The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Roman got out and swung open the back door. Venegas opened the other side and took out his kit back, but reaching in for the grocery bags Roman paused: with both hands full, he’d be at a distinct disadvantage, especially if Venegas carried his kit bag in his left hand with his gun hand free.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Venegas asked.

  ‘Uh… yeah.’ Roman quickly thought of how to even the balance. ‘Last time after a long break the padlock was all rusted – we couldn’t get the key in. We might need something to break it. Hold that for me, would yer?’ He handed one grocery bag to Venegas and put the other under his arm as he went around and opened the trunk. He just hoped Funicelli had a tyre lever, and after a bit of rustling around he found the tool bag tucked in on the left. He took out the lever and shut the trunk.

  Roman’s breath showed heavy on the air as they paced away. His mouth was dry, his nerves racing uncontrollably. He could easily have pulled his gun on Venegas before grabbing the tyre lever, but still he needed to know about that smoke. He couldn’t risk it if someone was by the lake.

  Their feet crunched on fresh snow: no previous footsteps either that Roman could discern. The path ran for about forty yards to the lakeside. Between the fir trees, he caught flash glimpses of the cabins, but he just couldn’t tell if it was smoke or only mist rising.

  Venegas hunched and made a mock shiver. ‘Colder than the city here.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Roman said blandly: but not half as cold as where you’re going.

  For some reason, Venegas had fallen in half a step behind him. Perhaps Venegas had picked up on his vibes, was being wary; or was he just letting him lead the way? But the motion of dropping the tyre lever and swivelling around, would give Venegas too much of an advantage. He needed to get Venegas in front and somehow distracted. Roman’s heart thudded hard and fast, marking almost a double time to his crunching footsteps.

  They cleared the fir trees bordering the path and there was a clear view of the cabins again. But still Roman couldn’t tell if it was smoke or mist – which suddenly struck him could be turned to an opportunity. He halted back, slowing his step. ‘Is that smoke I can see rising over there, fifth cabin along? Or just mist. I mean – if someone else is down here, you shouldn’t be here.’

  Venegas pulled a step ahead and peered through the trees. ‘No, I… I don’t think so – it’s not smoke. Looks like mist rising to me.’

  Roman tensed himself to pull his gun. ‘Are you sure?’

  Venegas squinted his eyes more intensely towards the cabin. ‘Yeah… sure. You can see where the sun’s coming through a gap in the trees and hitting the roof and…’

  Venegas heard the tyre lever hit the snow and turned to see Roman’s .44 pulled and pointed at him. Roman’s grocery bag followed. Venegas let out a sneering half laugh of disbelief on a burst exhalation. ‘…What is this?’

  Roman waved with the gun. ‘Drop the groceries and your bag and keep your hands above shoulder level.’ Venegas met his gaze steadily, defiantly for a second, as if he was measuring options of trying something. Roman waved again with his gun and Venegas finally dropped the groceries and his kit bag.

  Roman moved in quickly and took Venegas’s 9mm from his inside pocket and grabbed the kit bag. ‘Thanks. I’ll take the AK too.’ He tucked the 9mm inside the kit bag and prodded the air with his gun. ‘Now let’s move on down to the lakeside.’

  With another sneering half snort and a resigned shrug, Venegas finally turned and started pacing ahead. Roman kept three paces behind.

  After a moment, Venegas remarked, ‘What, you getting me all the way out here was just to shoot me?’ Venegas said this as if all the small puzzle pieces of their journey out had finally slotted into place. Or did Roman detect a faint note of hope and clinging disbelief in the voice?

  ‘No, I’m not going to shoot you, as it happens.’ Which was true, he wasn’t. ‘You’re just going fishing.’

  Silence, only their footsteps crunching on snow as Venegas grappled to make sense of this. He decided finally to disregard it as a bluff. ‘Come on, Roman. What happened to Martinique?’ Venegas half turned; his eyes pleaded, but his voice carried a partly joking tone, as if he knew he was clutching at straws.

  ‘Tickets were too expensive.’ Roman fired a trite half smile. ‘…And my mother said she didn’t want to see you there.’

  A few more paces, and the inevitability dawned on Venegas. Roman saw his shoulders visibly sag. He started to get desperate. ‘For fuck’s sake, Roman. Come on…’ His voice was shaky with mounting nerves, the words spluttering slightly. ‘You know I wouldn’t talk.’

  ‘Temptations are huge these days. Especially with the sort of plea deals going to nail people like me and Jean-Paul. Sorry.’

  Silence again. Both of them tuned into every small sound from the surrounding woodland and the lake: faint scurrying fifty yards to their right as a bird alighted from a bush, the cawing of a crow in the distance.

  Roman’s nerves had settled back a bit from their wild hammering just before pulling the gun, but still he was tense. Lightning-speed reflexes was one of Venegas’s traits. Roman reminded himself not to get too close.

  They reached the edge of the lake and Venegas turned. He was noticeably trembling, and Roman wasn’t sure whether from the cold or with what he knew was about to happen.

  ‘Please, Roman… you don’t have to do this. Your secret with Savard’s safe with me.’ His voice was cracking, almost on the edge of tears.

  ‘It sure is. Because the secret’s staying here with you. Forever frozen.’ Roman smiled drolly and made a sharp prod with the gun. ‘Now let’s go for a walk on the lake.’

  Venegas looked down and around apprehensively.

  Roman prompted, ‘Don’t worry, the ice’s thick – it’ll hold you. And I’ll be walking right with you to keep you company.’

  Another air stab with the gun, and Venegas finally, reluctantly started heading out. Roman dropped Venegas’s kit bag and followed, keeping a clear four paces behind.

  Venegas’s eyes continued darting for options – or perhaps he was unsure that the ice wouldn’t give way at any second. His gaze finally settled on the lake-shore cabins.

  ‘You know – I think that is smoke coming from that cabin.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Roman didn’t even trouble to look; he wasn’t going to risk taking his eyes from Venegas for a second. ‘I think it’s just you blowing smoke.’

  The lake was only half a mile wide, but its fourteen-mile length snaked out of sight in both directions, with a strong river run-off at one end which made its currents lethal. They could feel the wind whip sharper as they went deeper out, shifting the thin layer of snow on the ice in flurries.

  At sixty yards from the shore, Roman announced, ‘This’ll do.’

  Venegas turned. ‘What now?’ His breath was heavy on the air with the walk and his rising panic; though his eyes were curiously dull, as if part of him had accepted what was going to happen. ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to shoot me.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Roman allowed himself a last second gloating that Venegas still hadn’t worked out what was planned for him, then slowly lowered the gun and eased off a shot by Venegas’s feet. A burst of snow and ice sprayed up.

  ‘What the fuuuu…’ Venegas jumped a step to the right like an off-balance flamenco dancer.

  Roman fired the next shot the other side and this time heard the ice crack. Another quick shot a yard behind, and with a louder crack Roman watched in satisfaction as a four foot square block broke away. Venegas leapt back in horror from the shifting block, his eyes registering only then what Roman intended.

  Roman smiled, easing off a quick shot just behind where Venegas had leapt to. Another heavy ice-crack and leap from Venegas. This was fun, thought Roman: like Riverdance with bullets.

  He fired another shot two foot behind and the crack spread still further, the ice-block Venegas was standing on threatening to break away. The panic on Venegas�
�s face was absolute, and he tried to leap clear – but the sudden thrust of his push-off snapped the last resistance and the block broke free.

  Venegas toppled and fell, but with the inertia of his lunge he managed to grip onto the rim of the ice bordering the hole; he was submerged only from the chest down.

  The shock of the water hit Venegas like an ice truck. As he frantically scrambled to pull his body out, Roman fired another shot two foot beyond his fingers. A crack, but not enough, so Roman fired again just behind.

  Ice and snow erupted and the block fell away. Venegas slipped sideways and tumbled completely under, his arms thrashing frantically at the water. His head bobbed back up quickly, and he managed finally to get a fingers grip on the next solid ice edge.

  Roman became frantic. An eight-chamber automatic, he had only two bullets left. It had seemed a good idea at first, making it look like a straightforward drowning rather than a hit; now he began to wonder. But he could see that strong currents were dragging at Venegas, surely he couldn’t last long: he had trouble keeping grip and his face was purple from cold and the effort.

  Roman fired again, spewing up an impressive spray of snow and ice, but to his consternation the ice held firm. Roman’s heart pumped wildly. He’d have to get in close to make this last bullet count, and Venegas’s pleading, frantic eyes lifted towards him as he moved in – almost as if Venegas knew this was the coupe de grace.

  A large chunk of ice was blown clean away with the shot, and Venegas went with it, his body dragged quickly under by the current.

  A suspended moment with only flat water and no Venegas, the faint echo of the shot still reverberating – and Roman was about to turn away when he saw one hand clutch out and grip the ice edge. He stared back desperately towards the shore and Venegas’s kit bag. Too far – Venegas would have pulled himself back up by the time he got back with a fresh gun.

  Only one thing for it, he would have to kick Venegas’s hand away – but he couldn’t risk having all his weight close to the edge, so he rushed in and scrambled out almost flat, kicking out in the same motion.

  Venegas’s hand held firm, so he kicked again. It was knocked free – but then in horror Roman noticed Venegas’s other hand rise up almost instantly to grip on. And something else in that instant that took his breath away, made his blood run cold: a cracking noise as a yard-long split appeared to one side of where he was laying: any sudden movement and the whole ice-block would split away! He lay inert for a few seconds, his chest rising and falling hard as fear and panic gripped him. And in that moment – appearing almost as a surreal apparition – Venegas’s face below him, wild cod-eyes staring up. Then Roman focused and realized that his shuffling around had cleared a patch of snow and he could see straight through the ice.

  Their eyes locked for a second – Venegas perhaps surprised at seeing Roman there so close, or wondering why Roman looked as panicked and afraid as him. But at least now he could fully measure Venegas’s dilemma: the current was tugging at him ruthlessly, so that he was pushed up almost horizontal under the ice, with one hand gripped on hard and trying to pull him back.

  Venegas surely couldn’t last much longer like that, and Roman wondered whether to just lay still and watch the last bubbles leave Venegas’s mouth, or take the risk and kick out again to finish him straightaway.

  Venegas made the decision for him by making one last frantic pull back towards the hole – his body shifted over a foot beneath the ice as Roman kicked out once, twice, and Venegas’s grip was finally jolted free. Roman smiled and waved as Venegas’s body drifted back past him, unsure whether Venegas’s bewildered, watery focus was able to fix on him or not – and then Roman’s smile quickly fell as another crack sounded in the ice.

  He scrambled desperately, only just managing to slither his torso onto the solid ice edge beyond as the block beneath him broke loose, his legs from the thigh down dipping into the icy water. For one terrible moment he thought that Venegas might see his legs dangling in and grapple hold, and he slithered forward breathlessly until his whole body was clear of the water and supported on the ice.

  He rolled over, his breath still rasping hard with exertion and the adrenalin rush, and a laugh suddenly broke free, not quite sure if it was Venegas’s expression as he’d drifted past or his own close escape that he found so amusing. A steady, raucous laugh that was faltered only by his fight to regain breath; as the only sound to break the eerie silence of the desolate surroundings – all the birds had alighted the nearby trees with the gunfire – it sounded ominous and out of place. A lone victory cry.

  EIGHT

  ‘… I know.’ Elena shielded her other ear from the drone and throb of the ferry engine as she spoke into her mobile. ‘But if this meeting goes well now, there’s no reason why I couldn’t head out there anyway tomorrow or the day after.’

  She was on the short ferry hop between Studland and Sandbanks. At the other end was Shelley McGurran in the aid agency’s London office.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Shelley commented. ‘Sarah was happy riding shotgun with the shipment, and she should be quite capable by now. They’re not going to be in Bucharest in any case until late tomorrow night.’

  ‘That’s why I suggested leaving tomorrow or the day after – to tie in.’

  Shelley sighed faintly. ‘Really, Elena – it doesn’t need two of you. If it did, I’d be the first to say. Besides, with Sarah not around I can do with your help here with a bit of PR and fundraising.’ Despite fourteen years in London, Shelley still had a warm Dublin lilt, almost tailor made for this task now: re-assurance.

  Elena fell silent for a second. ‘Are you sure she’s up to it?’

  Shelley sighed again. ‘Who knows? Hopefully, yes. But if not – she’s got to learn sometime. Don’t forget, you’re first trip out you were thrown in the deep end too.’

  ‘That’s true.’ A small agency of only fourteen, including drivers, their grand designs were driven more by ever shifting dramas and emergencies than by careful planning. An endless cycle of fund-raising, shipments, bureaucratic paperwork and organising goods, with planned calendar dates constantly hop-scotched according to which emergency suddenly screamed loudest. That was part of Elena’s concern now: that her own private drama with Lorena was just one problem too many, a feather to over-tip their already precariously balanced apple-cart. Somebody was having to cover for her. And so despite Shelley’s assurances, she felt she just had to offer to make good.

  Everything had gone quiet for over a week, and then came the call from Nadine Moore: her supervisor, Barbara Edelston, had requested a meeting at which Elena’s presence was also required ‘in order to make a full and accurate assessment.’ Nadine related this with questioning parody, as if stung that her own presence at the meeting and her report requesting assessment, filed straight after their last meeting with Lorena, weren’t on their own enough. Elena didn’t want to get drawn into their inter-departmental sensitivities, so merely asked why the delay. Possibly consultation with a relevant external party, such as a psychiatrist, Nadine aired, but she wasn’t sure.

  Elena glanced at her watch. She’d missed the earlier ferry she’d hoped to catch, but she should still just make it on time; perhaps a few minutes late at most.

  ‘You can catch up with Viorel and the others next time,’ Shelley said.

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Viorel was the seven-year old boy with meningitis whose brow she’d mopped half the night before he pulled back from the brink. Elena knew that Shelley meant well, was only trying to put her mind at rest, but it also served as a reminder: they need us too, desperately. Whether from the throbbing vibrations of the ferry, or the fact that the coming meeting would likely decide Lorena’s fate, make or break – she felt suddenly nervous. She shook off a faint shiver.

  ‘Don’t feel guilty,’ Shelley said, as if picking up on the silent vibes. ‘Look upon this with Lorena as after-care. If we’re going to spend our lives in hope that these children will finally find safe, sec
ure homes, only to find they’re still in danger – then we’re all wasting our time.’ Shelley drew a laboured breath. ‘I mean it, Elena – go for it. And all the other worn clichés that apply: give no quarter, take no prisoners…’ Shelley’s suddenly lighter tone trailed off as Elena watched the ferry ramp ahead swing down.

  ‘Thanks.’ Maybe Shelley was just trying to make her feel good, but there was no time left to debate. Car engines were starting in readiness to move off. ‘I’ll phone you straight afterwards – let you know how it went.’

  Barbara Edelston was early fifties with light brown hair cut short and a matronly build. She was less severe and stern than Elena had feared and even smiled at reasonable intervals. Though this couldn’t be construed as over friendliness; it was a vaguely condescending smile, as if she was merely humouring the less informed.

  Edelston also played an extremely closed hand. Elena couldn’t get any indication which way it might swing from Edelston’s opening ten minutes in which she confirmed basic points of Nadine’s report: reasons for first alert, times of their two visits, parties present at each. The only hopeful spark was Edelston commenting that ‘Ms Moore’s report indeed pushes a strong and convincing case for psychiatric assessment for Lorena.’

  Only a couple of questions so far had involved Elena. Now Edelston turned to her more fully. ‘When did you first meet Lorena?’

  ‘Just over four years ago – February, ninety-five. She was at the orphanage at Cimpeni’ A sea of children and distressed, pleading faces, but Elena still vividly recalled Lorena’s large, grey-green eyes cutting through the mass. A strangely serene gaze given the surrounding mayhem.

  ‘And did she in any way show signs of being mentally disturbed then?’

  ‘You mean, was she having bad dreams?’ Elena felt it important to confine the definition. When they’d first arrived at Cimpeni, some children had reached such depths of depravation, chained to beds or kept in basement rooms without light for months, that all they could do was rock back and forth and groan. Lorena had been one of the more hopeful cases. Elena shook her head. ‘No, she was quite alert when I first met her. Given the appalling conditions, she’d coped well – and there were no bad dreams then that I knew of.’