Blood Tears by Michael J. Malone

man. He’s old. His eyes are accusing. Staring in death at his killer.
    Me.
    I forced my eyes away from his silent accusation. Guilt and shame pulled me to my knees. What had I done? I screamed at the sky. My mouth filled with feathers. One caught in my throat. I choked. Coughed. Need to breathe. Need to breathe. Need to…

    I wake up. Chest heaving. Christ that was vivid. The old man. His eyes. The guilt. I could feel each feather in my mouth. They were clogging my airwaves.  I was choking. It went on and on. I couldn’t move my jaws to spit out the feathers. I couldn’t breathe.
    The alarm clock burns green into the dark. Five-thirty. God, that was scary. I am still breathless and my skin prickles with an adrenalin after-burn. I need to get up and shake off the dream. I throw my legs to the side of the bed and stand up and almost fall back on to it. My legs are drained of energy. The dream must’ve taken a lot more out of me than I thought.
    At the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in my hands, my arms are resting on the table. My hands are shaking too much to allow me to hold it without spilling the stuff over my arms. McBain, what the fuck is going on?
    On the way into work, an hour early, with an empty stomach and frazzled with caffeine, I review the dream again. The details remain clear, particularly those dead eyes and the choking  sensation of the feathers.

    There was blood. Christ, I’ve just remembered, there was lots of blood. Feathers were in red and white clumps at his wrists. His ribs. I could see his ribs through an open wound.
    I want to gag.
    And hide in the dark soothing of an empty confessional box.
    I’ve never been convinced about the importance of dreams. Symbols and portents my arse. The subconscious just likes to play tricks on us. But I’ve never had a dream so vivid. I’ve been in a lot of dangerous situations and I’ve never felt terror like that in my life. My limbs were solid with fear, my hair was on end and my heart… it still hasn’t slowed down. Need to get a grip, McBain. There’s work to do. A real killer to catch.

    In the office, Peters has been busy. The brother of a victim we discussed yesterday has been brought in for questioning and Peters finds it difficult to hide his disappointment that I’m here.
    ‘You want to sit in, Ray?’ he asks. His expression reads he’d rather I go and lie in front of a combine harvester.
    ‘That would be nice,’ I exaggerate a smile. ‘Give me some detail on the guy.’
    ‘Paul Crichton. Age 25. Unemployed. Lives with his girlfriend. She’s pregnant with their second child. The first one is ten months old.’
    Peters’ words set up a picture that is fulfilled when I see the man in question.
    He in turn eyes me up and down as I enter the room. Something flits across his eyes. Could it have been recognition? He looks vaguely familiar to me. Wonder if I’ve arrested him before.
    ‘So it’s the heavy mob, is it?’ He looks at my gut and smirks. What a piece of work, only twenty-five and looking like he belongs in this room. Occupational hazard, don’t you know. His head has a ten o’clock shadow, obviously needs another shave. His body is medium height and thin like a railway sleeper, his cheeks are hollow and his eyes haunt his face. Pockmarks on his cheeks tell of teenage years ruined with explosive acne. Surprisingly, he is expensively and fashionably dressed, a la Matrix, complete with long black leather coat. A packet of cigarettes lies unopened on the Formica tabletop. In deference to the public smoking policy? I would think not. Looks like the kind who wouldn’t give two fucks about someone else’s discomfort. Besides, if we want information from someone, this is one regulation we are happy to play with.
    ‘I want a lawyer.’
    ‘Why? Something to hide, Paul?’ asks Peters.
    ‘I’m saying nothing without a lawyer.’
    Peters sits on a chair facing Crichton. ‘Been watching The Bill , big man?’
    I sit beside Peters