by Keith Nixon
Gray led Jake onto the balcony.
“Great view,” said Jake, leaning on the railings.
“It’s one of the reasons I bought it. Fancy a beer?”
“How about ten?”
Gray grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge, breaking his own rule again, and popped the caps. He carried them back outside and handed one over to Jake who was still looking out to sea.
“Thanks.” Jake accepted the bottle and took a deep draft.
“I’m sorry about Regan,” said Gray.
“So, this is what it feels like.”
“Yes.” There wasn’t anything Gray could say to make it better so he didn’t.
“Remember when we were kids, Sol? Best mates.”
Inseparable, thought Gray, but said, “Long time ago.”
“That it is. They were good days.”
“Different days.”
“Before anything mattered.”
And before we took our different paths.
“Now look at us,” said Jake.
Again, Gray didn’t know how to reply. He wasn’t the best at eloquent, meaningful statements. He let the silence stretch.
Eventually Jake said, “How’s the new place?”
“Fine. Does what it needs to.”
“Better than rattling around in that old house of yours. Too many memories?”
“That was one problem.” Another pause until Gray said, “I’m sure you didn’t come over just to reminisce.”
“You know me too well. I’ve a favour to ask.”
“Okay.”
“Will you come to the funeral?”
Gray groaned inside. He hadn’t liked Regan very much. Going seemed hypocritical.
Peering at Gray, Jake said, “I don’t hear a yes, Sol.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“Why? Too busy to be at the side of an old friend?” Gray heard the disdain in his voice. “I’m sorry I asked.” Jake rose.
“Wait.” Gray put a hand on his arm. He was being utterly selfish. What he thought of Regan was of no importance here. “I’ll be there.”
“Thanks a lot, Sol, I really appreciate it.”
“As you said, Jake. Old friends.”
“And the wake afterwards? It’ll be at Seagram’s.”
Which would mean getting drunk at the club. “That’s a maybe.”
“Okay, I can live with that.” Jake drained the beer, said, “Any more of these?”
Gray had barely touched his. He got Jake another.
“I feel like I failed them you know, Sol. Let everybody down; everyone I’ve ever loved.”
“We all fail in some way or another.”
“I’m not sure which of us is worse. You losing your kid or me driving them away.”
“Thanks, Jake, I appreciate that.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it that way. You know me; I’m a heart-on-sleeve kind of man. Sometimes what’s up here,” Jake tapped the bottle against his forehead, “falls out of my mouth with no moderation in between.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“Look, I’ll leave you to whatever.” Jake was clearly embarrassed.
“Did you drive over?”
“I’m parked just round the corner.”
“I’ll call you a taxi then. Your car will be fine overnight. Then we can have another beer.”
“It’s okay, I’d better be off anyway.”
Gray showed Jake to the door.
“See you at the funeral then?” asked Jake.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
When Jake was gone, Gray returned to the balcony, sat down, and opened up his laptop once more. There were already additional messages on Regan’s Facebook timeline. Gray skimmed them, but wasn’t really paying attention. Jake’s comment about failing his family was stuck in his mind.
Gray accessed the Facebook search function. He typed in “Hope Simpson”. His daughter had taken her mother’s maiden name some time ago. Gray knew Hope lived in Edinburgh; almost as far away from Kent as it was possible to get. She was nineteen now and partway through a nursing qualification at Napier University there.
It was the work of moments to find her Facebook profile, even though they weren’t classified as friends. Her timeline contained plenty of smiling photographs with a wide array of people, none of which Gray recognised. Why would he? He wondered if one was a partner. Was she in a long-term relationship? How were her studies going? What did her voice sound like? It had been so long since they’d talked. Every time he’d gone to pick up the phone, his guilt had got the better of him, and he’d never made the call.
He’d read that people these days, particularly the young who’d grown up with social media as a constant, tended to project a face onto the world that didn’t really exist. Gray hoped she was as happy as the photos suggested. He closed the laptop lid and the balcony darkened. A gull, riding the thermals, flitted past. The bloody things never seemed to sleep.
Gray’s phone vibrated on the table top. Noble again. Gray rejected the call twice, though each time the ring tone kicked in immediately. Then a text bleeped: “HELP”.
When Noble called again Gray answered. “Bit melodramatic this evening, Will.”
All he received in reply was a groan and a drawn-out cough.
“Will? Will, are you okay? What’s going on?”
All he got was another groan. He left his flat at a run, slamming the door behind him. He took the stairs, rather than wait for the lift to arrive, jumped into his car, and drove as fast as he was able to Noble’s Margate office.
Chapter 16
Despite a chorus of snores, Khoury slept fitfully in the crowded room. He dreamt he was in the sea, far from shore. His arms were useless. He couldn’t stay afloat any longer, no matter how hard he fought. Khoury sank beneath the waves, his lungs filling with water as the light receded.
He awoke with a jerk, breathing heavily. It was dark, but he didn’t think he’d been asleep long; no more than an hour, maybe less. He sat up, unsure of his surroundings. Then he recalled he was in the homeless shelter in a strange country. His family were dead. His friends were dead. The irony of it all. He, Najjar and Shadid had survived years of civil war in Syria, only to die at the hands of their "rescuer". His wife and child had perished in a place where they were supposed to be safe. Khoury lay back down and stared at the ceiling.
Yesterday, he and his two friends thought they’d finally found a way to England from France. He recalled the man’s words: A short trip on a fishing boat, and you’re free. Remarkably straightforward after such an arduous route from Syria, followed by months stuck in a squalid camp in Calais. Khoury looked forward to the day they were settled because then his wife could travel over from Syria, and they’d finally be a family again. How long had it been since he’d comforted his daughter when she woke from a bad dream? But once on the waves, it had all gone wrong. The drowning of the white man, and the stabbing of his brother Najjar with Najjar’s own knife. With the memory, fury flared within him once more. He’d felt fear and anger when his neighbourhood had been bombed to ruin, but this was different. This betrayal was personal.
Khoury didn’t know what had happened to Shadid. He’d glimpsed him cowering beside the bulkhead before Khoury threw himself overboard. Khoury floated momentarily, glimpsed the words Etna and Ramsgate on the stern before he began swimming and someone began shouting.
Somehow, what seemed like hours later, Khoury made it ashore. Half in, half out of the surf, he had retched. It took a few minutes for him to regain his breath. He began to shiver. He was drained, every muscle ached, his throat sore from gulping down seawater when a wave had caught him. He breathed deeply, taking air into his straining lungs. He had to move, it wasn’t safe here. But he stood for a moment, water dripping off him. His clothes were sodden, the fabric cold against his skin. He shivered in the night air.
In the moonlight, he’d been able to see a white cliff before him, sand and rock all around. There
was a faint twinkle of lights, which meant people, so he decided to head that way.
After stumbling along for ten minutes or so, Khoury reached a concrete esplanade and a few small wooden huts. Were these tiny homes? Did people live here? They all looked shuttered. He needed somewhere to dry himself; somewhere to sleep that was out of the way. He expected the men from the boat would come looking for him. In a way, that’s what he wanted, because, as they said back home, one who cooks poison should taste it. But, at the moment, he wasn’t ready. Too wet, weak, too cold.
All the huts were fastened up tight, so Khoury collected a heavy rock from the beach below. As he swung the rock at the first of the two locks on the door, it slipped out of his frozen fingers. Shivering, he picked up the stone and tried again, this time catching the metal hard enough to rip the screws out of the wood. When he was done, he tossed the shattered catches away, shot the bolts, swung back the door, and peered within.
In the moonlight, he saw the interior was a surprisingly neat space. A bench along the back with a curtain hanging below, shelves on either wall, hooks for towels, various beach paraphernalia and toys, stuff for toddlers. He spotted a set of toddler swim wings and flashed back to his little girl’s first time in the water. Laila, his daughter. Laila, Shadid’s niece. She’d flapped her little arms, giggling “Baba! Baba!” as she splashed him. Overhead was a lantern which he switched on, then pulled the doors closed behind him.
In the dim glow, Khoury undertook a more thorough search. He found towels and a hoodie, which appeared a bit small, though would have to do. He discarded his wet shirt, vigorously towelled himself dry and dragged on the too-tight top. If he tugged at the sleeves to stretch them they just about ran to his wrists. He took a knife out of his pocket, put it on the floor, then pulled off his trousers and dried his legs. Finally, he hung a couple of towels over his shoulders for additional warmth.
But he couldn’t be a beggar acting like a rich man. A beggar was what he’d become during his transit across Europe. No longer a teacher who helped others; now someone who lived by their good or ill. Usually the latter.
A kettle sat on a portable burner and, next to it, coffee, tea, sugar, and, mercifully, a plastic bottle half full of water. It could be days old, but he didn’t care. Khoury poured what there was into the kettle and lit the gas.
He threw granules into a mug, added a couple of spoonfuls of sugar for a sliver of energy and poured hot water on top. There was half a packet of biscuits in a makeshift bin. They were soft. Khoury didn’t care. He sat on the floor, drew the towels tighter around him, and held the hot mug in his hands to warm them up. When he felt warmer, he ate the biscuits which crumbled at a touch and drank the coffee. It was weak compared to what he was used to.
His first objective was to stay under the radar. He was sure the police would be looking for him. Perhaps they’d even consider him a suspect. Then he must seek revenge. He must find and kill the men who’d murdered one, and probably both, of his friends. Family honour dictated it. That was okay. He’d done it before in the name of civil liberty. Despite the coffee, Khoury felt the tiredness creep over him. He’d expended a lot of energy getting himself ashore and his body was shutting down. He tried to fight it; he needed to move soon, before someone found him.
Khoury hadn’t realised he’d fallen asleep until the latch rattled and a person, flanked by two children, stared down at him. All he could see was silhouettes, the rising sun behind them.
“Who’s that man, Mummy?” asked one of the children, a girl by her voice. She appeared more curious than frightened. The woman, however, was hardly the model of calmness. She took a step forward, pushing the kids behind her, out of the way.
“Get out!” the woman shrieked at him.
Khoury leapt up, the knife in his hand. The woman, despite her initial bravado, moved backwards now, holding her children protectively. “Philip!” shouted the woman. A glance showed a man waddling down a slope from the cliff above, laden with bags, shuffling in flip flops.
Khoury grabbed his trousers and boots and began running, ignoring the stiffness from lying on a wooden floor. His dash took him past Philip, who slowly put down the bags and ran a few steps before halting.
“Hey!” said Philip. “Come back here!”
Khoury passed a boarded-up café and terraces of more permanent-looking, shuttered huts.
He rounded a corner, out of sight of the family. He paused to put on his trousers. Above him, a chalk cliff, studded with flint, towered. Below, the beach and the receding sea. The only obvious way up was the slope he’d seen Philip on, though he wasn’t going back to it. He had no choice but to carry on and hope he discovered an escape route before the police arrived and he was trapped …
***
The clatter of metal and a man's loud swearing ended Khoury’s recollections and brought him back to the present. He turned his head and caught the sight of a dim beam of light on the floor. Somebody stooped, picked up a flashlight. Khoury watched the man shine the torch into the face of one comatose vagrant after another.
Part way along the row the man stopped, aimed the beam in a sleeper’s face for a long moment, flicked the illumination over to a piece of paper he held in a fist, and back again. It was an easy assumption to make that it was a photo.
“Hey,” whispered the torch man.
“What?” There was another figure working the far side of the room, the pair splitting the search between them.
“Check this guy out.”
“Give me a moment.” He made his way over, torch light downwards, stepping over stuff.
“What do you think?”
“It’s not him.”
“Are you sure? It looks like him.”
“Definitely not.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because he’s white. We’re looking for coloured skin.”
“Could be a tan.”
The first guy groaned. “Christ, I wish this was over. These guys stink. Makes me want to slap one of them.”
This time the beam was directed into the face of the first searcher, illuminating a shaven, bullet-shaped head. Khoury recognised him immediately from the boat. He knocked the hand down so the light was no longer in his eyes.
“Stop whining, Dave. I don’t want to be here anymore than you, so let’s get it done quick, okay?”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Larry.” The menace was clear in Dave’s voice.
Khoury grimaced in the darkness. They were here for him. They’d come to him. Khoury couldn’t believe his luck. The pair split up again and methodically worked their way through the hostel guests. They were being thorough, checking everyone, working from opposite ends and concluding in the centre before repeating the process. Twice more they paused, checked the photo against a face, moved on.
Row four became three. If he’d been sleeping near the door the pair would have found him by now. Fight or flight? Khoury decided on flight for now. They were big men; Khoury didn’t think he could take both. He worked best by stealth. He’d bide his time.
The only escape route was to leap out of bed and jump over the sleepers in his way. If the pair were slow to react, perhaps he could make it. Outside, he could decide whether to keep running or follow them, depending on circumstances. Khoury tensed, ready to leap. He slowly peeled the covers back, but before he could move, the overhead light flicked on. Khoury dropped onto the floor, to remain hidden now the room was illuminated.
“What are you doing?” Rachel was standing in the doorway.
“We’re looking for a friend,” said Larry as he switched off his torch. “He’s disappeared, and we’re worried about him.”
Dave, a black man with long dreadlocks, stayed quiet.
“You’re not allowed back here,” said Rachel.
“We were told it was okay.”
“By who?”
“Your colleague.”
“Kelvin?”
“That’s him.”
“Well,
he was wrong to say so. What’s your friend’s name? The one you’re looking for.”
“Wayne?”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“It’s definitely Wayne.”
“Is that a photo?” Rachel pointed at the paper in Larry’s fingers. She held out her hand. “Can I take a look? I may recognise him.”
Reluctantly, Larry passed over the photo. Rachel glanced at it, shook her head. “This person looks Arabic.”
“So?”
“Wayne isn’t a very common Arabic name.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
“It’s not me who’s taking the piss. I can tell you this man hasn’t come in here tonight.”
“You know all of them then?” The mockery in Larry’s voice was clear.
“Pretty much. I was on the front desk, so everyone came past me and most of our guests are regulars. So, yes, I’d know. And this man is not in here.”
“Your friend, Kelvin, says he is. Served him food earlier.”
Rachel shrugged, unaffected. “Kelvin’s new. Faces look similar at first. He made a mistake.”
Larry wouldn’t be deterred. “I want to see them all.”
Rachel shook her head. “As I said, that’s not possible.”
Larry stepped in, got right up to Rachel’s face. “Get the fuck out our way, now! Or I’ll do something you’ll regret!” He raised his hand in a fist.
Rachel stood her ground, crossing her arms above her protruding belly, though her face paled. “You’d hit a pregnant woman.”
“Happily.”
“In front of all these witnesses?” Rachel pointed past Larry. Some of the men in the room were awake and sitting up, watching proceedings.
“Yes, hello, I need the police please.” Khoury recognised the voice. It was the older woman, Natalie. She entered the room, a phone pressed to her ear. “A disturbance at the Lighthouse Project.”
Larry grabbed the phone from Natalie’s grasp, ended the call.
“You’d better go,” said Natalie. “The police will be here in a minute. They’re only around the corner and know to come quickly when there’s trouble.”
Dave put an arm out, said, “Larry, mate, let’s be off.”