Come, Time
Page 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I have speed - another stolen car, another mark against my name. The country A-road I drive along is deserted. I am the lone commuter winning and losing the rat race. In the distance, a traffic sign shines, its message, too small to read. I slam on the brakes and screech to a halt. Stepping out of the car, I check to confirm my solitude then pull the gun from my pocket. I have used guns before, shotguns, air-rifles and pistols, all of which seem quaintly amateur in comparison to the one I now hold. It feels darker, more seductive, then any gun I have held before. It fits my hand perfectly; it wears me well. I look to the sign and take aim. I steady my line of sight then firmly squeeze the trigger. A bullet fires and rages towards its prey. All is easy and undramatic, a simple tool for the fearful masses, for me, myself and I.
I pick the spent shell from the tarmac, put it in my pocket then slip back into the car. At the road sign, a bullet hole scores me a kill.
I take the quickest route to Paris. No county or scenic view. I choose the blank, peaceful monotony of motorway travel.
Paris welcomes me in silence. The city is mine. I am alone in the city of romance. It is 4.10 am and the deserted streets guide me effortlessly towards my destination.
The address I seek is in the Paris 3 district, which seems several rungs removed from the chic and glamorous. Not quite the underbelly, but the first stop in, and the last stop out. The narrow streets are walled-in by tall, three to five-storey buildings stretching as far as the eye can see. Rows of parked cars, all pointing the same way, further enclose the space. At the ground floor level, commerce greets the eye, above the shops and businesses, live the people.
I park the car. Dare I call myself lucky? The good chance was mine to steal a small hatchback, which now fits smugly into the only space available. With a tentative pause and mild sense of trespasser’s guilt, I exit the car and take my first smell of Paris. All I can say is that today must be the day the bin men do their business. With map in hand, I hunt for the building. The address must relate to an apartment or office, either way, a two door entry. Discreet and stern looking doors stand scattered between the shop fronts. Some have numbers above or to the side, others do not. The building I seek is number 138. I find it and quickly concede to the door, a single, solid wooden slab that is beyond its prime but still sufficient, like an old prize-fighter earning cash to keep the door, its form and reputation enough to keep the peace. Entry is by electronic keypad. It will take more than brute force to defeat it. I will wait for the day, so hurry away in need of air and exercise.
Back in the car, watching and waiting with a monotone focus. Slowly the city opens for business. At 8.15am, I pick up my phone and call the number taken from the Whois information. It rings only twice, then is answered by a man who, in French, speaks calmly and with a professional tone.
‘Hello, Philippe Veirea.’
I cancel the call. So he’s in, but how to get to him? I realise I know so little. How does he plead, is he guilty or innocent? Is he a stooge or an active player? Will he recognize me? Of course, this could all be a trap, my presence predicted or known. My aim is to get into the apartment and look for clues. My plan to achieve my aim, unknown.
The discreet, stern doors start releasing the workers. A man dressed casually exits door 138. I pick up the phone and call the number. Philippe answers with calm and grace; rudely I cut him off.
Increasingly the street fizzes with people. I start to feel exposed as various stares take time to acknowledge the car and me. A well-built man in an expensive suit enters a café and takes a window seat. His line of sight is naturally inclined towards the door 138. Is this his mission? Does he too watch and wait?
My stare flitters from one man to the next, with the question, does he fit, following closely behind. I touch my coat and feel the gun snuggled in my pocket.
Door 138 flies open. A man, dressed cheaply for the office, dashes impatiently away. I make the call, Philippe answers, still calm and polite. Two young men walk lazily towards the building. Their tired, grinning faces talk of a night to remember. As they reach the prize fighter, one changes his mind, turns and saunters across the road, towards a bakery. I take my chance. A prop would be nice but nothing comes to mind. On the off-chance, I reach into the back of the car and pull the backseat down. In the boot I see boxes, presents wrapped. I stretch further in and pull them out, two large boxes and three smaller ones. The pink, High School Musical happy birthday wrapping paper tells me all I need to know. The tears of a child to add to the list.
I exit the car, open the back door and pile the presents on top of each other. The party guy exits the bakery. In a white paper bag, he patiently carries his breakfast. I pick up the presents and close the door. Held just right they conceal my face. To 138 I hurry. My timing is just about perfect; the race is a draw. He looks at me with a hazy grin, and without thinking, taps in the security code. Seeing the presents he speaks,
‘American shit. Kids, huh. Brainwahed.’
I smile in agreement. He pulls the door open and waves me in. Door number one is breached. I enter the ground floor. To press my legitimacy, I confidently head for the stairs and quickly consume the first flight. A casual glance behind confirms the party guy follows. I slow my pace, pretending the presents need more concentration than they actually do. As I reach the top of the second flight, I turn to snatch a glimpse, he has left the stairs for the corridor. Alone, I continue to the next floor, the floor where Philippe resides, but then what? Bang the door, let him open it then knock him out? Too crude, too exposed, for now at least.
The interior is grey and cold. Metal stairs and wooden floors announce every step taken. Echoes wait to trap and return any sound that tries to quickly fade. I stand in no mans land, midway up the third flight of stairs, my stare and concentration flicking between Phillip’s door and hunting for signs of people.
Ten minutes crawl slowly by. Plans, or rather hopes, form in my mind. Echoes tell of people leaving, fortunately all from below. The urge to move closer takes me. I reach his door and pass it. At the foot of the next door along, I dump the presents. Stepping back to his door temptation prods me, knock the door and punch him. I resist the act and take my reward, a noise: the flick and slide of a security chain. As I step away towards the presents, my hand grabs for the phone. The door is pulled open. I hit the redial button. A man half emerges from the door until the call of a ringing phone pulls him back in. He spits a word, one unfamiliar to me - my mother didn't teach me to swear. I make a dash for the door. My foot saves the close. Without hesitation, I push the door ajar and slip inside. A small hallway: three doors, to my left, right and ahead. The right door, which is open, leads to a bathroom. I slide inside, twist behind the door and hide. The phone is answered. I instantly cut the call. He spits out the word for the second time then paces out of the apartment. The door slams shut. I pause and listen, anticipating surprises. His footsteps trail an echo down the stairs, through the door and out. Silence. Door number two is breached.
Through the door opposite, I find a small kitchen, which contains no surprises. Through the third door, I enter the main living space, which is a bedroom and living room all in one. The décor is stylish, well kept and precisely placed. The air is scarred by the stench of cigarettes. A bright red two-seater sofa faces a neatly made double bed that is draped in a silky, purple bedspread. The dark wood floor tiles creak with pressure and shine, glossed with polish. The only carpet, which is red, separates the bedroom area from the rest of the room. The only window, which faces the door, is partly covered by wooden shutters. I take a peek though it but see no way to escape. I step to the bed, lift the bedspread but see no space to hide. A home office space - a corner desk, a LCD monitor and computer, a keyboard, laptop, phone, camcorder and printer, fills one corner of the room. Shelves hold various files, magazines and books. Above the door is a mezzanine floor on which stands a single bed, armchair and stereo. This, I conclude, is my only hiding place if needed or interrupted.
"All details for website attached. To go live ASAP! An hour max. Domain name ggc.com, you registered this for us a while ago. Further instructions will follow. I assume your bank details are unchanged."
I open the attached Word file and see the text and photos used on the cgg website. He built the site and registered the domain name. So what? It doesn’t mean he’s part of the crime. Who sent the email? I look at the address, a hotmail account, which tells me nothing.
Next to the mousepad a notepad catches my eye. I see written on it: a Paris address, today’s date and the time, 10 a.m.
I look at the other deleted emails. All they reveal, or rather confirm, is that Philippe is a website designer working from home. I have his website and contact details. His clients include a hair salon, a driving school and a tattoo parlor. My instinct tells me he knows nothing about me or the predicament I am in.
And now, what now? Find and search his accounts. He’s worked for them before so maybe an invoice exists that could tell me more.
Five minutes into my search, and I have found nothing of interest. Six minutes into my search and a noise heard outside the front door grabs my attention. The sound of metal on metal, a key violating an unfamiliar lock. I switch off the monitor then, taking no chances, rush to, and climb the ladder that leads to the mezzanine floor. As I reach the top, I hear the front door open then quickly close. I pull the gun from my pocket. A space between the bed and wall offers a place to hide. I accept the offer and sink to the floor. The wooden bed frame clears the floor by four inches and allows me a limited, and slightly exposed, view of the living space below. Footsteps sound, coming my way, ever closer. A man’s voice, speaking in French, is heard.
‘I’m in. He’s yours…When I’ve cleaned up here…No, nothing…Is the eye watching?...How dull…Not my style, mother-fucker…Yeah, you should wish, but give me her number.’
A man enters my line of sight. In one hand, he carries a motorcycle helmet, in the other, a mobile phone. He looks serious, to the point of being miserable and unpleasant. Physically, the weigh-in between us is even. He wears blue jeans, black leather gloves and a black leather motorcycle jacket that looks far too new to be cool. His hair is long and dark; his face denied a morning shave. He places the helmet and phone on the desk, then pulls off the gloves with a strange sense of aggression, yanking at them, as if compelled to use too much force. As he tosses them on to the desk, he snaps his head back and urgently stretches his throat as if compelled to do so.
Turning to survey the room, he casts a contemptuous eye over all he sees. This job, it seems, is beneath him. Catching sight of the notepad next to the mousepad, he grabs it, studies the top page for a beat then, with a brief, smug grin, tosses it into his helmet. I see his hands are skinned with a pair of latex rubber gloves. Turning the LCD monitor on, he sits at the desk and begins working at the computer.
Clean up? Is this them? Clean up Philippe? Why did he remove the notepad? Have they arranged to meet Philippe at the address? For what? To clean him up? To kill him?
Philippe, I think is a web designer, pure and simple. Why would they need to kill him? Why would they take the risk? For a ruthless attention to detail? To remove all risk? To erase all loose ends?
They think I am coming. ‘Is the eye watching?’ Watch the apartment on the off-chance. Clean up all evidence, however slight, that connects Philippe with them. Arrange to meet Philippe and clean him up, too?
The man suddenly stands, and with a fuck-it attitude, paces away towards the hall. Decision made; I stand and step to the stereo, which is plugged in and left on stand-by. I turn the volume control to zero then turn the stereo on. An LCD display flashes a graphic that tells me a CD is loading. I aim and ready the gun. Footsteps sound, approaching from the hall. The man, carrying a mug in his hand and an unlit cigarette in his mouth, enters my line of sight. I snap-slide the volume to full. A sonic boom of techno music explodes into the room and pounds into the man spinning him around to face me. Aiming for his body, I pull the trigger: the gun fires a bullet and his face explodes. I cut the volume to zero. I stand, listening. Normality continues. I hear no panic or confusion. I am, for now, unnoticed.
I stare at the kill, its face torn off, its head seemingly gorged by something wild. In this moment of time, I feel nothing - felt worse shooting rabbits. Another link on the chain smashed free.
The need to move rushes in. I slide down the ladder and step to the kill, where I rip the leather jacket from its body. The pockets yield no clues, no wallet or weapon, just a key, embossed with the word Honda, and a metal device, which I guess is a lock pick, both if which I keep.
At the computer, I check to see what the kill was up to. The email regarding the website has been deleted, other than that, what can I know? I check the time, 9.10 a.m. Philippe is due to meet them at 10 a.m. I Google the address. The location is a café situated in a district I passed on my way to the apartment. I study a map, memorising the directions.
Taking the kill’s phone, I search all records for numbers, as I find them I write them down. When finished, I take out my phone and take several photos of the kill in the room. I then create a text message to Philippe:
"You are in danger. The people you meet want you dead. Run and stay away."
I select the photo that will best show Philippe a dead man in his apartment, attach it to the text message then save it to send later.
The motorcycle jacket fits me well. I zip it up, slip on my rucksack then pull on the gloves. I think about taking his trousers and boots but quickly decide no. The helmet is a touch too small, but with a firm pull just about fits.
When Philippe half emerged from his apartment, I saw he was wearing jeans and a beige coloured jacket, but I did not see his face. A quick look around the room reveals a framed photo of, what looks like, father and son. Both look proud and respectful. I memorize his face, then make my move out of the apartment, down the stairs then out on to the street.
Without looking for the Eye or anyone suspicious, I head straight for a motorbike and moped parking zone that I passed on my way to the apartment.
Amongst a row of a dozen or so low rent mopeds and scooters beams a Honda CBR600 sports motorcycle, a beast of a bike, not for the subtle or faint-hearted. Convinced it’s my ride, I take it. I climb on-board and take a few moments to acclimatise. With the key in the ignition, I start the engine, which wakes with a low, warming rumble. I’ve ridden plenty of motorbikes before although nothing as savage as this. Anyway, the best policy when entering the unknown, is to get on with it, just do it and do it quickly. I kick the bike into gear then pull away in character, arrogantly at full arrogant.
A willingness to accept danger can somehow make you feel secure. I glide along the avenues and boulevards effortlessly consuming all in my way. The high level of concentration needed confuses time, and I reach my destination as if pushed through a void.
At the mouth of the street, I pull up and park in an allotted space. Keeping the helmet on, I pace away from the broad, open space of a boulevard and enter a darker, narrower street, more densely populated, street. Locals flow smoothly along, backpacked tourists add stickiness and do their best to clog my path. I pull off a glove then retrieve and ready my phone.
Forty metres ahead, and on the other side of the street, the café comes into view. From it, a single row of tables and chairs has begun to invade the sidewalk. Standing over a table is Philippe and Andrew. Philippe gulps down the final mouthful of coffee a cup has to offer; Andrew looks for something approaching in the distance.
I activate my phone and send the text message to Philippe. Andrew finds what he’s been lookin
g for, a black Audi Saloon that pulls up five or so metres away from the café. He speaks to Philippe and points at the car. I remove the helmet, cover my lower face with my scarf then quicken my pace. Philippe pulls a mobile phone from a pocket. Andrew places a polite hand on Philippe’s shoulder and guides him towards the Audi. Pinpointing my location with a single turn of the head, Andrew looks at me with a blank, empty stare, without any sense of recognition.
A solid slab of shoulder purposefully rams into me. Turning to make eye contact with the aggressor, I see a man in his early thirties, styled as a clone of Andrew, who meets my stare without fear or emotion. Behind him, two more such clones pace ever closer. In the near distance, sirens sound. I turn and look at the café. In the background, I see Andrew reach the Audi. Behind him Philippe follows, his stare fixed on his phone. In the foreground, two more clones move to encircle me. The sirens continue to draw closer. Philippe reaches the Audi and hesitates. Patting his pockets, he looks back at the table. Andrew opens the back door and returns the guiding hand to Philippe’s shoulder. I glance behind; the three clones loiter with a passive-aggressive menace.
I pull the gun from the side jacket pocket and in an instant deliver a bullet into each of their bodies. Pandemonium erupts around me. I turn and hunt the clones behind. Each one crumples to the ground as a bullet pulls them from life. I look up and see Andrew watching, his stare acknowledges me now. He tries to jostle Philippe into the Audi, but with his nerves already fired, Philippe slips his hold and flees. I, too, take my cue and run. I turn and sprint back towards the bike. All stickiness has gone; I now repel all those around me. A glance behind reveals Andrew pulling away in the Audi.
As I reach the bike, I slam on the helmet and stuff the gun back inside the pocket. And now? What now? I start the bike and feverishly speed away.
As my fame recedes so does the temptation to flee the city. Instinctively looking for the familiar, I find myself speeding back the way I came. Nearing Philippe’s apartment, I turn into a deserted side street, pull up and park. In the distance, sirens scream chaos. I dismount the bike and walk steadily away. A commercial sized rubbish bin blocks the pavement. I remove my helmet and feed it to the bin. With phone in hand, I type a message to Philippe.
"Stay away from your apartment. They may track you from your phone. Don’t trust the police. Soon I hope to explain."
I send the message then drop the phone through a drain, into the solitary bliss of the sewers. Turning into the street that leads to Philippe’s building, I watch the people, the shoppers and the café dwellers for any sign of recognition. Fortunately, news travels fast and I, the real story, slip by unnoticed. At the entrance to the building, I tap in the security code, open the door and enter. Running up the stairs, I slip off my rucksack and reach inside for the lock pick. Approaching Philippe’s door, I see the presents have vanished. Using the pick, I easily and quickly gain entry.
Inside the apartment, all remains as I left it. I race to the window and peep outside. Nothing I see concerns me. Pacing to the desk, I pull off the motorcycle jacket and toss it back to the kill. From the desk, I grab the camcorder then quickly return to the window. With a watchful eye on the street below, I fumble with the camcorder and eventually get it working. Filming the kill, I test-shoot a few seconds of footage then play it back to confirm all is working. With this confirmed, I place the camcorder on a bedside cabinet and position it to film as much of the room as possible. Next, I remove the laptop from my rucksack, boot it up and connect to the Internet via Philippe’s Wi-Fi. As the Inbox fills, I return to the window and see what I thought I would, a black Audi saloon pulling up outside the building. A back door opens, Andrew ejects himself out and fires himself towards the building. The Audi denied a place to park pulls aggressively away.
I rush to the camcorder and press record. I then snatch the laptop, close it and put it in my rucksack. Pacing to the bathroom, I slip on the rucksack and pull out the gun. Inside the bathroom, I leave the door wide open and conceal myself behind it.
A loud, confident knock on the front door. A ten second pause followed by the exact same knock. A five second pause followed by the sound of metal on metal. The door opens then quickly closes. Footsteps pace down the hall and into the main living area. A beat or two of silence followed by Andrew’s cold, agitated voice.
‘He’s dead. We need to clean-up…Because we can! Five dirty, one clean it still makes sense to me…We’ll have to take the risk…After the last text, I hardly think he’s coming back, do you? Send them in, I’ll wait.’
He’ll wait, for a team, for back-up? Do I risk remaining unnoticed and filming more evidence, or do I walk away and take my winnings?
Footsteps rap against the floor approaching me but then veer into the kitchen. I make my move; the gun aimed and ready. I creep from my hiding place and position myself in the hall. The kitchen door swings open, and out steps Andrew. Seeing me, he casually comes to a stop. His body remains lose and unafraid. He throws me a friendly smile then starts to clap his leather-clad hands.
‘Let me applaud you, Samuel Dean. Take my praise, Samuel Dean. I mean, you’re a nuisance, for sure, but a first class fuckin’ nuisance if there ever was one.’
Using the gun, I gesture for him to get down on the floor, a gesture he blindly ignores.
‘Do you know who we are, Sam? Stupid question of course you don’t know who we are. Nobody knows who we are. We are nothing you or anyone else can ever find or ever know.’
He takes a single step towards me narrowing the distance between us to two metres. I’m sure he’s had a gun in his face before, and I’m sure he’s been trained to fight.
‘Justice doesn’t seek us. The authorities cannot investigate us. No crime can stick to us. Whatever you think you are initiating, how ever you think you are progressing, you are deluding yourself. In fact, all you are doing is building the case for your own psychopathic insanity. You, Sam, you, are the killer that justice seeks! We, we are nothing! We are completely unseen!’
I repeat the gesture to get down on the floor.
‘No. Shoot me or make me, but I will stand!’
He takes another subtle step towards me. I aim the gun at his leg fully intending to fire.
‘Wait!’
He half-heartedly raises his hands just above his head.
‘Whatever you want, Sam. I know you mean it. I know you’ve got the taste for killing. It’s easy, isn’t it? Hey, now? The taste is sweet now. The first human kill is like acid on the tongue. But now, it’s a sweet, tasty treat. So enjoy it, before the blandness, before it gets blander and blander until finally the taste is nothing, it’s tasteless, far too easy to swallow. What’s your score by the way? How many men have you killed, Sam? Tell me, you could join a club of mine.’
He booms out a burst of quick-fire laughter. Again I repeat the gesture.
‘Can’t I stand? I’ll face away from you. Shoot me or knock me out. Question me, Sam. Ask me some questions. What is it you want to know?’
He turns his back on me. He’s stalling, planning something, waiting for his back-up to save him or for a chance to fight me. I pull the trigger and shoot him dead. With the noise of gunfire ringing in my ears, I step straight into action. I search his pockets and find an automatic handgun with a silencer attached, a mobile phone, and a wallet containing euros, pounds and a CCG corporate credit card. I think about discarding the phone but instead turn it off and put it, along with the wallet, into a pocket.
With guns in hand, I pace to the window and take a look outside. An ambulance is parking, at an unhurried pace, in a no parking zone close to the building. Once stationary, two men, ambulance men in uniforms, exit the ambulance, one from the front and one from the rear. The man from the rear hands the other man a large, well packed holdall bag then re-enters the back of the ambulance. A few seconds later, he re-emerges carrying a light weight portable stretcher. After closing the rear door, they stroll towards the building. The indicators on the ambul
ance flash twice to show the doors have been locked remotely. Is this the clean-up team? I assume it is.
I stuff my gun into my belt then, removing my rucksack, pace to and grab the camcorder, which I turn off and place inside the rucksack. Slipping the rucksack back on, I return to the hall and open the front door, leaving it slightly ajar. I then drag Andrew’s body into the main living area and dump it next to the Kill. Finally, I dash back to the bathroom where I stand hidden, examining Andrew’s gun. Seeing the safety catch is enabled, I turn the switch to the off position.
The front door creeks open. A man’s voice quietly speaks,
‘Go.’
Bodies rush into the hall and pass the bathroom. I step out and see the ambulance men about to leave the hall and enter the main living area. I aim the gun and pull the trigger. Another two men are pulled from life. The silencer does its job well. I search their pockets and find a vehicle key. Putting the gun in a pocket, I head for the door and exit.
In the corridor, all is still. I close the door and pace quickly away, down the stairs and out into the street, where sirens continue to swirl and wail. People stand together talking, but none show alarm or concern for a gunshot heard. As I reach the ambulance, I remotely unlock its doors. A quick glance around reveals no prying eyes, so I open the drivers door and climb inside, into my carriage, my ride to free me from the city.
A part of me wants to burst into laughter. I breeze through the city with barely an interruption. The sirens repel all in my way. The laughter, however, remains untapped.
Having cleared the city, I pull up into a lay-by. My next move is undecided. Am I any closer to Oakley? Have I stepped towards the truth? Unable to think of an answer, I pull Andrew’s phone from my pocket, find the correct button and turn it on. Expecting it to ring, my stare loiters on its screen, but I receive only silence for my time. On the screen, an icon catches my eye, a message unread? I navigate to the inbox and find a message from someone called Spitz. It reads:
"Remember who you answer to. We may be one, but we are not the same."
Is this important? I discard the phone on to the dashboard, take the laptop, boot it up and check the emails that were uploaded while in the apartment - every one is spam. As I snap the laptop shut, Andrew’s phone sizzles into life vibrating with an in-coming call. I grab the camcorder, turn it on to record, and then bring it to the phone and my ear. I answer the call and hear the calm, self-satisfied voice of Oakley.
‘Sam?..Samuel?..Silence…Then let me assume it’s you…Sam, all this fuss, all this drama and complication. You want me, well here I am. Let me give you my address; let me tell you where I am: Sea View, The Mount, Mgarr, Malta. I repeat, Sea View, The Mount, Mgarr, Malta. The biggest, whitest house you can see from the village. I’m here now, at home. It’s a beautiful day. Clear blue skies and a crisp, blue sea. Visit me. I have a funeral to attend in a week or so but until then, I am all yours. I will clear my diary for you, Sam. In fact, either you arrive within 72 hours or, on the hour, every hour, someone will die… Who? God knows. Just some random man or woman, selected somehow, from somewhere. No one important or close to you. Just another average human being found to be clogging up the earth. Some will welcome it, others will not. Anyway, there it is. Simple. You want me, and now, you know exactly where I am. See you soon, Sam.’
The line goes dead. I stop the camcorder recording, rewind and check to see if his voice was captured. It was. Nothing conclusive, but still, I have another link fixed to the chain.
He’s done well, a good move on his part. They want control and that’s how to do it. The bastards. Give me a destination. Make me predictable. I saved Philippe, so what; they think this is my weakness? Give me a timeframe, achieve it or we will prod you where it hurts. Is he there, probably, I mean, why not? What risk is it to them? All the risk is mine. I must rush there risking exposure and capture from the police and whoever. And anyway, how do I get there and more importantly, how do I leave? Malta is an island close to the middle of nowhere. Where can I run, where can I hide? Even if I get there, they know I’m coming, all they have to do is wait and plan. But I want him. I want him to see me, to smell me. I want him never to forget my greeting, or for that, my departure.
Weakness, have no weakness. Rationalise it all away. Create your own morality. Blame the greater good. To kill on the hour, every hour. Would they? Who the fuck are they? ‘We are nothing you or anyone else can ever know.’ Well, how true is that? How much of them are Oakley? Do they stop with him or go well beyond him? Would they really kill as they promise to?
Control, they control me, but I must fight to keep the lead ever slack. I should disappear and wait. I should remain unpredictable. But then, what wilderness is left to accommodate me? This is the wilderness. Live or die. Never find peace.
It was never going to be easy. What is their weakness? They don’t expect to lose, and mine, I don’t laugh anymore. In my favour, I could never survive prison. Do I have an advantage? Surprise. I get there fast, impossibly fast. My only chance is speed.
Andrew’s phone is state-of-the-art, one of those new smartphones that are starting to become desired. I fiddle with it and soon get it connected to the Internet. I search for and find the website of my local newspaper. The headline story is an interview with Oakley. He’s made an impassioned plea for me, the killer, to give myself up. He is described as the broken son, who after years of separation, was starting to rebuild his fractured relationship with his estranged, but loved, mother. He will attend the funeral and will fly in from his home, in Malta.
Seventy-two hours. I will visit him. No more virtual communication.
Using Google Maps, I memorise a rough route then turn off the phone and accelerate away.