Profile for Number 7, Maxwell Ignatius Kincaid
Age: 47
Height: 6ft, 5”
Weight: 165lb
Religion Catholic
Born Boston
History: Born to struggling Catholic parents, Max was a wild street
kid
getting into trouble with the police before the new parish priest took him
in hand and filled him with the ambition to break out of the environment
that was shaping him. He gets him a scholar****p to a Catholic college in
Chicago where he becomes a live-in student.
The other students ostracise him for his uncouth manner and violent
responses to their snobbish attitudes and he is constantly in trouble.
Then,
he joins the basketball team and his natural ability soon has him taking
the
team from the bottom of the ladder towards the middle. Seeing the school
cheering him rather than shunning him makes him want more. His behaviour
changes. His attitude to school work changes. His grades climb. He learns
the ways of manipulating others to make them like him and get what he
wants.
At age 15, he is being made into a copy of a well brought up, well heeled
kid, but underneath bubbles all the street smart, potentially violent and
brutal personality of his early life.
Story One
Mulchay was a nervous, reed-like Irishman, with the fearsome flutters of a
terrified bird. This particular night he was at his agitated worst
“The bishop will be pleased, I’m sure,” he said, wringing his hands as if
personally responsible for the Holocaust.
Kinkaid scowled then turned to scan the over-heated hall. Across the
floor,
teenage hormones dripped from a hundred clumsy boys as they danced with
sweaty girls from Mary Mag.
“Pity he couldn’t have been here then,” said Max, with characteristic
subterranean growl. “It’s serious money I’m providing and he better
acknowledge it. If this school wants more out of me, he better learn to
grovel.”
Mulchay’s excuse was drowned by the band, surprisingly good, but insanely
loud. It didn’t matter. Max had switched his attention to the recently
acquired music teacher, a twenty something redhead who he’d caught eyeing
him with interest.
He ignored Mulchay’s defence and left him talking to himself, strolling to
the next table where Cassandra Patterson sat with the supervising
teachers.
He lifted a chair, twisted it 180, then dropped it to sit facing the back.
“Hi!” he said, ignoring the others, “Maxwell Kincaid! You’re the new music
teacher? We better get acquainted, I guess.”
“Cassandra Patterson, Mr. Kincaid,” she said, holding out a hand. “Can I
introduce my colleges? Mrs. —”
“Some other time. I want to talk about the music department.”
Cassandra mouthed an apology to her friends as Kincaid stood and beckoned
her to follow. She wavered, as if thinking about staying put just to show
the arrogant prick she was not the acquiescent jellyfish some others were.
Perhaps it was overpowered by the warning she‘d got on her arrival. “Under
no cir***stances annoy Mr. Kincaid,” Benchley had said. “Frankly, we’re
taking a chance with your inexperience.”
Kincaid paused by the priest on the way out. “Your office is across the
hall. Lend me the keys, I want a quiet word with the music teacher.”
Father Mulchay looked for a brief moment as if he might refuse, but then a
hand went to his pocket for the bunch of keys. “It’s the big ****ny one,”
he
said.
Outside the auditorium, with the doors shut, the sound was more subdued.
“That’s better,” he said. “Those boys are no musicians.”
“One of them is your son, Mr. Kincaid. Are you always so rude?”
“Rude?”
Cassandra swallowed hard. “Surely, you’re aware some things you say are
brutal?”
Kincaid smiled as he unlocked the priest’s door. “Oh, OK, so, you’re a
feely-touchy graduate. You want to change the world. You know the answer
to
our woes is love.”
“Why the cynicism? Didn’t I read that you’re a self-made man? A success
from
a poor background? I would have thought you and cynicism made bad
company.”
He closed the door behind them and turned the key. Then he perched on the
edge of the desk while Cassandra sat uneasy on a seat.
“You speak your mind,” he said. “Good, I like that. So, how do you like
St.
Bede’s?”
Cassandra smoothed her dress. “I’d like it better if there was as much
dedication to music as s****ts. I’m sinking because so many stars of s****ts
take music. I…”
“What’s the matter with you, girl? Here you have a bunch of fellahs who’ll
get kicked off their team if they don’t shape up academically and all you
do
is whine? The last girl did that too and where is she now?”
“This is not very helpful,” said Cassandra, standing up.
“Sit down!”
“Excuse me?”
“I said sit, damn it!”
Cassandra’s hands hovered as she vacillated, but, finally, she sat.
“Now,” said Kincaid, “if this is all you’re good for, then you can walk
right now. We don’t need you at St. Bedes. We’re about winning and there’s
no room for whining losers, whether students or teachers. Are you hearing
me?”
“Well, you are sort of bellowing. I thought such decisions were Mr.
Benchley’s.”
“Benchley knows where his future lies. He’d never make principal if not
for
me. What about you? Why do you think they took you on? Someone so
inexperienced? After all, music teachers are an oversupply these days.”
Cassandra pursed her lips. “I came top of my year and my credentials are
better than St. Bedes can expect. Why wouldn’t they employ me?”
Kincaid’s laugh had a sharp edge. “I never employ without a full
investigation. You applied to 17 schools this year alone and got 17
rejections. You have no record of success. You are desperate for money
because your husband was fooling around on the honeymoon and smashed
himself
up. The liver as I remember. Now he needs a transplant and neither he or
you
have the dough to do it.”
“No wonder you’re the most hated person I know.”
Again that laugh was a razor. “Please, don’t pretend you’re on some moral
high ground here. You only just escaped an insurance fraud charge, trying
to
have him pose as your brother.”
“I was desperate.”
“You still are. They tell me time’s running out for Pete.”
“Damn you. What pleasure do you get from other people’s pain?”
Kincaid eased himself off the desk and stood with his hands on hips. “I
warn
you, Cassandra, one more nasty word and you can go **** yourself for all I
care. Now, there just happens to be a transplant available at the organ
bank
and the cost is taken care of. It’s up to you whether it goes ahead or
not.”
Her face looked like a wall of freezing Arctic water had hit her. “Why?
Why
would you do that for me?”
“Do you want it or not?”
“Of course I do. It’s just—“
Kincaid extracted and opened a leather case from his inside pocket then
selected a prime Havana. “I have these flown in by courier via Canada.
Cost
a small fortune, but quality is worth it. Now, you’re going to suggest
that
there’s a catch to this gesture of mine. Correct?”
Cassandra examined her fingers, body squirming as if skin and flesh
despised
each other. “I’m sorry if I misjudged you, Mr. Kincaid. I can’t say what
this means to me.”
“Good! Slip your panties off then. Quick now.”
“Well, you didn’t think you’d get all that for free, did you? I mean,
really?”
“I was right. You are a bastard.”
He blew a ring up to the ceiling and watched it wobble. “You know, I make
a
very powerful friend, Cassandra, but I make an even more deadly enemy. I
spoke to my man at the hospital. Your loving husband has developed a swell
yellow colour in the last few days. It’s very pretty, but they tell me
it’s
a bad sign. They give him a week or two more and he’ll survive only on a
machine all day.”
“You’re lying. If that were so, they’d have rung me.”
Kincaid stabbed the half-smoked cigar out in a decorative ashtray and
stood
face to face with the music teacher.
“You’re almost out of time, Cassandra, and I don’t see any ***** as yet.
Once I leave, the chance is gone forever. You can’t even afford a ****ing
funeral, can you? Stop ****ing around, girl. This is it. Rip those panties
off and let me see the glory whole. I’ve got a cock the size of an
elephant
waiting for you.”
“I can’t--” she began.
“Goodbye!” He turned and walked to the door.
“Wait,” she said, her voice in panic. “You win. Look, I’m taking them off.
How do you want me?”
“Want you?” repeated Kincaid, in a mocking tone. “I lost interest 30
seconds
ago. Put the panties back on and piss off. We’ll advertise in the
morning.”
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