Hellbound: The Tally Man by David McCaffrey Page B

diacotomy that had allowed him to see human monsters like Obadiah for what they were. Social chameleons. Able to use the facets of peoples left over emotions to fashion something appealing to them, they then used people’s weaknesses as strengths to bait the hook that would eventually snare them.
    Settling into his chair, Joe began scribbling down a few ideas he had for the interview. How this one went would dictate the responses of the other relatives to his request for their thoughts. He found himself wondering if such tragedy could convince someone that there comes a time when there is no longer a point searching for understanding as to why some things happen. Would Margaret Keld really be interested in a book attempting to unravel the complex nature of her daughter’s killer? After all, Joe thought, he was dead. What would insight into his mind offer them now?

‘Death - A punishment to some, to some a gift, and to many a favor.’
    Seneca
    Chapter Four
    08:49
    SINCE awakening, the hairs on Obadiah’s neck and arms had been prickling as if subject to an invisible static. Something was out of place.
    During his viaticum, Father Hicks had eluded that Obadiah’s only salvation would be to accept God’s forgiveness or suffer for all eternity. He had made no such admonishment.
    For this refusal, Obadiah had expected to find himself in a dark, inhospitable place distant from God, in extremis as he was tortured in ways his blackest nightmares could never evoke - a punishment reflective of his soul.
    He currently saw none of those things.
    His path leading from the house was tapering into a tree-lined by-grove. The low morning sun flashed through the branches, striping the path and casting long shadows ahead of him as though indicating his destination. Sessile oaks either side were a blanket of autumnal golden fire, their colours rustic and faded. The leaves seemed to possess an inner light of pure yellow, burning brighter than the sun. Interspersed with the Sessile’s were small filmy ferns, their previously dull, green leaves now a brilliant crimson.
    For a moment, he wondered if he was still dying and the two minutes it took for the injections to take effect translated as abstract time. Closing his eyes, he could recall the sensation of the Velcro straps, the tilt of the execution table and the pin-prick caress of needles being inserted into his veins. Moments later, he had been somewhere that reminded him of his childhood home. But if death was a dream-like state such as this, death wasn’t something he would be worried about.
    As if to reinforce the reality of his surroundings, Obadiah touched the trees and tarmac. His every breath drew in the fusty odour of mouldy leaves and damp earth, evoking the smells of sages and pine. Underneath, their aroma was subtly being overridden by the fragrance of decay as countless organisms actively broke down as spent vegetation and returned to the soil. All these sensations supported by the bracing air tautening his face, collectively encouraged him he wasn’t dreaming.
    As the avenue became more urbanised, Obadiah approached what appeared to be a town. He stopped and leaned against the corner of a wall, his face dropping as a look of puzzlement skittered across it.
    Clusters of brick buildings faded into the distance, surrounded by folded hills of rich green. Streets ahead of him dazzled in their array of painted washes, picturesque shops and bar signs. He saw lovers walking hand in hand, the woman laughing at something the man whispered in her ear. Another couple sat on a bench, talking quietly. A man walked slowly down the street, his hands in his pockets, his attention focused on a distant point ahead. A woman pushing a pram across the street waved her thanks to the driver for stopping. Everywhere he looked, people were going about their mundane, human diatribes.
    The sights before him fuelled his confusion. He tried to take in every detail of the environment, studying each