by James Hilton
Andrea told the naked truth. She never dressed it up or shied away from the dreadful details. The tears that she spilled while recounting the events came sporadically, but when they did they came in torrents.
On the fourth day she was allowed to see the Gunn brothers.
That was the day Clay received a long-distance call to his bedside phone. The pretty nurse who had been tending to the Texan handed him the receiver with a bemused look. “There’s some angry guy called Tansen on the line. Says that you owe him a new house.”
Andrea and Danny sat at his bedside. All three had been stitched, sutured and bandaged. The scars on Andrea’s face had caused her the most concern. The slash over her eye and the matching wound across her jaw left her looking like she’d been clawed by an angry dinosaur. Large Steri-Strips also decorated her chest, ribs and leg.
Danny also had a large selection of adhesive gauze pads about his person. When Andrea asked how he was feeling he responded with a shrug. “Not the first time I’ve been patched up and shipped out. Probably not the last, either.”
Andrea raised a hand and touched her jaw with tentative fingers. “I know it did really happen but so much of the last week seems like a bad dream. I keep expecting to wake up back home in my flat.”
“If this is a dream, I think you should lay off the cheese before bedtime.”
She looked at Danny and tried to smile. “What I really mean is that I can’t believe I’m still alive after all that happened. I owe you guys my life. I’ll never forget that.”
“Aye, it’s been quite a ride,” said Danny.
“That’s the understatement of the year!” replied Andrea. “You’ve been kicked, punched, tortured, shot and stabbed!”
Danny waved his hand dismissively. “I never got stabbed.”
“I did,” grunted Clay. “Four times in the back. Still, I kind of liked the little guys that attacked me. You could say I had a bit of a crush on them.”
“Oh dear,” Andrea shook her head in mock upset. “I fear your jokes haven’t improved during your period of medication.”
Clay shrugged. “I’m hungry. It’s been hours since they last fed me.”
“It’s been twenty minutes.” Andrea pointed to the wall-mounted clock to emphasise her point.
“Would you go to the store for me? I’m starving.”
Andrea took the twenty offered by the recumbent Texan. “What do you want?”
“See if they’ve got any Cheetos.”
“How many bags do you want if they have?”
“Just buy them all. I’ll be here a while.”
62
It was another four weeks before Andrea could return to the UK. Her parents had flown out to Florida, which proved to be a very emotional reunion for all. A second trip to Nevada was necessary but soul-searing. Greg and Bruce were officially identified and so began the legal rigmarole of having their bodies transported back to England for burial. Andrea’s father wept inconsolably over his dead son. Years of arguments over Greg’s sexuality were swept away by his tears.
Andrea, Clay and Danny attended the funerals of Garnett and Edith Bell with heavy hearts. Clay hobbled to the graveside on crutches, his feet still almost unbearable to walk upon. He had stubbornly refused a wheelchair, saying he needed to stand in tribute to his friends. They had been good people and had died because of their connection to Andrea and the Gunns.
When Andrea did finally return to England, Danny travelled with her on the long flight home. An hour after landing at London Heathrow, they found themselves in one of the airport coffee shops.
“I can’t believe it’s all really over,” said Andrea. Several passers-by gave her sideways glances as they registered the long rows of stitches in her face. She cradled a steaming cup of coffee in both hands as she regarded her friend and protector.
“It is.” Danny blinked a slow sign of affirmation. “You can get back to your life once and for all. No more psychos with knives or guns.”
“What about you? Are you going to stay in England for a while?”
“A while… maybe,” he said noncommittally.
“You can visit me any time you’re in London. My flat is near Clapham Junction and I’ve got a spare bedroom. You can stop as long as you like.”
Danny smiled. “Yeah, I’ll keep in touch from time to time, but I warn you I’m not much for emailing or calling on the phone.”
“Well, the offer stands. You’re welcome in my home any time.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence during which she tried, as she had many times before, to gauge what was going on behind those inscrutable eyes of his. Something Greg used to say came to mind: still waters run deep.
Andrea looked down at her watch with a sad sigh. “I guess I should be getting back. I have to go and see Mum and Dad about Greg’s funeral. Will you come?”
“Of course. It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thank you Danny… for everything.”
Andrea stood, moved around the table and hugged him for what seemed like ten minutes. Danny waved as she left the coffee shop and merged with the crowds of travellers.
* * *
Danny ordered another large coffee and took his time drinking it. He would see Andrea tomorrow. Taking a deep breath, he moved slightly onto his right hip. The burned skin on his ribs had nearly fully healed but still felt tight and uncomfortable at times.
Yes, he would see her tomorrow, but then what?
He looked up at the departure board, showing flights to cities around the world. His eyes fixed on one and he smiled. He knew where he was going.
Draining his coffee, he went to buy a ticket.
Acknowledgements
As with a lot of fiction, I have at times taken liberties with geographical facts and features. That’s just the way it is.
The facts about the Hemingway House on Key West are true, however. A very wonky wall indeed! And it’s also true that many of the cats in the Keys have thumbs!
The character of Tansen Tibrikot was inspired by a Gurkha I worked with briefly. The story of the train attack is true. It just happened to a different Gurkha.
A big thanks to the following: Matt Hilton for his continued support, help and advice, and Robert Gray for his info on firearms and all things “shootie”. Also a big thank you to Kirstie Long who helped set me on the journey, and to my tireless editor Miranda Jewess.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Hilton has written several short stories that have appeared in anthologies both in print and as e-books. A lifelong martial artist, James has studied various arts and is currently ranked as a 4th Dan Blackbelt in Jujitsu and Kempo Karate. He is a frequent visitor to the USA, being particularly fond of all things Floridian and Caribbean. James lives with his wife, Wendy, in the beautiful but rugged north of England. Search and Destroy is his first novel.
