Shit, John thought, what should I do now?
He checked her pulse – which he couldn’t find – then tried to wake her, but she wasn’t responding. She was dead. He just stood there for a moment, shocked. What the hell have I got myself into? Why now? he thought desperately.
He glared at the clock on the wall and watched as the minutes moved past midnight. He didn’t know what to do. He kept picturing the girl injecting herself over and over again, but it was so quick there was nothing he could have done. He knew he'd better get himself together and quick.
John decided that the best thing for him to do was to get out of there. The girl was lying there with her mouth wide open, and he picked her up and carried her back to her bedroom before going back for her needle and her belongings.
He wiped the needle carefully with a piece of toilet paper and then laid it down on the floor next to her. He checked to make sure there was nothing in the room that might connect him in any way to what had happened, but he didn’t think there was.
He couldn’t help but notice a picture of her with two children, who he supposed were her kids. He really felt sad for this poor girl – her whole life had now ended, and for what? On the side cabinet he found a torn black handbag, in which was a key with stuck-on tape with the number ‘45’ printed on it. He noticed on her arm a tattoo of a butterfly and a name engraved next to it, which said "Forever". John said to himself, "Forever what?"
John imagined that this girl had a lot of secrets and that her story was a long one. He supposed no one would care about her anymore, and she would probably just be one of the many casualties that happened every day in this city. If he called the police, they would be looking for him, and he couldn't take that chance.
He cleaned her room again, making sure there were no fingerprints, then hurried down the corridor to check no one was around. He then went back into her room once more, just for a final check, nearly busting the doorjamb as he opened the door. Once he was satisfied, he went back to his room and cleaned it from top to bottom. He put anything he could find with his name on into the little metal waste bin and set fire to the contents. He even washed the window with water from the tap and dried it with some old newspaper, before tossing the used newspaper into the fire.
When he was done, John drummed his fingers on the table, trying to think. Then he realized what he’d just done – by drumming on the table, he had left more prints.
"Get a hold of yourself," he told himself, cursing under his breath. He was no good to himself in this state.
Although the police would probably treat it as just another dead junkie in a city battling an insidious wave of drug abuse, he didn't intend to stay around long enough to find out. The staircase was right next to his door, and John took the steps two at a time, as fast as he could. By the time he reached the bottom, his heart was pumping, but he knew he would recover within seconds. He stopped just inside the fire door and took a couple of deep breaths. Then he used his elbow on the door handle so he wouldn't leave any fingerprints. There, at the opposite end of the hall, was the desk. John leant over it to call the man over quickly.
"How can I help you?" he asked, smiling.
"I'd like to check out early, please,"
John gave his details, handed back his key, and paid the $18 which he still owed.
As he stepped outside, his heart began to pound, but there was nothing else he could do. Threading his way through the crowd of people, John realized that he had checked into what was a really bad area, as the street was full of drunks.
He tried to think. At this precise moment, he didn’t know if the police were looking for him, because he didn’t know if the person who’d attacked him was still alive. Or whether the police had connected him with a burglary and attack, or maybe neither. He picked up the pace, afraid to look over his shoulder, weighing up his options. He knew one thing for certain: he couldn't chance going to his apartment. They were guaranteed to be waiting for him. So, he kept right on moving. Rows of semis formed long alleyways, each one a potential escape route. It all felt so impossible.
He had walked more than two blocks before he collapsed and the ambulance found him, so there probably wasn’t a connection to the burglary as far as they were concerned. His instincts were no good to him now, though: he had to get back to Miami, as his open return air ticket was from Miami to London. Considering his next move, his heart began to pound. There was nothing else for him to do, nowhere else for him to go. The urge to run was overwhelming. He couldn't fight it any longer.
The safest way was not to fly down to Miami, as he suspected the police would be looking for him at the airport, and it would only be a matter of time before they found out that the name he was using was not his.
John decided to take a chance. He would just have to pray for the best.
He was just looking through his wallet to check how much money he had left when he pulled out a business card – the one his friend Jerry had given him on board the cruise ship. He quickly found a telephone and called the Irish bar where he worked. Jerry answered.
"I'm in trouble, Jerry," he said, getting straight to the point. "I need to get back to Miami, but I need to buy a coach ticket."
Jerry could tell by John’s voice that something was wrong; he could hear the panic in it.
"Okay, John," he replied. "If you need a little money, I'll meet you in one hour at the Greyhound coach station."
“I need one more favor from you, Jerry,” added John. “Could you please check out flights from London to Miami and book me on the next available one in three days’ time?”
Jerry reluctantly agreed, and John breathed another sigh of relief.
After saying bye to Jerry, John started walking again. Traffic was light, but as he'd guessed, the police were everywhere. He had his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket, keeping his chin tucked in and his eyes uninterested as if he were just another person heading off to work.
When he was near the coach station, he waited in the doorway of a shop, watching for Jerry, and after a few minutes, a cab pulled up and Jerry got out. They both made eye contact and then walked to the corner of the coach terminal. Jerry handed him $40.
"Jerry, I really appreciate this. Thank you."
"Good luck," Jerry replied, patting him on the shoulder before walking off again.
A coach was leaving in one hour. He bought a ticket and sat in the waiting room, looking around to make sure no one suspected anything.
Finally, after what seemed like forever – which didn’t bode well, as the trip to Miami would take three days – he stepped onto the waiting bus. As the coach rolled across the bay bridge, he wondered to himself whether he should just get off and try to start a new life for himself. He supposed it was a possibility.
He could see his reflection in the driver’s mirror, and John looked like he felt, which was like crap. His dense black hair was sticking out in various directions, though that was hardly the worst of it: his neck was hurting again, and it was worse now. After a few tears and a lot of time feeling sorry for himself, he began to realize that he could go downhill quickly if he didn't practice some mental discipline. He leaned back in his seat and stared out of the window while he tried to think.
Into the second day, they drove through San Antonio on the Mexican border. It looked like a good place to hide out for a while; analyzing the various paths he could take, he thought disappearing was still an option. Would they bother to look for him? If they knew the whole story, probably not, but the way the press were reporting things, he knew he didn't stand a chance. He cracked a smile and shook his head as he realized how close he had come to spending the rest of his life behind bars.
He hadn't eaten or had anything to drink since getting on the coach, and when they stopped at a bus station, he spotted a large TV hanging from the ceiling in a shop. He went in to find food and saw a woman standing behind the counter; she reeked of cheap perfume and cigarettes. A man was sitting at the co
unter. He shook his head and mumbled something, and it seemed to John that he pointed to the refreshment room opposite.
Gathering his things together, he hurried, hoping to find more reliable assistance, but there was no one there except a fat man in a white apron who was clearing the counter.
The restaurant was dimly lit and not very inviting, but John seated himself at the small counter and drank a coffee. The coach was due to depart in ten minutes so he had to be quick. When he was finished, he nudged past the fat man and looked up and down the street before getting back onto the coach.
The man sitting next to him gave him a crude, assessing look, before starting to ask him questions.
"So you're English?"
John decided he’d better not give him a smart-arse answer back. But then, thinking better of it, he simply gestured with his head and muttered, “Yup.”
The rain was starting to fall again – large, steady drops that would shortly turn into a downpour – and John hoped the bus would make it on time to the airport. He was short of money; all he had left was $4 and his return airplane ticket. He was desperate. To make matters worse, it was a really hot day and he was dying to get off the bus; the air-conditioning didn’t work very well and the three days of sitting on that bus had become very uncomfortable and smelly. John wished he could have a shower.
Just then, he noticed a car come up from behind them, accelerating past the coach and then staying in front of them for hours. He couldn't stop looking to see who was driving the car – at the back of his mind, John was expecting Pedro to show up at any time.
Eventually, the car turned off, leaving the coach behind. John was still staring through the window, trying to come to terms with all of it. Every time someone spoke to him, his hands shook uncontrollably. He was sure now that all of this was a set-up. Maybe John had read Pedro all wrong. There weren't as many signals as there'd been at first, but he remembered well the full eye contact, the sidelong glances, the check-outs, all totally discreet.
When they finally arrived at the airport, the first thing he did was to clean himself as much as possible in a little sink in the toilets. Afterwards, he stared at his reflection in the mirror and questioned his sanity. He wasn't certain what or who he was looking at anymore. He went over the whole nightmare one more time in his head, and he immediately felt like crying. No, he thought to himself. He had to pull himself together. Nodding and taking a deep breath, he walked back into the terminal. He felt completely drained. He needed some food, a lot of sleep, and some silence to sort things out.
Suddenly, a wave of pain ran down the back of his neck and down into his back, and he grabbed the top of a nearby phone booth with his right hand until the pain slowly passed. Once he’d straightened himself up, he decided to try and call Sonia. He picked up the receiver and put his last few dollars into the slot, then punched in the number from memory. She answered on the third ring.
"Good morning, Sonia," he said as casually as possible. "How are you?"
She didn’t reply for what seemed like an eternity. "I'm okay," she finally replied.
Her relief was obvious. She sounded so shocked to hear his voice. He told her he was coming back soon. "I can't wait to see you. I just wished it was today." He closed his eyes and hung on to the case of the payphone. The pain came back. "I have to go now."
He took several deep breaths and steadied himself before deciding to take a seat for a moment. Slowly, the throbbing pain receded. He noticed people staring at him and one person even tried to approach him. The man was about six foot three, and did not take his eyes off him. Looking straight ahead, John began to push through the crowd. What the hell is going on? he thought to himself. I need a break. How could anyone have known?
He fought an impulse to look over his shoulder. What if I've got it wrong? A shiver ran through him. He breathed in deeply and paused for a moment, then looked across at the airport bar where a group of young men stumbled out. Drunk and happy, and not a care in the world. He toyed with the idea of going in to have a beer, but shrugged the notion away. That would eat up the rest of his cash. When he looked back up, the man had gone, and relieved, he quickly got up and walked down the other end of the terminal until he was sure he wasn’t being followed.
The plane was due to take off in two hours, so he sat down and picked up a newspaper. He wasn't really reading, just scanning through the headlines and trying to pass as much time as possible. His eyes were really somewhere else, scanning the terminal. He walked over to the vending machine and bought a black coffee, then placed it on the table in front of him. It took him a few attempts, but he finally managed to swallow some down. The words in front of him blurred together and all he could see was Pedro's face, all he could think about was how he’d allowed himself to get screwed.
When he next checked the overhead monitors, he saw that the flight was ready to board, and he was so anxious to go through that he was trembling. Trying to shake the stiffness from his limbs, he ignored the pulsing pain in his neck and walked through the check-in and then through security.
He was quite worried by now as he had to present his passport, and when the security man looked at it, he studied John’s face carefully. Then he handed the passport back to him and said, "Have a nice flight."
John looked at him and smiled. He was shaking as he was walking, but he didn't care. In John's mind, the scales had just tipped in his favor. He was finally flying back home.
An hour later, he was on the plane and finally relaxing a little. The stewardess arrived with another large vodka, and he forced a smile as he thanked her. Reaching for his glass, he wondered if he was becoming just a little too reliant on the comfort of alcohol. It was only a temporary measure, John reassured himself, just a way of getting through this difficult time.
He knew for sure, of course, that all of this would affect him for a very long time, and couldn’t help wondering what would have happened had he stayed. Was all of this just a string of coincidences? But coincidence could usually be explained by the laws of chance and probability. Realizing how dangerous his situation had become and how close he’d come to landing up in a cell, John knew he was a very lucky man.
He still remembered the conversation he’d overheard between Pedro and Drinda about him stealing Tony's identity. He was running down the list of questions and trying to put together the pieces. What was Pedro's intention? Was he trying to set him up? Was he trying to blackmail him? John realized he might never know. Sighing, he downed the vodka and leaned back in his seat, attempting to sleep.
Chapter 15
London
The Pan Am flight arrived in London an hour late, the plane landing on the tarmac with a gentle bump before going into what seemed to be an endless taxi. When it finally swayed to a stop at the gate, John stood up and retrieved his small carry-on bag. "I hope we'll see you again," the flight attendant said, smiling at John as he stepped into the jetway. He grinned back at her. The immigration line seemed to go on forever, and after a long wait, he stepped through the glass door and into the terminal. John was exhausted and drained, unsure what to do next.
He decided to check into a small bed and breakfast in Hounslow; thankfully, he still had access to his old UK savings account, so he had no problems paying for the room. He needed to get a grip and take it easy, and basically just try to relax.
When he was in his room, he lay on the bed for hours thinking about the last few months. Those hours turned into long, drawn-out days as the pain refused to subside. It got to the point when he realized he had a passionate dislike for himself, then the loneliness started to kick in. This went on for weeks.
There was one major problem with this: the owners of the bed and breakfast were prone to playing loud music, making it hard for him to think, and all he wanted to do was sit while struggling with his thoughts.
He stared out of the window at the scrap of a back garden, watching an empty plastic bag blowing aimlessly in the wind, occasionally catching on the sc
rawny branches.
He was brought out of his sulking by the sound of a knock on the door, which he reluctantly went to answer. It was the landlady.
“I need your rent,” she asked, staring at him questioningly. The loud music he could hear before was even louder out in the corridor.
John hovered next to her, chewing his lip, tapping a foot. Even the room felt restive, and the noise was reverberating off the thick walls, making it hard to think, let alone hear what she was trying to say to him. "I can’t hear you. What did you say?"
“Rent! I need your rent!” she said, as if he were stupid.
Sighing, he mumbled, “I’ll have it soon” before closing the door in her face. It was all getting too much for him.
That night, he had this great feeling of emptiness. The room he was staying in was small, and it contained a three-seater sofa that converted into a double bed. The upstairs floorboards creaked, and you could hear footsteps as people walked from their bedroom to the bathroom. Then a flush, and the trill of water climbing up to refill the toilet tank. Then there was the muffled voice of the late-show host on TV.
He tried to tune everything out as he laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.
The next morning, his head didn’t feel as bad as it had last week. Outside was still and quiet except for the infrequent hum of traffic, but John felt nervous and alone. Every time he tried to relax, all he could see was the girl lying on the floor. How could you clear your head from such a trauma? It was like she was haunting him.
John sat in his room all day until it was late, and then he became too scared to sleep. Deep down, he knew there was something wrong with him, but he didn’t know what to do. It was a harsh, desolate place he inhabited, the only sound the pounding within his mind. John ignored the stinging by staring at the ceiling, listening to the rage that was trying to destroy him. When that failed to make him feel any better, he got up and tripped over his shoes on his way to the sink and looked down at them accusingly, as if anyone but he could have put them there. He looked up after kicking them across the room, and that was when he knew.
The Assassin's Keeper Page 14