Calling an ambulance would be the next thing to do, he reckoned, but he needed some time to calm down, pull himself together. He turned to stand the whiskey bottle back up on the table. Three foil strips, empty of their tablets, lay on its surface. Dave sighed. Deeply. The tumult in his head was beginning to subside, but one question still nagged at him.
Why had Mickey taken his own life?
Actually, two questions nagged. Why hadn’t he known Mickey was going to take his own life? He was his best friend, for Christ’s sake. How could he not have seen something, something that he could have acted on to prevent all this happening? He cast his mind back to that afternoon, when Mickey had come around. Was there something there he had missed? Was the visit some kind of subconscious plea on Mickey’s behalf? It had been out of the blue, that was for sure, but his friend had seemed relaxed and happy enough.
Maybe, though, that had been because he’d already made the decision to do what he’d done. Maybe it had been a farewell visit.
Tears threatened to well up again and he decided now would be the time to call for the ambulance. Do something practical, do something for Mickey, albeit too late. He reached into his pocket and fumbled about for his mobile. Finding the phone, he pulled it out of his pocket and typed in the three nines.
“Hello? Yes. Ambulance please. Thanks. Yes, hello, I’d like to report a… a death please. It’s my friend, Mickey Ross, he… he’s killed himself. Oh, oh right, I didn’t realise, but that would make sense. I just assumed… of course the Police would have to know. Yes, yes I can give you the address. Will you let the police know or should I? Oh, okay. The address is 5, Colliery Terrace. My name? It’s David Charlton. Yes, yes, I’ll wait here until they arrive. Okay. Thanks.”
He pushed the button to end the call, relieved to be off the phone. Just talking about Mickey’s death had made it all the more real (how real do you want it to be?) and he’d felt emotion threatening to overwhelm him. And panic. And helplessness. He must have sounded deranged on the phone.
Shit, the police were coming. Oh God, this was getting serious. More serious. The real world, and the situations it brought with it, was too much. That’s why he’d spent so much time creating a life in which he could hide away from it as much as possible.
Didn’t work very well, did it?
He suddenly felt light-headed, as if his brain – overwhelmed with information – was choosing to simply close down for a while, give itself a chance to pull itself together.
A noise from the kitchen startled him, a jolt of adrenalin rousing him from the stupor he had been about to slip into. Another sound came from beyond the glass-panelled door.
Someone’s in there…
The light-headedness had returned although it was fear this time that generated the feeling. His heart pounded, the thump-thump-thump heard as well as felt.
A figure appeared behind the door. A shadow made all the more indiscernible by the glass. Dave yelped, unable to contain his fear. The shape, distorted as it was, seemed familiar. The physiognomy…
The shadow reached for the door handle. With mounting fear, Dave watched the brass handle on his side of the door rotate down through forty-five degrees, creaking as it did so. Mickey was as much a fan – had been as much a fan – of DIY and home maintenance as he was.
The latch clicked and Dave took a step backwards.
The door swung open, and he felt his knees begin to buckle.
Mickey stepped through the open door and smiled at Dave.
A rushing sound filled Dave’s head. Blackness crept in from the edges of his vision and weakness spread through his legs. The world tilted and he felt himself falling as the darkness became absolute. He was unconscious from the faint before his head collided with the coffee table.
The blood spurting from the wound splashed into the spilt whisky on its surface.
* * *
Dawn painted the sky red, the sun still hidden behind high mountains. The bulk of them were thrown into shadow, blue and purple, the skyline atop them ragged with fringes of tall pines. The Dodge swept along the deserted highway, headlights still ablaze, cutting through the twilight.
Dilly slept on, oblivious to the majestic display Mother Nature was putting on for them. Not even the wind coming in through Chris’s open window could rouse her from her slumber, the window on which he rested his arm, through which he blew cigarette smoke.
GAS, ONE MILE. The sign, a battered metal plate that hung vertically from the one screw that held it in place, was pockmarked with bullet holes, rusted around its edges. Chris glanced down at the fuel gauge, saw the needle hovering just above the red block at the bottom, and hoped that, despite its appearance, the sign was still valid. Find out soon enough, I reckon…
Cresting a rise in the road, he was relieved to see a small cluster of buildings on the roadside. Relieved, too, to see the lights on in the larger of them. As the car approached, two pumps became visible. Slowing the Dodge, he swung onto the forecourt.
A bell dinged as the Dodge pulled alongside the first of the pumps, throwing up dust as it did. As he turned off the ignition and opened the door to get out, the door of the gas station swung open, adding to the pale-yellow light thrown by the large window fronting the building. Silhouetted in the light from within, a slight figure made its way towards him, soon becoming recognisable as a slightly stooped old woman. A tattered cardigan covered a long floral dress that extended to her boot-clad feet. A scarf was wrapped around her head. Her shuffling feet stirred up small clouds of dust that reflected the redness of the sky.
“What can I git ya?” she asked.
“Fill ‘er up,” Chris replied, flicking another cigarette into his mouth. Cupping his hands around it, he lit it from a match, dropped his head back onto his shoulders, and blew out a long plume of smoke.
“Right you are!” The old woman shuffled over to the pump and unhooked the nozzle. “You headed far?” she asked, “this early in the mornin’?”
“Far enough, I reckon,” Chris replied, flicking ash onto the dusty ground.
“Well, you got a nice day for it, by the looks of it.” She leant over to unscrew the cap on the side of the car.
“Reckon so.”
Placing the cap on the roof of the car, the old woman placed the nozzle into the opening and started pumping the gas. “Not big on conversation, are ya?”
“Reckon not.”
The woman snorted and grinned humourlessly, shook her head, carried on pumping. Chris wandered away from the car, reluctant to encourage further words from the woman. It didn’t work.
“Your gal okay?” She nodded towards Dilly, still asleep inside the car.
“Yeah, she’s fine. Just tired is all. You gonna be much longer deliverin’ that gas?”
“Takes as long as it takes.”
“Takin’ too long, for my liking—”
“Everybody’s always rushin’ around these days. Seems like everyone’s hurrying to get things done since the war ended. Thing’s worth doing, it’s worth takin’ time over. Them’s my thoughts on the matter, anyhoo.” She craned her neck to look inside the car again. “You sure she’s okay?”
Chris felt anger rising in him. “I told you, she’s fine. Quit worrying about what don’t concern you.”
The old woman grunted. “Just askin’. Just showing some concern.” She waggled the nozzle a couple of times then withdrew it from the car. “There ya go, full to the brim.”
“Thanks.” Chris dug into the pocket of his jeans with a hand. “How much?”
“Oh, four-fifty should cover it,” she replied, re-hanging the nozzle on the pump and wiping her hands on a tissue she’d pulled from the pocket of her cardigan.
“Here’s five, keep the change.” Chris handed a crumpled note to her and made to open the car door.
“My oh my! A regular Rockerfeller! You all drive safe now!”
Chris didn’t reply, instead climbed into the car and turned on the ignition. Without further ado,
he pulled out of the forecourt, back onto the road, the tires leaving a cloud of sandy dust hanging in the air behind him.
As she watched the car disappearing down the highway, the woman felt her knees begin to buckle. She leaned against the pump for support and breathed deeply, coughing as the dust thrown up by the departing Dodge tickled the back of her throat. Relief flooded through her. She hoped that her words hadn’t betrayed her fear, hoping that she’d kept the conversation natural, had hid the tremor in her voice, had hidden the fact that she could see exactly who – exactly what – the young man was.
Her breathing was becoming more even now, her legs steadier. At a quicker pace than the shuffle that had brought her out here, she made her way back to the building, shoving the five-dollar bill into her pocket as she went.
The sun was a little higher in the sky now. The air was getting warmer, but still she shivered as she walked.
* * *
The water rushes towards you as you fall through the air. Death surely awaits you as you plummet towards the earth, but you feel no fear at the prospect. Indeed, the opposite applies. Even in the few seconds it has taken you to fall this far, a feeling of immense calm has filled you, a peacefulness. You feel – fulfilled. Time slows almost to a halt as you continue to fall, continue to see the thrashing water of the river grow ever closer. Falling, falling…
The sound of the phone ringing jolts you into wakefulness. For a moment or so you continue to experience the falling sensation generated in your dream, and you call out, reach out, sit bolt upright and feel the blood pounding in your temples. You are disorientated. The semi-light of early morning sneaks into the room through the gaps in the blind hanging in front of the window.
The phone rings. And rings, Its insistent tone dragging you back to full consciousness. Your pulse slows as awareness of your surroundings, of the fact that you are not plunging to a watery death, establishes itself.
The noise of the phone is becoming an irritation and you reach over to it. The thought of simply picking it up and then dropping it back into the cradle occurs to you, but you disregard it even as you pick it up. The caller will not give up. Anyone ringing this early must have something important to say. To hang up without answering will only delay the inevitable.
“Hello,” you say, and listen to the voice at the other end of the line.
A body has been found. Before you can argue that, since your special assignment, this is of no concern to you anymore, the voice pre-empts you, explaining that this particular murder will be of great interest to you.
You request more information, more details, beginning to regret your decision to have a drink, breaking your, at the best of times, somewhat tenuous rule not to partake during the week. None is forthcoming, rather a demand for your attendance at the scene. An address is given, one that is familiar to you. “Okay, give me half an hour,” you say, and drop the phone back into the cradle.
You will be there even sooner.
* * *
The setting sun hung low above the horizon, painting the sky with shades of crimson. The early mist and fog had given way to clear skies, but as the day had progressed, clouds had begun to accumulate. High cirrus at first, little more than wisps of white against the blue of the sky, but later in the evening huge banks of cumulus heralding the approach of a weather-front. The clouds reflected the dying rays of the sun, adding grandeur and majesty to the scene. At any other time, in any other place, this would have been beautiful, but circumstances prevented Church from enjoying the splendour surrounding him.
They had driven all day, heading deeper and deeper into the countryside, the villages they passed through becoming more and more infrequent. It had been over an hour since they had last seen habitation. The road they travelled along was little more than a rutted track and Dreschler frequently had to manoeuvre around potholes, not always successfully. The car rocked from side to side and bounced over the uneven surface, throwing Church around, his handcuffs making it difficult to steady himself. The engine laboured under the effort of negotiating the pitted track, revving far higher than was surely safe. A hot, metallic smell filled its interior, adding to the feelings of nausea the British captain was experiencing. Dreschler appeared oblivious to it all and drove on, a smile – more a smirk – playing across his lips.
Church had long since stopped trying to engage the German in conversation. He would give no information about their destination, and seemed little interested in any other topic. Would Dreschler unshackle him once they got there? It was his duty as an officer, as a British soldier, to make every attempt at escape, whatever the circumstances. With no information to work from, it was impossible to devise any kind of plan, Dreschler’s lack of communication was frustrating in the extreme. He felt no fear for his life; it was obvious the Hauptmann was keeping him alive. He’d had ample opportunities to kill him and had never taken them. He was obviously part of some elaborate plan, but what that plan could be he had no idea. He wasn’t privy to any secret information. He had no specialised skills or knowledge, so why was he so important to Dreschler? Or, he thought, the people Dreschler was working for. Why had he gone to such lengths to trap him? He realised now that all he had experienced thus far – with the possible exception of the battle at Mons – had been a means of bringing himself and Dreschler together, an intricate game of cat and mouse. But to what end? He was well and truly trapped now.
What did fate hold in store for him?
“Wir sind hier,” Dreschler said, distracting Church from his musings, “entschuldigung fur die lang reise, aber wir sind jetzt hier.” He smiled and nodded encouragingly. Then, seeing the incomprehension on Church’s face, he added, “I’m sorry, I forgot myself. I was just saying that we have arrived. It has been a long journey, but we are here now.” He smiled and nodded again, but Church made no response. Instead, he looked out through the windscreen, squinted against the light of the setting sun and saw, in the distance, set to one side of the track and silhouetted against the red of the sky, a small church.
As the car bounced along the track towards it, he saw it was a low, stone-built structure with a pitched roof leading to a short spire. Atop the spire a metalwork angel blew into a long trumpet.
They drove past the church and turned off the track behind its western wall, above which the spire loomed. The setting sun cast a red hue across the stones, from which the church was built, and reflected in the arch-shaped stained-glass window dominating the façade.
Dreschler pulled the handbrake on and turned the engine off. Church could have sworn he heard it sigh. The smell of hot metal and oil was almost overpowering, and he felt immense relief that the journey appeared to be over, out here at this remote church.
“Eine kirche fur Kapitan Kirche!” This time Dreschler made no apology for his use of German, seeing, as he did, the merest hint of a smile on the British soldier’s lips, knowing his words had been understood. “Come, let’s get out.”
He opened his door and swung his legs out of the vehicle. Standing up, he stretched his back, his arms, jiggled his head from side to side to release the tension that had built up in his muscles. Turning back, he opened the door to allow Church out of the car. Church shuffled along the seat and swung his legs out, placed his feet on the hard, dry soil, and lunged into a standing position, the chain on his handcuffs jangling as he moved. Pain flared across his back and shoulders as he straightened up and his body adjusted to being free from the confines of the car. He slowly rotated his head, stretching his neck muscles, heard them click and crack. Pins and needles spread through his legs as blood flowed into them.
Dreschler closed his eyes and took a deep, somewhat theatrical breath. He stood there for a few seconds, revelling in the moment. The sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, the last blood-red crescent winking out. A sudden breeze blew past them, ruffled their hair, a short, sharp blast of cool air. Dreschler kept his eyes shut and, briefly, Church thought of taking the opportunity to make a break for
it. A two-handed punch to the side of the German’s head – the weight and solidity of the cuffs would help – and then run for it. Before his aching muscles had time to protest, Dreschler spoke, his voice calm and modulated.
“Don’t even think about it, Captain Church. You wouldn’t make it.” His eyes flicked open on the last word.
Church gasped, shocked that the German could have known what he was thinking, precisely what he was thinking. “I—”
“Come,” Dreschler interrupted, “let’s go inside. We have much to do before it gets too dark.” He reached out a hand and grabbed Church’s arm, gently guided him around the car to the door of the church. Like the window in the west wall, the wooden door was tapered to an arch at the top. A heavy, black metal knocker in the shape of a ring hung from the latch, and Dreschler gripped it tightly before turning it sharply to the left. The lock disengaged, clanking loudly, the sound echoing through the church, amplified so much as to suggest the building they were about to enter was much bigger than it actually was. It was a jarring sound. It felt to Church like a desecration of the silence of their surroundings. Dreschler pushed the door open, the hinges emitting a shrill grating as it swung into the darkness. Cool air rushed out, swept past the two men, bringing with it a musty smell, an old smell.
“Please, after you…” Dreschler extended an arm into the darkness of the porch, guiding Church inside. Though the light was fading outside, it was still brighter than the building into which he’d just stepped, and Church squinted in the darkness. Much cooler in here, too. Cold as stone. His boots scuffed the surface of the flagstones, which lay unevenly on the floor of the porch.
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