Extremities

by C A Devine

  Rrrr! The gruff phlegm of a diesel engine caught my ear. I concentrated on the sound. It was coming from the forest. I dropped down and dived for cover. Light flooded the doors. I heard the vehicle come to a halt, the engine idling, then the rattle of chains as the doors were unlocked and opened. I peeped just as a van drove inside. The engine cut out and the building lights blinked on.

  I crept from cover and ran over to the side of the building, pressing my back against the wall. I paused only a moment before scrabbling along to the end and around the corner to the main door. I peered through the gap at the hinge. The wind rattled the big door and I stifled a yelp as it banged off my nose.

  Two men – one tall, one short – stood bathed in harsh light at the back of a beat-up Citroën van. A third, bald, man came around from the front. Mouths moved, but I couldn’t hear over the whistling wind.

  The tall man walked over to the bay that held the Aston Martin, brushing past the car, to the back wall and the old stone water trough. He stuck his hand in and pulled out a key. Lights flashed as the car beeped open. He pulled the handle on the driver’s door, jumped in and gunned the ignition. He backed the car out of the stall and lined it up next to the van. The bald guy did the same with a BMW seven series that I was sure wasn’t there the day I arrived.

  Short opened the double doors on the back of the van. The boot popped open on the BMW, just as Bald stepped out. Tall opened the Aston’s boot from the key and stuck his head in. I peered, but couldn’t see clearly what he was doing. Bald walked around to the back of the BMW and stuck his arms into the boot. A moment later I could see the edge of the carpet sticking up.

  Short leaned into the van and dragged something to the edge. He stepped back pulling it with him. I squeezed my eye to the gap. The muscles strained on his neck as he swung a soft white canvas bag over to Tall. Tall grasped it, dropping his forearms and turning to the boot of the Aston, he grunted as he heaved it inside. Short leaned into the van again and dragged out a second bag, this time dropping it into Bald’s arms. He grasped it and lugged it into the back of the BMW.

  All three men had their backs to me now, speaking in quiet tones, transferring more white canvas bags one after another, all of differing sizes. I pressed my front to the big old wooden door and inched along to the edge. I sucked in a deep breath and chanced a glance around, just as Short dropped one of the bags. It hit the ground with a thud. All three stopped and looked around. I dived back out of the way. What were they checking for? Were they expecting someone? Angelo? He had never left the bed in the night the whole time I had been here. But what about the nights he didn’t come home? I was in the dark and they were bathed in light. I leaned forward again.

  They went back to work, on smaller bags this time. I wanted to get a look inside and I might not get another chance. The light was only illuminating the middle where they were working. It was now or never. I inched forward, my training shoes silent on the dusty ground. One step, two, three. I realised I was holding my breath. I couldn’t let it out now. Four, five, six.

  ‘The food was good tonight,’ Short said, rubbing his ample belly before dragging another bag to the edge of the van. He bent and puffed out a moan as he swung it over to the younger, leaner Tall.

  Seven, eight, nine. Tall laughed, ‘You think the food is good every night.’

  ‘France, you see. These people know how to cook.’

  ‘These things get heavier all the time,’ said Bald, dropping another bag into the BMW’s boot and sighing.

  Ten, I was inside the door. I crept to the right and into the first stall. I ducked down the side of a black Mercedes Kompressor and let out the breath. I shimmied around to the front of the car. Clang! My foot hit something metal on the ground.

  ‘What was that?’ Short said.

  I reached down and picked up the offending article. A wrench.

  ‘It came from over there,’ Tall said. I heard footsteps coming towards me. I flexed my arm and tightened my hand. A gust whistled around the top of the stables, rattling windows and the big open door. ‘It’s just the wind.’

  I peered around the edge, Tall spun around and walked back towards the van.

  They strained with two more bags. ‘That’s the last of them,’ Short said.

  ‘Same time next week?’ Tall opened the driver door of the Aston.

  ‘I think next week the boat’s arriving on Tuesday, not Wednesday. The gaffer ain’t pleased. The women won’t be here until Wednesday night. The bags might have to stay here overnight.’

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ Bald said.

  Short shrugged his shoulders, ‘I don’t think there is much of a choice.’

  ‘What time is your meet?’ Bald turned to Tall.

  Tall glanced at his watch, ‘They are expecting delivery at 8am. I better go, otherwise I won’t get any first.’ They all sniggered at this. I pulled my phone from my pocket and snapped photos of all three. Tall sat into the Aston, gunned the engine, backed out and sped off down the dirt road, off to get some. Next Bald slipped into the BMW and backed out.

  Finally Short hopped into the van. He cleared the doors, then stopped and got out. He walked back in and over to an alarm panel on the left wall. I peered over, watching his hand. One, four, something, something, three. He flicked off the light switch next to the panel, then walked out and pushed the heavy wooden doors shut. I jumped up and ran over to the pad while Short rattled the chain. The alarm beeped. I had what, ten seconds? His fingers had hit the bottom half of the keypad. One four seven eight three. Wrong. One four eight seven three. Wrong. One four seven nine three. Wrong. Come on. One four nine seven three. Wrong. The rattling stopped. One four eight nine three. The alarm howled.

  I ran back to the Kompressor stall, stuck my hand in the trough and grabbed the key. The rattle resumed. I beeped the car open, grabbed the driver door and dived into the soft leather seat, pulling the door shut behind me. I stuck the key in the ignition, ready to go if need be. I turned around and scrunched down just as the big wooden door swung open. Short shuffled over to the keypad. I peered as he punched in the code. One four seven five three. The alarm stopped. He pulled a phone from his pocket, checked the screen, then shoved it back in.

  He flicked on the light and ran his eyes around the room. He stepped to the ladder in the middle of the building and disappeared into the loft. A minute later I heard squawking and flapping as some poor bird was woken from its rest. The flapping faded, a window banged closed, then feet appeared at the top of the ladder.

  Short walked back over to the keypad, hesitated, then headed out of the door without punching in the code, or turning out the lights. He returned moments later with a torch in his hand; its bright white light illuminating the grain on the doors. He swung it back and forth around the stable stalls. I ducked down further; the steering wheel digging into my back. I couldn’t see him now, but I saw the beam twist around the big open space and heard feet shuffle for an eternity. Finally I heard the toned beep of the keypad and the lights blinked out. As soon as the doors banged shut, I opened the Kompressor door, ran for the alarm and punched in one four seven five three. It beeped off as the chains were rattling. I didn’t breathe again until the van pulled away.

  I stepped into the middle of the stable and turned a full circle. Only seven of the twelve stalls were filled and while they were all luxury cars, I now realised they were different from those I had seen the day I arrived. Angelo had more cars than he was letting on.

  I returned to the Mercedes and pressed the key. The boot sprung open. I stuck my head in; golf clubs and a couple of jackets lay inside. I lifted them out and pulled at the carpet, it didn’t move. The small light in the boot shone bright enough to make out two catches holding the carpet in place. I turned them anti-clockwise and this time the carpet lifted, revealing the spare wheel along with the jack and tools. I ran my fingers over the tyre and looked around the metal chassis. Everything appeared normal.

  I pushed the carpet back into pla
ce, fastened the clips, lifted the golf clubs and jackets back in, and shut the boot. I moved on to the interior. It was empty, freshly valeted and held nothing, not even the car manuals or documentation.

  I moved onto the next trough and pulled out another key. I hit the button on an Alpha Romeo Spider. Again I looked under the carpet, again nothing out of the ordinary. Next up was a corvette. I pulled up the carpet and looked at the chassis. The light in the boot was brighter this time and I stuck my head in to have a good look. The spare wheel and the tools were all there. Why had they pulled up the carpet in the other cars? Was it just in those two? And what had been in the bags?

  I was about to drop the carpet back down when I noticed a ridge on all four sides of the spare wheel, carved into the chassis. Square in shape, it passed no closer than an inch to the tyre. I ran my hand over the ridge. It looked like a join. Only my pinkie could fit. I pushed it under the edge and flinched. I pulled the finger out and examined the damage. A gouge had been sliced in the top. I stuck it in my mouth and dug a tissue from my pocket. Pinkie wrapped, I grabbed a big screwdriver from the tools, stuck it in the groove and levered. The join came apart, the tyre lifting off the chassis. I eased the screwdriver in further and pushed down again – it lifted 4 or 5 inches. I lowered it back down and hauled out the tools, then the tyre. I stuck the screwdriver in again and this time the whole spare wheel casing came away. I lifted it off, revealing, well, nothing. A big empty hole was open to the stable floor.

  I walked back to the two previous cars. Now that I knew where to look, I could see the ridges. I checked every car, but they were all the same.

  I was searching the last one, an Audi A6. I pulled up the carpet; the ridges were the same as the others. I was pushing the carpet back down when I knocked against the ridge. This time the spare tyre slid to the side. Well, not the spare tyre exactly.

  I picked up what looked like the wheel casing and examined it. It was a square of thin lightweight plastic. The shape of the tyre and jack were moulded onto one side, the colour and texture etched in fine detail. I turned it over, two plastic clasps protruded from the underside.

  I stuck my head back into the boot and stared into an empty black plastic box the width and length of the tyre. I crouched down and looked under the back bumper. The bottom of the box was sitting barely a couple of inches above the ground.

  Was this where they were storing the white canvas bags? In secret compartments?

  My problem with this whole thing? The bags weren’t shaped like rifles. Handguns? And why were they all different sizes? And who were the women the cars were being passed onto?

  I walked back to the middle and this time climbed up the ladder. Workbenches stood with tools neatly arranged. Partially complete false tops littered the area. A mould of the outline lay on one bench, tubes of paint and pots of artist brushes on another. Straw bales were stacked in each of the corners. Under them I found a pile of other false tops.

  I moved to the windows. They were French style, locked only with levers. I opened them one by one until I found what I was looking for.

  I slid back down the ladder to the keypad, sucked in a deep breath and punched in the number. I sprinted for the ladder, scurried up and ran across to the window. I clambered out on the ledge; the bruise on my side kicking in protest. I pulled the panes shut behind me. There was nothing I could do about the lock. I swung my arms over to the drainpipe, clutched on, dragged my legs behind me and shimmied down. My troublesome childhood hadn’t been in vain after all.

  It was nearly six when I snuck in through the terrace door. I stepped out of my clothes and stashed them in the dressing room. Then I showered and wrapped myself in a bathrobe. I checked my throbbing purple face in the mirrored bathroom cabinet. It didn’t look too bad, a bit of make-up and dark glasses would cover most of it.

  I banged on the spring-loaded door, grabbed a bottle of aspirin from inside and swallowed a couple of tablets. Then I tiptoed back downstairs and busied myself with breakfast. Angelo shuffled into the kitchen half an hour later, fastening diamond cufflinks.

  ‘Smells good,’ he yawned at me.

  ‘I made scrambled eggs and toast if you’re interested.’

  ‘Definitely. You’re up early,’ he peered at me through bag-laden eyes. He frowned, staring at my jaw, ‘Did I do that? I am sorry.’

  ‘I’d say your ribs don’t look great, so we’ll call it even.’ I looked him in the eye, ‘But don’t think it will be the next time.’

  He furrowed his brow and nodded.

  ‘Anyway, it’s market day in Aix, I thought I might make the trip again. And I want to get there before the crowds.’

  He nodded, yawning again as he lifted the plate I was filling, ‘Pick something nice up for dinner.’

  ‘You’re working too hard. You look worn out,’ I smiled at him.

  He nodded again and this time his eyes went to my bandaged pinkie. ‘What happened there?’

  ‘I cut it on a knife.’

  P Diddy sang from his jacket pocket. He pulled out an iPhone, checked the screen, tutted, then put it up to his ear. ‘Mama, how are you?’ he listened while Mama, presumably, told him how she was. He nodded repeatedly, rolled his eyes twice and let out an exasperated breath. He looked up at me, picked up my hand, mouthed, ‘Poor Lucky’ and kissed the finger. I hated the bastard.

  He dropped my hand and sank onto a stool at the breakfast counter. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brown leather wallet. A wallet I had never seen before. He flipped it open and pulled out a white card. I tried to get a look, but couldn’t see the name. He rhymed off a phone number, nodded, then said, ‘Yes Mama, I love you too. Yes, I am looking after myself. Yes, I am eating well. I have to go. I have to go to work.’ He nodded again, ‘I will call you later. That’s not true. I have to go. I do call you. Bye. Bye-bye Mama.’ He hung up, rolling his eyes once more.

  But my eyes were drawn back to the open wallet and a photograph shining out with the smiles of two little girls. A woman stood behind them. He saw me looking. ‘My wife and children,’ he said. ‘They’re dead.’

  *

  This was my third drop. I dozed off on the train and nearly missed the stop. I was pumping caffeine-fuelled espresso into me, obsessing over Angelo’s declaration before he stormed out, so I didn’t hear the approach. ‘What happened?’ No-one was supposed to speak to me. Their orders were to watch me, wait until I left and then take the seat after me. Cecile was staring at my bruised face.

  ‘What do you think?’ I replied.

  She perched her small frame on the seat across from me, ‘You have to get out of there. I was wrong, this is too dangerous.’

  ‘No. And don’t tell Dad.’ I smiled at her, ‘His ribs look worse than my face. Take a look,’ I laid the newspaper on the table. ‘There’s something big in the wind. Angelo’s worried that they won’t be ready.’

  ‘Big how?’

  ‘Don’t know, but I think something is coming into Marseilles, not going out. Bags of …’ I shrugged, ‘something are being loaded into luxury cars.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At an old stable block half a mile from the house. The next shipment is due Wednesday, but it may arrive on Tuesday and have to spend the night in the stable. Angelo is not one bit pleased,’ I pointed to my face. ‘If the sleepover happens, I’ll try to get a look.’

  Movement caught my attention over Cecile’s shoulder. The waiter in the long black apron approached, ‘Oui?’

  Cecile ordered, ‘Café.’

  She waited till he had gone inside before continuing, ‘Where are they taking it?’

  ‘I don’t know that either, but they talked about handing the cars over to women. Everything I have is there,’ I nodded to the paper. ‘Are you sure this is about booze or guns? The bags didn’t look big enough to hold rifles and it definitely wasn’t drink. They dropped one and it didn’t sound like it contained metal. I know they could have been packed in something, but why would they
be smuggling guns in?’

  ‘The sergeant was artillery and ordinance. Do you think it’s explosives? Do you think they are planning a bombing?’ her voice had taken on an edge of fear. The waiter delivered the coffee and took a good look at the both of us, lingering on the bruises on my face before finally retreating.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a bit of an extreme conclusion to jump to just because I didn’t see any guns.’

  ‘We live in extreme times,’ she snapped it out, but then closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

  ‘Fine, say it is a bombing. It would be easier to get the stuff in Europe, you know that. I don’t want to state the obvious, but if the transit route is Afghanistan, aren’t we most likely looking at heroin?’

  ‘No, it’s not heroin.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘His operation has been shut down.’

  ‘His operation? What, you knew he was a drug smuggler and you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘It was need to know.’

  ‘And you thought I didn’t need to know?’

  She shrugged, ‘His operation has been shut down. It’s something else. We need to find out what.’

  ‘That’s it? That’s all the explanation I get?’

  She looked left, then right, ‘This isn’t really the place.’

  I glanced up. The waiter was still watching us.

  *

  The following Tuesday, Angelo coaxed me out of bed early with coffee and croissants. ‘I may not be home tonight.’ Surprise surprise. ‘And I just wanted to say something before I go.’ He shuffled his feet, ‘I’m sorry about my outburst over the car last week. The cars are part of a business venture and I wasn’t really supposed to be using them so the flat was a major inconvenience.’

  ‘I said I was sorry,’ I snapped.

  ‘I know, I’m not … look … I just,’ he sighed, ‘just come here, I want to show you something.’ I stayed where I was. ‘Come on, come outside.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why, it always was your favourite word. Just come on, you’ll see.’ I followed him out of the front door. A yellow Mini convertible with white bonnet stripes sat in the drive. He held up his hand, a key swung from his index finger. ‘Do you like it?’