"Man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of all." - Aristotle
1
Belfast in the 1980s.
A young boy, just six years of age ran excitedly past the depressingly buildings, graffiti and political slogans were painted on the chipped and poorly maintained walls as this boy went the same way he had every school day towards his home.
He knew the route like the back of his small hands, he skipped past the rubbish and debris, the occasional British Army or Police check point and skirted his way up to the top floor and into the flat that he and his mum lived in. His mother, a beautiful twenty-four year old who had him young to a man out of wedlock, her beautiful round features had began to age and draw away as she lost weight, her addiction to the poison of the streets slowly ate away at her. To young young Jack Sinclair she was the prettiest woman in the world.
The young boy had noticed his mother change, she acted differently at times, some times she was the woman he loved as mum and other times she was wild and angry at him for no reason, smashing plates and throwing food at him like a monkey at the zoo. And then there were the times where she would cry all day inside of her room, or spend hours in the bath room being sick, it confused him but he did his best to love her and understand her. Though so young he began to understand how to read her moods, and started to mature faster than what would be expected of a boy his age.
It was the weekend now for the young boy and his mother had promised that he could go to the movies with his best friend. The young lad opened the front door up, he slipped into the two bedroom unit calling out to his mother, a record of Kate Bush was playing, she along with Sinead O'connor was one of his mothers favourite singers, she would listen to their albums over and over again. Some times she would sing to him Kate Bush songs, and even pretend to dance weird like her. It always made the boy smile and laugh.
He could hear the bath flowing, as he threw his school bag onto his bed.
"Mum, are you in the bath?" he asked as he neared the closed door.
Behind him the song "Reaching Out" began to play on the record player, he knocked at the door, still no response.
"Mum, hello." He asked again.
Deciding to open the door, the young boy entered the bathroom, the floor was wet as the bath was over flowing. Near the sink laid the pale naked form of a woman, his mother. He rushed towards her and yelled at her for a response. She was cold and wet to the touch. Her eyes were open starring blankly at the wall, in her arm was a long needle like the ones that she some times kept in her jewlery box.
"Mum" he yelled over and over again as she laid lifelessly. Tears rolled heavily down his cheeks, her body felt so light and still as he rocked at her shoulders desperate for her to awaken. Desperate for her to jump up and laugh at him, as though it was some practical joke. No joke, no laughter, she just laid there as though asleep, but only in this sleep her eyes were wide open. Her beautiful face, drawn and lifeless was like a frightening mask made to mimic her her pretty round face that he had kissed so many times.
His warm tears dropped heavily onto her naked grey flesh, the young boy pressed his head to his mothers shoulder and cried, praying, begging to the God that his mother had raised him to believe to make everything ok.
It was not until the couple that rented the appartment beneath, came up to investgate the water dripping from the ceiling, that the young boy was discovered sobbing over his mothers body. Mary Anne Sinclair died that night and left her boy, Jack alone.
Australia, Now.
Jack Sinclair awoke from his usual shallow sleep, he rolled to his side and looked at this phone for the time, Three-twenty three AM. Sitting up he stared into the darkness rubbing his unshaven jaw, tilting his head to the side he felt his neck crack as it often did. Sadly the dream was not a nightmare, but a memory that still seemed all to vivid and re-visited him often. The tall man pressed his feet onto the un-vacummed carpeted floor of his bed room, making his way to the bath room he splashed some cold water onto his face.
Sinclair was was once that little boy, too many years had past and to much had bittered this man, time had aged him terribley inside. Though still possesing a boyish face, and a body hardened as a combat athletes, the past twenty years since that tragic day had been up and down with more downs, than one man should experience. It was not just his mothers death that had haunted him, he had lost two other women dear to him. Such losses freeze a man's insides up at best, at worse they end up in similar shape to Jack Sinclair.
The one hundred and eighty eight centre tall man walked towards a mid sized grand piano. Though it had collected some dust, it was still well tuned and in good working order. He sat behind it and looked at the keys, his fingers soon played them with a precision seldom heard. He had played the piano for the past twenty years, learning it after his mothers death.
As he hunched over and played slowly he meandered with an ecclectic feel from piece to piece, occasionally he would attempt some improv but always found himself playing some of his more favoured pieces that he had spent so many hours on over the years.
This piano had been a gift to him from his uncle and aunty, they had been his only family after his mothers death. It was his uncle, some years older than his mother, that took him into his care. Jack moved to Australia and lived with them, his uncle then was a comfortable business man who had climbed his way to success through adult entertainment. The life he found in Australia was drastically different to the bleak world he that was his early years in Northern Ireland, he was spoilt and well looked after. His uncle and aunt loved him as though he was their own, and he was welcomed by their daughter Cori. She was ten when he moved in with them, and though he never knew of her existence, he soon looked up to the beautiful and always caring Cori.
Jack looked around his living area in his appartment, his fingers still delightfully finding the right keys in the early morning darkness, no one was there to hear the perfect notes as he played, it was only his always self critical ear that could hear any imperfections that was present to his playing these days.
For some reason he played a slow and gentle version of 'Be still my soul', his eyes locating in the darkness a clutter of photos framed on a breakfast bench. In them was a young looking woman, forever in her early twenties, her broad smile perfecting the natural beauty of her face as long flowing black hair draped past her shoulders. Sinclair smiled in the dark as he looked at the photo's that he had gazed over time and time again. His beautiful fiance, so perfect, he could not imagine anyone being as angelic as she was. He stopped playing as he felt a deep tinge within his chest. His nose began to tingle and his eyes tickled lightly, even now after two years, and in this dark room, he would not let himself cry, no matter how close he came.
Alize, was his beloved fiance, he loved her with all of his heart, and that heart which remained inside of him still thumped a slow and pain throbbed beat for her. He clenched his jaw and took in a deep lung of stale air, trying to stop his mind from going back to the night that she was murdered in front of him. He would not remember that night again, not now. Maybe some other time he would relive it again, or perhaps he would go through it again in some early morning nightmare.
He went back to his room and checked his phone again, it seemed to be lighter outside and he could hear more traffic as well as some birds chirping. It was now just past five Am. Now was as good a time as ever to get up for the day he figured. Entering the kitchen he swigged down some cranberry juice from the bottle and chewed on a bannana as he made a protein shake with berries, milk, honey and peanut butter. Slowly he went about his morning libations and by six AM he was in his car and driving to 'work'.
An editor for his Uncles news paper, who now had progressed into more legitimate media since his early days in pornography , he now owned the only news paper in Adelaide, and had been looking at expanding into television. Jack while working for his uncle, in an official capacity spent his time in another form of work that very few were aware of.
SInclair for the past year and a half had become the hunter and nightmarish reality to those that prey on the weak. Not a vigilante, but something more driven and motivated by the losses he had suffered, and the losses of too many others.
Sinclair lived in a city that had once been described as 'laid back, care free and at times conservative', this past decade had seen it spiral into a city of crime and near chaos, like most of Australia in Sinclair's world law and order had become politcal slogans, terms often used but with little process. Corruption had seaped its ways into every pore of society, whether blatant corruption of greed or lust, or social delusions as to the definitions of crime and punishment, where sympathy is sought for the offenders and not to their victims.
Sinclair had been told that Justice was blind and fair, her judgement free of class, race or circumstance, but Sinclair had come to learn that Justice was just another common whore. He had found no satisfaction in the society that saw societies most henious criminals walk free, then survive on pensions and receive free care from dentistry to sex operations. He could not care for a society that over taxed its populace as the governance grew fat and over bearing, yet shrugged off violent acts.
Sinclair had taken things into his own hands, he had become a product of this world, not one of those prospering from it, but one that belived in the Justice that he had grown up respecting should be served. He did not believe in eternal life or any form of final judgement, but if he was ever to be brought before his maker, Sinclair had figured he would spit in his face and welcome a hell that could never match the torment of experiencing what he had in this life.
Sinclair was not the 'good guy' he was just a man, that had broken free of society and had become independent of its rules and laws. While most that did this profited from a life of crime and decadence, he was not interested in this and never would he be. Sinclair had no longer anything to live for. Perhaps he was merely spiralling to a certain and final fate, that along the way would take as many of them with him. Sinclair despite his own disdain for himself lived by principles, that those who knew of his life in these shadows respected. Sinclair however gave no thought to self justification, forever seeking revenge did not deserve any absolution or reassurances.
Sinclair had been out amongst the shadows two nights earlier, he had been observing the the partially abandoned warehouses at Port Adelaide, a great deal of nocturnal activity had been on the increase in recent months. It had become the hot bed of transactions and facilitation to most forms of vice and addictions, though well known through out it had yet to be shut down or disrupted.
Tonight Sinclair would impose his will on this late night market of fiends.
