by Max China
Behind him, the scratch and popping flare of a match told him the man had moved in close. Too close. He swivelled round to protest at the smoking, but his voice was snared, choked off by a huge hand that struck at his throat with the speed of a mamba, the other clamping his wrist beneath his clothes, allowing him no time to draw his dagger. He flailed ineffectively, feet scrabbling for purchase on the floor, trying to break the choking grip that crushed his larynx, desperately hoping his daughter would hear the sound of the struggle and flee.
The stranger hoisted him higher and throttled him.
A door creaked open at the rear of the shop. He let his victim drop, lifeless, unfolding in directions he would have found impossible if he were still alive. Stepping across the body, the killer strode rapidly through the shop, and out through the back door.
The hag!
Clad head to foot in black, she ran as fast as the robe would allow.
That’s no old boiler under that get-up! Too quick, too agile ... He started forward, slowly attaining a sprint; he caught her easily, and threw her to the ground. Why didn’t she scream? He realized no one would have heard. He smiled, unbuckled his trousers, and pulled off her burqa. A mystery bag ... and what a lovely surprise! He moistened his lips and tore off the rest of her clothes.
When he’d finished, he gathered her garments and swooped, heaving her body up over his shoulder. He then set about the business of concealing her and the man inside the shop. Filling a bucket with petrol, he poured the contents over the two of them. ‘That’ll teach you to try to rip me off,’ he muttered. By the doorway, he stooped and picked up the attendant’s leather hat, trying it for size. It fitted. Striking a match, he flicked it inside and, turning away, the boom and whoosh of heat scorched his back as he ambled back to the truck.
Moroccan women … I forgot what I’d been missing.
He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine sputtered into life. He floored the accelerator and, wheels screeching, headed into town.
Chapter 3
William Shaw – that was the da’s name, but we all called him Bronco Billy. No good, drunken womanizer he was. Given to disappearing acts, especially when he owed money. Once, he went out for cigarettes – never came back for a year.
The ma, left to bring the boy up on her own, tried making him decent. The old man called him Billy-boy, but her and her sisters called the lad by his middle name, Martin. As he grew older, she realized that her son had more of his da’s ways than hers.
When he was seventeen she died and, with her passing, all hope for the boy went too. After the funeral, he took to calling himself Boyle, after his ma’s maiden name, but not before he fell out with the old man. They say he ran Bronco off the camp and, just to be sure he never came back, he burned down the family home.
Eventually, Boyle showed his face again, challenged me for the bare-knuckle championship and took it from me. Then, just like his da, he disappeared for ten years.
So far as I know, no one ever saw Bronco Billy again.
Archie Brooks
Essaouira, Morocco
Carla stepped out from the hotel into the sunlight, squinting across the car park. She put on her sunglasses.
Although the suitcase was on wheels and weighed only half what it did the day before, Carla found the effort of dragging it around in the heat exhausting. The posters weren’t a problem; she paid a group of street kids to put them up all over the town in prominent positions, giving them half the money upfront with the promise of the balance when she had seen them all posted.
After a short walk through the gardens she exited through a black, intricately-worked iron gate and had barely left the shadow of the hotel when she heard the hollow thud of a foot connecting with a football. She swivelled in the direction of the sound in time to see the spinning black and white orb slicing through the air, followed by a shout of ‘Mo!’
Mo moved half a pace and squared his chest, intercepting the ball. It dropped at his feet. The other boys surged towards him. He stood motionless, impassive, one foot resting on top of the ball – but only for a split second – before darting left, then right, twisting between the other boys – past two, then three – the ball controlled as if linked invisibly to his feet. Switching from one foot to the other, he made it all the way through his opponents, and then stopped abruptly. Turning, he echoed the stance he’d started with and, as the boys rushed him once more, he dazzled them as he wove through the bodies and feet that sought to dispossess him of the ball.
Carla watched him. He’s good. Very good.
Then he saw her. ‘All posters up, lady,’ he said as he approached, holding out his hand. ‘My part of our bargain is finished, now it is your turn, non?’
‘Wait, when I see them all posted ... that was the deal.’
‘I have put all up in the Medina, we will walk to see.’
‘Mohammed,’ she sighed, ‘it’s too hot. I’m going to have to trust you, but what about the rest, outside the traffic-free zone?’
‘OK, is no problem, I call my father for show you the rest.’
‘No, really, I don’t have time …’
Despite her protests, Mohammed called him. ‘He is taxi driver, lady, he take you, you will see. Come,’ he said, taking over the towing of the suitcase. ‘We walk to meet him.’
The taxi arrived within minutes, and the boy quickly loaded the case into the boot and coerced her into the car. They took off on a wild ride around the town as he rattled off facts and figures like a fledgling tour guide, directing his father to where he’d put the posters, to prove they were in place.
Carla took in the architecture. Most of the buildings were dirty-white, occasionally buff or terracotta. Nearly all had doors and shutters painted an intense shade of blue. Arches of every description stood out in relief from the stucco. Decorative ironwork, twisted and scrolled, almost delicate, belied its primary function of securing openings against intrusion. The further from the Medina they travelled the more modern the dwellings became, and the less vibrant the atmosphere as the crowds thinned. I’ll never get used to those blue Coca-Cola awnings.
Mohammed interrupted her musings, pointing at one of the posters stuck to a red ochre wall. ‘What for you put these up?’ Sweat stood out in tiny beads on his forehead.
She wiped her brow, relieved she wasn’t perspiring as much as he was. ‘I’m distributing a book I wrote,’ she said and, seeing him struggle with the longest word, rephrased it. ‘In my bag, I have books from the poster. I give to shops to sell for me.’
‘I sell for you,’ he announced proudly.
‘No, Mohammed, it’s something called sale or return.’ She knew she’d probably have to sweeten many deals, the same as the day before, with a retainer to persuade the owners to stock them, initially two per shop. ‘Only I can do it.’
After she’d been returned to the Medina and she’d paid for her trip, the boy, ever looking to expand his enterprise, offered to help her distribute the contents of the suitcase by towing it round for her. She was wishing she’d taken him up on the offer, but then thought about his incessant chatter and was glad she’d promised him a retainer to be paid each morning to stay away. ‘But keep an eye out for me,’ she said, softening the rejection with a smile.
His small white teeth flashed as he grinned, and deep laughter lines formed in the otherwise smooth skin at the corners of his eyes. ‘Beautiful lady,’ he said, looking most sincere. ‘This I do. For me, I want nothing … for my brothers and sisters; I do for very small price.’
‘Thank you, Mohammed,’ she said, counting out and paying him the money she owed, adding a small amount on top.
He stood watching her as she hauled the case into the first randomly selected shop of the day.
By noon, she was perspiring freely. People were complaining of the unusual heat so late in the year. She wiped her face and hands with a moist tissue she took out of a sachet, and sprayed herself with a little cologne. The last shop had a spinning ra
ck outside, packed full with books. Taking two from the display, she went inside to pay. By the time she left, two of her own books had replaced them in the revolving stand. She wondered how long it would take Boyle – if he were there – to see the posters and seek out the book.
It was the poster that caught his eye first, and then her photograph. With a very long memory, and the ability to recall the smallest detail at will, he knew who she was straight away. The flyer displayed the title: The Life and Times of William Boule.
He shook his head at the image. That don’t look like me, but she’s used your old Foreign Legion name ... how did she find that out? He wanted to scream, to vent his fury. He growled low in his chest and reached for the bottom edge, which had come unstuck. About to rip it down, he glanced over his shoulder. There were too many people around to display his anger immediately. He calmed himself. Why would she write a book about me? He considered the question further. I’ll not have her trying to make a profit out of me.
Across the dusty street, he noticed a store with a rack of books on display. This close to the poster, the shop would surely have a copy. Lighting a cigarette, he drew hard and deep; the end glowed orange, turning a pale, acetylene yellow inside and, sucking in another huge draw, he stomped over the road to the shop.
He recognized the miniature poster image from twenty yards away. With two copies facing outwards in the rack, he couldn’t miss them. Underneath the awning, somewhat shaded, his eyes took a moment to adjust. He couldn’t see anyone looking, but he felt the stare of someone watching from the shadows. For a brief moment he considered stealing the book, but then decided against it. The leather Stetson felt tight. Either it had shrunk, or his head had swelled in the heat. That little bitch fucked your head up good and proper. ‘And you don’t think I know that? Stay out of my face!’ he snapped, grimacing. Taking the book from the rack, he went inside.
In the shop’s relative gloom, he made out the outline of two people. His eyes adjusted. One was a police officer. Both men regarded him coolly, continuing their conversation as he held out the book. The officer’s gaze scoured his face, taking in his Colonel Custer moustache, and broken features. Nothing was said throughout long-stretched seconds while the shopkeeper took the book, put it into a bag, and announced the price. Without taking his eyes from the officer, he reached into his pocket and placed a handful of money on the counter. ‘Enough?’ he said.
‘You,’ the policeman said, ‘you pugiliste?’
He drew his fist up and held it at his chin in a classic boxer’s pose. ‘Yes,’ he said, adding, ‘I was ... once.’
Leaning forwards to inspect the tattooed knuckles the other man read them aloud, hesitant as he enunciated each letter, spelling out the word. ‘W-R-A-T-H,’ he said. ‘Your name?’
‘Oui,’ he agreed and, taking his change, left the store.
Further down the street, on his way back to the hotel, he spotted a pair of elaborately embossed, down-at-heel cowboy boots with a price tag on them, outside a bric-a-brac shop.
Minutes later he was clomping down the street, kicking up dust. With his new footwear, leather Stetson, jeans and lumberjack-style shirt, Custer moustache and long yellow hair, he looked like an outlaw on the run.
Back in his room at a rundown hotel, he flopped down onto the bed without removing any of his clothes. Stretching to his full length, he caught a whiff of his own stale sweat. He’d share that with someone later. He loved to share. A grin stretched his lips and pulled painfully on his harelip scar. He removed the book from its packaging and folded the outer cover back on itself.
Opening the first page, he read what Brooks had said about him. Is that fuckin’ so, Archie? We’ll see who’s right or not soon enough. As he turned the page a waft of perfume found his olfactory senses and stimulated thoughts in him. He imagined it was the author’s perfume, but it couldn’t be. More than likely it was the whiff of a rich German tourist; they got in everywhere, and he’d met one or two, albeit briefly. No, it wasn’t the scent of a German woman; he found no connections there. He sniffed again.
The fragrance was fresh. Today’s? Maybe even from just a couple of hours ago. He toyed with himself, focusing on the journalist’s photo; tantalizing scents coming from the book’s edges aroused him, driving him almost crazy. He licked the glossy image of her face. The tang of perfume spread over his tongue, setting fire to his loins. Then he froze.
Why the fuck is a book about me being marketed in this flyblown place? He put it down, swung his legs off the bed and walked to the window, opening it. The sounds outside mingled with the dust and choking traffic fumes. A whole host of other smells came through, joining the assault on his senses. Lighting a cigarette, he blew a dense plume of smoke with enough force to project it some two and a half feet out, before it was taken upwards and away from the building by warmer currents of air. ‘Does she know you’re here, Willy boy?’ he said, and then, flicking the cigarette end outwards, hard enough to shower sparks, he grabbed his keys and left the room. He drove to the next town along ... to see how many posters of him had been put up there.
Coming this far south reminded him of how he had once visited the sites of some of the old forts the Foreign Legion had abandoned. Not normally one for history, he had absorbed some of the fighting spirit of those men who’d gone before, fought to the last drop ... The visits helped him in some way when he returned to England. His mother had said the only influences he’d come back with were those of the criminal element. He’d scoffed at her. Some of them were the bravest men anyone could meet. They didn’t care, see, Mum, they had nothing to lose.
Arriving in Ghazoua, he looked out for the posters. There were none. His instincts told him he there wouldn’t be any more, anywhere else.
Whoever had put them up knew he was in Essaouira, and they were nothing to do with Interpol.
He grinned wolfishly. She’s still here.
Chapter 4
Always a cautious man, he returned to his room, collected his meagre belongings and checked out from where he was staying.
After a short drive he rented a room in another fleapit on the outskirts of Mogador. Dumping his kitbag on the stained carpet, he reclined on the bed with the book, and delicately traced the full lips on the back-cover photograph with the tip of his finger. A faraway memory sprang into life ... the passing of a video tape to her, outside the offices of a Sunday newspaper well known for its salacious and scandalous articles.
Back then, she had no part to play in his plans other than drawing attention to an identity he was about to leave behind. His mind wandered through various abduction scenarios. He would see her at a busy market and trail her down the quieter streets as she browsed. Clothes and jewellery – that’s what she’d be into, he decided. His fantasy shifted. In it, he ran a stall and sat in the shade with his legs stretched out, feet tucked into his newly acquired cowboy boots. He’d watch her from under the brim of his hat as she held up a range of fine cotton dresses.
‘Can I try this one?’ she’d ask, and he’d direct her into the back of his walk-in transporter van. Closing the rear doors for her privacy, she’d start stripping off, and he’d watch for a bit through a secret spyhole. Then, after silently locking the back doors, he’d jump in and drive her off somewhere.
He’d make her love him, just as he had Kathy.
Kathy. He hadn’t meant to think of Kathy. She was gone; he knew that. Those people would have got inside her head and turned her against him. With all the precision his videographic memory allowed, he recalled how he’d taken her that night. She was so stoned it was easy, and her innocence had touched him in a way no other before had ... and she’d responded to him.
She’d kissed him, her tongue mingling with his, twisting her mouth against his, and she’d asked him blearily, ‘Who are you?’
He’d told her he was her new husband, that it was their wedding night and in her far-out state she’d nodded acceptance and received him in all his glory ... He arched his back
as he spent himself with perfect timing.
Afterwards, he dwelt on Miller. You’re going to pay for that, Miller. Just as soon as I get fixed up, I’ll find a way. He cleaned himself up, and settled down to read the book.
People who shouldn’t have had been talking about him. No fuckin’ loyalty. He wondered if she’d spoken to the Flynns. She’d talked to his aunts about the bad influence his father was.
With a dad like that he never stood a chance; lying, thieving, work-shy – and he was a pervert to boot. His mother did her best to save Martin, but it was too late. He’d walked in the darkness and he liked it. While she was alive, he never strayed too far over the line, that we know of, though there was an incident with a girl when he was younger. Something happened, but it was all glossed over. Apparently, one of the Flynn girls caught him peeping in through a window at her undressing, but he had some excuse ... he was looking for his lost cat, and he’d heard it meowing ...
Looking back and seeing the excuse on paper made him realize how lame it was. Things he hadn’t thought about in a long time found their way to the surface. Mary Flynn. She used to drive him crazy with those hot pants she always wore – and he’d actually loved her. They’d go off together into the woods. He’d recite passages by Hollywood actors and have her compare his voice to tapes he’d made of them, played back on an old tinny cassette player. Then they’d fuck. He loved to bite her lips. She wasn’t so keen. His lips thinned, as close to a fond smile as he’d ever been. But the old man fucked things up for him because he’d had to go back to get rid of him and, afterwards, he’d had to burn the caravan down.