something.

He used his cane to prise the fingers open.

To his dismay a small black device with a round red button on top of it fell to the floor.

His dismay and unease growing, he pulled the king’s robe open.

He took a closer look at what seemed to be Solomon’s bare chest.

His brow furrowed further when he saw the black plastic zip running up the middle of it.

Frowning, he pulled the zip down.

As the skin jacket fell open, Craven saw a mass of wires and red LEDS and what looked like gold bars mounted onto the king’s chest.

There was a blinking red LED screen showing 00:25.

Craven’s eyes were glued to the screen as it counted the numbers down.

The numbers flicked all the way down to 00:10 while he stood and stared in utter disbelief.

‘Oh shit,’ Craven said, finally realising that the king had somehow managed to smuggle a bomb into his tower.

His body would not permit him to move so he closed his eyes to hide the countdown to his imminent death. He was dismayed to discover he could still see the red LED numbers in his mind’s eye.

00:05

Why does it feel like I’m moving? He pondered briefly then this thought was chased away by Solomon’s grinning face.

00.04

You’re blind to what’s right in front of you, Solomon’s voice mocked him from inside his own mind.

Solomon’s dead lips seemed to be grinning, as though, even in death, he had gotten what he wanted.

00.03

You can’t see what’s in here, then that knowing tap on his chest, right where the bomb had been concealed.

00.02

In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

00:01

And this one-eyed king always finds a way to win.

00:00