Barfold
I stand, with the handset lead stretching from my shoulder, and wait for Shaz to answer her phone. Whilst I listen to the recurrent ringtone I casually slip my narrow switchblades, one at a time, down out of their holster. It’s another of my own little creations and straps snugly around either bicep. With merely a jerking motion, and a flex of my powerful muscle, I can release one shuttered blade at a time. They slide down under my sleeve and into my palm, where I trigger their mechanisms with my thumb, and then toss them into the dartboard I’ve got fixed to the distant wall.
Double top...
Triple top...
Bullseye.
A satisfied smile teases the edges of my lips.
“Nick,” Shaz’s voice catches my attention. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I grunt. “I’m gonna be away for a while. Just wanted to let you know.”
“Oh, okay...,” she sounds distracted. “Anywhere nice?”
“Cheap rental cottage. South Wales. Need to get away.”
“Yeah, good idea. A change of scenery, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“How long will you be away?” I can hear a man’s voice in the background, asking if she’d like her wineglass topped up. Seems I might be interrupting something. I hear the rustle of a palm being pressed over the handset, and then a muffled but clearly enthusiastic, “Yes, please.”
“I’ve rented it for a month,” I rumble, blinking away the sudden stabbing feeling of loss and loneliness which washes over me. “You’re busy. I’ll not take up any more of your time.”
I sense her sitting up, dragging her attention toward me and away from her companion. “It’s okay, Nick. No problem. We can talk now, if you want to. I’m here for you. Whenever you need me.”
“Thanks,” I say and hang up.
~~~~~
London
“Problems?” asked the man, as he sipped at his wine.
“Nick’s going away for a while. Maybe it’ll do some good? The fixation with Omid has been becoming worse. That publishing deal, and all the renewed media coverage, haven’t helped.” Shaz Manjeethra got up from her armchair and wandered back over to the sofa.
The man laughed briefly as she sat down next to him. “Sorry,” he explained. “You just reminded me of the complete rubbish that the little turd wrote about you in that book.”
Manjeethra smiled, but he noticed that she took a large slug of her wine. “It’s not right,” she said quietly.
“No,” he agreed, suddenly serious. “It’s not right.” He changed the subject, “So tell me, what constitutes ‘fixation’ then?”
“Well, I already told you about Nick’s discovery of the little worm’s nightly drinking and debauchery, didn’t I?” The man nodded. “So on top of mastering tailing a suspect, there’s the relentless study of unarmed combat techniques and, on top of all that, becoming something of a lethal knife thrower too.”
“Knife thrower?”
“Yep. That’s why I’ve got a smaller target hanging in the kitchen. Nick is already faster and more accurate than me – it must be a hand-eye thing – and you should see the switchblades.”
He sat up next to her. “Switchblades?”
“Handmade. Custom. Not large; they’re less than ten centimetres long. With really narrow blades and razor sharp. Nick keeps them in some rig that straps on your arm. You can put three knives into it, then slip them one at a time into the palm of your hand.” Shaz shook her arm out in demonstration. “A quick flick of the blade release, and then throw. They’re brilliantly balanced. Nick says they’re no more difficult to make than a mechanised arrow; you know what I mean by that?” He nodded as she continued, “The ones where the tip changes shape on impact. Crazy stuff, huh?”
Her lover raised his wine glass to her. “That makes two of you then.”
“Three of us,” she laughed, and nestled her head onto his broad shoulder.
~~~~~
Javed Omid looked carefully out of the same back-bedroom sash window he’d used, unsuccessfully, as an exit a few months ago. Nothing moved in the garden or back alleyways.
It had been the same for several days.
Perhaps, whoever it had been, had stopped spying on him? Not that he cared too much. It was probably some stupid paparazzi, trying to get pictures. The glimpses he’d seen were just that: glimpses.
Some big bloke.
Dressed in dark clothes.
Once or twice someone had followed him in the car too, but there had been no approaches, and nothing in the papers...
~~~~~
The Gower Peninsular, South Wales
The tiny cottage stands on its own on the promontory. It’s a sturdy little property, made of roughhewn Welsh bedrock and looks out proudly from the cliffs, which provide fantastic views down onto the dramatic Gower coastline. It’s so isolated that it’s taken me ages to find it, even with directions.
I stand on the doorstep, drinking in the views.
Perfect.
There are no neighbours.
No-one around for miles.
I grab one of my holdalls, go inside and start to search for lamps to fit the timers onto. The rest of my kit will go into my backpack. I’ll be hiking back to town. The car can stay here while I’m away.
~~~~~
Tidworth, England
Jack stood nervously in front of the chipped green-painted front door. This simple terraced house was one of a hundred identical cubes. Each with its own unkempt handkerchief of sparse muddy grass and plain slab pathway in front of it. Each looking as run down as the next.
Eventually he could hear a chain being fastened and the door opened a fraction.
“Dominic? Is that you?” A woman’s voice asked from behind it.
He nodded. “Hi Julie,” he said. “Sorry I haven’t been around. I’ve been working abroad for a while.”
“I can see from the tan,” she said. “And the long hair. I nearly didn’t recognise you.” The door closed again and he heard the chain being removed. When it opened properly he could see she was looking tired and drawn. “Come in,” she said wearily. “I warn you though, the place is a mess.”
He smiled, stepped inside and made to slip his shoes off.
“No need,” the woman said. “This way.”
She led him through the small hallway, past a large photo of her and Mike – smiling happily through fluttering confetti – which was hanging on the wall. Jack glanced at the picture.
‘From another lifetime,’ he thought sadly as he followed her into the sitting room.
A child’s toys were scattered all over the floor.
“Where’s Junior?” Jack asked, seating himself respectfully at one end of the solitary, small sofa.
“Upstairs having his afternoon sleep. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“That would be nice,” he said, and she nodded and left the room.
He looked around. The place was clean and well kept, despite what she’d said, but he could tell things must be tough. The pension would be reasonable, but it didn’t seem to be stretching too much past the basics. A little, battered, portable television sat on Mike’s large TV cabinet in the corner. It looked tiny on such a large piece of furniture. “What happened to the plasma?” he called quietly through to the kitchen.
“Broke.” Came the hushed reply.
He’d seen a dish on the front of the house but couldn’t see any satellite box.
Mike had always loved his television. So had Julie, as far as he could remember. Back in that other life. When the two of them would welcome him regularly into a happy home. When they would have sat there, the three of them together, sprawled variously on the floor or chairs, supping beers, laughing. “We live for our telly,” she had told him, on more than one occasion. “I don’t know what I’d do without it, while he’s away.”
He was away for good now.
Jack got up and had a look behind the cabinet. Twin coax cables were coiled up, redundant, on the floor. A cheap digital convertor was leaning untidily against the wall amongst the usual mess of hidden dust and cobwebs.
He wandered to the sitting room door. She was standing, looking away, hunched over the work surface – she looked so sad. He cleared his throat politely and she jerked around, plastering a false smile onto her face, trying to make it look like she was okay. “Satellite’s gone as well, isn’t it?” he asked gently.
She nodded. “Michael needs lots of things,” she explained.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said. “Turn the kettle off. You can make me that tea when I get back.”
~~~~~
Swansea Railway Station, Wales
I heave the backpack onto the baggage rack, and sit on a nearby seat so I can keep an eye on it. It will take a few hours to get back into London but I’m glad to be sitting down. It was a long walk back to the main road, and a long wait for the irregular bus to arrive and carry me into Swansea. This train is welcome respite from the cold drizzle which continues to stream tiny rivulets over the coach’s darkening windows.
~~~~~
Tidworth
Michael Jnr. was valiantly defending his fortress, sitting safely behind walls which had been rapidly constructed from the forty-six inch plasma’s cardboard packaging. The wobbly defences were busy repelling invaders by way of a stream of soft toys which bounced around Jack as he squatted, facing away, wrestling with the various cables by the cabinet. One of the toys bounced off his head.
“Ouch!” Jack exclaimed, leaping to his feet and spinning around in mock anger.
The youngster dived for cover in his castle, squealing with excitement.
“Who threw that?”
Much giggling came from the other end of the upturned, nappy-padded backside.
“Ssshhh...,” Julie whispered furtively. She was smiling as she looked on from the safe haven of the sofa. “Dominic’ll spot you if you make too much noise.”
“Hmmm...,” said Jack. “Perhaps there’s someone hiding? Maybe in here!” He reached out with a foot and rattled the side of the box, prompting a fresh wave of giggling from his tiny adversary.
Something inside him churned at the sound of the happy noises. That lifelong need for love, for company, for family. It called to him. Begged him.
Mike had been one of the lucky ones. He had found himself a beautiful woman. Made himself a family. Loved them with all his heart. Would have stood by them, through everything. Supported them. Been there to watch his son grow. Been there to play.
He looked at Julie. She had been horrified when he’d reappeared at the door, laden with boxes. “Don’t worry, it’s only a vanilla satellite box,” he’d said. “There’s no subscription, but it’ll pick up the free-to-air channels well enough, and record stuff for you.”
Her eyes had filled with tears. “It’s too much,” she’d blurted, before rushing upstairs to answer the cries which had conveniently started to come from Michael’s bedroom.
That had been an hour ago.
“Okay,” he announced, throwing himself down next to her on the two seater. He could feel her warmth alongside him. “Time to test drive.” He handed her the remotes. “Let’s see if this all works!”
~~~~~
London
He snatched up the handset. “Sentinel,” he said crisply.
“I have an address for Mercury, sir.”
Major Richard Charles raised his eyebrows, swapped the phone to his other hand and reached across the polished walnut desktop to retrieve his errant Montblanc pen. “Good work. That was quick,” he said. “Tell me.”
He wrote for a few seconds onto a single blank sheet of paper.
“And the Sussex location?” He asked.
“Empty, sir,” the male operative at the end of the phone replied. “No sign of activity. The car’s gone too.”
“Are you confident about this?”
“Very. The credit card that was used confirms it.”
“Excellent. Keep an eye on ‘Sussex’ and let me know immediately if Mercury reappears there.”
“Yes, sir.”
He replaced the receiver and looked across his office to the evidence box which was standing on a small, ornate, Edwardian burr-walnut console table on one side of the room’s armoured doorframe. ‘Interesting,’ he thought. The blue and gold star-shaped badge of the Sussex Police was emblazoned on the box’s four corrugated-cardboard sides.
The locals hadn’t put up much of an argument about handing it over.
The box contained a few slim reports and a thicker folio of scene-of-crime photographs. The photos showed a vehicle, with water pouring from every orifice, being hoisted from a reservoir. There were also various shots of two badly rotted corpses; taken before, during and after their autopsies. A second commandeered box, containing sealed bags of potential forensic scraps, personal effects and clothing, was secured in the vault many floors beneath him.
“Deaths caused by high velocity, sharp, penetrative trauma to the heads. Received prior to submersion,” concluded the autopsy report. “Unusual wounds, created by some form of sharpened metal spikes.”
The victims had been identified as a couple of missing gypsies. Male. Strong, fit, and hardened individuals. Men who doubtless knew how to look after themselves.
Other than what was in these boxes, there was little else for the police to go on. The victims’ fellow Travellers were unforthcoming about potential enemies – the conclusion being that there must be several – and the bodies and vehicle were riddled with hundreds of fragments of human and, latterly, aquatic debris – indicating that it was likely that the car had been used communally, and had then been in the water for some time. Local police were still considering whether to follow up on the one weak lead they had been given. It involved a resident of a nearby town, but there were sensitivities attached to the individual concerned, and the vague connection was thin at best.
Sentinel knew that the police would be regarding this case as having all the hallmarks of being long, expensive, and ultimately fruitless. So, against the ever-present backdrop of pressure for improved statistical success and reduced costs, they were probably hoping they’d never get it given back to them.
Well, they might just be in luck.
Major Charles opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a manilla folder. He thumbed through the few pristine sheets until he found the one he was looking for: a photocopy V5C vehicle registration form. Then he picked up his mobile phone.
“Yes, sir,” Greere answered.
It was satisfying to hear that his subordinate still sounded nervous.
“Get over here,” said Sentinel gruffly, and hung up.
~~~~~
Tidworth
“So, have you found someone yet?” She lounged next to him. It was a feeling that he was enjoying; despite the nagging feeling that Mike Snr. might rise from his cold grave and wander in at any moment and catch him. “A hunk like you should have been snatched up by now?” He couldn’t work out if she was teasing, but he suspected that she was. “And besides, you need someone to look after you.”
Jack snorted and nodded ruefully. “There’s no-one special,” he acknowledged. “I admit it’s hard work, but,” he grinned lightheartedly, “there are so many fine ladies hankering after my body, it’d be cruel of me to disappoint any of them.”
She smiled. “Still the dreamer, then?” she observed sarcastically. “Seriously Dominic, I know you always wanted to settle. What’s stopping you? Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly turned gay or something?”
He felt himself blushing slightly and frowned at himself. “I’m not gay,” he said pointedly. “I’ve got nothing against gays but I’m a full-on heterosexual. You can ask my girlfriends.”
“Maybe I will,” she was still smiling.
He studied her face. Subtle eyeshadow and a hint of rouge had been applied at some point since he’d first arrived. He hadn’t noticed till now. “I’ve got some unfinished business I need to sort out,” he explained, suddenly serious. “Maybe, when that’s finished, I’ll have more time for a relationship...”
She hugged his arm. “You’ve always been a great friend to us,” she murmured. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the new telly. The kids’ channels will be brilliant for Michael. Are you sure you can afford them? Maybe I can pay you back, over time?”
He shook his head. “No need,” he said. Her face was really close. He could smell her perfume: a delicate scent that accentuated her wholesome womanhood. She was still very beautiful. He had always envied Mike, just a little, for finding and wooing her. He put his arm around her and squeezed her gently to him. The movement pressed her softness against the harder muscles of his chest and he was suddenly aware of how deeply he was breathing.
She turned her face to him and he found himself staring into her eyes.
He moved his face fractionally toward her.
She didn’t pull away.
He moved slightly closer.
This was all wrong. He hadn’t come here for this. He’d only come here to see that she was okay. To check in. He had to get back into Europe, quickly. He wasn’t supposed to be in the UK. This wasn’t what he had planned, but still...
“Julie,” he whispered. “Listen, I’m sorry but I have to go.”
She shook her head gently, and reached up to place one soft hand on the side of his face.
It felt good.
It felt too good.
He only needed to lean forward, just a little more. Her sweet lips were right there.
They could kiss. Just a kiss.
Just a kiss between friends.
It wasn’t betrayal. It wasn’t a betrayal of his best buddy. His best buddy would surely understand, would surely want to see her being looked after by someone who could care and provide for her?
He leaned forward. And pressed his lips delicately – onto her forehead.
“Sorry,” he mumbled and heaved himself up from the sofa.
For just a moment she looked sad, then she smiled and nodded. “Be safe, Dominic,” she said, quietly. “Remember, you’re always welcome here. Don’t leave it so long to come and see us again.”
He smiled back at her, relieved that she didn’t appear to be angry with him. “I will and I won’t,” he inadvertently lied, and she laughed at his riposte. “One last thing,” he said gently. “I’m not strictly supposed to be in England. So I was never here. You understand?”
She nodded, suddenly serious again.
~~~~~
North London
Not for the first time, Ellard wondered about Greere’s psychological wellbeing. “He’s off his head,” he muttered to himself.
Ever since the successive disasters, in Paris and then Berlin, his boss seemed to have become little more than a plaything for Sentinel. Of this he was certain. Why? Because senior level crap always slid downhill and Ellard found himself, as usual, sitting at the bottom of the slippery slope. To say that Greere had been venting his frustrations at him was a major understatement. Now here he was, freezing his arse off, in some sodding residential street, with the cryptic and comprehensively useless instructions to, “Look out for anything suspicious...”
Ellard stared frustratedly out of the windscreen of his dark car. “It’s bloody revenge for all the bollockings, that’s what it is,” he told his misty reflection. Sentinel was clearly just jerking them around to make sure they understood their rightful place in the pecking order, but it had been months since the Berlin fiasco and they were now the only agency able to track Ebrahimi’s progress, southeast, across Europe. Sentinel ought to be pleased with them for that at least.
Feeble orange neon glow pooled down from the streetlights onto the already frosty, vehicle-strewn, street. Like so many urban residential areas at night, the proliferation of parked vehicles left little room for normal traffic.
He knew where he was – one street away from where the UK cell had been busted, last autumn – but he had no idea why.
Greere had looked strangely excited when he’d returned to the office to brief him. “Park up so you can observe the whole street, and particularly one vehicle – a grey Ford Focus. Here’s the registration.” Greere had handed him a sheet of paper. “Keep out of sight. Take no action. Do not pursue, even if the vehicle leaves. You are to stay put and keep watch, all night. Keep me updated.” Brief it had certainly been.
“Why there?” He’d asked, already dispirited at the prospect of spending a cold night sitting in an unheated vehicle, but Greere’s response had only been another tirade of yelling. Ellard had taken this to mean that his boss hadn’t been told either.
He shook his head ruefully in the cold darkness.
Having managed to find a suitable parking space toward one end of the street, he could see the Ford parked about two hundred metres away, on the other side of the road. It looked like it had been there all day. It had certainly been there when he arrived.
In his wing mirror some big bloke appeared from the distant junction, approaching on foot, walking along the opposite footpath. He was wearing a long, dark, heavy, trench coat, a black woollen hat and had a large backpack. The clothes made sense. It was bloody freezing outside.
Ellard leaned across to the passenger seat, grabbed his own beanie and thrust it onto his head. When he sat back up, the man had vanished.
‘Lucky bastard,’ he thought to himself. He wished he was arriving home for dinner too.
~~~~~
I fight the urge to speed up as I get closer. I can’t see anyone else around but I don’t want to risk drawing any attention to myself. ‘Just keep walking. Keep a constant speed,’ I tell myself as I turn the corner. ‘You’re almost there.’
I can see the worm’s car, parked in its usual spot. During my previous visits I’ve noticed that the other residents’ vehicles move around the street on a random basis. I suppose it depends where the free spaces are. But our little friend doesn’t have to go to work, does he? No, he only needs the car in the evenings. And, in the wee small hours, his parking space is almost always still there when he gets back.
Well, at least I know he’s home.
I cut into the back alleyway.
~~~~~
Javed Omid struggled with the button on his trousers. All this easy living was playing havoc with his waistline. He straightened up and checked his hair in the bedroom mirror. Nice. He turned his head from side to side and ran his hand over his smooth, freshly shaved skin.
“What lucky lady will be getting her hands on this later?” he said to his reflection, running the tip of his tongue around the edges of his most becoming leer.
He grabbed his wallet, checked the wad of cash inside, then headed downstairs and into the ramshackle kitchen-dining room at the back.
He’d be glad to get out of this pokey little house. The new apartment would be ready soon. Somewhere much more in keeping with his status. He could entertain there. Dump all the home-help façade. Have some real parties. Maybe even lay on an orgy?
Yeah. A one man orgy.
He shrugged on his heavy jacket, grabbed his keys and slipped out of the back door.
~~~~~
Here he is.
All made up and ready to play.
I watch in silence. My face is charcoal blackened. I’m perfectly still. Tucked into a small alcove in the dark alleyway. I’m just another shadow.
A dark shadow, with eyes.
An unseen observer.
He turns away from the garden gate and waddles off, picking his way between the muddy puddles. From the look of his flabby face it looks like he’s still putting on weight.
Not for much longer.
I palm the readied switchblade into my other hand, carefully close the blade on the ground next to me, reach inside my coat and place it back into its holster. Then I slip out of my hiding place, gently lift my pack onto my back and wait, keeping to one side, as I study the distant narrow slot of street-lit roadway.
After a few moments his car flashes past.
He’s gone.
I slip quietly into his garden and then along the narrow concrete footpath to the back of the house.
The house is dark.
No-one home.
I pull a small torch from my pocket and, cupping its light against the grimy glass of the dining room window, peer inside for a few moments. Good. It’s a shame there’s no fireplace but the skirting looks original and should be solid enough for my purposes. I tuck the torch away again.
The kitchen doorframe betrays that the door opens inwards, as expected. It looks new – probably replaced after the arrests. I’ll need a clean straight line, but there’s no cover for me here in the garden. It’s a boring blank rectangle of weeds and grass punctuated only by the solitary path.
The alleyway remains the best option.
I feel a fine, almost frozen, drizzle beginning to speckle my face. It’s going to be a cold wait but I have brought a supply of air-activated heat pads to use inside my coat. They should be enough to stop me freezing solid.
It’s a shame I can’t say the same about my frosted soul.
~~~~~
Ellard swirled his thermos flask as he tried to put off pouring himself another drink of coffee. If he wasn’t careful he’d be running out. Or needing to go and relieve himself.
He was bored.
The car had been gone for hours. Its space stood empty: as full of nothing as Ellard’s evening had been. He’d been moderately interested to see Javed Omid scuttle out of nowhere – presumably from some alleyway between the streets – and across to the vehicle. For an invalid, he had looked remarkably mobile.
Since then, nothing.
Nothing to do except watch the frost teasing upwards from the corners of his windscreen. His little twelve-volt heater and meagre body heat were just about keeping the glass clear. Whilst it was a small risk having the plug-in heater running, he felt confident that no-one round here would be observant enough to notice that one vehicle wasn’t icing over...
Headlights appeared, turning into the road ahead, and he slid himself down in the driver’s seat so that he could just see over the dashboard. The approaching car slowed to a stop and then attempted to back itself into the empty space. It turned too steeply, bounced up onto the pavement and jerked forwards again.
Omid.
Ellard watched as the vehicle moved backward and forward. He was either a poor driver, or drunk, or both. Eventually the Ford was tucked in, almost straight, and the headlights went out.
Ellard squeezed his eyes closed for a moment to help them adjust. When he opened them, Omid was staggering into the street. Drunk then. He watched as the little man slammed the driver door, span around dramatically and extended one gently drifting arm toward it.
‘Good boy, let’s see if you can lock it then,’ thought Ellard.
Omid staggered backwards into the middle of the road, and then forwards again: his arm oscillating around in front of him.
Ellard grinned. What a loser.
Eventually the Ford’s indicators flashed and the man turned away and zigzagged across the road. He reached the pavement and tripped up the kerb: clattering forward and almost falling.
It was as much as Ellard could do to stop himself laughing.
Omid span around and stared furiously at the offending step.
Tosser.
The drunk righted himself and staggered on again, coming closer. Ellard slipped a little further down into the seat and tracked every tentative step. The little man paid his vehicle no attention as he passed alongside and then wandered away.
The tiny alleyway between the houses was barely visible as a narrow black slot in the terracing. A wide car would struggle to get through it. Omid also struggled. Ellard watched as he veered off in that direction, bounced sideways off one of the house walls, and disappeared into the darkness.
~~~~~
I huddle in the shadows at the end of the alleyway. From time to time I’ve had to get up and move quietly around to try to keep my circulation going. I’ve had a long time to wait. Maybe too long. And, suddenly I’ve found myself wondering why I’m here...
What am I doing?
This is not me!
I’m the pacifist, the forgiver, the faithful. I’m the one who believes in all of the good things that humanity wants to be.
All of my determination, my singular fixation, my detailed planning is becoming clouded by doubt.
I think about my ghostly confidants. They kept me alive. Called me back from the edge. Summoned me back to this mortal coil when I could have slipped away into a peaceful oblivion. They want me to do the right thing, but what is the right thing?
I’m not so sure any more.
I close my eyes. I wonder if Dad’s there, somewhere? Maybe he can help? I’ve seen him enough times, every night, in my dreams. And Grey Beard. And you. And Lizzie.
As I think of you, sudden stabbing emptiness punches into my stomach. It’s enough to make me gasp a lungful of icy air and my eyes pop open. There, silhouetted against the orange neon glow of the distant street, Javed Omid staggers drunkenly into the wall of one of the houses at the alleyway’s entrance.
He’s home...
And now I remember.
The cold is forgotten. Replaced with a boiling, unadulterated, hatred.
You stole everything from me.
And I’m here to take something back, before I go.
~~~~~
Ellard thumbed his way uneasily around the menus of his recently upgraded encrypted cellphone, found the number he was looking for, and called Greere. He missed the simple familiarity of his battered old device. “Omid’s back,” he said, his voice as frosty as his windscreen. “Pissed as a newt.”
“Excellent. Stay where you are. Sentinel was very explicit about this. Keep your eyes peeled. Have you seen anyone else?” Greere sounded distracted and slightly out of breath.
“Only the odd resident. No-one’s been around for hours. Everyone’s tucked up in bed. Are you sure Sentinel isn’t just messing with us?”
“Just keep watching,” Greere said stiffly. “I know Sentinel is onto something. I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you that we’d better not screw-up this time?”
“We?”
“Shut up, Deuce.”
~~~~~
The worm staggers along the alleyway, his feet slipping slightly when he steps onto the now frozen puddles.
I watch him approaching, keeping myself as still as a statue.
He reaches the back gate and stumbles through it.
Now!
I heft Vengeance and sprint forward, huddled over, keeping to the fence-line, and then lift myself onto tiptoe so I can see over the top of the panelling.
He’s slithering away from me, along the pathway, toward the back door.
I watch as he fumbles with his keys, leaning against the wall next to the door for balance. Then he stands and, after a few attempts, manages to put one of the keys into the lock.
I grab the latch and swing the gate open.
He turns the key and pushes the kitchen door open.
“Omid,” I grunt.
~~~~~
Why wouldn’t the key go into the hole...?
F*cking key!
He was freezing. The shivering was making his hand shake, and the shaking was making the key slide erratically around the hole.
He’d had enough of all this creeping about. F*ck the lawyers. There was enough money coming in. He could risk losing the handouts. His Agent was very confident that he could get more books ghostwritten, and a number of chat shows were after him, and various special interest groups would like to pay for his services as a guest speaker. Yep, there was more than enough interest to keep the cash rolling in.
Finally!
The unruly key slid into the lock and he twisted it forcefully.
There was a clattering sound as the garden gate slammed open behind him.
F*ck... He couldn’t have latched it properly...?
Well, it would have to wait until the morning.
“Omid.”
Huh...?
Javed span himself, waveringly, around and squinted through blurry eyes toward the end of his garden.
There was someone there.
A darker shadow amongst the black night.
Was it the mysterious big bloke again?
Whoever it was, was just standing there. Sideways on. Arms raised toward him. Holding...
Something slammed violently into his chest and, with a tiny metallic click, he was suddenly flying backwards into his darkened kitchen.
~~~~~
The crashing noise from next door woke her up.
Her husband lay there beside her, snoring as usual. She was always the lighter sleeper.
“Wake up,” she said, elbowing him. “Did you hear that?”
“Ummm...?”
“Wake up!” she hissed.
“What is it?” he mumbled sleepily, rolling over toward her.
“I heard a noise,” she whispered, pulling her nightie close. “Next door.”
Her husband looked at her witheringly. “Next door?”
She nodded, suddenly feeling sheepish.
“It’s only that evil bastard coming home drunk again. Go back to sleep.” He rolled away, burying his head into his pillow. “That nurse I was chatting to last week, said he’d be moving away soon,” he muttered into the darkness. “Good riddance in my opinion. I hate having that little piece of shit living near us.”
She slid back down under the covers. Her husband was right – irritating as that might be – and she reached out to rest one hand reassuringly against him as she closed her eyes and let herself drift back off to sleep.
~~~~~
Omid stared disbelievingly at his chest. Sudden, excruciating, pain was dispelling the drunkenness. Survival instincts were kicking in. A bright steel rod, with what looked like feathers at the end, was sticking up out of his ribcage. It looked like something from a cowboy film. It looked like an arrow...?
He realised that he must be lying on his back, and struggled to push himself up into more of a sitting position.
He was inside the kitchen! A good few metres from the open doorway. The mystery-man suddenly burst through the door and charged into the room toward him.
Omid opened his mouth to scream...
~~~~~
I kick him hard.
Right beneath his nicely opening jaw.
I feel, even through my boot, the resounding crack of his teeth being smashed into one another and his head flicks backwards violently.
For a moment, I’m concerned that I might have broken his neck...
But no. This little shit is more resilient than that.
He’s sprawled out as if dead, but he’s still breathing.
Perfect.
I’d expected that I might have needed to hit him a few more times to knock him out.
I wanted to knock him out.
But I don’t want him dead.
Not yet.
~~~~~
Ellard wriggled uncomfortably, as he wrapped his sleeping bag around him and eased the zipper closed. Nothing else was going to happen tonight. He wouldn’t need to move in a hurry so, as far as he was concerned, there was no point in him getting hypothermia. He’d set the phone’s alarm for four o’clock – two hours away – just in case he drifted off. Whatever happened, he needed to be gone from here before the locals started rising.
~~~~~
Now I’m ready.
Javed Omid sits in front of me, hunched over, on one of his battered wooden dining chairs in the middle of the small dining area. I’ve cleared his table and other chairs to one side. He sits there, alone, in the middle. Head slumped down on his chest.
I place what’s left of my coil of white telephone cable on top of the work-surface. A line of cupboards jut into the room from beside the back doorway and separate the narrow kitchen from the eating area. There are several distinctly unusual objects dispersed across the worktop and I can’t help but wonder what my little friend will make of them when he wakes up.
Now, how to revive him...?
A good slap feels like a reasonable place to start.
I brush some stray sawdust from my coat, wander over to him, and hit his cheek – hard – with the palm of my gloved hand.
He makes a small incoherent noise behind the gag I’ve bound tightly, through his mouth and around his head, but he doesn’t come around.
I slap him again.
“Wakey, wakey,” I grunt.
His head rolls from one side to the other, then jerks upright, and I study his bloodshot eyes as they struggle to focus on me. Watch him struggle to come to terms with what’s happening to him.
Welcome to my world, Javed Omid.
His eyes widen as he appears to remember and he starts jerking himself violently against his bindings.
“Keep still, or die,” I rumble, close to his ear, and pull back quickly as he flicks his face angrily toward me. His midriff is bound tightly, with the cable, to the chair back. His hands are tied together in front of him. His legs are individually lashed to the chair legs. He has limited options for movement. Just enough by my calculations but not much – I don’t want him to start the party too early. He needs to understand first, before we both leave here for good.
Stepping back, I spread my arms expansively.
“Look around you,” I say.
His wild eyes glare up at me as he continues to struggle against his bonds. I can hear him making glugging noises as he tries, presumably, to shout.
“Look!” I command him, and this time he obeys.
He goes still and I see his putrid face frowning, baffled, as his eyes move around the room, taking in my hastily arranged exhibition of nicely flammable, blown-up photos of his multitude of victims, strewn all around him on the floor.
“You are also a thief,” I grunt, though he won’t know about the Travellers. “You took precious things. Things you had no right to.” He looks at me, but I doubt he understands or even cares about what I’m saying. “All of these people require retribution. I am here to secure atonement. They are waiting for us.”
I reach out with one arm, and lift the rusty carving knife I’d found earlier – in one of his kitchen drawers – from where it waits patiently on the peninsular unit. He starts jerking about again and mutedly squawking from behind the gag.
“Keep still,” I bark, and then carefully place the blade onto his lap in front of his bound hands. “Keep still,” I repeat firmly, “Or take your own life.” He glances down at the blade on his lap. “It’s your choice.”
Well, it isn’t really.
But it’s what I want him to be thinking in a minute or two.
~~~~~
A sharp pain against his cheek brought him back to consciousness.
As Javed opened his eyes the kitchen appeared around him, swimming in a swirling haze of blurred vision. It was bright. The lights were on. He could make out that there was a man, with a blackened face, standing right in front of him.
He jerked upright in surprise but for some reason couldn’t move.
He looked down and saw white plastic cable round his wrists and waist. Something was in his mouth. It was tight in his mouth. Suffocating. He couldn’t spit it out.
Panicking, he started to struggle pointlessly against the bindings.
“Keep still, or die,” said the man. He’s got an inhuman voice. Each word sounds strained and constructed from ominously fragmented deep-bass tones. “Look around you,” the man continues.
Javed could smell something. The place reeked of it. He tried to move but, apart from his hands and head, he was tied fast to this chair.
“Look!”
He stopped struggling for a second, and glanced around him. There were pictures scattered everywhere. A4 sized photographs of faces. They were everywhere. All colours, sexes, sizes... random pictures. He didn’t recognise any of them. They seemed to be soaked in some sort of clear liquid?
This guy was a lunatic!
Must’ve read his book or something?
He’d have to get some f*cking protection sorted out.
F*cking lunatic!
He glared angrily at the intruder. ‘Wait until I get out of here,’ he thought. ‘I’ll f*cking sort you out!’
The pictures were soaking wet...?
His legs felt wet too.
The man was still talking. Growling some crap about distribution. It sounded religious. Typical. Then his captor reached out and picked up a carving knife.
‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’ thought Omid, pulling himself against the cords, feeling them digging into his flesh as he tried uselessly to escape. ‘He’s going to stab me!”
But the lunatic just dropped the blade onto his lap.
Javed sat back and the rickety old chair creaked underneath him. Shifting fractionally. He could feel it. It definitely moved. Like it was broken or something?
Crappy old chairs.
Replacing them might just turn out to be one of the best things he’d never done...
~~~~~
More for something to do than anything else, I start to put things away into the backpack. I’ve always been one for tidying up after myself and it might as well be my parting gesture too.
Vengeance is already inside. Collapsed back down into its transport configuration. My small quiver is tucked down one side and conveniently holds the rucksack’s side up. It’s got a couple of normal arrows and my little mechanised monster – now recovered from the worm’s chest – in it. I feel bad about Vengeance – which is ridiculous, I know – but it feels like such a waste that this thing, that I love, will be destroyed as well.
I pick up the handsaw from where I dropped it earlier – Omid’s chairs had been so old that I’d hardly needed it in the end – and can’t help but smile at the horrified expression on Omid’s face when he sees it. I also collect up the pliers and bradawl that I used to screw my numerous hooks into his skirting boards. These all raise wide-eyed expressions of horror. I guess he thinks I’m planning on torturing him but, as it is, they all go quickly into the bag.
The five-litre acetone tin, with its red diamond warnings emblazoned on the sides, can stay there in the corner.
Stuff it...
I open the back door, and lean out and prop the backpack to one side of it, then return inside and close the door. The sentimental side of me has won out.
Vengeance can wait outside.
For some reason this feels right somehow.
I go to the sink and prepare to wash the charcoal from my face.
I want my face to be clean when I see you.
I can hear Omid jerking about again and glance over my shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do that?” I ask him.
~~~~~
Grabbing the knife with both hands, he started sawing at the cables round his waist. No good. The blade was as blunt as hell and the cable felt like it had got metal wires running through it.
He leaned his head forwards and strained to see over his knees. His trousers were saturated in some liquid. The stench from it was almost overpowering. Why couldn’t he place the smell? Something to do with make-up maybe?
There was sawdust on the floor by his feet... Hang on, didn’t the lunatic pick up a saw a couple of minutes ago?
He moved one foot slightly and felt the chair leg flex.
He moved his head to one side and could see rough saw marks in the wood at the top of it.
Why do that? To try to embarrass him or something? To try to stop him struggling? Is that what all the ‘keep still’ bollocks was about?
What a f*ck-wit!
A plan started to form in his mind.
If he could break the chair’s forelegs it would topple forwards.
He tried easing himself up slightly, lifting his buttocks a fraction from the seat.
Yes! Then the bindings round his waist would slide off the chair back!
~~~~~
A bowlful of warm water is in front of me and I’m working up a soapy lather in my hands. ‘Eternity Soaps: Rejuvenating Your Skin Forever’ reads the bottle next to the sink. I guess we’ll be testing that soon.
I glance over my shoulder again and can almost see the hard, round, probably lichen-encrusted, pebbles of Omid’s intellect grinding around under the force of his tidal ineptitude.
He’ll work it out soon.
~~~~~
Yes, he could topple forward – his legs would already be free – and his bindings would slide off the chair. Then he could rush over and knife the bastard!
He carefully manoeuvred the carving knife so it was gripped tightly between his bound hands and pointing away from him.
The moron was still washing.
Had his back to him.
This was the perfect time.
He pushed forward with one calf. The chair leg creaked ominously.
Again!
The leg snapped.
He thrust his freed foot down for balance and started on the second.
His assailant remained washing... despite the noise?
Lunatic!
The second chair leg broke and, out of reflex, his leg dropped to steady him.
He was as good as free!
He suddenly felt himself filling up with a wave of triumphant fury. “Arrgghhhh...!” he yelled mutedly into the tightly bound gag.
~~~~~
I turn around after I hear the second chair leg crack.
He’s trying to yell something and, going by his expression, I’d say that he’s feeling delighted with himself.
Then he notices my face and his expression changes to one of shock. Then back to anger.
He lifts his feet, the chair starts to topple forwards and I nod over his shoulder toward the wall behind him.
~~~~~
Omid instinctively turned his head to look behind him as he fell. Perhaps there was someone else concealed in the room?
But there was no-one there.
Instead there were other cables, unseen until now, streaming out like strands of a white spider’s web from the back of the chair to the nearby wall where, standing on an eclectic collection of jars and cans, a series of storm-lamps stood with their wicks flickering. Every one of the lamps’ doors were open. Their flames flared brightly as if the fumes in the air were feeding them. The cables from the chair were attached to the lamps’ various handles and yet more ran to a series of hoops firmly anchored into the distant skirting boards.
Unable to stop himself, Omid tumbled forwards, pulling the wires taut, and bringing the lamps leaping off their precarious perches. He watched over his shoulder as they fell forward toward the pool of liquid on the floor.
Suddenly he remembered what the smell was. Nail polish... Acetone!
The first of the lamps crashed onto the floorboards and a gout of flame burst outwards towards him.
~~~~~
I watch him falling. See him trying, even as he sprawled forwards, to try to stop the inevitable. It was a pathetic sight. Sort of a half-lurch to one side.
I have planned several layers of redundancy into my trap but, as it is, all of the lanterns spark bright flame. The acetone vapours are more flammable than I’d imagined them to be, but then again, up to now, I’ve never had more than a small bottle to play with.
Flames start to rage around him. He tries to clamber onto his feet but the bindings round his waist are, of course, also very much tied to the base of the chair and it remains firmly lashed to him – there was a little more slack in one or two of the loops, just enough to help him jump to the wrong conclusion. He’s discovering that it’s extremely difficult to stand up when your body is bent rigidly into a sitting position. And it doesn’t help, of course, that he’s also tied to the wall.
The fire leaps onto his acetone soaked trousers, crackling as it starts to take angry bites from the accelerant-sodden cloth and he starts rolling from side to side – the small distance his tethers will allow – as he tries to extinguish it. But the flames are unstoppable and his actions only serve to fan them further. I can hear him starting to scream, even through the gag.
“I don’t know if there is a hell,” I announce loudly to his writhing form. “So you must burn here. With me. In mine...”
He leaps suddenly to his feet, drawing himself into a superhuman half-balanced stance which must only be possible because of the intense pain and need to escape, and rushes toward me like a living beacon of fire amongst the accelerating conflagration. Instinctively I take a half step backwards, hitting the cabinets behind me but the tethers do their job and he is held there. Trussed in the middle of the bonfire.
I am ready.
He is dying in agony in front of me.
I’m not frightened about whatever cleansing pain I might be about to endure. Whilst it will no doubt reach beyond my damaged nervous system, it’s irrelevant. It will be nothing compared to what I’ve already had to live through.
“I’m coming, my darlings,” I mutter to myself and suddenly you’re there, looking in through the window, from the garden. You’re holding Lizzie and I can see Grey Beard beside you and Dad.
What are you doing in the garden?
Dad is mouthing something through the flame-strobed reflections. “Not now,” he appears to be saying...?
You seem so real.
I’m not interested in Omid’s crashing, flailing, noises any more.
You are beckoning to me through the glass.
You look angry.
Do you want me to come to you?
Into the garden?
I can’t help myself.
You’re there...
I fling the door open and step outside and the raging inferno behind me draws a huge gasping breath through this new, gaping-wide, opening. A gale of oxygen streams past me, its wind chilling my hot cheeks, and with an unearthly roar the entire downstairs area erupts.
But you are not here...!
Why did you call me out of the house...?
Why...?
The moment has gone. The worm is turning to ash behind me whilst I stand here still suffering...
You tricked me.
All of you...
A solitary tear, spawned by a sudden feeling of utter desolation and loneliness, trickles down my cheek and I reach down, lift my backpack, and stagger along the garden path toward the alleyway.
~~~~~
Something woke him. He’d dropped off to sleep...
Shit.
Ellard leapt up in the passenger seat and checked the clock on the dashboard. Three-thirty. That was okay then...
He scanned the streets in front, no-one nearby, then turned and looked behind to see a darkened figure disappearing out of the street. On foot. Walking.
Something was wrong though.
Then he saw it. The dark alleyway was being backlit somehow.
He wrestled his way out of the sleeping bag and risked flinging the door open.
Smoke!
He could smell smoke.
Checking up and down the street he couldn’t see anyone else about, so he raced to the alleyway entrance. Flames were coursing up the side of one of the houses, flickering upwards from the ground floor. He could see them rising, over the dark fence line, pouring upwards like some inverted luminescent waterfall.
Shit, shit, shit...!
He pulled his phone from his pocket, punched the number for Greere and started running to get around into the other street. “Call in the Fire Brigade!” he yelled, as his boss answered sleepily. “Omid’s house is on fire! I need to rouse the neighbours...”
Greere was jabbering something about not getting involved.
“F*ck THAT!” He yelled. “Joe Public’s got to be warned! Call the Fire Brigade!”
He hung up and sprinted round the corner toward the conflagration.
“FIRE!” he bellowed into the frosty darkness...
~~~~~
Like some automaton, I walk and walk and walk.
The pack on my back is much lighter. It hangs casually off one shoulder as I make my way along residential street after residential street. Black hat, black gloves, black coat, black soul. I am a sable wraith in the darkness. A ghost of a human.
It feels unreal.
Almost as if I don’t exist anymore.
Is this a dream again? Like before?
Am I still in Omid’s kitchen? Dead or dying?
Am I just another ghost? Like you are, when you come to me?
Did you really call me outside?
One thing’s for certain. I expected to be dead by now.
This is now a different existence. My soul has been wiped entirely. You are gone. Lizzie is gone. The worm Omid, who had become my focal point, is gone. All of the ties, the anchor points to my past have been vaporised. Yet I continue to exist, and I continue to burn with vitriolic hatred and anger. I don’t care about Omid dying. I don’t care about myself dying. I have absolutely zero interest in the human systems we call society. I have no desire for home, for well-being, for procreation or wealth.
So, what comes next...?
At the moment, I have absolutely no idea except it will be a different Nick who treads this battered track. Different emotionally, mentally and, of course, physically.
I am not who I once was.
And I don’t care.
In the distance I can see a string of shopfronts, so I cut off onto a side street. They won’t open for hours yet but there might be cameras around.
Even ghosts need to be a little bit cautious.
~~~~~
Greere paced furiously around his small apartment’s living room. Glancing through the bedroom door he could see Sebastian lying there, nubile and naked, sprawled across the bedclothes. The youngster slept like the dead, especially after exercise. Well, pretty as he might be, he was going to get a nasty surprise tomorrow. There were plenty of wanton boys around and Greere needed to make himself feel better. Needed to give himself a present. His present would be to dump this sponging sex toy and find himself a new one.
He reached out, pulled the bedroom door closed and thumbed his phone again. This time Ellard answered. “Where are you?” Greere hissed angrily.
Ellard explained that he was back in his car. He said that the fire brigade and police were at Omid’s house and that the fire was still raging. There was a body reportedly inside. Ellard felt it was reasonable to assume that it was Omid.
“And you saw no-one?” Greere paused near his apartment’s small window. “I have to report to Sentinel. Now. Before he hears from someone else how incompetent you are!”
~~~~~
Ellard grimaced as he shoved his keys into the car’s ignition. “There were a handful of residents who came and went, either in cars or on foot and one who arrived by taxi,” he said calmly. “Other than that, nothing. I noticed one man, on foot, walking away, in the distance just before I noticed the flame...,” Ellard paused mid-sentence.
“Noticed the flame, what?” demanded Greere’s voice from the car’s speakers.
“Shit.”
“WHAT?” Greere screeched in frustration, his voice booming out from the vehicle’s array of speakers and hurting Ellard’s ears.
“The guy with the rucksack!” Ellard shouted back as he scrabbled for the hands-free’s volume control. “Earlier! A guy came down the street and disappeared – I assumed into his house – long before Omid’s little trip out. I think that’s also the man I saw later – leaving the area when I spotted the fire. It might be the same bloke...”
“F*ck!”
“Yeah, that would have been a long and very cold wait. Is there any CCTV round here?” Ellard started the car and pulled out; glancing around at the house fronts, signage and street-lamps.
Greere grunted. “If there was I wouldn’t have needed to send you; for what that’s been worth. Anyway, Omid was offered it, but refused.”
“Because of his little excursions?”
“Probably.”
Ellard shook his head.
“I’ll call Sentinel,” said Greere.
In the background, Ellard heard a male voice calling out. “Crispin? Where are you?”
Ellard grimaced again. “Sir?” he ventured, deciding it was best to revert to rank.
“Just be ready for my call,” Greere barked gruffly, and hung up.
~~~~~
Sentinel wandered back into his bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Has something happened?” she asked.
He nodded. “Omid’s dead,” he said matter-of-factly. “Tweedledee and Tweedledum didn’t see anything. Looks like whoever did it has escaped.”
Manjeethra sat herself up, shocked at the news, huddling the duvet close around her bare torso.
“Out of interest,” he studied her face carefully. “Describe Nick to me.”
“Huh? You don’t think...?”
“Humour me.”
Manjeethra shrugged and the duvet slipped distractingly off her shoulder. He watched her pull it up again. “Big,” she said. “The steroids and all the exercise, I guess. Got a big scar, here.” She pointed to her neck and lower face. “Where the shrapnel went in.”
“Big?” he asked smiling.
“Massive,” she replied. “Built like a brick shit house.”
Sentinel laughed. “A big bloke?” he asked conspiratorially.
She looked at him quizzically then huffed. “Yeah, you could say that,” she said.
“This could be interesting,” Sentinel stood up. “I’ll be back in a minute. I think your friend has been demonstrating some useful skills, but we need to step in quickly. I’ll send my boys.” He headed toward the door, then paused and turned back to her.
Manjeethra collapsed back onto the pillows. “You don’t just think it was Nick, do you?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“What are you going to do? Nick is just a civilian.”
He smiled. “Nick has become much more than just a civilian. Murderer might be a better description.” Manjeethra looked horrified at his words. “It’s not so bad,” he continued quickly. “I have something running which might have an opening. But Nick needs to disappear. And quickly. Maybe it’ll turn out that your friend is a natural? From what you’ve told me already, I have an unusually good feeling about it.” He moved into the doorway and turned and looked over his broad shoulder at her. “Let’s see whether we can turn Nick into someone new,” he said cryptically, then stepped out and closed the door quietly behind him.
~~~~~