by Gary Baker
'Good boy,' said Meadhill. 'Now strangle those software bunnies of yours and give me back my money.'
Roger sat and pressed the computer's round, dimple switch. The screen wanted his password. Roger's hands paused above the gunmetal-grey keyboard.
'What happens,' Roger thought about his next words very carefully, 'what happens to us when I'm done?'
Meadhill pushed the barrel of the gun into the back of Roger's head. 'You should be more worried about what will happen to you if you don't do as I say, freak,' he said through clenched teeth.
'Let Julia go,' said Roger, his head being forced down towards the keyboard.
'Do it!' hissed Meadhill, pushing harder.
'Let Julia go,' said Roger, putting his arms by his side, away from the keyboard.
Meadhill turned and aimed a vicious back hand swipe with his gun hand at Julia. Roger flinched involuntarily at the sickening thud as the weapon connected with Julia's skull. His own injury throbbed in sympathy. She shrieked in pain and sprawled, stunned, on the settee.
Meadhill pushed the gun into the side of her face. Blood pooled into the hollow of her cheek, around the barrel.
'Do it! Do it now!'
'Let her go,' said Roger quietly.
'Okay. You just killed her.' Meadhill pushed the barrel harder into Julia's face making her whimper. Roger closed his eyes making his hands into fists.
Oh Jesus. Oh, Jesus.
The shot did not come. Meadhill breathed heavily and Julia lay sobbing.
'Okay,' said Meadhill, moving away from Julia. 'I'm feeling generous.' He looked down at Julia. 'Get out,' he said. 'Now.'
Julia got uncertainly to her feet, holding the side of her head and, using the doorframe for support, she left the study.
Meadhill sat on the settee with a sigh.
Roger turned to check that Julia had, in fact, left. He looked at Meadhill. 'You know,' he said, 'Meadhill is an anagram of Heimdall. A Norse God. With gold teeth.'
Meadhill looked at Roger with contempt. 'Just get on with it you freak,' he said.
Roger turned back to the keyboard and started to type. 'Heimdall was the guardian of the Bifrost Bridge.' Roger typed and talked at the same time. 'The bridge connecting the mortal world, Midgard, to Asgard where the Gods held council.'
'Shut up,' said Meadhill.
'According to legend, Heimdall will be the last of the Gods to die. If memory serves.' Roger stabbed at the return key. 'There,' he said. 'Done.'
'Prove it,' said Meadhill.
'You'll know in the morning.'
'Show me now.'
'I can't. It will take until nine o'clock tomorrow morning.'
'Why should I … believe you?'
'Because if I'm lying you will kill Julia and Becky and I can't hide them both from you forever.'
Meadhill stretched out his leg. Slowly tensed his damaged foot. 'And what … insurance have you taken out on yourself?'
'I have to contact my,' Roger paused and turned to look at Meadhill, '“software bunnies” within the year. Otherwise … '
'It all starts again?'
'Yes.'
'Excellent,' said Meadhill getting carefully to his feet. 'I have … identities even you don't know about. You've given me plenty of time to transfer my assets.' He pointed his gun at Roger's chest. 'Before I kill you, know this … ' Roger's minds were calm. United in their acceptance of the inevitable. '… I'm going to visit your girlfriend,' No! 'I'm going to fuck her so she screams my name and begs for more then I'm going to cut her -'
'You are one sick fucker.' A harsh male voice from outside the study cut through Meadhill's promise.
Meadhill froze, not taking his eyes off Roger. 'Aunty M,' he said. 'You really should have called first.'
Chuck. Meadhill's head jerked, his left ear erupted. A red plume of blood, brains and bone spattered the books lining the study wall. His knees buckled and his body crumpled to the floor.
Roger, unable to close his mouth leaned forward and looked out of the study doorway.
Julia's terrified eyes looked back at him. A large hand covered her mouth. She floated in mid-air. Her feet were six inches off the ground. A man, a broad, black jacketed man with cropped hair, a scarred face and thin eyes held her effortlessly clamped to his body with one arm.
In his other hand, a smoking barrel. Another gun pointed at Roger's eyes.
'Ladies first,' said the gravel voiced newcomer putting the weapon to Julia's head. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
Bang! A loud report that made Roger cringe and jump back into the study. Something heavy hit the floor. Roger quickly recovered and looked out onto the landing. Julia lay on her back, on top of the man. She pulled at his arm and thrashed with her legs in an effort to get up. A tall figure in black brushed past Roger and stooped to help Julia. Another similarly dressed man brushed past Roger to get into the study.
'Clear!' a voice said behind him.
Julia was on her feet. Leaning against the familiar figure. She looked up at him, brushed hair out of her eyes. 'Kent,' she said. 'Superman to the rescue. What … what brings you here at this hour?'
The concern in Kent's eyes gave way to a smile. He turned to Roger. 'You owe that neighbour of yours. The one in the bungalow opposite. He called it in.'
Chapter 30
South Park, Darlington. Sunshine, kids and dogs chasing squirrels, people strolling.
Walking arm in arm with Roger, Becky, dressed in her hospital whites, looked thoughtfully across the brand new bowling green, through the trees, at the fenced off chaos which was the Darlington dog show. The MoD were insisting Roger reside somewhere safer and he had just asked Becky to move south to London with him. She had yet to reply.
Roger broke the silence. 'I used to bring Harry here.' He stopped walking. 'Sorry about that. You must be sick of me talking about Harry.'
'It's only to be expected,' said Becky, patting Roger's arm. 'It's still early days yet.'
'Sorry about this as well.' Roger looked back over his shoulder at two large men in grey suits and sunglasses keeping pace with them some fifteen yards behind.
Becky shrugged. 'All part of the package I suppose.'
They continued their walk approaching a large black cage on their left. Adults and children alike poked their fingers between the mesh making cheep cheep noises and sucking noisily between pursed lips trying to attract the birds. Inside the cage were budgerigars, parakeets, zebra finches even a large clown-suited macaw. The smaller birds flew backwards and forwards in panic. One end of the cage to the other. Backwards and forwards. Their wings beating a tattoo, a plea for freedom, with each short flight. The Macaw clambered awkwardly around the cage using claws and beak. Testing the mesh. Endlessly searching for a way out.
Roger and Becky came abreast of the cage; a fast-moving figure flew out in front of them, landing with a clatter. A small girl let out a shriek. Becky flinched, grabbing at Roger's arm. The youth on the skateboard ignored them, continued his manic rush along the black tar path, using people as markers for his impromptu slalom course.
Becky relaxed and they carried on walking.
To their right an enormous caste iron canon tilted on immobile wheels. Children hung from its barrel watched by a half dozen or so adults sat on a section of low wall. The first adult faced Roger and Becky, the second faced away, the third faced them, and so on. Like self-conscious sweethearts on an elongated love-seat.
To their left a playground squirming and squealing with children. Becky initiated a stop, turning Roger so they both looked at the playground and its chaotic content.
The question still hung between them. Roger felt a heaviness settling below his heart. Started to feel foolish.
They looked at each other. Becky's eyes moist. 'I'm sorry, Roger,' she said.
Roger looked at the floor. Looked up at the playground. Looked past the playground to the cream tents and striped marquees of the dog show. Looked anywhere except at Becky.
Becky continued
, 'There's the hospital, my house, mother, the cats … that's silly. Roger, we hardly know each other -'
'You'll be telling me next how flattered you are,' said Roger unable to suppress a cruel tone. 'I'm sorry,' he said quickly. 'Of course. You're right. It's way too soon.' Roger turned to face Becky. Gently held her shoulders. 'How about this,' he said, 'I'll go and sort things out in London and convince the powers that be that Darlington is still as safe as anywhere. I'll be back in a couple of weeks. How does that sound?'
Becky smiled up at Roger. Put a hand on his chest. Lifted herself on tip-toes and kissed him lightly on the lips. 'Goodbye, Roger.' She had not believed him. 'I have to go to work,' she said.
'Right,' said Roger. 'Right. You take care. I'll see you soon.'
Becky walked away past his two guards; arms folded, small, ponytail swishing from side to side. Roger felt drained, numbed, sick. Thoughts of Jennifer and Harry began crowding his thoughts. No, he told himself, I have to move on.
*
Roger had two suitcases opened on his bed at home in Barton. He mechanically emptied his drawers and wardrobe. Transferring the contents to the suitcases. Plopping them in one at a time. Not really caring if the shirts got creased or there was an even spread of clothes.
Roger stopped. The bedroom walls had been hand painted in shades of yellow and orange using a rag or some similar method before he had moved in. A waste high border of alternate amber and white sea shells had been carefully transferred onto each wall.
White shells and a hint of gold.
Above and below each sea shell was a horizontal row of dots. Dark dots. Like beads on a necklace.
Roger felt faint.
Roger B said, Oh My God.
Roger C screamed, it's them, it's them - over and over.
QUIET!
Roger arrowed in on the memories:
In the park. The caged birds. Fingers poking the mesh. A perfect white cuff. A hint of expensive gold watch. Grey hair under a dark fedora. The Captain? Could that have been The Captain? Move along. Children playing on the canon. Sat on the wall, among the watchful adults, his back to him; the dark denim shirt; the black string and beads showing through matted, dark, dreadlocked hair on the back of his neck. The hint of beard fused into a gaunt cheek. What do you call guys like him these days? Tramps? Delinquents? Travellers? Mr Thin! Mr Thin, the beggar in Blackpool, had been in South Park. The KOPALDA tattoo!
And Roger knew in a thunderclap of truth that Becky was in grave danger.
He ran from his bedroom heading for the stairs. 'Err, err,' what the hell was his name? 'You! Guard!' Taking the stairs two at a time. Don't catch your heel. 'Where are you? We must get to the hospital quickly! Hey!'
Roger bounced off the wall at the bottom of his stairs, turned left into the kitchen. The noise of a newspaper being quickly crumpled behind him placed one of his guards in the sunken living room. The other was in the kitchen, holding a teabag suspended in a red mug, looking surprised as Roger burst in.
Car keys! 'Where are the car keys?' demanded Roger. The guard instinctively reached into his pocket.
'I have them here.' He knocked over the hot tea. 'Shit!'
Roger grabbed the keys from his open palm and ran for the back door. Shouts behind him. 'Wait! Stop! Mr Peerson! Sir!'
Two black Mercedes were parked outside his house. Half on and half off the grass verge. Which one? Roger stabbed at the key fob. Nothing. He squeezed and prodded. The front car's lights flashed pale amber. The colour of the formaldehyde mixture that preserves the dead.
Roger was out of Barton heading along the straight section of the road to Darlington when he noticed the other black Mercedes catching up to him.
Good lads, he thought. Don't forget to call the cavalry.
At roundabouts Roger held his breath and trusted to German engineering. He clipped a parked car and lost the left wing mirror on Woodlands drive. Oblivious to the wreckage in his wake Roger had one thought. Get to Becky.
He screeched to a halt outside the casualty entrance. Forgetting to take the car out of gear Roger fell hard onto the road taking the skin off the palms of his hands as the car leapt forwards when he tried to get out.
People. People were in the way as he pushed through the double glass doors. People everywhere. Limping, sat, stood, talking, waiting – a nurse – no not Becky – a white uniform – no. 'BECKY!' His cry silenced the crowded casualty reception. Echoed away through fluorescent halls and passageways. Roger ran up to a uniformed woman laden with patient files. 'Becky,' demanded Roger. 'Nurse Becky Ketteringham. Where is she?' The orderly backed off. Obviously scared. 'Sorry,' said Roger. 'But it's really urgent. She could be in grave danger. Do you know how I can find her?'
The orderly pointed to a stairwell. 'She's probably down -' Roger ran for the stairs before the sentence was finished. Down the stairs two at a time. Don't catch your heel. The hubbub behind him started up again as he descended. Round the first corner. Watch out, someone was coming up towards him.
Roger stopped dead. Flattened himself against the wall as he recognised the tall, cadaverous figure of Mr Thin walking slowly up the stairs. He was two steps below Roger and already their heads were at the same level. Mr Thin stopped on the same step. Towered over him. Roger's head shook with tension.
Mr Thin stooped down. Dreadlocks dangled and swung forming a matted hood half covering his face. Mr Death. Stale alcohol smell. Hands thrust into filthy jean pockets. Faded tattoos. Black beaded necklace. His face stopped an inch from Roger.
'Nice tits,' he whispered.
Mr Thin continued his steady progress upwards leaving Roger frozen.
The ache in Roger's hand brought him round. He'd been tightly grasping the handrail and the pain from his raw palms had become unbearable.
Becky!
Roger continued his descent. Round a corner, into a passageway. Lying on the floor: Becky. Oh, God. Was she was breathing? Yes!
Becky sat up. 'What the hell was that about?' she said, looking down at herself. She had six bright yellow post it notes stuck to her chest. She pulled one off. 'Bang,' she read. Another read, 'Stab.' Another, 'Bang.'
Roger squatted beside Becky and gently peeled off a note stuck to her hair.
'That lunatic pushed me over then stuck these all over me.' She noticed Roger for the first time. 'Roger?'
'It's a warning,' he said and read from the note he'd taken from her hair. '“Peerson: return the money and she lives.” There's a number.'
Becky put her hand to her mouth. 'Oh, My God.'
Roger stood and helped Becky to her feet.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'It ends here. Goodbye, Becky.'
Becky stretched out a hand but her fingers had yellow post it notes stuck to them making the gesture ludicrous. By the time she had unstuck her fingers and rolled the notes into a sticky ball Roger had gone.
'Goodbye, Roger,' she said to an empty corridor.
*
The Captain strolled along Hawkesbury Mews looking up with distaste at the hastily constructed apartment building presumable erected to service the nursing staff of nearby Darlington Memorial Hospital. He stopped twenty or so yards short of busy, tree lined Woodlands Road. He did not have to wait long before he was approached by the gaunt, filthy figure of the dreadlocked delinquent.
The Captain raised an eyebrow. 'Well, Flowers?' he said.
'It's done.'
'Excellent.' The Captain reached inside his coat and pulled out a brown envelope. 'Consider yourself reinstated,' he said handing the envelope to Flowers. 'Now feel free to get yourself cleaned up. Some new clothes. A haircut, perhaps.'
Flowers smiled thinly, accepted the envelope and strode towards the busy main road.
The Captain's mobile vibrated against his chest. He took it out, looked at the screen, a Darlington number. Pressing the green button he said, 'Yes?'
'This is Roger Peerson.'
'Ah, Mr Peerson. I was expecting your call.'
'Listen,' said Ro
ger. 'Here's the deal: I stop the Trojans and reinstate as much of your money as possible. I never see Becky Ketteringham again and as long as I send a certain email to a certain address on certain dates, the Trojans stay asleep. But if you harm one hair of her head or come after me for anything at all I swear by my dead son's soul I'll never turn them off again. No matter what you do. And you know they can track and backtrack your cash wherever you try and move it.' Roger took a breath. 'That's the deal,' he said.
The Captain paused to absorb Roger's words and, as he watched Flowers walk away with his curiously slow and long gait, his attention was drawn to a black Mercedes minibus with heavily tinted windows which had stopped in the traffic on the main road. The front passenger window slid down and Kent, after tossing out a lit cigarette, looked directly out at The Captain. The two men exchanged the smallest of smiles as the minibus moved off.
'Very well, Mr Peerson,' said The Captain. 'You have a deal.'
The Captain hung up the call and placed the phone back into his inside pocket. 'For now,' he whispered.
THE END
From the same author on Feedbooks
The Ardly Effect (2005)
Phil Jones of www.SFCrowsnest.co.uk said,
"Even if you're not a huge fan of Science Fiction, you'll find a lot to enjoy ... The characters are a joy to read and that first chapter just has to be read. ... full of little surprises and some of the reveals are truly entertaining ... Baker has managed to produce a book as good as, dare I say it, Douglas Adams, and with a really good plot ... it provided me with so much enjoyment. One of the best books I've read in a long time."
Inhabitants of two moons orbiting a gas giant realise they have a common past. A quest for their roots reveals more than they had bargained for and the truth which comes to light illuminates aspects of human nature that should probably have best been left in the dark.
Links to paperbacks and donations can be found at http://brambling.yolasite.com/
OOPS! (2010)
Flash fiction: (a really, really short story)