Hawk's Cross

by David Collenette

  He regarded me for a few seconds, his smile beginning to slip. “No one ever does, do they? Everyone seems to drift through life, completely unaware that anything they do has any effect on those they touch on their journey. At what point do we start taking responsibility?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s quite simple. You annoy someone and he goes home and beats his wife. You shove some depressed kid once too often and, as the final straw, he jumps off a bridge. You cut someone up in traffic and he gets enraged and carelessly mounts a pavement and wipes out a line of school children waiting for a bus.”

  “You mean the butterfly effect?” I asked.

  Ethan snorted. “You could apply that pointless cliché if you like, Matthew, but that’s far too vague for what I’m talking about. I’m talking about directly affecting people’s lives with impunity; never being held accountable for the behaviour and actions of those you touch. Every life is an accumulation of the interactions we have every day.”

  I was getting confused. “But I didn’t cause you to shoot that guy! It was totally unjustified!”

  “You think the consequences of our actions make sense? Do you think that some benevolent force decides appropriate responses to what we do and acts them out?”

  Ethan removed a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, slid one out of the packet and popped it into his mouth. Retrieving a lighter from his pocket, he lit the cigarette, drew in the smoke and blew it out to his side. The thought crossed my mind that this was illegal in an office but just as quickly I dismissed the idea as ridiculous under the circumstances.

  Ethan turned away and walked to the glass. “You see them down there? Blissfully unaware that everything they do affects those they meet. Human beings; hive behaviour with no common purpose.”

  “But I don’t understand why this has anything to do with me,” I almost pleaded.

  Ethan looked down at his shoes and then back at me. “No, you really don’t, do you?”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds that seemed to stretch for an age. Finally, he broke my eye contact, dropped the cigarette onto the carpet tiles and stood on it. “No matter,” he said. “It will make no difference to the process.”

  “Process?”

  Ethan looked up at me and that wry smile crept back across his face.

  “We’re going to play a little game, Matthew.”

  “A game?” I asked.

  “You’re repeating the end of my sentences as questions, Matthew. You’d make a good psychologist,” and he laughed.

  He walked over to me and looked straight into my eyes. “Yes, we’re going to play a game. I’m going to offer you some choices. You get to choose an option; simply that. You’re going to learn the significance of the choices you make every day. Now, doesn’t that sound like fun?”

  The knot that was beginning to loosen in my stomach cramped up again as the realisation struck me that today was just the beginning; that I wasn’t going to have to deal with just what had happened today.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” I said, although instinctively I had begun to get the essence. Although I had no idea of the details, intuitively I knew that I was about to be plunged into a hell specifically created for me and that the only way to buy my salvation was to play by the rules.

  Ethan watched me closely and then placed his hand inside his jacket. He withdrew a photo and handed it to me. It was a photo of a woman.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Karen Geller,” he said.

  I looked at the photo. There didn’t seem to be anything remarkable about the woman. The photo seemed to be what was referred to these days as a ‘selfie’: a photo taken of herself using a camera phone. She was pulling an overly serious face, obviously for effect, and I guessed that this photo was probably gathered from Facebook or some other social media website.

  Karen was dark-haired and a little chubby in the face. She had a small ring through one side of her nose and dark eye makeup. Not unattractive, she reminded me of countless other twenty-somethings.

  Ethan continued, “Karen has a seven-year-old son called Oliver who attends Notting Hill Primary School. At 3.10pm, Oliver stands by the school gates and waits for Karen to pick him up. He’s supposed to wait inside but the school seems to be over-confident about their area and, despite the media frenzy over child safety, they allow the children to wait by the gate for their parents.”

  I stared at the photo, dreading what was coming next.

  Ethan continued, “You will be driven to the school in the back of a plain, black van and positioned next to Oliver. You will be wearing a ski mask. Then you have a choice; your first option will be to open the van door and grab Oliver, dragging him into the back of the van. If you choose this option then you and Oliver will be driven to a remote location where you will keep Oliver prisoner. He will be scared and will be kept scared for two days. During these two days you’ll be allowed to provide him with food and water but not speak to him. You will also be allowed to watch the news reports as Karen pleads for her son’s return. After two days you and Oliver will be loaded back into the van where you’ll be driven to the end of Karen’s street where you’ll release the child onto the pavement. He knows his way home and the incident will be over. You’ll only have ten minutes to decide to take this option as Karen usually collects Oliver at around 3.20pm when she gets there from work. If you have failed to collect Oliver by 3.20pm then the van will drive off and drop you at Leicester Square where you may go to whatever you’re planning to call home tonight.”

  “That’s it? I can just go home?” I asked. I knew there must be a catch.

  “Your choice, Matthew,” said Ethan. “However, if you choose the second option then something worse will happen. This is your second option.”

  “What will happen?” I asked.

  Ethan snorted. “Unfortunately, Matthew, life doesn’t always show us all of the consequences to our actions. Think of it as a pleasant surprise maybe?” He grinned.

  I became aware of someone behind me and I turned to look. A tall, well-built man in a dark suit stood behind me; not the sort of guy to mess with. He stood around six-three and even through the jacket I could tell he was well muscled.

  “Meet Luther,” said Ethan. “He’ll be your chauffeur today.”

  Unexpectedly, Luther raised his hand and wiggled his fingers at me in an effeminate wave. “Hi, how you doing?” he asked in a completely non-effeminate voice.

  Assuming it was a rhetorical question, I ignored the question and turned back to Ethan, who regarded me with amusement for a few seconds before saying, “Have fun, you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He turned and walked off down the corridor leaving me and wiggle-fingers alone.

  “Let’s go,” said Luther and I got up and followed him.

  He led me down to an underground car park below the building and we got into a dark van. It was still too early to drive to the school and so we seemed to just drive around randomly, me in the back. I slid around trying to stay sitting on the metal floor of the van as Luther guided it through the streets.

  There were windows on the back and sides of the van but I could tell that they were tinted as I watched the streets of London go past; it seemed to be a converted minibus. It occurred to me that I could open the door when we stopped at traffic lights but I dismissed the idea. There would be no more advantage to doing that than there would be to my not abducting Oliver so I tried to sit still and I waited.

  My mind was running in overdrive. How did I get into this? Did Ethan just pick me up off the street to launch me into this sick game? Could I just grab a kid off the street? I felt sick in my stomach.

  It reminded me of those horrible dreams you have when something dreadful is happening. That first few seconds when you wake up panicking that it’s real and t
hen the relief when you realise that you’re lying in bed and that all the terrible consequences that your subconscious imagination seemed to hurl at you while you slept were just some cruel trick your mind was playing on itself.

  I knew this wasn’t a dream though; there was no hope that I’d wake up to eventually feel the relief from some fantastic illusion.

  I looked out of the side windows and could see people on the streets walking past. Sometimes we’d stop for traffic or traffic lights and I’d watch the people as they went about their daily business, blissfully unaware of my turmoil. I wondered how much turmoil was going on for others that I was unaware of.

  How many times had I been walking down the street, unaware of what was going on behind the mask of civilisation? How many cars were carrying hostages, dead bodies, or people with evil on their minds?

  My world was slowly being turned on its head. I couldn’t see an end or a way out of what was happening.

  Every time we stopped my stomach lurched – is this it? Are we here? Do I now need to grab a small child and drag him into a van? Will he kick, scream, cry? Worst of all, would he just sit here shaking in fear, maybe pee his trousers while he looks at me as the creator of his worst nightmare?

  I looked at the back of Luther’s head. He never spoke or made any sound at all. Once his phone started ringing but he just cleared the call and threw it back down onto the seat next to him.

  I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Hey!”

  “Yes?” replied Luther.

  “Can’t we just stop this? Can’t I just get out and go?”

  For the first time, Luther lifted his head to look at me in the mirror. He looked away and pulled the van to the side of the road. “Go.”

  I looked at him but he continued to stare straight ahead.

  “I can go?” I said. “Just like that?”

  “Of course. You know the rules. Take the kid or don’t. Your choice. Always your choice.”

  I slid across the van and grabbed the handle on the side door; perhaps it was locked and this was a trick. I pulled the handle and felt the catch give way with a clunk as the door popped out of its resting place. I slid the door open and placed one foot on the pavement. I looked back at Luther but he remained impassive.

  Of course he did, this was part of it, wasn’t it? The same reason there was no point in my jumping out at the lights. I could decide at any time whether to stay or go but the repercussions of my actions would follow.

  What were they though? I had no idea! What worse fate would exist for someone if I chose to leave the kid alone?

  How easy would it be to just jump out and walk away? No, not walk. Run. Run fast and keep running.

  But then what? Would I be left alone? I doubted it. I had a feeling that wherever I went, whatever I did, Ethan would find me and I’d be made to witness the results of my behaviour today. The image of the man in the chair came back unbidden into my mind, the dark hole in his forehead, the fixed look of surprise, the one eye twisted to the side by whatever damage was done by the bullet as it tore through his brain.

  Did he feel it? Was he aware that he was dying? If indeed it took seconds for him to die, what did he feel and think for those seconds? Was he aware of the damage in his head? Too many thoughts and questions to handle, leaving my mind reeling. I felt something on my face and put my hand up. I was crying; tears running down my cheeks.

  I pulled my leg back into the van and slid the door shut. It slammed into place, sealing my decision to proceed to the school. I shuffled across to the other side of the van and leaned on the side.

  Luther put the van into gear and pulled into traffic. He said nothing.

  Eventually we pulled up outside the school. I looked out of the window and saw the gate. Luther reached back and handed me another photo; this one seemed to have been taken by a photographer and featured a small, smiling child with dark blonde hair and two missing front teeth. I looked up from the photo just in time to see the same child arrive at the school gate. He had teeth now so the photo was at least a few months old I’m guessing; I had no idea about how long kids’ teeth take to grow and less idea why this was occupying my mind.

  As the day was warm and summer was clearly still here, Oliver had no coat or jacket. He was wearing a white polo shirt with a logo over a left breast pocket, grey trousers and black shoes. Over his shoulder he had a backpack and as he slung it down onto the floor by the step I saw that it had a picture of Ironman on the front.

  He squatted down on the step and took out some handheld gaming device to keep himself occupied for the ten-minute wait.

  I waited. I looked forward at Luther, hoping to see something that would indicate that this had all been just some elaborate joke but he just stared straight ahead.

  I couldn’t do it. I didn’t possess what was needed to drag a small kid away from his secure world and subject his family to what would follow. I twisted the balaclava hood in my hands, refusing to put it on.

  Ten minutes seemed to fly past and, before I was expecting it, Luther started the van and pulled away from the curb. I looked back through the rear windows and saw a silver hatchback pull up into the spot we’d vacated. Oliver jumped up off the step, pulled open the back door of the car and jumped in.

  We drove for a while until we finally reached Leicester Square. Luther stopped the van and waited until I’d climbed out. As I shut the door he pulled away from the curb and I was left standing among the crowd of hundreds of milling people; tourists, workers, school children and me on my own.

  In the centre of London, on a sunny day, I was alone.

  Totally alone.

  4

  Since I can remember I’ve always had a feeling of loss at the centre of me; a dull, gnawing ache that was always there. I wanted a family. I would watch TV programmes showing families, sometimes comedies, but they always had what I never had: each other.

  I used to lie in bed at night and imagine that I had a family. We’d live in a small house and my father would go out to work and my mother would stay home and take care of everything there. I’d imagine that I’d come home from school and as the early evening progressed the rest of the family would arrive and we’d all eat together and sit down to watch TV.

  I’d imagine holidays where we’d go off together in a car, maybe to somewhere in the UK by the sea or maybe even abroad.

  These thoughts would often be what I needed to switch off my brain and sleep but when I awoke the dreams would have evaporated and the dull ache in my stomach would return; that deep longing for something I didn’t have. That feeling of being alone.

  However, standing here on the corner of Leicester Square staring up the busy street towards Piccadilly Circus, I’d never felt more alone than I did right now.

  I watched the people around me as they bustled about, each with their own agenda, and felt as if I was looking at a different species; some alien race that I could not comprehend and that could not comprehend me.

  I decided to walk. Whenever I was agitated or unsure what to do I would walk. I headed away from Leicester Square and through Chinatown and into Soho. I wasn’t giving much thought to where I was heading, just turning corners and walking. I was halfway down one narrow street when I heard someone call.

  “Hey, Matt!”

  I turned and saw a woman in the doorway. As I was brought back to the here and now I recognised her. “Hi Claudia.”

  Claudia (I didn’t know her last name) worked at She-She-Hot, one of the few remaining strip bars in Soho. They were pretty grimy, and mostly empty until the pubs regurgitated their drunks into the street, who then went looking for somewhere else to drink.

  In her late forties (a guess), Claudia was quite attractive but always dressed as you’d expect for this type of place: skin-tight leopard leggings and a short, silvery top. Despite being black, she’d
dyed her long hair blonde.

  I liked Claudia. We’d met one day when she tried to entice me into the bar. I was too nervous to go in and she seemed to realise that I wasn’t a typical punter. We got chatting and from then on I would come past every now and then and stop to talk. She was always on the door.

  “What’s up with you, honey? You look like you gone and seen yourself a ghost!”

  I smiled, trying to brush it off. “Nah, I’ve been sick but getting better now.”

  “No shit, kid, you look freaky! Hey, come on down and let Claudia buy you a drink.”

  Since knowing Claudia I’d been into the bar a few times. Most of the time it had been pretty empty and today was no exception. I guess early evening wasn’t the usual time to get horny.

  I followed her down the stairs. “What about the door?” I asked.

  “Fuck that,” she replied, “ain’t no one coming by at this time anyway.”

  At the bottom of the stairs we walked across to a small bar. Across the room was a topless girl sitting on a stool, and when she saw us she got up and went to the small stage opposite the bar, climbed up next to the pole and started gyrating. I didn’t recognise her.

  Claudia waved at her. “Don’t bother, honey, this one’s with me.”

  The topless girl stopped gyrating, climbed down off the stage, went back to the stool in the corner and started playing with her iPhone.

  Claudia saw me watching her. “Hell, kid, looks like you ain’t that sick after all!” and she laughed.

  I forced a smile out as Claudia turned to the bar. “Hey Max, how about a drink for the walking wounded over here?”

  Max was a big, fat, bald guy who seemed to manage the place and run the bar. I wouldn’t mess with him; he always looked pissed off but after you got to know him he wasn’t that bad; pretty humourless but OK.

  “Is he paying for it?” he asked, looking over.

  Claudia replied, “At your prices? Does he look like his dick’s made of diamonds?”

  “Fuck me, Claudia, you’re going drive me to the friggin’ wall.”