by Dean Carson
I went to the side door of the church and tried the lock. Doors are an odd thing; most are only secure from one side. From the outside they are impregnable. From the inside you simply turn the knob and they open. But this was an old door and an old lock and it was firmly bolted. So even though I had broken into the church with no difficulty, I ended up having to pick the lock to break out.
TWENTY
I felt a bit self-conscious in my priestly robes and noticed as I walked down the busy streets near the town centre that drunks seemed to straighten up as I passed, and couples on romantic walks still held hands but left a little gap between them, space for the holy spirit. I nodded at a few people, but quickly realised this was not needed or expected. So I kept my head high and walked as if I owned the streets.
I passed out of the centre quickly, and once I was in the residential part of town I met fewer and fewer people. My progress was swift. It was not long after ten when I reached the address La Donna had given me. It was a quiet and affluent street, and the houses were all detached, with their own gardens. Whoever lived on this street was doing well. It smelt of money and was completely deserted.
Still, I took precautions. I walked past the house without a glance. Peripheral vision showed me everything I needed to know. No lights on at the front, but some light spilling out around the side, meaning there was a window or more light up at the rear of the house. A small gate, a low fence and a few bushes in the garden. Not much cover, but a little. I walked on.
At the end of the street I turned a corner and found myself walking alongside a high wall. Trees lined the edge of the pavement. I paused and looked around. Like the other street, it was completely deserted so I took a moment to remove the bright white alb and the stole, bundling them up and putting them under my arm. White stands out in the dark like a target painted on your back. I turned and walked back towards the house.
All my senses were on alert. I heard nothing. I saw nothing. I felt nothing. I scanned the windows of nearby houses. No one was looking out. As I reached Paulina’s house I placed one hand on the wall and quickly vaulted over, dropping on the ground on the other side. There was a crunch of gravel but no other sound. In the silence the crunch sounded like a jet taking off, but as I lay there no lights came on. I had not been spotted. So I stood cautiously and stowed the clerical robes between one of the bushes and the wall. Then I walked quickly to the house and slipped around the side. There were no lights on in the front and no sound of television or music, so it was safe to assume that half of the house was safe. I had to know about the back.
I turned the corner carefully. Light spilled out of a big window into the small garden. Light, but no sound. So I approached cautiously and peered in quickly. I was looking at the kitchen, and it was empty. I examined it more carefully. Nothing but a modern kitchen and a door leading out of it. I tried the back door. It was closed. It was locked. So I opened it. It took a matter of moments with my picking tools. I slipped inside and pulled the door closed behind me, gently, barely making a click.
The house felt empty. But you don’t stay alive by trusting feelings. You check. I listened at the door of the kitchen for a full five minutes before pushing the handle and stepping through to the hallway. The door to the front room was open and I looked inside. It was the family room, with a sofa, two comfortable armchairs, a coffee table stacked with fashion magazines and a television in the corner. No occupants.
The other rooms downstairs were a small bedroom and a toilet, both empty. So I went upstairs, carefully walking on the edges of the steps rather than the centre to minimise creaks. I paused at the top. No sound. So I checked the rooms. The master bedroom was empty. So was the bathroom. So was the second bedroom, which was clearly Paulina’s. It does not take a detective to figure out which room belongs to a teenage girl. The boy-band posters are a giveaway. I recognised Justin Bieber and didn’t recognise a Black rap artist. I am sure he was a rap artist; he was wearing a baseball cap jauntily backwards.
In one sense, things were going well. I had broken into the target’s house easily and without detection. In another sense, they were not going well at all. In an ideal world I would have broken in, found my target asleep, done the job I had come to do and been on my way. Now I would have to wait. And I didn’t know for how long.
I made myself as comfortable as I could. I crawled under the bed and stretched out, my body shoved against the wall. I made sure my feet did not stick out and give me away. My nose was only an inch or two away from below the mattress, and I felt an almost irresistible urge to sneeze. Did she ever vacuum under here?
Snipers are trained to wait patiently, often lying for hours or days without movement, silently peeing into their pants without rustling the surrounding grass. They are masters of disappearing into the environment, ready to pop out with lethal force when the time comes. I am no sniper. I was bored, restless and beginning to cramp. I was also less than happy about the occasional spider that chose to run across my face. I don’t know how long I remained there under that bed. I think about three weeks. I am fairly sure that is accurate, though the evidence of my watch later on would suggest it was a little under an hour. The watch must have stopped at some point during the evening.
I think I was in a daydream when the front door crashed open, because for a moment I forgot completely where I was and I tried to sit up. The mattress smashing against my nose stopped that, and the resulting cloud of dust almost brought on a sneezing fit. For a few precious moments I struggled to bring the sneeze reflex under control. During those moments I heard and felt the front door slam shut and heard loud footsteps marching down the hallway into the kitchen. Then I heard the click of a kettle being turned on. For the next few minutes I interpreted the sounds as a sandwich being made. From here I could not tell what sort of sandwich, but the sounds reminded me that I was beginning to get hungry. Perhaps I should have had a dessert after my dinner with La Donna.
The footsteps marched back into the hallway and into the front room. I know it was the front room because suddenly the television came on, far too loud. I had to decide what to do. Was this Paulina downstairs? If so, I should creep down and get it over with. Or was it one of her parents? In which case creeping down prematurely was the last thing I wanted to do. I fingered the little something La Donna had given me for this portion of the plan. Get up or stay put?
The television flicked through several channels before settling on some horrible Euro-pop music station. I listened for a few minutes as it blared through the house. Had she no consideration for the neighbours?. If that was her parents’ selection, the world was a sick place. Teenage girls, on the other hand, are not known for their taste. It was time to move.
TWENTY-ONE
The funny thing about being a man of action is that it takes so long. Time to move? I waited at the top of the stairs for a full five minutes to make sure that she settled and wasn’t suddenly about to go to the kitchen for another sandwich. Then I snuck down the stairs and waited for another few moments, listening, outside the door.
She hadn’t slammed it. It was half open, but opened inward, so it concealed some of the room. I could see the television screen flickering, and she hadn’t bothered to switch on a light. The noise from the television made listening a bit of a redundant exercise, and the angle of the door made casing the room impossible. So I was standing there, putting off the inevitable. And the longer I stood the more likely it was that the parents would come home, which would really screw my plans. I reached into my pocket and took out the one bit of help La Donna had given me. No weapon, but a tiny aerosol spray, the type people use to spray scented water on their faces during hot spells. It was a small plastic container that fitted neatly into my fist with a tiny nozzle on the end. I don’t know exactly what it was filled with, but some form of chloroform or ether was my guess. One spray, she had said, and the girl would pass out and remain firmly unconscious for at least five minutes.
Of course, the plan had b
een to sneak up on her in her bedroom in the deep of night and spray her without alerting her. The problem with spraying strange substances into the faces of victims is that many victims show a terrible reluctance to breathe in those miasmic mists. It would be easier if she didn’t see it coming. But there was no help for it.
I tried to figure out reflections from the television screen, which was difficult with the kaleidoscope of images the pop videos were throwing up. But between songs the screen went dark for a fleeting second, and I could see enough to tell me my target was on one of the two armchairs. She might be asleep, or she might be reclining after a difficult day being a moody teen.
I stepped through the door.
She was slumped, her legs stretched out straight, her back rounded, her head staring at the screen, eyes closed. She was a good-looking girl of about seventeen, with long dark hair but a pout on her face that suggested she gave her parents ulcers. On her lap was a plate with an uneaten sandwich, and balanced precariously on the arm of the chair was a full mug of coffee. I had caught a break; she was asleep. But I was taking no chances. I sprayed the mist directly into her face. She stirred slightly, then sighed and seemed to settle even more into the comfortable chair. I sprayed her twice more to make sure. I put the coffee mug on the floor where it would not spill and removed the sandwich plate. I was tempted to take a bite, but there was coleslaw in it. Who ruins a sandwich with coleslaw?
There was one final bit to do. I went into the kitchen and opened the cutlery drawer, removing the sharpest and most vicious carving knife I could find. Then I returned to Paulina. I was ready.
I pulled her up in the armchair and pushed her head back, exposing the pale flesh of her neck. I stood behind her and rested her head against my right shoulder. Then I placed the edge of the knife against the side of her neck and pressed down into the flesh. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to make my intent clear. With my left hand I took out my phone and angled it above my head. When I was sure it was just perfect, I took the photo.
I was delighted with the result. My face was not visible, just one brawny arm and the vicious knife. It looked like a still from a horror flick: the helpless girl with her head thrown back, her face blank like she was stoned. The flash had bled the colour from her, which helped make her look more pathetic and vulnerable. This was the photo that would give any loving grandfather nightmares. It was the photo that would get me a passport. La Donna’s plan was coming together.
I texted the photo to La Donna, then put the phone back in my pocket. I pulled the girl by the ankles until she was slumped once more before the television, then replaced the coffee mug on the arm of her chair. I put the plate and sandwich back on her lap. There might be time for me to go to the kitchen and make one for myself, without the coleslaw.
I took one final look around the room and was about to walk out when the front door banged open.
TWENTY-TWO
I had about two seconds, so no great thought went into my next move. I dived behind the sofa and scrunched up in the space between it and the wall. I was back among the dust and the spiders. And now I absolutely positively had to control the sneeze reflex.
It was dark behind the sofa because Paulina had not switched on the lights when she sat down to enjoy her sandwich. But it didn’t remain dark for long. Two sets of footsteps — and two giggling bodies with them — came into the room and the light blazed on. I could make out a female giggle and a deeper male growling laugh. Obviously the parents were home. And they weren’t happy to find their daughter slumped in front of a television and out like a light.
The deep growling laugh of the father turned to a more guttural tone as he began shouting at his daughter. I couldn’t see what was happening, but it didn’t take a genius to work it out. He was pissed off. Then the mother began shouting. Obviously she was pissed off too. Then I heard the chair move and knew they were shaking her. She was deeply asleep. At least I knew the stuff La Donna had given me had worked. But perhaps I should have left it at one squirt.
Finally the teenager responded. I heard the petulant snarl. There were three raised voices for a few minutes, then a lull, then the coffee mug fell over and the voices rose in an ugly cacophony. The girl picked up her plate and walked towards the kitchen. It is amazing how much you can follow just from voices and footsteps. I heard heavy footsteps going up the stairs. The daughter was off to bed. That only left the parents. As soon as they retired, I would slip out. To hell with my sandwich, I would go hungry.
But the sofa creaked heavily as the father flopped down on it. He lowered the sound of the television and began surfing the channels. There was some soft conversation, then the wife left the room and I heard the kettle going on once more in the kitchen. More than five minutes passed before she returned. From the clinks as she sat I guessed she had brought tea or coffee for both of them. She sat down beside him and the sofa creaked again. From the creak, she wasn’t a petite woman.
There was quietness for a while. The husband had settled on a football game — I could see the reflection of the TV screen bounced off a small photo frame on the far wall. I don’t think it was a great game. But I am not a football fan and my viewing conditions were hardly ideal. His wife was snuggled against him. That I couldn’t see in the reflections. It was supposition on my part, based on the fact that the sofa had bulged dangerously against me on one end, but not on the other, meaning they were sitting side by side. Football games last ninety minutes, so potentially I was stuck there for that long. But I didn’t think they would watch it to the end. Especially if the wife was cosying up to the husband. They would take the action upstairs and I could make my escape.
After about ten minutes their mugs were placed on the floor, and a minute later I heard soft romantic whispers. Then there was a sharp intake of breath and she said something to him. But she wasn’t annoyed because she laughed as she said it. The soft whisperings became more urgent and the sofa began to rock. They weren’t taking it upstairs.
I had to lie there with spiders running across me, dust motes dancing above my delicate nostrils, while the two got very busy. As they had a teenage daughter they must have been married a number of years, but they still seem unable to keep their hands off each other. The movements became more frantic and chaotic and suddenly something came over the edge of the sofa, landing across my face. I almost cried out. Whatever it was, its loss hadn’t thrown them off their stride. When it became obvious that no hand would come looking for it, I stretched up to my face and felt with my fingers. Stiff fabric in a circular shape … wire … damn, her bra had landed on my face.
The perfect end to a perfect night.
I lay there and thought of my mindfulness then decided to hell with that. There was no mindfulness that would make this any better. So I lay there and fumed. It lasted twenty minutes, a tribute to their stamina. Then the husband began snoring. But the wife was breathing softly. It was not the pattern of someone sleeping. She was lying there beside him contemplating life, or washing, or whatever it is women think about when their menfolk fall asleep once their animal needs are satisfied. And as long as she remained awake, I remained trapped. So I lay there.
It took fifteen minutes, and my ordeal was ended quite suddenly. There was a movement above me and the husband fell off the sofa, waking up with a curse. He muttered something and left the room, his footsteps echoing up the stairs. A minute later, she followed. I was alone.
I gave it ten minutes, spiders or no spiders. Then I got up, tossed aside the bra and walked to the kitchen. I let myself out the back door without stopping at the fridge, collected the cassock from behind the bush and hurried back to the hotel.
When I got back the bar was still open, but only the stragglers were left. I took no chances. I went around the rear and entered the hotel that way, slipping quietly upstairs. La Donna was in bed asleep. She barely stirred when I crept in, and I didn’t switch on the light. I took off my shoes and trousers and looked at the chair. Then I looked at
the bed. It had been a long night. I pulled back the covers and got in beside her.
She stirred briefly and put an arm across my chest. She was still asleep, but it was a light sleep and her hand began to slip down my chest. I clutched the aerosol and sprayed it softly in her face once, twice, then a third time to be sure. I rolled over and went to sleep.
TWENTY-THREE
It was the smell of coffee that woke me in the morning. It was a pungent and rich aroma, and I woke with a smile. The sunlight was streaming through the window and La Donna was sitting in the bed beside me, looking very alluring in black silk. But the breakfast was even more alluring. There were fresh croissants, two boiled eggs and crusty bread with feta cheese and slices of large ripe tomatoes. And freshly squeezed orange juice.
“This makes a nice change from yesterday,” I said.
“I am sorry, Chérie. I had to leave in a hurry yesterday. Today I can linger and enjoy breakfast with you. You were magnificent last night.” She ran a finger down my chest, sending electric tingles through my skin.
“You were asleep last night and even if you hadn’t been, you got quite enough use out of my body the night before.”
I spread the feta on the bread and topped it with a slice of tomato. It was as delicious as it had looked. I took a sip of coffee. The world began to look better.
“The picture you took was great. That will do the trick.”
Her words brought me back with a crash. Last night had been a horrible few hours, but a successful few hours. I just had to stay alive another twelve then use my leverage on Paulina’s grandfather and this nightmare would come to an end.
“Can you get me a gun?” I asked.
“Bold,” she replied. “You know the rules. I can’t help you. Isn’t it enough that I am letting you use my body and my bed?”