Errand of Mercy: How far do you run, and where do you hide?

by William Walker

  O’Brien exchanged a look with Lucy. He tried to whistle but his lips were too dry. At one thousand feet she pulled the flap handle to the retract position and they both stared as the pointer on the indicator moved to the ‘up’ detent. Lucy brought the throttles back to a lower power setting. The roar from the engines diminished, and the overheated engine indications stabilized. O’Brien patted the control column after a while. The airplane might get them to London after all. He engaged the autopilot with a nod to Lucy.

  “Well,” she stated hoarsely after several more minutes had elapsed.

  O’Brien looked over. “Very nice job, Lucy.” He winced as he tried to smile. He’d forgotten about his jaw. Now it hurt, along with his tongue. “I’m glad you didn’t run me over on the ramp.”

  “I’d tell my brother about it—the FedEx pilot—but he wouldn’t believe me.” Lucy pressed her head against the side windscreen and peered out at a view behind and below the aircraft. She straightened and pulled a tissue from her pocket. “I think they got the Learjet.” She dabbed her forehead and cheeks and tossed the tissue into the small trash receptacle behind the center console.

  “So? Who cares? They’re a bunch of thugs, Lu.”

  “She nodded. You’re right.” Then, “You want your seat back?”

  “Nah, you fly the plane. Take us away from this miserable place.”

  Lucy turned the airplane to the northwest, pushed the throttles forward, and began climbing the 737 away from the African continent, for the last time, he hoped.

  14

  “G

  ary’s been shot,” Lucy reported. She climbed back into the seat after a brief check on Gina and Starr.

  O’Brien looked over. “What? How badly? Where was he hit?”

  “In the leg. There’s a lot of blood, but they both say it’s not serious, and they’re the doctors. Gary’s got his medical bag and some other things with him, and Gina put a bandage on it.” She settled and looked at him with a tired expression. “How could that happen?”

  “It had to be a ricochet.” He rubbed his eyes. “God knows there were enough bullets flying around.”

  Lucy shook her head as she buckled the seat belt. She opened her mouth, glanced at him, and said nothing.

  The climb to altitude was trouble-free and smooth. The airplane behaved. The autopilot worked.

  Lucy stared straight ahead, apparently lost in thought while O’Brien kept his eyes on the altimeter needle as the aircraft climbed. He could feel the tension slowly draining away in direct proportion to the distance from the African coastline. The whisper of air miles collecting behind the airplane combined with the sensory exhaustion inside the cotton wool of his brain had a numbing effect. The same sleepy fatigue he’d experienced years ago after military combat began to creep into his body. Radio contact with Freetown Control was still a few minutes away. After Freetown there would be Dakar and then the Canaries. That was all he could remember for now.

  Freetown Control brought Lucy to life a short time later when she checked in with their call sign. She reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You back among the living?”

  He started. “What?” The background noise in the airplane had decreased considerably, and they could talk to each other without using the intercom. He rubbed his eyes.

  “You were asleep, Daniel.”

  He touched his swollen lip. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. But me too. Maybe I was out for a minute.”

  Her admission scarcely troubled him as he scanned the airplane instruments. All was in order. He craned his neck with a view back through the open cockpit door. “How’re our favorite doctors?”

  “Probably asleep. They’re worn out just like us. Plus, I told them not to bother us for a while. I was busy, you were busy...”

  O’Brien nodded and punched the switch for the public address system. “Lucy and I are receiving visitors if anyone wants to come up front.”

  “They think you’re great, by the way.” Her eyes slid over him. “We all do.”

  “Yeah, well...if you hadn’t gotten the airplane rolling none of us would be here.”

  “Maybe, but you’re our hero.” She gave him a wide smile that looked like bullshit. “I’m being honest,” she said, as if she could read his mind.

  “Who’s the hero?” Gina stepped through the cockpit doorway and leaned in close to O’Brien. She put a hand on the back of his neck and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. “Are you the hero?” She put her other arm around his neck. “I think you are.”

  “You might not think so if you could see the other side of my face. That bastard Cottingham clocked me when I wasn’t looking.”

  “My poor darling,” Gina cooed. “Let me look.”

  She was at most half serious, O’Brien figured, but the attention was very comforting. “How’s Gary doing back there?” he asked.

  “He’ll live. He’s...I’m not sure...different somehow. Or maybe he’s always been like that.”

  “He’s different than you thought. Believe me,” Lucy said coldly.

  Gina’s focus shifted to Lucy for an instant, and O’Brien could feel her puzzlement in Lucy’s attitude. He began to wonder just what the hell had transpired the preceding evening.

  Gina had a light touch as she leaned over him. “You definitely need medical attention,” she said.

  Her words indicated concern. Her eyes and expression seemed a tad mischievous. However, he did feel deserving of her tender, professional ministrations. Cottingham’s punch had cut into his face below his cheekbone. The abraded skin wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it still hurt and his jaw was sore. “That’s kind of what I was thinking,” he said. “Maybe a few hours in an emergency room with you.”

  She squeezed a little too hard.

  “Ouch.” He decided to withhold his smart comments temporarily as her fingers traced the barest outline along the edge of the open wound, pressing here and there and generally stopping just short of delivering actual pain. She was in an awkward position, one that brought the soft swell of her cleavage close to his face. Added to that, a nod upward put his lips next to hers, parted ever so slightly as she concentrated on her task. The tip of her tongue touched her bottom lip once, twice, and he counted the blinks as her long lashes came down in an irregular rhythm over her dark eyes. He could kiss her mouth with hardly an effort. Her warm breath touched his face in intense little puffs as she concentrated on his wound.

  She seemed oblivious to all of this and allowed her body to move against his as the need arose. His own need was rising despite his best efforts, but he hoped she wouldn’t notice.

  “Where’s the plane’s medical kit, Daniel?”

  He could feel the punctuation of her syllables on his cheek. His expression was blank, enjoying the moment.

  She drew back a fraction of an inch, “As you recall we had to leave most of our things in the Rover. I don’t have much with me in the way of first aid equipment.”

  “We don’t have a medical kit,” he said.

  “What?”

  “It’s a cheap operation.”

  “What about Gary’s medical bag?” Lucy asked from the opposite seat. “I thought you just used it.”

  Gina looked at Lucy and shook her head. “Gary’s being a real shit. He won’t let me near it, and that’s weird. Earlier he handed me the things that I needed for his injury.” She straightened. “Besides, I only need some alcohol and a few band aids.”

  “You mean it’s not serious?” O’Brien touched the side of his face.

  “It’s not what I’d call life-threatening.” She pulled back a loose strand of hair. “But it needs to be properly cleaned and dressed.”

  “Gina, look in my flight bag,” Lucy said. “I’ve got some alcohol, Neosporin, and plenty of other stuff.” She pointed at the small space on the far side of O’Brien’s seat. “We switched places in the confusion back there, and he’s actually sitting on my side.”

  “Here,” O’Brien offered. �
��I can get—”

  “Daniel, let Gina get it,” Lucy interrupted. “She knows what she’s looking for.”

  Gina hesitated then shifted her torso over O’Brien’s lap and reached across him. She relaxed her forearms against his thighs, and as she reached for the snaps on the bag she slid up against the growing hardness in his groin. It was bound to happen, and a jolt of embarrassment came over O’Brien. There was nothing he could do except sit there and wait for Gina’s sarcastic comment.

  She made a sound, a quiet catch in her throat. Her lips were poised over his legs and the moisture from her mouth felt warm and sensual. Everything she was doing was making it worse, and now he felt like he had a plank in his trousers.

  She moved again and pulled the snaps open. “Where is it, Lucy?”

  “You’re in my way,” Lucy said, “but my first aid stuff is on the right side.”

  “All right. I’ve got it,” Gina replied. Her voice had a barely detectible quiver, though it could be from suppressed laughter for all he knew. As she reached to fasten the snaps on the flight bag her arms brushed him once more. At the last moment she touched him through the tight fabric of his slacks, a light slide of her fingers against a temporarily inflexible object. He made a low utterance of surprise and pleasure, turned it into a cough, and looked at Lucy. She was absorbed in the process of unfolding the maddening aviation chart.

  Her touch evaporated just as quickly and she pushed herself back up beside his seat. “This should do the trick,” she said. She held up a clear, plastic bag full of first aid odds and ends in front of her.

  Her cheeks were flushed, but her hands were steady as she disinfected and bandaged his cut. With a final, satisfied look she zipped the seam closed on Lucy’s first aid kit and tossed it into her lap. “You’re in charge of it now, Lucy, and thanks.”

  She leaned close to O’Brien’s ear and whispered with her lips scarcely moving. The words were a caress, a smooth, soft shiver of desire that left him frazzled. She kissed him on the cheek and was gone.

  O’Brien, through force of habit, stared at the attitude indicator for a long moment. This instrument created an artificial horizon that indicated the relative position of the airplane. The gauge signified that both he and the airplane were presently right side up, though in many ways he felt that he was upside down. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. This trip was putting an unbelievable strain on his entire sensory apparatus.

  Lucy folded the chart into her lap and squinted at him. “What did she whisper in your ear?”

  He opened one eye, then the other. “She said that I should have my own medical kit since I’m always fighting.”

  She gave him a blank stare. “Sure, Daniel. Sure.”

  15

  Udo Kerschner climbed out of the Knightsbridge Station subway exit and blinked in the warm afternoon sunshine. He took a deep breath in order to clear away the smell of ozone and hot rubber that the whirl of trains kicked up in the London tube system below. No wonder the German bombs couldn’t get to these people during the Blitz, hiding like rats so deeply in their underground caverns. The u-bahns in Germany were better, and not so far beneath the surface.

  He walked slowly to the confusing intersection of Knightsbridge, Sloane and Brompton Streets and planted himself by the curb, immobile as a block of concrete. Masses of pedestrians bumped and surged around him like a fast moving tide splashing against a dock piling.

  He had never been to England, and he was amazed by what he saw. Traffic whizzed by and from an unaccustomed direction. People raced across streets between fast moving trucks and taxis. On the far curb a man in a tattered, red turban was standing on a pedestal yelling at everyone who passed. The place was a madhouse with crowds of bizarre-looking human beings all crushed together and buzzing like an insect colony.

  He stepped off the curb and was immediately thrown back by a loud blast from a horn.

  “Gott im Himmel!” he yelled, throwing an arm up at the car.

  He retreated to the sidewalk, backed against a green, metal post and thought for a moment. He was supposed to meet a new man, another Engländer like the recently departed Higgs. This would supposedly take place at a pub called The Mucky Duck on Chesham Place, which was off Sloane Street. The Conductor trusted him. If he had to kill someone to get to the strange-sounding pub in fifteen minutes then that is what he would do.

  He unfolded his map. Chesham Place was halfway down Sloan Street, but not as far as Kings Road. The Mucky Duck would be on the right side of the street, or place. Why did the British call a street a place?

  Udo turned around and walked back the way he’d just come after exiting the subway station. He took strong, plodding steps and stiff-armed his way past the crowds pouring out of the exit. The map flapping from his hand was caught by one, then two swinging arms and a briefcase. It disappeared and someone laughed. He looked back and watched as the Stadtplan was trampled by a hundred pairs of shoes. Verdamnt! Well, at least he knew the way.

  Five minutes later he stepped into the shade of a building overhang and wiped away beads of moisture from his forehead. Trickles of sweat were working down his chest and soaking his heavy pullover. The city dwellers around him were wearing lighter clothes, and some were in shorts and clunky, soft-looking shoes that resembled marshmallows. His hard black footwear and heavy clothes made him miserable.

  He spied Chesham Place only because the sign was prominent on the corner of a large, old building. The street was nothing more than a narrow alley on the opposite side of the busy thoroughfare, but getting there would be a problem. Traffic moved in a continuous stream and he saw no natural break in which to make a move. Retracing his steps the entire distance to the intersection and crossing at the light was out of the question.

  He watched for another minute before making a dash. A strange, red, two-story bus with the top missing came rattling along on the right. The opposite side of the street had a space developing between fast moving taxicabs and he took running steps in front of the bus.

  Udo had the straight-ahead charging ability of a heavy fullback punching holes in an opposing team’s line of tackles, but he lacked flex and maneuverability. A dark green Mini Cooper darting past on the blind side of the bus presented itself at the precise moment a tackle might rise up to challenge a running back.

  Udo hit the Mini Cooper broadside with a crunch of bone against metal and the sound of shattering glass. Horns blared. Tires screeched and skidded. The Mini Cooper came to a stop amid a trail of black tire marks and jewel-like fragments from a pulverized windshield.

  Udo rolled onto his side in a daze of agonizing pain. Black clots of nausea and suffering swirled over him in racking waves as he lay curled on the hot street. A young kid in a white T-shirt appeared over him. People seemed to be gathering around.

  “Watch his bloody back!” someone said. “He looks like he’s in for it.”

  “It’s his knee.”

  “Too right!”

  “Sir?” A shaky, young voice filtered down. “It wasn’t my fault. You just ran out! Someone’s got to get a doctor. My car’s ruined.”

  Udo understood ‘doctor’ and ‘car’. He could feel blood from his head. Teeth were loose in his mouth. He had to get up, move away. The polizei back home had been asking questions in the days since the bodies of Higgs and the young girl were found on the hill. Had he been careful enough? He didn’t know. At any rate, the Conductor wanted him out of the country, and this assignment seemed perfect for him.

  He moved to stand and fell back on his side in agony.

  “Easy now ya big bloke. Now you just don’t move. You’re in a bad way and the Bobbies’ll be here any moment.”

  He took several deep breaths and tried again, this time in a slow roll to one knee. It worked. From his position on all fours he stiffly and painfully brought himself to a standing position. Someone grabbed his arm and steadied him as he held himself upright in an awkward, tottering stance
. He flexed his leg and yelled. His hand was bleeding.

  Udo rubbed the blood from his face and took a step. Not so bad. He took another step, then tried another. He was walking. People yelled, but the noise receded behind him. He kept moving with a deliberate, careful hobble and reached the curb, then the narrow lane beside the Mucky Duck. The alley was deserted and quiet, and he limped past the door and out of sight around the corner of two buildings. He found another alley, and he sat back on a rubbish container and let the next few minutes pass slowly in a bewildered assessment of his wounds. The warble of sirens sounded, but they were dreamlike and far away.

  After a long while he stood up and fixed the entrance of the pub in his sights. He tested his leg and limped forward with the staggering motion of a very old man.

  The interior of the place was dark and cool, and the walls were layered in wood that had been smoked and stained by the ages. Udo found the lavatory and opened the door to a white tiled floor, two urinals and a sink. Five minutes later he emerged feeling not much better, but he was used to physical pain. He was put in mind of a beating he had once received from the Russians as a teenager. The pain went away in time.

  The bar was not crowded in the early afternoon, and an ugly, thin man with gangly arms and a scrawny neck nodded to him from a booth. Udo advanced to the table.

  “You look like bloody shit,” the thin man said. “What happened to you?”

  “Fusthk youth.” Udo tried his first words and spit blood into the man’s face from his gummy mouth. He pulled on a brown paper towel hanging from a pocket and dabbed his thick and bruised lips.

  The thin man had a bald head and a frozen smile that made him look like an imbecile. He reached to the side, retrieved a silk kerchief from a leather carryall and passed it over his face, hardly changing his expression.

  “Sit,” he said to Udo. “English? You understand English? The Conductor said a little.”