Disgusted - no scared - at his rage, Bill fled before he’d lost control and battered her. That was the last time he’d seen her and he was never going back. She’d taken everything of course, the house, the car, the holiday home, emptied their joint account—everything. No, not everything, she’d left him with the debt she’d run up and now he was homeless. He should never have left the force. Should have been stronger. He stares again at his reflection. Idiot!
As he removes his underwear his flesh is a patchwork of memories. No need for a box of photographs. A deep scar runs at a diagonal from his rib cage to his belly-button. On his arm are other scars, long and white, the remembrance of flesh cut by sharpened blades, and an old burn mark where the skin is a welted pucker. His shoulder carries the twin dimples, back and front, of a healed bullet wound. His mind returns to that day.
The heat had been overwhelming as they’d driven up to the village. The air-conditioning wasn’t up to the job and stepping out onto the dusty road and into the sun was almost unbearable. Taking a breath felt like your lungs were burning.
“Only mad dogs and Englishmen!” Keller had retorted as they’d jumped out of the truck and run to the side of the compound’s wall.
“Yep,” he replied though he wished Keller would shut up and focus.
“This way,” he’d commanded and run down the side of the building to a steel door. They were painted a turquoise blue, strangely similar to the chair in the bathroom stacked with neatly folded towels. It was decorated with an intricate geometric design of steel. Odd how distinctly he remembers the door, the peeling paint, the heat curling it away from the hot metal, the roughly welded joints that fixed the flat strips of bent metal to the panel of steel. A dog trotting across the dusty track was the only movement between the walled compounds in the village. He’d wanted to refuse. Coming here at this time of day was madness he’d argued. It was safe they said. Yeah, sure! They had good, reliable, intel. A wedding in a far-off town. A skeleton guard. Only the target and two others in the house. He was unsure, but orders were orders. Forty-nine degrees in the shade. Sweat dripped down his back, soaked into his canvas jacket and evaporated. Forty-nine degrees and his lungs burned with each breath and not a soul moved. Perhaps they were right. The village seemed deserted. Seemed. It had better be.
A small door within the large gate opened and they were in. Bill nodded at the woman on the other side. He’d wondered about the intel on this one—a woman inside the compound was co-operating—was the one who’d leaked the information, given them the details of the target’s daily routine, where he’d be, which room he’d be in. Whether she was a wife, a maid, a double agent, he had no idea. He only knew that his job was to get in, execute the target and leave. The woman would be extracted but that was none of his business.
Slipping in through the gate he stepped into a walkway overhung with bougainvillea, a plant seen everywhere climbing up the white stucco walls of the villas. It overhung the balconies giving shade. He could understand why it was so prevalent now – it gave them shade and was probably the only plant that grew in this godforsaken, rock-strewn desert. The woman disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared, her eyes the only visible sign of her humanity. The blue of her iris had shocked him. What had led her to this place, to be here with these monsters?
Second floor, first room to the right. Go through the first room to the second and there he’d be—sleeping through the hottest part of the day. The intel was good. They said.
With Keller behind him, he wished again that it was dark, but the intel said tonight would be too late—he’d be off again, moved once more to keep him safe, to stop the world killing him. The world needed to kill him that was for sure. Bin Laden was a pussy-cat compared to this monster. A light step. Weapon loaded. Safety off. Bill reaches the second floor. Still no one in sight. He counts – one, two, three, four doors to the right. He’s outside the door. He pulls the handle half-expecting it to be locked. The handle moves down and the latch pulls back, the door opens. The room is sparsely furnished, just a rug with low cushions lining the walls. A fan rotates in the middle of the ceiling. A door leads into an antechamber. That’s where he’ll be. He checks left then right. All clear.
Bill beckons his comrade and walks across to the door. His heart beats rapidly as adrenaline pumps through his body. He feels no fear, only a desire to get the job done. Confident, professional. Hand on the door he hears the pig-like grunts. Instantly recognisable. Keller’s heard it too, but only nods, a slight and wry smile at his lips. Bill throws open the door. Points his rifle at the man’s back. Bare buttocks. Bare arse crack dark with hair. Before him a woman, her breasts stroking the bed, face hidden by long blonde hair catching on the pillow. Blonde! As the man realises he’s no longer alone he turns and withdraws from her. She falls against the mattress and rolls away grabbing at a pillow to cover her nakedness. Within a second Bill has taken in the welts around her wrists, the bruises on her body, the blackened eye. No one had told him about this! What the hell was going on?
The man jumps off the bed, lunges for the gun propped up against the wall.
Too late!
Bill fires a silent shot. One is all it takes. It hits the back of the man’s head and the force throws him against the wall. Blood spatters across the white of the walls and catches the woman’s side as she scrambles across the bed to the floor.
“No one said anything about a woman,” Bill said turning to Keller. “Who the hell is she?”
“Face looks familiar,” he returns with a shrug and steps towards the door. “Let’s go.”
Bill turns to follow.
“Please!”
He turns back.
A yellowing bruise sits on the woman’s forehead, her lip is puffed. Dark blood sits where a split is mending. She wasn’t in the briefing. She’s not his problem. He turns to leave.
“Don’t leave me here!”
“Sorry, but we ... you’re not part of the detail.”
“Please!” she repeats standing with the pillow covering her breasts and resting at the top of her legs.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Helen Carlisle. I’m a journ-”
“Oh,” he says with the dread of recognition. “Helen Carlisle. I know you now. Journo turned traitor.”
“No!”
“There were videos—photos—you with a gun, headscarf on, shooting to the sky, laughing. They looked for you—before the videos. Men ... good men ... died because of you!”
“It was all faked—they killed Seb,” her voice catches. “My cameraman. They took us ... said if I didn’t do what they wanted they’d kill him.”
“You told them-”
“I did what they wanted and they still killed him.”
“You told them what they wanted to know.”
“I tried to keep quiet, but ...”
He stares into her face, their eyes lock. She turns. He hadn’t noticed on first entrance. Her back is criss-crossed with raised and angry welts. Some are old and healed, others fresh. His stomach twists.
“You’ve been here since?”
“Bill—we’ve got to go,” Keller urges from the door.
“Get your clothes on,” he commands.
She nods, a quick and desperate yes.
She scrabbles around on the floor, pulling at her clothes with trembling hands. In the distance Bill can hear the pat, pat of running feet, of boots on tiles.
“Hurry!”
As she pulls on a long and shapeless gown, Bill turns to the door. Keller is already leaning out checking left and right.
“They’re on the floor below us.”
“Get behind me. Stay close.”
Bill runs out of the door and down to the stairway that will take them to the next floor down. A figure appears at the bottom, gun raised. Bill aims and shoots. The bullet rips into the man’s shoulder and the force slams him back against the wall. Blood spatters over the white paint. He groans but pulls the gun to fire again. T
his time Bill aims for the head. The bullet hits home. Blood spatters against the wall and the man slides to the floor. As he fires, another figure appears. Bullets ping from the bannister. Helen screams and drops down. Bill turns and fires. The bullet hits the man in the belly. He drops and curls like a foetus. Bill beckons for Helen. She follows him down the stairs to the ground floor. The walkway, overhung with pink flowers, is the last stretch before they’re out. From across the courtyard a gun opens fire. Keller turns and takes out the shooter. Helen holds back. Bill grabs her arm and pulls her forward. A gun pops and she screams. Blood sprays over Bills hand. She’s hit. Movement above the low wall of the flat roof catches his eye.
“Looks like we’ve woken them up!” Keller shouts across from the other side of the wall, twists with raised gun and takes one out on the roof.
Another figure appears on the roof. Bill aims, fires and the man disappears behind the wall.
“C’mon,” he urges as Helen groans. Blood seeps from her shoulder, a stain of bright red blooming over the fabric of her shift.
Despite her injury she keeps pace. The door to the dusty road outside is open. Stepping out, the vehicle has gone. Unperturbed, Bill beckons to Keller and with Helen at his side runs up the narrow alleyway between two high walls. Rubbish litters the narrow gap and shots ring out. The narrowness will protect them—he’s banking on it. At the other end Blalock sits, face red with heat, sweat dribbling freely into his sideburns, hands on the wheel, engine running. Bill pulls at the door’s handle and flings it open, pushes Helen inside and then jumps in slamming the door behind him. Keller jumps into the front seat and the jeep lurches forward, hidden in a billowing cloud of dust.
As the jeep speeds through the village streets unhindered, Bill begins to relax. The woman at his side is silent though crouched in pain.
“Who the hell is she?” Blalock asks looking back through the rear-view mirror for a second as the jeep bounces over a rut. The last house disappears behind them.
“Helen Carlisle—the journalist who-”
Bam!
The jeep lurches, scrapes against a wall, is righted then speeds up. Behind them another grenade explodes. Bullets catch the rear of the vehicle. One slices through the rear window and hits the head rest of the passenger seat. Glass shatters around him and his shoulder seers with pain. His ears ring. The jeep’s engine strains as Blalock floors it. The pain in his shoulder is intense and he bites at his lip. The gunshots continue but they’re fading as the jeep bumps and jolts along the stone-strewn and pot-holed road. He turns to Helen. She’s slumped against the door. Blood trickles down the metal frame. The glass is smeared with gore. He doesn’t need to check for a pulse.
BILL CLOSES HIS EYES as he leans back. He takes a deep breath and exhales the tension through his nose. He breathes steadily until the beat of his heart returns to normal and lets the water soothe him. He takes the soap and makes a thick lather in his hands. It smells good—he’ll smell good. He soaps his body starting at his feet, getting right in between his toes. His toenails are black. He grunts in disgust and reaches for the nail brush on the side of the bath. The bristles tickle as he scrubs. He scrubs harder. Satisfied that they’re clean, he loads the brush again and scrubs at his legs, then his chest and his arms. He rubs hard, bringing his skin to pink. The bath floats with grey scum. As he scrubs he feels relieved—clean of the grime of the past days—clean of the grime of his memories.
A circular mirror sits at the end of the bath and reflects his face and chest. He forces a smile. And notices the deep lines creasing around his eyes, the thick, straggling beard filling his face. Time to sort that out. He looks around the bathroom but can’t see what he wants. Putting on a towel, he searches through the drawers. There they are. A pair of scissors will have to do. Ten minutes later he checks his reflection again. The beard is still there, but at least he doesn’t look like a ragged version of Grizzly Adams any more. The warmth of the room has dried him, the bath has soothed him and he dresses. He grimaces. His body may be clean, but his clothes certainly aren’t. He sighs. They were all in the same boat at least—none of them had clean clothes to wear. Perhaps if they went into town they could find some.
As he steps out of the bathroom and into the narrow hallway he stops. Clarissa.
“Sorry,” he says as she smiles up at him.
“No, it’s OK. You didn’t startle me and you’re not in the way. I thought ...” she looks down at the pile of fabric in her arms. “Well, I couldn’t help but notice that ... well, we all need to freshen up, so I thought that perhaps you’d appreciate these,” she finishes and holds up a pile of neatly folded clothes.
Bill looks down – jeans and a check shirt, a pair of clean socks and some underpants.
He reaches to take them.
“They were my husband’s.”
“Oh,” he says and withdraws his hand.
“No, it’s OK. He would want you to have them. I want you to have them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Bill,” she says with a smile that speaks of untold sadness. “Reece, my husband, is no longer with us, but he was a good man, and he’d want you to have them, I know he would.”
“Then, thank you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bill looks at himself in the jeans and blue and red check shirt. They’re a little big for him, but other than that they fit well. A knock comes on the bathroom door.
“Everything alright in there?”
Clarissa.
“Yes,” he replies and opens the door.
Her eyes widen as she takes him in.
“I ... you look so ...”
“Sorry, I’ll take them off—if they’re upsetting you!”
“No, no. Don’t take them off. You look good,” she says with a smile and looks him up and down. “I couldn’t tell that you’d trimmed your beard when you were in the hallway—it was dark.”
“Oh.”
She nods and her eyes sparkle. He wants to reach forward and kiss her. He will.
“Clarissa,” he says and catches her hand. She stares back at him and places her hand on his waist. A thrill runs through his body and burns deep. He sighs and pulls her to him. She tilts her chin. He waits, savouring the moment, enjoying the feel of her back beneath his fingers. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted, she waits. He lowers his lips to hers and pulls her to him. Her lips are soft. She pulls him to her with passion. Is this really happening? He feels alive for the first time in months, long hard months where he’d thought his life was over, where he thought he’d lost himself forever.
A door downstairs opens. “Clarissa!”
Andy!
He pulls back, irked by the man’s voice, not wanting their moment to be discovered, but she holds him, urges him back and pushes her lips to his.
“Clarissa!” the man shouts.
“Bill, I-”
“You’ve been summoned,” Bill says as he pulls away. He can’t keep the annoyance from his voice.
“He can wait a moment.”
“I thought you two had a thing going on.”
“Well, kind of-”
“Clarissa!”
“You’d better go.”
“Clarissa!” he calls again, this time louder.
“Yes, I had, or he’ll never shut up.”
He reaches for her hand as she turns away. She holds his for a second, nods, smiles then steps to him and tilts her chin. He bends to her lips and loses himself there for another moment. They promise an ecstasy that he can’t resist and he pulls her to him with passion, feeling himself harden. If she doesn’t go now ... And then she’s gone and he’s left with a yearning that burns so intensely that it hurts. He stares after her as she walks down the corridor to the top of the stairs then disappears to the rooms below. What just happened? You were blown away, that’s what. He takes a moment to recover, for his passion to ebb, then follows Clarissa downstairs and into the kitchen.
“Wow!” Clare says as he steps i
nto the room.
“Oh!” Jessie says as she turns to look.
All eyes on him, he’s self-consciousness, but decides to brazen it out.
“Thor!” Jessie exclaims.
“Bit random!” Bill retorts trying to keep a straight face.
“You look great, Bill,” Clare continues.
“He looks like-”
“Thor!”
“Chris-”
“Hemsworth!”
Stella giggles and nudges Clare.
He grasps his chin and rubs at what remains of his beard. “I scrub up well, I guess,” he says with a laugh.
“You sure do,” Clarissa replies.
He gives her an appreciative smile and his heart thuds a little harder.
Andy shuffles next to her and Bill catches the scowl that flits across his face before he smirks. “Well, it’s certainly an improvement and at least you’ll not stink the place out now.”
“Andy!” Clarissa chides.
Bill laughs. If Andy had said that before he’d taken a bath he’d have lamped him and then felt embarrassed. As it was—after that kiss with Clarissa—he couldn’t care less. Nothing was going to pull him down from his cloud.
A groan from the living room breaks through the chatter.
“I’ll go,” offers Clare and disappears to tend to Michael.
Perhaps she’d found her vocation? A navy medic perhaps. He’d talk to her later.
Alex turns from the counter, tin opener in hand. “Soup’ll be ready in a minute.” On the table is an array of crackers and empty soup bowls. In the centre is a bowl with dried fruits and nuts. Bill is suddenly ravenous.
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