I used my wet shirt to dab the blood from my scalp and face and threw it onto my bed for later, I pulled on some dark jeans and plucked a clean black T-shirt from a drawer. It would hide any new blood stains. As I pulled it over my head stained glass fell from my hair. All of my clothes occupy one chest of drawers and four hangers in the built in closet in my room. Clothes are functional, I am often bemused by the colours, designs and flourished appendages I see men strutting around in, like cocks, heads bobbing back and forwards on thin collar bound necks, chests out and guts in. Their clothes shout messages: of money, inadequacy, insecurity and conformity, but I never listen. I wear plain, practical and durable, leave colours to women, poets and nature.
The fresh clothes felt good against my tired, clammy skin. A shower would have to wait. I did not have long. I moved purposefully around the sparse furnishings, reached inside the walk-in closet and grabbed the military issue carry bag, removed two crossbows and sat them on the thick wooden posts of my headboard. I then shucked out a coil of high tensile cable and a much thinner trip wire. I ran the cable around the crossbows triggers and tethered both loose ends to a near invisible trip that I ran just beyond the arc of my door.
I tested the tension by running my finger and thumb either side of both cables, the length of its course, and when I was happy, seated two barbed bolts in the bow’s housing, and cocked them both.
I filled the remaining minute by loading some more essentials into my bag, bread and small twist bags of dried fruit, clothes, weapons, remaining credits (less the driver’s cut), ID and water.
I grabbed my now pink and soaked shirt from the bed and used it to remove the bulb. The wet cloth sizzled on the heated glass. The room went darker.
A dull morning hue percolated through the curtains throwing wan light over my place and belongings. It looked like it was frozen in amber. I took a large, exaggerated step over the trip wire, carefully squeezed through the door, pulled it to and left the building. I would return to check the trap tomorrow.
I left via a fire exit on a landing of the floor below, pushed it gently closed then cut into the alley that ran adjacent to the apartment block then climbed a high, barbed fence into another alley that ran at ninety degrees to that. At the alley’s end I climbed an external set of stairs, jumped the rail halfway up onto a set of low outhouses and pulled myself up onto the larger building’s flat roof, checking the skies for anything or anyone as I did. I got up from my stomach into a crouching run, skirting back the way I had come to the roof’s edge, crawled under a hooded vent and looked over the low-walled gable to the street below. I was fifty yards away, had a perfect view of my own front door and was hidden from anyone approaching from above. I felt cold, the warmth of Pan’s whisky and robes a million miles away.
I set my mental clock for one hour then hunkered down in observation mode, resolutely scanning the milling pedestrians below whilst taking every care not to let a single part of my body protrude from cover. I allowed my mind to wander as I watched, highly attuned to the rhythm and personnel of the area, aware that any deviation from the norm would register, and I would be in motion.
I thought first of the danger I had placed Doc in, but knew that to go to him right now would only serve to jeopardise his safety and life further. I felt like I had escaped from more than just captivity, the flush and grab manoeuvre they had used was military in execution and was not meant to take me unharmed. They had not been playing or manipulating me this time. There was a directness that made things much more sinister. Despite what Doc had said, I had underestimated them. I would not do it again.
I then remembered what he had said and tried to empty my head of preconceptions and motives. This trouble was not something I could anticipate as I had no idea of its origins or who was propelling it forward. I could only prepare and react.
That was all a good soldier did anyway.
My breathing slowed and I felt a deep exhaustion trying to settle into my body. I was low on reserves and, worse than that, anxious that I did not have another fight left in me. I could not afford to get caught again. I shook my head and resolve awake and ate the bread quickly, in big uncomfortable swallows then washed it down with some water. The dried fruit followed.
The rain fell heavier now, fat drops hopped and pinged from the metal vent canopy and started to run along the cambered roof where I was prone. I ignored the damp spreading across my elbows, knees and stomach and started to think of Pan.
I tried to think of her objectively and leave sentiment and vitriol to one side. Her austere beauty made her unapproachable, not because of any inherent sternness, but because any man making a league table assessment of her would always find themselves coming up short. It was not a cold beauty either; it burned warmly so that men would always throng to her and yet contradictorily it would instil in them doubt that they would ever have a chance.
It was the kind of face that made you forget the beginning of a sentence and the limits to your talents.
I had almost allowed myself to like her, in spite of the backstabbing, the profession she had chosen, in spite of the circumstances. Like a painting behind glass: the scratches, textures, swirls and eddies of oils, the ridges and points of the pallet knife’s embossing, all visible and tantalising, I wanted to reach out to touch them. But they would always be a fraction away, perfection caught behind the gloss, glass and veneer. She was untouchable, strong, independent and selfish. I realised I wanted to save her and that she would never allow that. That that was one of the things that made her different, that made her Pan. And I had never met another woman like that.
Like me.
*
After what must have been a couple of hours I woke up with such a start, that I banged my head on the metal canopy. I could see no signs of anyone near my front door or moving in the apartment building so I rolled out from under the vent, brushed the worst of the gravel and water off and made my way back down to the alley. Two hours was long enough, if they were not here by now, they never would be. Besides, it was impossible to conduct any kind of successful stakeout through closed eyelids. I was certain I hadn’t missed anything or anyone, but still took the precautionary measure of leaving by an alley that ran out onto a different street. I craved sleep and warmth, a deep rooted, bone-screaming ache permeated my very core and I sought out an anonymous taxi that sped me to one of the Lowlands seedy motels, where people in my state do not get a second glance.
The man at the desk did not even give me a first glance. He accepted my credits, selected one of the many keys still hanging in the key-safe and grunted something about the vending machine being broken, and that if I wanted company, he knew a man...
In the Lowlands, everyone knows a man.
When I got into my room, I did not undress. I dropped my bag on the floor and it was not until I had cocked my crossbow and tied another trip wire from the door handle to a glass on my bedside table, that I fell on the bed and succumbed. My entire body sighed into the mattress.
As I drifted away I realised I had been thinking about Pan in the past tense, and the last thought that carried me over the precipice into the abyss of total slumber was neither sentimental or vitriolic.
Just as well, I thought.
Experience is ignoring that secret voice in your head just after it has said ‘fuck it’.
The Wrong End Of The Whip.
Madame Ouzio
CHAPTER 38
Her jaw ached.
Pan had had one of the worse nights of her life and, in the grand scheme of losers and abusers that had passed through her door and ruined her night, that was some accolade. She kept replaying the Angelbrawl Arena fight, how she had seen Drake almost overcome the odds, and then go down, still swinging. That was partly for me, she thought. Since that moment she was regretting her choices but seemed stuck on the tracks regardless. She could have told him, but at what price? He might have discarded her, or worse. Or, if he had just let her go, then the faceless goons who had hire
d her could be the next through the door, and her life would be over anyway.
In a way, she had done nothing, just be where she was supposed to be and do as she was told. It sounded like the CV for the last ten years of her life.
It gave her little comfort.
She cursed herself and her own stupidity and refused to acknowledge the guilt pulling at her conscious thoughts.
She made herself busy, got the windows boarded up.
The Mudheads had come and gone quickly enough. She had said some random had gone berserk in reception then come upstairs to get it on and that she had stayed in the kitchen whilst a fight between rival gangs unfurled. The police, like most men, liked to believe in male superiority, and when she demurred or deferred, they only saw it as confirmation of a pretty woman’s subordination. Pan pleading helplessness was all too easily believed. Besides, no-one cared about a fight in a whore’s apartment or a dead, fifty-something ex-junkie receptionist with wonky teeth.
She had played her role well, batted her eyelashes, and they had played theirs by being full of machismo and sadly predictable. They even moved one of the unconscious goons from her hall like they were doing her a favour. They left soon after.
Case closed.
Jacques-Yassar, her pimp, had called her earlier saying how important it was to get ‘straight back on the horse’, and that her recent night 'off the books' was causing a backlog and resentment among the other girls. He expected her ready tomorrow, or he would have to pay a personal visit to check on her welfare. The last one of Pan’s colleagues who had had a check on her wellbeing by Jacques-Yassar, had ended up never working, or walking again.
‘I’ll be ready’.
‘Good girl’.
‘Jay Yay, can I have someone straight forward? I’m not looking good and…’
‘I got just the job. Real classy. Real, real classy. Paying top whack too. I know there’s not normally no difference between rich and poor uns, in needs, wants or perversions, but at least their cocks usually taste of more expensive soap.’
‘Anything else?’ Pan said in a dead tone.
He was quiet for a while and then hung up the phone.
She had understood.
She removed her shoes and clothes and placed them in a laundry basket in a small cupboard opposite the front door that housed brushes, cleaning fluids and other cleaning equipment. She slid the concertina door closed and in her underwear, walked through her flat, stopping to get a small glass of water to take to bed. She looked at the boarded up window at the end of her landing as she moved from her kitchen to her bedroom.
The seraphim was long gone. The significance of that was not lost on her.
As a girl she had thought that guardian angels were real, that everyone had one; someone who would swoop in to rescue her when things looked bad or lost. She looked at the thin wooden ply hammered into the window frame and choked back a tear.
Me? A guardian angel?
She walked to her bed and placed the glass on the bedside table. She folded her arms and looked outside into the wet morning beyond. The rain washed down and made everything shine outside, pavements reflected twisted neon and steel, occasional cars plumed mists as they went, people hunched over and hurried about their business anxious to get work on time or get somewhere dry.
The hitching in her breath came slow at first, then fell the tears. Once started they did not stop.
Not even in sleep.
Satisfaction is not always bound to answers, yet it is often found in the journey we take to ask the questions.
Enigmatisms
Zuri The Great
CHAPTER 39
‘Don’t forget the bread,’ said Loopes into the drizzle.
‘Will you stop banging on about loaves?’ said Bronagh.
‘Look we don’t dock often, especially here at Kitchna’s Market, and I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget. That’s all.’
‘How could I forget when you keep bringing it up at every fart’s end?’
‘Yeah well, time up in the balloon can make a man mean, and you’re meaner than most, Bronagh, and you know it. I wouldn’t put it past you to deliberately forget just to wind me up, to give you some ammunition to fire at me when you are bored.’
‘Me?’ Bronagh placed his hand on his chest with a theatrically exaggerated indignation, ‘I’ve got all the ammunition in the world to fire at you, below decks, in our stores already, Loopes, and don’t worry, there’s a lengthy pike with your name on it.’ Loopes tried to interrupt, but Bronagh kept talking through a smirk, poking a finger at the space between them on his playful rant, ‘and before you ask: I don’t mean a fish.’
Loopes didn't get the joke.
'Now stop your yammering, maggot, and let me go get some bread. Who knows, if me and Beaugent are lucky, maybe we can find a loaf big enough to plug your yakking hole with.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It wasn’t a compliment.’
‘I know,’ Loopes said, then shaking his head annoyed with himself, took a step back towards the Orca.
‘Let’s go and collect our cargo and restock the hold. You go and keep watch and get ready for a quick take off, Loopes. I’m not sure what these Blackwings have got us involved in but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve baking a better crust.’
‘You’re not the Captain, you can’t order me,’ said Loopes.
‘No, but I can,’ growled Beaugent who had emerged from the balloon and was stuffing credits into his trousers, ‘now get back on deck and ready for launch, we're off to the Lowlands after this.’
‘Sir,’ said Loopes, who ran purposefully, with his head down, back into the dark belly of the large ship.
Bronagh and Beaugent looked at each other, shook their heads in unison and then set off towards the Edgelands market.
‘Ever think being hard on him like that is really fair? You know, with his parents gone and all?’
‘Not only fair, but essential, Bronagh. It denies him the chance to dwell on his cruel past and makes him get on with the present. Soon he’ll be able to face the future, one we all thought he would never have, and he’ll face it like a man.’
Bronagh, despite having lain awake for an hour last night listening to Loopes struggling to bury the sounds of his mournful sobs under his pillow, tried to believe that Beaugent was right.
They walked through the busy market, side by side, without speaking.
There were provisions, weapons, second-hand clothing, chemicals and prophylactics on offer; and that was just on the first stall. People jostled for position at the busier stalls and haggled noisily with vendors about the high prices of cooking oil or the low resale value of used bolts and cudgels. Kitchna’s Market was notorious for pickpockets and scam artists and Beaugent smiled as he watched two young boys run the usual ‘Distract and Tap’ manoeuvre on a fat man in a stubby hat and long tail coat. Bronagh’s hands were tightly wrapped around the stock of his snub-bow, a shorter, more portable bow that he kept secreted away in the lining of his aviation jacket. Beaugent walked along with his usual Captain’s swagger and Bronagh wondered if it was because or in spite of his nerves.
‘I hate this place. Too many unknowns and how’s your fathers,’ said Bronagh.
‘How’s your fathers? I haven’t heard that one since school.’
‘You know what I mean. I feel like I could have fly’s eyes and still miss something coming our way.’
Beaugent sighed. ‘I belong here. Kitchna’s is more about life and affirmation for me. You know, everything is in its right place. The foolish are being parted from their money, tourists will be leaving with a lot less than they arrived with and scoundrels…’ He nodded at the two young boys being dragged off by their scruffy collars by some burly man who was raspberry pink with anger, ‘…will meet their match.’
The creaks and gaseous floosh of a large balloon taking to the air made Beaugent and Bronagh spin around, startled, though they relaxed quickly when they had confirmed
it was not the Orca.
‘You? Belong here? My foot,’ said Bronagh.
Beaugent shrugged, ‘I don’t know why, but there seems to be an edge to everyone today. It’s quieter than usual, both traders and mugs. It’s like a storm warning’s been issued and only the foolhardy have stepped out for provisions or ale.’
‘I know what you mean. We still don’t even know what we are picking up here or where we’ve got to drop it, Lowlands side. Makes me nervous,’ Bronagh said.
‘We’ll know soon enough,’ said Beaugent, ‘and isn’t anything forcing us to take the job neither.’
Beaugent checked the credits were still in the sock-bag he had tied to the inside of his pocket. He removed a few credits and passed them to Bronagh, ‘We’ll get the bare essentials, find Marcus, get the cargo and go’.
‘Cargo and go.’
‘Cargo and go.’
*
Bronagh saw Marcus’ sign first, a purple flag emblazoned with a gold gilded ‘M’ that hung slightly limp in the rain. He was next to a tent where men were betting on an arm-wrestling game. The competitors could not be seen for the throng of men surrounding them jeering, waving credits in the air and vying for bets and refreshments.
‘There,’ he said pointing at a purple and gold tent.
Beaugent nodded, then leaned closer to Bronagh, ‘Keep ya snub handy and leave the talking to me.’
Bronagh nodded and they both walked over.
‘Marcus,’ said Beaugent.
Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller Page 18