A Living: Three Stories About Killers

by Gavin Bell

  3

  BOSTON

  Eighteen Months Previously

  I HAD LEFT the United Kingdom under something of a cloud, so I suppose it was fitting that the New England sky was dark and overcast as my plane touched down at Logan International. I passed the interminable wait to disembark by gazing out of my window at the airport’s distinctive control tower: two twelve story pillars joined halfway up by a squat midsection. In the fading light, it looked like some robot behemoth from a fifties sci fi movie.

  I was in luck at the carousel: my one piece of hold luggage was second out of the hatch. I heaved the backpack over one shoulder, reflecting that I now had all of my worldly belongings on my person, and yet I was still travelling light. I made my way to arrivals, keeping my eyes peeled for Zane. I’d told him not to bother coming to the airport, he was doing me enough of a favour by giving me bed for the next couple of weeks, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  Arrivals was chaotic. I couldn’t see any sign of Zane, so I let the coffee fumes from Starbucks tempt me off to one side. It was after midnight UK time, and the flight had been five scheduled hours that ended up more like eight including delays. I ordered an espresso to keep me going. The male barista, a skinny teenager with jet-black hair that hung down over one eye, told me to take a seat and someone would bring it out to me.

  I took one of the tables outside so I could be seen, and watched the various reunions: husbands with wives, daughters with parents, friends with friends.

  “Double espresso?”

  I looked up and Lucy Watson was standing in front of me, smiling and placing an espresso cup with a biscotti on the side on my table. When she saw my expression, her smile stayed but her brow creased: “Is something the matter sir?”

  I blinked and saw that it wasn’t Lucy Watson after all. The dark brown hair and the light brown eyes made her a dead ringer, but Lucy was three thousand miles away, and unlikely to be bringing me coffee ever again.

  “Sorry, you look a lot like someone I used to know.”

  Not-Lucy smiled politely and told me to enjoy.

  “Still got an eye for the ladies, I see?”

  I turned around and saw a friendly face: Zane was in his late fifties and had the wrinkled seen-it-all features of a bartender you wanted to tell all your problems to. As always, he wore a flat cap and a crumpled corduroy coat. Looking at him, you’d never guess how much he was worth, or how he came by the money.

  Thoughts of jetlag and Lucy dropped off my radar. I grinned and said his name, grabbing his hand for a shake that turned into a hug.

  “How was the flight?”

  “Terrible.”

  “You hate to fly though, right?”

  I shrugged. “It’s not the flying I mind, it’s the waiting around.”

  Zane looked disdainfully at my espresso. “Come on, I’ll buy you a real drink.”