Thunder

by Anthony Bellaleigh

He’ll work it out soon.

  ~~~~~

  Yes, he could topple forward – his legs would already be free – and his bindings would slide off the chair. Then he could rush over and knife the bastard!

  He carefully manoeuvred the carving knife so it was gripped tightly between his bound hands and pointing away from him.

  The moron was still washing.

  Had his back to him.

  This was the perfect time.

  He pushed forward with one calf. The chair leg creaked ominously.

  Again!

  The leg snapped.

  He thrust his freed foot down for balance and started on the second.

  His assailant remained washing... despite the noise?

  Lunatic!

  The second chair leg broke and, out of reflex, his leg dropped to steady him.

  He was as good as free!

  He suddenly felt himself filling up with a wave of triumphant fury. “Arrgghhhh...!” he yelled mutedly into the tightly bound gag.

  ~~~~~

  I turn around after I hear the second chair leg crack.

  He’s trying to yell something and, going by his expression, I’d say that he’s feeling delighted with himself.

  Then he notices my face and his expression changes to one of shock. Then back to anger.

  He lifts his feet, the chair starts to topple forwards and I nod over his shoulder toward the wall behind him.

  ~~~~~

  Omid instinctively turned his head to look behind him as he fell. Perhaps there was someone else concealed in the room?

  But there was no-one there.

  Instead there were other cables, unseen until now, streaming out like strands of a white spider’s web from the back of the chair to the nearby wall where, standing on an eclectic collection of jars and cans, a series of storm-lamps stood with their wicks flickering. Every one of the lamps’ doors were open. Their flames flared brightly as if the fumes in the air were feeding them. The cables from the chair were attached to the lamps’ various handles and yet more ran to a series of hoops firmly anchored into the distant skirting boards.

  Unable to stop himself, Omid tumbled forwards, pulling the wires taut, and bringing the lamps leaping off their precarious perches. He watched over his shoulder as they fell forward toward the pool of liquid on the floor.

  Suddenly he remembered what the smell was. Nail polish... Acetone!

  The first of the lamps crashed onto the floorboards and a gout of flame burst outwards towards him.

  ~~~~~

  I watch him falling. See him trying, even as he sprawled forwards, to try to stop the inevitable. It was a pathetic sight. Sort of a half-lurch to one side.

  I have planned several layers of redundancy into my trap but, as it is, all of the lanterns spark bright flame. The acetone vapours are more flammable than I’d imagined them to be, but then again, up to now, I’ve never had more than a small bottle to play with.

  Flames start to rage around him. He tries to clamber onto his feet but the bindings round his waist are, of course, also very much tied to the base of the chair and it remains firmly lashed to him – there was a little more slack in one or two of the loops, just enough to help him jump to the wrong conclusion. He’s discovering that it’s extremely difficult to stand up when your body is bent rigidly into a sitting position. And it doesn’t help, of course, that he’s also tied to the wall.

  The fire leaps onto his acetone soaked trousers, crackling as it starts to take angry bites from the accelerant-sodden cloth and he starts rolling from side to side – the small distance his tethers will allow – as he tries to extinguish it. But the flames are unstoppable and his actions only serve to fan them further. I can hear him starting to scream, even through the gag.

  “I don’t know if there is a hell,” I announce loudly to his writhing form. “So you must burn here. With me. In mine...”

  He leaps suddenly to his feet, drawing himself into a superhuman half-balanced stance which must only be possible because of the intense pain and need to escape, and rushes toward me like a living beacon of fire amongst the accelerating conflagration. Instinctively I take a half step backwards, hitting the cabinets behind me but the tethers do their job and he is held there. Trussed in the middle of the bonfire.

  I am ready.

  He is dying in agony in front of me.

  I’m not frightened about whatever cleansing pain I might be about to endure. Whilst it will no doubt reach beyond my damaged nervous system, it’s irrelevant. It will be nothing compared to what I’ve already had to live through.

  “I’m coming, my darlings,” I mutter to myself and suddenly you’re there, looking in through the window, from the garden. You’re holding Lizzie and I can see Grey Beard beside you and Dad.

  What are you doing in the garden?

  Dad is mouthing something through the flame-strobed reflections. “Not now,” he appears to be saying...?

  You seem so real.

  I’m not interested in Omid’s crashing, flailing, noises any more.

  You are beckoning to me through the glass.

  You look angry.

  Do you want me to come to you?

  Into the garden?

  I can’t help myself.

  You’re there...

  I fling the door open and step outside and the raging inferno behind me draws a huge gasping breath through this new, gaping-wide, opening. A gale of oxygen streams past me, its wind chilling my hot cheeks, and with an unearthly roar the entire downstairs area erupts.

  But you are not here...!

  Why did you call me out of the house...?

  Why...?

  The moment has gone. The worm is turning to ash behind me whilst I stand here still suffering...

  You tricked me.

  All of you...

  A solitary tear, spawned by a sudden feeling of utter desolation and loneliness, trickles down my cheek and I reach down, lift my backpack, and stagger along the garden path toward the alleyway.

  ~~~~~

  Something woke him. He’d dropped off to sleep...

  Shit.

  Ellard leapt up in the passenger seat and checked the clock on the dashboard. Three-thirty. That was okay then...

  He scanned the streets in front, no-one nearby, then turned and looked behind to see a darkened figure disappearing out of the street. On foot. Walking.

  Something was wrong though.

  Then he saw it. The dark alleyway was being backlit somehow.

  He wrestled his way out of the sleeping bag and risked flinging the door open.

  Smoke!

  He could smell smoke.

  Checking up and down the street he couldn’t see anyone else about, so he raced to the alleyway entrance. Flames were coursing up the side of one of the houses, flickering upwards from the ground floor. He could see them rising, over the dark fence line, pouring upwards like some inverted luminescent waterfall.

  Shit, shit, shit...!

  He pulled his phone from his pocket, punched the number for Greere and started running to get around into the other street. “Call in the Fire Brigade!” he yelled, as his boss answered sleepily. “Omid’s house is on fire! I need to rouse the neighbours...”

  Greere was jabbering something about not getting involved.

  “FUCK THAT!” He yelled. “Joe Public’s got to be warned! Call the Fire Brigade!”

  He hung up and sprinted round the corner toward the conflagration.

  “FIRE!” he bellowed into the frosty darkness...

  ~~~~~

  Like some automaton, I walk and walk and walk.

  The pack on my back is much lighter. It hangs casually off one shoulder as I make my way along residential street after residential street. Black hat, black gloves, black coat, black soul. I am a sable wraith in the darkness. A ghost of a human.

  It feels unreal.

  Almost as if I don’t exist anymore.

  Is this a dream again? Like before?

  Am
I still in Omid’s kitchen? Dead or dying?

  Am I just another ghost? Like you are, when you come to me?

  Did you really call me outside?

  One thing’s for certain. I expected to be dead by now.

  This is now a different existence. My soul has been wiped entirely. You are gone. Lizzie is gone. The worm Omid, who had become my focal point, is gone. All of the ties, the anchor points to my past have been vaporised. Yet I continue to exist, and I continue to burn with vitriolic hatred and anger. I don’t care about Omid dying. I don’t care about myself dying. I have absolutely zero interest in the human systems we call society. I have no desire for home, for well-being, for procreation or wealth.

  So, what comes next...?

  At the moment, I have absolutely no idea except it will be a different Nick who treads this battered track. Different emotionally, mentally and, of course, physically.

  I am not who I once was.

  And I don’t care.

  In the distance I can see a string of shopfronts, so I cut off onto a side street. They won’t open for hours yet but there might be cameras around.

  Even ghosts need to be a little bit cautious.

  ~~~~~

  Greere paced furiously around his small apartment’s living room. Glancing through the bedroom door he could see Sebastian lying there, nubile and naked, sprawled across the bedclothes. The youngster slept like the dead, especially after exercise. Well, pretty as he might be, he was going to get a nasty surprise tomorrow. There were plenty of wanton boys around and Greere needed to make himself feel better. Needed to give himself a present. His present would be to dump this sponging sex toy and find himself a new one.

  He reached out, pulled the bedroom door closed and thumbed his phone again. This time Ellard answered. “Where are you?” Greere hissed angrily.

  Ellard explained that he was back in his car. He said that the fire brigade and police were at Omid’s house and that the fire was still raging. There was a body reportedly inside. Ellard felt it was reasonable to assume that it was Omid.

  “And you saw no-one?” Greere paused near his apartment’s small window. “I have to report to Sentinel. Now. Before he hears from someone else how incompetent you are!”

  ~~~~~

  Ellard grimaced as he shoved his keys into the car’s ignition. “There were a handful of residents who came and went, either in cars or on foot and one who arrived by taxi,” he said calmly. “Other than that, nothing. I noticed one man, on foot, walking away, in the distance just before I noticed the flame...,” Ellard paused mid-sentence.

  “Noticed the flame, what?” demanded Greere’s voice from the car’s speakers.

  “Shit.”

  “WHAT?” Greere screeched in frustration, his voice booming out from the vehicle’s array of speakers and hurting Ellard’s ears.

  “The guy with the rucksack!” Ellard shouted back as he scrabbled for the hands-free’s volume control. “Earlier! A guy came down the street and disappeared – I assumed into his house – long before Omid’s little trip out. I think that’s also the man I saw later – leaving the area when I spotted the fire. It might be the same bloke...”

  “Fuck!”

  “Yeah, that would have been a long and very cold wait. Is there any CCTV round here?” Ellard started the car and pulled out; glancing around at the house fronts, signage and street-lamps.

  Greere grunted. “If there was I wouldn’t have needed to send you; for what that’s been worth. Anyway, Omid was offered it, but refused.”

  “Because of his little excursions?”

  “Probably.”

  Ellard shook his head.

  “I’ll call Sentinel,” said Greere.

  In the background, Ellard heard a male voice calling out. “Crispin? Where are you?”

  Ellard grimaced again. “Sir?” he ventured, deciding it was best to revert to rank.

  “Just be ready for my call,” Greere barked gruffly, and hung up.

  ~~~~~

  Sentinel wandered back into his bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Has something happened?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Omid’s dead,” he said matter-of-factly. “Tweedledee and Tweedledum didn’t see anything. Looks like whoever did it has escaped.”

  Manjeethra sat herself up, shocked at the news, huddling the duvet close around her bare torso.

  “Out of interest,” he studied her face carefully. “Describe Nick to me.”

  “Huh? You don’t think...?”

  “Humour me.”

  Manjeethra shrugged and the duvet slipped distractingly off her shoulder. He watched her pull it up again. “Big,” she said. “The steroids and all the exercise, I guess. Got a big scar, here.” She pointed to her neck and lower face. “Where the shrapnel went in.”

  “Big?” he asked smiling.

  “Massive,” she replied. “Built like a brick shit house.”

  Sentinel laughed. “A big bloke?” he asked conspiratorially.

  She looked at him quizzically then huffed. “Yeah, you could say that,” she said.

  “This could be interesting,” Sentinel stood up. “I’ll be back in a minute. I think your friend has been demonstrating some useful skills, but we need to step in quickly. I’ll send my boys.” He headed toward the door, then paused and turned back to her.

  Manjeethra collapsed back onto the pillows. “You don’t just think it was Nick, do you?” she asked quietly.

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “What are you going to do? Nick is just a civilian.”

  He smiled. “Nick has become much more than just a civilian. Murderer might be a better description.” Manjeethra looked horrified at his words. “It’s not so bad,” he continued quickly. “I have something running which might have an opening. But Nick needs to disappear. And quickly. Maybe it’ll turn out that your friend is a natural? From what you’ve told me already, I have an unusually good feeling about it.” He moved into the doorway and turned and looked over his broad shoulder at her. “Let’s see whether we can turn Nick into someone new,” he said cryptically, then stepped out and closed the door quietly behind him.

  ~~~~~

  Constanta

  Murat Nagpal stood to the side of one of the apartment’s several rotting window frames and watched as Azat Sikand picked his way, on foot, across the busy road outside. A mixture of rain and snow poured out of steel-grey clouds. Sikand was getting soaked by it. He would, no doubt, be in another foul mood but Murat was pleased to see his comrade safely returned.

  A few minutes passed then the apartment door slammed open.

  “Murat?” Azat called.

  “In here, my friend.”

  The inner door opened and Azat stomped through, peeling off his sodden trench-coat and sopping woollen hat. “The rental car has been returned,” he reported gruffly.

  “And the message?”

  “Done.”

  “Did the boy answer?”

  “No. It rang out but went to voicemail. I said the codeword and hung up.”

  Murat scowled, considering what that might mean. “And the borders?”

  “No problem.”

  “Excellent,” Murat pronounced. “I have secured replacement papers for you anyway. It will do no harm for you to have two sets. You are a vital asset and great friend.” It was best to make sure Azat felt suitably honoured, given his continued frosty expression. “Look here,” Murat waved his arm across the derelict squat and toward its tatty kitchen area. “I have made you hot tea to welcome you home.”

  ~~~~~

  The Gower

  It is bitterly cold as I hike up the dark lane toward the cottage. Small specks of snow pepper the air like flecks of ash drifting from Omid’s cold and distant funeral pyre. I am surprised that I feel no remorse for what I’ve done, even now, so many hours later.

  I have spent the time trudging aimlessly around the outskirts of London, then slowly making my way back to Paddington
Station to buy the return ticket I thought I’d never need, and later riding a lethargic train back into Wales. It has provided much time for thinking but yielded few conclusions. At the moment my planning extends only so far as to stay here at the cottage for the few remaining days of the lease, and then to make my way back to Sussex. This had been my backup plan. Ready for if I’d had to abandon or defer my attack on the worm. Or for if I’d lost my bottle.

  Trudging through the darkness, I almost walk into the back of a darkened Jaguar parked on the side of the lane. This car wasn’t here when I left, was it? Glancing around I can’t see any other houses. Maybe there’s another place nearby? Set back behind the looming hedgerows?

  I skirt around the obstructive vehicle and can see that there’s no-one inside it. It’s been here for a while because the light snow is settling, as a thin crust, over all of its dark coloured paintwork.

  Turning away from the car, I finally see the cottage in the distance. It sits on the brow of the hill as a squarish patch of darker shadow against the night sky. At the moment I can only see the rooftop over the perpetual hedges. The house appears to be dark, even though I’d fitted timers to a couple of lamps, upstairs and downstairs, and did expect at least one of the lights to be on?

  As I move forwards, the ground floor slowly creeps into sight and I can see a glow from downstairs. The feeble standard lamp in the building’s sizeable corner lounge is doing its best to dimly illuminate the various windows.

  The bedroom bulb must’ve blown.

  Being so close, I feel a burst of renewed energy and press on up the lane, boots crunching into the crisp, icy, sugarcoating and stomp past my own car to the front door. Slinging my pack down I notice that there are other recent bootprints embedded into the damp, gently rotting and ancient, coconut-hair doormat. Postman? Bending over, I fish out an insubstantial and similarly antique Yale key from one of the pack’s pockets, stand up and attempt to press it into the lock.

  But the door just pushes open in front of me.

  It’s not latched.

  For a moment, I freeze solid. Is it the Police? Did they spot me as I left Omid’s street or alleyway? Am I about to be arrested?

  Then, as quickly as I feel flustered, I feel an icy calm. Do I care? What difference would it make?