Falling

by Mark Z. Kammell

  “Look” I’m saying, “let’s have another drink. And by the way, it’s John, not Jon.” It’s not even John now, it’s Mark, but maybe that’s a stretch too far for now.

  “I…” he’s stammering, “I don’t know what to say”

  “Please, don’t say anything. Just get me a drink.”

  This is the man that Detective Harry Simmons has set me up with. This is the man who’s supposed to create my introduction back to Simon, create an opportunity in Simon’s diary in order for my betrayal to start. Of course I knew him, I knew everyone that Simon knew, and his shock at seeing me I think was only matched by his shock at the circumstances. Of course he didn’t know that it was going to be me, he would never have agreed to see me, and in any case my name appears to have got itself onto things like the Ten Most Wanted list; high praise, indeed, unfortunately logistically challenging. My friendly detective, therefore, has set me up with a new name, new documentation, new passport, the whole works, under the name Mark. Mark Forth, to be precise.

  It’s a bizarre world really. Whilst my friend here goes off to get two more drinks, I sit back in my chair to contemplate, allowing my fingers to stray beneath my shirt and feel the stretched, smooth feel of printed lycra. Just for a joke, I think at least, I had it printed with the superman motif, ready to rip off at the scene of any crime, ready to rid the city of the underworld villains and protect the weak and the helpless. I made up for a lack of motivation through an excess of desire to see, and be part of, extreme violence. Ready to practice it, I wandered out into the dusky night before this meeting and searched out the filthiest parts of the city, parts that to be honest I had no idea existed.

  I cut an imposing figure, standing on a street corner in my black coat with the collar turned up against the cold, cigarette hanging from my lips, streetlights shining against skin. I thought I would wait it out, in these degraded places there would surely be, in every alley or unmarked street, something going on, rape, or murder, or robbery, drug dealing or some other such crime against humanity, I just had to be patient and wait, and watch. The cold seeped through my leather gloves, my legs started to ache, as I watched the people wander past, mostly uninterested, very occasionally throwing me a curious glance, one little kid even smirked as he checked me out. I flicked some ash at him, which made him turn and scamper.

  My first three hours taught me just one thing, that being a superhero can be hard work, and not for the glamorous reasons of struggling with your own conscience, but just because it’s hard work finding crime, at least here, it’s not something that happens just that often. Tired, cold and annoyed, I skulked back to a bar, and of course I ordered coffee, black coffee, extra strong, no sugar, that I sipped as I sat at the bar and stared meaningfully forward.

  “Difficult night?” The bartender, fat, middle aged, grumpy, in a dirty white shirt, interrupted my reverie with a nod.

  “I’m sorry” I looked up and scoped him out.

  “Lost in your thoughts, mate” he grinned. “Hard night with the ladies?”

  Maybe it was the strength of the coffee after all those drugs pumped into me, I don’t know. Maybe it was the frustration suddenly boiling over into something else, or maybe, probably, it was just that I’m not a nice guy, but the way he winked at me, in that leery, aren’t we mates, don’t we have something in common, way, really got to me.

  “Fuck off, you fat git” I replied. The barman stared at me, and the whole bar went quiet. It was magical, really. I watched the barman’s face as it went from shocked to an aggressive scowl to a malicious grin, as he slowly, deliberately, put his glass down and leant his hands on the counter, as he leaned forward towards me and talked in a soft, slow whisper

  “So you’re a wise guy, right? Think you’re a player, think you’re better than me, right?” I could sense, behind me, the motion of heavy bodies, surrounding me, blocking my exit. The air was suddenly thick with stale aftershave, body odour and sweat from muscle building workouts. I felt myself go tense with the excitement of it all, as the barman leaned into me, so close that I had to stop myself from retching from the stench of his breath, “Now feel this, you piece of shit” , and suddenly there was a bar in his hand, I could see him panting with the weight of it, the sweat formed on his forehead as he pulled it back and tired muscles readied themselves for the swing, as there was a crack, as there was a blur, as I could see the bar swing forward in his pudgy hands, as I couldn’t see anything except for it rushing towards my head and then the impact, then stars, then a blur and a realisation that I could still feel pain.

  Shit. I was picking myself up off the grimy floor, wiping dirt and blood out of my eyes, when I felt myself being gripped from behind, my arms being yanked back and my hair grabbed. Hands were holding onto my ten thousand dollar coat and ripping it off me, till I found myself standing upright, held solid, facing the barman. I couldn’t tell if it was the excitement of the situation, but his stench seemed to have got worse, seemed to be all pervading, and I couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t hide or even throw up properly.

  “Now” he breathed, holding my shirt in his pudgy hands, “let’s see what it takes to kill you.”

  “Fuck you” I snarled, and he laughed and spat in my face. We looked at each other like that for a second, then I laughed back, and spat back in his face.

  I never get this. He did this to me, right, so I have the right to defend myself? Some people never seem to understand this, never seem to get what’s just and what’s fair in life, never seem to understand that natural sense of justice, and my ex friend the bartender was, I think, like this. His face turned crimson with rage, and for a few seconds he was speechless, so I added “And your coffee tastes like shit."

  I think this was the final straw for him, he said some words that I can’t repeat here, and nodded to his accomplices, who I could feel but still couldn’t see. “Hold him” he snarled, and he disappeared behind his bar, to return with a knife in his left hand. Not just any knife, this was enormous, its blade shone different colours in the murky light and was curved like the moon. The handle grip was held firmly in the bartender’s hand as he caressed the blade against my neck.

  “Say goodbye to life” he whispered

  “You stink” I whispered back.

  He slashed. Nothing happened.

  I just had the time to enjoy the stunned look on his face before I jerked my arms forward, breaking the hold of the goons behind me and brought my hands together swiftly around the bartender’s head, which crushed like wet cardboard, leaving me with gunge and muck on my fingers. Slowly I turned around to face my erstwhile captors, two of them, big, bulky men, with fat rather than muscle poking out from their jeans, their dirty, stained t-shirts and worried expressions beneath days old stubble. They both sat on the floor, silent like babies, stunned, speechless, as I walked slowly over to them. The first one, the one on the left, was wearing a grey t-shirt with the words “I fuck goons!” on it. I blinked in disbelief, but unfortunately it was still there when I opened my eyes; I let out a kick with my left foot, into his face, which exploded and left him headless. I watched, for a second or two, his headless body twitching before it slumped over, and then I turned to face his accomplice. We were alone in the bar now, it had cleared itself very quickly at the first sign of trouble.

  I stepped towards him.

  He was scrambling, he couldn’t get up, his hands slid on the dirt, the muck, the blood on the floor. I could smell the piss and shit emanating from him over the other foul odours and waved my hand in front of my nose disdainfully as I stared at him.

  “Please” he said, he cried, he whimpered, in a little girl’s voice.

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, leaning forward, “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

  “Please, please, don’t hurt me.” Again, this is such a clear demonstration of how people don’t get the basic principles of fairness and justice, of being accountable for the consequences of their actions. This man, this gro
velling piece of nothing crawling and snivelling in front of me, was just a few minutes ago, prepared to be an accomplice to murder for no provocation. Well, a little, I admit, but nonetheless my point is clear. Now he’s not prepared to accept that when the tables are turned, he may have an issue. People like this really wind me up, he really needs to get this and feel some punishment for it.

  I stepped forward menacingly and he managed to scramble up, he stepped back, his whole body trembling. “Boo!” I whispered and he turned and fled towards the door.

  “Go!” I shouted after him, “but I’ll find you, and I’ll destroy you.” I made sure he heard before he left. Of course I had no intention of going after him, but I figured him living in fear for the next few years would be a better punishment than a sudden quick death.

  Alone in the now silent bar, I picked up my coat, brushed it down and put it carefully back on. I walked over to a sink behind the bar and washed the blood and much off my hands and my face. I took a bottle from the bar and poured myself a large whisky, which I drank slowly, thoughtfully as I stood and surveyed the debris. This superhero gig can be quite a laugh, I thought.

  ***

  So now here I am, back in the bar, back with Jerry, or Jack, or whatever his name is, sitting nervously across from me, nursing his drink. “Look, John…” he stammers.

  “It’s Mark, actually, Mark Forth.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry” I sigh, taking a sip. “Just get me in front of Simon, he will really really want to see me, i can guarantee that.”

  “But, look, the last time… well…” he trails off.

  I ignore him for a little while, letting my gaze wander around the bar. Some good news, actually, some really good news, is that I do seem to be cured of my desire to brutally murder beautiful women, so whatever my friend did, it seems to have worked, I must thank her for that, I must send her a card or something, I do hope she’s OK. The darkness of the bar, the darkness of the surroundings, do help though, as I turn my attention back to the stammering idiot in front of me.

  “I’m waiting” I wink.

  He gulps down his drink and swallows, rubbing his sweaty hands together and looking down. “OK John, the thing is… I mean, the thing is, last time, well last time that, well you know Ruth La Fleure, Ms La Fleure, our head of strategy, I don’t know if you remember her, she joined…”

  “I remember her” I replied smoothly.

  “Yes, yes sorry, of course you do, well she mentioned your name the other day, and well, the thing is, Simon, I mean Mr Hart, you know, well he just lost it, I mean he said, if anyone ever, and I mean, ever, mentions your name again, well, he said, well I don’t like to think about it..."

  I smiled, “I think I get the picture.”

  “So you see, John…”

  “Mark.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry, you were saying."

  “You see, Mark, I really can’t do this, I mean, you understand right?”

  “Yes of course, I understand” I nodded. “But you still need to do it.”

  Chapter 38

  The boardroom has changed. Wood panelling and desktops have been replaced by marble, there’s a kind of air of overstated opulence about the place that I’m not sure I like. The drinks cabinet is impressive though, there’s a nifty little machine that allows you to speak the name of a cocktail into it, which is then automatically produced for you. I haven’t seen one of these before, and given what I need to do now, a couple of Destruction Cocktails will help to steady my nerves.

  They’ve left me alone here, now, not sure exactly how long for, but the trail of empty glasses seems to be getting longer, and I think I must be getting agitated. I am really trying to show a measure of cool here, to sit casually in one of the deep leather armchairs, glancing down at one of the many magazines about boats, or castles, or war, and act like I really don’t care about who walks through the door. My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be, and I realise that I could really do with the bathroom. Sitting cross legged isn’t nearly as cool, but I daren’t get up, daren’t leave, even though I know that the bathroom is literally the next door along, a quick two minute trip and then I’ll be back, relaxed and cool again.

  I’m standing now, I realise my feet are a bit wobbly, maybe I’ve had a little too much to drink, I’m not sure, but I hold onto the boardroom table just in case, and start to make my way across to the door, keeping hold of the edge of the table as I go. The door seems to be swaying a bit, which is kind of unusual, but probably nothing to worry about. It also seems to be taking a long time, maybe I’m going around the table the wrong way, I’m not sure, let me try the other way, but now I can’t see where I am going. Whoops, I stagger a bit and start to fall, just managing to catch myself on a chair but I seem, somehow to have poured a drink over myself. Shit, that’s not going to look very good.

  I’m just in the middle of removing my shirt when there’s a shuffle behind me, and someone says “Nice to see you too, John, but don’t you think we should at least talk first?”

  She’s taller than I remember, her white hair has golden streaks, the diamonds encrusted in her cheeks. She looks younger, too, the wrinkles have gone and are replaced by smooth, white skin.

  “It’s been a long time, John”, her voice still has that silky smoothness that I remember.

  So I try to maintain some dignity, leaning casually against the table, buttoning my shirt back up with my left hand whilst I’m smoothing down my hair with my right hand, but I can’t bring myself to speak, to say anything, except some half hearted stutter, but she’s standing next to me now and the heat from her body is touching me as she puts her finger to my lips.

  She’s leaning forward and has her face close to my ear, when she whispers “I’ve missed you, I really have. I am so sorry for everything”

  “Ruth” I begin, “Ruth…”

  “Good afternoon, Mr Forth” and we both look up, Ruth stepping away from me quickly. I find myself staring into the eyes of Simon Hart.

  “You know what”, he starts saying, moving his bulk towards me (I had never realised how fat he was before), “I used to know someone who looked just like you, how strange” and he bursts out laughing, reaching me, hitting me hard on the back and then “It’s good to see you John”

  My head’s spinning and I think I am going to be sick.

  “Fancy a drink” he asks, “yes of course you do, have you seen our great new machine, look, all I need to do is speak into it and it produces a drink for us. Brilliant isn’t it, Elena designed it for us. What can I get you, of course, I don’t need to ask, it’s a Destruction Cocktail, isn’t it, you always liked those”

  And I realise that I’m sitting now, facing him, another drink in front of me, Ruth at my side, and I’m wondering how I can throw up without them noticing. Concentrate, that’s it, concentrate on that small black fleck just beneath the collar of his shirt.

  “Come on, let’s toast this reunion!” and he throws back his drink in one, and winks at me. I glance at Ruth, who is sitting, head slightly bowed, nursing her bright pink cocktail, and then quickly switch back to the fleck on his shirt before I fall over.

  “So…” he starts, “you really are the man we wanted to see, isn’t that right, darling?”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, of course you are! Time for a fresh start, right? Let’s put the past behind us and work together for the future. What do you reckon?”

  I throw up all over him, and then I feel much better.

  ***

  “Can I ask you a question” I start.

  In his loose linen trousers and casual white shirt he looks much better, relaxed almost. I’ve lost the fuzziness in my head, for the moment. For the first time in a long time, I’m drinking water.

  “Let’s have some rules” he replies. “We need some rules. Let’s tell each other the truth, one question each, OK.”

  I shrug. “Whatever you say. Can I s
tart?”

  “Be my guest” he smiles.

  “OK then. Did you betray me?”

  Simon laughs softly. “Yes, of course I betrayed you. I was surprised you hadn’t worked it out. Then again, I wasn’t really. Too many happy pills, or something like that. Yes, of course I betrayed you, and of course I had to. It was easy for you, all you had to do was turn up, do your brilliant things with your computers and experiments and people, and everything else would be taken care of, right. Everything, that’s my department, isn’t it. I sorted everything out for you, all the people, all the cash, all the funding. I sold your ideas and got us on the map. I took us from a garage outfit to the main time, I built that, I took us through all that whilst you and your friend Tim were jerking off doing all your fancy shit. Do you have any idea how hard that was, how much effort I put into that, how much personal time and commitment it took, whilst you were sunning yourselves, to even get it started. I moved mountains. I mean, Jesus, do you have any idea how hard it is to get an audience with the Chinese? To break into that market? Do you really have any idea? It’s not like you just give them a call, go hey, hello my friend, let’s talk about warfare? I mean, we went from nothing to being the major player, the one that everyone talked about, and that was all down to me, my friend. Not you, not Tim fucking Bateman, the bilious traitor, God have mercy on his soul. It was down to me. Do you think I was going to let some two bit lowlifes destroy that? Two good for nothing hypocrites who wanted to line their own pockets and keep their bosses happy? Some creep gets an idea that we can’t let China win a few world wars. Christ. What difference does it make. They’ll find another way. At least this way we get the revenue, we get the knowledge, but no, they can’t have that. I’ve had to change my whole bloody business model. Jesus.”

  He’s pacing around, pours us both another drink, sits on the desk and leans close to me, I can smell the whisky and the cigarettes on his breath, that sweet smell of nightly pleasures, and I sip, I can take it now, the smoothness of the whisky takes the bitter taste from my mouth and dulls my headache. What I could do for a happy pill now.