Nothing Is Ever Simple (Corin Hayes Book 2)

by G R Matthews

  There was a door behind me, ten steps or so. I glanced at it, gauging the distance and time it would take to cover the distance. Kade was on his knees, pulling himself upwards and he fixed me with a one-eyed glare. The other was closed and already starting to puff up. That must hurt a lot, but here he was, putting the pain to one side and coming after me.

  I staggered backwards, towards the door. He staggered towards me. If I got there first, I’d have a door between me and him which seemed like a good idea at the moment, given the snarl on the Kade’s face.

  With only a short distance between me and him, I made it to the door. My legs shook and my breath was coming in gasps, it was all I could do to stay upright. The door wasn’t locked and opened easily. For some reason there was a grin alongside the snarl on Kade’s face.

  A broom closet. A utility cupboard. No escape. Nowhere to run and the big man was only a stagger or two away.

  “Fucking hell,” I shouted, the effort raising a line of saw-toothed fire in my throat, and grabbed the first thing to hand.

  Kade swung round the door, his fists raised and I hit him with everything I had. Every ounce of weight and energy behind the thing in my hand.

  Chapter 37

  An iron.

  I knew what they were. I’m not a troglodyte. I’ve used one on occasion. That occasion being my training and service when they were a mandatory part of every soldier’s kit. Since Tyler’s death, I hadn’t bothered. There was one in the apartment somewhere, but the effort required didn’t seem worth the rewards.

  Now though, I had a new respect for the simple domestic appliance. They made a handy weapon.

  Kade was down, slumped against the wall opposite. Judging by the blood leaking from the dent in the side of his head and the way his one open eye gazed into the middle distance, I guessed he was dead. No loss. Most importantly, it wasn’t me.

  I tossed the iron, cord and all, into Kade’s groin. If he’d been alive, he’d be screaming in agony right now. No man can take a punch, let alone a heavy iron, to that part of the anatomy. Kade didn’t move, but the dead weren’t known for their ambulatory prowess.

  Music blasted out of speakers set into the ceilings. There was no escaping it and right now I was glad. All sounds of my fight with Kade had been covered, but it was also masking any sounds of habitation. Between the beats there was no chance to pick out footsteps or sounds of movement.

  With no viable weapon, an iron is only good for one surprise shot, or anything that might be called supplies about my person, I ducked back into the broom closet. Lucky for me there was a broom. Not sure what I’d have called the small cupboard if there hadn’t been one inside. A closet? Unscrewing the brush head from the broom handle I made myself a serviceable staff, or big stick as I preferred to think of it. There were a few other things I grabbed and stuffed into a small bag I found on the bottom shelf.

  Sadly, there was nothing to drink. Bleach and carpet cleaner would not relieve the pain in my throat and only add a pain in my belly, followed, no doubt, by a rather painful death. The paint cleaner contained alcohol and it was tempting, but the bright orange badge on the front proclaiming its poisonous nature put me off.

  Two more doors ahead opened into bedrooms, guest bedrooms by the lack of anything personal, and an absence of Rehja. They did have ensuite bathrooms and I took the chance to drink water from the basin taps. I was closing the door to the second bedroom when the music stopped.

  My immediate reaction was to press my back up against the wall and clutch the broom handle across my body. The solid plastic staff, the threaded end pointing down the corridor, was slick in my sweaty palms.

  It was strangely silent in the penthouse. The lack of noise was unsettling and it took my brain a few moments to ignore the sound of my heartbeat and the rush of air in my lungs. Somethings you rarely hear unless you need to be silent and then you’re deafened by the sounds your own body makes.

  Keeping my back to the wall, I slid forward, towards the lift doors. I kept an ear out for the sound of Rehja moving and heard nothing. It was tempting to call the lift and head back down to the entrance. Make my escape. The drawback was simple to discern. A dead thug. A doorman who’d seen me come in with Kade and, no doubt, several cameras around the building, inside it and in the lift.

  The little program the Pad had uploaded just prevented facial recognition systems in the City-AI from identifying me. It didn’t stop the cameras from filming and some bright security officer from putting two and seven together, getting twenty-seven and thinking that the fine figure of a man on the screen looked amazingly like the dead fellow from a day or two ago.

  No. It was time to make a proper start to ending the whole thing. I wasn’t going to waste all the time I’d spent preparing, getting beaten, hiding away and activating my military cover identity. Rehja was going to tell me what I needed to know and I was going to do everything I had to, to extricate myself from the mess I was in. It might work, it might not. Stubbornness isn’t a choice, it’s a way of life.

  Past the lift and to a set of double doors. Beautiful dark varnished wood and I really think they were made of real wood, expensive and rare. It suited the owner to show off his wealth and power. Holding the broom handle tight, I pressed my ear against the wood and listened. Without the thumping, droning music it was possible, now my ears had adjusted to the shock of quiet, to hear other noises. The whine of civilization, electricity coursing through all those little luxury items that made life liveable. Every device emitted a hum, screech, tone, whine and beep of its own. When you lived amongst it, all the time, your brain filtered them out. Now, in the new quiet, I heard them all again.

  And amongst them, the subtle groan of water passing through pipes and, on the edge of perception, the sound of the ocean around us. Even through the dome, the air and the walls it was there. You never escaped it. The sea, the ocean, the pressure, the ever present threat of doom, destruction and death. In its own way, it was comforting. However, musings on the nature of existence could wait until I had a cold beer in hand.

  There were footsteps. Soft. Deadened by carpet. He was in the room beyond or one close by and I had no idea what else was there. What was the layout like? Was he alone? Was he armed? Did he know I was here? Once that door opened, I’d be in a situation, a location I hadn’t seen before. Sneak or go bold. Stealth or scream?

  Easy choice.

  I rested my hand on the door handle, took a deep breath and forced my fear down, out of my mind. Another breath. Any moment now, the time would be right to move. Yes, it would. Any second now. Another cleansing breath. Here we go, press down the handle. Perhaps, just one more listen.

  Fuck it.

  I slammed the handle down and rushed into the room beyond, the broom handle held ready to strike. He was there, across the room, turning at my entrance. The eyes, the beard, the face of my enemy and I caught a good look at it just before I went arse over elbow.

  The back of the settee, only three steps into the room, had been unexpected. Luckily the cushions provided a softer fall than I really deserved and I let my body roll to the floor before scrabbling to my feet.

  “Bugger,” I gasped as I hit my shins on a low table.

  He hadn’t moved. The look of shock on his face was just wearing off as I put a foot on the glass table top and leaped across to the next sofa. One foot landed on the soft cushions, robbing my next jump of speed and energy. I stumbled through the move, bringing the broom around in a hard strike towards his head.

  It wasn’t there. He’d moved and I twisted myself around, following him through the penthouse apartment. Ahead, I saw him dive through a door and slam it shut. I barrelled through, not stopping to listen or check for an ambush.

  The kitchen. Larger than my apartment with a central cooking station above which hung all the pots and pans any chef could desire. Rehja had ignored those and chosen a rather large kitchen knife from a block on the work counter. He turned to face me. The shock and fear had gone, r
eplaced by the feral grin and the confidence of a man holding a knife.

  “And here was me thinking you were dead,” he said.

  “My apologies, but living is something I’ve become strangely attached to,” I responded, dropping the broom handle and selecting a heavy frying pan for my right hand and smaller saucepan for my left.

  Chapter 38

  The knife looked sharp and Rehja, he’d stabbed people before.

  My frying pan was heavy and I didn’t care that I’d never trained, practiced or developed any skill with it past a fried a breakfast. It didn’t matter. It was heavy. One clunk on someone’s head and they’d go down like a sack of fish heads. The saucepan was there for protection. It was light and mobile. Whether Rehja approved of my weapon selection, he didn’t say.

  He crabbed around the central cooking area, waving the knife back and forth, letting it catch the glare of the spotlights above. I bet he thought he looked scary and impressive. I was happy to let him think that, I focused on the knife. Any violence is dangerous. All knives are sharp enough to kill and I wasn’t in the mood to be stabbed, sliced, cut or gutted.

  A flick of the knife and he leaped forward in a straight stab towards my stomach. There was no point blocking, or trying to, I simply stepped back.

  “You should have done the decent thing and drowned in the airlock.”

  “You shouldn’t have put me in there.”

  Another stab and another step back. I turned the corner of the cooking area, backing away and keeping him in sight.

  “Just business,” he said, following.

  “Well that makes everything all right,” I answered. “Now I know that, all is forgiven. We can be best friends again.”

  A swipe this time, left to right, aimed at my face. I leaned back and struck out with the little saucepan. He missed, the knife didn’t have the reach he needed, and I got in a little blow to his ribs. The saucepan wasn’t heavy enough to do much damage, but it might make him think twice.

  He stopped for a moment, rubbing his ribs. I gave him a smile and twirled the saucepan in my left hand, showing off my skill and dexterity. Something to puncture his confidence though I probably looked like a slightly annoyed sous chef who’d forgotten the recipe for boiled water.

  To my left, the knife block that Rehja had retrieved his own weapon from. There were more handles sticking out of the block. A knife was a good weapon if you wanted to kill someone, mind you, so was an iron, but I didn’t want to kill him. I needed information so I passed them by, preferring my frying pan and saucepan.

  He ran forward this time, the knife held close to his ribs, poised to jab and stab. I backed away. Rehja closed the gap and the knife sliced out. It was met by the saucepan which deflected the blade away from my body, but it still scored a faint line over my forearm, cutting through the material.

  I swung the frying pan at his head in reply, but he ducked underneath and with his free arm gave me a shove. Off balance, the weight of the frying pan carrying me around, I was open to the knife, if he had the presence of mind to strike. There was little to do except let my momentum carry me across the kitchen away from the blade.

  My ribs slammed into the work surface and I felt bruises form on top of bruises. I scrabbled for purchase on the surface, sacrificing my saucepan for the friction of skin on polished granite. A grunt sounded behind me and I pushed off, away from the sound. A sharp tone followed, the knife striking the work surface.

  Two steps and I turned around, spotting Rehja recover his own balance and match my movements. I took the frying pan in both hands and waited. He took stock as well, coming to a halt just out of range, the knife still in his hand. The blade looked sharp but there was now a small piece missing, a notch in the cutting edge.

  “I’m going to enjoy killing you,” he growled.

  “I’m not sure what that says about you as a person,” I said, hefting the frying pan. “I bet your parents are really proud.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Wish I could,” I answered with sincerity. “Really wish I could. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  I waited, watching the knife, his feet and shoulders, for any sign he was about to attack. It would have to be the same as before, a rush and a stab. That’s all you could do with knives really, rush and stab, stab, stab. I raised the frying pan over my shoulder, readying it to be swung down and across.

  He charged. I threw the frying pan at his head. The expression on his face was priceless, but I didn’t stop to watch it. I jumped sideways, out of the path of the knife or, as it turned out, his falling body. The heavy frying pan hit him on the forehead and the dull, hollow sound of its impact was followed by the twin noises of his body and my projectile weapon hitting the floor. The knife skittered out of his hands and underneath one of the cupboards.

  Years ago, I’d been warned about frying pans. Too much grease was bad for my arteries. Now though, I could only look back on all those fried breakfasts as time well spent.

  # # #

  “Well now,” I said as Rehja’s eyes opened. They didn’t focus, at least not on the same spot. One pupil reacted sluggishly and the other seemed to be staring off to the left. Both eyes closed again. “I bet you have a headache.”

  It was the first time I’d seen him not looking his best. The neat hair, trimmed beard, and expensive clothes were all part of his armour and a heavy flying frying pan had robbed him of it. Blood had dried to a flaky crust that ran from his forehead, down the side of his left eye and into his beard where it bound the hair together in a great clag. He’d definitely have a headache.

  Rehja was sat or rather slumped upright in one of the costly chairs I’d found in a large dining room and dragged back to the kitchen. Simple expedience. The chair was lighter than Rehja. It had been a bit of a job to lift him into the chair, even with his partial help, not that he knew what he was doing. The impact of a cast iron frying pan to your skull can make you all sorts of compliant. Thick tape wound round his legs and the chair. More tape around his arms, torso and the back of the chair prevented him from moving. Now, I just needed him to be a little more compos mentis and able to answer my questions.

  I’d chosen a stool and made myself some toast. It is amazing what you can turn algae into if you’ve got the right process on hand. A glass of water rested on the work surface next to my plate. In a few hours I reckon I could become fully acclimatised to penthouse life. I’d have to leave, but at least I’d have the memories.

  One thing about living underwater is the healthy respect, fear, you develop for the stuff. So when a glass of cold water splashed across Rehja’s face, he took the instinctive last breath and predictably began choking, his eyes flew open. Wide open, full of panic. His legs and arms strained against the bindings.

  “Morning,” I said when he’d calmed down a little. “Well, to tell you the truth, it is more like late evening. I expect you’d like to sleep that headache off, but I need some answers. So, if you’d just tell me what I want to know we can avoid any unpleasantness.”

  “Fuck off,” he spat.

  Charming.

  Chapter 39

  “I’m not good at torturing people for information.” I bent down and looked him in the still slightly unfocused eye. “Never had much practice. You’ll have to forgive me if you die a horrible painful death whilst I’m figuring it out.”

  “You can go...”

  “Yes, I am sure I can.” I cut him off. Swearing is all well and good, but when you’re tied to a chair with one eye wandering off on its own little journey around the room whilst the other stares straight at your tormentor, it lacks a little authenticity. In my opinion anyway and I really didn’t need to hear him swear again and again. Before long he’d be running out of words and start repeating himself. “It has been a long day and I am not feeling that flexible. Listen, Rehja, I just need a little information to clear my name and then I’ll leave you alone. I’ll leave you tied up, but you’ll be alive. That’s more than you offered
me.”

  “Kade will kill you,” he said, his wandering eye finally coming to rest and focusing on a point two metres over my left shoulder.

  “Yeah, about that,” I said and gave an apologetic shrug. “It was Kade that brought me up here.”

  “Traitor,” Rehja snapped.

  “Ah well, then you’ll be glad to know he is dead. Happy to help. Though I must confess, it was more a heat of the moment, accident kind of thing. Your doorman seems a good sort. I am sure he’ll have you out of here before Kade’s body begins to smell too much. Now, the thing I stole for you, where is it?”

  “The seal?”

  “Yes, if that’s what it is.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. Not worth anything.” I could see the confusion in his one good eye. It was possible he was telling the truth. However, I had stolen it for him, for them. Some rite of initiation and the object linked me to a crime. Which, being honest with myself, was minor compared with the dead body in the hallway. One thing at a time. At least, I could claim that had been self-defence though I had been forcing entry to the penthouse at the time. Admittedly with a chocolate bar, but it’s the thought that counts.

  “It is worth something. The whole home was worth more than I’ll ever earn. Plus it looked old. Old things are worth more than money to rich people. So no, I think it is worth something and I think it is worth more to the real owner.”

  “That’s all you want?” He seemed surprised. I’d have been surprised to and I hadn’t been hit with a very heavy frying pan a short while ago. “You’ll let me go?”

  “Of course.” I wouldn’t.

  “It’s in the entertainment room. On a shelf,” he said.

  “Wait there,” I told him and hopped off my stool, hurrying through the penthouse to the entertainment room.