Kołobrzeg
Sergei came round quickly.
He jerked himself up into a sitting position and wildly scanned around in all directions. He was in a small alcove between two of the tall warehouses. Weak orange neon light splayed over the scene from the nearest streetlamp.
Jack watched him carefully from another, much darker and narrower alleyway, further along the street.
The young man shook his head and patted himself down – yes, the old Russian army-issue pistol was where he’d left it. Then he checked his watch – which lied and told him he’d not been unconscious for long – Jack had wound it back a few minutes before giving him the wake-up jab. Then the terrorist wrestled his way out of his backpack straps and went though his bag. All would be perfect, untouched. It hadn’t been touched. Not recently anyway.
Jack breathed gently and remained motionless. He wasn’t overly concerned by Sergei’s searching. He had checked that the first bug was properly hidden, bedded into the gauze padding at the base of the pack. That first tag, inserted whilst in the cafe, had been his ‘banker’ and it was planted perfectly.
When Ebrahimi had passed out, Jack had not quite been close enough to stop the man from clattering to the ground. Fortunately, the dimly lit backstreet had been deserted, so no public theatrics had been necessary, and Jack had only had to drag the young man’s unconscious body swiftly into the back of the nearest alcove. There, he had swiftly checked the aforementioned tag – number one – put a second tag in the thick lapel of the man’s coat – number two – then pulled out the injector. This was the tricky one.
“Find soft flesh, it mustn’t go into muscle or he might feel it and find it,” Deuce had said. “I doubt you’ll be able to plant this one, Tin. This is professional stuff.”
Jack had been quietly pleased when Ebrahimi had fallen and hit the deck and, as expected, when he’d jerked down the unconscious boy’s jeans and exposed the fuzzy peach of the kid’s soft buttocks, the right cheek had collected a large patch of hazy purple-red grazing from the hard impact. This would helpfully mask any residual soreness and Vittalle had stuck the injector into the middle of it, pulled the trigger, and embedded a tiny pinhead-sized device under the kid’s skin. Job done.
A quick re-clothing of the youth – he’d been heavy to lift, but no worse than his bro’s had been when paralytic after a big session. A quick adjustment to the kid’s watch – back three or four minutes. A quick jab in the arm to wake him up, and then he’d shuffled him back, next to the pavement, and retreated to observe his handiwork.
Ebrahimi rubbed his head in confusion. As you would, if you had passed out for a few seconds. Losing consciousness would be a disconcerting experience for anyone, but it didn’t seem as if anything was missing, did it...?
Jack watched, pleased, as the boy pulled the rucksack back onto his shoulders, and then tentatively started to make his way toward town. As he walked, Jack saw him reach backwards and rub gently at his sore cheek.
“Yep, that’s gonna be a good bruise,” Vittalle muttered knowingly to himself.
~~~~~
Barfold
It’s getting light by the time I get home.
I used my visitors’ own car to take the bodies, nicely shrouded in the conveniently provided heavy duty black bin bags, to a nearby reservoir. The one we used to go to, when we were courting. The one where we used to sit in our little old car and watch the water sparkling in the moonlight, where we used to whisper our undying love for one another and where we, often, practiced making our daughter behind misty curtains of breath-laden condensation.
Back then, you used to joke about how, if the brakes had failed, we could have rolled right down into the water and, looking back, I suppose we were pretty irresponsible breaking into the compound like that. We’d taken a big risk, but now it’s turned out to be a handy place for me to know about...
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, out of their plastic overcoats and sensibly strapped into the front seats, had trundled off at quite some speed down the slope and the splash that the SUV made as it hit the water had been impressive. It seems that the hardcore runway that we used to park up on must have ended in a near vertical drop into the dark cold depths and the heavy vehicle, with its windows opened, had sunk very quickly.
Then I’d walked for two hours or so, to get back here.
I pick up the phone to ring Steve and explain in a few grunts that I’m not feeling too good and will have to miss training. He laughs, says that our instructor will be relieved and that he’ll call in later. I say not to bother because I’m going back to bed and tell him to call round tomorrow – I’ll be fine by then. He asks if I’m sure, takes no response as a good sign, laughs again and says okay.
“Thanks,” I say and hang up. There’s a fair amount of cleaning, and a little bit of wood filling, I need to do.
~~~~~
Koszalin Bus Station, Poland
Sergei slammed the pay-phone back onto its cradle. The answering machine was still not kicking in.
Jeyhun had said there was a message.
He’d obviously been worried. Maybe he’d been discovered?
Well, the plans had been clear. If we lose contact, switch off the mobiles and go to exit plan Delta. Reconvene in Constanta rather than Budapest.
Sergei realised he might very well be compromised already.
It had been several days since Jeyhun’s call.
He’d have to take an indirect route.
~~~~~
London
Ellard looked up from his screen. “The brother’s just gone dark. Interpol have lost him in the middle of Poland. Shall I activate one of the tags?”
Greere’s mobile started ringing, “Nope. The kid’ll be running a random track for a while. He’ll know he’s probably compromised, so won’t go straight to the next rendezvous.” Greere’s rotund features creased in frustration as he saw the incoming caller’s identity. “Here we go,” he muttered, then answered. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Ellard could hear Sentinel’s shouting from the other side of the office.
~~~~~
Barfold
I don’t let the two policemen in.
They remain on the doorstep, getting gently dampened by the perpetual drizzling rain.
They’ve explained to me that they had to follow up on ‘enquiries’ and that a couple of Travellers have gone missing. They say that some of the other Travellers have vaguely suggested that the ‘Missing Persons’ might have been around this estate. Have mentioned this address.
“Why here?” I grunt angrily. “I don’t know any gypsies.”
They smile pleasantly and say that they’re not sure. “Have you seen anything suspicious lately?” one of them asks: whilst the other one does his best not to make it obvious that he’s trying to see into my hallway
I shrug and shake my head. Our choice of slippery gloss-stone tiles for the hallway had been a good decision. Not that I’d considered its current usefulness all those years ago. It’s been easy to clean. Blood doesn’t stick to stone.
They say that they are very sorry to be bothering me at this difficult time, that they know who I am, and that I should call if there is anything that I might need. Especially if I happen to see anyone suspicious hanging around in the neighbourhood.
“Okay,” I rumble; choosing not to mention the various times I’ve recently watched the other Travellers prowling around outside my home. “Are we done?”
They say it would all be a lot more comfortable if they could step inside for a few minutes... If I could have a look at the photos of the missing men for them...
“This was our home,” I growl angrily. “Once full of life, but now filled by death. It is not a place for the living.”
They look uncomfortable.
“Goodbye,” I say, and slam the door in their faces.
~~~~~
Northern France
Jack trundled southwards. He’d stop in and collect his stuff from Madrid and then head east. This would be a long journey. Again. But he’d gained another, albeit old, handgun for his troubles.
You never knew when you might need another gun.
He glanced across at a couple of attractive French girls sitting further along the carriage. They’d had a couple of looks at him, but appeared to be more interested in looking at photos, or some app, or something, on their mobiles. Maybe he’d have to sidle over and strike up a conversation? The name’s Vittalle, Jack Vittalle. Something like that.
He checked his bedraggled reflection in the train window and grimaced at the tramp staring back at him. There was also a pretty rancid stench coming from somewhere nearby, and he was worryingly sure he knew the source – too much heavy and stressful exercise and no changes of clothing were taking their toll.
“Not a bloody chance,” he muttered quietly to himself, and let his head slump disappointedly against the vibrating glass.
He’d stink halfway to high heaven by the time he got to Spain.
But, with luck, at least he wouldn’t get his personal space invaded much along the way.
~~~~~
London
It has taken some months for the three co-conspirators to come to trial. I’m not sure of all of the legal technicalities involved, though many have been explained over the last several weeks of daily journeys into London. For so many hours, I have sat here in the public gallery above the courtroom and stared unflinchingly at the three men who facilitated my suffering. I have discovered that they weren’t directly involved – other than by feeding, helping, running, carrying for and protecting the murderers as they planned their wickedness – so my feelings for them are constrained to a simmering malevolence.
Being here every day you start to recognise familiar faces: the other bereaved family members who surround me in our little focus group of vitriolic hatred, the media in their perpetual rush for headlines, the lawyers, the jury, the judge, the police, the witnesses, the arresting officers...
It’s not been an easy trial. The case has been complicated by the injuries sustained by one of them. He’s made himself out as being permanently incapacitated by the actions of the police but, when I watch him, I can’t see much wrong. It looks to me as if he sneers to himself from time to time, when he thinks he’s not being observed. Like it’s a big joke. He reminds me of someone else. Someone else who recently considered the world to be nothing more than his own possession. Whose consideration of others extended only as far as his own personal desires allowed. Who threatened me.
But, right now, I’m not thinking about Travellers, I’m just feeling stunned.
I felt so sure that the jury would see through the liar’s playacting as easily as I could. All the fine rhetoric and argument presented by his defence council was clearly just that: rhetoric. I felt so certain that here, in our wonderful, sophisticated country; the country you had elected to make your own; that you had even gone so far as to give up your own heritage for; that you had taken for your own to become British, alongside me, because in your own words you, “Love this place.” That this modern country, with its modern science, great knowledge and bulldog spirit would recognise selfish cowardly lies and blatant self-preservation.
Would serve justice.
Well, it did for two of them and these comrades looked just as angry as I was, when it didn’t for the third.
No, there clearly isn’t any honour amongst the guilty. It might exist between thieves, but I never got around to asking my short-lived house-guests. The little, overweight, ugly terrorist smiled for a fraction of a second when they announced he would walk free. When they proclaimed that he had suffered sufficiently. When they agreed that he’d need professional support and assistance for the rest of his life. That a sizeable civil case should now be brought against the police for their mishandling of the arrest. That such a case was necessary so that the State could properly fund his ongoing healthcare.
He doesn’t look like he needs much help to me.
As I step out of the courts into the dark evening and usual barrage of flashguns, I notice that there are new lights in the sky tonight. It’s Bonfire Night. I’d forgotten. A huge red rosette bursts over the skyline and the loud booming sound of the explosion makes me stagger involuntarily. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, I can see the flames again. They rage around me. And I can see Grey Beard. And I can see the flying metal. And I can see the blood-red mists swirling...
I lurch forwards, starting to fall, but an unknown hand reaches out swiftly, and grabs hold of my forearm.
“Are you okay?” asks a woman’s voice, and my head flashes round defensively.
I recognise her but can’t work out from where. She sees the fury painted over my face and lets go quickly.
“Sorry,” she says. “I thought you might have stumbled or something.” She’s being kind.
“Firework,” I grunt self-consciously, though I’m not sure why I should feel embarrassed.
Her eyes widen fractionally. She understands.
“I’m Sharinda Manjeethra,” she says. “You can call me Shaz.”
Part Two: Finding Myself
Vengeance and Stilettos
London
Shaz is preparing dinner in her large and well equipped kitchen. We have become firm friends over these last few months. Kindred spirits in our own polemic way. Allies around a single cause: justice.
Since the trial, life has been interesting for both of us. I have decided to start working toward securing my third dan, a whole step up from my previously, much struggled for, second black belt. For some reason, but probably due to my perpetual feelings of anger and aggression, the fighting is coming easily now. The downside is that I’ve had to start travelling further, in order to find groups which provide sufficient challenge. This has been okay, I’ve got few other things to do with my time.
Steve remains in the background, as perpetually enthusiastic and good-humoured as ever, and we still go to training together, one or two evenings, every week. We were both disappointed when the National Health Service pronounced that I didn’t need special attention any more, and that he had to go back to his normal nursing duties during the daytime.
This, of course, is in stark contrast to my poor little terrorist friend who, according to the side-story coverage his legal firm keep securing on the inside pages of the newspapers, would appear to be in need of all the assistance our country can offer. I’d have to say that it’s a bit of a mystery to me – he looks like he’s getting around just fine, whenever I’m watching him.
The local police came round a couple more times, and I consented to allow them into the house on the second visit; though I shepherded them into the lounge and made them sit there surrounded by our pictures. Yes, I’ve done some redecorating and printed out hundreds of pictures of you and Lizzie and plastered the whole room with them. I need to have you around me during the daytime, as well as in my dreams. Oddly, the police seemed reluctant to come in on their third visit and stayed on the doorstep, where they clearly felt more comfortable, while they told me that the remaining Travellers had finally been moved on. I replied, honestly, that I couldn’t care less.
I continue to hone my archery skills. The combination of my superb muscle tone and continual practice is yielding mighty accuracy. Vengeance and I can almost visualise our arrow’s entire trajectory before each loose, irrespective of weather conditions. Nothing is safe within our killing range.
I have also discovered, now that I’ve turned my hand to it, that I’m something of a fletcher – an arrow-smith – and this has required a subtle repurposing of the garage. A whole new range of exotic arrow tips are being crafted and then subjected to trial. My local butchers have never sold so many full legs of meat.
At the moment, Shaz is midway through demonstrating her own butchery prowess on a couple of small, hapless, chicken carcasses. Her deft, yet violent, incisions betray the frustrations that I know are festering inside her. She’s had it rough since the verdict, and been subjected to endless detailed cross-examination and scrutiny. In a particularly insidious piece of media gamesmanship, the defence team have managed to spin the press stories so that she appears to be responsible for their client’s freedom. They very cleverly ran a whole sequence of stories which clearly insinuated that they, the judge, and the poor innocent jury had been left with no legitimate options for prosecution after her irresponsible actions.
I just told her that she should have hit him harder.
Manjeethra’s kitchen extends across the whole width of the rear of her house. I sit at her dining table, over in the corner, and flick through today’s newspaper while she preps. Though it’s not a small house, this particular room seems disproportionately large to me. I know that she has a man in her life, someone she’s been with for quite a while, but I’ve never met him and he doesn’t live here. This is her house, and one of her main reasons for choosing it was this huge culinary area – cooking is a passion of hers.
So, like today, on her random days off, she’s taken to trying out new experimental cuisine on me. I’ve become the modern day version of a medieval food-taster for Mr. Mystery-man, whoever he is. Not that I care: I’ve only ever been able to do the basics, and Shaz’s so-called-experiments are therefore much better than anything I’d ever put together for myself.
“I still think you should do more cooking,” she mutters as her blade slices neatly into the carcass in front of her. “You’d find it therapeutic.”
“Too busy,” I grunt. Conversation remains difficult. The doctors say it will probably not get much better. They also think I should be cutting back on the steroids, but I’m still getting too many other peripheral benefits from them – just this morning I caught sight of my new physique in my bathroom mirror. I can hardly recognise myself.
“Doing what?” she fires back, without taking her eyes off her vivisection.
“Well, apart from training and archery, I’ve been practicing some of those unarmed combat techniques you’ve been showing me, and researching our little friend.”
“Researching?”
I turn a page of the newspaper. “Stalking’s possibly a better description.”
This grabs her attention, and she spins round to face me. “You’ve not approached him, have you?” she asks, agitated.
I laugh and shake my head, “Course not. I keep well clear.”
“Hmmm,” she says and turns away. “I’ll show you some more stuff later. Like, how to track a target without getting spotted. If you want to do something like that, then it’s really important that he doesn’t get wind that you’re tailing him. They’ll bring nuisance charges against you, or a restraining order, or worse, knowing them thieving bastards, they’ll sue you for something.” The slam of carbon steel into her chopping board is, I sense, a fraction more violent than absolutely necessary to take the spindly little chicken leg off. “I wouldn’t put it past them to try to strip you of the insurance money. Or your home.”
Now she’s got my attention. “Okay,” I rumble, feeling my anger rising. I will not permit any more violation of my battered existence. Some more of her coaching would be useful – not least, because I’m hatching a plan to put some of it to good use...
I decide it’s best to change the subject. “What’s the board for?” I ask.
Not far away from me, hanging from a string by the kitchen door, is an old wooden chopping board. I’ve seen it several times but, as a wall ornament, it’s not in keeping with Manjeethra’s generally very tasteful decor: it’s basically an old battered bit of wood with various chunks taken out of it.
“Therapy,” she says.
I don’t understand her, “What?”
“I keep trying to tell you cookery is therapeutic, but you don’t believe me.” She trims the last piece off the fully dissected carcass, stands, and with one smooth movement and a flick of her wrist, sends the carving knife tumbling through the air.
I watch, fascinated, as it glints past my eyes, barely inches from my face, and buries itself into the centre of the clattering wooden target. “Nice,” I grunt.
“No,” she says. “This is nice.”
The second blade, snatched in an instant from the rack, slams into the board barely a millimetre from the first. A tiny splinter of wood from the gap between the quivering blades springs across and onto the newspaper in front of me.
“Show me,” I say.
~~~~~