by Max China
‘Look! Up ahead,’ Carla said.
At the roadside, the flashing red and blue lights of two patrol cars advertised their presence. Several officers picked out bikers, directing them to pull in.
Further up, two police motorcyclists sat ready to give pursuit, should any rider ignore the request.
They didn’t see Boyle for the rest of the journey.
Nearing the centre of Tangier, Miller looked out for a car park, his navigation assisted by Carla’s new iPhone.
‘Take a left,’ she said, glancing from the device in her palm and then out through the windscreen. ‘Then the next left. You should be able to park about five hundred yards down.’ The maze of side streets they’d wound their way into made her feel safer. ‘The chances of bumping into him in this rabbit warren must be one in a million.’
Miller shook his head slowly.
‘What? What is it you’re shaking your head at?’ she demanded.
‘I was just thinking about how one in a million chances happen one in a million times, that’s all.’
‘You really know how to burst my bubble, don’t you?’
Completely ignoring her last remark, he said, ‘I don’t suppose that thing will find us a seedy Chinese restaurant, will it?’
‘What on earth would you want one of those for? Top restaurants and hotels, maybe, but phooey if you’re planning to eat in some cheap takeaway – you can count me out,’ she said, eyeing the run-down frontage of several shops. ‘What are they? They’ve got Chinese writing on the signs.’
‘That’ll be a start,’ he said. ‘Let’s park up and see what we can find out.’
The inside of the shop smelled of feathers and chickens, old boot leather and something else Miller didn’t even want to think about.
Carla stayed close behind as he manoeuvred through narrow passageways formed by parcels, crates, bales, bottles and jars containing herbs and liquids. It reminded him of a pet shop he once used to visit when he was a boy. His friend kept snakes, and once a week they would go together and buy baby mice to feed to them.
An old woman viewed them suspiciously from beneath a traditional hat. She could have stepped straight from a paddy field. She studied him, chewing on what he imagined was probably a betel nut. She called out something he didn’t understand. A young man in voluminous trousers and a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt appeared. His smooth olive skin retained the plumpness of youth, but Miller guessed he was older. His eyes were almost black. He carried himself easily, nimble as a cat. He measured Miller and the hard look on his face softened when he saw Carla. A half-grin parted fleshy lips and the end of his nose dipped slightly as he spoke.
‘Can I help you?’ he said in perfect English.
Miller explained, establishing a mutual trust quickly, assisted by the exchange of currency.
‘I know someone who can help you, but this thing you ask for, it does not come cheap. You have money?’
‘I can get it,’ said Miller.
‘And this is for you, lady?’
‘Carla. Call me Carla. Yes, it is ... I’ve not had a very good time of it ...’
A harsh look from Miller silenced her.
‘Come with me.’ The young man led them out through the back of the shop into a narrow alley where the stench of rotting food was almost unbearable. They walked a hundred yards before their guide stopped.
‘Wait here,’ he said and, ducking into a doorway, disappeared inside.
A few moments later he re-emerged. ‘You,’ he said pointing to Miller, ‘come with me. There’s a bank, not far away. And Carla,’ – he nodded towards an old man waiting in the shadows – ‘you go with him. He will begin the work while we go for the money.’
Carla glanced at Miller for reassurance: he nodded.
She went inside.
On the way Miller and the young Chinaman struck up a conversation, speaking in low tones.
‘You have a problem with the car. There is a big x-ray machine. Every car goes through. People-smuggling is big from here to Spain. She is Western. Passport for Morocco people is no good. Passport is good for her ...’
‘How do they do it? I mean, it’ll be good enough won’t it?’
The younger man laughed. ‘How does he do it? How do Nigerians empty your bank account with just your passport details? Best to say, don’t know.’
Within an hour of the money being handed over, Carla was the owner of a new British passport.
‘Carla,’ said Miller, ‘we already knew we’d have to be careful, right?’
She shot him a sideways glance. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’
‘On the way back from the bank – and it’s really strange how these things happen – I was thinking of Boyle, and suddenly I saw him. I stopped dead as he cruised by on his motorbike. I’d made some small talk with the Chinaman about your predicament.’ He paused.
‘So, we’re back to me, and not us, now?’ She arched an eyebrow in his direction.
He continued, ‘He was on it straight away, saying, “That’s him, isn’t it?” I didn’t answer. Do you know he offered to fix him for five thousand pounds? I refused, of course. It’s funny what a great deal you can have when you truly don’t want something.’
‘Tell me you haven’t paid him?’ She looked aghast.
‘Don’t worry,’ he grinned, ‘he got all the way down to a thousand pounds, but I told him it’s personal and only then did he leave it.’
‘You haven’t mentioned my hair,’ she said.
‘What about it?’ He’d already realized she’d scraped it back from her face and clipped it.
‘The old man, he suggested I do it. He enhanced the photo in the passport to make it look as if my hair was much shorter. I think I might have it done like that ...’
‘Do me a favour, Carla. You’ve got a psycho-killer after you, we’re about to attempt to get on a ferry, and all you can think of is your hair?’
‘No, actually, you’re wrong about that. I was thinking about why you didn’t just pay the Chinaman. You don’t care about my story; I know you don’t.’
‘Too right I don’t.’
‘And you didn’t come here for me ... So that can only mean what I said before. You’re hoping to kill him.’
They approached the head of the alleyway. Miller held her back, as he looked both ways. ‘Come on, quick, let’s get back to the car.’ He walked briskly. Carla struggled to keep up, her sandals slapping the ground with every hurried step.
After a couple of minutes, she said, ‘Can’t you slow down?’
‘The car’s only over there.’ He nodded to where they’d left it. ‘I’d have thought you’d appreciate the exercise ahead of what you’ve got in store.’
She stopped.
Noticing she wasn’t with him, he turned to look for her. ‘Come on, it’s just another few yards.’
‘What have I got in store?’
‘I’ll tell you once we’re in the car.’ He held the key fob out and unlocked the doors as he approached. ‘Come on, we haven’t got all day.’ He opened the door and got in.
She shrugged, walked the remaining distance, and let herself in at the passenger side. ‘OK, I’m here,’ she said, adding with sarcasm, ‘Please don’t tell me you’re going to use me as bait to lure him into a trap.’
‘You know what, Carla?’ he said, grinning. ‘I hadn’t thought about that. I think I could make that work. Let me see: I come along just too late.’
‘You’d better not, or I’m not doing it.’
He burst into laughter. ‘No, that’s not it.’ He started the engine. ‘You’re going in the boot.’
She fixed him with a hot glare. ‘I’m not getting in there with these clothes on. They’re brand new.’
Miller ignored her muttered protestations as he turned out of the narrow streets, winding his way towards the port.
Chapter 24
The feet of the rider skimmed the road, steadying the motorcycle as he rode slowly among the heaving crowds of peop
le who, looking over their shoulders on hearing the engine’s low growl approaching, made way for him to pass.
On reaching the far side of the market, he turned into a suitably deserted street bounded by a high wall at the opposite end.
After a few moments, satisfied it would be quiet enough for his purposes, he parked the bike and stomped back to where he rode in.
He needed infinite patience but time not on his side, and something had to give. A few moments later, he struck a well-aimed blow behind the ear of a passing tourist and dragged him from the main thoroughfare.
No one seemed to notice.
Boyle set to work immediately behind the screen the motorcycle provided. A casual glance would suggest to to passers-by that he was working on the bike. He quickly stripped the hapless man, who was unfortunate enough to be of a similar build to his attacker. Once all clothes had been swapped, Boyle applied the finishing touches. Cramming the other man’s feet into his beloved cowboy boots, he hung the leather Stetson from its cord around the corpse’s neck. Taking his passport from his kitbag, he slid it into the back pocket of the jeans the man was now wearing. One more item to place on him, then that was it. The final deed.
Although his victim looked nothing like Brooks as a younger man, he projected that image onto him and battered him mercilessly, smashing his face into an unrecognizable pulp. ‘You-fuckin’-lied-about-that!’ His voice kept low and controlled, he punctuated the words with percussive blows as his fist crashed home. ‘What-you-got-to-say-about-it-now-huh?’
At the end of the pummelling, he knew he’d killed him.
He found himself remembering something he’d tried to forget, but that reporter bitch had dredged it all up again.
He was fifteen at the time, already a man. Urges had begun that were not easily satisfied. At first, he hadn’t fully understood them. He’d taken instinctively to masturbation, and when that wasn’t enough to quell the energies that set him ablaze, he took to running.
Something inside him, even at that young age, had told him that one day it wouldn’t be enough.
His father had been gone for days. He couldn’t understand why his mother had taken to sleeping all the time.
She’d passed out. A bottle of pills lay beside her.
Already day had given way to darkness and, watching her, afraid she might be dead, he leaned over her and listened, close to her mouth. Warm, shallow breath wafted into his ear. She seemed to whisper. Something he couldn’t quite make out. Was it an invitation? His cock stirred.
He moved his mouth to her mouth, and he breathed her breath, inhaling it, holding it in like smoke from a cigarette.
He repeated the process, his harelip gently brushing hers.
His hand felt like it no longer belonged to him as it trembled, gently caressing her inner thigh, stroking, lifting her dress, moving higher.
He stopped. If she woke up ... He shook her; her head lolled, and she slid sideways.
‘Mum,’ he said, shaking her again.
As day gave way to night, darkness enveloped his soul.
Drowsily, he’d rolled over onto his back, and then Brooks had banged on the window.
Had he seen? He couldn’t have done.
When he opened the door, Brooks glared at him. ‘What were you doing with your mother just then?’
He couldn’t have seen! From the window he’d looked through the table would have blocked his view.
‘N-nothing. I-I was t-t-trying to wake her.’
Brooks marched past, looked down at her, and picked up the small brown bottle, and read the label. ‘Sleeping pills,’ he said. ‘Come on, boy, we’ve got to make her sick.’
Whether she’d overdosed by accident he never did find out, but his mother never took sleeping pills again; nor did she ever sleep in his presence when they were alone.
Had she known?
What Brooks told that reporter was a lie. He hadn’t seen anything. No one knew about that. The liar! No one ever knew about that.
‘You’re wrong. You think I didn’t know? You filthy little beggar!’
He felt the heat of his mother’s breath as it passed over his lips. He pressed them together to keep it from coming out. It didn’t work.
Pain scorched the back of his eyeballs like invisible thumbs gouging from inside.
‘Nothing happened, you were asleep – you must’ve been dreaming. I swear on your life.’
‘You did that once too often, son, and look where it got me. Inside of you!’
If she had known, why hadn’t she mentioned it before? It was his dad’s fault; if he’d been there, the chance would never have arisen. He was going crazy, and he knew it. What was it he’d read when he was self-educating, trying to make a difference in his life? Those the gods seek to destroy, they first make mad.
Ignoring her voice, he began the task in hand, and made a solemn oath: ‘You’re a dead man, Brooks, spreading your dirty lies.’
He started the bike, hoisted his victim up and over the seat, and got on behind him. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure he remained unobserved, he held his victim upright in place and, accelerating the bike, reverse-leapfrogged just before man and machine smashed into the wall.
He picked himself up from the ground, knowing he had only seconds before people came to investigate the noise. With great difficulty, and in immense pain, he removed the helmet and swung it face first into the hard adobe surface, above the scar the motorcycle had gouged into it. Although the force split the visor in two, it remained fixed by its hinges, either side.
Pulling the dead man’s head forward, he forced the helmet over his bloodied face.
Aware of people gathering behind him he stood up, telling them there wasn't anything he could do. ‘Phone an ambulance,’ he said, and then repeated the request in French. ‘Appelez une ambulance.’
He scanned their faces. They hadn’t seen.
He slipped away, his kitbag held tight under his arm.
Chapter 25
Lieutenant Mohand strode purposefully in the direction of the port. The mobile telephone in his jacket buzzed insistently. Mildly irritated that his train of thought had been disturbed, he fished it from his pocket and answered: ‘Mohand.’
The voice at the other end spoke rapidly.
He listened intently, and then said, ‘Are you sure it is him?’ A bittersweet blend of relief and disappointment left him feeling dissatisfied as his former colleague told him that not only had the motorbike registration matched, but also, the passport found on the body belonged to Boule.
‘Where are you now, Sayeed?’ he said, looking around, checking his bearings. ‘That’s only two streets away ... I can be there in less than five minutes.’
Mohand forced his way through the crowd into the horseshoe-shaped no-man’s-land Sayeed had formed, surrounding the accident. A distant siren blared, the sound getting closer as he took in the scene.
The motorcycle had come to rest on its side; the handlebars had twisted back on themselves. Misshapen and deflated, the front tyre had clearly burst upon impact. Fragments of glass glittered like industrial diamonds, embedded into the adobe surface of the wall by the force of the collision. He imagined the headlight exploding, scattering the shards of glass that now spread over a ten-foot radius, glinting in the sun, forming a rough half-crescent on the ground.
Adjacent to the motorcycle, the body of the man he’d been hunting was kneeling in a grotesque parody of prayer, head pushed up hard against the lower surface of the wall.
Sayeed beckoned him to come closer. ‘What do you think?’
Mohand scratched the back of his head. ‘It looks like suicide. Why else would he be going so fast down a blind alley?’
‘That’s what I thought. It does seem strange to do it in this way though. There’s no guarantee this would have killed him. And if he failed, he would have been crippled … Maybe it was an accident, he thought he could turn ...’
‘No, it doesn’t make sense. Unless he was bein
g chased by someone. This German he killed – he had friends, perhaps?’
Moving around the dead man, Mohand observed the black helmet almost cleaved in two, the visor split apart. He recognized the clothing: the cowboy hat slung from his neck, the matching boots on feet that appeared to have scraped forward towards the head, before coming to rest, legs drawn up into his body – foetus-like, as if knowing he was about to die.
Vaguely aware of the murmuring crowd behind, he squatted, peering in through the gap in the broken visor. Boule’s face was a bloody mess, smashed beyond recognition.
‘Is it him?’ Sayeed asked.
The lieutenant grimaced. ‘I do not think his own mother would recognize him, but he has the clothes, the motorbike, the passport ... Yes, I think it is him.’
Still wailing, an ambulance pulled into the turning, and the crowd parted before it. The two men stood back.
Mohand stepped forward, stopping the ambulance. Something isn’t right. Returning to the body, he crouched to examine the hands. He remembered the day in the shop when he’d first seen him, the pugiliste.
‘Wrath’. The tattoo. This man has no tattoo!
Away from the main thoroughfare, Boyle stood in the shadows of a doorway with his back towards the light, and kneeled on one knee while he rummaged through his kitbag. Removing a canvas roll, he undid the securing strap and unfurled it. Inside was an array of brushes, cosmetics, tweezers, scissors and a small mirror. Taking a razor from a separate bag, he looked at his reflection, and then dragged the blade down between his eyebrows, removing all trace of hair. Next, he tore the top from a sachet containing a surgical wipe and cleansed the top surface of his head, wincing as he rubbed over the dished area at the back of it. Two minutes later, satisfied it was dry, he unwrapped a thick latex skull cap and stretched it tight across his cranium. A white lightning bolt of pain shot through his head emerging through his left eye. He squeezed them both shut.
The skin of his face tautened as he stretched the rubber down so that it sat beneath the protuberance at the base of his skull. The pain was excruciating. March or die. He could take it. He could take anything.