Barfold
It’s raining.
Good, solid, miserable, English rain.
Pouring down from lead grey, wall-to-wall cloud cover which compresses the heavens into the thinnest sliver of drab twilight, despite it being nearly midday and nearly midsummer.
It’s the perfect day for this.
I force myself to leave the momentary cover of the churchyard’s quaint wood-and-tile Lych Gate, and head out along the weed-free gravel pathway toward the church. I can hear my feet crunching reluctantly beneath me, the woeful amber stones gnashing together sympathetically under my weight.
We were married here.
It has a squat, square, simple, Norman tower and unpretentious nave. It was, and still is, a simple country church for an ordinary couple’s big day.
We also had Lizzie christened here.
She had bawled and screamed in chorus with all the other infants and together they had raised the roof. Until, that is, the moment the holy water touched her brow. Then she was silent. A little angel. And you and I took over from her, tears of joy and pride running unrestrained down our faces.
I blink back tears again now.
A different kind of tears.
These are tears spiced with burning acid. Tears milked from the teeth of serpents. Tears which would etch metal, destroy nations, and poison the very soul.
The huge and ancient yew trees crowd close, and shepherd me forward. They reach out their always green, always dark, always mourning, branches and point the way.
And I can see it in front of me.
A tiny patch of lighter stone.
Here Lie Iuliu & Elizabeth Dalca
The stone is still too new to be populated by lichens and mosses.
Beloved Husband & Daughter
Still fresh.
Cruelly Snatched Away From Us
Still new.
But Will Never Be Parted From Each Other.
A pristine headstone, like the patch of beautifully tended grass which lies before it, and onto which my suddenly exhausted legs cannot help but bend, and they toss me forward so I’m pressing my face into the cruel hard rock, and my hands are grasping helplessly onto the unworn rain-splashed edges, and I’m howling like Hell’s own banshees have been unleashed from within me, and I’m adding my own bitter fluids to the gentle pattering of water all around.
~~~~~
Clutching tightly to her umbrella and flowers, the woman made her way carefully into the graveyard. Every fortnight she came. Alone. Made the trip, on the bus, into the town. Collected a small bouquet from the tiny florists, and walked along up to the church.
Every fortnight she felt a little more tired.
A little older.
A little closer to joining the sombre congregation amongst whom she now edged her aching bones.
There was someone at the graveside.
Crouched down.
Hidden behind the small stone.
She could see hands.
Grasping at the top of the brutal memorial.
She could hear sobs.
Agonising sobs.
“Nicola?” the woman ventured, her voice barely a whisper, her hopes held bound-tight by months of fear and worry. “Nicola?”
~~~~~
I lift my head at the sound of my name.
It’s been so long since I’ve heard it.
~~~~~
“NICOLA!”
~~~~~
“Mum,” I sob. I don’t care what miracle has conspired to bring her here. She is here. Now. When I need her the most.
~~~~~
It is, without doubt, the face of her daughter. A mother knows her own child, anywhere, at any time, no matter how much might have passed or changed, but this woman’s coal-black eyes blaze with unfamiliar ice and steel.
Burn with hitherto unseen fury and aggression.
Burn as if they’ve been to the very edge, and peered into the depths of Hades itself.
“What has become of you?” the woman wails, emotions tumbling wildly, her thoughts and feelings helplessly out of control, and she hurries forward, arms spread wide, rain and pain ignored. “Oh, my darling, sweet, Nicola,” she throws her arms around the other woman’s lurching shoulders. “Oh, my darling baby, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay...”
~~~~~
Heathrow Airport, London
Ellard walked along the balcony looking down at Heathrow Terminal Five’s expansive airside shopping area having just negotiated his way through specialist clearance. The contents of his canvas holdall wouldn’t go through any normal scanner.
His phone started ringing, and he fished it out of his pocket, expecting he was about to be administered with another rousing pep-talk from Greere.
The number was unrecognised. Very unusual. It would probably be a misdial.
“What?” he answered abruptly.
“Deuce,” said a deep male voice.
“Who the f*ck is this?”
“Your Grandfather, Deuce. London’s Burning.”
The emergency protocol. “All at sea,” he ventured. His response indicating that he was able to talk, but on an assignment. “Your name, Granddad?”
“Sentinel.”
Ellard paled, stopped, and leaned on the balcony rail. Had that wanker, Greere, f*cking grassed him out?
“Deuce, one question: Tin and Mercury’s last EMT message confirmed mission completed, yes?”
Ellard watched aircraft milling on the tarmac through the huge glass walls. ‘Strange question,’ he thought, but cast his mind back to the night of the operation.
“Deuce?” Sentinel prompted.
“Yes, sir,” said Ellard. “Confirmed with collateral damage.”
“Thank you, Deuce. Carry on.”
The line went dead.
~~~~~
Barfold
We take a trip, in the hire car I’m using, around to the house so I can collect a few things together into the simple holdall I’ve brought with me. Mum helps me to select a couple of my photographs. Jack has made a space for them, on a faraway mantlepiece. He says they belong there too.
I want to tell her everything, to confess, but I know that I can’t. It would put her in danger too.
“Would you have come to see me?” she asks quietly, as she bustles around, keeping herself busy.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry that I can’t explain. And I need you to promise that you won’t tell a soul that you’ve seen me.”
She smiles. “Mum’s the word,” she says.
I’ve not told her the details, but have mentioned my dreams, and that Dad was in them. She asked how he’d seemed, and I’d said he was the same as he always was – right, reassuring, strong and supportive. She’d seemed happy to hear that.
“Your Dad was a good man,” she mused, half to herself. “But he wasn’t tolerant of any injustice. If he’d been alive, he would likely have tried to get back into the Forces to have a go at finding those wretched terrorists.”
I look at her, surprised at this. “I didn’t know he was in the Armed Forces.”
She smiles knowingly to herself. “We all have our own little secrets,” she says simply.
I don’t have long. My return flight is in a few hours. In and out. Quickly. Different names, different carriers, different airports, different connections. I need to run Mum back to the home. She’s quite cheerful about it.
“It’s full of scatty old biddies,” she observes wryly. “But that makes them perfect company for me.”
I’m hoping I can maybe smuggle her out to visit, or perhaps to stay with us, once the dust has settled.
“Say hello to Jack for me,” she says in parting, before climbing out of the car and trundling off around the corner to the home’s front door. She didn’t even bat an eyelid when I’d suggested we should avoid me being spotted. I watch her moving away with a puzzled frown on my face. I seriously think she must’ve done stuff like this before...
~~~~~
Skala Kallonis
Jack hadn’t slept well. He’d been worried about Nick. He hoped she was okay. If things went to plan she’d be on her way back by now. His heart beat hard just thinking about it. He’d missed her.
He rolled uncomfortably around into a sitting position, and recovered his crutches from beside the bed. Their bed. The thought made him smile contentedly.
Hefting himself upright, he hobbled through the lounge and then into the kitchen.
Another bright and sunny day welcomed him through the room’s simple window, and he poured himself a glass of cold water and gazed out, like he always did, watching the birds wheeling above the nearby wetlands and listening to the comforting clanging of goat bells in the surrounding fields.
That was when he spotted the car.
Parked in the distance.
Where had that come from?
~~~~~
Midair, Southern Europe
I stare, sightlessly, out of the window. I don’t care about the clouds which stretch in every direction to the distant horizons. I just want to get home.
It won’t be long.
The plane has already started to drop out of cruising altitude.
Land.
Recover the bike.
One hour, I reckon. No more than two...
~~~~~
Skala Kallonis
Jack edged, as best he could on the crutches, toward the doorway to the lounge. He was being paranoid, he knew. A random car didn’t mean anything. It was probably just holiday makers. Lots of bird enthusiasts would travel halfway round the world to spend a few days with the kind of views his house afforded every day.
The doorway out to the veranda stood open.
He frowned and hobbled one step toward it.
~~~~~
Ellard stepped cleanly out of the bathroom and pressed the muzzle of his silencer against the back of the bandaged man’s head.
“Hello Tin,” he said calmly.
~~~~~
“Deuce,” muttered Jack.
“What a surprise,” said Deuce. “Finding you here, and alive. Where’s Mercury?”
Jack shrugged. “Not here,” he answered.
“I can see that for myself, f*ck-wit. Where is he?”
Jack turned his head carefully to one side so he could see the other man. “Not here,” he repeated. “Gone. Don’t know where.”
~~~~~
Ellard snapped his gun hand back, and then forward again, smacking Tin in the face with the butt of the gun. As he did so, he kicked sideways at Tin’s nearest crutch.
“Stop f*cking me around,” he snarled angrily, as the agent sprawled untidily across the coffee table in front of him.
Tin rolled off the table onto the floor and Ellard stomped forwards and pressed the gun onto the prostrate man’s uplifted forehead.
“Fallen out with your boyfriend, have you?” he spat.
~~~~~
Jack stared up into Deuce’s face. He was lying on the floor with one arm stretched out under the sofa. Carefully his fingers started searching the webbing. ‘Come on,’ he thought to himself. It was here somewhere...
“Well, I’ll find him, don’t you worry,” Deuce growled ominously. “Then I’ll tell him how you died. Perhaps he’ll shed a little tear for you? Do you think he’ll cry when he finds out?”
Jack just smiled and shook his head.
~~~~~
“Come on, Dominic!” yelled Ellard. “You’re usually full of yourself. Usually so full of shit. What’s the matter? Are you ashamed of being caught? Ashamed of your perverted buggery?”
~~~~~
Jack laughed out loud. He couldn’t help himself. “My name is Jack, and Nick is more of a man than you’ll ever be,” he managed to splutter.
“F*cking gays.” Deuce turned, and spat a large glob of phlegm across the room in distaste.
It was the chance Jack had been looking for. He rolled vigorously round, and brought himself up painfully onto his knees. The old SIG Sauer P220 pistol was brandished in front of him. The one he’d smuggled back from Poland. The one he was supposed to have dumped. The one he’d secreted under the sofa. You can never be too careful...
Deuce didn’t move.
Both men stood there with guns trained on one another.
Now it was Deuce’s turn to start laughing...
~~~~~
“That gun is an antique,” said Ellard. “I thought I told you to get rid of it?”
“It fired fine, when I trialled it here a few months ago,” said Tin, calmly.
“Maybe so,” said Ellard, “but, of course, I’ve seen it more recently. When I popped around. After you left for Cyprus... Taped under a sofa? What an unusual location. I had a good old look around. You have lots of nice things here that I can take off your hands when you’re gone. Think I’ll leave your crappy pictures though.” He nodded toward the mantlepiece. “Even their cheap frames aren’t worth anything.”
~~~~~
Blind fury raged through Jack, and he pulled the trigger.
The hammer jerked backwards, forwards, and clanked dully against the chambered round.
Nothing happened.
~~~~~
“Shame,” said Ellard. “But that’s what happens if someone’s taken the firing pin out...”
~~~~~
The moped clatters noisily along the dirt track road and around the lagoon. It won’t be long now. I’m excited and in a hurry, but I let off the throttle when I see there’s a strange car tucked onto the verge amongst the bushes.
Unusual parking?
Not how you’d normally leave your hire car.
Not with so much space around.
I kill the engine.
Jack’s little house is just visible from here.
Suddenly a deep feeling of dread runs through me. Ice water replaces the blood in my veins. I climb off the bike, push it in amongst some wild trees, shrug the straps of my holdall off my shoulders, and toss the bag onto the ground beside the gently ticking machine. Then I go back to the out-of-place car.
I can see a bag on the passenger seat. Zipper open. The tip of a passport cover poking up from behind a bundle of clothes and a tatty wash bag. The base of the passport’s coat of arms can be seen. It’s a British passport.
The car is clean. Inside and outside. I lean close to the driver’s window.
On the headrest...
White hairs...
Deuce.
How did he find us?
How did he know where we were?
I crouch and hurry along the lane until I reach the edge of Jack’s property, then vault silently over the lovingly crafted wall, and move into cover behind the outbuildings.
Silence.
Where’s Jack?
I edge around the barn until I can see past its corner to the villa, about twenty metres away. About twenty metres of open ground. I scan the surroundings. No sign of anyone but there’s lots of cover. Deuce will be armed.
Perhaps he’s only come to explain what happened before?
Perhaps Jack has been in contact with them?
Perhaps they’re inside, chatting comfortably, while I creep around out here like some demented idiot?
My mind is spinning, out of control. I contemplate going into the barn but can’t for the life of me remember Jack’s key code for the door to the arsenal. Until now, I’ve stupidly never thought I’d need to remember it. Jack would always be around to open it for me...
~~~~~
Deuce thrust himself forward toward Jack. He’d been sitting lounging in Jack’s favourite armchair. Legs crossed. Comfortable.
Jack shrank back, as best he could. He was at one end of the sofa. His legs were bound tightly at the ankles, and his arms were similarly tied behind his back. The bindings dug into his flesh, and his fists pressed into his back where he was forced to rest against them. The gag wrapped round his head was almost suffocating; forcing him to breathe through his bloodied and broken nose. He glowered mutedly through bruised and swollen eyes, and waited for another blow to land. He knew he was defenceless, and Deuce seemed to be revelling in his position of power. The beating he’d been given went way beyond rational. Jack suspected the man was venting pent-up frustrations that were rooted elsewhere than their personal animosity.
Deuce’s free hand snapped forwards and Jack braced himself for a blow that never came. Instead, Deuce reached to the cushions beside Jack, and rooted his fingers into the seams. When his hand emerged, it did so gently, withdrawing a long thin metal object which looked similar to a complex ball point refill: the SIG's firing pin.
“You see? That’s how you hide something,” Ellard gloated. “Right under your miserable fat backside.” He lounged back into the armchair. His silenced Browning was lying along one of its wide arms. He gently repositioned the gun, checking he would be able to snatch it up easily if required. “You have such a nice place,” he crooned. “So, comfortable. So, scenic. I was planning to help myself to some of your more valuable items, but maybe I might just keep the whole joint for myself?” Ellard reached forward, flipped the SIG Sauer nonchalantly up into the air, and then caught it again like it was some weirdly shaped juggling baton. “Such an easy weapon to field strip,” he mused, as he released the slider and separated the barrel housing from the breech and butt of the gun. “It’s almost too easy to get these in and out. Especially if it’s been done a few times.” He fished inside his jacket and pulled out a metal propelling pencil. “So how long until Mercury gets back then? Eh? How long do we have?”
~~~~~
I can hear muted voices from inside the house.
~~~~~
Jack had watched, unable to do anything, while Deuce had carefully searched the house and bedroom earlier. Deuce had seen that Nick’s things were still there. Too many things to support Jack’s argument that Nick was gone forever. When he’d come across women’s clothing, the look on his face had been a picture. Despite the incessant pain, Jack had felt a flush of amusement as he’d watched Deuce shaking his head, wide eyed, obviously trying to work out in his peanut-sized brain which one of them was a transvestite.
“Hmmm?” continued Ellard. “Will I need to raid your larder?” He neatly released the recoil spring from the slider. “Now then,” he lined up the propelling pencil’s metal nib onto the side of the casing, “watch this f*ck-wit.” With one tap, the holding pin popped sideways out of the casing. Ellard grabbed the exposed end and yanked it clear. “Out with this,” he removed a dummy firing pin, and waved it toward Jack. “You should always carry a few of these, Tin.” Then he slotted the proper firing pin in, on top of the safety, and with a swift bang on the table, drove the holding pin back into place. “Oh, sorry, of course, how silly of me. It’s a bit too late for you to be learning anything now, isn’t it?” He slipped the recoil spring and barrel assembly back into place, and slotted the slider back onto the breach. “Done,” he said slamming the pistol back onto the table.
“I think so,” growled Nick’s deep voice from the doorway.
~~~~~
I’m tired of all this. My will to live has bumped along on the bottom of its tanks for too long, and now the final dregs of self preservation vaporise in a blaze of unadulterated fury. With a roar of anger, I charge blindly into the room.
Deuce leaps up from the chair, grabbing his gun, but I’m closing quickly.
There is no plan.
No well thought out strategy.
I lower my shoulder and aim straight at him.
~~~~~
Jack watched in startled horror as Nick charged past in front of him.
“No!” he tried to yell through the gag, but the bindings muted his cry into nothing more than a strangled grunt.
He flicked his head toward Deuce, and saw the man standing, and snatching up his weapon. He watched, impotent, as the muzzle rose in his direction. He heard the click of the trigger, saw the burst of flame, and felt the muted cough of discharge as the weapon unleashed its deadly projectile toward him...
~~~~~
Ellard stood up and shot Jack. He expected it would distract an amateur like Mercury. Especially given their attachment to each other.
It didn’t.
The bulky man’s turn of speed was surprising. He flew across the space like a massive Prop Forward, and smashed into Ellard’s chest, flinging him backwards, into, and then tumbling over the armchair behind him.
~~~~~
Deuce is propelled backwards by the force of impact. He’s lifted into the air, but the back of his calves and heels hit the back of the armchair tumbling him over in flight.
I too crash into the obstructive furniture, but fall awkwardly to one side.
Spinning myself over, I see his feet disappearing into the bathroom as he tumbles and slides over the slippery tiling. There’s a hefty cracking sound from inside the small room, which I hope is his skull slamming against something rock hard.
Somehow I managed to avoid the coffee table during my manic charge, so I grab the gun, which is still lying there on top of it, push myself upright and, in doing so, glance across at Jack.
The sight that greets me, stops me in my tracks.
The pit of my stomach churns, and my chest heaves a painful moan onto my lips.
A broad triangle of bloody spray drips down the wall, pointing accusingly down to his crumpled form, draped over the sofa arm, facing away from me. He’s not moving. Part of me wants to be able to see his upper torso and face which are hidden out of sight. Part of me doesn’t. His midriff, bound hands, hips, and legs are utterly static. Somehow I know he is gone. He escaped last time but has no randomly placed spare magazines to defend him from a point-blank shot today.
My actions have killed him.
My rash actions have cost me everything.
This time it’s all my fault.
Noises from the bathroom draw my attention, and I can see movement in the shadows.
Deuce is pulling himself upright against the walls, and moving toward the doorway.
I’m going to kill him.
Now.
I grab the handgun’s slider and forcefully pull it back to cock the weapon, but the bloody goddamn thing’s not been assembled completely. The release mechanism must’ve been unlocked. The slider pops up off the breech like I’m opening some large heavy stapler and suddenly I’m standing there with a gun, in two pieces, in my hands.
Deuce pushes himself into the doorway and sneers.
He’s still holding his Browning. It hangs there, complete and functional, at his side.
“F*cking amateurs,” he snarls.
I do what’s necessary in these circumstances, and hurl both pieces of useless metalwork at his hideous grinning face.
~~~~~
‘Time to finish this,’ thought Ellard to himself.
He was bored now, and he’d banged his head nastily on something in the gay boys’ f*cking bathroom.
Mercury, he could see, had efficiently disassembled the SIG again. What a twat.
He lifted the comforting weight of his trusty Browning in front of him, just as Mercury unexpectedly launched the two halves of the SIG Sauer toward his face, forcing him to duck quickly to one side.
~~~~~
I race into the bedroom, jump onto the bed, and use its gentle springboard to launch myself toward the firmly closed window panes.
~~~~~
Mercury sprinted off into the neighbouring bedroom, trapping himself nicely.
Ellard heaved himself round the corner, weapon first, and blindly fired off two rounds. A huge smashing sound from the left hand side of the room drew his attention, and he gaped at the sight of Mercury’s boots disappearing through the window. Roaring with frustration, Ellard span round, and rushed across the living room and out onto the veranda.
~~~~~
He thinks I’m running...
He thinks I’ll run away...
Instead I cut back along the wall, and move to the front corner of the house.
I can hear his boots on the veranda.
Coming this way.
~~~~~
Ellard sprinted to the corner, then pulled himself back, coming to a sliding halt. Years of training overtook his current moment of rage. Don’t go rushing into full view. He crouched slightly against the wall, and poked his head out for a brief glance along the side of the house...
~~~~~
His ugly face appears, only inches in front of me, at roughly shoulder height.
I see his pupils dilate as his turgid brain reacts to the unpleasant sight of me standing here and, more importantly, the sight of my knuckles arriving into his face with the crunching sound of shattering nasal bone.
‘Eat my fist, you mother-f*cker...’ I think happily to myself.
~~~~~
It was like someone had swung a sledgehammer into his face.
Ellard felt himself being punched backwards, spinning out of balance, and sprawling across the homely decking. Flower pots flew in all directions and he span over, gun forwards, expecting Mercury to come crashing round the corner.
~~~~~
I sprint back along the wall of the house, and head toward the barn. Even as I run, my mind plays back the sight of Jack’s body sprawled over the sofa arm. I can still see his blood, so much blood, sprayed over the walls of our home. The thought is like a body blow, and it makes me stumble as if I’ve stubbed my toe against some invisible object in the grass.
I’m right back where I started. Gone full circle. Whatever last thread of compassion I have sustained, stretched taut in my mind, holding together the last faint echoes of peacefulness and mercy, is breaking.
I feel it snap.
My mouth opens, and I shriek toward heaven like some rabid monster.
The sound I’m making doesn’t seem human.
Not even to my ears.
I hate him.
Hate Deuce.
Hate him like I’ve never hated anyone before.
More than the thieves or Omid or Sikand. More than I’d hated Nagpal and Ebrahimi...
They had always been my enemies.
They had never pretended to be on my side.
Now I can see, with crystal clarity, the bitter core which lurks beneath any veneer of human loyalty, and I can see the eternal frailty of a species which will turn upon its own, like some hideous monster, without care for the consequences of its actions, whenever our capacity for good is superseded by selfish greed.
~~~~~
Ellard heard Mercury’s roar coming from somewhere behind the house, and thrust himself upright. Quickly he snapped out and changed magazines on the Browning. Then he reached up and roughly wiped the blood from his shattered nose.
Mercury would die slowly for this.
~~~~~
I run across and into the barn.
I’m looking for things I can hurt him with.
Vengeance! Typical... I didn’t think he’d been listening to me. Vengeance is lying, where I left it two days ago. Under Jack’s work-belt full of tools. On the workbench. I’d asked Jack to put it away for me. It looks like all he’s done, is sling some of his own stuff on top of it...
For once, I’m prepared to forgive him.
It’s time to play.
~~~~~
Ellard moved swiftly along the side of the house, and paused at the far corner. This time he took a couple of steps out from the wall, before swinging out and around the corner, gun brandished ready in front of him.
No-one there.
“Deuce!” A voice calls out from the large, wooden, shed-like garage in the corner of the plot. “Deuce! I’ve had enough of this! Let’s talk! Let’s work something out!” The voice sounded like it was frightened.
Ellard smiled to himself.
He moved cautiously toward the building. He’d quietly checked it out on his first visit and, again, earlier today, before surprising Tin. He knew there was a strongroom built into the back, and that it was locked solid. He assumed it was where Tin kept his valuables and weaponry. Gaining access would likely be messy and time consuming, and would probably involve him getting through the breeze-block walls. He’d have plenty of time for that later. He knew Mercury wasn’t armed. The fiasco with the SIG wouldn’t have happened otherwise. The only risk was if Mercury had got into the armoury.
“Please Deuce! Please! Don’t hurt me...!”
The voice was coming from somewhere near this corner of the structure. Far away from the strongroom.
He eased himself around, and in front of, the open double doorway.
The armoury door stood at the back.
Its keypad glowed red.
Locked.
~~~~~
The long silencer comes first through the wide opening. Then pistol. Then hand.
~~~~~
There’s a strange noise like a fat guitar string being plucked, and then a faint whispering sound, coming from out of sight to his left.
~~~~~
My first arrow slams straight through his wrist, its momentum forcing his arm round in an uncontrolled arc so that arrow and flesh together are swung round and pin themselves, deep, into the wooden doorframe.
He screams and, unsurprisingly, drops the gun.
I like that.
~~~~~
Ellard stared incredulously at the carbon fibre shaft jutting out of his impaled wrist. He could still move his fingers, but his arm was pinned fast against the door frame. He reached round with his left hand and grabbed the shaft.
He had to free himself.
In the dark shadows, he was aware of Mercury moving around in front of him. The man no longer gave any impression of being frightened. He was holding some weirdly shaped contraption out in front of him. Was that a bow? It didn’t look like any bow he’d seen before.
He pulled harder on the slippery shaft.
His own blood was making it hard to get a firm grip.
His hand kept slipping, up to the strange polycarbonate flights.
He tried again.
“Stuck, are you?” growled Mercury, as he collected up Ellard’s Browning from the floor and swapped bow for gun in front of him. Ellard watched for a chance to strike out as the man moved closer, but Mercury maintained a safe distance as he inspected his penetrative handiwork. “Oh dear,” he said coldly. “I’m afraid I might have let that one go, with just a touch too much force. It looks like you could be here for a while.” Then Mercury eased carefully around behind him and pulled the double doors closed. Ellard had to shuffle forward half a pace as the wooden panels slammed shut.
“What are you doing?” he asked nervously.
“Are you worried?” grunted Mercury, returning to the front of him, and swapping gun for bow again. An array of strip-lamps above the workbench provided the only light. Mercury loomed as a threatening shadow in front of them. “Worried about being locked in a room with me?”
Ellard heaved at the shaft again. It didn’t budge. The pain from his wrist was getting more excruciating by the second, as the initial shock started to wear off.
“Are you frightened that I might want to play with you?” taunted Mercury.
Ellard let go of the shaft and span himself round so his back was flat against the doors. “I’m not f*cking scared of you, Gay-boy!” he shouted angrily.
~~~~~
This was too easy. The moron was so easy to goad.
“Perfect,” I say, as he waves his left hand in the air.
~~~~~
Ellard heard a second thrumming guitar string sound, and his left hand was suddenly picked up, and slammed backwards into the heavy wooden doors.
“Well done,” said Mercury. “Now you’re really stuck.”
~~~~~
I’m feeling pleased with myself. Those two shots were quite tricky but, all things considered, possibly not the most difficult I’ve had to pull off in these last few weeks. Deuce stands, pinioned, arms akimbo, like he’s been caught up in some grotesque mock crucifixion. He’s fixed solidly to the door panel on his left, the doorframe on his right. It couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned it.
I place Vengeance down, carefully, on the workbench, check his Browning – full mag and chambered – and then hunt round to see what other goodies I can find.
“You okay back there?” I ask pragmatically over my shoulder.
He groans a little. Not surprising. Those arrows are very sharp. “Mercury,” he mutters. “Listen, that gay stuff, you know, that sort of thing, well, it’s up to you, right? I was only jerking you around...”
I stand and turn around and, unsurprisingly, he shuts up. You see, I’ve found Jack’s hunting knife, and now is the perfect time for me to hone its edges with this handy whetstone. It’s much bigger and not as balanced as my stilettos but, unfortunately, they’re safely locked in the strongroom. I toss it in front of me a couple of times, catching it by the handle.
“Listen. Mercury. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement?”
I look at him quizzically.
“I have mone...”
~~~~~
The blade glinted in the half light as it span through the air toward him. Ellard squeezed his eyes shut, ducked his head to one side, and waited for impact. The blade struck with an almighty bang, shaking the wooden panels, and causing a fresh wave of pain to flow up from his left wrist.
He opened his eyes.
The blade was sticking out of the door, a few inches from his face.
“Oops,” growled Mercury. “Missed.”
~~~~~
That was a lie. Naughty me.
“Listen, Mercury!” Deuce is looking pale. A trickle of sweat runs down the side of his face. “I can make this worth your while. No-one else needs to die. Just let me go. I can set you up for life.”
I’m not even slightly interested by his whinging. He clearly doesn’t understand that, for me, living is an unappealing prospect. “Tell me one thing, Deuce,” I growl. “Why?”
“Orders,” he replies, as if that’s sufficient explanation.
I wait patiently for more.
“Listen!” he splutters. “I don’t know! Tidying up loose ends? Risk of leaks? Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter now,” he sounds almost genuine. “In this line of work it makes sense to have some contingency. Hell, you should know: this place is Tin’s backup plan!” He shouldn’t have reminded me of that. “Look. I have a place too. Serious wealth. I’ll take you there. More than enough for you to create a whole new identity. To vanish.”
“And your mission?” I grunt.
He sees my response as a glimmer of hope. “I’ll report you dead. Only I will know different. No-one will come looking. You’ll be free of all this.”
“Until you turn me in.”
“And admit I failed? Admit that I deliberately didn’t kill you? Admit that I helped a target to escape?” His head dropped. “At best, I’d end up rotting in jail. More likely, I’d just end up dead myself.”
“What are you offering?” I ask.
He picks his head up. “It’s all in here,” he nods toward his jacket. “Take it. See for yourself.”
I heft his Browning in my hand, move closer, and press it hard into his sweaty temple. “Not a twitch,” I snarl.
“Understood.”
Gently I reach one arm into his jacket, maintaining eye contact throughout. I can feel a small notebook in his inside pocket. I pull it out swiftly, and step back expecting him to try something, but he just looks defeated. Broken.
Shame. I expected more from him.
I step backwards into the pool of neon light radiating from above the workbench, and flick through the little journal. On the first page are a couple of addresses: a flat in London and another address in France. I turn the book round, and point with one finger. “Is this the place?”
He nods reluctantly.
Most of the rest of the pages contain a long handwritten inventory. It’s very comprehensive including dates, items and rough values. I can see he’s done a lot of research. There’s everything from antiques, to jewellery, to paintings and, of course, the requisite stockpile of munitions and military equipment. Obviously, discrete disposal would erode much from legitimate market prices but, even so, it represents a sizeable fortune. The dates go back for decades. He’s been collecting for a long time.
On the last few pages the idiot has scrawled his lists of login codes and passwords. I shake my head. How stupid can you get? The old fool must struggle to remember them...
F*ck. Somehow the sight of these codes has unfrozen my own recalcitrant synapses. I’ve remembered Jack’s stupid door code: 58008. He never would tell me why he picked such a crazy number...
I turn back to the end of the inventory. At the end of the list are a few newer looking handwritten lines. I recognise these things. They’re over there, in the house.
They belong to Jack.
I step forward.
“How about it?” he asks, eyes full of hope.
“Let me think about it,” I lie, and crack him one hell of a right hook, landing my tightly bunched fighting-knuckles precisely onto the back of his despicable jaw bone. His head flies round, smacking into the door panel with a sickening crunch, and then flops forward limply onto his chest.
Truth is: Right now, I need a little personal time.
~~~~~
A sudden dousing of ice-cold water made his eyes blink open.
The barn doors stood open again, but their bright rectangle was swinging gently back and forth in front of him. It took a couple of seconds for him to work out why they looked so strange. It was because they were upside down. He was hanging by his feet. His arms were bound tightly behind his back.
He was strung up like some piece of meat.
The dusty floor of the barn drifted around beneath him, about a foot or so below his head.
Ellard tried to look around.
“Wakey, wakey,” grunted Mercury, from somewhere behind him. “Time to get moving.”
This sounded promising. Perhaps the dumb-arse had decided to do the sensible thing? Perhaps he’d managed to convince the dullard, with his wild promises of wealth and freedom? Ellard knew he needed to buy himself time. Given time, he knew he could recover this situation. Regain the upper hand.
The rope holding his feet in the air went suddenly slack, and he crashed down, painfully, head first, onto the hard packed ground.
“Get up,” says Mercury...
~~~~~
I watch as he scrabbles clumsily to his feet. He’s not too mobile, but that’s not surprising: he’s been hanging around for some time, from one of the barn’s sturdy cross beams. I’d half expected him to have regained consciousness on his own by now, so the need for me to administer a cold bucket of water has been an unexpected bonus.
“This is my Browning,” I explain as I prod it in his direction. “I really like this gun.” I see his eyes flicker toward the open strongroom door. “Get moving. Straight down the hill.” I spur him into motion with the end of the suppressor and he starts stumbling forwards. “Make one wrong move and you’re dead.” He grunts something that I’ll take to be an acknowledgement, though it’s impossible to be certain, given he’s got a gag bound tightly round his head which is holding his mouth open like he’s wearing a horse’s bit.
A large, bright-blue dragonfly rises from the long grass a short distance in front of us.
“Just so you know,” I growl, as the Browning coughs into its silencer and the unfortunate insect blinks out of existence.
The bullet will have passed very close to him. I can see how much he enjoyed my show of spectacular marksmanship, by the way he’s staggering to one side and almost collapsing in front of me.
“Keep going,” I snarl. “Straight down.”
It takes a while to make our way along the narrow pathway to the shoreline. Disappointingly he maintains his best behaviour throughout the trek, and I watch in silence as he stumbles forward in front of me, the rough bandages I’ve bound round his wrists becoming steadily redder as we go. He’s not losing a huge amount of blood, but I know he is weakening. The pain alone will be taking its toll.
The boat is pulled up onto the beach, where I’ve dragged it ashore. Temporarily it sits tied off to our old tractor tyre.
“Get in,” I instruct him, and he clambers exhaustedly over the side and rolls into the small, inset, seating area.
I leap in beside him and haul him violently up into one of the moulded fibreglass seats. His wrists are handcuffed. I smack him hard in the face, and while he’s reeling, I unlock one end of the cuffs and re-fix it onto the cabin area’s metal handrail. There are lots of fixing points in here. I snap a second handcuff round his ankle and secure one of his legs as well.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I pronounce insincerely, as I start heaving the boat back afloat. “Enjoy the scenery. This is going to be quite a trip.”
~~~~~
Ellard sat uncomfortably in the small seating area. He was in a bad way. Queasy with the pain from his wrists, he carefully attempted to inspect his injuries as best he could within his shackles.
Where was Mercury taking him?
By the position of the sun it was late afternoon. He must’ve been out for some time.
The boat wasn’t large. Some kind of fibreglass construction. At least ten years old. Maybe twenty? Mercury stood facing away from him, piloting the vessel as it slowly chugged out into the middle of the lagoon. They were gradually turning right: a direction which would eventually lead to the Mediterranean.
Mercury was standing in the boat’s simple three-quarter wheelhouse. He had a small section of roof to keep the hot sun off his head. Ellard had no such luxury. He could feel his pale skin starting to burn. There was a small inset doorway, down a couple of steps, next to where Mercury was standing. The door presumably led to a cabin up front.
How far could the boat take them?
“We need to get clear of the island,” Mercury announced to the salt-caked windshield. “But we’re against the tide – weak as it is round here – so it will take a while.”
It didn’t seem to Ellard like Mercury was in much of a hurry.
~~~~~
I let the engine gently ease us along the surface of the Kolpos Kallonis. I’ve never seen the views from here, but have plenty of time to enjoy them now. Last time I came this way I was laid up unconscious in the cabin. Jack would have been standing where I am. This huge briny puddle is fed from the surrounding sea, an ancient volcanic crater, full of water and teeming with wildlife.
The engine is barely above tick over. I’m not in any rush, and my passenger isn’t in any real position to complain.
I try not to think about Jack, but my mind keeps coming back to him. I thumb through the multitude of images I have of him in my mind. Try to etch them into place. I don’t want to forget. Don’t want to think about not seeing him alive again. Don’t want to think about how he might look when I eventually get enough courage to go into the house again. I haven’t been back in there yet. I can’t. Not yet.
A single frost-laden tear trickles from the corner of my eye. I can feel it on my cheek.
I blink it angrily away.
~~~~~
Ellard came to with a start.
How long had he been out?
The boat was swathed in darkness, pitching up and down on a gentle swell. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom he could make out nothing but sea in all directions. Mercury wasn’t at the wheel any longer. The engine was silent. The boat was drifting.
Panicking, he strained violently against his shackles.
He was alone! Mercury had left him here alone! Adrift...
The cabin door opened, briefly pooling the boat with light, and his captor emerged.
“We’re here, Deuce,” Mercury announced, deadpan.
He span his head from side to side. He couldn’t see anything? “Where?” he tried to bellow through the gag but the word was muffled into an incomprehensible mewling sound.
~~~~~
Deuce is thrashing against his bindings, and making indecipherable grunting noises from behind his gag. The island lies behind me, somewhere, about ten miles distant, a barely discernible darker smudge across the star filled horizon. My preparations are complete – all ready and waiting in the cabin behind me.
I wonder if he thought I was going to smuggle him out of here? If he thought that somehow his pathetic offers and bribes would be of interest to me?
I watch as he strains and grunts in the darkness.
No... I really don’t care, one way or the other.
I stand and heft my Browning, balancing carefully against the gentle side-to-side swaying of the boat. There’s a little more swell, out here in the open sea, but it’s a perfect night otherwise.
Deuce’s eyes open wide when he sees the gun.
You should be so lucky.
I aim at the deck and discharge the weapon toward it.
Once, twice, three times, four times, five times. Each shot briefly lights us up with ragged orange flame. Each shot punches down through the flimsy fibreglass shell. Each shot produces a little plume of sea water, like a line of tiny water fountains.
I press the hot muzzle against his temple and see his eyes squint shut as his skin hisses under its touch. Then I reach up, with the stiletto knife I’m holding in my other hand, and slice the gag off. It’s unimportant that I caught him with the razor sharp blade, and he doesn’t seem to notice either as he gasps for breath and immediately starts ranting
“You’re insane, Mercury!” he yells, voice croaking. “F*cking INSANE!”
I smile as I close the knife, and tuck it into my jacket. Then I calmly unscrew the suppressor from my Browning and stow both pieces into my zipper pockets as well.
Propped on the dashboard of the boat’s simple wheelhouse are two belts and a ripsaw. One of Jack’s favourite ripsaws. Great for carpentry. Not for much else. I throw these items into the footwell in front of Deuce. The belts are for makeshift tourniquets. You can’t knock me for not being considerate.
“What the f*ck’s this?” he howls. “What kind of f*cked up shit is this! F*cking DIY boat repairs?”
He’s heaving against the handcuffs again. That’s not gonna work.
“See ya,” I say, and jump overboard.
“YOU’RE INSANE!” he roars, and continues ranting as I swim casually away, following the rope that leads away from the stricken vessel. I can still hear him shouting as I reach the little inflatable dinghy that waits for me at the rope’s distant end.
I climb into the tiny rubber craft, fish out my knife, cut myself loose, and settle down to make myself comfortable. I can see him searching around for me in the darkness, but doubt he can see either me, or this little craft, against the moonless black backdrop of wide ocean.
The shouting stops.
I watch as he scans around him. See him fruitlessly trying to use his one moveable leg to quell the flood pouring in through the bullet-holes.
I’m sure he can work it out.
He scrabbles around, and I see him brandishing the saw.
Well done, Deucey-boy. Now the choice. Which first? Leg or arm?
A scream of pain rips across the gentle swell.
Leg, it would seem.
The boat continues to sink lower in the water. I can hear him sobbing, see his shoulder moving back and forth. It’s a wonder he’s still conscious.
I see him shuffle around again, and hunch over to place the blade onto his arm.
The boat sinks lower. He hasn’t got long.
I smile and lounge back against the inflatable’s side.
He screams again. A pitiful, sorrowful, sound.
“DEUCE!” I yell, and his head lifts in shock at the sound of my voice. I see his face spinning round, his white hair in stark contrast to the dark, wet, background. “Good effort!” I yell, and lift the radio detonator up, and waggle it playfully.
He must’ve spotted it because he flings himself back to his fleshy carpentry with surprising vigour and I’m laughing as I press the first button...
The boat is sitting so far down in the water that the flash starts just under the surface, casting a bright blue line of almighty fire beneath the wave tops. The four claymore charges were positioned inside the hollow fibreglass shell, one in each corner of the inset seating area, facing inwards and, above their flash-flame, a mist of dark shrapnel converges around his mutilated torso and he vanishes amongst this sudden host of tiny black-metal piranha. The noise is more of a crump than a bang, but earsplitting all the same, and the dinghy rides up dramatically on an expanding circular shock wave.
I don’t take my eyes off the action for a moment. I cling onto the dinghy’s rubber handholds, and ride my little chariot over the resulting watery roller-coaster. There’s no way I’m going to miss a moment of this.
The top half of the boat has turned itself into fibreglass snow which gently swirls around the flaming hull. It continues to burn, even as it sinks quickly beneath the surface. Perhaps both sets of charges went off at the same time? I wasn’t sure whether they’d trigger each other, but I press the second button anyway and, good as gold, quite far below the surface, a second flare lights the deep.
Shit.
That’s bigger than I thought it’d be.
Jack never did show me how to use C4.
A deep booming sound rises from below, making my guts compress, and I feel the dinghy lifting underneath me. The green-blue tinted, underwater, flare of light flashes out in a moment, and the starlight-sparkled dark surface of the water starts to rise.
It’s like the sea is boiling. Weird eddies and whirlpools dance randomly across the surface as it flexes upwards like some inflating balloon, then suddenly the whole space in front of me erupts skyward into a colossal geyser of hissing spray, and tiny pieces of metal rain down amongst the salty downpour, and the dinghy sprints backwards as it surfs the deep bow-wave cutting outward from the centre. Even the ocean is rushing to get away.
As quickly as it appeared, the water spout loses its battle against gravity, and collapses down on itself. Slowly the dinghy drifts to a halt, and like a pebble splash vanishes into a flat-calm pond, soon there is only the scattering of fibreglass fragments to betray that anyone has ever been, or died, here.
With a satisfied sigh, I reach down and pull my vessel’s tiny paddle out of the dinghy’s Velcro straps, and begin to propel myself slowly back toward the island.
~~~~~