by Rees, Kevin
A voice faintly interrupted the standoff between the two men. He had to repeat himself several times as he croaked with the strain of vomiting and praying. ‘I will take the ammunition to them if you tell me where they are.’ Jahed Khan rose stiffly to his feet and spoke from an adjoining office. Eddie had saved his life and he felt obliged to repay the debt. Perhaps it was karma. Perhaps he, Jahed Khan, was meant to save his saviour.
‘Out of the question. Just look at him… and he is a civilian,’ Sixsmith said.
‘I could go with him, sir. Just to help carry the ammo. He’s gonna need someone to protect him.’ Sam stepped forward and looked at Sixsmith for the permission he felt would be granted, as the obvious choice to go. For the first time the wry smile melted away from his boss, leaving pursed lips squeezed hard together.
‘Then let’s move. We don’t have...’
‘Wait a minute, Karl. This is my personal bodyguard we are sending into an incursion with those bloody things you are at war with. Now, I want to extend to you my Government’s, fullest cooperation but I must draw a line at using British troops.’
‘Begging the Colonel’s pardon. I want to point out I am no longer a member of the British Forces, but on contract to you, sir,’ Cornick interjected. ‘If I can be of use to this mission, given my experience and skills, and if I can help the British Government to suppress the events from the press, then I am at Commander Felton’s, and of course your disposal, sir.’
‘Sixsmith, your man is right. It may save your government embarrassment if we were able to eradicate the Bloodeaters from this place. You could then say the dead were gassed in their sleep or something... I’m sure you can make it up.’ Without waiting for Sixsmith, Felton took Sam and Jahed over to the ammunition.
Sixsmith stood watching Felton’s back as he instructed the two men as to where he wanted them to go. Cornick picked up a mic and attached it expertly to his throat. He checked with Cole that the signal was good and picked up his weapon and extra clips. Jahed took a knife that had been left out and put it into his overalls. Sam glanced back at the Colonel, who stood impassively, watching him.
Sam and Jahed put on two rucksacks filled with ammunition and other supplies Karl had loaded and prepared. The porter immediately felt the straps dig painfully into his shoulders, while Sam appeared not to notice the weight and moved with ease towards the swing doors. Jahed staggered after him, feeling his knees popping under the strain. He constructed an image of the nurse who saved his life and staggered after Sam.
The first few corridors were silent with a gloom that seemed to be painted into the surroundings, making the walls seem dimmer. Sam noticed his breath frosting like cigarette smoke as he spoke. ‘Heating’s off,’ he observed. ‘Why would they switch the heating off?’
The question hung in the air and mingled with their breath.
Jahed had very little of the precious oxygen to spare in answering, but offered an observation. ‘It may not be them, sir. We may be on the backup system.’ He sank, momentarily aware the ache in his shoulders was making his neck feel as if a vice was being slowly tightened onto the muscles. He wouldn’t give up, but his body was tearing in ways his sedentary life had contributed solely to. The stretched muscles and sinews obeyed the laws of gravity, pulling downward with the weight they were loaded with and almost disconnecting from their anchor points on his body.
‘Sam.’
Jahed paused, trying to listen to the single syllable repeat in his head. ‘Oh! I’m sorry... Jahed.’
‘That’s okay mate. Just don’t call me “sir”. Gives me the shivers being connected to that lot, especially that cunt Sixsmith!’
Jahed nodded and smiled. However deep he had immersed himself into the bowels of London, he had never adopted the language of the gutter. Profanity was still a taboo, and he felt himself wince internally when Sam used the C word. Silly, really, as “hunt” or “punt” was only one letter away from the word considered the most offensive in the English language. Though, Sam deployed it without conscience or self-awareness of its vulgarity.
‘Time to move, old son.’
Jahed pulled himself upright. His sense of fatigue bit deeply as Sam started off at a fast pace. Every few minutes, Sam glanced back to make sure the porter was still keeping up. As they rounded a corner, Jahed almost ran into the back of the bodyguard.
‘What do ya make of that, then, Jay?’ He stepped aside and let the porter see his find. One of the small electric tugs used to ferry meals and heavy trolleys was pressed tightly up against a wall. ‘Fucking A, my son! Dump your sack and let’s motor.’
It didn’t take a lot for the porter to ease the rucksack off his crippled back. Sam sat in the driver’s seat and reached over to help his partner. Jahed watched with embarrassment as Sam lifted the sack and placed it on top of his as easily as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. The embarrassment was short-lived as cramp and pain replaced what had been the lesser of the two agonies. A hand reached out and eased him onto the cart.
‘I remember the Bergen’s I had to carry over the Beacons. Weighed a fucking ton. The straps felt like cheese wire. So well done, big Jay. Now’s the easy bit.’ He grinned at his own joke, knowing Jahed would eventually get the irony.
After scraping the wall, Sam had the small truck whining down the corridor like a muted trumpet. They passed a few bodies, before coming to the area of the first firefight. The bodies of four old people lay in different postures of death, each missing a portion of their skulls; one having barely anything above her bottom jaw. Under the stairs, Sam saw the telltale ritual of the care the troops had given their fallen comrade. But something made him stay on the body bag for a moment. It had been torn at the front. One of Roman’s arms flopped out from the covering. Sam saw all the fingers were missing as well as chunks from the palm and wrist. There was only mention of three fingers gone, Sam recalled. The wounds clearly showed some post-mortem feasting had taken place after Lars and his troops had left. Sam gripped the wheel tightly, aware of the filament of anger beginning to glow hotly inside him. The violation of the body after death was something professional soldiers would not do. It was an unspoken rule between fighting men. Here, that rule seemed an alien concept twisted out of shape if evidence of mutilation after the soldier died was found.
‘Sam, the bag, it moved.’
By the time Jahed had started to say “bag”, Sam had his MP5 pressed hard against his shoulder. They were subtle movements, slight at first. Sam became aware of the sound of the nylon sheet rasping against something — skin, perhaps? He moved forward, planting each foot slowly, finding nothing to impede his step towards the stairs. Jahed watched from behind the electric truck, too afraid to move or, if it came to it, help the bodyguard. Sam reached the alcove and could hear the sound bristling on the underside of the nylon cover. He remembered rats in his parents’ attic making a similar sound. Keeping the weapon tight to his body, he placed his boot onto the edge of the torn nylon. Sam slowly dragged his foot back. ‘Jay... whatever happens, make sure the ammo gets through to the guys. Are you listening to me!’
‘Yes, sir, Sam!’
As he drew the remnant off the body, Sam saw a lower leg twitch in spasm as it rubbed against the crotch of the dead soldier. He wanted to rip the cover off, but his experience told him otherwise. Slow everything down. Make sure. Then kill the fucker.
His next move was decisive. Sam raked his foot backwards and aimed the red dot of the laser sight onto the target. There was some relief in the split second before his weapon chattered, sending three bullets into the skull of a girl, leaving her sprawled like a rag doll on the corpse.
‘Was she eating him?’ Jahed said, his voice rising and falling like bellows.
‘She was, mate. But I think I just gave her a bad case of indigestion.’ The black humour was struggling to find an audience.
‘Sam, I think we should get to the others!’
‘Yes, Jay, we should.’ Sam pivoted around and dropped to a kn
ee, levelling the weapon on the corridor ahead. The sound of running feet — one person, he reckoned — was coming into their space.
‘Hey... hey! It’s Lars. Don’t shoot.’
‘Come forward slowly big man… hands where I can see them.’ Sam trained his weapon on the spot where the voice boomed down the corridor.
‘Okay, I’m coming around the corner now.’ Lars held his hands above his head and walked slowly into Sam’s sight. He stopped. The weapon wasn’t immediately lowered. Lars glanced down at the red dot’s unwavering presence on his chest and raised his eyes to the bodyguard. Sam lowered the gun and waved him forward. Lars noticed Sam’s forefinger still resting on the guard, appearing casual, even though the MP5 was held loosely at his side.
‘It’s good to see you, man. What are you doing here?’
‘Heard you needed a proper professional on your team,’ Sam said, getting to his feet. ‘Also brought you ammo and some supplies.’
Lars’s usually sombre face rearranged itself into something that crossed between a purse of the lips and a smile. ‘So when is the professional arriving? Soon, I hope.’ He pretended to look over Sam’s shoulder and down the corridor.
With the tension broken, Sam approached Lars. ‘What’s the situation like?’
‘So far Roman is our only casualty.’ He gazed at the body and the girl straddling the dead man. ‘Poor Roman. Even in death he was not left in peace. You did this?’ Lars nodded towards the woman.
‘The bitch was feeding on him. Couldn’t let that go,’ Sam said, casually.
Suddenly, Lars swung his weapon around and trained it on the tug, as a hand reached up to grab the steering wheel.
‘It’s okay, he’s with me.’ Sam stepped in front of Lars and walked towards the tractor. ‘Get on your feet, mate, or that big fucker will slot you before you can blink.’
Jahed got slowly up from behind the machine and felt compelled to raise his arms. The Swede lowered his weapon immediately. It was the second time someone had intervened to save his life. His debts were mounting up. Jahed walked towards the men.
‘It’s okay, Jay. You can lower your arms. He’s not going to bite,’ Sam joked.
‘You must have many guardians circling your head right now. Perhaps this is a good omen for the mission. Maybe we will make you our mascot.’ Lars waved him forward. ‘What is your name again, little man?’
‘I am Jahed, sir.’
‘He volunteered to lug the ammo to you and I know it nearly killed him carrying the weight, but he’s a determined little bastard.’ Sam considered his next words. ‘Sixsmith was going to sacrifice you. Let you run out of ammunition and be slaughtered. Nothing personal. You could say it’s his modus operandi; sending good men to die.’
‘Well, Jahed, I am very grateful to you. What about you, Sam? Why are you here?’ Lars asked.
‘I’m here because, as my wife regularly points out, I’m a stupid fuck who wants to play soldiers.’ Sam’s smile read — let’s leave it there, and Lars did.
‘Shall we get going to the others?’ Lars went to the truck and lifted out both sacks, throwing them over one shoulder as if he were draping a coat. Even Sam looked impressed by the strength he knew was needed to lift one. ‘Come my friends. You have brought it this far, now you need to rest a little. I need you strong.’ He dropped a big paw onto the shoulder of Jahed, who stiffened to save his legs giving way. ‘You, little man, shall help by loading the magazines and maintaining communications.’ Lars winked at Sam, acknowledging the civilian’s weaknesses, but ensuring his purpose for being there was fulfilled.
The three, led by Lars, walked with long strides and heightened senses towards the rest of the team. Sam clung onto his neutral demeanour tentatively, his cloak slipping from his contrived appearance of seeming unaffected and calm. But he was unsure for the first time as to his capability against things that ate you, or tore apart your body. His wife’s voice chose that moment to remind him of his obligation to her and to his daughter, Sammy.
Jahed walked behind preying silently. Not for himself, but for the safety of the two men who he owed his life to. He was surprised to hear a voice speak clearly, as if he were standing next to him. The words sang to him from the left and then from his right. As Lars shouted to his guards, the voice faded, leaving the last words to roll around Jahed’s mind like echoes in a cave. Soon, the voice said. Soon he would be sitting in the cave with God, who, after all the years of praying, had finally spoken to him.
14
Thoragan was mulling over his collection of bespoke shirts before picking one that fitted the mood he was trying to fashion onto his corpulent face. It was rare a true emotion would rise to the surface before descending back into a cold, dark abyss. And this was the trick he was desperately trying to perfect in not letting his features alter back into the normal configuration most recognised. Thoragan’s decades as a politico had built a mystique of power, which, like a theatre curtain, rose and fell depending on the people he engaged with. Some were easily drawn onto his stage, while others simply avoided him.
Tonight’s gathering was another stage for him to play on. It was a bold, opportunistic gamble to bolster his flagging campaign for a seat on the council. Especially, given Felton was engaged abroad and couldn’t hold his own rally, what better time was there. It would cause consternation among his invited guests, Thoragan knew that, and knew they would disapprove loudly, holding the same tired, opinion about him irrespective of his threats or charm. He would deal with them in the future. It was the people who couldn’t ignore the invitation for fear of something becoming known about their personal lives. Or others, who couldn’t risk having Thoragan as a political enemy if the unthinkable, were to happen. It was those he would target, especially Gabriel Aquino.
‘Praetor, I hear Minister Shoa will not be attending tonight. He claims his child is ill and he cannot leave her side. It seems there is a plague of sick children or wives that cannot be left in case they break or something.’
Morgan Cruz-Smith had opened the door silently and stood watching the fat man struggle to pull the shirt over his head. He deliberately waited for the precise moment when Thoragan’s face was completely hooded by silk before speaking, leaving him vulnerable in the cold room. The effect, he relished, was predictable, as Thoragan increased his effort, cursing and pulling at the material. He thrust his flabby arms into unruly holes that avoided his attempts several times before filling with clammy flesh. Thoragan’s head swung like a pendulum before finding the centre of the material. It popped free — red and wet — like the head of a penis emerging from a foreskin, the spy observed with little mirth. With it followed deep, gasping breaths that threatened to break out of his chest. Without acknowledging his spy, Thoragan turned to his full-length mirror to inspect the result. The reflection did nothing to erase the fury that sat contained behind a thin barricade he was flexing to breaking point. The shirt stuck to his skin turning it a shade darker than the luminescent orange of the collar and cuffs. Thoragan smoothed it down each side of his body. He left three buttons open at the neck, which accentuated his chins and throat. Cruz-Smith shuddered in revulsion, remembering the same weight and smell once wrapped itself around him. He suddenly had a lot of sympathy for the shirt.
‘I didn’t hear you knock,’ Thoragan said, at last acknowledging the young man reflected in the ornate mirror. There was an arrogance building up in his spy that was beginning to irritate him. ‘Come over here.’
Cruz-Smith unfolded his arms and walked across the room. He stood behind Thoragan, who spun around with surprising speed and balance. In the briefest of moments before the blow struck, Cruz-Smith saw there was something in Thoragan’s palm, which was going to hurt him more than the slap he was bracing for. On the middle finger of Thoragan’s hand was a mountainous diamond that had been cut to a precise point and suspended in thick gold. With a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree shift around a finger it became a brutally sharp weapon, able to penetrate flesh as easily
as a hot poker thrust into crisp snow. The impact was delivered precisely to do just that.
Cruz-Smith staggered backwards, clutching his cheek with one hand, while holding the other out blindly to ward off another blow. The spy felt blood pouring through his tightly closed fingers. The pain came immediately as his nerves and senses found the point of attack. Cruz-Smith’s fingers replaced his eyes and probed the wound. He found no clean slit in the skin; it felt worse at the point where the diamond had penetrated down to the bone. Shock started to trickle from the top of his head like melting candle wax and ran quickly down his body. Beneath his feet, the carpet seemed to roll and swell with a rising tide of nausea, which dragged him down hard onto the floor. He questioned what his paymaster had just done. He was not someone who took violent pain very well and now sat looking at the feet of a man who had irreversibly changed both their lives.
‘Now why did you make me do that you shitty little runt? Tell me Morgan, how cocky do you feel now? Perhaps you need a little more of a reminder of who you are talking to!’ Thoragan bent down and spat the words into the young man’s bloodied face. He wrenched his hand away from the wound. Blood dribbled out of the man’s cheek and settled on Thoragan’s wrist. The fat man laughed and wiped the blood in Cruz-Smith’s hair. Satisfied, he let the limp white hand drop back to the injured cheek. His attack would alter the face of the cowering man for the rest of his life and perhaps bring a little more humility into their relationship. It would also end the constant fawning about his flawless beauty. Now his female admirers could fuss over him and care for him. Poor Morgan, they would say. Don’t worry, it’s only a little scar, they would soothe him, wipe away his tears. But a scar that prominent would brand him, nonetheless.
‘Get up, boy, and get out of here. And I expect you to persuade all those who feel they cannot attend my gathering. Tell them the President will be my guest of honour, and ask them to decide, which is really more important.’ He watched with satisfaction how the man crawled like a dog with three legs towards the door. He wanted to aim his foot at his swaying arse but, already, the effort he’d taken in putting on his shirt and venting his anger had made him tired. No time to rest, though. The spy swung the door shut and once again Thoragan felt safe inside his room.