Thunder

Part Seven: Thunder

What’s in a Name?



A crowd of screaming kids race across the neon-lit square, toward the harbour, as they sprint wildly from their sanctuary on the sides of the waterless fountain. They dodge between, around, and into the groups of randomly meandering adults in a flurry of too-short legs and too-large plimsolls. They laugh and squeal, with the kind of energy that only those who are unencumbered by the weight of life’s sorrows, and who are fuelled by too much sugar and caffeine, can do.

Yanni shakes his head at them, and shuffles one of his tables a millimetre to the left. Maria, surprisingly, doesn’t even lift her head from where it’s resting on my foot. She’s salivating slightly. I can feel it trickling through my sandals.

I had to come back here. Hard as it was. Where else could I go? What other friends do I have?

Khristos waves and smiles, as he hurtles past me like some demented sprite. His drinks tray is packed with refreshments for the latest group of thirsty customers.

I glance over at his destination: one of the tables to my left. There are two adults sitting there. They look tired – drained from a year of hard labours. There are a couple of kids with them. All of them look pale-skinned and happy. They’re on their holidays. Probably just arrived. A happy family.

I try not to stare.

I try not to think about tomorrow.

I try not to think about you and Lizzie.

Try not to think about where I’ve been, and what I’ve done.

In front of me, on the table, near my almost empty beer glass, lies a little bound notepad and simple biro. I bring it every evening. Place it there. Look at it all night. Then take it back, unopened, to Jack’s house. I’m meaning to try writing it all down. To try to find a way to vent all the things I can never say out loud. I’ll get started on it soon. It’s ready, for when I am.

All the while, the village orbits around me. Locals meet and wave arms in animated conversation, children run and play, tourists arrive, are shocked, settle in, and leave reluctantly. The cats chase the sparrows, the dogs chase the cats, and Maria chases everything... When she’s not asleep, that is. Nor dribbling...

I lean forward, to see if I can nudge her slobbering face off my increasingly damp toes.

“You owe me a boat,” says Jack.

“You say that every night,” I reply, without looking up from my gentle pooch-nudging. “Dead blokes sure do lack imagination.”

I feel him settle next to me on the small sofa. “Can’t live with me. Can’t live without me,” he murmurs. “I’m here to haunt you forever.”

“I hope so,” I say.

“Besides,” he continues, “I seem to remember you’ve always had a thing for ghosts?” He reaches up and gently strokes the thin, almost-healed, scar on my bare arm. The one from where Ace caught me with the knife. His finger feels very cold. I suspect he’s been at the frozen Tequila at the bar inside.

“If I had to use my imagination,” I mutter, “don’t you think I could come up with someone hotter than you?”

He grimaces theatrically, but I see a tiny glimmer of hurt flickering in the corner of his eyes. Deep down in those pools of pure jade. And I feel myself being drawn in. Falling into that pure green sanctuary. His vulnerability softens my resolve, makes me drop my guard, makes the bottled-up pain flood forward again, and the memories flicker across my vision like some ancient stutter-frame animation. “Hold me,” I growl, throwing my arms around him, and feeling him pulling me close with his one good arm.

His other arm is still heavily strapped. From where Deuce’s bullet went through it. Somehow, he’d managed to squirm to one side, so Deuce’s shot had smashed through his shoulder blade. After a period of unconsciousness, he’d come around to find he was still bound hand and foot – and now alone – in the house. It had, apparently, taken him a long time to get himself free. Then, with me being absent – afloat somewhere at this stage – he’d called Yanni who’d taken him to the hospital in Mytilene.

They’d told the doctors that he’d had a hunting accident. If I’d been brave enough to go into the house, on my return from my boat-vaporisation exercises, I’d have seen that he was missing. Would never have gone straight to France. Would never have had to put up with his endless bitching about how I abandoned him.

“I understand,” he says quietly into my ear. “I know. It’s the anniversary tomorrow...”

I nod mutely on his shoulder.

“The village knows too,” he says. “Pastor Philippe has insisted that he’ll ring the church bell tomorrow morning. At eleven forty-eight.” Allowing for the time difference, that was when this all started – it will be exactly one year. “They want to observe a few moments of silence.”

I pull back from him, surprised, and paw roughly at my eyes.

He shrugs apologetically. “I don’t blame them. The whole place has grown to love you. They treat you as a big sister, little sister, daughter, granddaughter, whatever... Personally, I think it’s a good job that I’m as great as I am, or I’d be feeling there was a bit too much competition for my liking.” He sits back suddenly, and starts rooting around inside his light cotton jacket. “Which reminds me... I’ve got you a present!”

He produces a black cardboard box, which he places dramatically on the table between our beers. Pride of place on a soldier’s table.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Have a look,” he says self-consciously. “Hope you like it.”

I lift the lid. Inside is a silver brooch. A roundel, with a stylised arrow and dagger inside it. The arrow and dagger are shaped so they form a crude lightning strike through its centre.

“Alessandro made it,” he explains. “I gave him the idea, and he did it. Clever isn’t he?”

Alessandro is the village smith. He’s best known for his agricultural and mechanical welding skills. I’m speechless. My maiden name is Tonner. Nicola Tonner. Tonner, in French, means thunder. My married name was Dalca. Nicola Dalca. Iuliu was Romanian. Mum and Dad had always found it amusing that I should fall for, and then marry, someone with a name so similar to ours: the Romanian surname Dalca, means lightning. When I chose my cover name – the one that Deuce had hated so much, and that Ace didn’t ever understand – it was, like I said at the time, no real change: Nicholas Thunder.

“Have I f*cked up?” asks Jack, concerned at my strained expression and lack of comment.

I shake my head. I don’t dare try to say anything. I can feel hot tears welling in the corners of my eyes. If I say anything, I know they’ll get loose.

A summer storm has been brewing for days, over the mountains, and a sudden gust of warm wind whips violently across the square. It catches up a handful of litter from one of the crammed bins, and tosses the pieces clattering across the paving slabs. All of the awnings splayed round the various bars and restaurants flap like badly rigged mainsails, and a couple of Yanni’s perfectly positioned beer mats slide out of formation.

The sudden rustling noises set Maria off, and she races out from under the table like some short-haired missile. Her barking draws her usual posse of crossbreeds, and the raucous pack rampage into the distance seeking a suitable offender. In the absence of any other obvious miscreant, the pack decide that this outing’s target must be old-man Dimitris – who has chosen this badly timed moment to emerge innocently from the supermarket – and he stands there shouting and waving his walking stick at the barracking animals.

That’s when I see them walk around the corner, and into the square.

I slam the box shut.

Two of them. Coming this way. Walking as calmly as anything. Directly toward us. Dressed like tourists, but I know that these are no ordinary visitors.

“What is it?” asks Jack, concerned at my sudden change of expression, and I sense him turning his head to follow my gaze.

“Mind if we join you?” says the stranger, carefully. Finally I connect the deep voice I heard on Deuce’s phone, with the one I heard months ago, before I first headed out to that cottage in Wales. Suddenly I understand how Shaz was able to help us when I called her from Delaram.

“Who are you?” asks Jack, bluntly, prickling at the invasion of our personal space.

“Friends,” says the man.

“Hi Nic,” says Shaz. “You look great.”

I nod curtly across at her. She probably doesn’t understand why I’m so reticent. As pleased as I am to see her, it’s the man she’s with that’s worrying me. I thought this was all over. That we were safe. That no-one knew how to find us.

“This is Sharinda,” I explain to Jack, and see his eyes open in mild surprise. He knows about Shaz and how she helped me and then, later, both of us. “I don’t know who you are though?” I turn to the big man sitting next to her.

He smiles congenially and extends a hand across the table to Jack. “Nice to meet you, at long last, Jack.” Jack takes his hand carefully. “And you, Nicola.” He grasps my hand firmly, not tightly, and retains his grip. “My name, madam, is Major Richard Charles. Sometimes called ‘The Bull’ for some inexplicable reason.” A cheeky grin lights up his face, and immediately I get a sense of why Shaz likes him so much. I venture a half-smile in return. “I am also known as Sentinel.”

He reaches into the fashionable satchel he has placed by the side of the table, and Jack and I both sit back tensely. He sees us flinching, and gently raises both hands above the table top. No guns. He’s just holding a thin folio, which he places gently onto the table, and pushes over to us.

“I seem to be missing a couple of my assets,” he says cryptically, whilst looking hard at me. “It’s a shame, because we’ve picked up leads on a couple of very interesting characters. One, it would appear, deals drugs in the Northern Provinces, coerces local troops and likes to chase people with all manner of weaponry. This character, for the sake of argument let’s call him Gulyar bin Imraan, is also not against upsetting his neighbours who, in turn, are not averse to telling us where we might find him.

“The other,” he continues, “is a rogue agent. Also in the same area. Code-named Joker – somewhat inappropriately in my opinion. He has a fetish for abusing underage girls, and no qualms about providing information to the aforementioned dealer regarding the whereabouts, and possible extraction point, of operational military personnel.” He tapped the folio.

We sit in silence for a second or so.

“Talking of odd code-names,” he says. “Mercury is fine. Are you sure you’re happy with Tin?”

“I’ve grown into it,” says Jack flatly.

Sentinel nods.

“We’re finished with this,” says Jack.

“Finished,” I agree from beside him.

“It is never finished,” says Sentinel leaning forwards to us. “It’s like weeds in the garden. We pluck the heads off and more keep growing back. We’re getting deeper though. More and more nations ally around a common motivation for peace and security, and we get ever closer to the sources and advocates of atrocity. You would be surprised how few people actually have the skill to weave language into a form that genuinely inspires death and destruction. How few humans are so lacking in social empathy that they can behave as psychopaths.”

“We were betrayed before. Lied to. How could we trust you?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s probably best not to,” he observes, wryly. “But you know my name. And my partner,” he glances across at Shaz, who smiles supportively back at him. “That’s a lot of trust I’ve put in you two. Call it an act of faith.

“In my opinion, you were both made for this business. You’re both too good at it. And I suspect you’ll get bored here. Soon...

“So, when you do, call me. I think you’ve still got my number.”

He looks at me knowingly and, yes, I do still have Deuce’s cellphone.

“There’s no immediate hurry.” He says, tapping the folio again. “Those two aren’t going anywhere in a hurry.” He stands and smooths his dark linen trousers and lifts his bag. “Unlike us. We’ll leave you in peace.”

I stand hurriedly and embrace Shaz. “Thank you,” I whisper in her ear. “For helping us. For helping me.”

She pulls back, gripping my shoulders, and smiles as she looks me in the face. “He’s a good man,” she says simply. “It’s so good to see you, Nic.”

“And you,” I agree, and with that they turn and walk off.

We watch until they round the distant corner and disappear from view.

The folio is still on the table.

I lift it up and put it in my bag.

“Might want to give it a glance later?” I suggest, feigning disinterest.

“Yeah, maybe,” Jack says, trying his hardest to catch a glimpse past the cover as I thrust it out of sight.

Yanni wanders over and unnecessarily shuffles a couple of beermats. He’s kept a discrete distance throughout the recent visitation. “One for the road?” he asks, and flashes his impish grin at us.

One for the road? Somehow I doubt it. More likely one of many, I suspect. I think we should stock up now, while we have the chance.

“One for the road,” we both agree.

Far away in the distance a flickering splash of bright-white strobe light blinks into the dark night sky. The storm is finally breaking.

Jack rises and follows Yanni into the bar to help with the drinks.

Maria trundles back from wherever she’s been sniffing, and settles herself down next to my chair.

I reach forward and pick up the empty journal. Flick to page one and pick up my pen.

A distant, angry, rumble of thunder crawls down from the mountains, and echoes ominously around the square.

Time to start writing...

‘Mine is a love story. Written in blood...’





The Author



Anthony Bellaleigh was born in 1964. He has always been an avid reader, enjoying many different genres and writers. Thunder is his second novel. He lives in the United Kingdom, but prefers to spend most of his life in a world of his own.



Author’s Notes



Amongst Thunder’s many fictions, readers might well spot fragments of historical, geographical, political and military accuracy – for these few facts, and any errors, I can only apologise.

Thunder is just a story. It’s not intended to incite vigilantism, or any other form of violence. If reading it stimulates feelings of high emotion, then perhaps this only serves to illustrate how words can affect behaviour and, if abused, could create sorrow and misery. This burdensome responsibility falls on all of our shoulders, every time we communicate with one another, and I sometimes wonder if we are truly as mindful of this as we should be.

There is, as far as I can tell, no current or potential nation-state of Khandastan. There are local stories and legends in the area involving one Oghuz Khan, whose Dastan – legend – recounts a struggle for freedom. Located as Turkmenistan is, on the fabled Silk Road, it seemed plausible that a tribal faction could spring forward at some stage. Turkmenistan, to my knowledge, does not have any such splinter-faction today, and neither is there any evidence to suggest that it would do anything other than quickly quell one, if one should arise.

I am aware that there are moments of actual and suggested homosexuality in the story. I hope that these sections only come across as an observational play on, probably all-too-common, preconceptions and prejudices.

I also deeply hope that my tale does nothing other than reflect the fantastically brave efforts of the military personnel, of all nationalities, who are engaged in anti-terror or peacekeeping missions around the globe. These men and women are real-life heroes – one and all.

Skala Kallonis does exist. It is, in my humble opinion, as blissful as I describe it. Theo, Dimitri and Maria will hopefully forgive me for stealing some inspiration from them. If you liked the sound of the place, then I’d strongly recommend a visit.

I would like to take this opportunity to express my sincere thanks to the many people who have helped with Thunder. Once again, my thanks must go to Lena for the perpetual encouragement and support over many years. Thanks as well to my proofreaders, including Lena, Carolyn, Bill, Pam, Gareth, Alec and Gun – you all helped to shape this version.

I am an amateur writer and, whilst I have tried hard to make this book look and feel like a professionally published document, there may still be a few typographical mistakes hiding away inside it. If you came across any then they are, without doubt, entirely my fault.

As much for my own amusement as anything else, I buried an anagram inside the text. For anyone mad or bored enough to try to find it, here is the clue: the first of the first, of me and my loved ones, and the first of the last, of everyone else.

And finally, I do hope that you’ve enjoyed the story. Thank you for reading it.

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Further Information

For the latest information and updates visit Anthony’s Blog Site:



http://anthonybellaleigh.wordpress.com/

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Firebird





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