by Jason Vanez
***
Jimmy decided to tell her the truth.
The Carters were throwing yet another barbeque, and this time they invited their new neighbours. Earlier, they had introduced themselves and been invited inside the Carter cottage for a chat. The story they told was that they had time off work and wanted to spend a couple of days seeing the cottage they were thinking of buying. Elsa and David Carter were, indeed, barristers, just as Jimmy had thought. Elsa grew sick of London because she saw in it nothing but the bad people, who she spent her working days around. David was trying to write a novel and thought a remote home might serve him well in that respect. They had owned the place for five years, but lived here full-time only nine months. The kids loved it. Jon and Mark loved the open land because they got to ride their buggies instead of hanging around on street corners. And what toddlers wouldn't prefer such open spaces over cramped streets?
Granddad Carter hauled out his portable barbeque and set it up in front of the cottage. Chairs were arranged and everyone sat to eat. The weather was mild, but the barbeque threw nice warmth upon them. The kids ran riot as the sun sank low, disappearing behind the trees, and the teenagers got themselves greasy on sausages and motor oil as they ate and fiddled with the engines of the sport buggies. Jimmy and Louise ate as much chicken and beef as they could, but Maria hardly touched any. She kept mostly to herself even while standing right next to people. They knew something was off, but Jimmy, overhearing snippets of other conversations, got the impression they were putting it down to marital problems. He was fine with this, because nobody really wants to get involved in someone's relationship in case their advice makes things worse. He was asked about it by David, but shrugged it off, and David didn't push it.
Maria went into the cottage to use the toilet after her fourth glass of wine and Jimmy followed her. Louise was having fun with the other kids as the teenagers pushed them around in one of the Baja sport buggies. Once the bossier kids had commandeered the two seats, the others clung onto the frame, sat on the bonnet, and draped over the back. Round the lot they went, push-power, screaming as if they were racing around at top speed. He decided she'd be fine for a few minutes and caught Maria as she was exiting the bathroom.
"It's about time you knew," he said, putting an arm against the wall to block her path. She veered into the main bedroom and sat at the old vanity table. She stared at him in the mirror as she fiddled with a bowl of cheap jewellery, trying pieces against her ears and throat.
"Today, then," she said sternly. Jimmy leaned against the wall. Somehow facing her reflection seemed easier, as if the glass could filter some of the anger in her gaze.
Ten different start points popped into his mind. But he knew there were only two different ways he could do this. Slow build up, like a runaway train beginning to roll downhill. Or immediate punch and subsequently slowing of pace, like a bullet fired from a gun. He chose the latter, because the build-up would involve steadily admitting more and more, watching her reaction become more and more shocked. Better, he figured, to get the worst of it right out the way, so that nothing he said afterwards could have quite the same impact.
"Today," she said again.
"I've killed people for money," he blurted. Then added, "I'm a contract killer," as if applying a title somehow made it more acceptable.
He expected her to laugh, but she didn't. She slapped her glass onto the table hard enough to splash red wine like blood up the mirror. But it wasn't anger at his revelation, more that she thought he was playing around.
"It's true, Maria. I'm a killer for hire and so is the man after us, the one you thought was called Ronald. And his name won't be Ronald. He came to our house with a false name. He's after me, he wants to kill me, and I don't know why, but it might have something to do with my being a killer. Although as far as I know, no one knows what I do."
She stared at him in the glass until he looked away. That looking away seemed to finally convince her. She turned to him on the swivelling chair. "I want to think you've just made that shit up, Jimmy. I want to think you have delusions of grandeur. But in my mind I can recall all the times you came home late, or went out late. I knew it wasn't another woman, so I didn't bother too much. Guys have their things, maybe that's what I thought. Why don't you tell me everything and we'll see what happens at the end of it. At the minute I don't know what to think. So sit on that bed and tell me everything. Right now. Sit."
So Jimmy sat, and twenty minutes later she knew everything. For a couple more she didn't speak. She just turned back to the mirror and started applying unnecessary foundation to her neck. Then:
"So the other night, then. A burglary at the supermarket, you said. Out all evening. Didn't get back home until after three in the morning. No burglary at all. You were slaughtering some innocent man."
Alfo wasn't innocent, he wanted to tell her. The guy was a lowlife, a career criminal. A killer. But he didn't. He just gave a slight nod and left it at that.
She took a deep breath and shuddered as if cold. "It's late. Go get Louise and put her down for the night. Sleep downstairs, don't come up. The wine is affecting rational thought. I'll speak to you in the morning."
He didn't object. Her response wasn't a dream come true, but it could have been a lot worse, and for that he knew he had to be thankful. So he went out and called in their daughter. She objected to being put to bed throughout the whole of the first story he made up for her, but fell asleep just a sentence into the second. When he turned to leave her room, Maria was standing in the doorway.
They moved into the hallway, he shut the door, and she said, "It does us no good for me to mope around all night. We need to sort this problem out. What do you think you need to do?"
I need to find out who this guy is, the one who wanted to pay me. The one who's paying this other killer."
"And you want to do what when you find him? Kill him as well?"
He didn't answer that. She didn't push it.
"So what's your plan?"
Initially it had been to talk to the man whose number he had in his head, the employer. But he had tried that number earlier. What he would say to the man he didn't know, but it hadn't mattered because the number was disconnected. A one-time thing. A second idea had occurred even before he got the tone telling him that number was defunct.
"The guy who got me the first contract-"
"Stop saying contract," she spat. "You commit crimes for money, just like someone who holds up a post office."
"His name's Davey. He'll know something, maybe even who this guy is. I need to go back to London and talk to him."
She nodded. "I'm going to sleep. You stay downstairs, like I said. Go off on your adventure tomorrow and don't wake me. Louise and me will stay right here."
Like a shot she went into the bedroom and shut the door. Jimmy had no choice but to hit the sofa and try for some sleep. He tried to think about how he would approach Davey. But his mind wouldn't shift from what Maria had said about committing crimes for money. Some people might look upon the contract killer as something ethereal, majestic, but the reality was no different from what she had said. He committed crimes for money, and not a lot of money. Was he any different from some thug who battered to death an old man in his house for a wallet of notes? That was the question that kept him awake all night, staring at the moonlight slicing a gap between the living room curtains.
***
Sweet as his luck was going, when Einar parked outside Inkwell Court and got out, the first thing he heard was chatter between two guys leaning against a battered Vauxhall Corsa with tinted windows. He heard the word DAVEY and dropped his keys so he could remain for a few seconds and listen. Bent down slowly, pretending he had a bad left leg. Stood up slowly, put his keys in his pocket, and went for the entrance, where he was to meet Farquhar, a man with a posh-sounding name and a body that belied this. Farquhar was by the entrance, where he had said he would be. Farquhar was a Scottish former police officer who had been kicked
out of the service because he enjoyed beating suspects. Now jobless, he had a lot more time on his hands for dishing out pain. The Paymaster had offered Einar Farquhar's talents and Einar had agreed, because he knew this man Davey might not be willing to give up what he knew. Einar had killed many people in many ways, but he had never tortured someone for information. Truth be told, he didn't think he had it in him to inflict pain and suffering upon a person who was incapacitated. Men like Farquhar were animals in his view. But necessary sometimes.
"This Davey chap, I just learned, just got home this morning after a stint in a police cell. He's up there right now, hiding out from his neighbours because he was caught with a prostitute and some dope. He's waiting for his solicitor to come."
Farquhar grunted something that sounded like "Okay."
"So hopefully that's what I look like. His solicitor. And maybe you look like my assistant."
A grunt and a nod this time.
"What do you think of the idea to make marriage more equal by adding mothers' names to the registers?"
Farquhar just looked at him. "Let's go," Einar said.
They took the stairs to the floor they needed and walked to the flat. There was a kid on a pushbike riding slowly towards them, centre of the deck, unwilling to move. Some kind of power game, even at that age? Einar was appalled. This kid would end up in prison if he wasn't shown that he had betters in the world. So Einar kept to the centre and made the kid swerve. He got called a "Nigger" and laughed as Farquhar chased the kid, shouting his own insults. Then he got back on track and they approached the address given him by the Paymaster.
He knocked. Used a hand to slowly push Farquhar aside. The blinds over the window shifted and a face peeked out then vanished. Einar waited, but nobody came to the door.
He had tuned out the noises earlier, but now he concentrated on them. From all around him, the sounds of life. Car engines revving, kids shouting, adults shouting. Some TV, some radio, some clanging as someone...did whatever. A cacophony that would drive a man like Einar crazy in a day, but which was probably just a natural soundtrack to a run-down estate like this. He knew a door crashing open would not perk anyone's interest. So he told Farquhar to smash it open.
"Hey, no, I'm coming," came a shout from within. From right behind the window, Einar thought. Davey must have remained close, hoping to hear what his two strange visitors said. A few seconds later the door opened. And a straggly little man stood there in bare legs, in a football shirt that made him look like a kid wearing his dad's clothing.
"Mr. Allerby, I'm -"
Einar had created a fiction to use today in order to get access to the flat. It was something he liked to do, maybe just to test his ability to trick people, prove his brain was better than theirs. Sometimes he used fiction to achieve something that a physical act would accomplish quicker, easier. He didn't know for sure. He had been perfectly willing to stand outside this door for five minutes in order to persuade Davey to invite him in. But Farquhar stepped up and head butted the man right in the chest, knocking him back and following him inside the hallway. For a moment Einar was annoyed that his plan had been cut short, then he cast away his annoyance. At least this had saved time. So he stepped inside the flat and shut the door.
***
At first Maria didn't want to talk, so Jimmy showered and dressed in the same clothing he'd been wearing yesterday. He grabbed the keys to the Range Rover and was halfway to the car when Maria appeared at the door, calling him back. Maybe she feared she'd never see him again. Maybe she feared that his mind wouldn't be alert if he went with a feeling of bad blood between them. He didn't know. He just accepted the hug and kiss, and returned the claim of "I love you, take care" that she spoke. Then he got in the car and drove.
Maria had told him that the killer drove a white Audi. He was glad of the heads-up at first, but not once he got to London. White Audis seemed to be the fad of the day. He knew it was his brain registering only that type of car, but he could swear every third driver owned one.
He drove the city that he knew he might never again call home, going nowhere in particular, delaying the trip to Davey's. He stopped to use a cash machine in an area of London that meant nothing to him and which he quickly left, so didn't worry about the card being traced. He bought a cheap new pay-as-you go mobile to replace the one discarded in the hotel room, then drove aimlessly some more. It was almost a shock to find himself on his own estate. Habit, maybe, because so often he drove home. He drew up on his own street and was surprised to find everything inert, normal. Had he expected miles of crime scene tape around him home? No home at all but a pile of burned rubble?
He didn't want to enter, yet had to. Didn't know why. To make sure it was empty? He got out and approached, tense the whole way in case a bullet rang out. But the killer would have to be pretty dumb to expect him to go home after all that had happened. Or smart - Jimmy was right here, wasn't he?
He decided to do this quickly. As well as the killer, there was a neighbour to worry about. He was driving a car he stole just one street over and it had surely been reported by now.
That gave him an idea. His wife's Mondeo was here. He would get the keys and take that one. The killer would never expect it.
Inside, he found everything normal. Nothing trashed, nothing stolen. Just like home, although it didn't feel like home. Home was a place of safety. There was no sense of safety here. Quickly Jimmy grabbed his holdall from the floor of a cupboard and filled it with a few tins of food and clothing for Maria and Louise. He got changed into plain black tracksuit bottoms and a bland purple pullover. Training shoes completed the transformation. Clothing he could wear comfortably for days if necessary. He slipped on a padded bomber jacket and stuffed a beanie hat in the pocket. A baseball cap went onto his head.
The living room phone was flashing a light at him. Messages. Probably work, wondering where the hell he was. He ignored the phone and stood in the living room, trying to think of what else he could take. There was no money in the house, but there was jewellery upstairs. He went and grabbed a pocketful. Thought some more. But time was wasting. Jimmy left, started his wife's Mondeo and drove away. He had left the keys to the Range Rover in the ignition. Maybe someone else would steal it and get the blame.
He drove into the Chapel View area and onto the road that sliced through the twin rows of housing blocks that contained Inkwell Court. There was a Co Op store here and he slotted the Ford into one of the parking spaces. Sat staring down the road. Inkwell Court was eighty metres away. There was an old Corsa at the kerb with two youths leaned against it, wasting their lives. And in front, a flash white Audi. Probably the twentieth white Audi he had seen since returning to London, and there weren't twenty killers after him. So at least nineteen times he had feared the worst erroneously. And this was doubtless one of them.
Jimmy exited and went into the Co Op. He bought and ate an energy bar and gave the checkout girl the empty wrapper to scan. Then he walked slowly outside, jacket zipped, cap's peak pulled low. No activity from Inkwell Court. He scanned the floors and saw nothing that concerned him. Thought he could see the top of Davey's blue door over the concrete wall. Nothing untoward there, either.
Jimmy already felt exposed, even though the street was thriving with people going this way and that and minding their own business. He decided to get this done and dusted. In and out, quick as possible.
***
Einar sat on the old sofa and watched. Davey was in a plastic chair taken from the kitchen. His ankles were tied to the legs, while his arms were behind his back, also tied. Farquhar had used lengths of a washing line found wrapped in a ball in a kitchen drawer. While Farquhar was tying him down, neither he nor Einar had even spoken. Einar supposed that might make the event more scary in ways. Maybe it was harder on the mind when you didn't know why bad men were doing things to you. He didn't know, he'd never been in Davey's situation.
Davey had fallen silent, too. He had screamed a hundred times, asking w
hat they wanted, why they were doing this. But the lack of answers had convinced him his questions were a waste of time. So he took the vicious beating Farquhar doled out while Einar made a cup of tea. Took most of it in silence, apart from grunts of pain. And now he waited, his expression slack, his body limp, which had made it easier for Farquhar to tie him up. Now done, Farquhar stepped back. Davey's head was hung. His face was a battered mess, ribs, too.
"Davey," Einar said. The man looked up. Einar crossed his legs, placed one arm across the back of the sofa. He thought it looked like the pose of an important businessman. "Davey, here's how it's going to happen. I have a number of questions. Farquhar here has, besides an incongruous name for that Rottweiler face of his, a number of torture items. Do you understand?"
Davey nodded.
"Good. That's all you need to know. Now, you might be wondering, as I am, what Farquhar has upon him. Because he hasn't brought a bag."
Farquhar looked at Einar with a grin. Einar raised his eyebrows. The part about the bag had been an afterthought, because Einar had just realised that the man seemed to have shown up without bringing anything. It was his way of getting Farquhar to speak. He didn't.
"Show him," Einar pressed. And me.
Farquhar made a great show of producing two items, like a magician displaying the tools with which to wow and confuse. A clamshell mobile phone and a simple potato peeler. Einar tried to hide his disappointment. But the Paymaster had said Farquhar knew his stuff.
Farquhar got into his phone. Einar heard something from it, but the sound was too quiet to make the soundtrack sound like anything other than white noise. Farquhar knelt before Davey and showed him the phone. Davey watched for a few seconds and turned his head away.
"Come on, man, just ask what you want," Davey said, his voice dripping with terror. "I ain't gonna lie. I ain't gonna hold back."
Farquhar twisted Davey's head, making him watch more of whatever was on the phone. Davey closed his eyes. Farquhar stepped away.
Einar was dying to see what was on the phone so held out his hand. Farquhar was happy to oblige. Einar watched with disgust. A hand obviously belonging to Farquhar was using the potato peeler - the very same one - to work on the head of a man who was tied to a chair. Other hands held the man's head steady as, in glorious close-up, Farquhar's tool peeled away the skin from the face, just like with a giant potato. The man was screaming - that had been the noise. Blood ran. Now and then portions of thick skin and flesh caught in the blade and Farquhar's other hand moved into the shot to pick them out. Einar wondered who was holding the phone to film this torture. It was all very gruesome and he wasn't surprised that Farquhar got results by showing what he could do without having to do it.