Impact

by Robert Clark

  ‘I need to call my manager,’ she insisted. ‘I’m not supposed to handle things like this without him.’

  She reached for the phone behind the counter. I put my palms flat out and leaned close.

  ‘Look,’ I said, imposing as threatening a London accent as I could muster. ‘We’ve got word that three men in the area may have stayed at this hotel sometime over the past few nights. These men are hard shit, okay? I’m talking murderers. Serial killers. We need to make sure they are found and brought to justice before they get the chance to kill again, okay?’

  The receptionist just looked at me in shock.

  ‘Let me just call my manager,’ she said, reaching back for the phone.

  I slapped my hand on the desk and stormed away. There was something in her eyes. Something I didn’t like. Just like I’d seen from the woman on the train with the goddamn sandwich conundrum. It itched the back of my brain and riled up the darkness lurking there. I didn’t like it.

  And even if she hadn’t recognised me, getting the manager involved could lead to further complications. They might need proof or warrants. They might need confirmations. They might scrutinise my ID. They might join the dots. They might call their own police force.

  No, I had a better plan instead.

  Slamming my hand on the counter had been a scare tactic, sure. But it had served a second purpose. Marketing firms like to cook up some weird shit. In fairness, sometimes they struck gold. Look at Santa Claus. The only reason he’s red is because the big wigs at Coca Cola made him that way. A sugary drink literally reshaped a global holiday. But most of the time the stuff they pumped out came across as tacky or annoying or downright bizarre. And what I’d seen lying on the countertop was what I’d relegate to option number three.

  But then, I wasn’t a smoker. Slapping your brand logo on a pack of matches might have seemed suave and sophisticated back in the nineteen thirties when smoking cured all of life’s ailments, but in the twenty-first century, it just felt weird. But I didn’t need it to be the best thing since sliced bread, because it gave me a plan of action.

  I snatched a pack from the counter, jogged around the side of the hotel and found the bins out back. They were huge metallic beasts, painted brown and black for reasons unbeknownst to me. I heaved up the lid of the first and looked inside. Not the recycling bin, it would seem, judging by the stench that forced its way into my nostrils. I backed out and tried the second bin. The brown one. Inside was a mass of cardboard and paper. All nice and dry. I pulled out one of the matches and struck a light.

  And dropped it into the bin.

  The cardboard jumped at the chance for some villainy, lighting up brighter than the sun. I swung the bin lid back to feed it a healthy amount of oxygen, and ran back. No need to do anything else. My work would be spotted soon enough. As sure as day follows night, the receptionist would see.

  It took her a minute longer than I expected. I'd noticed the screen just off to her left behind the counter split nine ways with different dull images filling the screen. One such camera pointed over the bins. And while that meant there was now evidence that I'd indulged in a little arson, I'd kept my head low, the umbrella over my head and my actions as quick as possible. The police would have a hard time figuring out who I was, and I'd be long gone before they figured it out.

  Naturally, the receptionist went ape shit. She came rushing out the front door, squawking like a deranged parrot, and trotted in her high heels round the side of the hotel, leaving the lobby nice and empty.

  I darted across, caught the door before it shut and leapt over the counter. The receptionist had left the computer unlocked, with a website about tricking spouses to confess their affairs on the screen. I minimised it and searched what was on the desktop. With one eye on the CCTV screen, watching the receptionist struggle with the raging flames, I double clicked on a spreadsheet document, and pulled up a list of the recent occupants. I scanned the list, finding the name of the woman who Armand had cheated with about half way down the list. A classy man, getting his mistress to book the room he would defile his marriage in. I thought about finding the contact details for his wife and letting her know. Maybe one day.

  Besides her, there was only one other room rented by a woman. The other eleven were all men. I looked through the bunch, but there was little on short notice I could garner, and time was ticking down. I glanced over to the CCTV monitor.

  The receptionist wasn't there.

  In a fit of panic, I jabbed the button to print off the spreadsheet, and ducked down behind the counter. The device beeped and whirred as it printed off the document. The front door remained closed. Through the glass, I could see no one. I glanced back at the monitor. Nobody there. The fire raged on in solitude. Back to the door. Still no one. The printer churned out page after page. I began to panic how many pages I was printing. The program on the computer said there were six. Three done. Three to go.

  Still no one on the CCTV monitor. Still no one outside.

  The final page printed, and I snatched them up. I closed the spreadsheet and brought the promiscuous article back to the front and centre, then I launched over the counter and ran for the door.

  The receptionist was outside, her back to me with her mobile phone glued to her ear. She screamed instructions to what I guessed was the emergency services as she danced on her toes. She didn't notice me running for the hills.

  Nine

  I found a spot up the street pressed up against the wall of a launderette and, under the protection of my umbrella, perused my findings. The eleven names did little to spring out of the page and hit me with a new lead, but they were better than nothing. Unfortunately, the hotel did not require license plate records for those staying the night. Annoying, considering I had those details to hand.

  I wondered what I should do next. Maybe I had enough evidence to leave an anonymous letter for the police, but realistically, what was there? I was the only witness that I knew of that had seen the three men leaving the scene of the crime. For all I knew, they weren't even involved. Someone could have said the same about my proximity to the suicide. Maybe someone was out there right now, trying to piece together clues that would pin me the culprit. It wouldn't be the first time, after all.

  But I just had a feeling, and I had learned over the years that my feelings usually led somewhere. This had to mean something. But in its current state, I wasn't sure what my evidence could do. I couldn't testify. Even if I could, it was subjective at best. I needed more.

  My eyes ran down the list of people. Someone staying in a hotel surely wasn't local. But then, I wasn't sure they'd even stayed in the hotel. Armand said he'd seen them outside. He didn't see an empty car. He saw the two men, then an empty space. So they had to have picked someone up at best.

  And my bet was the American.

  He was the dangling tether. The piece of the puzzle that I could snatch hold of and examine. If I had to bet, I'd say he didn't live nearby, so the trip to the hotel made sense.

  Had I been in England, looking at a list of names, it might have been harder to pick an American name out of the pile. In France, it wasn't so hard. Two names on the list stood out. Jim McCann, and Charles Neagley. Mr McCann had checked in two nights ago and was due to stay another four. Mr Neagley had checked in the previous night and was due to stay just one more.

  What would I do if I'd come to France to murder a stranger? I certainly wouldn't hang around after is what, and I wouldn't waste money on a room for longer than necessary if I was planning to skip town immediately after. Neagley and McCann were both down as customers still. But Neagley was the one I was concerned with. One night's rent was not a huge loss to bear.

  Flashing lights stole me back from the page. A firetruck swung around the corner and pulled into the hotel car park. Two burly men climbed out and unspooled the hose before sprinting around to the rear of the hotel. All the while, the receptionist flapped her arms in panic. I watched with a smirk. That's what you get for qu
estioning my fake ID, lady.

  I knew in most hotels, it was common practice to photocopy passports or drivers licenses in case payments weren't made or rooms were damaged, but I couldn't risk another foray into the hotel. The receptionist, calmed marginally by the presence of the fire fighters, returned to her important duties reading gossip columns. If Mr Neagley's passport was in there, I had little chance of seeing it without an actual police escort. But at least I could add it to my notes, whatever they may be.

  I kicked off the wall and went for a walk. I had to hope the mystery American would return, and when they did, I wanted to be ready. I snaked my way back towards the pharmacy I'd seen near the library and ducked inside to purchase a bottle of Lucozade and a disposable camera. The Lucozade was to keep my energy levels up, and I knew of no better beverage for it than the fizzy orange delight sold in stores all around the world. The camera however, that was for serious business.

  A camera can be used for many things you might not expect. Only recently, I'd transformed one into a makeshift taser. Today, I just needed it to take photographs. I headed back to the hotel and, after checking there were no new cars in the lot that might belong to Neagley or McCann, I settled in across the street.

  The firetruck had gone, the fire thwarted, and the receptionist was back behind the counter. She didn't look up from her computer. Maybe tricking spouses into confessions was a complex matter. I wouldn't know. The rain subsided, leaving swathes of gloomy clouds blanketing the sky. A bit of sunlight would have been nice. But beggars can't be choosers.

  I pulled the disposable camera out of my pocket and took a test shot of the hotel. The flash was minimal in the light of day, but I flicked it off all the same. No reason to startle anyone. With each squeeze of the button, the camera made a little click noise. That wasn't great, but there was little I could do about it without taking the thing apart, and I didn't want to do that.

  I worked my way through the bottle of Lucozade and watched a lot of nothing happen around me. Doubting thoughts wormed their way into my mind, but without a better plan to fall back upon, I chased them away. Instead, I thought about the reason. Why would a group of men bring a woman and her car up to the woods and kill them with a train? It reminded me of the times of cowboys, when hogtying a victim and throwing them on the tracks at the mercy of the great locomotive was about the most futuristic method of murder on the market. Now, it was just barbaric.

  They had been clever enough to make it look like suicide, but at what cost? Literally, it would cost thousands to fix any damage to the train or the track, and paying people to come and scoop up every scrap of car and human remains that would no doubt have scattered hundreds of yards. All when a simple noose or overdose would have achieved the same result, albeit less drastically. So much was left up in the air.

  ‘And finally, we have an answer,’ snarled the Wolf. He manifested beside me. He wore my clothes and looked at me with my eyes. I hated it. Hated seeing my face twisted with vilification. It made my stomach turn.

  ‘An answer to what?’ I snapped.

  ‘Why you're sticking around. You don't care about the girl. You love a good mystery, don't you?’

  ‘If that's all you think this is, then you're a bigger fool than me,’ I said, turning away from him, back towards the car park. No movement.

  ‘And yet, I am you. So your insults are merely a self reflection.’

  ‘You know, I bet all the other boys in my class don't have to put up with their own subconscious berating them.’

  ‘But you're the special one, aren't you James? You're not like the others.’

  I ignored him. Watched the car park. Nothing changed.

  ‘Play the innocent bystander card all you like,’ he continued. ‘But you're not kidding me. I know you. I know you care more about the why than the subject. This woman means nothing to you, just like the last one. And being a vigilante will serve nothing more than getting your name put up on a tombstone.’

  ‘We both know they won't give me a tombstone,’ I said.

  The Wolf smiled.

  ‘Exactly. Monsters don't get the same treatment.’

  I closed my eyes until he left. I didn't want to think about him, or the meaning behind his words. My actions haunted my every night. The least I could ask for was that they didn't plague my days too. Who am I kidding? I could still remember the screams. The chaos. The fear. I could still remember the smell of burnt flesh. I could still see their eyes, cold and vacant as they breathed their last breaths.

  A car pulled up onto the street. A small, silver town car with the head beams on to cut through the evening gloom. I caught it in my peripheral and followed it all the way, pretending not to notice. As it drew closer, I noticed it had a card in the window saying it was a rental. My heart skipped slightly. I couldn't see the driver. Didn't want to spook them. But as the car pulled into the hotel car park, I stretched my legs and walked across the street, the disposable camera down at my side, snapping away.

  I got there just as the car door opened.

  A man got out. His hair was short and grey, his face clean shaven. He wore half-rimmed glasses which held back stern, unyielding eyes. I took another two photographs, disguising the click under the slap of my boots on the wet ground. The man turned to look my way. I took another photo, this time hidden under a cough, and kept going, walking around the side of the hotel, towards the burned out bin.

  As soon as I was out of sight, I felt my heart skip again. It was him.

  No doubt about it.

  I had found him.

  Ten

  The American glanced at me, but didn’t speak. I walked past, like he was nothing to me. Just another guy on the street. No reason to spook him. With the camera tucked slightly into the hem of my sleeve, I snapped one final picture under the mask of a troublesome winter cough and stashed the camera into my coat pocket. I got within a couple of feet of him. Said nothing. Just kept walking.

  Back around the side of the hotel, I breathed out. I almost expected the guy to recognise me, but of course that was foolish. The chances that he'd even suspected someone out there in the forest watching him was implausible. I was nothing to worry about. Nothing whatsoever.

  But as they say, the punch you don't see coming is the one that knocks you out.

  I waited a minute before I looped round front. The guy was gone, but his car remained. I snapped a couple more photographs of the car, the license plate, and the badge in the window detailing the company it had been rented from. It wasn't the car I'd seen last night, or in the still image from Armand's computer, but that made sense. That belonged to the other men. Those still missing from my investigation.

  But for now, I was pleased with my evidence. My part in this was almost complete. All that was left to do was to decide how to best use it. I hiked back towards the pharmacy and got the pictures developed. The man at the counter looked surprised to see me back so soon, but he didn't press the matter. I waited around until my prints were ready and headed off in search of somewhere secluded to review them.

  I settled for a park bench. Rain had pooled on the metal. I wiped it away with my sleeve and sat down. At least, no one would choose to sit beside me in this weather. I opened up the envelope and check out my intel. The first photograph was that of the hotel. I put it at the bottom of the pile to check out the juicier stuff. Looking at the first few images, I was glad I hadn't settled for just the one photo. With the camera down at my side to avoid suspicion, my first attempts had been completely off. The subject of the first photo was a rain-soaked road, with only the wheel of the tyre there to show my intentions. The second and third were a little more on the ball, but the image had blurred as I stepped off the pavement to cross the street.

  Number four was back to useless. I'd somehow angled the camera down to my shoes. Fat lot of good that did. And number five had over-corrected to get a shot of the clouds above.

  But number six... oh, number six was good. The image was that of the rear
of the car, with the guy behind the wheel halfway out the car. The image was clear enough to see the disgruntlement in his eyes and, with numbers seven, eight and nine following the trajectory, his inevitable turn towards me. Number ten was exactly what I wanted. A front on view of the man I suspected of murder.

  The next three pictures went back to the rubbish pile, as I'd begun to conceal my camera while still snapping away. Then the last five images were my remaining snaps of the car. Combined with my screen grabs of the two men in the other car, I was seriously impressed. Maybe I should have been a private detective. I'd have to save that for the next life now. The one I had already was too problematic for a career change.

  But once more, the question of what to do with it came back to the forefront of my mind. I didn't feel like I could go to the police, and I was conscious that overstaying my welcome in this quaint little town would spell my downfall. There was still the matter of my escape from the train to worry about. Prisches was surely on the cop's list of potential destinations for the illusive criminal, James Stone. And it would only take so long to stroll the streets before someone stopped me.

  Yet in its current state, all I had was conjecture and a handful of pictures. It wasn't enough.

  But it was a start. A start for someone who wanted justice.

  And I had an idea who that person was.

  The clouds began to part as I found my way back to the memorial. The brunt of the group had left, leaving only a couple of stragglers left to mourn. The woman I'd seen on her knees had left. Two young women about my own age stood side by side, looking at a wreath of flowers propped up against the low brick wall. They held each other in sorrowful support. I approached with care.

  ‘How did you know Amie?’ I asked, trying to make my French as fluent as possible.

  ‘We worked together,’ said the lady closest. ‘I… I had no idea she was going through something.’