First Person

by Eddie McGarrity

  HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY.

  I looked at the banner strung across an archway garlanded with flowers. We’ll see how this wish works out, I thought. Early morning party planners buzzed about in the sunshine. Catering was provided by Davis Bros and music by ‘DJs to the Stars’. My moment came when an unmarked panel truck pulled up along the east facing side of the marquee, the side with no doors, just the plain off-white canvas. A number of hands clustered around the back of the truck, primed for its arrival. I threw my jacket into the back of my car and shimmied up next to them, eager to see what was inside. It was the cake.

  I smoothed down my black apron and adjusted my white blouse when one of the men there looked me up and down. He looked away, embarrassed at being noticed ogling one of the waitresses. Unthinking, he smoothed down his own black apron, and looked back inside the truck. Fondant modelled into a monstrously large pool table, complete with balls and cues, was being pushed forward. The bakers inside shooed the waiting staff away, telling us they could manage themselves. Another chance. As a few of the staff melted away to continue their duties I followed a few of them inside the marquee.

  Grabbing a handful of the cutlery like a few of the other girls, I followed them round the tables, setting up the dining in the same way. Posing as one of the waiting staff, I tried to blend in. Always alert, I just needed to see around, get a feel for the place. Covered in fine linen, circular tables covered the most part of this massive marquee. At the far end, a small dance floor had been laid on the ground and beyond that was the sound system; no band, but a DJ, still setting up his gear. Andy was helping the guy, shooting the breeze with the DJ, and dressed in a nice suit and tie, like some Uncle arrived early to hang out with the musician. We never made eye contact.

  A couple of hours passed and eventually we were sent on a short break. The birthday boy would be there soon. We would let him enjoy his day. We’re not heartless. Andy had to say goodbye to the DJ as the room emptied and I caught sight of him heading to the restrooms. I followed the pack for a lukewarm coffee and a limp sandwich. As we left the marquee to go out back, a few bodies were clustered around the pool table cake. Amongst them was a tall young man with wavy blond hair and a goofy smile. It was him but I didn’t want him to see me yet. I kept out of sight. And I did so want him to see me.

  Whilst these rich entitled assholes enjoyed their after-dinner coffee, I looked over at the Birthday Boy. We’d had speeches about going off into the adult world and some amusing stories of his childhood. It was like they were marrying him to adulthood in this flowery temple. He crumpled at the stories, laughing along, old before his time, which of course was why Andy and I were there. He still wore braces on green teeth. When I turned eighteen, it was tequila and boys, and scared stiff we wouldn’t get back across the border the next morning. DJ to the Stars played some mellow tunes and nodded his gold-framed dark glasses.

  One of the waitresses grabbed another pot of coffee. Helen her name was and she had told me she was dying for a smoke. I winked and took the pot off her. She smiled gratefully and snuck out the back while I made straight for the head table. Birthday Boy was leaning in towards a sweet young thing. I was this young once, but nowhere near as sweet. In a bouncy taffeta dress, she looked pretty. I poured a couple of coffees until I got right behind the pair of them. Both were unaware I was there. I leaned over and whispered in both their ears. “I doubt you’ll get laid tonight.”

  She barely heard me and her face screwed up into a ‘what did you say?’ expression. Birthday Boy twisted round in his chair, ready to give me a piece of his mind, but it was then that he saw me. I could have been any waitress; black skirt over black stockings, sensible shoes and nice white blouse, hair done up, a little bedraggled from working this gig. But I’m not just anybody, and in that moment he knew it and his face froze. His cheeks had pulled his mouth open to put me in my place but no words came out. Shock will do that to the guys we hunt.

  I smiled, coffee pot at the ready. “Hey Tomas. Had a nice life?”

  “Thomas?” The girl mispronounced his name slightly, confused at what she just heard. Of course, she knew him as Daryl.

  The boy’s father sat a few chairs down. He looked at us, his brow furrowed. It was time for me to leave Tomas to it before I drew attention to myself. “Enjoy the party,” I said, even meaning it.

  Tomas, or Daryl as he was known, leaned forward in his chair. I kept an eye on him as I ducked back to the catering area. He looked around, his shoulders miserably hunched over. The sweet young thing was confused but she placed a gentle hand on his arm. Tomas looked around. The father had turned his attention to an older couple who had appeared at his side. Tomas pulled a linen napkin off his knee and slipped out of his chair, leaving his girlfriend behind. His eyes were on the floor as he skulked away. The girlfriend watched him go, saying nothing.

  I saw all this through a gap in the curtain which separated us servers from the guests. A feet away my boss clicked his fingers at me, impatient. I snorted and told him where to go. Then I went after Tomas.

  Andy was already on him. Tomas, in his rented tux and shiny shoes, was running for it. I hadn’t hung around inside and after blowing my cover as a waitress all I saw was the back of Andy running into a side alley. I stayed on the street. Having lost the apron, I made for the sidewalk and hit it. I barely breathed as I ran by an old warehouse, now fancy apartments. This whole area had been reclaimed by the new gentry and I just ran right through their new neighbourhood in pursuit of one of their sons. Weaving in and out the few people around that afternoon, I cornered the block only to see Tomas barrel out the alleyway with Andy in pursuit.

  Tomas yelled out randomly, “Help! Help me!”

  I saw a middle-aged woman with a poodle on a leash lift her phone up to dial as she watched the seemingly young man pursued by someone older. As I reached her, I tapped her shoulder to distract her intention. “Police pursuit, ma’am,” I said to her in a stern voice. She dropped the phone to her side and she smiled briefly at me. I took this all in an instant, never breaking stride. I must have looked like a cop, like Andy always says I do.

  Up ahead, Tomas ran into another building. A rookie mistake, even from him. Andy rammed his broader body through the narrow doorway and a moment later I was inside too. The place was an empty building site. Pocked sheets of plastic drifted where walls should be and I ran across smooth concrete floors to the back of the building. On his back, Tomas writhed on the floor, his tux jacket all dusty. He must have been decked by Andy or even tripped in his stupid new shoes. He was breathing hard and I saw him for what he was now; a pasty kid who never picked up a paper route let alone a football. He was breathing heavily, terrified. His hands were in the air as Andy quietly menaced him; not even out of breath.

  As I came up on the two of them, I made a point of not looking behind me. I looked down at Tomas. “You should be afraid you little shit. Why did you run?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he roared. The gawky teenager was momentarily gone to be replaced by the Tomas we knew and remembered.

  I looked at Andy. He just sort of shrugged with his mouth before asking, “Are you kidding him?”

  Staring Andy down like I really meant it. “I’m deadly serious.”

  He knew what I meant. Andy reached inside his coat and pulled out the Bolt; a small graphite arrow, no bigger than a pencil, with a deadly bronze tip. I took it off him and crouched down beside Tomas, who was still squirming on the floor. His eyes were all red and puffy and I could see the mark on his jaw where Andy must have hit him. I held up the Bolt and Tomas flinched. “Yeah, you know what this is,” I told him. He had seen one twice before and now he was getting it again.

  Tomas became still. He looked me right in the eye, cool and relaxed. “I’ll see you again.”

  Andy snorted. He already had the pistol crossbow wound up. I took it off him and placed the bolt in its workings. Andy hunkered down to grip Tomas by the shoulders. Tomas just looked at me and snee
red, “I’ve seen you twice already.”

  Andy chortled. “Don’t you know there’s a new rule in town?”

  Tomas tried to screw his head around to look at Andy, wondering what he meant. By way of explanation, Andy said. “Three strikes, buddy.”

  I held the crossbow under Tomas’ neck; its pistol grip moulded for my hand. He froze but his eyes met mine. I whispered, “Straight to hell.” I pulled the trigger and Tomas went limp.

  It was late at night as I climbed the fire escape. Darkness brought on cooler air and I followed it inside through an open window. A two-room apartment, this room I’d just stepped into was a crèche. Pink linen, suspended from the ceiling, spread out in an inverted ‘V’ over an empty crib. Freshly laundered bedding reminded me of my own childhood in a room not unlike this one. Well, this childhood. Previous ones had been a little different. I padded to the open doorway. Staying concealed from the hallway beyond, I tucked in behind the door and looked through the crack.

  A TV gibbered away in another room, some cat up a tree crap. And a shadow moved about, a man, and a baby cooed and giggled. I heard splashing; bath-time. Behind the door, a comfortable chair had been pushed into the corner. I quickly moved a stack of diapers and placed them carefully on the floor without making a sound. I sat down and waited.

  After a while, the TV was switched off and there was some more moving about. Eventually, all bundled up and sleeping, the baby I had heard came into the room, carried by the man we were after; Martin. With his whole attention on the child, he bounced her gently in his arms before laying her lovingly in the crib. His sleeves were rolled up from having bathed her. Martin leaned in and petted her head. He never looked over his shoulder to the corner once. I sat there waiting. Martin’s doorbell rang. He moved his head slightly, but kept his attention on the kid.

  When he ignored the bell a second time, I said, “You better get that Martin.”

  He froze. The doorbell rang a third time and he finally turned round, though slowly, keeping a protective hand on the side of the crib. He caught sight of the open window and I could see his lips move, cursing himself. I recognised the shape of the German words. He was afraid when he finally saw me and made no move when my partner Andy let himself in the front door.

  “You make me pick this lock, Martin?” Andy huffed as he found us, his voice loud, pissed off.

  “You’ll wake the baby,” I said and stood up and crossed to the open window. A small breeze hit my back as I leaned on the sill.

  “Shit, a baby?” Andy directed this to Martin.

  “She’s my wife.” Martin said it as if we should know.

  Andy and I looked at each other. “Sick f-,” Andy said. He let the letter just hang in the air like he was going to say the whole word but was stopping himself.

  “It’s Magda?” My question was to Andy, who shrugged, and then I looked at Martin without concealing my open-mouthed amazement.

  “She made it,” Martin said. He sounded proud. He stood there, barely fitting his grey pants and cardigan, his hair thinning and white above the ears. And he sounded proud, like he was telling us this to make us like him, like we would be pleased for him. As if it was some kind of achievement to cheat death, miss a few steps, and get ahead of the line.

  The moment stretched out for a while until Andy laughed. “This shit is fucked up, Martin. Are you out of your mind?”

  “You can’t bring her here,” I added. I could not believe what he had done, what he and Magda had risked. Leaving aside how plain odd this was, how inappropriate, that his wife was now a baby, it was impossible to comprehend how Martin ever thought he was going to make it work.

  He sort of smiled at me. One side of his mouth curled and an eyebrow was raised slightly. “I was a child when I arrived in this time.”

  “Did you read my mind, Martin?” I asked him. He shrugged slightly, to indicate he had, and that his answer somehow proved it. He kept his position, a hand resting on the crib. He was calculating, though. It was in his eyes as he looked from the door, covered by Andy, and the window covered by me. I tried to see if there was another hidden exit. They always run.

  Andy was next to speak. He took a big breath in before saying, “We saw Tomas today, posing as a dude called Daryl.”

  Martin swallowed. The Adam’s Apple on his scrawny neck bobbed. He wanted to know the outcome of our encounter with Tomas but he dared not ask. Maybe he thought we hadn’t Bolted him, or he thought we were bluffing, that we were waiting to see if he knew where Tomas was. When Martin looked to me, I gave a tiny shake of my head. Tomas didn’t make it.

  There was a moment before Martin knew what I meant but then he put it together and he just sort of crumbled. It started behind his eyes and spread down to his hips which just gave way. In two steps, Andy was there, caught Martin and just moved his over to the chair. Martin flopped down on its low frame and his eyes greyed out. We had him. We never didn’t have him, but he was beaten now. He let out a big sigh and we crowded round him, blocking any attempt to run.

  Martin looked me right in the eye, lucid again. “I just wanted to be a step nearer.”

  I nodded. I understood. I really did, and still do. Me and Andy are further away than ever but it’s the price you pay for the life that’s chosen you. Martin, and creeps like Tomas, not to mention baby Magda in the crib, wanted something else. Who can blame them?

  Andy took the pistol crossbow from under his jacket and primed it. “There are twelve steps, Martin. You wanna get to heaven you gotta get in line.”

  Martin nodded and watched Andy pull the mechanism back. When he handed it to me, I already had the Bolt in my hand and Martin started breathing a bit harder. Andy reached down to hold him still but Martin flinched and lifted a hand. He stilled his breathing and Andy straightened up without having grabbed the guy. Martin pulled the cuffs of his shirt down. He looked at me. “Will I see you again?”

  A tiny shake of my head. Three strikes and straight to hell.

  Martin swallowed again, his temples pulsed. “And Magda?” He barely managed to say the words, just barely managed to look at his baby wife in the crib.

  I huffed a small laugh at such an idiotic question. “We don’t Bolt minors, Martin.” I put the Bolt in the pistol and put the pistol to his neck. He closed his eyes when I pulled the trigger and his body only flinched slightly as he died.

  We stood for a moment in the quiet room. The baby shifted in her crib and cooed lightly. Andy held his hands and cocked his head. “What about the kid?”

  This one was on me. “We’ll phone the cops and report this murder.”

  I handed the pistol to Andy. He put it away and shrugged his jacket into a comfortable position. He looked at Martin’s lifeless body. “Goddamn Cutters.”

  Suitcase of Dreams

  “ARE YOU JUST off the boat, sir?”

  He looks at me and frowns momentarily. Brown eyes flicker in search of the memory to answer my question. He looks back down the pier to see the ferry slip away. It slides easily away from the pier and across the water. We stand on solid ground, away from the wooden pier. A breeze from the sea, a narrow marine lake, cools the air as we meet in warm summer sunshine. He looks tired, as if recently wakened, which if true is a good thing. Sleeping makes the crossing easier.

  He puffs out his cheeks and blows out a sigh, my question forgotten. Though I know the answer, I saw him disembark after all, it was asked of him to begin a conversation. His clothes are smart; dressed well in shirt and tie, though no jacket in this fine weather. He rubs his chin, square jawed. There is a hint of stubble. He looks at me and I know what he is thinking. He’s wondering why I’m talking to him.

  “Would you like a hand with your bags?” I ask.

  His hands reach down for his bags, but I can already see he has none. Puzzled, he looks behind him. The short pier is free of any clutter, let alone anything belonging to him. The main sounds are water splashes, and gulps under the pier, from the wake of the ferry as it continues its
journey to the other side. He turns back to me. “I don’t seem to...”

  “It’s quite alright, sir,” I say, lifting a hand slightly to gently reassure him. “I can help you. Many visitors arrive without luggage, and I have many varieties.”

  He smiles uneasily, though gratefully. He has straight white teeth, and must say I find him rather handsome, his bearing agreeable. My time with him will be enjoyable, I think to myself, though professional courtesy forbids me to treat him differently from any other customer. I gesture for him to step away from the pier edge and go further into the town.

  We walk together, him looking at the pretty little seaside town which greets his eyes. A terrace of different shaped homes face the sea, each painted in a different vivid colour. His attention is shared between a dark blue three-storey building and its neighbour; smaller and yellow. I ask, “You seem pleased to see this place. Is it similar to one you have visited before?”

  He stops and I wait next to him. “Not exactly the same. But yes, I am pleased to be here.”

  “This way, sir.” I hold out an arm to move him further along. “We must reach my shop if I am to sell you some bags.”

  “Thank you,” he says, stepping forward on my lead and giving me a warmer smile this time. Continuing our journey, we turn the corner at the end of the terrace to find the High Street. The road is empty save for us, and shop fronts hold little interest for him. One window, displaying rows of colourful sweetie jars, barely gets a glance from him. He seems more interested in adjusting his tie. “I’m not really here to shop.”

  “Of course not, sir,” I say, “But I’m sure you’ll like my luggage store.”

  We reach my shop front and I push the door open. A bell above the doorway rings as I beckon him inside and it rings again when he has entered and the door is closed. It is cool inside the shop. Away from the sunshine outside he looks around at the displays. He sees holdalls and handbags but I steer him towards the luggage section. “I’m not really in the mood for shopping,” he tells me.