by Steve Finbow
***
Martin stops just behind the men, his brother directly opposite. Jonathan rushes the men. His brother follows. With karate kicks to their temples, the brothers take out the two men. Two down. One has a knife. The other a handgun. Jonathan takes the handgun, weighs it, strokes the barrel. Jonathan smoothes down his hair. Martin kicks one of the prone men. Kicks his ribs. Jonathan cleans his shoes on a clump of grass.
***
Martin left the boot open, no doubt hoping I’d disappear. No way he’d want me here when they got back. Like his brother in that way – doesn’t know me at all.
***
Martin swears under his breath and throws the knife from hand to hand. Nice. Ahead of them disrupting the forest’s pattern, figures move. Four. Maybe five.
***
Jonathan probably planned to take me home with him. Relive the moments of brief and violent desire – I don’t think. That weird house where all the boys live together. Maybe Jonathan is gay. OK. Concentrate, Meredith. They took your torch and the photo. But I think I know roughly where Sarah might be.
***
The brothers move into the low undergrowth either side of the track. Crouching, keeping each other in sight, they move deep into the woods following the shadows appearing and disappearing ahead of them.
***
Road over there. Road over there. She’s between the two somewhere. I can hear something. Just up ahead. What’s that?
***
There’s an insistent buzzing in the background. Getting louder. Approaching.
***
‘You hear that?’
‘Yes, dear boy, I did. An annoying drone, but louder I heard the sound of two sacks of pineapples dumped in a disused well.’
‘Yeah, that or two bodies falling to the floor.’
‘There.’
‘The Eaveses. Return of the karate kids.’
H points ahead and I follow.
***
Sometimes hesitant as if moving away, but then turning, on the wind, getting stronger.
***
Ozan flips open his mobile.
***
Now closer, the frequency changing from a whine to a whirr, from a soft roar to a loud rasp.
***
She can hear sound all around her. All around.
***
Sonic shocks as it goes from smooth to rough to smooth – an engine? – catching, holding its breath, catching again.
***
Through the trees, Ozan sees Ronya and three men.
***
Not just the puzzling leaves.
***
Then there’s a light show through the trees, tinting the inside of the branches, the gem-like leaves, painting spirals, cobwebs caught in its glow, the eyes of startled birds red with fear.
***
One of the men holds a shotgun and aims it into the trees.
***
The muzzle-flash of a headlight, seen and then unseen, and a voice yelling but muffled, like an underwater war cry, merges with the engine’s impulse.
***
The blind mastery of the bats.
***
Ozan watches as hands go around the mouths of two men and they disappear into the tree cover.
***
Am I fucking hallucinating? It’s like something out of Death Race 2000, The Cars that Ate Paris, Ghost Rider all rolled into one fucking maniac.
***
Not just her own cry echoing in her head.
***
And they all turn, Jonathan, Martin, Sarah, The Mermaid, H, and some tart with attendant hoodlums, and they all stare, because through the undergrowth, over the pebbles, scattering sticks and stones, at first deliberate and then increasingly anarchic, veering, careering, out of control, front wheel bouncing up and dropping down in time before a flip, a flop, the back wheel cutting continuous zeds into the soft earth, throwing up dirt, small animals, larger insects – comes a man on a motorbike – Inaccessible.
***
Ronya places a hand on the barrel of the shotgun and shakes her head.
***
Inaccessible throws up the visor on his crash helmet, now barely in control of the machine, he punches the air and screams out,
‘Balzac, you’re dead, you fucker!’
We all watch as the machine bucks and broncs, shudders and shakes, pitches forward and struggles back up. Inaccessible, looking like a spastic John Wayne, points at me, and then at the sky, and then at the ground, as the motorbike groans, strips vegetation through its wheels, rolls and kicks.
‘You’ve had this coming for a long time!’ I hear as the motorbike with Inaccessible now hanging on to the handlebars for dear life hurtles towards a dead tree. I look away. We all look away.
***
Sarah turns, and there, stepping from behind a tree, a woman.
***
Ronya points.
***
Ozan sees the figure of a woman slumped against a tree. Sarah? Something white held in her hand.
***
The man holding the shotgun turns and looks at the now empty space. He walks forward.
***
The woman’s hair piled high, fixed in place with chopsticks. ‘Meredith?’ Sarah thinks.
***
Ozan pockets his phone, drops to the floor, his large belly cushioning him.
***
I’m trying to keep everyone in my field of vision but I can’t help that I’m distracted a bit as the sound of the motorbike’s engine stops. Just stops. It’s refused the jump. Said no. Uh-uh. Ain’t gonna. Silence. And then a whoosh as Inaccessible flies up and over the bike, through the air. Jesus! He’s going at some speed. And I can hear him scream, I’m sure he’s shouting my name. He flails his arms and legs in the air, like someone jumping off a cliff, except he’s going up, up, up, and then thunk, thud, thwack, he’s against the tree, he’s in the tree, sprawled over the branches like some devolved bird that has forgotten it ever knew the black arts of aerodynamics, like a rare and alien orchid unloved and unpicked, like some horrendous benighted fungi. Like a twat.
***
There she is. Where the hell is Balzac? Who’s that? I duck down. Sarah? Behind her, a woman holds a gun; behind her, a man turns and points something, a shotgun, back into the forest.
***
The top of the Geordie’s head explodes up and out behind him, showering Ronya with blood, bone, and brain matter. Ronya doesn’t flinch.
***
Don’t run, I think. I rush toward Sarah. Sarah stands.
***
Ronya steps forward stares into the forest and takes aim.
***
Ozan staggers to his feet, makes a grab at the figure of a man running toward Ronya.
***
Ronya shoots.
***
Two shots.
***
I hear gunshots. One loud and one less distinct. A crack. Then a muffled pop. Everything slows down. The darkness ripples. Corrugated. The leaves, fleshy, green and incarnate. Waves. Waves. Something flies through the trees, the papery beat of its wings heavy, getting heavier, slowing, faltering. The breeze undulates, becomes grey pennants, slips over, under, and between branches. H moves within it. I can’t. Still. My legs heavy, my feet anchored to the dirt, the moss, the stones. I call H’s name and, as it is spoken, it becomes a living thing, wraps around my head, clogs in my ears, crams my nose, I can feel it in the back into my mouth, resounding in the cavity, crashing against my palette, stripping my tongue of moisture, pinballing around my teeth.
***
‘AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!’
***
Ozan’s bulk moves inexorably into the mass of Martin Eaves. Then the slow roar of something hot and moving in the medium of time slowed down to be visible. The woman ahead of me, like some futurist sculpture, holds a gun – a thousand guns – in her hand, the gun shakes in shades and grades of grey, then h
er forehead stretches out, protrudes, bursts in a swollen, matted egg of blackened maroon, it blooms into the night, and all this time I think I see something slip through this – a quicksilver shark.
And I think, ‘AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!’
Then it all comes back – the night, the smell of the fucking trees, the mud, and finally, better late than never, the pissing moon peeping through the dark like some motherfucking pervert. Jonathan Eaves is holding a gun.
***
Jonathan Eaves fires twice. One shot takes out the woman in front of him. The other heat-zings into the trees. Ozan is grappling with Martin. We’ll leave him to it. Homo Sapiens Sapiens Jones kneels over a woman in the woods ahead.
***
‘Jonathan.’
‘Balzac.’
***
I throw the best punch of my life. Jonathan drops to his knees. That will piss him off, getting his trousers dirty. The Mermaid told me all about his neat-and-tidiness. He looks up at me as he goes down. I grab the sides of his head as if I am about to plant a kiss on his forehead and knee him under the chin, hear his expensive dental work rattle and chip like a dropped crate of Royal Doulton. Enjoy it. I look round. Ozan’s all over Martin like a bear on heat. I see H up ahead of me and a woman standing next to him head in hands, crying. Not surprised, the day she’s had.
***
‘H?’
‘I’m sorry, Balzac,’ he says.
‘What for?’ I say.
He steps aside.
***
I bought the chopsticks from Mitsukoshi in the Ginza, Tokyo. H and I were there a while back. I thought she’d use them to eat her sashimi with. But, no, being The Mermaid, she takes them out of their case, whips her hair up on to her head in a loose knot and pushes the things through to hold her locks in what looks like red meringue. I kneel down. The chopsticks lie among the leaf litter, their inlaid gold and turquoise glisten in the fucking moonlight. Her eyes are open and blue and all I think is she’s going to have a go at me for not being there in time, on time, not being there to stop the fucking bullet. I look at H.
‘I tried, dear boy,’ he says. He holds out his hand and the palm is scorched and black.
‘I’ll call the police,’ H says.
I stroke back the hair from The Mermaid’s forehead. With my thumb, I gently close her eyelids. I kiss her mouth. Her lips taste of bubblegum and tea and I can smell aniseed, garlic, and the fading fumes of her perfume.
***
We all have our own ways of disappearing. I know you’re there. Hide. Be out there in the open, everyone around us, joining in with the laughs, the jokes, the back and forth of sarcasm when, really, we’re at the bottom of a deep mine, breathing in the coal gas of remorse, the methane reek of memory. I know you can hear me. Hide. That’s not Balzac’s way. That’s not to say this hasn’t hit him hard. It has. I’m not sure he’ll ever fully recover. Come on, H, look closely. And so, before you knock on his door, ask how he is, if he’s coping, would he like a cup of tea, two sweeteners, is it? just a drop of milk, I’ll fill you in on a few things. You know it’s me.
Two days coming and going from Wood Green and Chingford police stations. I know you’re there. As far as I can tell, and things remain somewhat hazy, three people died in the Great Monk Woods the other night. I know you can hear me. Only two bodies remained by the time the police arrived. Come on, H, look closely. The first, Ronya, who, it turned out, had been working for the Badirkhans, was spirited away by the surviving members of her gang. You know it’s me. One of the Badirkhan brothers is running things from his prison cell in the Netherlands. I know you’re there. They’re trying to regain their position as crime family numero uno in North London. I know you can hear me. Ronya pretended to be working for Ozan but in reality sold the deal to the Eaveses – the Eaveses, in their finite wisdom, thought Ronya was solely interested in emancipation and so Jonathan jumped at the chance to get his manicured mitts back on the lucrative teat that is the smack business – the Eaveses bankrolled it. Got greedy. Neither the Badirkhans nor the PPK happy with the whole Matryoshka-doll set up. Come on, H, look closely. Throughout, the Badirkhans were waiting to stitch them up. Ozan – poor fool – got lumbered with the dirty work of hijacking the Eaveses’ shipment, and then Ronya’s men strolled in and took it from them – actually, it was given to them – most of Ozan’s men were also working for Ronya. Job done. JD, as Balzac would say. But they didn’t reckon on the interfering presence of Ms. Sarah Beckford. You know it’s me. The Badirkhans relished the opportunity to hijack the drug shipment and put one over on the Eaveses. The Badirkhans used to treat Jonathan and Martin as minor pests. I know you’re there. Some of Ronya’s men ended up in the same hospital as Mr. and Mrs. Beckford, suffering from contusions, broken limbs, and other Eaveses-induced ailments. I know you can hear me. The Geordie bloke, left on the ground as his partners fled with Ronya’s body, was a bloody mess – claret and grey matter all over the shop. Come on, H, look closely. Ozan bear-hugged Martin Eaves until the police got there. You know it’s me. Good job. His brother, sparko, thanks to what must have been a lucky punch from Balzac, suffered the indignity of being dumped in the back of a police van, his brother following in a squad car. I know you’re there. A WPC took Sarah to hospital in an ambulance. I know you can hear me. Me? Come on, H, look closely. I had to get my story straight. You know it’s me. That wasn’t easy. I know you’re there. Oh, and you’re wondering about the voice? I know you can hear me. Where are the curlicues, the arabesques, the high-falutin’ words? Come on, H, look closely. Sometimes, there’s no place for words – sometimes they don’t cut it, old man. You know it’s me. This is one of them.
The third death, the harshest death, the one that will pollute our futures, the death of Meredith Le Fanu – The Death of The Mermaid. That night. I hope Balzac doesn’t mind, but I’ve decided to carry a small photograph of her in my wallet. That night. And for what? Remember? Remember what this was all about? So some spoiled little daddy’s girl could have her adventure and spend years in beige wine bars talking about how she once got involved with gangsters and freedom fighters, telling her one and only story while she sips warm Cava and eats lumpfish caviar on stale Ritz crackers, her tale of derring-do forever boring friends and would-be lovers.
Remember? Harsh? That night. Not really. That night. I hope they put her away. Remember. Give her time to think. Remember. Charge her with accessory to the GBH her parents received, those poor people. Maybe. Remember? That’s punishment enough, I hear you say. Remember? Is it? That night. Is it, indeed? That night. Two other people are dead. Remember? What about them? Remember? Yeah, well, one torturing Geordie psychopath with a penis extension for a shotgun and a traitorous murdering bitch who confused her PKK with her PPK, confused her heroes with her heroin. That night. Trite? That night. Banal? Remember? Who cares? Remember? I‘m not going to waste my time coming up with a bon mot for her, I wish they’d left her there. Left her to the forest. Left her to become fox food, crow soup, worm and beetle fondue. That night. The Eaveses will get away with it. That night. Probably. Remember? Jonathan fired two shots into the forest. Remember? I’m not sure if he was trying to kill Ronya in revenge for half-inching his smack, killing his men, and putting him back on the bottom rung of London crime, or whether he was aiming for The Mermaid. That night. We’re sure to find out soon. Remember? Ozan’s getting things together again on the street – Green Lanes has never had so many community meetings. He’ll sort something. Remember? That ponce Dumar, conspicuous by his absence in the denouement, will let it slip to someone, someday, somehow. Remember? Oh, and that idiot Graham ‘Inaccessible’ Powell – nobody upon nobody – that poor deluded boy, harmless really. Remember. I’m not sure what happened to him, as usual he was forgotten, but for all I know and for all I care he could still be up there in that tree making friends with the cuckoos, the nuthatches, the tits.
One more thing before I open the door, take your c
oat, pat you on the shoulder and usher you upstairs to Balzac’s flat; one little thing before I hear your knuckles cautiously knock on the canary-yellow door, before you quietly cough and say, ‘Balzac, it’s me, the good, the brave, may I come in?’ I hasten towards you. One small addition to this summation: you want to know about my name, don’t you? How long have I been gone now? The appellation: Homo Sapiens Sapiens Jones. I hasten towards you. I think Balzac planned to explain it – give you the low-down as he would say. How long have I been gone now? Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t bring myself to tell you – not with everything that’s going on right now. I hasten towards you. Maybe, in the not-too-distant future, when Balzac and I are working on another case, I’ll let Balzac tell the story of my naming. How long have I been gone now? For now, the one thing you need to know is when I returned from the Falklands, having spent weeks on a hospital ship, I wasn’t quite human. I hasten towards you. Far from it, in fact. How long have I been gone now?
Are you ready? I look around for the last time. OK. I am mistaken. Up you go. I look around for the last time. Mind the fourth step, it creaks and sags, many a time have I tripped on the riser, drunk or otherwise. I am mistaken. Knock. I look around for the last time. He will answer. I am mistaken. Eventually. I look around for the last time. I’ll leave you to it. I am mistaken. I’m going to the public house for a much-needed pint. I look around for the last time. I won’t be here when you leave, so pull the door to, make sure you hear it click. I am mistaken. The bus back to Trafalgar Square leaves from the top of the road. Number 29, I think. I look around for the last time. From there you can get to anywhere you choose. Mistaken.