Death & Back: (Charlie Cobb #2: Crime & Action Thriller Series)

by Rob Aspinall

"We have to go," Amira said, hoisting the girl to her feet against her will.

  The child wept and wailed, hysterical, fighting to collapse to the floor.

  Amira wouldn't let her. She shook her by both arms, raising her voice. "We live with what we have," Amira said, then quieter as the girl calmed down. "Together, agreed?"

  The girl looked into Amira's eyes. Hair stuck wet to her head and neck. She shivered as if absorbing electric currents. Yet she nodded in agreement.

  "I won't leave you," Amira said, putting a palm to the girl's face. "I promise."

  Hand in hand, they staggered in the footsteps of the others, coating their feet in dry, fine sand. The line of survivors snaked upwards, between the rocks of wherever it was they'd landed. The sun shone on their backs. It also twinkled off the frothing shallows of the cove, where dead bodies and dinghy washed ashore.

  4

  The next day, I'm working another long shift, starting with lunch. It's quiet. A few business types.

  Dubois sees his place as a swanky high-end French bistro. The truth is it's a couple of rungs below. The British version of French cuisine. Steak, garlic bread and triple cooked fries the most popular things on the menu. Still, the food is good here. There's a few times I've sampled the leftovers with the others. But so far, I've resisted the urge to nick one of those cheese tarts, hot off the tray. And I'm only borrowing one of the spare forks I found lying around on a worktop. No, if I'm gonna play it straight, might as well go the whole hog.

  As we hit two in the afternoon, the restaurant goes dead. Dubois leaves his assistant chef in charge of the kitchen. Piotr punches out for the day.

  I'm sitting at the bar at the back of the restaurant, when in walk those two heavies stiffing Dubois for cash. They take a seat in the middle of the restaurant, wearing the same suits as the night before. The one in black waves me to their table. I grab a couple of menus off the bar and carry them over.

  I greet them as normal. "Welcome to Gastronomy. Can I get you something to drink?"

  I hand over the menus. They throw ‘em aside.

  "Two pints of whatever Frog lager you've got on tap," the one in black says.

  "And two garlic breads to start," the guy in navy says. "The ones with the melted cheese."

  "Coming right up," I say, putting on a smile.

  I return with their pints. Dubois' second in command knocks up a couple of garlic pizza breads.

  I take 'em over. "Here you go gentlemen. Enjoy."

  As I clear another table, I see 'em watching me. Talking as they demolish their food. As if they're talking about me.

  I act like I don't notice. The last thing I want is to get involved with a pair of local hoods. Instead, I clear their plates, get 'em fresh pints and take their order for steak and fries. I return to the table with their mains. I turn to leave 'em to it.

  "Hang on mate," the one in black says. "Don't I recognise you?"

  “Uh-uh. Don't think so.”

  "You look familiar," the one in navy says. "Where are you from?"

  "Here and there," I say.

  "Sounds like a northern accent to me," the guy in the black says. "What you reckon, Gaz?"

  "Yeah," Gaz says, "Manchester, I'd say, Daz."

  Gaz eats his fries with his fingers. "You hear about what happened up there with that Rudenko geezer? I heard one of his own men put him away."

  "Ah, yeah," Daz says, cutting into his steak. "Fella was supposed to pop a witness. But he helped the little shit instead. Fucked Rudenko over. Can you believe that?"

  I stand there and keep quiet.

  "So you heard about it or what?" Gaz asks me.

  "No pal," I say. "I've not been back there for years."

  "Is that right?" Daz says, supping on his pint. "Then you also won't have heard about the price on the geezer’s head."

  "Sorry gents," I say, "but what's this gotta do with me?"

  "Just making conversation," Gaz says. "That a crime, is it?"

  I fake a smile. "Course not. Enjoy your mains."

  I walk away, watch them from the kitchens. By the time I return to clear their plates, Dubois is back and they're up on their feet.

  I head over with the bill in hand, about to remind 'em they've not paid. I feel a feather-grip on my forearm. Dubois takes the bill off me and rips it in two. Shakes his head.

  Daz turns as they head out the door. ”Be seeing you," he says to me.

  It's chaos in the kitchens. There's a works party—got the whole place booked out and two cooks haven't turned up. Which means I'm doubling up for the night. Scrubbing pots. Taking things out of the ovens.

  I'm a fish out of water in the kitchen. My experience limited to holding faces over stoves. Hitting a bloke over the head with a wok. Chopping off a mobster's finger with a meat knife.

  As I dash out of the restaurant into the kitchens, I smell something burning.

  Shit, the garlic bread.

  I fling an oven door open. Black smoke pours out. The pizza-shaped dough looks like it took a hit from an RPG.

  I slide the smouldering black wreck in the bin and grab a fresh bread off the counter. I wave the smoke out of the oven with a towel and slide the replacement dough inside.

  I set the timer and take a full-scale assault from Pepe Le Pew.

  "Pointer you imbecile, you were supposed to be watching that!" He shouts as he stirs a sauce in a pan.

  "I can't be in two places at once," I say.

  "You'll be any fucking thing I tell you," says Dubois, pointing to the cremated garlic bread, sticking out of the bin. "Now get that monstrosity out of my kitchen. The smell offends me."

  "Yes, chef," I say, grabbing two overflowing bins and heading to the fire exit.

  "And make it quick," Dubois says. "We're behind as it is."

  I push open the fire exit door and head into the alleyway. Feel the cool air on my face. Breathe in the smell of piss.

  Night has already fallen. I turn left and carry the bins towards their big blue and orange counterparts. I throw the lid open on the nearest one and get a lungful of something rotten. A raw chicken turning into a sea of maggots.

  I empty the first one in. Then the second. As I'm closing the lid on the larger bin, I notice a car driving up the alley. The driver dips the headlights. I blink the spots from my eyes. Two men climb out and walk around the front of the car. Mere shadows until they break into the light spilling out from the kitchens.

  Oh great, it's Gaz and Daz.

  Gaz has a baseball bat and Daz a tyre iron.

  "Evening lads," I say.

  "Get in the car," says Gaz.

  "You what?"

  "You heard," Daz says. "Get in the fucking car."

  "But I've got a garlic bread in the oven."

  "I don't care if you've got the Queen's birthday cake in there," Gaz says. "In the fucking motor, now."

  I hear Dubois shouting me in from the kitchens. Yelling at me to get my arse back inside.

  I put down the bins. "Look, what's this all about chaps?"

  "You know what," Gaz says.

  "Ah, the Manchester thing," I say. "News travels, eh?"

  "There's a pretty penny on your head, sunshine," Daz says. "Lucky for you, Rudenko's boys want you alive."

  "And did they happen to tell you who I am?"

  "Just that you're a fucking turncoat," Gaz says. "Thought we recognised you last night. Your ugly mug's doing the rounds on a text."

  "I see . . . Well, before we do this, do you mind if I take my apron off?"

  5

  The Greek sun had dried their ragged clothes, but night brought the cold once again. They'd followed the other survivors into a camp on the edge of Agios Andreas. It was a mess of thin, pale blue tents—each one overcrowded and pegged into a mud floor.

  White marquees set up around the perimeter were empty, abandoned. Amira and the young girl had wandered them all in search of aid. Only dusty tables and litter remained.

  At least water was available through
a running tap. They waited in line for their turn, filling up a couple of large plastic bottles found on the floor of a marquee. They warmed themselves in front of a deserted fire in a steel bin stuffed with card, paper, rags and twigs.

  The young girl's name was Rima. She cried for her grandmother, her mother, her father—but soon fell asleep. As Amira began to drift, she saw three figures approach, beyond the crackle and snap of the fire. They moved as if searching for someone. Or something.

  They were men of different races. Languid, gaunt, hollow-eyed in the uplight of the fire. Amira kept her head down and averted her gaze. After a moment or two, she glanced up again. They were staring her way. They split and approached around the fire. Amira tensed. Rima stirred. Amira realised she was squeezing the young girl's arm.

  The men crouched either side.

  "Hey," one said. Arabic. "How are you?"

  "Okay," Amira said.

  "Can we get you anything?"

  One of the men—an African—said something in his own language.

  His Arab friend nodded, as if he understood. "You don't have to sleep out here. We have a tent."

  "Who are you?" Amira asked.

  "Relax," the man said. "We're site security—unofficial—we make sure everyone's looked after."

  Amira looked from one man to another. They smiled and nodded.

  "The fire won't last all night," the man continued. "Come and sleep in our tent."

  Amira eyed each of the men again. "No thank you," she said. "We'll be fine. We've got more card we can throw on."

  The man doing the talking put a hand on Amira's shoulder. "Don't be silly. Come with us."

  Amira shook off his hand. She pulled Rima in close. "Thank you, but we're fine as we are."

  The men conferred. The African ran a finger down Amira's left cheek. She pulled away again, onto her feet. She dragged a stirring Rima up with her. The men jumped up and surrounded them. Rima asked what was happening, her voice sleepy.

  "Nothing," the Arab man said. "We're just talking to your mother."

  "Come on Rima," Amira said, "we're going."

  "No, stay," the Arab man said. "We insist."

  The three men grabbed at Amira. She felt a hand on her right breast. Another on her buttocks. She slapped them away, but the men were getting rough. Pushing her around. Amira shouted for help.

  The African attempted to muffle her cries. She bit into his hand. It tasted of diseased sweat. She seized a plank of wood jutting out of the fire. She waved it left to right at the men, the end of the plank in flames.

  "Get away," Amira said.

  The men regrouped in front of her. They advanced slow. Amira warded them off, but they kept coming. Lunging. Seeming to enjoy the challenge.

  Amira kicked the bin over in front of them. The fire spilled out and caught the men by surprise.

  She took Rima by the hand and ran. The fire caught on a pile of cardboard and flared, buying them a head start.

  They stumbled through the tents, struggling to see in the dark. The ground uneven.

  Amira glanced over her shoulder. The men were like phantom shadows chasing them through the camp. As she turned her attention to the space ahead, her foot caught on a tent rope pegged into the ground. The rope twanged and snapped. Amira hit the ground hard, Rima tumbling with her.

  The men closed in.

  "Come on," Rima said, helping Amira to her feet.

  The two of them ran on, into the nearest abandoned marquee. Amira felt her lungs burn. She slowed to a stop to catch her breath. Rima was about to say something. Amira put a hand over her mouth and listened. She heard the men shouting to each other. They'd split up, entering the marquee from opposite ends, cutting off any means of escape.

  Amira attempted to calm her spiralling mind. She looked around her in the gloom. Saw a giant pile of rubbish to their right—bottles, rags, bandages and flattened boxes. "Here," she whispered to Rima, leading her to the mountain of flotsam.

  "What are you doing?" Rima whispered.

  "We're playing hide and seek," Amira said, creating a space at the base of the pile. She pulled Rima down with her into the rubbish. She dragged a used bed sheet and a large flattened cardboard box over their bodies.

  "I like hide and seek," Rima said.

  "Me too," Amira said, "But we need to be quiet as mice. Okay?"

  "Okay," Rima said.

  Amira held her own breath, her hand over Rima's mouth. They huddled tight as the men approached. Shouts from afar shrinking into close conversation.

  "No one saw her?" the Arab man said. "Shit, I got to have that bitch. Keep looking. I need to piss."

  Amira heard the man unzip his fly. A stream of urine pattered against the opposite side of the cardboard. The Arab sighed in relief.

  The stream petered out. A sharp zipping sound as the man did up his fly. The soles of his trainers shuffling away.

  Fortunately for Amira and Rima, the cardboard was thick, folded into three layers. The urine hadn't soaked through. Amira kicked it away, the smell of ammonia overpowering. She flung the bed sheet aside and told Rima to stay put. Amira edged around the rubbish pile. She looked both ways. The men were gone. She helped Rima to her feet, letting out her breath. "Come on," Amira said.

  "Where are we going?" Rima asked, taking her hand.

  "Anywhere but here," Amira said.

  6

  I untie the apron from around the small of my back.

  "Ooh, careful Daz," says Gaz. "He's taking his pinny off."

  The boys laugh. They go loose. I lift the apron over the top of my head, I toss it in Daz's face. It buys me a split second. I barge him onto the bonnet of their Jag saloon.

  Gaz reacts, swinging his bat. I pick up a bin and use it as a shield. The bin spins out of one hand, but I get both on the bat handle. We wrestle for control. Daz is up off the bonnet. I rotate the bat and catch him in the face. He drops to the ground. The tyre iron clangs against the concrete. I run Gaz backwards and slam him into the nearest brick wall. I drive a knee into his ribs. He doubles over. I ram his hand against the wall and he lets go of the bat. Before I can use it, he rugby tackles me to the ground.

  It takes me by surprise. I drop the bat and it rolls off under the car.

  I kick Gaz in the face. Roll away as Daz tries to smash my skull with the tyre iron.

  It connects with the alley floor.

  I pick up the other bin and bring it down over Daz's head. It wedges tight around his shoulders. He drops the tyre iron and stumbles blind. I shoulder charge him to the floor.

  As Gaz comes back at me, I greet him with a fist to the jaw. He wobbles. I grab the collar of his blazer and pound him a few more times. His face is a bloody mess. I ram his head into the wall again. Gravity lends a hand and he lands face-first in a bag of rubbish. It splits in two, painting his face in thrown-out spaghetti.

  Meanwhile, Daz wanders in circles, trying to prise the bin off his upper body. I realise the engine of the Jag is still running. I climb behind the wheel and put it in first.

  Daz forces the bin off his head in time to blink into the headlights.

  I floor the accelerator and drive straight into the bastard.

  He pops off the bonnet and rolls along the alley. Nothing fatal, but enough to finish him off.

  I climb out of the Jag and approach Gaz. I dig around in his pockets. Find his phone. He hasn't bothered code-locking the thing. A quick search through his texts reveals an old police mugshot of me. It says: Alive. £20k. Whereabouts unknown.

  Not for much longer. Not when these two clowns wake up and word spreads.

  Then I'll have all kinds of dickheads showing up at Dubois' door.

  And I really needed this bloody job.

  I gather the bins and double-back through the kitchen door. Dubois is close to boiling point. I open the oven door and get a face full of smoke.

  Bollocks. I burnt the garlic bread again.

  7

  More fires lit in bins had warmed their hands a
s they passed into Macedonia. Train rides had carried them to Serbia. Now, deserted tracks guided Amira and Rima to the Hungarian border.

  Rima was tough. Didn't complain about the blisters on her feet or the nasty cough on her chest.

  But she was getting worse. Her temperature high. Her body weak. Her skin turning pale.

  Traipsing in a long line of refugees, Amira didn't have to be a doctor to know Rima needed urgent medical care. The best she could do was keep her warm. A discarded blue coat had helped. It was several sizes too big. The sleeves flapped long over Rima's hands. The tail of the coat extended down to her ankles. But Rima loved it.

  Amira herself had found a red woollen sweater caught in a prickly bush. She'd bloodied her fingers prising it off the thorns.

  Mile after mile they trudged, Rima receiving a piggy-back ride for a few of them, from a man travelling on his own.

  Finally, the border came into sight. It wasn't pretty. A tall fence with barbed wire at the top. Armed guards in dark-blue uniforms, pale-blue hygiene masks strapped around their faces.

  The line of refugees came to a grinding halt. Then a slow shuffle into a camp. A muddy field where they stood in rows, waiting to be processed.

  Amira jostled her way to the front with Rima. She spoke in English to the guards, who stood in front of another fence.

  Behind the fence was a train station platform and a small car park. Amira noticed a white coach loading up with refugees.

  Most of the guards didn't understand English. But one did. A blonde man with a large nose and narrow eyes. He pulled his mask down to talk.

  "What’s happening?" Amira asked.

  "You will be put on train. Or bus," the guard said. "Taken to Austrian border."

  "When?"

  "Soon as possible," the guard said. "Please, in line."

  "How long do we wait?" Amira asked.

  "A day," the guard said. "Or two."

  "The girl is sick. She won't last out here. Can't you do something? Get her some help?"

  "Sorry," the guard said. "Please, in line."

  So they waited. On their feet. On the seat of their pants. Rima lay with her head on Amira's chest.