by A. Nybo
“Henri? You need to concentrate on your breathing.” Birch’s calm intonation smoothed over some of that voice from the past.
He blinked. For a moment he had been—where had he been?
Back in hell.
Since Birch now crouched a meter or so in front of him as if he’d teleported from the other side of the table, and Jason was no longer in the room, he recognized he’d lost contact with reality for at least a few moments.
“Henri? Are you listening?”
He blinked again. The cool tiles beneath him brought his attention to the fact he was now sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. His knuckles were white from the force of his fingers pressing on the tiles. He tried to speak, but his voice was missing in action. He nodded instead.
“Calm your breathing.” Birch took slow exaggerated breaths, and Henri tried to follow his example but found it too difficult and kept having to gasp for more air. “Hold your breath and let your heart beat a few times before you breathe again.”
His heart was pounding so hard it wouldn’t surprise him if the vibration alone shook a few ribs loose. He took another breath and concentrated on Birch’s soothing tone.
“Run your fingers along the floor.”
Henri closed his eyes and rubbed the tips of his fingers along the tiles, noticing the slightly rough texture.
He was such an idiot. Why did he think he could handle Russell’s harassment without bringing anyone else into it? Was he thinking Russell would get tired and just magically go away?
“Henri, stop thinking and do.”
Jolted from his reverie, he moved his fingers again. He could hear Jason on the phone in the other room, but he was more interested in listening for movement outside.
“Henri!” He cast a disbelieving gaze at Birch. Had Birch really just rebuked him?
“You’re aware there is a fucking psycho out there, aren’t you?” Henri’s hushed whisper did nothing to hide his frustration.
“Sure am. But we’re in here, and you’re wavering in and out of… awareness or something. I’m actually not sure what it is that’s happening to you, but whatever it is, it’s not going to be very helpful to anyone, least of all yourself, if you keep doing it. So while Jason and Nate do their jobs, I’m going to keep you company and try to keep you present—just in case we have to move.”
Henri closed his eyes and focused on his breathing for a few moments.
“Are you okay now?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Can you tell me what happened? You sort of became… unaware.”
“Flashback. I have PTSD.”
Birch looked confused.
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Henri clarified. “Some of the more fun aspects other than flashbacks are nightmares, anxiety, bad temper, that sort of thing.”
“Is sarcasm a symptom?”
“No. That’s my natural disposition.” He hoped Nate had managed to lock the house up. “I’m told it’s important to separate the person from the illness.”
“Oh? Why would I want to do that? Wouldn’t that be a bit like amputating an arm because you don’t want the finger?”
Henri looked up at the window as if Russell might be standing there watching. “I think it’s meant to help others cope with someone’s mental illness.”
“A mental illness, huh? I would have thought it’s a fairly natural reaction to what you experienced.” Birch moved to sit next to Henri with his back to the wall.
“They can call it what they like. It’s not going to change my experiences.”
“Might change the way other people view you.”
“Right now, I gotta say that’s on the bottom of my list of things I give a shit about.”
“Has it ever been a priority?”
He had to think about that. “Maybe when I first came out, but that got old pretty quick too.”
“Know the feeling. Being gay and First Nations is a bit of a quinella.”
“Is it too much of a bad pun if I say I bet it is?”
Birch chuckled, “Yeah. Don’t say it.”
“Okay, I—” He heard Jason’s footsteps coming towards the kitchen. Now he was going to get reamed. “Shit.”
Jason came and drew a chair out in front of them. “Henri,” he began in a gentle tone.
“I don’t know! I don’t know why I didn’t say anything!” He took slow breaths, trying to calm himself. He was grateful when Jason waited patiently. “I thought I could just ignore it.”
Nate entered the room and went from one window to another, keeping constant check.
“But you listened to all those messages?”
Self-recrimination made him feel like a scolded child. “Only those ones.”
“There were more? How long has he been calling you?” asked Jason. Henri didn’t want to think about it. He shrugged. “Have you any idea how he could have gotten your phone number?”
Henri shook his head. An extended silence followed.
“Maybe when you left the phone on the table in the café?” suggested Birch.
“He might have snarfed it with a UFED,” Nate said.
“Maybe,” agreed Jason.
Henri rubbed his brow. “Snarfed it with a what?”
“A UFED, a Universal Forensic Extraction Device.” Nate moved to look out the other window. “It extracts data from mobile phones, such as phone numbers, passwords, files, and anything else that’s on there.”
Jason held up Henri’s phone and wiggled it from end to end. “Do you keep your passwords on here?”
“I may be an idiot, but I think I might have learnt my lesson on that one.”
“You’re not an idiot, Henri, and no one is suggesting you are. It was just a question so we can stop him or guard against him getting further access to accounts.”
“That’s how he found us, isn’t it—by my phone?”
“Maybe. Since he knows the number, he could track the GPS. Or if he’s put trackerware on it. But honestly, I don’t know how he keeps finding you.”
Chills ran up Henri’s spine. Russell could have tracked him to the middle of nowhere and done whatever the hell he pleased, and no one would have known. Since he hadn’t, it was clear Russell had something else planned for him. The slow burn of mounting terror churned in Henri’s gut, and he wanted to fade into nothingness.
“Anyone you call regularly?” asked Nate, “Mother, brother, lover, banker, baker, candlestick maker?” Nate barely glanced at him before turning his attention back out the window.
“No.”
Nate did look at him this time. “No one?”
“Yes, Nate, I really am that pathetic.”
“Hey, no judgment, bro. Just asking.” He looked back out the window. “Cops are here.”
BIRCH NODDED in greeting as Sergeant Sayer entered the house. He was the only police officer who did. The other three remained posted outside. Once greetings were complete, the sergeant handed Jason a piece of paper and a small bag. “Everything is organized.”
Jason exchanged both his own and Henri’s phone for generic ones from the bag. He held one out for Birch and motioned for him to hand his over. “Need anything from this?” he asked Birch before putting it in the bag.
“That kind of depends.”
“That’s a ‘not for now,’ then?”
“Not for about five days. Then I need the numbers off there.”
“We’ll deal with that if and when we need to.”
Nate handed his mobile in and taking one of the generic phones, secreted it in one of his pockets.
“Go pack,” said Jason.
By the time Birch had finished packing his few belongings into the three shopping bags Nate had given him, he felt homeless. The strange thing was, his only real belongings were the set of clothes on his back; the shopping bags contained things that had been bought for him.
As he passed Henri’s room, he saw Henri jamming things into his rucksack. The venetian blinds had been turned so plenty of l
ight still entered the room, but it couldn’t be seen into from outside.
He knocked on the doorframe. “Need a hand?”
Henri continued to move around the room, collecting and folding clothing. The high-set half ponytail caused the golden, sun-bleached ends of his hair to fan above his head like a headdress. “Thanks, but I got it. I have less now than when I arrived.”
Birch smiled as he leaned a shoulder to rest against the doorjamb. “A situation Jason might be thankful for.”
Henri stopped briefly. “Oh, the alcohol,” he said and plucked a pair of jeans off the cupboard door. “Yeah. I would retrieve the half bottle I hid outside, but with Russell prowling around out there, I don’t trust he hasn’t meddled with it.”
“Probably just as well.”
A grin pulled at the corners of Henri’s mouth. “Yeah? Well, the next time I feel in need of a drink, I’ll come and bug the shit out of you instead.”
“Anytime, Henri.”
“They say a lawyer should never ask a question they don’t already know the answer to.”
“Maybe I don’t know what I’m getting into,” agreed Birch, “and my approach might not be all that helpful, but it has a better chance of a positive outcome than an alcohol haze.”
Henri rifled through a pocket of his rucksack for a card and a pen. He wrote on it and handed it to Birch.
One side was an old business card for a position Henri had obviously held in Australia. He turned the card over and read the jagged handwriting. “Get out of jail free?”
“For when I come calling at three in the morning, and you can’t be bothered dealing with me. It will probably feel like you’re in jail.”
“Three in the morning?”
Henri smirked as he continued to pack. “Do you need more cards?”
“You make this sound like a challenge.”
“It will be. That’s why I won’t hold you to it—if you have a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
“I’m serious. I’d prefer you came to me instead of diving into a bottle.”
“Well, there’s not much hope of that, since I don’t have one, and I won’t be going to a shop anytime soon.” Henri snapped the straps on his rucksack closed and hoisted it over his shoulder.
In a controlled fall, Birch rolled around the corner and out of the doorway so Henri could pass through. “The offer is open for when you want to drink, not whether you can or not.” Birch grinned and waved the card. “Meanwhile, I’ll just put this somewhere safe and easy to reach.”
“You do that.”
As he followed Henri down the hall, he admired the way Henri looked with the rucksack over his shoulder. There was something wild about him that gave the impression he was capable of so much more than Birch could possibly imagine. The notion wasn’t born of reason, but of intuition. Although, Birch admitted to himself, knowing what Henri had already been through, hindsight offered him the cheat’s version of intuition.
In the dining area, the others already had their packs waiting. Before they had the opportunity to put their belongings down, Jason and Nate lifted theirs and, without speaking, led the way to the garage.
With their packs stashed in the SUV, Nate in the driver’s seat, and the garage door opened, they were soon moving off into town, with a police vehicle following them.
They were on the road for no more than ten minutes when Nate drove the vehicle onto what looked like the local sports field. A helicopter awaited them there.
“What the hell?” Birch mumbled to himself. Had he been transported into the middle of an espionage movie? This couldn’t be real. “Are we getting into that?”
Jason screwed around in the front seat to look at him. “Do you have a problem with flying?”
“No idea,” admitted Birch. “Never had reason to before.”
Jason broke into a grin that carried a devilish edge. “Just sit back and enjoy it, mate. Hopefully we won’t hit any planes.”
Nate pulled up right alongside the chopper, where they transferred the gear and themselves.
Sergeant Sayer parked alongside them. An officer disembarked from the passenger’s side and took the keys for the SUV from Nate.
Birch buckled himself into one of the helicopter’s back seats as the vehicles drove away and the rotor blades picked up speed. A thread of excitement wove its way through him. Once they were in the air, he watched as the suburban scene below gave way to the patchwork quilt of crops and pastures.
The ride was far too short and left Birch slightly puzzled as to why they’d bothered. He guessed it might have been to ensure Russell couldn’t follow. They landed in what looked like a pasture where a vehicle waited nearby to whisk them away the moment they were buckled in. They continued to a two-storey luxury homestead that came replete with several police cars parked out front.
The entire transfer took less than a couple of hours from packing to arriving at the new house.
Nate ducked to look through the windscreen up at the opulent house as they approached. “Not a fan of this.”
“Choices were limited, I guess,” said Jason. “That’s why we have the cops, to try to cover the place.”
“We would have been better parking our arses at a hotel.”
“It wasn’t optimal.”
“You asked?”
“Yeah, they preferred we weren’t around civilians,” said Jason. “Which is fair enough, I suppose. But Jesus, this sounded exactly like it looks—a tactical nightmare.” Jason shook his head. “All these windows and doors.”
“How many cops?” Nate parked next to the cop cars.
“Not enough.” Jason opened the car door and began to disembark. “But we’re probably about to find out.”
A policewoman came striding towards them, speaking into a two-way. She drew it away to listen.
“Copy that,” a voice crackled over it.
She lowered the radio and clipped it onto her belt as she came to a stop in front of Nate. She held out a welcoming hand. “Sergeant Alice Mathews.”
“Nate Cooper.” He shook hands with her as Jason walked around the front of the vehicle. “This is Jason Lemalu. He’s the lead.” Nate turned to where Henri had come to a stop beside Birch. “These two are our charges. Birch Jacobs.” Sergeant Mathews held her hand out, and Birch shook it. “And Henri Morgan.”
She held her hand out to Henri.
“Hi,” Henri said. The nod he gave was enough to ward off further attempts the sergeant might have made to shake his hand.
She turned to Jason. “The place has been stocked and secured. We have four officers around the clock on grounds detail.”
“What is this place?” asked Jason.
“A holiday house, I’m told. And I presume it is only for the supremely loaded,” said the sergeant.
Birch liked her warm and genuine smile.
“The owner has agreed to this?” asked Jason.
“I’m guessing I wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t. I’d say they have some special sort of government insurance. Or again, I’m guessing I wouldn’t be here if they didn’t. There is no way a regular insurance company would cover the cost of this as a safe house.” She gave the mansion a once-over.
Another police officer came to stand with them. The sergeant turned to him. “Steve, can you get Mr. Jacobs and Mr. Morgan settled?”
“Second floor,” Jason told them.
Birch and Henri grabbed their belongings and followed Steve into the house.
“Holy hell,” gasped Birch as he looked up at the high ceiling of the foyer. Henri appeared unimpressed.
“It’s ritzy, eh?” said Steve. “How did you guys organize this place?”
“We didn’t.” Henri’s cold tone was enough to freeze further conversation.
Since Henri clearly didn’t want to engage with Steve, Birch made no further comments.
On the top floor, Steve suggested they leave the first two rooms for the “bodyguards.” Birch could just imagine Jason and Nate as a pair of
guardian lions.
Birch went into the second room on the left of the hall, inside which were two more doors leading off the main area. Aware Henri had come in behind him, he opened the door on the left side, which led into yet another room, this one almost the size of his bedroom at home. A series of strangely spaced racks lined the lower side of one wall. “What the hell?”
Henri smirked. “I think you’re in the closet.”
He guessed the racks must have been for shoes. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone going back into the closet.”
“How would you know?” asked Henri. “Doesn’t the very definition include secrecy?”
He grinned as he pointedly looked at the doorway and then to Henri. “Depends on whether I’m in the closet with them.”
Steve stood near the door to the passage watching them; his perturbed expression suggested he was uncertain what to make of their exchange. Uncaring, Birch continued exploring. The next door opened into the bathroom.
“This is as big as my house,” said Birch. Henri was right behind him as they entered. “Why would anyone want all this floor space in a bathroom?”
“For an emergency football game?” suggested Henri. “You know, just in case you were in the middle of a bath and thought, I have to have a game of football!”
Henri’s bout of humour surprised Birch, and he wanted to milk it for all it was worth. “It would be pretty convenient to play in the locker room. Not far to travel to the shower if you were injured during play.”
“Yeah, but imagine if you were by the toilet and did a cruciate ligament or something. You’d have to get the stretcher-bearers to carry you to the shower. It’s a long way with a buggered knee.”
“Would be. I reckon this room might have your name on it.”
“Why’s that? Not into football?”
Birch shrugged. “I don’t need a bathroom in my bedroom.”
“It’s not in the bedroom. It’s in a room off the bedroom. It probably has its own postcode.”
“It might even have its own orbit.”
“Judging by what I’ve seen so far, I’m going to hazard a guess that every room has its own bathroom.”
“They do,” said Steve.
Birch and Henri both turned to look at Steve, who stood by the doorway. He wasn’t sure if he imagined the sensation of Henri closing off, but whatever had happened, he no longer felt connected to him. To him, Henri suddenly felt very separate and contained.