by Stuart Keane
Nicky nodded. Said nothing.
Luke whistled. "Now … change the subject, talk about something else. Please."
"Are you okay?" Nicky asked her brother, her eyes narrowing. "You seem more stressed than normal, robot man. Over-agitated."
"I'm fine."
"I mean it. What's going on?"
"I said I'm fine," he reiterated. Luke breathed out, stopped his cleaning, and looked at Nicky. Feigned a smile. "This whole situation … it just brings back bad memories, is all. Usually, I'm fine with a potential battle for my life, I can handle that, but you're not usually in the firing line, not part of the situation. It's not something I've had to worry about before. Having loved ones on the battlefield is not … not a particularly comfortable feeling."
"Hey, hey," she said, her tone soothing. Nicky leaned forward and placed a hand on Luke's. She realised her brother was trembling. She flinched away for a fraction, and then resumed contact. A second later, he pulled away. She continued, "You're not there, Luke. You're here, you're … you're home."
He ran his hands over his head. The hair bristled against his stroking palms. "I know."
"You have nothing to worry about. We're safe in here."
"For how long, sis? Huh? How long will it be until people come scavenging for supplies? How long until they're kicking the doors down? The best plan for battle is to be prepared, but how can you prepare for the unknown?"
"We can handle it."
Luke laughed. "And what are you going to do? Throw potpourri at them? Challenge them to a video game contest? If this happens, how are you going to fight? You can hardly walk."
Nicky shook her head. "I'm going to do nothing, absolutely nothing. On your orders. I'm going to let my brother protect me. My brother who signed up to protect this country, come hell or high water, regardless of what anyone told him. He dedicated himself to his country, because loyalty is paramount to him, he did it because he had morals and integrity. I can’t do shit in my condition, that's true, but you sure as hell can shoot some bastard in the face if he dares set foot on our property. And I'll be behind you all of the way."
Luke frowned, and wiped his forehead. "Okay … you have a deal."
Nicky patted his hand and slumped back into the sofa. "I might kick your arse at Mario Kart, little brother, but you sure as hell have this military shit sorted."
Luke downed half a pint of flat Pepsi in one glug, his thirst suddenly ravenous. He grinned at his sister and returned to his cleaning. "When did you get so smart?"
"Well … someone in the family had to get that particular gene. You got the dashing looks, and I got the brains. Fair trade, I think."
Luke snorted, but said nothing. He refilled his glass with Pepsi, had a second thought, and refrained on the portion control, only filling a quarter of the container. He placed the bottle on the floor.
Nicky breathed out. "Just don't miss, okay? If you're going to shoot someone, make sure you actually do."
"I never miss."
"Yeah, yeah."
A comfortable silence settled on the duo. Luke finished cleaning his weapon and began to reassemble it. Nicky glanced over her shoulder and stared at the blinds, tempted to return to them and resume her vigil, suddenly feeling a little stir crazy. She usually enjoyed her own company, sitting in the house on her lonesome and losing herself in a good book or a Netflix binge. Time spent with other people was never high on her agenda, not when the sanctuary of her own company was much more preferable, but right now, with the shrouded chaos that was occurring beyond her four walls, chaos that was changing the very fabric of her life outside of the home, she had a need to know what was happening, to discover the truth, and the TV just wouldn’t provide the knowledge she needed.
Nicky sought answers.
She felt that Alex's survival relied on it.
She turned to Luke, aiming to find a worthwhile distraction. A journey outside of the house was an impossibility right now, so to dwell on such an idea would be fruitless. She smiled at her brother, who placed the complete Glock 17 down on the table and closed his cleaning box. He looked at her, a quizzical look on his face.
"Why the gormless look on your face? I mean, aside from the norm," he queried.
"Can you teach me?"
"Teach you? You're a grown woman, I'm sure you can do that yourself. Google is your friend, sis. You have a wealth of knowledge at your fingertips, not all of it reliable."
"No. I mean … teach me. To shoot. With that," she said, pointing to his handgun.
Luke leaned back. "This is my service weapon. Only I can fire it."
"I'm sure you should keep classified secrets to yourself, too."
"Touché," he added, with a smile.
Nicky continued to watch him, a twinkle returning to her eye.
Luke took that as a good sign. "Okay."
THIRTEEN
Marilyn Foster flicked the indicator and steered the unmarked Ford Focus onto the motorway. She checked her mirrors with two deft flicks of her lithe neck, studied her surroundings, and pulled into her desired lane, uncontested. As she settled into the long drive ahead, she sighed and slumped back into her seat, but said nothing.
The roar of the engine and the tyres grinding against the inconsistencies in the road provided the only soundtrack to their long afternoon.
Jeremy Markos watched her from the back seat, and turned around to study the clear road behind him. He saw no other vehicles; no lorries, no speeding BMW drivers, no undertaking morons, and no learners on their first nervous excursion. He turned once again and leaned forward in his seat, stared ahead through the windscreen and noticed the same thing. The unending stretch of black asphalt provided not one obstacle or hazard.
The road was completely empty.
Unusual for a motorway at this time of day.
"Where are we going?" Jeremy broached.
"I'm taking you to the station."
"You need a motorway to do that?"
Marilyn raised her tired eyes to the rear-view mirror. She studied the man behind her with something nearing utter contempt and mistrust. Which was unlike her. She licked her teeth, swallowed her pride and returned her stoic gaze to the road. "The local police station is … unavailable. We need to go further afield."
"How so?" Jeremy asked.
"You haven't seen … oh, yes, no TV in your office. I see."
"Not everyone lives on a diet of junk TV and intolerable news. What's going on?"
"These attacks … there's been a number in the UK today. Several of our biggest police stations were taken out, alongside a host of other establishments. Whoever is orchestrating these, is doing a severe number on our emergency system. The country is on the brink of uncontrollable chaos."
"So, the police system is practically broken and you're still bringing me in for questioning, about something that is absolutely ludicrous?"
Marilyn nodded. "The world doesn’t stop just because a group of people with an attitude problem and access to explosives decide that the world owes them something. Life goes on, Mr Markos."
"Yet, you suspect my wife in these attacks."
"No. We suspect her for something else."
"You said she was implicated in an attack on the water plant she works in. She jumped off the roof, you said, because of said attack. So, which is it?"
Marilyn sighed. "We can’t do this here. We need to do this at the station."
"Bullshit. These attacks … they've clearly taken a toll on the country." Jeremy turned in his seat, and pointed through the back window. "I mean … look. Look at this fucking motorway!"
"Don't raise your voice, Mr Markos. Trust me, you don’t want to agitate me."
"So, answer my question. Which is it?"
Again, Marilyn Foster studied Jeremy Markos in the rear-view mirror. Her palpitating heart thumped against her ribcage, and she felt a hot flush of prickly irritation coming on. She looked ahead, realised her vision was going blurry, flicked the indicator, and gently
pulled into an isolated lay-by. The tyres crunched on concrete and debris as the vehicle eased to a halt.
You've been up for forty hours. You need some sleep.
And you certainly could do without this arsehole, right now.
She cracked a window, shut the engine off and closed her eyes. The unerring silence of the abnormally empty motorway soothed her a little, and she felt a smile creeping onto her face. For a moment, anyway.
"I'm still waiting," Jeremy uttered.
Marilyn groaned. "This is against protocol, Mr Markos. Please, give me a minute."
"Working you too hard, are they?" Jeremy scoffed. "Doesn’t surprise me."
"A minute, please!"
Jeremy nodded, and looked out of the passenger windows. He studied the stretches of quiet suburbia that flanked the raised motorway, on both sides. Large warehouses and smoking chimneys, rows of identical houses rimmed with multicoloured trees and endless, winding roads, and a shimmering, large river dotted with white specks he recognised as sailing boats. He studied the stretching landscapes in awe, all of which were captured in an image the size of a closed fist.
Jeremy smiled, and realised a tear was rolling down his cheek. "The world is just beautiful, isn’t it? Beneath the prominent surface, when things aren't chaotic or controversial or exploding. When death decides to take a backseat to life, for a change, the world is a beautiful place."
Marilyn noticed and breathed out. Said nothing.
Jeremy turned to the police woman, desperation in his voice. "Why was my wife mixed up in this? What did she do? How could such a beautiful person be involved in something so heinous?"
"I told you, we need to go to –"
"Please. I'm begging you."
Marilyn stared at the road ahead, sighed, and finally relented. It was against protocol to discuss the case without a means to record the testimony being given, but then again, protocol didn’t really matter when your national force was being systematically decimated. It didn’t take such extreme circumstances into account. She was lucky there was actually a station to drive to.
Could she remember her notes?
Maybe.
She turned in her seat and faced Jeremy. "You'll need to repeat everything at the station later. No objections."
Jeremy nodded. "Of course."
Marilyn pursed her lips and continued, "She was implicated in an attack on the water plant, but she didn’t blow anything up. We're yet to clarify anything, but we believe she was attempting to infect the drinking water."
Jeremy fell into silence, and slumped back into his seat. He recalled the burnt photographs in his office bin, the sparse contents that provided little or no explanation, the suspicious meeting between Fiona and the handsome man that the investigator had jumped to extraordinary conclusions about. The strange box in his wife's possession. None of it made sense. "How?"
Marilyn shook her head. "That’s just it. We're not sure, yet."
"I should have known. Clueless, as always."
"Well, since you're so desperate to talk, we were hoping you help could shed some light on things."
"As I said, I know nothing about such an attack. And if … if Fiona was involved, which is very unlikely, she certainly didn’t tell me. She kept it a secret."
"In fifty-one percent of terrorism cases, the spouse is usually in the dark about their loved one's involvement."
"Did you read that on Google?" Jeremy mocked.
"It’s a fact, Mr Markos. It's not unusual for someone to be put in your position. Of the forty-nine percent that are aware of such activity, eighty-nine percent of them are working in tandem with their loved one, instead of sitting on the side-lines. It's all about the numbers."
Jeremy clapped his hands. "Bullshit."
"Oh?"
"I think you fabricated those numbers to fit your agenda."
Marilyn smiled. "Think what you want, it doesn’t change a thing here. Fiona was implicated in a terrorist attack by several witnesses, and for good reason. She was a traitor to this country."
"She was not. Fiona was … is a beautiful human being, one untainted by scorn or darkness, and the hatred that propels society forward. She had a heart of gold, unlike many people I know."
"A guilty conscience too, if her suicide is anything to go by."
"Fuck you," Jeremy spat.
"I told you about raising your voice, Mr Markos. I'm doing you a solid by talking to you here, instead of at the station, so please show me some respect. You're acting like a damn kid who just lost his favourite toy."
Jeremy lapsed into silence once more.
"And it's clear that you don't know a thing about her involvement. Anyone willing to talk this badly is clearly not hiding something," Marilyn added. "You need answers as badly as we do, but for totally different reasons. But still, I think you should come in. Being her husband could put you in –"
Marilyn froze, and lifted her studious gaze to the back window. Jeremy quickly noticed her change in demeanour, and spun to view what had suddenly obtained her attention.
A car.
A red Skoda, slowly trundling along the motorway, doing way under the speed limit. Marilyn watched as the vehicle weaved and bobbed, moving in and out of different lanes with no concern for safety or other drivers – not that there were any.
And it was headed straight towards them.
"Who's that?" Jeremy asked.
"No idea."
"Maybe all is not lost."
"He's not driving at the speed limit. He's taking his time, looking for something. Looking for other vehicles."
"Why?"
"You ask a lot of questions, Mr Markos. And, unfortunately, I'm no psychic."
The vehicle pulled to a crooked halt behind the Ford Focus. Marilyn noticed, and tensed in the shoulders. The sun glared against their windscreen, hiding the occupants from view. She opened her glove box and removed a police-issue baton. Flicked her wrist to extend it before her. The tip clattered against the dashboard and cracked the plastic above the radio.
"Is that necessary?" Jeremy asked.
"We'll soon see. Do as I say, when I say, okay?"
Jeremy nodded.
"And don’t get out of the car. Stay inside. Lock your doors."
Jeremy hit both locks with his palms and receded into the narrow corner between the seat and the door. Marilyn removed the keys from the ignition and pocketed them, her eyes firmly on her mirrors.
The driver door to the red Skoda opened.
A tall man stepped out, looked both ways, and closed the door with one hand. From her dubious position, hindered by oncoming tiredness, her blurred vision and the persistent, glaring sun, Marilyn couldn’t see his face, or make out any particular details. She strained to see any other occupants of the vehicle too, but conceded when tears began rolling down her face.
The man moved towards her, and disappeared into her blind spot. Marilyn slipped her police badge from her inside pocket, and cupped it in her hand, ready to place it against the glass. She blinked and wiped her eyes. "He's coming, Mr Markos. Keep quiet, and let me do the talk –"
The driver side window exploded inwards, the glass pattering against the leather upholstery and the broken dashboard like raindrops, shocking Jeremy and Marilyn, and a muscular arm thrust through the hole, coiling itself around Marilyn's neck. The woman screamed and fought against the grip, but was stunned by a second arm that quickly swung through the smashed glass opening and cracked her in the face with a blackjack. Blood spattered the windscreen as the woman's dainty nose burst, and she flopped in her seat. With unnerving strength, the arm maintained its grip and pulled a semi-conscious Marilyn through the shattered window with tremendous ease.
Jeremy watched the woman disappear from sight in a flurry of waving hair and staggered legs. He pushed back into the seat in total fright, both surprised and terrified by the sudden violence that had occurred. The final patters of raining glass came to a rest in the foot well, indicating just how quickly the
events had unfolded. He stared at the blood-spattered windscreen, decided against obeying Marilyn's instructions, and opened the door beside him.
Jeremy slipped from the car, missed his footing, and landed hard on the asphalt, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He scurried around the vehicle, his feet continuing to slip and wind mill beneath him, and lost his balance. He landed face-first in a crumpled heap on the ground. A second door opened on the red Skoda and another tall man appeared. He quickly walked towards Jeremy, seized a handful of his hair, and dragged him around the car.
The first man had Marilyn on the ground in the middle of the motorway. His foot was on the woman's chest, and even from his forced position, Jeremy could see that the woman was struggling to breathe through her shattered nose. Spluttering wheezes and gasps filled the broken silence around them. She fought valiantly against the sturdy leg that held her prisoner, slapping at it with closed fists, but it was all in vain. Her legs kicked at thin air as the strange man simply stared down at her. Jeremy noticed that she had lost a shoe, which sat next to her discarded baton a few feet away.
"What do … do you … want?" she struggled to ask.
The man said nothing. He simply stepped forward, using his position on the woman's chest to keep her pinned and lift himself upward, and brought his free foot crunching down onto Marilyn's face. Hard.
Jeremy squealed as bone cracked and shattered beneath the driving heel. The man repeated the action, several times, raining vicious stamps down on Marilyn's face until nothing was left but a pile of shattered bone and mutilated flesh. The woman's legs trembled and quivered as the life ebbed from her fallen frame. He lifted his blood-soaked foot, his mission complete, and scraped the leather on the road, smearing it with dark blood and chunks of gristle. He looked both ways in silence, watching for any incoming vehicles, but saw none.
And then turned to Jeremy.
Jeremy squealed once more, and felt a stream of urine soaking his inner thigh as the tall man strode towards him. His drenched trousers immediately clung to the slippery skin, and he felt the man above him shift position, so that Jeremy was leaning against his unseen legs. He addressed the oncoming man. "Please … please, don't … I didn’t do anything to you. She was a police woman, a pig, the filth. I understand your notions for taking her out, but please … spare me."