by John R McKay
‘Nothing to worry about mum,’ replied Lange walking up the stairs. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
He entered her bedroom. She was sitting up in bed. ‘Ah there you are,’ she said on seeing him, ‘Now tell me what the bloody hell is going on. The police…….’
‘Will you kindly shut the fuck up for one minute,’ said Lange calmly, ‘and tell me exactly what they said.’
She was taken completely by surprise and stopped talking, her mouth wide open in shock at Lange’s choice of words.
He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Mother,’ he said quietly, ‘you know I love you?’ she nodded, ‘then listen extremely carefully to what I’m going to ask you.’ He paused. ‘Now, what time did they come?’
Finding her voice again she replied: ‘Just before three o’clock. There were loads of them, they came into the house and started looking in all the rooms.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘What did they tell you?’
‘Just that they needed to find you urgently. They were quite rude to me.’
‘Don’t worry about that. It’ll all be fine. How long were they here?’
‘About twenty minutes. They kept going on about how it was very important that they get hold of you and told me to ring them if you turned up. One of them said you were a dangerous man.’
Lange looked at her and smiled. ‘You know that’s not true, don’t you? Wouldn’t hurt a fly me, now would I?’
Lange detected genuine worry in her eyes. For the first time in years, she was starting to show him some sign of affection and he could feel the tears welling in his eyes. He knew this would be the last conversation he would ever have with her and it made his stomach knot in pain.
She looked into his eyes and whispered, ‘What have you done Sean?’
He perked himself up and sat up straight. ‘Nothing to concern yourself with mother. Nothing for you to worry about.’
He stood up as Irene entered the bedroom carrying three cups of tea on a tray. ‘I made one for you Sean,’ she said.
‘Thanks Irene.’
He left the room and went to his bedroom down the hallway. There were signs of things being displaced and he quickly went to the corner of the room. At the side of the bed he peeled the carpet back and removing two short floorboards, he revealed a small metal box. He took it out and placed it on the bed.
He opened the box and took out all the money that was inside. There was five thousand pounds in sterling and fifteen thousand Euros. That should tide him over for a while. Next he took out the three British passports that he possessed. He opened one and looked at the picture. In it he was completely bald and was wearing small round glasses. This was the one he would use, he thought, and put the other two back in the box. Next he took out a box of small calibre ammunition and an automatic pistol. After checking it was loaded he placed it on the bed beside the money and passport and then put the box back in the hiding place and replaced the carpet.
From the top of the wardrobe he took down a small black rucksack which he had bought specifically to use as hand luggage as it was the correct dimensions demanded by the low budget airlines, and started to fill it with clothing. He put a hundred pounds in his pocket and then put the rest of the money in the bag with the passport. He picked up the handgun and as he did so, Irene walked in. ‘Here Sean,’ she said, ‘you forgot to take your brew.’
Seeing him there with the gun in his hand she dropped the cup, spilling the contents over the carpet. ‘Oh my goodness.’
She turned to leave the room. ‘It’s not how it looks Irene,’ he called after her.
‘I don’t know how it looks,’ she said half running from the room, in the direction of the stairs. ‘I have to leave, Helen,’ she shouted as she reached the top of the stairs. ‘I have to go home.’
‘Whatever’s the matter Irene?’ she shouted back.
‘I just have to go home.’
Shit, shit, shit, thought Lange and ran after her, throwing the weapon back onto the bed. He caught up with her at the top of the stairs. She turned to him. ‘Sean, what have you done? Why do you have a gun? The police were telling the truth weren't they?’
Lange took a look at her and it took him only a second to decide that he was past caring. Past trying to explain himself or lie his way out of the situation. Taking Irene by the shoulders he pushed her with all the strength he could muster, forcing her backwards down the flight of stairs. Shock and horror filled her face and taken completely by surprise, she was unable to let out a scream but fell backwards, her head striking the edge of a step with a dull thud before toppling and cartwheeling down the stairs. She came to a rest at the bottom, her head twisted at an abnormal angle, her eyes staring vacantly into space.
‘What the hell is all that noise?’ shouted Lange’s mother. ‘Irene, Irene.’
Sean stood for a second longer before returning to his bedroom.
‘Sean, Sean,’ she shouted. ‘Where’s Irene? What was all that noise?’
Retrieving the pistol he walked into his mother’s room, holding it behind his back. ‘Sean,’ she said, a look of confusion upon her face. ‘What the bloody hell has happened? Where’s Irene? What have you done?’
‘Shut up mother.’
Regaining her composure she shouted. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, you horrible little excuse of a man! If I was only able, I’d knock seven bells out of you.’
‘But that’s it mother,’ he replied calmly, almost smiling. ‘You aren’t able are you? You haven’t been able for a very long time. I have given my whole life to you and for what? To be treated like a piece of shit every single day. No thanks, not a word. No nothing for all I’ve done for you. Well I’ve had enough.’
‘I’m going to ring the police. Where’s Irene?’
‘At the bottom of the stairs. She’s dead mother. I think she’s broken her neck.’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘He’s not going to help her now,’ said Lange calmly. ‘You see mother I pushed her. Yes me. Little Sean, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve just pushed your best friend down the stairs to her death. And you know what mother, I don’t care. I couldn't give a shit.’
‘Oh my God. Oh my God!’
‘Suddenly all religious eh mother?’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of all this. You see the police are after me. I’ve killed people and now they want me for it. To lock me up for it. Don’t look at me like that. It’s down to you this is. It’s all your fault. And that arsehole of a father I had. But then I can’t blame him for leaving you. You’re an evil old witch and it’s a pity he didn’t kill you before he left.’
‘How can you say these things?’ she sobbed at him.
‘Don’t give me your crocodile tears now, mother. They don’t wash with me.’
She tried to respond but he grabbed a pillow from behind her. Looking at him with complete bewilderment she tried again to speak but he forced it against her face, pushing her head back against the wall. Before he could think or prevent himself, he put the gun to the pillow and pulled the trigger, the sound of the gunshot muffled by the pillow. He felt her go limp and saw blood begin to drip down the wall. He closed his eyes, threw down the gun and turned around, not wanting to witness what he had just done.
He left the room and went back to the bedroom to retrieve the bag. He also took a wire coat hanger from the wardrobe, along with the hair clippers that he kept in a chest of drawers. The house was now eerily silent. It didn’t feel right. He walked down the stairs, stepping over Irene’s body and went out into the yard via the kitchen.
Retracing his steps he was soon back in the road behind his mother’s house and looked for a suitable vehicle to take. He cursed the security on modern cars and looked for something quite old. Spotting a Ford Orion on a side street, he used the coat hanger to break in and five minutes later he was heading towards the M25.
He had decided he now had to finish what was started. He would head back up north and finish off Danny Cooke once an
d for all and then take a plane to Amsterdam to sort out the business with Ivan. No doubt Cooke would have headed for home by now and it was there that Sean Lange would do it. After all Cooke was now responsible for the death of his mother. It was strange but Lange felt nothing. His mother, his whole world, lay dead in her bed but he did not feel a thing. Then he realised that he was currently in the middle of a conflict, in the middle of a war. And like any good soldier, time for grieving would come once the battle was over.
I couldn’t breathe. I was being pressed on all sides and couldn’t move. Not in any direction, no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t escape.
Mud filled my mouth, nostrils and ears and I attempted to thrash, to throw it off but there was no way I could, it was too heavy and the pressure was too great. My legs, arms, my whole body fixed into place, within the earth.
I was dying.
It felt like I was hanging there, alone, between life and death, between the physical world and hell, the devil pulling me one way and angels the other, leaving me in a state of suspension to which I had no control. The battle for my soul raging between the two of them.
I realised I didn’t care. I just wanted it to be over. I just wanted to sleep.
To sleep forever. An endless, dreamless sleep.
That’s what I wanted.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Danny sat in a small café opposite the fountain on the Boulevard Saint-Michel. The Eurostar had arrived in Paris on time the previous evening and he had immediately taken a taxi from the Gare du Nord to the Hotel de la Sorbonne on the Rue Victor Cousin. Luckily there had been rooms available and so he had taken a double on the second floor. Although the hotel was slightly off the beaten track and well below the standard he could now easily afford, he preferred to stay there, as it was the same place that he and Lucy had stayed on their first trip to the French capital over four years before. He remembered how they had laughed at the strange looking pictures hanging on the walls in the corridors and become quite hysterical when they saw the size of the en suite bathroom, which was pretty much minute. Nothing had changed in the intervening years. It was clean and comfortable and he had felt close to her the previous night when he had got into bed.
He had fallen asleep almost immediately, completely exhausted both mentally and physically and had been troubled by strange dreams throughout the night, the type that are immediately forgotten as soon as consciousness arrives, leaving him with a strange sense of foreboding when he woke up. He shrugged to himself now as he tried to remember them, but immediately gave up when the proprietor approached to take his order.
Danny had learned long before that rather than embarrass himself with pidgin French, it was better to first ask if the person he was conversing with spoke English.
Shrugging his shoulders, pencil and pad in hand, the proprietor answered, ‘A little, monsieur’.
‘Good. Thanks. Could I have a white coffee and two croissants please?’
‘Of course,’ the man turned and made his way back to the counter to prepare the breakfast, leaving Danny to look out of the window at the people passing by and the tourists who were taking photographs in front of the fountain.
Danny loved Paris. This had been the location of his and Lucy’s first trip abroad together and the café he was now sitting in had been where they had come each morning before heading off to see the sights. They had preferred to stay in the Latin Quarter on each of their trips as it was central to what they wanted to see. They had fallen in love with its little narrow side streets and the small restaurants and unique shops that could be found there. He loved the whole feel of the city. From the hustle and bustle of the main thoroughfares, the way the locals drove crazily around the Arc De Triumph, to the quietness of the Jardin du Luxembourg and the tranquillity of the Louvre and Tuileries Gardens. He had said that if he ever won the lottery then he would buy a property in Paris. He realised that once all this nonsense was over, he would be able to achieve that ambition but now that Lucy was gone he was not sure that it would really be the same.
He had felt safe as soon as he had arrived. The familiarity of the city offering him refuge and sanctuary. Lange would have no idea where Danny was and with his mother safely at her sister’s place, all he had to do was to wait it out. Now that the police knew who they were looking for Danny did not expect to have to stay in hiding for too long. Surely with the resources available to them they would soon have him in custody, leaving Danny to concentrate on sorting out his future, a future that had now ultimately changed from what he had expected it to be, after the events of two weeks ago and the previous morning in Kensington.
But Danny felt a little uneasy about running away. Was he, as a man, supposed to attempt to avenge the murder of his partner? Should he not be confronting this evil little man and making him pay for what he had done? But Danny knew that only happened in films and novels. In reality the best thing to do was to leave it to the professionals, the police. And Danny was no fighter. He was a journalist on a small local paper with no experience in violence other than the desperate fight for his life in the hotel corridor the previous day. It was better to leave all that to the experts and to seek justice through the courts once Lange and whomever else was responsible were captured. Julie Green had said that he was doing the right thing, getting himself away from danger and somehow he trusted her. He hardly knew the woman but he felt that she knew what she was talking about. His mind wandered to when she had visited his house a couple of days ago with the statement for him to sign and the way he had stood at the front door watching her return to her car. There was no doubt about it, the girl was very attractive. He looked up as the waiter returned with his breakfast order.
‘Bon appetite, monsieur,’ he said as he placed the coffee and croissants in front of him.
‘Thank you. Merci,’ replied Danny.
‘Are you here on holiday, monsieur?’ asked the waiter in an attempt at polite small talk.
‘Kind of,’ said Danny. ‘But not quite.’
The waiter looked at him and raised his eyebrows slightly, before turning away and going back to the counter, leaving Danny to sip at the coffee and to continue to watch the world go by through the window. He observed Danny from behind the counter and had recollections of seeing him before. He was very good with faces and recognised that this gentleman had been in here periodically many times over the past few years. But on all the previous occasions he had been with a young woman. A very attractive young woman if he remembered correctly. He recalled that on those previous occasions he had been laughing and smiling with her but now he was alone. Danny looked up and for a fraction of a second their eyes met and in that short brief moment something was transmitted between the two of them and the waiter understood. He understood that this sad little Englishman who was sat in the corner of his café, near to the window, could never be happy again.
#
Danny strolled across the Pont Saint-Michel to the Ile de la Cite. He wanted time to relax and gather his thoughts before he made any attempt at reading and understanding the contents of the package he had been given the previous morning. He needed a clear head and thought that a stroll around the streets might assist him in achieving that. He looked to his right to the twin towers of the Notre Dame Cathedral and he was taken back to that first trip here. He and Lucy had climbed the many steps to the gallery about half way up the cathedral which had given them a fantastic view over the city. It had been a clear day and the Basilica of Sacre Couer in Montmartre had been clearly visible, as had the golden dome and spire of the Hotel des Invalides, which had shone brightly in the April sunshine. Lucy had complained incessantly on the walk up the steps but once they had begun the ascent they had not been able to turn back as the spiral staircase was only one way. They had reached the gallery completely shattered but it had all been worthwhile. However, he was unable to persuade her to continue up the steps to the top of the tower.
He reached the square at the front of th
e cathedral and sat on one of the stone benches to look at the building. Street performers and artists were in the process of setting up their stalls and equipment in a bid to relieve tourists of their money and Danny smiled as he watched them. Another memory flashed back to him from that first trip. They had inadvertently been caught up in a protest against the Beijing Olympics. A crowd had gathered in the square facing the cathedral, waving banners and flags and someone had placed two paper flags into their hands. They had stood and waved them with everyone else while some of the protesters had made the trek up the spiral staircase and unveiled a huge flag from the gallery. The police had arrived and arrested them, taken down the flag and dispersed the crowd. Another English couple who were on holiday with their daughter and her friend had stood with them watching the events unfold. He had asked the man to take his and Lucy’s photograph and it was one which now hung on the wall in the hallway back home. It had all been very peaceful and good natured and had given them both a sense of having been ‘rebels’. It was the only political thing he had ever done in his life.
Danny smiled to himself. Being here and remembering these things made him feel contented, close to Lucy again. He knew that these things could never be repeated but for the first time in two weeks he felt as though his future did not have to be one filled with sadness. However, the pain in his stomach was still there and he believed it always would be there, it was how he chose to live with it that would matter now. What they had had together had been special and he realised that remembering the good times, for there had been many, was what he needed to focus on.
He got up and walked over the Pont au Double, then crossed the road to the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, which was slightly set back from the main road. The shop was very convenient as it sold English language books and he thought he would buy a couple to keep him occupied during this forced exile. He decided he would stay out until after he had eaten lunch, attempting to fully clear his head of the previous day’s events. That afternoon he would stay in the hotel room and open the mysterious package that Sir Peter Holbrook had left him. All, he hoped, would finally be revealed and would explain why his life had taken such a dramatic turn.