by H T G Hedges
Corg brought them to a stop on the dust of the concrete.
“You,” Kolic said, pointing a gold ringed finger at Corg, “Stay here and mind the car, this is grown-ups business.” Corg raised an eyebrow but stayed put as instructed as Kolic marched off towards the shed.
“Ignore him,” Loess said, patting his arm as she passed, “He’s a dick,” she added, “But this is his big show today so we have to humour him a little. Boss’ orders.”
Corg watched them follow into the open smaller door side of the building which shut behind them, then sank back into the driver’s seat to wait and count the minutes as they ticked by. He’d counted off about five when something happened.
From the corner of his eye, Corg saw another side door on the east of the building sneak slowly, suspiciously, open and a figure emerge furtively out onto the lot, moving with care until he was hidden by a pile of purple shale. Watching in the side mirror, he observed the figure reappear further down the pile and begin making his way in a wide loop towards the back of the car.
Corg considered his options. It was possible, he supposed, that this was some kind of elaborate hoax being played on him by his new colleagues, but the likelihood of that seemed pretty remote.
The figure was closing in on him, trying his best to keep low and out of the reflective line of the mirrors. They must think I’m an idiot Corg thought to himself as he eased himself across into the passenger seat and brought up one booted foot, leg bent at the knee, level with the driver’s door. He’d left it open earlier to let in the cool air and now he thanked his lucky stars for this stroke of good fortune.
Corg’s hope was that, on seeing that the car looked empty, the approaching figure would be forced to risk a glance through the open driver’s side door, and this proved to be the case. After a few tense moments, in which Corg tried to listen for the sound of approaching stealthy footfalls, a face appeared tentatively around the door frame, still crouched low, silhouetted against the backdrop of the lot. It made an irresistible target.
Corg’s foot lashed out with power and accuracy, crunching nose and chin beneath its heel. Quickly, Corg delivered a second hammering kick and spilled the unconscious interloper onto the ground. A small knife fell from his stunned fingers.
Satisfied that something was now definitely amiss, Corg slipped from the car and crept across the lot towards the ramshackle building. There was an empty window frame at eye level, to the left of the door, where some Perspex sheeting had torn away and he risked a quick glance.
Ray was on the ground, blood matted into his dark hair of his head. The back of his head, Corg noticed with distaste. Loess was still standing but was under the bead of Kolic’s Glock and he seemed to be getting fidgety. Apart from the sweating turncoat, Corg couldn’t see that there was anyone else hanging about to worry about.
Ducking back from the window, Corg thought about his options, then, mind made up, he set off at a shuffling run back across the concrete to the prone figure by the car. Rifling his pockets failed to turn up the keys to the Winnebago as he had hoped, and so he was forced to improvise. He slipped an arm under each of the man’s armpits and started to drag him in a sitting position across the dusty ground, moving in a shuffling half run across the yard.
Corg dragged his load, sweating with exertion and the close humidity of the evening, until he was directly outside the rickety double loading doors where he left the prone figure leant against the hood of the Winnebago whilst he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. It came away wet.
There was a broken piece of wooden pole just under the front wheel and he plucked it up then, with difficulty, he took up his unconscious friend by the shoulders once more and launched him into the doors.
They smashed open, buckling easily under the weight of the projectile body, crashing against the inner walls. With a cry of surprise, Kolic spun towards the noise and loosed a single shot that went high, blowing out one of the few remaining panes of glass on the building’s crumbling front.
Then Corg was through the door, swinging downwards with the broken pole, smashing it into Kolic’s hand holding the gun. His armbands jangled. With another cry he dropped the weapon and turned just as Loess’ knee came up into his stomach, knocking the air out of him and her elbow crashed into his temple, spinning him to the ground. She aimed a kick at him for good measure and seemed satisfied he was out cold when he failed to react.
“Nice work,” she said, crossing over to Ray. “Of course, when he wakes up I’m going to tell him I took care of everything.” Corg grinned. “Seriously, though,” she continued, “Thanks.”
He reddened and the grin spread a little wider. “It was nothing,” he said bashfully. “Sometime you can do the same for me.”
“I might just,” she said. Ray was coming round and she helped him to his feet. ’You OK?” she asked. He nodded, then winced.
“You all right loading up and taking care of the run by yourself?” Loess asked Corg.
“Sure,” he said, “But what about these two?” he indicated the fallen would-be stick-up boys.
“Oh, don’t you worry about them, we’ll find somewhere for them. Probably at the bottom on the Links.” She smiled, “Don’t feel bad for them though, Kolic was planning on blaming this whole thing on you, say you took out me and Ray and stole the guns for yourself. Stick it on the new guy.”
“Shit,” Corg said, matter of factly. “What a dick.”
She smiled brightly. “Sure is,” she said. “Listen, when you get back from the drop, come find me at the garage, I’ll buy you a drink to say thanks.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
By the time he drove back into the city, the night was drawing in and a chill had entered the air so he drove with the windows up and nothing on the radio, preferring the silence of the night. But he still felt pretty badass.
As we neared the looming bulk of Old Links, we made a plan. Both Corg and I were known elements so Loess would set up on the apartment whilst we made enough noise somewhere else that, hopefully, she would have enough time to get in and make the call without being disturbed. Not a great plan by any reckoning but it was the best we could do under the circumstances. Desperate times, as they say.
At the bridge we went our separate ways as the water lapped at the supports embedded beneath the current, undiminished it its power from when we had crossed. It sulked and roared in a grey tumult and lent its voice to our parting.
Loess drove herself whilst Corg was happily ensconced back behind the wheel of his beloved hearse, sullenly deposited at Loess' command by one of the crumbling flock. With me as passenger once more, we made our way out of the Wildlands and back into the City proper and whatever lay ahead.
I watched Loess’ taillights in my side mirror until they disappeared from sight. The rain still held off and the sky had brightened even as a strange, creeping mist began to insinuate its way into the surroundings, clinging at doors and windows and circling cold, wet fingertip tendrils in the air.
As we drove, the dereliction and industrial grey melted away as we got further and further from the bridge and the raging waters to be replaced with fresh steel and sweeping clean glass. Smooth lines and sharp aesthetics were now the order of the day as we pressed on into the richer, business district at the heart of the city. We now found ourselves trapped in a strip of galleries and office complexes, artfully arranged around one another, interlacing, to entice interest from only the richest and most select of clientele. If you get lost in the maze then you better have a fat wallet.
It didn’t take long to find something promising: a new gallery was opening, a monstrous building cut from steel girders and recycled red brick and, of course, the mandatory sweeping ocean of glass. A news crew was setting up as Corg drifted the hearse to a halt around a growing gaggle of spectators and killed the engine.
I watched as the crowd’s numbers swelled and quickly coalesced into the gravitational pull of the camera. They were, in the main, a mix o
f journalists and curious business types who’d clearly let themselves out of the surrounding buildings to take a look at the commotion. Here and there I noticed others too, day-trippers and stranger figures of the type that are inexorably drawn to a spectacle. We sat there for a while, watching the crowd mill expectantly, waiting for the go ahead from Loess.
Behind the news people, in a protective ring that stood sentry around the various expansive entryways to the offices and workspaces around the plaza, lurked the brooding shapes of on-site security: big, heavy, serious looking shadows. Perfect.
The phone rang. I picked up and listened for a moment. "Yeah, OK." I hung up.
"She’s in place," I said. "Says we’re good to go whenever."
"Great," Corg said without feeling, then, "She say anything else?"
"Yeah. Good luck," I said, opening the door into the frigid air. Corg snorted.
"Right," he said before following me out.
We crossed the square quickly, forcing our way into the press of bodies and insinuating through the spaces between them, in the same way I’d done hundreds of times through a pack of drinkers at a crowded bar, until I was sure we must be on Camera. The anchor was a serious looking guy, hair coiffured and held in place with more product than I’d ever seen on one head before, lending him a plastic, doll like quality. Up close, the pan couldn’t hide the rings under his eyes or the faint stink of Scotch leaking from his pores. He wore a striped sports coat, a big heavy watch hanging at his wrist.
As he spoke to camera, I wondered how to go about drawing attention to myself, how best to make a commotion to get noticed. Maybe throw a punch or start smashing windows?
It turned out I needn’t have worried. As soon as the crowd clocked our faces the reaction was unmistakable. I looked at Corg, wondering just how infamous we had become in our short stop across the bridge and realised that we would have drawn unwelcome attention here regardless.
Corg’s suit, once black, was coated in a thick grey dust and little more than rags in places. His face too, thick with a couple of days beard growth, was still vivid with the gash he sustained in the fall, now healing but crusted with dry blood. On the other side of the bridge none of this had seemed incongruous, but back in the land of the living he made an alarming sight.
I knew, too, that I must look pretty much the same. Suddenly I felt acutely aware of the grime encrusted on my skin, under my nails, that my hair was swept back from my face with a mixture of grease and old sweat and felt lank and dirty. My skin itched for a shave and some warm water. I must stink, I thought, shocked at the realisation.
"I think this might work a bit too well," I hissed at Corg, feeling the swell of the crowd at my back as a whisper spread like a novelty wave through their ranks. People in the throng were pulling back. At first it was just one or two of them but a trickle swiftly became a flood and suddenly everyone was trying to push away from us in every direction, pressing in on neighbors who hadn’t caught up with what was happening yet. The impassive, slow eye of the news camera swallowed it all hungrily.
One of the security guards had made us too. I saw a hand go to a belt and then my view was obscured by a bearded journalist babbling excitedly into his phone. Best case scenario, nightstick, I thought. Would they be carrying guns?
I hadn’t envisioned this, had never dreamed that we might have become so infamous in so short a space of time. It struck me how strange it was to be cut off from all media, even for so brief a period.
"Come on," I grunted trying to force my way back into the crowd. We’d done what we set out to do. For a moment the press resisted then broke in all directions as the communal impulse of the crowd dissolved in on itself. I saw a woman in impractical stilettos fall, her high-heel twisted off in the commotion, and scream and, as if that were the catalyst, all hell broke loose.
Lost in a sudden sea of pressing bodies I slipped, went down and felt the distinct crunch as someone’s boot found my splayed fingers before, somehow-battered and knocked about, I managed to regain my footing. A shot fired into the air combined with, irrationally, a call to remain calm. Gun then, I thought.
Someone screamed again as the sound of the shot whipped panic into frenzy. Lost in the crush of bodies, I doubted anyone was even seeing me now, made blind as they were by proximity and frenetic movement. I had no idea where Corg was but I hoped he was still close by and keeping pace.
Someone’s hand smacked limply into my face, pressing against my cheek before being withdrawn. A dead weight cannoned into my shoulder, spinning me, and I had to concentrate hard to keep going in what I hoped was the right direction, the way back to the waiting hearse. It would be easy to get lost in this press, to get crushed, sucked down and trampled unseen underfoot. The faceless mash of bodies pressed senselessly in on all sides with dead, unfeeling weight.
And then I was out the other side, pulling Corg with me as a black SUV hurtled onto the concourse. Although I could see nothing through the hulking machine’s tinted front window, I felt sure that its occupants would be only too familiar in their practical unadorned Kevlar. The door flung back on silent runners but we were already running and it slammed shut again as the engine roared and it set off in pursuit.
We hammered back to the hearse, feet pounding on the plaza’s moulded stone, and threw ourselves inside. Corg lit it up, hitting the road full throttle. In the rearview the SUV spun onto the tarmac barely a few yards behind.
"Well, we got someone’s attention!" I screamed as we fishtailed into a tight bend, metal and brick zipping by in a nauseous blur. I was gripping the dash so hard that my fingertips were white
"Now it’s down to Loess."
After making the call, Loess waited. It felt strange to be back in the City after so long spent on the other side of the bridge: so big and busily impersonal. At the same time, she couldn’t remember a time when she had so much time alone to think.
For months she had slept in shared rooms, in safe houses, sometimes bunked up with her companions, sometimes on the floor in a sleeping bag until their smells, their small noises and the heat of them had become second nature to her, an ambient white noise as familiar as her own heartbeat. In some ways this new silence was breathtaking, in others it was terrifying.
Being back on this side of the city was odd too. Of course, she’d travelled over often enough in the past, but always for short spaces of time, to meet someone, to buy something, to trade information.
Although she’d been born on this side of the bridge, she’d never felt at home here. She’d been a runaway at a young age, fleeing a bleak and broken future on this side of the Links, she had made for herself a new life on the far shore. She’d been lucky to fall in with Happen when he was on his way up, had never looked back to this side with any longing. The Old Quarter might have become a lawless warzone, but it was still, she supposed, the only home she’d ever known. Nothing lasts forever.
She didn’t have to wait long. Within a few minutes of hanging up a black SUV, parked on the street opposite the building, roared into life and shot off towards the center of city. Would there be more, she wondered. If there were others they were keeping their distance. There was only one way to find out.
She exited the car and walked with purpose towards the main door to the lobby and let herself in using the services button. So far so un-accosted she quickly made her way up an empty staircase that had seen better days to the first floor and Hesker’s apartment. Now came the moment of truth.
For as long as she dared, she listened at the door, ear pressed to the scratchy wood but could hear nothing from within. The air in the corridor was cold and unquiet, whispering over bare boards and faded cream walls. Paint peeled and spiders spun webs as she waited. Everywhere was silent.
Letting out a long, slow lungful of air Loess, steeling herself, knelt and inserted a long flex of wire into the mechanism of the lock, followed by a shorter, sharper pick. She twisted, listening intently for the faint tick-tock as she rotated the wire until
, with a click that sounded deafening in the expectant corridor, the lock turned over.
Again, Loess waited, breath held, straining for the tell tale sign of movement from within the foreign apartment. She stood still in the breathing corridor for over a minute before finally, exhaling loudly, easing down the handle and slipping inside, closing the door fast behind her, sealing herself in.
Inside, the space opened out into an open-plan kitchen living room space and the same feeling of discontinuity broke over her in a brief wave. Hesker’s modest apartment seemed huge to her. How could anyone fill so much space to live in? And yet the quiet seclusion from the outside world was almost intoxicating in its decadence.
Easy, she warned herself, with a mental shake of the head. Just get the job done, get in and get out, you’ve been out of the real world for too long.
It was only in stepping away from the door that she noticed a small device in the upper right corner, a tiny flashing receiver skipping from red to green. It was a bug, placed there to monitor comings and goings from the apartment and she had just broken the thin filament connecting the door to the lintel, the end of which she could see like a tiny, shining piece of gossamer rising at an angle from the plastic ball. So, they would know someone was in the building. Better get a move on, she thought.
Crossing into the sitting room she had a sudden reckless whim that she might rifle Hesker’s things, take him some clothes, but dismissed the idea almost immediately; no time for such sentimental thinking she chided herself, picking up the phone receiver from a cupboard unit cluttered with take-away menus and pieces of paper - the minutiae of a different life, a life that was now over, she thought with a sad half smile. She hit redial. It seemed to ring for a lifetime. Come on, she started whispering imploringly after the first couple of hollow rings went unanswered. Come on come on come on come on come on.