The Walking Dead

by The Walking Dead (epub)

  'And a very good morning to you, Mr Banks. Sleep well?'

  His Principal was behind him, in the doorway, wore only his underpants.

  'Very well.'

  No drop in the pitch of his voice. 'I tell you, no messing, she goes at it like a bloody tiger. Right, first I'm off for a crap and a bath and a scrape.'

  'What's second?'

  'Second I go for my little walk.'

  'Where to?'

  'Into the town.'

  'What for?'

  'God, are we playing the professional? I go into town, after a night of shagging–always the same routine–for a packet of fags and the day's newspaper. Then, if you want to know, she has my breakfast ready and I eat it and read my newspaper. Then it's over for another week. It's not all bad, you know.'

  'Just tell me when you're ready.'

  'You don't have to come with me into town. I'll be fine. Five minutes there and five minutes back, not a big deal. It's only to a newsagent's on the square.'

  'If you didn't know it,' Banks said, irritation rising, 'it's why I'm here.'

  'Christ, aren't we dedicated?'

  Chapter19

  Saturday, Day 17

  He waited for his Principal to be dressed, to appear.

  Banks paced the living room, could hear the breakfast cooking. He had opened a window and freshened the room.

  He strode the length of the carpet, or the width of it, varied his steps, did the settee to the hallway door and the window to the kitchen. Sunlight came in off Inkerman Road, and he wanted to be outside where there was cleanness, not the old smell of his body that still hung in the room. No, he had no objection to walking into the town and stretching himself; it was what he often did from the bedsit, tramped the streets round the green in Ealing to settle himself before taking the Underground into work. It was the habit of long ago, of childhood, to take the collie out and walk the perimeter of a couple of fields, have the dog sniff at fox holes and badgers' setts before collecting his satchel and going up the lane to the stop and the school bus…When it was over, next Monday morning, and his letter, his card and his authorization were dumped on his superior's desk, he would be gone and free to walk till he dropped in mountain valleys and beside great lakes and across desert spaces. He stopped, and could not have said why.

  On one side of him the breakfast cooked and he heard her washing up the last night's meal; on the other, behind the door, his Principal whistled to himself and was dressing.

  Banks was alone, unseen.

  Not for much longer, maybe for the last time, he did the drills.

  Jacket on, coins and pebbles and the notebook in the right-side pocket that hung heavily. The target was the door into the hallway.

  Swung on his hips, threw back the weight of his pocket, right hand dropping to the Glock. The Glock out of the pancake. Weight on his toes, feet apart, went to Isosceles. Arms outstretched, hands clamped together on the Glock's butt, the right hand's forefinger on the trigger guard. Over the needle sight and V sight was the door–was a bank thief, an assassin, a guy holding a kid in his arms. Did it again and again, and–heard her.

  'For Heaven's sake, is it that serious?'

  Slapped the Glock back into the pancake, felt the glow of his blush. 'Sorry–did I frighten you? I was just grandstanding. Is there that much danger?'

  He felt the tension ooze away, and the blood from his cheeks. 'It's only a precaution. I apologize, you shouldn't have seen that.'

  'I'm not a fool, please. I know what things cost. I assume, and you'll not deny it, that you don't come cheap–that the danger's real, and the threat.'

  'We try to minimize them.'

  'You're telling me that people would want to kill fools.'

  Banks said, 'Money was proffered; was taken, and people believed that a promise was given in return. The promise was broken and the payment was reported to the judge. Mr Wright has made lifelong enemies and their aim now will be to track him down, hurt him a great deal, then murder him. The two brothers involved will receive, if they are convicted, exceptionally heavy terms of imprisonment, locked away in maximum-security cells. Mr Wright will be the target of their demand for revenge, and they'll he obsessed by it. They have money and they have contacts. They will ensure that Mr Wright is hunted down. I have to tell you, Miss, that your association with him puts you into the front line. We're around, mob-handed, till the verdict and, hopefully, the sentence. After that, Mr Wright and his family, and you, become increasingly vulnerable–budgets are assessed and are not bottomless pits. That's what it's about.'

  'Actually, I'm throwing him out.'

  'I told it like it is.'

  'It's over, nothing to do with you.'

  'That, Miss, is not my business.' Banks shrugged.

  'Good sex and going nowhere. I have a transfer, a chance to start something new. Like I said, he's a lying bastard and more fool me for hanging on too long. I'm going to tell him after breakfast. Would you shoot to protect him, knowing what he is?'

  He paused, turned away from her, faced the window and the sun dazzled him. 'While I draw my wages, I do what is necessary in my job.'

  Ajaq moved, left the bench behind him.

  He did not walk on the open esplanade, but went down the steps where the woman and her dog had gone.

  His head was level with the top of the retaining wall that separated the walkway from the beach. The dried stones of the shingle, above where the tide pushed the surf, crackled, crunched, under his feet.

  Caution was inbred in him. He cursed the noise he made, but went quickly, had estimated how long it would take him to walk the beach, go past the shelter ahead, then climb back to skirt, the pier, descend again for the kilometre to the harbour's entrance. He would arrive when the checks took place for foot-passengers' tickets and passports in the last five minutes before the gates closed on the ferry's sailing schedule. Going this way, on the shingle and with the wall alongside him, he minimized the chance of being observed. If men sitting in a car on the far side of the road beyond the esplanade, or in the back of a van, were waiting for him, he did not think he would be seen. He had no reason to believe that surveillance teams were in place, but suspicion was a habit he would not break.

  He smelt the tang from the sea. His feet crushed brittle shells. He checked the luminous face of his watch to see how many minutes remained to him to reach the harbour's gates…not to know how many minutes remained before the boy jostled for a position among the queue on the steps he had been shown. His mind was focused, clear of detritus.

  In front of him he saw the roof of the shelter, and bright sunlight played on the faces of two elderly men. One had darkened spectacles, and they sat in silence. He dismissed them. Further ahead, beyond the shelter, was the black outline of the pier, and the waves broke against the pillars to which weed was attached. Near to the pier were more steps that he must climb.

  Sudden fear caught him. He wanted to run. It was the sight of the pier and the shadowed depths below it, the slurp of the water against the pillars. He could not see under it because none of the sun's low brilliance reached there. Further out, at the end of the pier, the waves broke with force and tossed spume. He had no knowledge of the sea. In childhood, in northern Jordan and at the home of his grandparents, he had never been taken to the resort town of Aqaba far to the south. The sea and its force–its power as it broke against the pier's pillars–were alien to him. He checked himself.

  Muhammad Ajaq despised fear in others.

  Fear was corrupting.

  He was so far from what he knew.

  Coming closer to the pier, near to level with the shelter above him, he could no longer see the shape of the ferry, moored and awaiting him. It was his target and he craved to see it. With fear there was chaos. He had shot men who showed fear. Fear turned a man's mind. He had kicked the legs from under men who trembled, had the pallor of fear on their faces, aimed a rifle at the back of their heads and killed them. Fear destroyed a man. Now it captured him.


  He knew it, he must not run. If he ran, submitted to the fear, he would reach the harbour checks with sweat on his forehead and hands, and he would not be able to meet the eyes of men who stared back at him from behind a cubicle desk…Fear would betray him. He had not shown fear when he had been in the brief captivity of the Americans and had used the bogus limp and the bogus papers to extricate himself. He gulped air to calm himself.

  For a moment he stopped dead. He shook himself, tried to loosen the stress that tied his muscles and loosened his gut. He took a deliberate, steadying step forward.

  He saw only what was ahead of him, the shelter where two men sat and the darkness of the pier. His mind was blurred.

  Each step forward was harder than the last, but he did not run.

  'He's coming.'

  'No one's coming.'

  'And I'm telling you, he's coming.'

  'Don't you listen? No one,' Naylor said, with snapping impatience. 'I hear him.'

  'The last time I tell you–I can see four hundred yards away, and it is empty. Is that clear to you? No one is coming. What I reckon is, you've made a major error of judgement.'

  Dickie Naylor stared up the length of the esplanade, past streetlights and past benches. He saw gulls and blowing plastic bags. Surprising, really, with the sun out, but not a living soul was there. He scratched round his eyes, blinked, looked again. Of course the American wanted to believe his man was coming: a bloody reputation hinged on it. Two reputations in reality. He glanced down at his watch, did the mathematics.

  'I'm as sorry as-you are, Joe. I can't conjure a man up when he's not there. That boat's going to sail without him. I've as much to lose as you, maybe more.'

  'You don't hear him, but I do. I'm just going to sit and listen for the both of us.'

  As if to humour a child: 'What can you hear, Joe?'

  He was jabbed hard in the ribs with the stick's curved handle. 'I can hear feet on loose stones.'

  Naylor stiffened and straightened. He heard the gulls' cries, the wind against the lamp-posts and the surf rumbling. He heard the feet slip and dislodge shingle and fracture shells. He stood. He stared down at the beach, at a man's head and the shoulders where the straps of a bag were hitched.

  'There, Joe…' A panted whisper. 'On the beach, almost level, coming to us.'

  'Description? Quickly.'

  'Middle thirties, Arab but pale. Might be half-caste. Has a bag.'

  'More.'

  'Like he's in a trance, far away, doesn't see me.'

  'Focus now, get me close.'

  Naylor took Hegner's arm and pulled him up. Dragged him. The stick caught Hegner's legs, but Naylor steadied him. He led him away from the shelter and to the knee-high wall on the esplanade. The man was below them, level with them.

  'You're close, Joe.'

  It seemed to Naylor an age, but it was not. In his ear, Hegner murmured soft and private, 'I've come a long way to find you. Now I've found you and I'm going to fuck you. You are the Scorpion…'

  The head turned. Naylor realized that Hegner had spoken in guttural Arabic. The head twisted as if it was tugged round.

  'Reacted,' Naylor muttered at Hegner. 'Bloody poleaxed.'

  The man took two paces, but shingle scattered under his feet and he stumbled. Naylor saw the confusion spreading on his face, then the head shaking–as if he was clearing it, his mind going at flywheel speed. Such a damned simple trick, so bloody basic, and Naylor had seen the reaction of hesitation at the Arabic language, in quiet talk, and the jerk of the head at the word that was 'Scorpion'. He would run–yes, of course–towards the pier…but he didn't.

  His hands on to the wall.

  The heave and the push, the scrape of smoothed stones flying from under him.

  The man came up and over the wall. Naylor saw the power of him, saw him coil his body, as if he would break out. What threatened him? Naylor thrust Hegner back behind him, heard the sharp cry, and Hegner fell…What threatened the man, blocked his escape, was Dickie Naylor, who might or might not get to celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday the next day, and blind Joe Hegner, who was on the ground behind him. The man came near, crouched, was on the balls of his feet, poised, launched his bloody self.

  They might do survival and self-defence with recruits, these days, might not…but they didn't do refreshers for old warriors.

  Fists into Naylor's head and upper body, a knee into his groin, savage kicks at his shins and ankles. He had never before faced a beating–not in his youth, in his middle years, not now that he was old. He felt his breath wheeze out of his lips, he could not see and the pain surged. He collapsed. Going down made him an easier target. The fists beat at his upper head as he sank on to the paving, and the knee hit under his chin and the kicks were now in his stomach. He couldn't protect himself. He toppled further, felt the softness of Hegner's body under him, and the broken glass of spectacles slash his cheek, added to the blood that came from his mouth. Naylor thought it was where he would die. Old school, old chap, old warrior and saw duty. 'Made sure he was over Hegner. Cried out once, not again–had no wind left in him. More blows battered him. Scrabbled with his hand–not bloody ready to die. Felt anger.

  The stick was in his hand, its glossed white paint in his fist.

  Remembered little of what had gone before, but remembered the tapping hard beat of a stick, the story of a blind man's stick being removed from him–at the main door, s security check–because its tip would set off the metal detector alarm. Remembered that.

  Naylor had the stick, drove it up. Smelt the breath over him, imagined the moment that the man readied himself for the chop blow to the neck. Not bloody ready to die. He pushed up with the stick in one violent thrust and felt it catch softness. Heard a gasp, then a choke. Somewhere soft, maybe in the throat. He braced himself, but the next kick did not come.

  He heard a hacking, coarse cough, then the stamp of feet running away fast.

  And he heard, 'You all right, Dickie?'

  'Not really' The pain throbbed in him.

  He looked up. Saw the back of the man, the pier and the parked car.

  He tried to push himself up, failed, tried again, was on his feet and staggered, like a drunk does, and tasted blood. The man ran towards the pier. Without the stick he would have toppled. The man careered away, and Naylor saw that he had a hand raised to his throat, as if he had been badly hurt there. Who had seen it? Nobody. A milk cart went by Two children scurried for the beach, kicking a ball ahead of them. A dog ran into the surf in pursuit of a thrown toy. Nobody had seen him made into a punch sack.

  'If you can, get me up…'

  Naylor dragged Hegner to his feet, then leaned on him.

  '…and give me my goddamn stick. Has Twentyman gone where I said he would?'

  'He's getting there.'

  'Talk to me. I've waited so damn long, Dickie. Tell me what's going on.'

  They followed the man slowly. Hegner had the stick and took Naylor's weight. The sunshine was on his face and he used his tongue to lick the blood from his lips. He said what he saw.

  The man ran in full flight, approaching the car. Suddenly its doors opened fast. Boniface and Clydesdale came out of the car. Their view would have been blocked by the shelter and they would not have known that he was down, and Hegner, would have known nothing until they saw the man charge on the esplanade towards them with Naylor and the American in hobbling pursuit: but they'd reacted. The man swerved to avoid the near side door, and lost his footing as it smacked against him. He fell against the little brick wall that held ornamental shrubs. Boniface and Clydesdale were on him; one at the upper body and one at the knees. The cluster of them dropped. He saw the fight. Arms, legs, buttocks heaved up, down, and writhed, as if it was a haphazard playground scrap. Naylor could not tell whose body was uppermost, but he saw punches flail. He pulled Hegner after him, gripping his arm. Far beyond the pier, two young women pushed prams and talked, never looked ahead. And then it was over. He saw the pinions go o
n to lifted arms and on to the ankles. They knelt on him, and the man's bag lay discarded.

  Naylor took Hegner close. He looked down into the face and thought it that of a wild creature. The eyes, burning, stared back, raged. There was discolouration already in the centre of the throat, near the chin. The mouth was open and the breath rasped. The plastic binding was tight on the wrists and ankles, and the two men's weight was squatted down on him…yet Naylor could not believe, not completely, that the man no longer represented a danger to him. It filtered into his mind: it was an old poem from school, and a grievously wounded naval captain–an Elizabethan hero–was on the deck of a Spanish galleon, helpless, but his captors would not go close to him, still feared him. He told Hegner what he saw, what was in his mind. But Hegner broke the grip restraining his sleeve, and reached out. It was Boniface who took Hegner's wrist, seemed to know what he wanted, and guided the hand down. Clydesdale had his fist in the man's hair, ensured his head could not move. Hegner's fingers were taken down, so gently, by Boniface, and came to rest on the man's forehead. The fingers slid on the skin from the forehead to the eye sockets, from the eyes across the cheeks and over the shape of the nose. They skirted the mouth and rambled over the stubble on the chin. Naylor understood. Hegner learned the man, as if his fingers on the features made a photograph for him.

  Hegner rocked back, and Naylor pulled him upright.