Order of the Black Sun Box Set 8

by Preston William Child

“Good. Thank you, Court. I really do appreciate it, mate,” his boss smiled, patting him on the shoulder before walking away.

  Court was a bit of a superstitious man. His family had a strong Gypsy streak and he was raised with tall tales of curses and fate, even though he had become good enough at hiding it from his wife and children.

  ‘It is a sign, Court,’ his inner self insisted. ‘You are not supposed to go tonight, otherwise this client would not have run late to keep you here. Don’t go!’

  He regarded the wall clock in the work area. It was nearing closing time and soon Paul would be here to meet up with him. What would he tell Paul? Should he lie, he wondered, or should he ignore the warning in the circumstances? To distract him from the moral, and superstitious, debate, Court proceeded to finish the last work and cleaned up. By the time he was finished, it was just past 6 p.m.

  “Thanks again, mate! Have a good night!” Tony Hamish called from the door, car keys in hand.

  “Bye-ya!” Court attempted a smile, but it went unnoticed as Hamish’ back was already turned to unlock his car and go home. Court looked over to the junkyard. The ragged steel plated gates were gathered roughly at the middle by an old chain and padlock, creaking in the Glasgow gusts. No greater melancholy had ever befallen Court Callany as this plague of worry and loneliness, as he stood dead still in the middle of the workshop, smelling the grime and smoke from outside. Torn between his struggle and a criminal solution to his problems, he tried to make a choice. He had until 6.30 p.m to decide what he was going to do.

  By the time the clock reached a quarter past six, he was convinced that Paul was just as reluctant as he, and had probably left for home as well by now. Actually, the thought of being jilted, of having the pub lads laughing at his expense for taking Paul seriously, was a great relief. Even with the rising winds outside, the clatter of the electric roller door at the back was substantial. Court turned to see what caused the noise, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  The darkness in the workshop was soothing and safe, as opposed to the cruel world outside where nobody gave a damn about anyone else. Out there, people were left to fight for their lives and well-being while vultures drained them dry without an ounce of guilt. He zoned out to utilize the solitude to the full for the short while he was left in the bliss of it, not to have to answer, not to have to respond or choose, but just to exist in silent harmony.

  Suddenly the back roller door clanged in a great din of metallic chaos, sending poor Court into a near coma from fright. It stopped abruptly, but as he stared wide-eyed at the door, it started again. From the other side he heard Paul’s voice, “Oi, mate! Are you still in there? I see your car is still here!”

  “Aye, just hang on a minute!” Court shouted. His voice was frail and disappointed, but Paul reckoned it was on account of the fright he just gave the man. “I just have to open the doors.”

  “Why haven’t you come over like we discussed?” Paul asked from outside. The doors rolled up, giving Court a gradual upward revelation of the man he had hoped had gone home. Court prepared for his expression to look indifferent, so that his accomplice would not catch on to his distress.

  “My boss asked me to wait for this bloke to pick up his car,” Court explained, throwing a thumb back at the newly repaired vehicle. “Won’t be two ticks and we can be out of here, alright?”

  Paul nodded, looking around the place and checking outside if someone was stalking there. Situations like these made him nervous, where plans got changed because of some random event that quickly came up. It was highly suspicious, especially since Court Callany was not the type of man who would even forfeit on a coin for charity. With his hands in his pockets, Paul sauntered round the back of the building, pretending to just be curious, while he was surveying the place for possible police intervention.

  “What is the matter?” cried Court from the roller door.

  “Just looking around, mate. I have never been in this yard before, so wanted to see what is here, you know? Just nosy, I suppose,” he fibbed.

  “What is here?” Court frowned at the openly wrong statement. To him it sounded as if Paul was scouting for stuff to steal, but he dared not say so. “Well, come inside. I don’t want people to think we are still open with my car still parked out front and you waltzing around in the yard. I am wasting enough time waiting for this client running late.”

  He had expected Paul to reply in some hostile fashion, as was fitting of his streetfighter, crack addict look, but he was surprised when the scurvy man obeyed. Paul slipped into the dark garage and checked out the Peugeot that was waiting for its owner.

  “French shit,” Paul remarked while Court stood, arms folded against the wall mounted tool cupboards. He ran his finger along the car’s hatch. “Where is this bloke from?”

  Court shrugged. “Don’t know. I just fix them. I do not get warm and fuzzy with them.”

  Paul’s face exhibited an annoyed streak as he leered at Court. “Do you want to do this or not? Just tell me, aw-right? ‘Cause, I don’t have all bloody night to sit here babysitting with you because you are too fucking nice to do this.”

  “I am doing it, okay? Jaysus! I cannae help what my boss tells me to do, or I will be out on me ear again, for Christ’s sake!” Court yelled, relishing the freedom of unloading his thoughts for once.

  Outside someone called out, but they could not ascertain the nature of the visit. Paul pulled out his gun and pointed it at Court. “If it is the coppers, you are a dead man.”

  2

  A Reluctant Accomplice

  “I am looking for Court Callany,” a voice said from outside the workshop, but Court’s face was frozen in shock at the weapon pointed at him. His eyes stayed stuck to the gleaming barrel of the cheap, over-used gun, his voice eluding him. A sharp whisper came from Paul. “Hey, open the bloody door!”

  There was no reaction from Court and it only riled up his accomplice. “Court! Open the fucking door!” Ajar, Court’s lips could bring forth no sound, as static as his body. Only when Paul waved the gun at him, did he snap out of his trance. Court hastened to the roller door, glancing back at Paul to make sure that he had put away the weapon.

  “Open it,” Paul repeated, this time without anything in hand.

  Court rolled up the door with a nervous smile. “Sorry, ‘bout that,” he apologized, “I was in the lavvy.”

  “No worries,” the owner of the Peugeot answered. “I am sorry I came out so late. Bloody meetings that drag on, you know.”

  “Aye, I understand,” Court tried to be nice.

  “So true,” Paul remarked from over in his spot. “Don’t you just hate it when assholes make you late for things you plan for weeks before? Jaysus, I hate pricks like that.”

  He made it clear that he aimed it at Court’s client, but the man ignored him, seeing how embarrassed the mechanic was. “So, Mr. Dover, we organized that diff for you and you will not have to worry about the rear wheels giving you any trouble now,” he smiled, pulling the man aside to get him away from the snide Paul.

  The small workshop office smelled like lube and oil, where Court gave Mr. Dover the clipboard. “Just sign off for us there, there,” he pointed out the place on the paper, rapidly glancing up to see where Paul was, “and over here to confirm that you took delivery.”

  “Thanks,” Mr. Dover said patiently, feeling the tension in the quiet establishment. He felt an urgent need to leave, even though he was not sure quite why. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you,” Court smiled. “Now that is guaranteed for a year, but if anything feels wrong, you give us a call immediately, alright?”

  It felt wrong, but Mr. Dover was not about to remark on it, as long as his car was fixed. His eyes briskly found Paul standing at the wheel-balancing bay, but he just nodded and got into his car. “How do I get out?” he asked Court.

  “Oh, just reverse out and I will open the side gate from here,” Court assured him politely. Both Mr. Dover and Court cast quick looks at
the shifty man with the mean demeanor before the Peugeot pulled away and exited the property.

  “Fucking entitled bastards,” Paul sneered as Court entered the workshop to close up the roller door and set the alarm to leave. Between his fingers, Paul was playing with a monkey wrench. Court cleared his throat, “Come on. We have to be out the front door before thirty seconds, otherwise the alarm goes off.”

  “We take your car,” Paul ordered.

  “Why not yours?” Court asked. As far as he recalled, the plan was to take Paul’s car to the place.

  “Mine is in the shop. Not this shop, of course. Hellenic Spares up the road,” he motioned with his head. He could see that Court did not believe him, but he also knew that the struggling mechanic was desperate. He had no choice but to comply. They got into his Chevrolet Corsica by the time the streetlights had come alive in a crooked row down the lane.

  “Nice little car. Nice and inconspicuous like,” Paul remarked.

  ‘Aye, you love that, don’t you, ye dobber,’ Court thought to himself as he reversed his car into the small, deserted road. “It is a ’95 model. Easy on petrol,” Court explained indifferently.

  “That is good, though, hey?” Paul smiled, rubbing his hand along the dashboard of the car. “Especially for a man not making enough as it is, you cannae have a guzzler, hey? Hey? That tank will eat up the medicine money for the missus.”

  It was insensitive of him to mention, but then again, Paul was not the considerate type. Court had told him over a few pints one night that his wife was terminal, and Paul thought it the perfect crisis to hammer on. After all, Court Callany was the type of man who needed constant reminding of his toils, otherwise he would probably back out of the plan.

  Court tried to disregard the low blow. “So, since we are not taking your car, you are going to have to direct me, Paul. Where are we going?”

  “Oh, aye,” Paul exclaimed eagerly, “you take the turn right onto the M77 and head on to Whitecraigs, son. Tonight we are going to be stinking fucking rich, mate.”

  “Whitecraigs? Where the rugby club is?” Court asked, remembering the streets of the area boasting lavish old properties and wealthy home business owners congregating at the local sports clubs. He had to deliver cars there once or twice before, so he had a good idea where it was.

  “That is the place. Do you know how to get there?” Paul asked.

  “Aye,” Court affirmed, while his stomach knotted up. “The security on those places are near impossible to get through, Paul.”

  Paul looked at Court with a narrow-eyed disdain. “Do you think I would do this if I did not have all the bases covered? Do you think I am some sort of idiot?”

  “No,” Court shrugged, “but since we are taking my car, I reckoned you did not bring the necessary tools to do the break-in with. That is all. I mean, how are you going to get inside without a crowbar or a combination?”

  “Can you just drive there? I have everything sorted out. We will not need all that shite, my friend. We have a free pass to just walk in,” Paul growled lecherous tone. “This family who owns the building…the house? I am boning their housekeeper!” His lewd laughter made Court sick. In fact, he almost stopped the car to throw Paul out, but he remembered his wife’s dire need for proper medical care. He had to go through with this or face losing her in the slowest, worst way. “Anita is going to let us in while the old geezer and his family is out to some stuck-up supper.”

  It sounded like the most ludicrous heist ever, but Court was no criminal. He only wanted the night to be over, and he wanted to be alive when the clock struck twelve.

  3

  Seizure

  As the yellow street lights pulsed across the Corsica, Court felt like crying. He was in deep already, with no way out. True, he did not yet commit a crime, but if he backed out now he would lose more than he would if he got caught. According to Paul, there was a slim chance of anything going wrong anyway, but he was not the most trustworthy of men to rely on for peace of mind. Besides, if he wanted out, Court was already too late. The drive from the workshop to Whitecraigs took all of ten minutes.

  “Here, turn after the reservoirs and then park at the Waitrose supermarket,” Paul instructed, as they rounded the circle and turned.

  “But with only my car in the lot, it is bound to look suspicious,” Court argued.

  “Just fucking do it, Court,” Paul hissed. “We are not going to be long. Relax!”

  Court parked his car in the far corner of the abandoned slab of tarmac behind the delivery side of the supermarket. From there, they stealthily stole across the schoolyard, toward the main road. It took them less than seven minutes to get to the main road, crossing it to get to the residential area.

  “Now we just walk down the street, mate, like we live here,” Paul grinned as they strolled along the street to the crossing.

  “We are hardly dressed like we live here,” Court remarked, looking at his old jeans, work boots and tatty cardigan. The dark was welcome. More so, the fact that very few people of this financial bracket ever walked anywhere, apart from doing so for exercise, was unlikely. The two new criminals were unlikely to run into pedestrians at this time of the evening, or so they thought.

  “Oi, can I help you?” a man cried from the porch of his home. He was cleaning his pool after work.

  Court felt the panic strike, but Paul was a quick-draw liar. “Yes, sir. Do you know where Dr. Lindsay Harolds lives? We are supposed to get her gate open for her. She is locked out, you see.”

  “Never heard of her. What street?” the man frowned. Again, Court held his breath. From his pocket, Paul’s cell phone rang. It was a ruse, of course, and he pretended to answer as if it was the fabricated lady. After a few quick stutters, Paul successfully fooled the man on the porch. “That was her.” He looked at Court. “Would you believe, we took the wrong turn at the T-junction.” Then Paul waved at the man. “Thank you. Now I know where we went wrong.”

  Satisfied, the man waved and carried on.

  “Hurry up,” said Paul. “We cannot be seen.”

  They took a brisk walk up the street and turned left into Harris Street. Paul winked and gestured to the sign, confirming to Court that this was their street.

  “I’m nervous,” Court whispered.

  “No worries mate,” Paul comforted him. “Anita is letting us in. We take what we need and we scarper. She closes the door ad come with us.”

  “But they will know,” Court protested.

  “Nope, she gave them a fake name and address, the whole shebang,” Paul boasted.

  It was all too easy, Court thought, but by now, all he could do was trail along into Cock-Up River and grab an oar. He had so many questions about the getaway, about the loot being divvied up, but he dared not spoil the plan with technicalities. In silence, they passed two more properties before they arrived at a large house, concealed behind thick weeping willows.

  Paul paused and took out his cell phone, dialing a number. All he said was “We are here.”

  The lock on the gate opened and Paul looked back proudly at his accomplice. “See? I told you.”

  Anita appeared at the window on the second story. She leaned out the window and softly said, “Go through the garage.” The two men obeyed, and, as they reached the flat cement drive in front of the house, the garage doors opened automatically. Again, Paul glanced back at Court. “I told you so, mate.”

  “Holy shit, look at these cars!” Court gasped as the glinting automobiles came into view behind the lifting door like a beautiful woman opening her eyes to reveal her charm. “A Bentley, a Shelby…and is this…a Porsche 911?”

  “Aye,” Paul chuckled. “Come on, we have to hurry.”

  Hastily they entered the premises, making sure that the neighbors did not catch wind of what was going on. Anita said nothing, and gave them each a strong flashlight before simply slipping back into the corridor of the house, while Court followed Paul into the dark hallway. There, Paul opened a trapdoor and
motioned for Court to follow.

  “Pack as many small trinkets as you can find in this suitcase,” he told Court.

  “Just a suitcase?” Court asked.

  “We are not raiding the place, mate. We are just taking a few very valuable things. That way, the Halls will not notice that anything is gone until we have already sold it,” Paul explained.

  Court went through the plethora of objects and relics strewn about the room. It reminded him of a typical treasure room from some Egyptian palace. He filled the large suitcase with pearl necklaces, pure silver goblets and regal rings, adorned with seals of kings encrusted with precious stones. Paul seemed to be getting more of the antique dagger collection, and Court followed suit. From an umbrella holder, he pulled an Egyptian khopesh, two cutlasses and a corroded spear. There were similar leather articles with it, so he just shoved everything in the suitcase, except a belt he found. He could use it to carry more stuff, so Court flung the belt and sheath around his waist and slid the cutlasses into it quite comfortably.

  “Hurry! I hear something!” Anita’s voice urged from the top of the stairs. “They are coming home early!”

  Court’s heart exploded. Somewhere in the dark, he heard Paul cussing profusely. If the ever so cool criminal was losing it, Court knew they were in trouble. He wanted to run, but he knew that bolting upstairs would lead him right into the path of the occupants coming home.

  “Paul, what do we do?” he whispered.

  “Shut the fuck up and sit still,” Paul grunted.

  Upstairs they could hear a male voice vehemently questioning Anita about two men entering the house. The man from up the road had seen two suspicious men from his vantage point on his porch and he followed them right up to the Hall family’s house. Anita played the victim.

  “Mr. Hall, they threatened to ambush you and the family if I did not let them in,” she pleaded. “I thought I could warn you before you came in, instead of risking them killing you and your family outside!”