Steve’s driving me home and I’m sitting, watching the outskirts of town go by through his almost-closed side window.
“Have you seen? The gypsies are back,” he says as we approach my estate – a complex geometric exercise in new-build land-parcel minimisation which perches on the edge of the, more ancient and casually distributed, medieval market town of Barfold.
I look around and can see a gaggle of eclectic vans clustered along the verge; it always makes me wonder where they find the money for the land-cruisers and SUVs that sprawl at the end of muddy churned tracks around their hovel.
“Um,” I acknowledge eloquently. Diction isn’t coming easily, the doctors say it’s unlikely I’ll ever become much of an orator. My voice has stayed very deep and my damaged vocal cords tend to spit the words out in rumbling fragments. “Long as they keep t’ themselves,” I grunt, though I doubt that the residents of sleepy Barfold’s half-timber mansions will share my feelings of benevolence.
~~~~~
Kołobrzeg, Poland
The short afternoon was fading to darkness as they drove down the multicoloured main street. Kołobrzeg wasn’t a particularly large town and Jack watched the short lines of five-storey, gable fronted, shops passing his window.
“I’m going to drop you over by the river. You can walk to the docks from there. We’re not certain exactly which dock the fishing boat will moor at, but they’re all in reasonably close proximity to each other.” Deuce glanced across at him, “Ace will stream the target’s coordinates to your cell in real time.”
“Understood.” Jack reached into the back of the car, pulled forward the second heavy jumper and started to pull it over his head. It looked like the sort of top a well-intentioned but colourblind aunt might have knitted for him, and he was pretty certain that the pattern looked vaguely like it had the word ‘COCK’ emblazoned in capitals across the front of it. Deuce had probably taken great pleasure from selecting it for him.
He flicked his cellphone over and tapped the icon for its tracking application. “It’s working,” he reported after checking the map and the little green triangle which marked Ebrahimi’s position. His target was currently offshore.
“Remember: this is vital, Tin. He’s the only one with an active cellphone now. If we lose this guy then the mission’s as good as over. Do what you have to, but remember that you don’t exist here. There is no back up. If we go dark on you then...”
“I know the score,” Jack said bluntly. “I’m here for my bro’s. I’m not going to let them, or you, down.”
Deuce pulled the car to the side of the road. “See that you don’t,” he said.
~~~~~
Barfold
Someone’s banging on my front door. I’ve been ignoring the bell, which works perfectly by-the-way, but it doesn’t seem to be having the desired effect. Whoever it is, they’re being very persistent.
And irritating.
Can’t they tell that I’m busy?
Can’t they tell that I’m tidying Lizzie’s room, straightening her soft toys and changing the bedding in her cot?
I have to get it ready for later.
I have to get it ready for bedtime.
It’s part of my ‘schedule’...
Reluctantly, I pull myself to my feet and move through the evening half-light, out of Lizzie’s room and across to the front of the house where I can look down from behind our bedroom curtains. I’ll turn some lights on – in a while.
There are a couple of what look like Travellers, gypsies by another name, standing on our short driveway. A man and a woman, who appear to be whispering to each other and shaking their heads. Then they look toward my living room.
No! There are three of them! Another one was hidden, out of sight, somewhere in my front garden, beneath me, down by my front room window...
What are they up to?
How
dare
they peek through my windows?
The Peeping Tom is nodding to the other couple and making thumbs-up signs. Then the woman hacks up a load of phlegm and spits it onto my pathway.
Bitch.
The three of them turn and wander off, back up the street.
We chose our little house because it’s at the end of one of the side roads on the estate. It’s out of the way. It doesn’t get many people walking past it...
I watch carefully until the Travellers are out of sight.
~~~~~
Kołobrzeg
Jack shivered as he stood in the shadows of one of the warehouses which surrounded the docks. Several of the structures were still brightly lit as various boats of different sizes were loaded, or unloaded, industriously. The building that Jack huddled beneath was dark.
The big coat, two sweaters, woollen gloves and hat that Deuce had given him were all helping, but it still felt cold.
He swapped the smartphone between hands so he could thrust the cold one into his coat pocket. Through his glove, his frozen fingers touched the grip of the old, beaten up, SIG Sauer P220 pistol stowed in there. Deuce said the gun was fully functional, but the dented, black nine-millimetre had seen better days. The SIG wasn’t dissimilar to a Browning, and he’d fired several in the ranges, but he still hoped he wouldn’t have to use it; not least because Deuce had only issued it with nine rounds of ammunition.
“I’m not wasting good stuff on you,” Deuce had said matter-of-factly. “You can dispose of the piece afterwards. We don’t expect it back. Make sure it’s stripped and the parts are distributed into several locations.”
Jack shook his head angrily at the memory.
A small, nondescript, sports holdall lay at his feet. In it were the tracking devices, though he could have held all three in the palm of one hand. Clever little things. They only talked when they had to. Extremely hard to detect.
All
he
had to do, was plant them.
Two would be pretty straightforward.
The third would be very hard.
~~~~~
Barfold
Finally I’m in bed again, waiting for my medications to drag me off to peaceful oblivion and my loved ones. Today has felt like a long day. My ‘schedule’ hasn’t quite properly extended beyond afternoons – beyond going into Lizzie’s room.
I seem to spend a long time in there. Thinking. Trying to etch the too few memories into my mind...
Afternoons seem to be the worst.
That’s when the tears come...
I shouldn’t be here.
If only I had kept on walking.
If only I had been beside you.
Mum called again this evening. She says I should go with her to the church. Says I should go and visit the graves. “It will help,” she says, but I don’t want to go. I don’t want to visit the graves. I want to be in the earth too. Beside you both. In the cold, hard, unforgiving ground.
I would fit in perfectly.
I am cold, hard, and unforgiving too.
~~~~~
Kołobrzeg
Sergei Ebrahimi watched as the strange Spaniard piled goulash into his mouth.
“Muy buena comida! Is good!” the Spaniard mumbled through bulging cheeks.
This tall, heavily muscled, stranger had appeared at his table, dumped his tray of food and sat himself down; all the while jabbering incoherently. Initially Sergei had thought about getting up and moving to another of the many empty tables which surrounded them, but this guy looked like he was just another sailor making the best of a few hours of shore-leave.
Sergei turned his attention back to his own plate, which was full of Kaszanka sausages and potato-and-cabbage stew. He was very hungry. This dockside eatery, with its battered plastic furniture and bright strip-lights, had been the first place he’d found after disembarking.
He’d felt unsteady walking on solid ground after so long on the boat. Food and a few moments to settle his inner ears would do him good. Then he’d walk into the town, and find the railway station.
He’d call in to Jeyhun’s machine on the way.
“Me, Fernando,” the Spaniard bellowed, prodding toward himself with his knife as he spoke.
“Sergei,” said Sergei, glancing into his uninvited eating partner’s piercing green eyes.
~~~~~
Barfold
I stand here in my dreamland and watch you and Lizzie playing at the end of the tunnel. It looks like some kind of pat-a-cake game. Lizzie is squealing with laughter. Dad and Grey Beard are looking on from one side, smiling. I can’t help but wonder why my imagination insists on conjuring up the old-boys? Perhaps it’s just that I’d like to think that you’ve got some friendly company around you?
In the background of my dream, I can hear a faint, metallic, rattling noise.
It sounds like it’s nearby.
Where’s that coming from?
It sounds like a door lock being turned.
~~~~~
Kołobrzeg
Jack watched carefully as the terrorist tucked into his sausage.
He hadn’t expected Ebrahimi to appear so young: possibly not even twenty. The youth’s chiseled, handsome, dark-skinned features lay somewhat obscured beneath several days of ragged, wispy, beard, and his straggly dark-brown hair tumbled untidily over broad shoulders. He was tall, a couple of inches shorter than Jack, but still around six feet high. Not that height mattered, being seated as they were at this dirty cafe table.
Jack knocked the salt cellar off the table with his elbow. “Mierda!” He exclaimed and bent over extravagantly to recover it from beside Ebrahimi’s backpack. Fumbling the little glass receptacle, he sent it flicking away from him and under the other man’s chair. “Collons! Get,
please
?” he enunciated loudly in his best bullshit, gesticulating vigorously with one arm whilst remaining hunched over out of sight.
Sergei sighed and pushed his chair back and Jack pressed the razor sharp end, of the narrow metal tube he was palming, into the double-layer fabric base of the young man’s pack. The device slid into place silently.
One down.
~~~~~
Barfold
Through the drugs and sleep I can hear noises. I’m not used to hearing noises in my dreams. This is something new, and I’m not entirely certain what it means.
Pat-a-cake continues at the end of the tunnel. Clearly you and Lizzie can’t hear the noises but Grey Beard is looking at me. His grisly face is contorted into an expression which almost looks concerned. Dad looks over too. He definitely looks concerned.
I turn away from you all and our darkened bedroom slowly resolves itself around me.
There are noises downstairs.
Someone is inside our house.
Moving around.
Is it you? Have you snuck off downstairs looking for some midnight snack?
No, of course it can’t be you... You’re lying here beside me. Sleeping peacefully.
I’d better deal with this intrusion before the noise wakes Elizabeth – it’s very hard to get her back to sleep if she’s disturbed.
I don’t want either of you disturbed.
I climb quietly out of bed, pull on my robe, and reach for Vengeance.
~~~~~
Kołobrzeg
Fernando – Jack – returned as quickly as he could from the diner’s counter, slammed two bottles down onto the table and threw himself dramatically onto his plastic chair. The target looked at him quizzically but Fernando just shrugged, reached forward, grabbed the bottle nearest to him and raised it.
“Salud!” he pronounced.
Sergei Ebrahimi reached forward and tentatively grasped the gift and Jack watched the boy’s arm muscles stretching against the fabric of his tight sweater. This guy was fit. He hoped he’d dosed the beer with enough stuff.
“I must go now,” the target said – enunciating each word slowly so that Fernando would understand.
“Yes,” Jack enthused with a face-full of his most spectacular smile. “Go now! But...
DRINK
first!”
Ebrahimi lifted the bottle.
‘Come on,’ thought Jack.
The kid moved to put his bottle back down on the table.
“Friends!” Jack exclaimed loudly and thrust himself forwards, offering the base of his bottle across the small table. “Drinks UP!”
Sergei shrugged, smiled, chinked Jack’s bottle and drained the beer. Then he stood and pulled his jacket over his broad shoulders, picked up his pack, nodded once to the strange foreigner and walked toward the doorway.
Jack lounged in his chair, apparently disinterested, sipping on his beer. In his head, he started counting.
~~~~~
Barfold
I creep gently onto the landing. For a moment, I wonder why I’m creeping? This is my house. I don’t need to creep...
Creeping does, however, feel like it’s the right thing to be doing at the moment...
Looking down quietly into the stairwell I can see all the way to the front door. It’s open.
Torch light is flickering around in the sitting room. The inner door is also open.
Then the shadowy figure of a man emerges with a bulging dustbin bag. The bag is clinking. It looks like something heavy, and somewhat stereo-system shaped, is at the bottom of this bag, with a load of CDs piled loosely on top of it – our CDs – and finally there are some large rectangular objects. Those would be our faux silver picture frames from around the fireplace. The ones with our pictures in them. You. Me. Elizabeth. My memories.
It feels like my insides are freezing. Every thermal speck of inner humanity is frosting over. I should feel enraged. I should feel disgusted. I should be jumping up and down, or shaking, or in shock, or panicking, or crying, or shouting... I should feel something, but I don’t. Instead I watch the filthy thief, as if I’m sitting in front of some low budget TV drama, as he walks to the doorway, places my memories gently down on our front door step and then returns casually into my living room.
“The TV’s too big for us to get round to the car,” a voice whispers in the darkness.