by Rob Ashman
Harper was having a much more productive morning. He had bought all the local newspapers he could find, taken them to the nearest café, and ordered coffee.
He skimmed through the pages looking for the classified ads sections. Two coffees later he had marked three gun shops on the map provided by the hotel. He set off to find Guns and Tackle, situated just off Broadway and Union Street.
He found the store but didn’t bother going inside.
It was big, bright and prosperous, selling everything you needed for a camping and hunting holiday. Rifles, crossbows, tents, sleeping bags, the place had the lot. It was staffed by eager college kids wearing green shirts with the company logo on the back.
The second store was no better. It was called The Sport and Liquor Store and was the size of a small Wal-Mart. The store showcased hundreds of handguns and rifles, along with wall upon wall of bottled booze.
Alcohol and guns, now there’s a sensible mix, thought Harper.
He carried on walking.
The last on the list was a cab ride away near Cambridge Square. He read out the address to the driver. After fifteen minutes they swung left off First Avenue onto Quince Street. Harper paid the guy and stepped out.
He looked around. There were no gun shops to be seen. Harper checked the address in the paper. Sure enough, he was in the right place. He walked east to the junction with Second Avenue and saw what he was looking for, sitting on its own down a narrow side street.
The rusted sign said Guns ’n Ammo.
The storefront had a hundred years of grime baked into it and the windows were brown and opaque. Harper swung open the door and a bell chimed.
The interior was tiny in comparison to the other stores, crammed with glass-topped cabinets stacked full of handguns. Against one wall was a rack of rifles, an iron bar clamping them in place. A lone man stood behind the counter. He was in his late forties with a stubble face and the remnants of his dinner on his shirt. He was over two hundred and thirty pounds with little piggy eyes staring out of his puffy face. Under his belly Harper could see a gun hanging from his belt.
Harper felt at home.
The man nodded to Harper, who nodded back.
Harper walked up and down the display cabinets looking at the handguns.
‘Can I help you?’ the man said.
‘I’m looking to buy.’
‘That’s good,’ cause we’re a store.’
Harper smiled as he perused the parade of handguns and hunting knives.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘A handgun and ammo.’
‘What sort?’
‘Something semi-automatic, 9mm, good stopping power.’
‘Good stopping power, eh?’
‘Yeah, something like a Glock, or a Colt, or a Browning.’
‘We have those.’
The man walked behind the glass display cases and selected three guns. He returned to the counter and put them on the top.
Harper checked each one over. Popping out the magazines, pulling back the slides, feeling the weight.
‘How much?’
‘The Glock is three fifty, the Colt is three hundred and the Browning is three twenty-five. You like what you see?’
‘I do, but I don’t want these.’
‘But you said you wanted something like this.’ The man looked edgy.
‘I do, but not these.’
The man placed both hands on the counter top and leaned forward.
‘Are you here to play games?’
‘No, I’m here to buy.’
Harper opened up his jacket and reached into the top pocket.
The man’s hand moved to his gun.
Harper eased out the wad of bank notes. The man’s piggy eyes widened when he saw the flash of green peeking above the lining.
‘I’m looking for something a little less visible, if you get my drift?’
The man stared at Harper.
‘You’re not a cop?’
‘No, I’m not.’
The man stroked his chin. He picked up the guns and replaced them under the glass.
He made eye contact with Harper and glanced up at the ceiling. Harper knew what he was doing. The man was pointing out the CCTV camera in the corner.
‘These guns are not for you, sir, but I might have a better selection in the back.’
The man walked from behind the counter and turned the lock on the front door, flipping over the sign to say Closed.
Harper followed him into the back.
It was small and dingy. There was an office with a rickety old desk, and a sitting room with a kettle and a sink. The place smelled of old socks and gun oil. The sound of Harper’s boots resonated against the wooden floor. There was a window at the back which was as dirty as those at the front. The man drew the drapes, flicked on a lamp and pulled a flat-edged screwdriver from the desk drawer. He pushed the sofa to one side, knelt down and levered the flat edge between the floorboards. He lifted up a square of flooring.
He fished his hand around under the floorboards and brought out a slim briefcase, then another and another. There were four cases in total. He cleared the desk and laid them down, popping open the clasps.
He lifted the lids to show the guns.
‘May I?’ Harper said.
The man stepped to one side and Harper went through the same inspection routine as before.
‘How many do you need?’
‘Two.’
Harper turned the guns over in his hand. The serial numbers had been filed away.
‘Can these be traced?’
‘No, they’ve not been used, they are brand new.’
Harper nodded approvingly.
‘How much?’
‘A grand a piece.’
‘Fifteen for the two.’
‘Seventeen fifty.’
‘And you throw in a box of ammo for each?’
‘Yes, okay.’
Harper selected the Browning and the Berretta. The man put both guns into one case and retrieved two boxes of Parabellum 9mm shells from the hole in the floor.
Harper peeled off the money from his wad of notes and gave it to the man.
The man held the notes up to the dim lighting.
‘They are fine,’ said Harper.
‘They are,’ he replied.
The man closed the lid, snapped the catches shut and handed the black hard-topped case to Harper.
‘Better that you leave this way,’ he said.
The man ushered Harper further into the back of the store and out through a door. It opened onto a narrow back lane.
‘Great doing business with you,’ Harper said as he stepped outside.
The guy shut the door and Harper could hear the sound of bolts being thrown across.
Harper had a big grin plastered on his face. Not because he was pleased with his purchases but because he still had the knack of sniffing out a bent business.
Mechanic arrived home after her run to the post office. She had pushed the pace and was breathing heavily. She tossed the padded envelope from Jameson onto the kitchen worktop and opened the refrigerator. A cold bottle of mineral water and a long, hot shower was in order.
She twisted the top and the gas fizzed.
‘It’s time to play.’ Daddy’s voice came out of nowhere.
Mechanic spun around to see where he was, but the apartment was empty.
‘Time to play!’ the voice yelled.
Mechanic stopped in her tracks. The voice was inside her head.
‘The family a few streets down. You saw them yesterday. Kill them.’ The voice was snarling.
Mechanic was frozen to the spot.
She broke from her paralysis and rummaged in the kitchen drawer for the skewer. The flame from the gas ring burned blue as she held the metal in the flame and tore off her vest.
‘No, no, no,’ she chanted over and over.
‘They would make a nice addition to the collection. Kill them. Get your gun and let
’s go play.’
‘No, no, no!’ Mechanic screamed the mantra, trying to drown out the voice.
‘Get your gun and let’s go out to play.’
She could feel the room swimming around her.
She held the skewer and watched it turn black in the heat. The image faded in and out of focus. Her hand trembled. A creeping numbness moved through her body.
She dropped the skewer and it rolled away from the flame.
She fumbled around to pick it up but her hands wouldn’t work.
She swayed. Her legs gave way.
Mechanic slumped to the floor with her back against the kitchen cabinet.
‘Get your gun and let’s go.’
She tried to grab the hot metal, but it was out of reach.
She pushed with her legs but they crumpled beneath her.
There was a rushing in her ears. She could feel her peripheral vision closing in.
‘Get your gun and let’s go play.’
Mechanic gritted her teeth and once more lunged for the handle of the skewer.
She fell back and everything went black.
32
Mechanic’s eyelids flickered. Through the watery slits she could make out a blurred white light. She felt woozy.
Her eyes half-opened, and the light came into focus. It was a large circular globe set into the ceiling. She realised she must be lying on her back looking up. Her mouth was dry. Her eyelids weighed a ton and they closed again. Her brain slowly engaged.
Mechanic opened them again. Above her head was an inch-wide aluminium tramline that looped its way across the whitewashed ceiling. She tilted her head down to lower her gaze and saw two beds opposite, both with yellow curtains draped either side.
Her eyes closed and she processed the images. After an eternity her brain came back with an answer – she was lying in a hospital.
She looked around. Her head felt as if it was floating in mid-air.
Sure enough there was a person lying in the bed in the corner with an IV line running under the bedcover. The other two beds were empty. Mechanic could see through a set of open doors into a corridor with medical staff rushing about.
Lazily her brain sent a signal.
What the fuck am I doing in hospital?
Mechanic closed her eyes and tried to catch up. She moved her fingers and toes, they were fine. She moved her arms and legs, they were fine too. She wasn’t in any pain.
What the hell am I doing in hospital? The thought played through her head again.
Mechanic looked down to see herself covered in a thin blue sheet. She lifted the top cover to see underneath, she was clothed in a white nightgown. The skin on her left hand was grazed and she had a bruise on her elbow. She brought her hand up and felt the contours of her face. Everything was fine.
She lay there and picked through the debris in her mind, trying to piece together what happened.
She could remember being at the post office, collecting the package and leaving it on the worktop. She could remember feeling thirsty and the hiss of the gas escaping from the bottle, then taking a hot shower.
The picture of the skewer changing colour in the blue gas flame filled her mind.
‘Fuck,’ she said under her breath. The realisation jolted her body.
She could remember Daddy’s voice booming in her head telling her to kill the family who lived on her street. She could remember the gun.
Shit. she could remember the gun.
She had it in her hand when she left the apartment.
‘Fuck,’ she said again.
She snapped her eyes open and looked around. A cop was talking to two female medical staff outside in the corridor. The urge to fight or flight surged through her. Mechanic tried to raise herself up but her limbs felt like lead. She needed to get away.
Then her brain kicked in.
The cop is not here for me.
If I had been caught with a gun, or worse, I would be in a room on my own, handcuffed to the bed. The uniformed officer would be in the room with me not flirting with the nurses.
A nurse passing the door clocked that Mechanic was awake and bustled into the room. She was small and pretty, dressed in green scrubs. She had the bubbly air of someone who had not worked in the healthcare profession for long.
‘Hello, my name is Sara.’
Mechanic nodded in return.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘A little groggy.’
Sara picked the chart from the bottom of the bed and scribbled on it.
‘Do you hurt anywhere?’
‘No, I’m in no pain.’
‘What’s your name?’
Mechanic stopped. It was a strange question to ask. She knew cognitive questions were used when patients had suffered a head injury, questions such as what day is it, what year is it, or who is the president? But never what is your name?
She toyed with the question.
Maybe she’s asking because they don’t know my name. If I didn’t have ID with me when I was brought in, how would they know?
‘I don’t know,’ answered Mechanic.
Sara scribbled more onto the chart.
‘Are you a diabetic?’
‘No.’ Mechanic kicked herself for answering quickly.
‘Are you on any medication?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Sara made more notes. Mechanic remained silent hoping it would prompt Sara into filling in the gaps.
‘You’re in Fairfield Memorial Hospital. A man found you unconscious in a car park and called 911. They brought you in and you’ve been out cold for six hours. You have a graze on your left hand, probably from when you fell, but other than that you have no other injuries as far as we can tell. Do you remember anything?’
Mechanic shrugged her shoulders.
Sara walked around the bed and poured water into a plastic cup. She handed it to Mechanic who took a sip.
‘Do you have a history of blackouts?’ Sara continued.
Mechanic shook her head.
‘We noticed burn marks on your stomach. Do you recall how they got there?’
Mechanic shrugged her shoulders.
‘So, you know you are not a diabetic, you don’t suffer from blackouts, but you don’t remember your own name?’
Mechanic shook her head. Sara looked sceptical.
‘Okay, I will inform the doctor you’re awake, he will want to see you.’
Mechanic watched her leave.
What the fuck happened to the gun? The thought raced around in her head.
What did I do to the family?
Mechanic had to get out of there fast.
She hoisted herself up on her elbows and turned on her side. From there she swung her feet off the bed and onto the floor. The room melted away into a spinning soup and she gripped the bed frame. Slowly the room stopped moving and came to a halt.
Mechanic looked down at the locker beside her bed to find her clothes in a plastic bag. She pulled on the jeans and wrestled the sweatshirt over her head.
When the hell had I got changed into these?
Mechanic slid her feet into her shoes and checked the top drawer of the cabinet. It was empty, she had no personal effects. She staggered around the foot of the bed pulling the chart from its holder.
She took a deep breath and wandered out. As she passed through the doorway into the corridor she held the paperwork up to her face and walked past the cop. She scanned around for exit signs, found one and headed for the elevators. Ten minutes later she was outside hailing a cab.
‘Can you take me home, please. I have no money on me because I came in the ambulance with my son. I can pay you when I reach home.’
‘Sure thing, lady. You wouldn’t believe how many times I get asked that.’
She folded herself deep into the seat in the back of the taxi and tried to think.
The guy found her in a parking lot, no the nurse said car park. Which car park and what the hell was she doing there?
The only one she knew was where she parked her own car. It was a private space, beneath the apartment block, for tenants only.
Maybe I went to the car to get something.
Then realisation dawned on her.
I needed my car to drive to the family’s house.
Shit, did I collapse on the way there or the way back?
They arrived at her home and Mechanic let herself in with a spare key she left with the neighbours. The gas ring was still hissing away, the air in the apartment was hot and dry. She switched it off and returned to pay the driver. She waited for him to leave then ran to the underground car park. Her car was in its allocated space. Mechanic scouted on her hands and knees, looking under the car. Sure enough behind the front wheel was the gun and against the fence were her keys. They must have spilled onto the floor when she fell. She retrieved the gun and checked the magazine, it was full.
Thank God.
Mechanic went back to her apartment, made coffee and fixed herself a sandwich. She was feeling more lucid and her body was returning to normal. The padded envelope lay on the worktop, unopened.
It would have to wait.
Mechanic took a shower and changed. She threw a few clothes into a backpack and looped it over her shoulder. She checked the gun and slid it into the front pocket. The car keys were in her hand as she slammed the front door behind her.
She was heading to Prescott.
33
Mechanic got out of the car, it was a little after 10pm. The journey had taken forever because she kept having to stop. Her stomach churned at the thought of seeing her father again but she had no choice.
She parked two blocks away and walked to Pavilion Park. The warmth had gone from the day and the night air was cool. The sky was clear with the half-moon throwing silver light onto the red-brick houses. She skirted around the wrought-iron gates and turned left along the road circling the complex. After fifty yards the high brick wall gave way to a wooden fence with bushes growing at its base. Mechanic kept walking.
The plot of land stretched back for another two hundred yards, and then the fence ran out. The back to the estate was wide open. The only security was three bands of galvanised wire strung between posts driven into the ground. The land leading up to the properties was an obstacle course of rubble, mounds of earth and scattered pallets of building materials. Either there hadn’t been enough money to complete the development or the projected demand was nothing like what had been forecast. Mechanic lightly tapped the wire to see if it had an electric current running through it. She slipped through the gap and headed towards the bungalows.