Must Read: Paradox Of Abel - Season 1 - Episode 40

7 years ago

Must Read: Paradox Of Abel - Season 1 - Episode 40

As Daniel Famous made his way towards the address where he’d been instructed to pick up the man who had supposedly called himself Abel, his mind did a time travel; he remembered the man with whom he’d been involved years earlier. The man who had pounded and beaten him front and back, almost killed him if not for the stunt he’d pulled to save his own life. It was years earlier but it felt very recent now. He didn’t understand why he was thinking about the man now; perhaps the name of the new man he was going to meet gave him this strange sense of foreboding. He wondered if he was not interfering in something that might threaten his life again.

He was in Sawmill Lane now. The late afternoon sun was as orange as a dragon’s egg; this street did not give him any assurance either. A young boy on a bicycle careened past, whistling. He had always had an unsettled mind lately. He didn’t know why. By the way, he’d resigned from the force, why he’d taken the decision to investigate the death of Mr. Jamal Malik – a man he barely knew – was baffling to him. It could be because of Remi. And he felt very sad for not being entirely forthcoming with Lot about the night of the incident. There were so many things about that night that he hadn’t told his superior. He wondered if Lot would have would have solved the case earlier if he’d told him everything. But he was very much afraid about the conclusion the older man would draw. And this time, he might not be able to defend the innocent. Innocent? Was Remi really innocent? He doubted it himself. Truth be told, he saw Remi cross from the corner where crime was committed. She could have been the person who held the weapon; but that might never be known, the knife was without print.

Sawmill Lane was large and oblong in shape, well-supplied with street lights; but this street was planned by someone who couldn’t stand the idea of a straight line. Sawmill Lane curved as an old witch’s staff. Along the west side of the street, the buildings were higher than the others, although there were few terraced houses on either sides. The street was surprisingly inaccessible to motor traffic by three concrete bollards across the entrance of the street, and it was sealed off at the farther end with the gate of a very nice house, now standing open. A bicycle was propped beside one of the front doors of the buildings, but there was little other signs of habitation. This neighbourhood was one where everybody minded his own business. There were some few shops where canned and sealed foods were sold. Apparently, the folks around Sunset lane had little concern for a balanced diet, because no fresh fruits or vegetables seemed to be sold here, only a variety of packaged goods. He sufficed that these inhabitants would find fresher foods only by journeying to the market located kilometres away. There was a beauty salon, itself in need of make-overs, and a thrift shop selling all things used.

This was too quiet for Daniel’s liking. With school out, the kids in the neighbourhood would be busy learning homicidal skills from video games. Better yet, the pubescent boys would be surfing the net for pornography, sharing it with their innocent younger brothers, and scheming to Molest the little girl next door. The world reeked of crime everywhere.
Although the day was gloomy, as though rain was soon to release; no light shone behind any of the net-curtained windows, and the large street seemed drab and uninviting, except of course the single one that took position at the far end of the street. The street should rather be called Sawmill Close. The first house on the left was number 2, and Daniel walked farther down the road, past number 4, past number 6, past number 8 – and there he was, standing in front of the door marked number 16 and feeling strangely nervous.

On the door was a neat sign that read: PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING. Daniel knocked, but he did not enter, he waited. After waiting a short moment, he knocked again, a little louder this time, and stood back to look at the house. The door was painted brown, and to his right was a window, the curtain within drawn across. Daniel did not attempt to peep through the cracks of the window because he knew it was futile, he would not see anything within. He stood there opposite the door, waiting and noticing the impressive brickwork of the arc.

No one answered the door when he knocked the third time. Daniel’s mind clicked and clicked again as he looked keenly around. There was something, he could feel it, something was very wrong. The premonition of disaster isn’t always confined to violent deaths; there is always that instant of realization, however brief, before the blow falls, the car hits, the ladder gives way. Part of the mind has been forewarned of the horror within which smell and sight are soon to confirm. But not of the extent though.

“Hello? Anyone home?” he called.
He turned the knob, it was unlocked. He pushed the door further. The room was quiet; from inside, strange smells hit him, it took him a few moments to distinguish the odours. There was the pungent stink of mouse urine. A whiff of mildew, traces of powdered insecticide – and the subtle perfume of decomposing animal flesh, possibly a rodent that had died long ago and that was now about a scrap of leather and grey fur wrapped around papery bones. It was an unfurnished one; a television set stood on a small stand. The rug was old and bed was at a side of the inner room which door stood ajar. Except for the covered floor, the room could have been a nun’s cell; he almost felt the lack of a crucifix at the top of the entrance. Daniel opened the door wider to get a clearer view of the room.
A bearded black man was lying sprawled across a writing table at the farther end of the room. He was lying in a horrible, unnatural position. There was a pool of some dark fluid on the desk by his head, and it was slowly dripping onto the floor with a horrible drip, drip, drip. The corpse’s wide eyes stared with startlement at the first glimpse of eternity that he received in the instant when his soul fled this world, the eyes were glazed with the dull impassiveness of death, and fixed beyond Daniel as if his presence was unworthy of notice. A little stream not much thicker than the lead in a pencil came out the side of the deceased’s mouth.

Daniel was very shocked at this sight. He had seen corpses a couple of times, but this grotesque image in an awkward position troubled him. He managed to pull himself together and went across the room to the corpse. The deceased’s skin was cold to the touch. The hand that he raised fell back lifeless.

The man was undeniably dead – shot through the head. The bullet had gone through the left temple and emerged about an inch above the right ear. Daniel could discern the splitered place where it had been lodged in the ceiling.

The dead man’s face, on closer examination, was curiously peaceful, and there was little blood indeed, as he’d noticed earlier.

He noticed something else too. On the table was a deck of cards scattered and spilled face up. He knew that this was done purposely, although it could appear to untrained eyes as mere spallation, but Famous knew better.

The playing cards had been the national card game of the country: Whot! Each card had been carefully chosen for the table did not contain all the number of cards contained in a complete deck. The suits of these chosen cards appeared to be of no consequence, but the numbers on them were meaningful: 4 of Circle, 2 of Cross, 1 of Star, 5 of Square, and 3 of Triangle. Daniel turned away from the cards and looked at the corpse now with the intense considering scrutiny of a man facing once again the fascinating evidence of human depravity.

He left everything. He knew that the outline of these cards had some certain significance to the man’s death, but he could not understand them now, not under this atmosphere of death.

The very air smelled of blood. This was not, perhaps, the most terrible of violent deaths. This was quick enough, more merciful than most methods if one had the strength of hand and the will to make the first shot certain. He became suddenly uncomfortable. The air was stifling, the room stuffy. He felt as though the walls were closing in on him. A feeling of claustrophobia overwhelmed him. A rush of revulsion took hold of him. He needed to get out of the room. But not yet, not now, he needed to inform the detective about the situation of things. He placed the call.
“Are you on your way back?” Lot answered at the first ring.
“No, we’re not.” Replied Daniel, his voice hoarse, “We can’t.”
“The man is dead, isn’t he?”
Daniel took a deep breath before replying, “Yes, sir, he is. It’s horrible, sir. He was shot on the head through the temple.”
“What happened there?”
“I don’t know. I just found him dead. This man’s death is bringing back ugly memories, sir. I feel as if I killed him.”
“Did you?”
Daniel was taken aback, “What! Of course not!

The man’s death is only affecting me emotionally. I feel a wild sense of déjà vu. You know what I’m talking about, sir.”
“Okay, I understand you. I’ll send two policemen to come and bring the body here.”
“There’s something else you need to know, sir.”
“I’m all ears.”
“There are some playing cards spilled all over the table close to the deceased’s head. These cards hide another secret message, I believe.”
‘You know what to do, don’t you?”
“I don’t.”
“Take the pictures with your camera phone, that’s what you should do.”
For Daniel, these preliminaries to the investigation should be done by a professional photographer, not with the use of a mobile phone. Even the careful maneuvering of the camera lens round the body, the lens focused impersonally on glazed, unreproachful eyes and the crude shattering of the brain fragments was the first step in the violation of the defenseless dead. It wasn’t really any worse than the dehumanizing routines which followed even a natural death. The almost superstitious tradition that the dead should be treated with reverence always failed at some point along that careful, documented final journey to the grave.
“Okay, I’ll do that now.” He replied finally.

“The men are on their way.”
The call was terminated.