The Winter Man

by Perry Bhandal

  ‘Welcome to the Unit,’ Kamal said, grinning at the look of shock on her face.

  ‘What makes you think I can be trusted?’ she asked.

  ‘Because the old man picked you,’ he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘Word of warning though. Don’t let that ‘friendly old boy’ routine fool you. He’s a sly old fox.’

  The comment stayed with her. It seemed an unusual thing to say. It could have been perceived as derogatory had it not been for the obvious affection and high esteem that Kamal held Rainer in. ‘Sly’ wasn’t a word that sat easily in any description of Rainer, but sly he was, that was something she already knew, but how sly she was only now beginning to understand. It had seemed odd to her that Rainer had not mentioned once during their meetings, or anytime since, the reason why she had been so successful at psyche profiling. He had also avoided mentioning the counselling she had been receiving for the last year. Counselling which he must have known she had only recently finished. She hadn’t mentioned it either, for fear that he might use it to stop her joining his team. She had assumed it was an omission on his part, but she was gradually realising that it had been deliberate and her estimation of the man had grown as a result.

  Josie had what could be described as a ‘heightened sense of intuition’. At its most trivial it could be dismissed as a reliable gut feeling, something that police officers used every day. But with Josie it went beyond that. She had a way of getting inside people’s heads and of thinking like they did. Mostly the change took a week or two. Only once had it not happened at all. It was impossible to predict exactly but she always knew when it started because of the anger that bubbled up inside her. It manifested itself physiologically in the first instance. She would find her fists balled tight for no reason and have to consciously unclench them. Her jaw would hurt in the morning from grinding her teeth during the night. Her brow would become permanently furrowed, prompting both consternation and concern from those around her.

  The anger was just the precursor from which something else entirely was born. Rage. Her counsellor could only explain it as the result of some kind of mild schizophrenia, a psychological reaction to the emergence of this new personality.

  ‘It’s like you are chained to someone you hate,’ she said, ‘Or trapped in a lift with them. The anger is a manifestation of the hatred you feel for that person and your powerlessness to rid yourself of them.’

  She didn’t really understand it herself but it helped that she recognised the symptoms. She rationalized it as a side effect of her intuition, twisting and moulding a part of her mind into a dark, silent silhouette and rewiring it to carry a killer’s thoughts and feelings. Sometimes she was able to contain it, but mostly she was completely unprepared for the speed and violence with which it appeared. A spilt drink, a dropped tea towel, a missed traffic light would induce a spasm that she could barely control in public. In private she didn’t even try, screaming so hard once that her neighbours called the police. Just as quickly as it rose it would dissipate, leaving her hoarse and embarrassed as she tried to explain why she was wailing like a banshee whilst trying to keep herself between the polite constables and the shattered crockery littering the floor behind her. She had promised never to let herself do it again. Now she was about to break that promise. But not here. It was late and she was tired. She slipped the file into her bag, locked the office and made her way downstairs to her waiting car.

  Back in her apartment the picture of Caldwell stared up at her from the open file. She took in the wide, blue eyes, the clear complexion, the hairline scars. Josie shivered. It was cold in her flat. She thought about switching the heating on but instead settled for turning out the kitchen lights and slipping between the chilly sheets in her bed. Her feet were bloody freezing as usual, so she bent one leg and slipped the foot under her other thigh, letting it warm up. She closed her eyes. The image of Caldwell stayed with her, fading only when sleep finally took hold.

  In her dream Josie and Caldwell were seated in a fairground teacup with the murdered girl Sophie Gail between them. The remains of a dinner was laid out on a table set before them. Behind them a faceless man spun their booth around but the plates of food and drinks did not move. Occasionally a pepper pot would go flying, but the young man with no face would simply put it back on the table. Josie placed her head on Caldwell’s shoulder as the teacup spun round and round.

  Dina had been sitting on the other side, curiously quiet during the meal. Sophie had regaled them with an unlikely tale of a school trip to the moon and another one where her lecturer had crashed their submarine into a fire engine under the sea. As the night had worn on Sophie had grown young and had fallen asleep, her head on Caldwell’s lap. At some point Dina had left. Josie had spotted her a number of times on a giant carousel all by herself. She had listened to Caldwell talking without sound as he stroked seven year old Sophie’s hair. Later, with Sophie asleep beside them, she had lain with Dina in the dark in a closed planetarium. She was Caldwell. They had held each other, Sophie, small and warm between them. Then Dina had gone and she was Caldwell holding Josie. Sophie woke and they both fussed over her. Josie and Josie as Caldwell.

  She had woken not knowing where she was; a residual self-image of Caldwell still vying for her identity. She had cried a little because it was all so real. Turning round she saw Sophie asleep beside her, with Caldwell, the other side of her. She settled down to watch the little girl sleep as the faceless man from the spinning teacup watched them from the foot of the bed.

  When she finally woke in her own bedroom Josie found her head was hanging off the side of the bed. She opened her eyes, focusing on the open file on the floor below her. Sophie’s smiling picture stared up at her from the file. Beneath it was the grainy photograph of Caldwell.

  It was with a slight sense of shame that she woke up remembering that she had dreamt of being Dina. The images, so vivid a moment ago, receded like waves from the shores of her mind, leaving only feelings in their wake. When she thought of Caldwell her heart quickened a few beats. She dampened it down, recognising the feeling. She had dreamt of boys in her class when she was younger, convinced she was in love when she woke up. Her heartbeat steadied, giving prominence to the tightness she felt in her throat, like she was being strangled by a tiny, weak hand. She found she was thinking of Sophie, beautiful little Sophie.

  She pulled the covers off and padded to the bathroom. Her eyes were red as if she had been crying. The tightness grew in her throat as she remembered that she had also been Caldwell in her dreams. She had held Sophie in her arms, smelt her freshly bathed skin, felt her young fingers explore her face. Her hands gripped either side of the washbasin, her knuckles bloodless. The face that greeted her in the mirror seethed, jaw muscles stood out like rope and her carotid throbbed thickly. Josie realised she had stopped breathing. Images of Caldwell, Dina and Sophie unravelled in her mind like a seamstress’s bobbin entwining her thoughts.

  She forced her mouth open and drew in a long deep draught of air until her lungs were full. She held it for as long as she could, until she felt her lungs would burst; then let it out, slow and controlled, as she had been taught. With that she brought herself under control. A few more deep breaths and the colour began to return to her knuckles as she loosened the grip on the washbasin. She forced her forehead to relax, her heartbeat to steady. The tightness in her throat went, replaced by a weight that had found a home in her chest.

  Then she cried because it was all so real.

  Josie placed Caldwell’s file on Rainers’s desk and slid a slip of paper on top of it.

  ‘Caldwell, when he resurfaces,’ she said, ‘Will most likely deal with these.’

  Rainer picked it up and read the names. ‘Traffickers.’ He nodded his face remaining expressionless. ‘Number one’s got an asterisk next to it.’

  ‘I’ll be joining the team on that one.’

  Rainer nodded and picked up his desk phone. �
�It’s Rainer. Havier Benueda, Jason Simmonds, Samuel Jones and Lawrence Pascal. Put surveillance teams onto them. Twenty-four-seven. Full package, rotating four-man teams. I want it up and running by tonight.’

  CHAPTER 18

  weapons training...a lover’s unwanted embrace...it’s time...

  He used to hate winter in this country, the sun permanently hidden behind rolling convoys of continuous cloud, heavy and dark, like nebulous battleships off to some distant war across an unseen horizon. He used to long for the first signs of spring, that first glorious sunrise, the bright morning rays punching through the swirling grey expanse, sending the great battleships scurrying off into the distance, leaving fading wisps of grey in their wake, transforming the people beneath as they peeled off their layers one by one and letting the sun’s soft warm breath blow away the frosty dust from their upturned faces.

  But all that had changed. Now the winter was his ally. He no longer wished for the warmer months that brought the bright-coloured skirts, glimpses of soft-tanned skin, strapless bras and toned legs. He detested the carefree slaps of flip-flopped feet on crowded waterfront bars and busy shopping streets. He hated the sounds of cheery laughter, untroubled smiles and the clink and clatter of al-fresco dining. It was no longer his world. It was too bright.

  That was why he was here, in this dark, sodden coastal town, far into the north where, hopefully, the warmth would not reach, or he would be gone on his journey before it did.

  Blake stood at the tiny window of the apartment block where Ray had taken him and knew the manager, a man who resided in the basement and appeared to have the power to hand out keys in return for cash. The whole block was old and run-down but it was solidly built, with thick walls. It seemed safe enough. The room had a bed and a small kitchen and bathroom. There was a fairly large area of bare boards, which was exactly what Blake needed. Most of the other tenants were elderly and showed little interest, (beyond a nodded greeting if their paths happened to cross on the stairs), in a single man who kept himself to himself. None of them ever complained about the noise when Ray brought him a wooden Wing Chun fighting man so that he could spend the days, and the nights when he was unable to sleep, practising.

  The darkness inside him had been silent, apparently satisfied with what he was doing.

  Apart from the wooden man and the holdall that lived beneath his single bed, he had no other possessions. The copy of Erebus lived on his bedside table and he read and reread it. The now fading picture of Sara, frayed and bent around the edges, was wedged into the corner of the mottled mirror on the wall, to make sure he never lost focus, never forgot what he was training for.

  On the wall above the bed was a cheap calendar. As each day ended, he put a line through it. He had given himself six months and circled the final day in red. During the evenings he worked with Ray whenever Ray didn’t have other pupils, and at night he fought with the wooden man. He never allowed himself a spare moment. If he wasn’t sleeping or eating then he was training and fighting. He only ever ate in the room, refusing Ray’s offers to join him and Serena at home. He wanted to be seen in public as little as possible. He wanted the world to forget what he looked like. He wanted to be invisible for six months so that when he did return no one would be expecting it, no one would even remember that he had once existed as a normal citizen, a man with a purpose and a family and a future. With Julia and Sara gone there was no one to miss him. He never thought about Stephanie, it would have seemed disrespectful to Julia and Sara to even allow her to cross his mind.

  Not that anyone from his past would have recognised him by the end of the six months anyway. His body and his face had transformed totally under the self-imposed regime. He had no spare flesh on him anywhere and the muscle definition had changed everything from the way he walked to the way he held his head. The cuts and bruises he had arrived at Ray’s with had healed, but they had been replaced by others. His eyes had sunk deep into his head, making the stare with which he watched the world seem all the more intense and intimidating. The greatest change was to his fists. They were calloused, the skin on the ridges of each knuckle as thick and hard as old leather. To be hit by one of them was like being punched by a lump hammer.

  He stood in front of the mirror, staring at the picture of Sara. Breathing deeply, he turned to face the wooden fighting man and took up an attack stance. With devastating speed, he drove his right fist into the trunk at full power. Twisting, he unleashed a flurry of punches, kicks and blocks, filling the room with the dull thud of flesh on wood. The blows became harder and faster, staccato combinations merging into one another. They became a blur as he flailed against the wooden enemy; block, punch, kick, punch, block, block, kick, punch, punch… Spots of blood marked the wood and as he mistimed a kick his sweaty feet slipped and he fell to the floor, his legs entangled in the wooden limbs. Closing his eyes for a moment he slammed his fist into the boards. These mistakes could not happen. He pulled himself back onto his feet, avoiding looking at the photograph in the mirror but feeling his daughter’s eyes following him as he started again.

  The changing room had been noisy as usual, its rows of worn metal lockers, smooth concrete floor and wet tiled walls giving it that unique echoing acoustic.

  The clock showed five minutes to six. He shut his locker door with a metallic clang and waited for the slowly emptying hall to be silent beyond the slightly ajar changing room door. To his left an emergency exit of wood and of security glass criss-crossed with embedded metal filaments. Outside a mountain ridge lay heavy and dark in the distance, the clouds above them black & laden with rain. A sliver of dull waning light meandered between the two, like a foggy translucent window on another lighter, brighter world.

  All his training was done in this community hall at the edge of town. Behind the single storey building was high steel fencing separating it from the dilapidated shipyard and abandoned industrial lots. The rest was the flat tarmac of a car park designed to hold cars for all the lots, not just this one. It looked huge and ridiculous when compared to the small hut it serviced.

  Light gray paint flaked off the walls inside, large crooked cork boards displayed pinned leaflets, information sheets, community news and local hand-written for-sale and wanted adverts, most of them yellow and faded with age and contrasting dully with the neat certificate of liability insurance and Ray’s license to practice in frames bolted to the wall. The wooden floor was pitted and cracked, punctuated here and there with various pitch and court markings struggling for coherence. The walls supported a pitched roof of open rafters and wooden beams from which hung a long bright strip light and a lone punch bag.

  Small rusty radiators skirted the bottom of the walls, gurgling and bubbling with hot water. Boxes of equipment, punching mitts, pads and other bits and pieces and two wooden fighting men just like his had been pulled out of Ray’s secure office and pushed up against the sides.

  Tatty blue rubber foam mats and plastic chairs were stacked up next to the fire door exit, alongside the entrance to the changing rooms. They were used by the Yoga classes on Sunday and the waiting parents of the children Ray taught on Saturday morning.

  Blake sat in the corner alone with his back to the window, the small steady vibrations from the rain thrumming across his back. He closed his eyes and focused inward, as he had been taught, listening to the beating of his heart, the ebb and flow of his breath as the last of the pupils hurried out into the downpour outside.

  Blake stepped to Ray. They bowed and took up their stances. Ray placed the back of his hand against Blake’s. To the side was Serena, watchful. She had the benefit of being taught by Ray even before she could walk. Serena was lethal, and beautiful.

  The image of a lovers’ embrace flitted through his thoughts, fingers digging into white cotton sheets, a tiny flea of a memory flicked around his head, distracting.

  The distraction cost him as Ray stepped forward, grabbed his wrist in an iron grip and twisted pulling him forward and down. Blake had a choi
ce, he could either let his wrist break or roll with it.

  Ray drove him to the floor. It was an elementary move, one that a novice could make and one that he should have easily parried. Blake was being taught a lesson.

  Ray let go and stepped back.

  ‘Concentrate.’

  Blake pulled himself up. He had let his hair grow over the months and it now hung loose past his shoulders. He slipped a small rubber band off his wrist and placed it between his teeth and ran his fingers over his head, pulling and gathering. Holding the fountain of hair with one hand, he took the band and secured it. His eyes never left Ray, who stood serenely as Blake slowly and deliberately took up the combat stance, front leg forward and bent so it was light, all his weight on the bent back leg. His right arm he cocked, his hand curved into a tensed edge resting on his opponent’s centre line, the back hand held the same way but slightly lower and more inward. Blake closed his eyes, this time emptying his mind of everything, except the man standing opposite. He opened them and nodded.

  Blake moved as soon as he felt Ray’s wrist push against his. Switching from Wing Chun to Kali he dropped to one knee and brought his fist down towards Ray’s knee, who blurred away and flitted aside, launching a kick at Blake’s head. But his punch was a feint, a ruse whose deception was revealed as Blake swiveled on his hands, arcing his leg round in a foot sweep.

  He thought he had him. He felt his heel brush against a foot which gave way. Blake finished the rotation and sprang up ready to land another blow on the prostrate Ray. He should have known better. Ray completed a back flip to land lightly on his feet. He moved back into an attack stance and waited, smiling at him. He beckoned Blake with a flick of a hand.

  The next three minutes were an education in how to dismantle an opponent. Ray switched with lightning speed and skill between Kali, Wing Chun, Boxing and Krav Maga, checking every move Blake made.