Thunder

by Anthony Bellaleigh

  Omid.

  Ellard watched as the vehicle moved backward and forward. He was either a poor driver, or drunk, or both. Eventually the Ford was tucked in, almost straight, and the headlights went out.

  Ellard squeezed his eyes closed for a moment to help them adjust. When he opened them, Omid was staggering into the street. Drunk then. He watched as the little man slammed the driver door, span around dramatically and extended one gently drifting arm toward it.

  ‘Good boy, let’s see if you can lock it then,’ thought Ellard.

  Omid staggered backwards into the middle of the road, and then forwards again: his arm oscillating around in front of him.

  Ellard grinned. What a loser.

  Eventually the Ford’s indicators flashed and the man turned away and zigzagged across the road. He reached the pavement and tripped up the kerb: clattering forward and almost falling.

  It was as much as Ellard could do to stop himself laughing.

  Omid span around and stared furiously at the offending step.

  Tosser.

  The drunk righted himself and staggered on again, coming closer. Ellard slipped a little further down into the seat and tracked every tentative step. The little man paid his vehicle no attention as he passed alongside and then wandered away.

  The tiny alleyway between the houses was barely visible as a narrow black slot in the terracing. A wide car would struggle to get through it. Omid also struggled. Ellard watched as he veered off in that direction, bounced sideways off one of the house walls, and disappeared into the darkness.

  ~~~~~

  I huddle in the shadows at the end of the alleyway. From time to time I’ve had to get up and move quietly around to try to keep my circulation going. I’ve had a long time to wait. Maybe too long. And, suddenly I’ve found myself wondering why I’m here...

  What am I doing?

  This is not me!

  I’m the pacifist, the forgiver, the faithful. I’m the one who believes in all of the good things that humanity wants to be.

  All of my determination, my singular fixation, my detailed planning is becoming clouded by doubt.

  I think about my ghostly confidants. They kept me alive. Called me back from the edge. Summoned me back to this mortal coil when I could have slipped away into a peaceful oblivion. They want me to do the right thing, but what is the right thing?

  I’m not so sure any more.

  I close my eyes. I wonder if Dad’s there, somewhere? Maybe he can help? I’ve seen him enough times, every night, in my dreams. And Grey Beard. And you. And Lizzie.

  As I think of you, sudden stabbing emptiness punches into my stomach. It’s enough to make me gasp a lungful of icy air and my eyes pop open. There, silhouetted against the orange neon glow of the distant street, Javed Omid staggers drunkenly into the wall of one of the houses at the alleyway’s entrance.

  He’s home...

  And now I remember.

  The cold is forgotten. Replaced with a boiling, unadulterated, hatred.

  You stole everything from me.

  And I’m here to take something back, before I go.

  ~~~~~

  Ellard thumbed his way uneasily around the menus of his recently upgraded encrypted cellphone, found the number he was looking for, and called Greere. He missed the simple familiarity of his battered old device. “Omid’s back,” he said, his voice as frosty as his windscreen. “Pissed as a newt.”

  “Excellent. Stay where you are. Sentinel was very explicit about this. Keep your eyes peeled. Have you seen anyone else?” Greere sounded distracted and slightly out of breath.

  “Only the odd resident. No-one’s been around for hours. Everyone’s tucked up in bed. Are you sure Sentinel isn’t just messing with us?”

  “Just keep watching,” Greere said stiffly. “I know Sentinel is onto something. I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you that we’d better not screw-up this time?”

  “We?”

  “Shut up, Deuce.”

  ~~~~~

  The worm staggers along the alleyway, his feet slipping slightly when he steps onto the now frozen puddles.

  I watch him approaching, keeping myself as still as a statue.

  He reaches the back gate and stumbles through it.

  Now!

  I heft Vengeance and sprint forward, huddled over, keeping to the fence-line, and then lift myself onto tiptoe so I can see over the top of the panelling.

  He’s slithering away from me, along the pathway, toward the back door.

  I watch as he fumbles with his keys, leaning against the wall next to the door for balance. Then he stands and, after a few attempts, manages to put one of the keys into the lock.

  I grab the latch and swing the gate open.

  He turns the key and pushes the kitchen door open.

  “Omid,” I grunt.

  ~~~~~

  Why wouldn’t the key go into the hole...?

  Fucking key!

  He was freezing. The shivering was making his hand shake, and the shaking was making the key slide erratically around the hole.

  He’d had enough of all this creeping about. Fuck the lawyers. There was enough money coming in. He could risk losing the handouts. His Agent was very confident that he could get more books ghostwritten, and a number of chat shows were after him, and various special interest groups would like to pay for his services as a guest speaker. Yep, there was more than enough interest to keep the cash rolling in.

  Finally!

  The unruly key slid into the lock and he twisted it forcefully.

  There was a clattering sound as the garden gate slammed open behind him.

  Fuck... He couldn’t have latched it properly...?

  Well, it would have to wait until the morning.

  “Omid.”

  Huh...?

  Javed span himself, waveringly, around and squinted through blurry eyes toward the end of his garden.

  There was someone there.

  A darker shadow amongst the black night.

  Was it the mysterious big bloke again?

  Whoever it was, was just standing there. Sideways on. Arms raised toward him. Holding...

  Something slammed violently into his chest and, with a tiny metallic click, he was suddenly flying backwards into his darkened kitchen.

  ~~~~~

  The crashing noise from next door woke her up.

  Her husband lay there beside her, snoring as usual. She was always the lighter sleeper.

  “Wake up,” she said, elbowing him. “Did you hear that?”

  “Ummm...?”

  “Wake up!” she hissed.

  “What is it?” he mumbled sleepily, rolling over toward her.

  “I heard a noise,” she whispered, pulling her nightie close. “Next door.”

  Her husband looked at her witheringly. “Next door?”

  She nodded, suddenly feeling sheepish.

  “It’s only that evil bastard coming home drunk again. Go back to sleep.” He rolled away, burying his head into his pillow. “That nurse I was chatting to last week, said he’d be moving away soon,” he muttered into the darkness. “Good riddance in my opinion. I hate having that little piece of shit living near us.”

  She slid back down under the covers. Her husband was right – irritating as that might be – and she reached out to rest one hand reassuringly against him as she closed her eyes and let herself drift back off to sleep.

  ~~~~~

  Omid stared disbelievingly at his chest. Sudden, excruciating, pain was dispelling the drunkenness. Survival instincts were kicking in. A bright steel rod, with what looked like feathers at the end, was sticking up out of his ribcage. It looked like something from a cowboy film. It looked like an arrow...?

  He realised that he must be lying on his back, and struggled to push himself up into more of a sitting position.

  He was inside the kitchen! A good few metres from the open doorway. The mystery-man suddenly burst through the door and charged into the room t
oward him.

  Omid opened his mouth to scream...

  ~~~~~

  I kick him hard.

  Right beneath his nicely opening jaw.

  I feel, even through my boot, the resounding crack of his teeth being smashed into one another and his head flicks backwards violently.

  For a moment, I’m concerned that I might have broken his neck...

  But no. This little shit is more resilient than that.

  He’s sprawled out as if dead, but he’s still breathing.

  Perfect.

  I’d expected that I might have needed to hit him a few more times to knock him out.

  I wanted to knock him out.

  But I don’t want him dead.

  Not yet.

  ~~~~~

  Ellard wriggled uncomfortably, as he wrapped his sleeping bag around him and eased the zipper closed. Nothing else was going to happen tonight. He wouldn’t need to move in a hurry so, as far as he was concerned, there was no point in him getting hypothermia. He’d set the phone’s alarm for four o’clock – two hours away – just in case he drifted off. Whatever happened, he needed to be gone from here before the locals started rising.

  ~~~~~

  Now I’m ready.

  Javed Omid sits in front of me, hunched over, on one of his battered wooden dining chairs in the middle of the small dining area. I’ve cleared his table and other chairs to one side. He sits there, alone, in the middle. Head slumped down on his chest.

  I place what’s left of my coil of white telephone cable on top of the work-surface. A line of cupboards jut into the room from beside the back doorway and separate the narrow kitchen from the eating area. There are several distinctly unusual objects dispersed across the worktop and I can’t help but wonder what my little friend will make of them when he wakes up.

  Now, how to revive him...?

  A good slap feels like a reasonable place to start.

  I brush some stray sawdust from my coat, wander over to him, and hit his cheek – hard – with the palm of my gloved hand.

  He makes a small incoherent noise behind the gag I’ve bound tightly, through his mouth and around his head, but he doesn’t come around.

  I slap him again.

  “Wakey, wakey,” I grunt.

  His head rolls from one side to the other, then jerks upright, and I study his bloodshot eyes as they struggle to focus on me. Watch him struggle to come to terms with what’s happening to him.

  Welcome to my world, Javed Omid.

  His eyes widen as he appears to remember and he starts jerking himself violently against his bindings.

  “Keep still, or die,” I rumble, close to his ear, and pull back quickly as he flicks his face angrily toward me. His midriff is bound tightly, with the cable, to the chair back. His hands are tied together in front of him. His legs are individually lashed to the chair legs. He has limited options for movement. Just enough by my calculations but not much – I don’t want him to start the party too early. He needs to understand first, before we both leave here for good.

  Stepping back, I spread my arms expansively.

  “Look around you,” I say.

  His wild eyes glare up at me as he continues to struggle against his bonds. I can hear him making glugging noises as he tries, presumably, to shout.

  “Look!” I command him, and this time he obeys.

  He goes still and I see his putrid face frowning, baffled, as his eyes move around the room, taking in my hastily arranged exhibition of nicely flammable, blown-up photos of his multitude of victims, strewn all around him on the floor.

  “You are also a thief,” I grunt, though he won’t know about the Travellers. “You took precious things. Things you had no right to.” He looks at me, but I doubt he understands or even cares about what I’m saying. “All of these people require retribution. I am here to secure atonement. They are waiting for us.”

  I reach out with one arm, and lift the rusty carving knife I’d found earlier – in one of his kitchen drawers – from where it waits patiently on the peninsular unit. He starts jerking about again and mutedly squawking from behind the gag.

  “Keep still,” I bark, and then carefully place the blade onto his lap in front of his bound hands. “Keep still,” I repeat firmly, “Or take your own life.” He glances down at the blade on his lap. “It’s your choice.”

  Well, it isn’t really.

  But it’s what I want him to be thinking in a minute or two.

  ~~~~~

  A sharp pain against his cheek brought him back to consciousness.

  As Javed opened his eyes the kitchen appeared around him, swimming in a swirling haze of blurred vision. It was bright. The lights were on. He could make out that there was a man, with a blackened face, standing right in front of him.

  He jerked upright in surprise but for some reason couldn’t move.

  He looked down and saw white plastic cable round his wrists and waist. Something was in his mouth. It was tight in his mouth. Suffocating. He couldn’t spit it out.

  Panicking, he started to struggle pointlessly against the bindings.

  “Keep still, or die,” said the man. He’s got an inhuman voice. Each word sounds strained and constructed from ominously fragmented deep-bass tones. “Look around you,” the man continues.

  Javed could smell something. The place reeked of it. He tried to move but, apart from his hands and head, he was tied fast to this chair.

  “Look!”

  He stopped struggling for a second, and glanced around him. There were pictures scattered everywhere. A4 sized photographs of faces. They were everywhere. All colours, sexes, sizes... random pictures. He didn’t recognise any of them. They seemed to be soaked in some sort of clear liquid?

  This guy was a lunatic!

  Must’ve read his book or something?

  He’d have to get some fucking protection sorted out.

  Fucking lunatic!

  He glared angrily at the intruder. ‘Wait until I get out of here,’ he thought. ‘I’ll fucking sort you out!’

  The pictures were soaking wet...?

  His legs felt wet too.

  The man was still talking. Growling some crap about distribution. It sounded religious. Typical. Then his captor reached out and picked up a carving knife.

  ‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’ thought Omid, pulling himself against the cords, feeling them digging into his flesh as he tried uselessly to escape. ‘He’s going to stab me!”

  But the lunatic just dropped the blade onto his lap.

  Javed sat back and the rickety old chair creaked underneath him. Shifting fractionally. He could feel it. It definitely moved. Like it was broken or something?

  Crappy old chairs.

  Replacing them might just turn out to be one of the best things he’d never done...

  ~~~~~

  More for something to do than anything else, I start to put things away into the backpack. I’ve always been one for tidying up after myself and it might as well be my parting gesture too.

  Vengeance is already inside. Collapsed back down into its transport configuration. My small quiver is tucked down one side and conveniently holds the rucksack’s side up. It’s got a couple of normal arrows and my little mechanised monster – now recovered from the worm’s chest – in it. I feel bad about Vengeance – which is ridiculous, I know – but it feels like such a waste that this thing, that I love, will be destroyed as well.

  I pick up the handsaw from where I dropped it earlier – Omid’s chairs had been so old that I’d hardly needed it in the end – and can’t help but smile at the horrified expression on Omid’s face when he sees it. I also collect up the pliers and bradawl that I used to screw my numerous hooks into his skirting boards. These all raise wide-eyed expressions of horror. I guess he thinks I’m planning on torturing him but, as it is, they all go quickly into the bag.

  The five-litre acetone tin, with its red diamond warnings emblazoned on the sides, can stay there in the corner.

/>   Stuff it...

  I open the back door, and lean out and prop the backpack to one side of it, then return inside and close the door. The sentimental side of me has won out.

  Vengeance can wait outside.

  For some reason this feels right somehow.

  I go to the sink and prepare to wash the charcoal from my face.

  I want my face to be clean when I see you.

  I can hear Omid jerking about again and glance over my shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do that?” I ask him.

  ~~~~~

  Grabbing the knife with both hands, he started sawing at the cables round his waist. No good. The blade was as blunt as hell and the cable felt like it had got metal wires running through it.

  He leaned his head forwards and strained to see over his knees. His trousers were saturated in some liquid. The stench from it was almost overpowering. Why couldn’t he place the smell? Something to do with make-up maybe?

  There was sawdust on the floor by his feet... Hang on, didn’t the lunatic pick up a saw a couple of minutes ago?

  He moved one foot slightly and felt the chair leg flex.

  He moved his head to one side and could see rough saw marks in the wood at the top of it.

  Why do that? To try to embarrass him or something? To try to stop him struggling? Is that what all the ‘keep still’ bollocks was about?

  What a fuck-wit!

  A plan started to form in his mind.

  If he could break the chair’s forelegs it would topple forwards.

  He tried easing himself up slightly, lifting his buttocks a fraction from the seat.

  Yes! Then the bindings round his waist would slide off the chair back!

  ~~~~~

  A bowlful of warm water is in front of me and I’m working up a soapy lather in my hands. ‘Eternity Soaps: Rejuvenating Your Skin Forever’ reads the bottle next to the sink. I guess we’ll be testing that soon.

  I glance over my shoulder again and can almost see the hard, round, probably lichen-encrusted, pebbles of Omid’s intellect grinding around under the force of his tidal ineptitude.