by Jason Vanez
He skirted around the hole so he was above the horizontal shaft, then fed himself in head-first. He reached into the shaft and found the first rung, and used that to haul himself down, somersaulting so he was on his back. It was tight. He had to wiggle his legs so they didn't jam in the ninety degree turn. At one point the heavy gym weight snagged at the edge of the opening, but eventually it fell into the hole.
He used the rungs to make quick time. The weight slid along easily behind him, no match for the power in his arms as he yanked on rung after rung.
It seemed to take forever…
...for the lift to reach the ground floor, and when –
- ah, back again he'd gone. Now, even further. He watched himself leave the lift, leave the building, and cross to his parked bike. And there was the sheet of paper, in that file creating a bulge under his jacket. He watched himself sit astride the machine. Out came the file. Out came the photo from the file.
Taken that morning, he knew. Because he could see in his shirt pocket a pen he'd never carried before today. It was still in that pocket, under his biker leathers. He tried to remember if anyone memorable - anyone with a camera, for instance - had been lurking across the road when he popped out of the supermarket for a late lunch break. Whoever had taken that photo must have vanished pretty quickly afterwards. If he'd been under surveillance half an hour later, his observers would have watched him climb into the back of his van and emerge on his motorbike for the trip to Davey's to collect his money. That photo had gotten from the camera to a file in Davey's flat very fast. No more than an hour between photo and delivery. Had he just missed the delivery guy who dropped off the file when he went to Davey's flat? He thought of the man in the suit he nearly walked into. Him?
Whoever these people were, they wanted James Marsh dead for some reason, and badly. Unlucky for them that they had unwittingly hired the condemned man himself to do the job.
Next, Jimmy stared at the written sheet. 5 o'clock, it said. The Chopper had until five to call a number and accept the hit, or the job would go to another contract killer. The fee was £20,000. Once the call had been made, further details would be available.
Jimmy thought about that. It did not say James Marsh had be dead by five. The job had to be accepted by that deadline, so he had some breathing space in which to think. He was not going back to work today, that was for sure. But he had to keep the appointment for a late lunch with his wife and daughter, which unfortunately would waste some of his precious time. As was all this flashback lark, so…
The rungs ended and he found another corner to the shaft. Upwards again. A vertical shaft. He pulled himself into a sitting position and banged his head. There was some kind of gridded metal cover. His breathe was failing. His hands scrabbled across the cover, seeking a quick-release lever, which he knew there should be. He found it, cracked it, and pushed the cover open.
He climbed out of the shaft and his head cleared the water. He sat on the opening, one leg out, weighted leg hanging down, water lapping around his neck, and breathed deeply. It was still pitch black, but he knew he was in the level deck balance tank, where the water displaced by bathers was collected after running down channels in the side of the pool at fill height. If the pool had been full of bathers, this tank would be full and he’d be drowning.
He used his arms to lift his leg out of the shaft, dragged on the chain and eventually got the gym weight in his arms. He got to his feet and reached over his head, feeling the curved metal roof of the tank. The water was now around his thighs. He recalled that the technician from way back had informed him it was law to insert a hatch every three metres in a balance tank, so that those who had to get inside and clean it were never more than one-and-a-half metres from a way out. It took only four seconds for Jimmy, fumbling in the dark, to find a hatch. He twisted the quick-release handle and pushed the hatch open. He expected light, but there was none, only a slightly less blackness to the dark.
To exit, he had to lift his chained leg high enough so he could hoist the weight out first. Then he grabbed the edge and swung up, legs first. His strength was all gone and he barely managed to climb out of the hatch.
He was sitting on curved metal: the outer shell of the balance tank. He slid off, dropping like a sack of potatoes onto the floor. The weight went first and seemed to drag him faster. As he landed and crumpled, the wind was knocked out of him, forcing bile into his throat. He splashed his last meal all over the floor, but it cleared his head. He lay there, panting, staring at the dead and broken fluorescent lights on the peeling ceiling. His head spun, in part because of lack of oxygen and in part because of the feeling that he’d narrowly escaped death.
There was a square of light high in the wall, giving just enough illumination for him to see stairs leading up to a doorway, and the curves and lines of old machinery all around him. This was the plant room, where pool maintenance was carried out. The lights, the machinery: all much more modern than the building. The plant room would be underground, so the door at the top of the stairs should be at ground level.
The door was wooden, rotted, and burst open easily under one swing of the gym weight. Jimmy squinted against the light. He was out.
He found himself in a corridor, at the end of which he could see a doorless doorway. He took it, fast, carrying the weight. Another corridor. At the end, a door that delivered him into the pool area. He could see the chair, floating in the pool. He could see the dead man lying on the ground. He could see nobody else, hear nothing.
He remembered, as he floated in and out of consciousness, that his kidnappers had escorted him quite a distance to get here, which meant they had travelled around the building. The entrance was to his left, so he went right, figuring the exit from the grounds must be on that side of the building. In the wall, under the balcony, was a double mattress laying up against the wall. Poking over the top he could see a portion of a door. He struggled over there, toppled the mattress and saw a metal fire exit with planks nailed across the frame. They snapped easily under his new weapon. The fire exit looked far more modern than the rest of the building, just like the plant room. He wondered if the place had been partially renovated a few years ago with an eye to reopening it. Why had the work not been finished -
No time for such thoughts. He slapped the panic bar, but the door was jammed and needed a shoulder. It squealed open and daylight flooded in. So relieved was Jimmy that he sank to his knees.
But there was no time for dawdling.
Outside was a concrete area that might have been a small car park. He saw the Golf, and his van next to it. There was a high wall with a gateway to the left. He could hear cars rushing past just beyond the wall, and saw the flat top of a truck blast by. He didn't know where he was, but clearly the heavy traffic proved he was not way out in the middle of nowhere. And the trip in the boot of the Golf had not been long enough for the car to have left London. He knew he could find his way home. He knew he had to get back there quickly because his wife and child might not be safe.
He had left his mobile phone in the van, he was sure of it. But a quick search of the cab said otherwise. He went to the rear and threw the doors open.
The Transit had been relieved of its rear seats soon after purchase. In the back was his Kawasaki motorbike, upright on brackets. Lining the side walls were heavy-duty plastic boxes filled with tools and other things he might need as a hitman, although nothing like a weapon, in case the police searched the vehicle. A weapon he could get later. For now he needed something to get this damned chain off his ankle.
It was risky to leave the van at a crime scene, but he had no choice. He needed speed, and he couldn't risk getting lodged in traffic.
Ninety seconds later, Jimmy tore out of there on the Kawasaki, headed home. And prayed he wasn't already too late to save his family.
***
Einar was back in the pavilion. Watching the front window of the Marsh house again. Maria was no longer in the garden, and he couldn't see
her or the kid through the glass. In the kitchen, maybe. Cooking dinner for a husband who wasn't ever coming home. He thought it was a little sad when people didn't know the fate that had befallen their loved ones and continued as if nothing had happened, expecting their lives to remain as planned.
They wouldn't ever know, however. They had moments to live. This time he wasn't going to mess around with smiley face targets. Or silly catchphrases. The moment the woman showed him something vital to shoot at, she was going down forever. The kid might have a few moments of shock, but then she would rush to her mother's side and into his sights, and her pain would end, too. Or the other way around, child first. Of course, the sight of blood might propel mother or child to run or just freeze out of sight, in which case he would have to go across the road and use his blade.
He didn't take his eyes off the window for ten minutes, except for a scary moment when the view between two of the houses on his side of the road was blocked by the passage of a truck. Some delivery vehicle, bringing someone a fridge or bed maybe. He heard the truck stop just out of view. The engine continued to growl, which he liked. It would cover the sound of the bullet going through the window. And any screams of pain, if he didn't get the chance for a head shot.
Twenty seconds later, he saw movement and nearly fired, but it was just an arm. The kid's arm, right in the corner of the window. The elbow jabbed in and out of view as she gesticulated. Then it was gone. He saw something hit the window and drop amongst the ornaments on the sill, knocking a few over. Some kind of doll. Thrown in a child's tantrum, he guessed.
Maria stepped into view, carrying the child, who was struggling in her arms. He saw the woman's mouth moving, wide and fast, as if she was reprimanding the child. The kid was hugged right to her chest, and she moved right up to the window, picked up the doll with her free hand. The further back into the room, the dimmer and hazier had been her form, but here, up close to the glass, she was lit by daylight and perfectly displayed, and Einar could not have asked for a better position for either killer or target. And the child was right there in her arms. He knew it was the moment. Despite the double glazing, a bullet in the child's neck would pass right through and into Maria's heart. Two dead, one bullet. No need for the knife.
Like a lens cap being drawn across a viewfinder, the image in his scope shrank from right to left, filling with white. Until white filled his view. Einar jerked his eye away from the scope and cursed. The truck. The delivery truck had reversed, fast, and stopped. There it was, filling the gap between the two houses, like a closed lid. He checked his watch. No rush. He could wait.
Then he couldn't. Anything could happen while he was blind. He got unusually paranoid. He thought Maria would see the advert on the side of the truck and decide she suddenly needed to go buy a cooker. The police would miraculously suddenly discover all the bodies at the swimming pool and arrive here to pick up the wife and kid. The truck's engine would melt and the vehicle would be stuck there for hours.
He slotted his rifle away in the gig bag, but kept the knife. His car was the opposite way, too far to go fetch. He stashed the bag atop a cupboard in a corner and left the pavilion. A quick walk to the cricket ground's perimeter fence took twenty seconds. He hopped over and rushed across the back yard of the house opposite Marsh's, tried to kick a cat that scampered out of his path, and slid the bolt on the gate. He crossed the drive.
He was calm. If Maria saw him coming down her path, she would recognise him and probably meet him at the door. He would tell her he had some good news about the new BMW, and she would invite him in. He would slit her pasty white throat and chase the kid around the house while the woman gurgled and bled to death. He figured another seven minutes and he'd be back in his car, headed away. He had already decided that this would be his last job in London. He was bored of -
Fear hit him. He could see two guys in coveralls. One was in the truck's driver's seat, the other guy standing by the open driver's door, and they were talking fast, and he heard one complain about the keys, he took the effing keys. And the way the truck was haphazardly parked at a slight angle in the middle of the road. . . Right then Einar knew something was wrong.
He rushed to the house and opened the door. He went in without a care for caution, because he already knew the house was empty. Nobody in the living room. He rushed upstairs, and those rooms were empty, too.
Lastly, the kitchen. Empty. Eggs were boiling in a pan on the hob. The back door was open. He stood on the threshold and looked out. The garden was small. There was a lawn with a crazy paving path. The border was soil with some purple flowers growing. A portion of this flowery line was crumpled near the back fence, and ivy on that section of the fence was snapped and hanging loose. The scene was as good as a sign saying WE ESCAPED RIGHT HERE. Einar rushed to the fence and stood on tip-toe to peer over. Beyond he saw a house and garden much like this one, like a reflection. And, most important, a residential street at the end of the driveway. He cursed. Morse's family had realised the danger facing them, somehow, and escaped onto a neighbouring street, from which they could have run anywhere. Somehow? Ha, he thought he knew how.
He turned off the hob in the kitchen, not wanting to let the house burn down, and went out front again. The two guys in coveralls were standing by the front of the truck now, looking bewildered.
"Guy in a dirty white shirt, by any chance?" he asked as he went over. They had no problem explaining it to him, as if they thought he was a police officer. One pointed to a black motorbike on its side on the road a few yards ahead, which Einar had missed earlier.
Yeah, one guy said. A guy in a ruined white shirt had jumped off his bike right in front of them, yanked the driver out of the cab, threatened the driver's mate into inaction, and reversed the truck five metres. Then he jumped out and ran into that house there. You know him? Fucking lunatic's got my ignition keys.
Einar walked away. In part he was angry, because he had been outwitted. Marsh had remembered a few skills from his army days after all. He had known where Einar might place himself to best utilise a sniper rifle, and he had blocked the view, then rescued his family. And all that after somehow escaping that swimming pool.
But in part Einar was thrilled, because he had a new game to play. The hitman known as the Chopper had turned out to be no kind of test at all, a dunce, but this guy Marsh... This guy would be a fun opponent. A real test. Hunting this guy would inject some much-needed excitement into Einar's life.
***
Jimmy took the M1 north, originally planning to drive all the way to Sheffield, where Maria's parents lived. But forty miles into the journey, they came across Toddington Services and Maria slapped his arm and pointed. She gave him a look that said, We need to talk, now. So he took the exit into the Services. He parked the Range Rover, stolen from the street next to where they lived, and killed the engine. They were by a grassy area with a wooden climbing frame shaped like a castle. Kids played there. Louise was in Maria's lap, already kicking her legs to be free, so Maria let her out with an order to stay close to the car. When Louise rushed over to the castle, Maria turned to her husband. She looked at his shirt, still slightly damp, creased, dirty, with blood caked all over it. She wouldn't look at his battered face, he knew. She didn't speak, but he knew he was supposed to explain. Of course he was.
"There's a man after me," he said finally. She wouldn't look at his face and he couldn't bring himself to look at hers. She watched his chest and he watched his little girl performing stunts on the castle. "We can't go home yet."
A pause, then with a snort of disgust: "That's it That's all I get?"
He owed her more, of course. After he had backed up the truck to block the view from the cricket field, figuring that a guy who liked to kill with a long-range rifle would pick that spot, he had rushed into the house like a demon, telling her to follow him, that they had to leave, now, out the back. He had grabbed Louise right out of her arms, taken Maria's hand, and like that they had fled like fugitives.
Out the back, over the fence, across the neighbour's land and into the street parallel to theirs. Maria had followed without a word. Down the street a ways, to where a Range Rover was parked in a drive with the boot open and the engine running. They jumped in and he reversed right out of there, watched by a dumbfounded guy who was in his garage, a box in his hands. And still Maria hadn't spoken to him, instead using the time to try comforting Louise, who didn't seem to mind the sudden change of scenery at all. All he had said since was that they were going to her mother's house.
Now, he didn't know what to say to her. Certainly nothing about a hitman being after them. Definitely nothing about his own role as a contract killer with ten murders under his belt. But he felt that a fiction would be wrong. So he went for a truth that he knew was implausible, as if that somehow made it okay.
"It involves the army. Someone from way back has come after me."
The moment the last word was out, Jimmy realised how bad the story sounded. Some guy he pissed off over a decade ago had decided on revenge? Bad.
But she seemed to accept it.
"You mean your past somehow puts us in danger today? Why? How? Some supervillain is hunting down your old unit and taking them out one at a time? You need to tell me more than that. You just rushed in like a lunatic and dragged us out. I left the cooker on, Jimmy. How serious is this, because we might not have a house when we get back?"
"Let's not talk about the reason for it right now. I don't know the reason myself. I just know some guy came here and he wants revenge for something."
"And how did you find this out while you were at work? Did he hide in the cabbages, ready to jump out, or smash through the cornflakes with a machine gun?"
Okay, she wasn't accepting it at all. "Look, for now, while I think, we can't go back home."
"And you're taking us to my mum's house? What if he knows about that place and he rappels from a helicopter to get us?"
Her sarcasm was suddenly infuriating. He slapped the steering wheel. "Listen, Maria, this is serious. I don't know what's going on, okay. But I know there's a guy after me, and he's fucking dangerous. I watched him shoot a guy dead, okay. And he wants me." He wasn't about to tell her that the guy thought he, James, was dead, and it was Maria and Louise he was after.