Within Each Other's Shadow

by Jan Turk Petrie

  The expressway stop is approaching. Bruno is resigned; there’s no doubt in his mind that he has to be that variable – that unexpected impediment that will change the course of events.

  A different security guard is sitting inside the gatehouse. This one is younger with darker skin and he isn’t distracted but alert and jumpy – the man is definitely on his A game.

  Bruno decides it might be better not to attempt any mind games. He pulls off his hat so he can be seen, tries to arrange his face like he doesn’t already know this man is on high alert. He half raises both hands as he gets close.

  The guard stands up. He has an impressive physique, his uniform immaculate. There’s a bulging holster on his hip and the fingers of his hand flutter over it in readiness. At the slightest sign Bruno might pose a threat, he’ll be staring down that barrel.

  ‘Hi there,’ Bruno says. ‘Delauney not on duty tonight then?’

  The man makes no reply.

  ‘I’m like a friend of Baltasar’s – the two of us, we sort of go to uni together. Well, when I say together, he’s actually a couple of years ahead of me, as I expect you can tell, but we know each other well – we’re friends, mates and that.’

  Bruno wipes his hand across his mouth, tries to slow things down; if he keeps gabbling like this, he’ll arouse the man’s suspicion. ‘Yeah anyway,’ he says, ‘the thing is, I was here just the other day and the stupid part is.’ Bruno rolls his head in a what-am-I-like sort of way. ‘The daft thing is, I must have dropped something in the house and now I really need it for an assignment that’s due in.’

  The guard looks even scarier with his eyes narrowed. His nostrils almost twitch as he clocks the stale beer pong.

  ‘Listen, I don’t want to get in anyone’s hair,’ Bruno says. ‘But would you mind just calling Elspeth – Mrs Avraham – and asking her if it’s okay I come in and look for it. Tell her, like I’m really sorry to disturb her.’

  The guy frowns – the deep creases between his eyes suggest it’s his default expression. Bruno pleads with open hands. ‘It won’t take me more than a minute or two.’

  The guard’s mouth goes to one side while he weighs him up. Then the hand above the gun begins to relax – a sure sign he’s deciding that, though Bruno’s an idiot with poor personal hygiene, he poses no obvious risk. The man finally opens his mouth. ‘ID?’ It’s a demand not a request.

  Bruno shows him the real thing. ‘Wait!’ The guard holds up an index finger; he doesn’t like to waste words. Clutching his ear, he turns away to speak to someone. The booth deadens the sound, but Bruno hears his own name being repeated.

  That finger is still raised in his face. Speaking to the ceiling, the guard says. ‘I have authority to admit one young Caucasian male. Copy.’

  There’s a pause and then the finger is lowered to point at Bruno’s chest. ‘Okay, you can go inside now, sir. Please approach the mansion directly, using only the driveway. For your own safety, please do not linger or deviate.’

  Already done with him, the guard turns away to continue his vigil. There’s a loud click as the barrier in front of Bruno opens.

  Halfway up the drive, he hears movement in the bushes. A security guard steps out under the lights. He’s having problems restraining a drooling Rottweiler. With its towering trees and mature shrubs, the garden affords a lot of potential cover to intruders – human or otherwise.

  ‘Evening, sir,’ he says. Bruno wonders if he’s about to salute but he’d rather the man kept full control of that dog.

  Before he’s reached the top of the stone steps, the main door of the mansion opens to reveal a thin, middle-aged woman. ‘Mrs Avraham is in the kitchen,’ she says. ‘I’m told you already know the way.’ He remembers alright.

  Elspeth is cooking something that smells like lamb. The room’s heat is sudden and overpowering. She wipes her hands on a cloth. ‘Bruno – how nice to see you again.’

  ‘It’s Mister Tiger!’ Silla pulls a scared face and then jumps down from her stool to hug his legs so tightly he can’t move.

  ‘Raarrr!’ When Bruno hooks his hands into claws, she squeals.

  ‘I want to ride on your back,’ she says. ‘Pleeease.’ He goes down on all fours and she climbs onto him; her weight much too insubstantial. They crawl towards her mother. Silla keeps wriggling. Leaning forward, she gabs the collar of his coat. ‘Yuck, you really stink, Mister Tiger.’

  ‘Silla, that’s very rude,’ Elspeth tells her.

  Bruno laughs. ‘It’s okay – she’s right. One of my mates spilt his drink all over this jacket. I guess I should get it cleaned.’

  ‘Come on now, Silla, leave poor Bruno alone,’ Elspeth says. The girl hangs on tighter and his collar cuts into his throat.

  ‘I’m afraid Baltasar’s not home right now,’ Elspeth puts the casserole she was preparing into the oven. ‘He’ll be sorry to have missed you. My husband’s out in his studio – maybe you’d like to stay for supper with us – that’s if you have time.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he says.

  ‘Good – that’s settled. Why don’t Silla and I help you locate the mysterious object you left here?’ She sounds skeptical and he wonders if she really believes this ruse.

  ‘A treasure hunt – yay!’ The girl slides off his back. ‘I’m good at them.’

  ‘At those,’ Elspeth tells her, ‘not them.’

  Frowning, Silla looks up to him. When she curls up her nose, those freckles stand out more. He hears a sound outside the window – a soft thump. Elspeth was talking so hasn’t registered anything. Why would she be worried with such tight security inside and out?

  ‘I’ve thought it through and think it must have fallen out of my pocket in your trophy room,’ Bruno says.

  ‘Well, you certainly won’t be able to get in there without me,’ Elspeth tells him. ‘Come on, Silla, you can lead the way.’

  On the stairs, the girl runs ahead. ‘Come on, you old slow coaches,’ she shouts down from the first landing.

  Glancing back, Bruno sees the entrance hall is empty. Somewhere outside a vixen cries out; it could almost be a woman screaming.

  ‘We keep getting foxes in the grounds,’ Elspeth says. ‘I’m not sure what the attraction is. In any case, the dogs are bound to scare them away.’

  Silla takes his hand and pulls him along the corridor. The room’s reinforced door slowly opens as it senses Elspeth’s approach.

  ‘What does your treasure look like?’ Silla says, running on inside.

  ‘Slow down – no running in here,’ Elspeth calls out. The stuffy formality of the room makes her smile drop. She hates this place.

  He crouches down to the girl’s height. ‘The thing I’m looking for is very shiny,’ he says.

  Elspeth grins. ‘In a room full of shining objects, that’s hardly going to narrow it down.’ Her brow wrinkles. ‘So, tell me, Mr Mastriano, what exactly is it you think you’ve lost?’

  Through the wide-open door, he hears the unmistakable sound of a muted photon discharge. For the first time Elspeth looks alarmed. ‘What was that?’ She isn’t nearly as frightened as she ought to be.

  Bruno looks back to where the heavy door remains wide open. Right now, they’re cornered. Instead of leading them into a safe place, it’s possible he’s led them into a trap.

  Forty-Seven

  The men at the table are beaming like he might seriously be part of the evening’s entertainment – the comic turn. ‘Assuming this isn’t a stunt,’ Commander Grímsson continues to gaze at the cards in his hand and even begins to rearrange them, ‘I hate to point out the obvious, Inspector whatever-your-name-is, but you seem to be suffering from delusions of grandeur.’ He finally looks up. ‘Seriously – I can’t imagine what you expected to achieve by bursting in here like this.’

  His hetrochromia is disconcerting; there’s no more kindness in his blue eye than the hazel one. ‘Tell me, do you seriously propose to arrest us all and singlehandedly frogmarch us out of here, by your
self, and all of it over some spurious infringements of a few minor laws?’

  The question prompts chuckling from around the table. Looking relaxed, they begin to sip their drinks. Pushing the girl he was pawing aside, Dr Arthur stacks his cards before he stands up. He walks round the table then bends to whisper something into Viktor’s ear.

  A sly smile spreads across Persson’s face. ‘Really?’ he says. Stepping back, Arthur continues to stand behind the other man’s chair like some flunky. Meanwhile, Viktor peruses each of his cards before spreading his hand out on the table. ‘It seems I have a straight flush, gentlemen.’ After some huffing and puffing, the rest throw in their cards.

  The serious business concluded, Viktor gets up and walks over to Nero. ‘I’m told by our friend here that Inspector Cavallo is, in actual fact, no ordinary lawman.’

  ‘Merlin, we have a problem,’ Rustler tells him in his ear. ‘Priority attack in progress over in sector eight. Reports of mass causalities. DCI on his way with support. You are off-grid. I repeat off-grid.’ Nero hears him exhale. ‘We have to prioritise resources and right now you’re not it. Suggest you abort – get yourself out of there, Merlin.’

  Nero holds up his hands. ‘The problem we have here, gentlemen, is that, as Admiral Nelson reputedly said, I have no intention of turning a blind eye. No one in this city is above the law.’

  Viktor brings his hands together to begin a slow steady handclap. Up close his hair is a curious mix of white and blond. The man’s skin is weathered like someone who spends more time outside than in. ‘Fine sentiments I’m sure we’d all agree,’ he says. ‘It seems to me, the charges you’ve just levelled at us are hardly the province – the legitimate concern – of a detective inspector in the Homicide Department.’

  He notices how Viktor has a slight problem pronouncing Rs and Ls, which some might mistake for a foreign accent. ‘Look around you,’ the man says. ‘Can you see any dead bodies lying on this floor?’

  The collective response is more chuckling. Some of the girls join in though they seem anything but amused.

  When Viktor holds up a hand, everyone goes quiet. He comes up behind Nero and leans a heavy hand on his shoulder. Addressing his audience, he says, ‘A far more interesting fact about the man you see here – and you may find this hard to believe – this fairly ordinary looking person is, according to Arthur, one of the last surviving telepaticos on this planet.

  ‘I know, it’s quite incredible – literally unbelievable.’ Viktor shakes his head. ‘If Arthur here is right, that makes you a commodity and we all like commodities.’

  More laughter. Taking advantage of their distraction, Nero grabs Persson’s wrist and pulls it down to meet the other one. Gripping the two with one hand, he pulls the strap from his sleeve and has Viktor Persson cuffed inside a couple of seconds.

  All hell breaks loose. People are shouting, chairs are upended. In the midst of the pandemonium, Nero hears the stomp of massed feet on the stairs.

  They take him from behind – too many to fight at once. And then he’s lying face down on the floor, both shoulders pinned and more than one knee crushing his spine.

  The pressure decreases and, though he’s still being held, he can breathe more freely. A hand rips his stud from his ear.

  He hears the sound of people leaving in a hurry. In his eyeline someone is treading over broken glass and poker chips in 2000-credit brogues. ‘Well that’s certainly broken up the party.’

  He gives a short laugh that’s more like a cough. ‘You seem to have lost something, Inspector.’ A stud drops onto the floor in front of him and then the heel of the brogue crushes it. ‘Oops! You know these cheap things are so unreliable; and now it would appear to be broken.’

  The same fancy shoe is brought backwards sharply and slammed into his ribcage, not once but many times over. He hears the sound of his own bones snapping and then there’s just mind-numbing pain.

  When they pull him onto his knees, he tastes blood in his mouth; his left eye is almost closed. Out of the other one he sees Viktor staring down at him while rubbing at his freed wrists. ‘Aren’t you people meant to be able to predict the future?’ Viktor snorts. ‘You know I’m not convinced Arthur is right about you; any fool could have seen this coming.’

  The brogues walk away and Nero is hauled to his feet. His brief physical contact with Viktor’s wrists confirmed everything he and Rustler had suspected.

  ‘You may call yourself Viktor Persson,’ Nero says. He spits out something hard that’s probably a tooth. ‘I wonder if your poker buddies here know your real name is Kristjan Viktor Pearson and – ’

  A hand smothers the rest of the sentence. Through the wall of muscle surrounding him, he hears Viktor say, ‘Somebody gag this freak.’ A cloth is trust into his mouth and tied in place. It’s not easy to breathe through his nose alone.

  ‘We’ll take him with us.’

  Between them they drag him from the room and down the stairs. He remembers Quentin, has no idea if the decoy is still up there or following them. So far he hasn’t seen fit to intervene. Perhaps he’s not intending to.

  They manhandle him outside and he looks behind and sees Kass standing there with one hand covering her mouth. He’s quick to look away.

  The bitter weather outside hits his face. Between two of them they frogmarch him over to one of the waiting Norsemans and push him inside the back.

  Stuffed in between broad shoulders, he tries to stay conscious, tries to memorise every turn taken as the vehicle heads through the quiet backstreets. The fact that they haven’t covered his eyes suggests they don’t anticipate much of a future for him.

  The vehicle slows and its lights pick out double gates leading into some kind of compound. Heaps of rusting metal give the impression the place is long abandoned.

  Another Norseman draws up alongside – he guesses it’s the one carrying Viktor and his pals. Their vehicle takes over the lead. They splash through melt puddles before turning onto a recently gravelled track. Up ahead Nero sees the shining sides of some sort of tiltrotor aircraft; its blades already rotating ready for take off.

  Forty-Eight

  The sound of photon fire is getting closer. ‘Get back!’ Bruno shouts, herding them both towards the rear of the room. Though Elspeth complies, she isn’t focused, hasn’t fully processed the fact that her home is under attack.

  Each new blast is louder than the last. He knows Freyja is already at the foot of the stairs.

  Both hands clamped to her ears, Silla is whining. Her mother tries to calm her; ‘It’s alright,’ she says cradling the girl until her body muffles Silla’s whimpering. She seems more concerned with keeping her daughter calm than safe.

  Bruno grabs Elspeth by the shoulders. ‘Listen. You hear that – we’re under fire and we need to lock this door right now. Do you understand?’

  Elspeth nods like she can’t stop. ‘But the door won’t shut – not with me in here.’ Her face hardens; ‘I need to leave.’

  She lets go of her whimpering daughter and tries to push past him. When Silla starts to howl, Elspeth covers her mouth. ‘You need to stay here with Bruno, sweetie. Shh, please don’t cry. Listen to me – you’ll be safe here.’

  Silla clamps both hands around her mother’s legs. Bruno grabs her waist to pull her back. Kicking at him, she tries to free herself but he hangs on.

  ‘Wait!’ He lets go of Silla. ‘There might be another way.’

  He grabs a statuette from one of the shelves – a monstrosity in green onyx. ‘Okay, now both of you need to get down and cover your eyes.’ He shields his own head with his arm before slamming the trophy into the nearest cabinet.

  His closed lids flash red. An ear-piercing alarm begins. Opening his eyes again Bruno sees a network of long cracks in the glass though the pane is still intact. Pulsing lights strobe his vision; the siren will draw that bitch right to them.

  He smashes the trophy into the glass again and this time it shatters to thousands of pieces. Finally regi
stering an attempted robbery, the outer door begins to close.

  It’s moving too slowly. Sliding on a carpet of glass, he runs outside to plug the gap. ‘No!’ Elspeth shouts from behind. Bruno stands there shielding the doorway until he hears it shut and then lock.

  Despite the son et lumière show going on, he detects a ripple in his line of sight. ‘Well, well.’ Freyja sounds out-of-breath. ‘If it isn’t the ubiquitous Mr Mastriano. Has anybody ever told you what a fokking nuisance you are?’

  A stricken security guard is groaning on the stairs. The man tries to stand up. A photon gun materialises in front of Bruno. Before he can grab it, it swivels sideways and blasts the guard off his feet. His charred body topples down the stairs and lies inert on the landing.

  Bruno’s shocked by how casually Freyja can kill. He narrows his eyes against the pulsing lights – tries not to look like he’s blocking her. The last thing he’s going to do is step aside.

  ‘Trophy room, eh? No home is complete without one.’ Freyja laughs in that strange way of hers – the woman’s been hanging around with non-humans for too long.

  ‘There’s nothing in there but cups and stuff,’ he tells her.

  ‘You do surprise me.’ There’s a pause. ‘Tell me then, why are you still standing in front of the door like that? You see, now you’ve gone and got me wondering if there might be someone’s trophy wife in there along with his trophy children. Maybe even the commander himself hiding out amongst the relics of his glory days.’ A throaty chuckle. ‘How apt if he meets his fate surrounded by all those grave goods.’

  A fox is trotting along the landing towards them; it’s such an incongruous sight. The animal slows, coming more or less to a halt a metre in front of Bruno. Hanging back, it crouches ready to spring, snout up, teeth bared. It utters one rasping bark.

  Other vixens appear on the stairs. More of them bound over the body of the guard. Their movements pulse under the flashing light like they’re playing grandmother’s footsteps with him. As they get ever closer, their feral stench worries at his nostrils. ‘It must be bring your pets to work week,’ he says.