by Haywood, RR
‘Mike!’ The woman strides across the floor. ‘Leave him alone right now.’
‘The code…’ the door buzzes and clicks open as the guard from the main door bursts through. He takes one look at me and comes in quick.
‘Cheers,’ I twist round and slam my body into the bloke I’m holding, he staggers into the path of the other one and buys me enough time to dart for the door before it swings shut. ‘Take care,’ I call out and head into the lobby. Which is where I come unstuck as the main door is armoured glass that needs the swipe card from the other guard and a fucking access code too. In the middle of the expanse I stop and let out a big sigh. Behind me the guards come through the door, one of them quiet the other wheezing from the pain radiating from his testicles.
‘Could you let me out please?’ I ask nicely with a swift decision that fighting two whopping great ex-soldiers might not be the best idea.
‘They can’t,’ the woman says from behind me. I remain facing the door weighing up my options. I can’t go through the glass. The door is too strong. I don’t know the codes and I’ll have to get the second swipe card. There is a phone on the reception desk that I could use to call the police but that will never happen. The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself from the authorities, especially after what I did at Huntington House and even more so given that they’ve spoken to Tessa who no doubt told them exactly what I did for the price of a bag of chips.
I’ve got no choice really, and I am very bloody curious to know what’s going. I just hate being manipulated like this. I don’t mind the beautiful smiling woman so much as at least that’s a pleasant manipulation, but locking me in?
Turning round I see the two guards are holding position a few metres away with a suitable distance between them. One is red faced, sweating and visibly grimacing which is a worry as it also means he’ll be very pissed off. The other just looks pissed off that I kneed his mate in the bollocks and made them both look like twats in front of the woman.
‘What’s your name?’ I call past them to the receptionist who is clearly not just a receptionist.
‘Elizabeth,’ she replies, ‘not Lizzie or Liz…’ she adds pointedly.
We stare off for a few more seconds, both the guards itching to get stuck into me but knowing they can’t unless I make the first move.
‘I have three questions,’ I speak quietly and let the acoustic resonance carry my voice, ‘first, is she okay? Second, did you pay her for the information and third, is she somewhere safe?’
Elizabeth inclines her head slightly and thinks before answering, ‘she was okay,’ she says slowly, ‘not great but okay.’ At least she’s being honest. ‘Second yes we did pay her and yes, she is somewhere safe.’
Conflict within me. First that Tessa sold me out for money, but also that at least I know she is okay and she has some cash.
‘Okay,’ I nod and start back towards watching as the guards stiffen in anticipation of some nice violence, ‘but I’m only coming back for the coffee and an apple.’
‘Thank you,’ she speaks calmly but I can see the relief on her face.
‘Sorry about your bollocks,’ I shrug at the man mountain as I walk past, ‘but you left yourself wide open, and you,’ I turn to the other one and have to look up several inches at his glowering face, ‘you’re just massive.’
Back in the room with the armchairs I stare straight at the camera while Elizabeth disappears to either get more coffee or stick a finger up at the monitor on the other side. My knee hurts a bit from hitting him so hard but pain is my friend these days and I deny myself the relief of rubbing it.
She comes back in carrying only one mug this time which she places down on the table before taking a seat.
‘My name is Elizabeth Bouvier.’
‘Awesome.’ I lift the mug and wonder if it would be really that bad if I smoked in here.
‘I represent The Carlisle Group and undertake assessments of candidates to ensure suitability for roles.’
‘Wow,’ I can’t see an ashtray anywhere, I could use the plate if I tipped all the brioche rolls off.
‘The Carlisle Group are a specialist organisation that service the needs that were previously supplied by government agencies.’
‘Do you smoke?’
‘No I don’t smoke, the fiscal cut backs forced certain agencies to streamline their services and reduce their capabilities. However, the world still demands some of those services. Hence we formed to bridge that gap.’
‘Hmmm,’ I can’t see any smoke detectors on the ceiling. I shuffle position to drag my battered pouch of duty free tobacco out and set about rolling one up.
‘You can’t smoke in here.’
‘Let me out then.’ I lick the paper and seal the tube before rooting around again to find my lighter.
She watches me archly with a clear expression of distaste as I find my lighter, thumb the little wheel and magically make flame which I hold to the end of the badly rolled and slightly bent cigarette. Inhaling I look around for somewhere to flick the ash and spot the mugs we used for the last round of coffees. ‘You were saying?’ I prompt her after getting comfortable with two mugs, one for drinking and one for flicking ash.
‘We provide security forces for certain Middle East operations, including diplomatic protection, asset management and safe transportation. We do the jobs the military were doing but we do it better.’
‘Better than the army?’ I ask with disbelief. ‘Sure you do.’
We are better financed, better equipped and we train our personnel to a higher standard.’
‘But they’re still the army,’ I counter, ‘they’ve got tanks and shit.’
‘We have tanks,’ she shrugs an almost imperceptible movement of shoulders, ‘among other equipment.’
‘You’ve got tanks?’
She looks at me with a plain expression. ‘We also supply forensic services for the police. Scene examination, photographic evidence, analysis of particle evidence. We have resources, expertise and facilities far advanced from what the previous government agencies offered.’
‘Does my smoking bother you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh well, have you really got tanks?’
‘Our diversity continues to grow and we have need of the skills and services people like you once had.’
‘Once had?’
‘We re-train those we recruit and bring them back into the modern working environment with excellent salaries and many benefits.’
‘I’m not here for that though am I,’ a statement made, casually, flippant and with an arrogance I hope pisses her off. ‘You know who I am. You’ve taken the time and effort to background check me and by paying Tessa, you know what I’ve done. You’re hand selecting me for something. You said before you had a case and you mentioned that cunt…’
‘Please,’ she winces, ‘that word is disgusting.’
‘Cunt?’ I lock eyes on hers, ‘cunt is disgusting? So is locking someone in a building against their will…’
‘Even so, I think…’
‘I don’t care what you think,’ I cut her off with a brutal tone, ‘you’re a cunt too.’
She balks visibly, the blood draining from her face.
‘Sorry,’ I lean forward to press the attack, ‘does that offend you? Being called a cunt?’
‘No,’ she mumbles, ‘it’s fair enough given the circumstances.’
Closing my eyes, a flood of shame sweeps through me. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, ‘that was unforgivable.’
‘Doesn't matter.’ Stiffening her resolve she carries on in a business like fashion, ‘we have need of different levels of skills, aptitudes and abilities to undertake and achieve certain fulfilments.’
‘I am sorry,’ I repeat, ‘I get angry sometimes.’
‘Clearly. We know where your man is. We know his appetite for children has not been suppressed and he is still offending.’ My heart beats faster as I stare down into the murky depths of my coffee mug. �
��He is active, Mike.’
‘Report him then,’ I whisper. My hands tremble as memories of what he did come flooding back.
‘That is an option,’ she says carefully, ‘and one we have of course considered, but there are other options.’
‘The law must…’
‘And the victims?’ she interrupts me. ‘You’ll have them face a trial? Giving evidence of what he did to them? Being cross-examined and damaged for life?’
I stay silent as the faces of the victims swim through my mind. The images of the injuries, the bruises, the grip marks, the bites… of the innocent faces destroyed by a monster.
‘We’ll give him to you,’ she murmurs, ‘we can get you in and out without anyone ever knowing.’
‘No,’ I snap the word out, ‘no way.’
‘You’ve killed before,’ she carries on in a soft tone designed to lower my defences. ‘Tessa told us, Mike. Tessa told us what you did. You killed two men in the cellar of Huntington House.’
‘No.’
‘You killed in your duty as a police officer. You shot and killed an armed assailant.’
‘That was different.’
‘You’ve killed three people. By your hands three people are dead.’
‘No.’ My voice is a growl, like an animal warning for the predator to stay away. ‘Report him, give the evidence to the local police and let them deal with it.’
‘The local judge is part of the ring.’
‘What?’
‘He’s part of it, Mike.’
‘Then find another judge. Give the new judge the evidence of the other judge…report it to a different district…’
‘It will be too slow. Those involved will know something is happening and they’ll take action and our man will be gone…again.’
‘Why?’ I finally ask the question.
‘Our organisation has three owners. One of which is best described as a realistic humanist who desires to…’
‘A fucking hitman? You want me to be a contract killer? Lady, you are so fucking wrong in your judgement of me.’
‘…who desires to undertake selective procedures to eradicate the most dangerous in our society and they understand certain processes that the authorities undertake are not effective. The other two owners are ex-special forces with varied backgrounds.’
‘Get them to do it then.’ I try and shrug it off. ‘Special forces are far better at that sort of shit than any ex-copper.’
‘They have the capability. They have the means. They have the personnel.’
‘So?’
‘But they want you.’
‘Why? I’m a fucking alcoholic with an addiction to sleeping pills. I’m washed up, jaded, cynical, out of practice and…’
‘You haven’t had a drink in four months. You visit the gym every day without fail. Your body fat is less than five percent. You haven’t taken a sleeping pill in three months. You punish yourself with exercise to cause pain and you deny yourself alcohol to cause more suffering. You lie awake at night unable to sleep but refuse to take the pills because you feel you deserve the discomfort of sleep deprivation. Your self-loathing is evident and beyond question but your abilities are also without question. Your actions at Huntington House proved that no matter how far down you think you’ve gone, you’re still a very gifted and very dangerous man.’
‘I’m not dangerous.’ Her words sting me to the core, knowing I’ve been monitored and watched and everything she has said is true.
‘To the wrong people you are, or rather…to the right people…’
‘And this is going to do what?’ Bitter words tinged with acid flow from my mouth. ‘Give me vengeance so I can sleep easy at night? Give me closure for all the victims? Yeah, I’ll just keep on killing shall I and that’ll make me feel so much better. And what’s in it for you? Was your philanthropist fucking owner molested as a child? Does he want revenge?’
‘Yes.’ Her blue eyes lock on mine, shades different from Tessa’s and her hair is darker, longer. Her face is a different shape too but for a second my mind becomes befuddled and confused until understanding dawns.
‘You. He raped you. You’re the other owner.’
Cold steel on her face, not a flicker of reaction and this woman has spent a lifetime perfecting an ability to hide the emotions inside, but then I’ve spent a lifetime finding ways to see those emotions beyond the masks people wear. ‘Fuck me,’ I sigh wearily, ‘times must be hard if the company owners have to man the reception desk and make the coffees.’
A poor joke but she takes the lifeline to break the tension with a slow smile. ‘I wanted to meet you in person. After everything Tessa told me…’
‘You? She spoke to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit, how was she?’
‘Like I said before, she was okay but not great. What she went through will take time to heal. Mentally and physically.’ Her hand stretches across the gap between our seats to gently rest on my arm. ‘Mike,’ she stares at me imploringly, ‘we know these paedophile rings are connected. We know that if we take one down using lawful methods the others will disband and reform somewhere else and the authorities will forever be playing catch-up and during that time…children are being hurt, raped, molested, groomed and damaged beyond repair. But,’ she swallows and takes a breath, ‘but if we take them out, our way,’ she nods at me as though unwilling to say the words, ‘if we…kill them…that will send a ripple far greater than anything else. It sends a message.’
‘Shit.’ I exhale slowly and close my eyes. Everything she’s said is right. Ask any serving or retired copper. Ask any child therapist that has spent painstaking years trying to fix the damage that was done. Ask the drug addicts, the prostitutes and the desperate of how they ended up being where they are. Children are innocent but they grow to become adults and those adults perpetuate the cycle of violence and hatred. Western societies are too soft, too lenient and we know the spread of the offenders runs deep into every public service and government body. Those who make the laws will be offenders. Those who decide the sentences will be offenders. What Elizabeth is suggesting is an action of vigilantism. Of taking the law into our own hands to stop what the authorities cannot stop. But to kill them? If the evidence was fact, beyond question and absolute then fine, lock me in a room with them and I’d happily do it all day long. But what if the evidence is weak, or merely suggestive? What then? We kill everyone suspected of it? What about false allegations?
‘How good is the evidence?’ I open my eyes to find her examining my features. ‘Not my man…I know he’s guilty…the others though…’
‘We have enough.’ She looks down sadly.
‘What’s enough?’ I ask. ‘Enough for you? Enough for a court? And if you have enough for a court then it goes back to the original point that although what you are suggesting is morally right, the law must stand. It must. We veer away from the law and the world descends into chaos.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Very prophetic. We have evidence beyond all reasonable doubt.’
Beyond all reasonable doubt is the burden of proof required for the conviction of a criminal offence, which is enough to put someone in prison but…
‘Not enough.’ I lift my head up and raise a questioning eyebrow. ‘Sorry, but…’
‘Testimonies, witness statements, covert recordings, audio capture, computer downloads and…’
‘You have all that?’
‘We do. The methods we deployed in obtaining the information were very illegal and would never be allowed for submission by a court, but nonetheless, we have that evidence.
‘Recordings? Of what?’
‘Discussions between them, between the people in the ring. Discussions of what they’ve done and what they’re planning to do.’
‘Discussions don’t amount to offences. That’s conspiracy to commit offences. How do you know they weren’t all just bragging and making shit up to impress each other?’
‘Because we fil
med them doing it,’ she whispers.
The room goes instantly silent with the weight of her words, of what they mean.
‘You filmed them…’ I swallow and try again as my voice breaks, ‘you…you filmed them and did nothing to stop it? You watched a child being raped and…’
‘It wasn’t a live monitor,’ she says quickly, ‘we had no idea it was happening. The footage was downloaded and we picked it up later. It was…’ she struggles for composure, ‘brutal. They treated her like a doll, like a toy…I’ve never…’
‘Stop.’ The bluntness of my tone surprises her. ‘I’ve seen them before. I know what they do.’
She coughs and looks away for a second and the woman that looks back wears the mask once again. ‘So we have the evidence. Unequivocal. Absolute. Illegally obtained and never usable in a court, but we have it. Mike.’ She looks straight at me.
‘I don’t want to see it,’ I whisper, ‘but I have to know they’re guilty, I have to see their faces…you understand?’
She nods and her eyes close for a long second. ‘So you’ll do it?’
I stare down at the coffee mug and my hands holding it.
‘There’s something else too,’ she whispers, ‘something I haven’t told you yet.’
Four
The journey to the private airfield only takes an hour and we go straight to a light aircraft waiting to take off. Everything arranged, everything organised. A passport and driving licence in a new name. Bank cards too with access to real accounts containing real money. A wedge of Euro bank notes feels thick in my pocket. Everything arranged. Everything organised.
I feel sick to the stomach. Hot acid and bile churns and flares up my windpipe. Indigestion, heartburn, stomach acid. A headache dull and persistent, but nervous energy courses my veins as I mount the steps and clamber into the seat next to the pilot. I should be watching everything with interest. Talking to the pilot and staring amazed as we thunder down a grass strip and launch into the air. The little plane vibrates and bounces on thermals but none of this discomfort matters to me. If the engine cut out now and we plummeted to ground in a fiery ball of flame I would offer a prayer of thanks, because it would mean death and death would mean forever forgetting what I watched.