Ducie

by Chris Freeman

  Chapter 36. The Sundance Kid

  Frank checked his watch, as he threw the last of his belongings into the black, leather hold-all.

  - Frankie-bwoy! Ya come ere and pull a perfect lickle stunt like dis and den ya gotta goo draw ‘tention t’yaself by dressing like ya gonna teef a bank or some-tink.

  Frank glanced down at the bag. It did have an air of The Sundance Kid about it if he was honest.

  - It’s just a bag Harrison. Do you have yours ready?

  - Irie!

  Harrison patted his Adidas hold-all. They’d both travelled light for a reason. The reason being that Frank knew that when the time came to leave, it would likely need to be a sharp exit like this.

  - Ya tink da gal a gonna show Frankie?

  - I’m not sure mate. I did my best on her. I’ve had worse remoulding sessions than that that have turned out just fine. If she doesn’t show, we go home without her. What can I say? We tried.

  Harrison looked pensive as he surveyed the room for any of his possessions he’d missed.

  - So she just gonna wake up on the pavement and tink she bin dreaming, yeah dread? She nah gonna memba me bustin her up in the van?

  - You didn’t bust her up Harrison…. I don’t know. I’ve had some interesting results in the past. The best case scenario is that the new memories I planted inside her have set so firmly that she retains all the bullshit I fed her after the drug wears off.

  - So alr dem tings aboot the dog in Fortunato’s….Aboot her coming back t’England widdus…. Shorty gonna buy arl dat non-sense and forget aboot I-man bustin her up widda shackles?

  - She’ll wake up a little confused when she comes round. Her instinctive reaction will be to try to remember how she got there. And the idea is that when she does that, when she delves through the snippets of memory and tries to piece them together, she’ll bring forward the information I put there, and hopefully realise that she’s meant to be coming with us.

  - And if she nah wanna come?

  - I remoulded it to have her believe she’d already agreed to come. That it was already part of the plan. The betas will have stripped out the emotion from that thought, so when she recalls it and when she reads the text message telling her to meet us at the airport, it’ll just be fact. No more or less than a cold, hard, soulless fact.

  - Sight.

  Frank knew Harrison either wasn’t convinced nor did he have any idea what he was talking about. He just didn’t have time to go into it much more.

  - Look, if it goes the way it should, she’ll just feel compelled to do what her head’s telling her to do. You know, like when you put a CD into you CD player. The disc is just a set of instructions. The player doesn’t start getting emotional or worrying about whether or not playing the CD is the right thing to do; it just…..

  The knock on the door seemed too surreal to be true. There was no reason for anyone to be visiting them. They hadn’t had a maid the whole time they’d been there. Such was the level of service in bargain-basement accommodations like this. Frank’s mind flew on a whistle-stop tour of all absurd possibilities. Did his session not go as well as he’d thought? Was Harrison right? Did Daniella remember getting ‘busted up’ and brought to this very hotel room? Did she somehow direct the police back here? She was drugged out cold in the van. But someone was out there knocking.

  - Who karlin?

  Harrison’s blunt request for the visitor to identify themselves left Frank feeling obliged to clarify.

  - Erm.. Who…. Who’s there please?

  It came out so timid and pathetic. Like someone doing an exaggerated impression of a quaint English accent.

  There were two, maybe three seconds of suspense-filled silence before the crash of the door being kicked through sent Frank flinching backwards, tripping over his bag and ending up in a heap at the bottom of the same bed he’d been sleeping in since they’d arrived.

  Frank had never given much thought to whether Harrison could fight. I guess on a subconscious level he might have just presumed he could handle himself on account of his physical stature. It wasn’t a given though.

  There seemed to be no time gap between the door being kicked in and Harrison standing face to face with the intruder, who ensured a non-intimate distance remained between them by brandishing a 9mm semi-automatic hand gun. The intruder couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off the weapon, his focus darting frantically from the ridged barrel of the gun and then to Harrison, and then back to the weapon, as if he himself couldn’t really believe that he was holding such an item.

  Harrison’s inner fight-or-flight meter always defaulted to fight mode, but there’s something about having a lethal weapon pointed at you that sort of takes that decision out of your hands. Harrison’s life journey until now was one that hadn’t crossed the path of many guns; this was the first in fact. He analysed the guns components in detail, the names of which he wasn’t weapon-wise enough to know. Barrel, bullet, trigger. I suppose that’s all you really needed to know. He shared his focus equally between the gun and its master. Desperately looking for a sign that the trigger was about to be pulled, but not wanting to hold his stare for long enough to be considered a challenge to pull the trigger.

  Enough time passed for the stand-off to become a little awkward. The onus in a situation like this should have been on the assailant to make his motives clear. That sort of came with the territory of would-be marksman.

  - Wuddis arl aboot? Ya wah cash?

  In Harrison’s mind, money was about the most logical reason he could think of that would justify someone doing something like this.

  No response.

  - Money? Cash? Ya wahn cash? Frankie, whaya got der dread?

  Frank wasn’t listening. Distracted by where he’d seen the man’s face before. They hadn’t been in the country that long, so there wasn’t that many people he could recognise. His mind skipped through a highlight reel of their trip in fast forward, eliminating faces he’d seen along the way. Fortunato! The owner of the café. And with that revelation, his mind flicked to motives. Motives for bursting into their hotel room and pointing a….

  - Frankie!

  Harrison’s voice rocked Frank back in line with the present moment like the shrill of a morning alarm clock.

  - Gidda man what he come for Frankie.

  Frank fumbled his pockets briefly. Nothing. He knew there was nothing there. He slowly edged towards his bag, never losing Fortunato’s gaze. His eyes desperately trying to convey his submission. Fortunato saved him the bother.

  - I didn’t say money. I’m not here for your money. Don’t go any nearer the bag there.

  Frank was grateful to be spared the embarrassment of offering his measly 90 Argentine Peso and 45 British Pounds in exchange for his life.

  - On the bed….both of you!

  Both men edged towards the bed, Harrison holding his hand out in a ‘stop’ gesture, as if that would be enough to deflect the bullet should their new friend decide to shoot.

  - Talk!

  Both men looked at each other in genuine confusion.

  - Erm…. Talk about what…. Sir?

  There was no need for the Sir. Harrison kissed his teeth in pity of Frank’s dismal weakness. It was humbling enough being bossed around by this clown, but giving him a title was a step too far.

  - Let’s start with Daniella….

  Frank’s heart sank.

  - How do you know her? And what did you say to her in my café that made her hit the road so fast?

  Harrison looked to Frank for the answer. This required craft and thinking, and it was clear by now that that was his department.

  - We were interviewing her as part of our research. She was on a break from the stall. She had to dash back before the afternoon rush started.

  - What research is it?

  - We’re working on a university project based out of Birmingham, England. Looking at how unskilled workers in foreign countries make ends meet on a low income.

>   A pause. The gunman offering no input. A clear indication that Frank’s explanation would need far more meat than that if it were to wash with him.

  - Our country’s on its knees at the moment. Even the middle class are struggling to make ends meet. Petrol costs the earth, the housing market’s a mess. We need to get back to basics if we’re going to….

  - And this research required you to chuck the market stall girl into your van and bring her here to this hotel

  Busted!

  - We dunno whaya tark aboot!

  If it was in Frank’s nature to suck his teeth, then this is the point he would have done so. Fortunato had found the hotel easily enough. The only way he could have known where they were was if he’d followed them there, which meant they didn’t have a leg to stand on. Not as far as kidnapping Daniella went anyway.

  - Why don’t you ask Daniella for yourself what happened?

  - So you’re telling me she’s not here?

  Distrust dripped from Fortunato’s words.

  - Tek a look around, badman. Be our guest.

  The invite to have a mooch around seemed to appeal to Fortunato, despite the fact that in possession of the firearm, he could have pretty much done what he pleased anyway. He squinted at the pair suspiciously, as if he were trying to derive from their eyes the location of the booby traps and banana skins they’d planted around the hotel room. Fortunato backed up toward the door he’d entered through, the gun’s aim never shifting from the foot of the bed where the unlikely duo were perched. He swung open the wardrobe door with drama that was verging a little too much on slapstick for such a tense situation. Nothing. He checked under both beds, which gave the whole episode an air of a juvenile game of hide and seek that forced Frank to internalise his amusement. No Daniella under the beds either. Fortunato looked at the bathroom, then back at the men with a knowing look of ‘now I’ve figured it out’. He stuck his head around the bathroom door, while his arm remained outstretched, pointing the gun. He couldn’t reach the light cord without taking the gun off the pair.

  - You! Little guy….

  Frank wasn’t particularly little, but sat next to Harrison, there was only one of them he could have been referring to.

  - Come in here and pull the light cord for me.

  Frank did as he was told. Across the room, eyes on the gun. There was a brief moment when Frank crossed his path to enter the bathroom that Fortunato hesitated as to where the gun should be pointing. Momentary panic set in as he darted his aim back and forth between Frank and Harrison, before he settled on a compromise. Gun pointed at Harrison, eyes fixed on Frank, who calmly pulled the light cord in the bathroom and gestured almost smugly at the lack of Daniella in the room. There was nowhere else she could be hiding.

  - Join your friend back there on the bed. Don’t do anything stupid now.

  The order was barked now. The gunman clearly stressed by the conclusion that he had come here on a whim and had now run himself into a bit of an awkward cul-de-sac. Frank stopped in the middle of the room. His hands raised in surrender, desperately trying to free himself from blame for the fact that Harrison was nowhere to be seen.

  - Where the fuck is the black one?

  The bark was a full-on shout now. Part anger, part fear. He’d dropped a clanger taking his eyes off the main threat.

  - Mate, please. I don’t know. He must have…. He’ll be back. I swear. We’ll find him together. Just…..

  - Where the fuck are you negro?

  He pointed the gun around the place manically. Scoping out even the most ridiculous nooks and crannys of the room.

  - Get the fuck back on the bed now negro, or I will shoot your friend right here and now.

  Frank’s stomach twisted. Death was a familiar concept to him, but only in safe, journalistic theory and medical textbooks. A direct threat to his life from a complete stranger sent blood rushing to his face. He felt violated. How did anyone have the right to threaten to put a stop to his being? He wanted to act, to go down fighting, but to move would be to invite gunshot. A dilemma. Horrible. Fortunato pulled back the slide to load the gun’s chamber.

  - Come out here negro. Don’t think I’m fucking around here.

  Frank contemplated the dingy, muggy, Argentine shit hole that was about to become the location of his final chapter. Why here….? Of all places? He’d firmly believed that coming to this place was a calling. But now…. A calling to what? To the end of his days? Perhaps he was meant to go. Perhaps fate compelled him to follow this crackpot lead half way across the world because it was his time to die. He didn’t quite catch where Harrison sprung out from, but he saw him before Fortunato did. Frank braced, expecting gunshot, as Harrison wrestled Fortunato to the floor, smothering him flat onto his stomach, the weapon trapped somewhere between the heap of body parts and the carpet. Fortunato was beaten all ends up for strength and position, but one finger on that trigger would give him the ultimate leveller. Harrison postured up and smashed a hooked right fist to the side of Fortunato’s head, producing a dull thud which disappointed Frank, who for some reason had expected the ‘thwap’ sound he’d heard in fights in movies and computer games. The gunman’s body went limp and Harrison carefully extracted the weapon from under his redundant body, handing it to Frank, who pinched the barrel between thumb and forefinger, placing on the bed at arms length like he was putting a dead spider out into the garden.

  Harrison granted himself a moment of calm to absorb the relief, before getting back to work.

  He fired off the same hooked punch that had put Fortunato to sleep, but the fact that it was now aimed at a lifeless target seemed to add to its brutality.

  - Whedda bad man karlin I-man a negro?

  Harrison pulled Fortunato up into a sitting position, his head flopping with the indignity of a dead chicken.

  - Tark bad man! Tark t’me! Karl I-man a negro now. Karl I-man a negro, bad man!

  Smack!

  Harrison was punishing the same spot adjacent to Fortunato’s eyebrow for a third time.

  - Tark, bad man! Fucking tark!

  Harrison telegraphed six or seven carbon copies of the punch to the exact same spot on Fortunato’s head. He was probably dead by the third or fourth, but killing was more an incidental side-effect of Harrison’s main intention, which appeared to be to physically hammer his point into Fortunato.

  The Renaullt Kangoo hire-car that had yesterday played a starring role in a kidnap routine would now morph seamlessly into its next function as a corpse wagon, carrying Fortunato Colombo to his final resting place. Disposing of the body was a task that their already tight schedule could barely accommodate, and with the luxury of more time, they would probably have come up with a more thorough way. As it were though, the body was wrapped in a hotel bed sheet, along with two 20 kilogram kettlebells purchased from a sports and fitness store in the square. In the shop, Frank and Harrison had argued in hushed voices about how much weight would be needed to do the job. As Fortunato disappeared beneath the cold, still lake in General San Martin’s Park, it was clear that they had calculated correctly. Harrison was surprised at how quickly the water consumed the parcel. Within seconds, vague, gentle ripples gliding across the moonlit lake were the only evidence of the sinister dumping. Before long, the water found its own level again and settled back to a silky plateau, masking any sign of misdemeanour.