Nobody Gets Hurt

by R J Bailey

  I thanked her and left, trying to ignore the stress coming my way. I stepped into the street and stopped to gather my thoughts. The British consulate might help. Money, documents. There would be a lot of explaining to do, but from there I could make phone calls and then . . . then what? Luxembourg popped into my head again. It all began in Luxembourg with the hit-and-run on the NOP bank guy. Maybe that’s where it was all meant to end. But, I realised, I had some way to go yet.

  Especially as the Facel Vega had gone.

  I looked up and down the length of the main road. No sign of the car. It wasn’t like I could miss it. Had that idiot man-child tried to prove something to me by driving off? But I didn’t think that was it. Two kangaroo leaps and a stall would have been the most likely outcome of him trying to master a manual.

  It was then I spotted the man in the blouson. Jules? Yes, Jules. The guy from the stables. He was leaning into a shop window, his eyes cupped to the glass as if looking into the interior for something. Or someone.

  When he turned away, he had his back to me, and he had slipped his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. I did another scan of the immediate area. There were very few people about. Not enough to worry me, anyway. Certainly no cops or anyone official-looking. Not even anyone whom I reckoned could take care of themselves. Jules excepted. Oh, and me.

  I launched myself along the pavement, my shoeless feet making barely a sound as I accelerated. I pumped my arms, ignoring the protests from my much-abused body and the hammering behind my eyes. I was a few yards away from him when I jumped, turning sideways and pulling my knees up, as if I were making a tuck dive from the high board.

  It meant I hit him like a giant clenched fist, high on his back, sending him sprawling. Do this properly and your momentum will carry you over the victim, enabling you to roll up into a defensive position. But I wasn’t match-fit and I landed heavily, knocking my wrist back with a force that made me gasp.

  But he was worse. He’d gone straight down and hadn’t quite got his hands out of his pockets in time to fully break his fall. I leaped up, ignoring the shouts from an outraged old man over the road, and dropped onto his back, pulling at the pockets of the blouson and extracting what I needed. A wallet. And in the other? A phone.

  Bingo.

  I did a quick frisk. No gun. Odd.

  He started to shift under me, so I placed a knee between his shoulder blades and raised my fist to deliver the blow to the back of his head that would break his nose on the pavement and render him unconscious.

  ‘Miss Wylde!’

  I became aware of the deep, slow thrum of the V8 over my shoulder.

  ‘Would you mind not inflicting any more damage on my son?’

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Jules touched his nose. ‘It’s been broken before. Rugby.’ Like his father, his English was good, although Bruno, the dad, had the stronger and stranger accent. He had looked ridiculous in the Facel Vega, barely able to see over the wheel. He was a shrunken version of his son – bald, bearded, but with a deep, nut-brown skin colour. He had scooped us up and driven us to a rough pit-stop next to a petrol station, used by the sort of camionneur who would only have one thought when he looked at me in my bedraggled state: I bet she comes cheap.

  The four of us were sitting in the corner of the overlit room, which was decorated with framed pages from Pirelli calendars of yore and posters from ancient kung fu films. I had my back to the wall – and the four-sheet for King Boxer – from where I could watch the door. I was opposite Jules, Bruno was next to him, across the table from Myles.

  A waitress delivered four coffees and a pile of pastries that looked as plastic as the chairs we were sitting on. It didn’t matter. I was so hungry I’d probably move on to the chairs later. I broke off half a croissant.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, but to both of them this time. ‘When you came looking at the chateau, I thought you were from Konrad. That he’d sent you to clear up some loose ends. Us.’

  ‘So you said.’ Bruno poured a stream of sugar in his coffee. ‘But when you failed to turn up at my, um, workshop, I telephoned the Colonel. He said he was worried too. He didn’t have any heavyweights in the area, so he sent us along to check out what was going on. We are not muscle.’

  I was only too aware of that now. Bruno was the ‘inker’, the man we were meant to meet to pick up the new passport for Mrs Irwin.

  Myles beat me to it. ‘How did you know where we were?’

  ‘Because I only gave him rough directions,’ I added.

  ‘Your friend Freddie told the Colonel where the chateau was. Apparently you have some code between you for sharing co-ordinates.’

  That was true. We used old army slang, a means of obfuscation when talking on an open channel, just in case Al-Qaeda or similar was eavesdropping. But when exactly did I give her our location?

  ‘Freddie?’ I realised I sounded as bright as Homer Simpson. ‘You spoke to Freddie?’

  ‘Yes. You made a call to her when you arrived at the chateau. Saying something was off. That you might need back-up.’

  Did I?

  My expression must have betrayed my confusion. ‘After you called the Colonel.’

  ‘Look . . . I think . . . I don’t remember too well. Any of it.’

  Bruno and his son exchanged concerned glances.

  ‘I think Konrad drugged me,’ I said tentatively.

  ‘Fuckin’ A, he did,’ said Myles, spraying bits of pain aux raisins over the table. I wanted to tell him not to speak with his mouth full but thought better of it. Yes, Mommy.

  ‘It’s left me with some memory gaps. Forgive me. Freddie phoned the Colonel after I did?’

  ‘No, she phoned him after she had been to the chateau.’

  ‘Whoa.’ Myles articulated my thoughts precisely.

  ‘She was at the chateau?’

  Jules took up the story. I found it hard to look at him without feeling a pang of guilt, because his right eye was getting bluer by the second. ‘As far as we can gather, your friend arrived in time to see Konrad leave with the Principal. She followed him.’

  ‘What? Really?’ Without coming in to check on me? There’s friendship for you. It didn’t sound like Freddie. But it could wait until I had the full picture. Which may be never, given the state of my recall systems. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Still following him, as far as I know.’

  ‘Shit.’ This was good news and bad. A solo tail is really, really difficult. I was not sure I could pull it off. And it was hours since Konrad left. They could be many, many miles away.

  On the other hand, even knowing Freddie was in the country gave me a little glow of confidence. I just wished I could remember those damned calls I had apparently made.

  ‘I guess they are on the way to Luxembourg?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I need a phone.’ I’d given Jules his once back.

  ‘All in good time,’ said Bruno.

  I shook my head as if it would clear it, but all it did was ramp up the thumping behind my eyes. I poured and drank a glass of tap water. What else had I forgotten? And what made Freddie follow the Peugeot instead of coming in to check on me? I might have been dead or dying – or drugged to the eyeballs. But if she hadn’t, we might have no idea of where Mrs Irwin was. I could imagine it was a very tough call for her to make. The professional or the personal? She went pro. I was proud of her. On the other hand, I was slightly pissed off she hadn’t come to check me out, given the state I was in.

  ‘Your friend is good?’ Jules asked.

  ‘Ex-army,’ I said. ‘She knows her stuff.’

  ‘Special Forces?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She had been a Combat Medical Technician like me, but I didn’t think a little mystique would go amiss. ‘Give me a minute.’

  I ate some more of the pastries, trying to put everything together as I did so. Freddie was in France. Good. I had no idea where. Bad.
I looked like a battered junkie-whore. Not good in any light.

  ‘I need some things,’ I said.

  ‘Such as?’ asked Bruno.

  ‘Clothes for a start. Some ID.’

  ‘I have the passport I prepared for Mrs Irwin with me. If we can find somewhere to shoot a photograph.’

  ‘Best to pick up the clothes in a market,’ said Jules. ‘No CCTV or receipts. It won’t be high fashion . . .’

  ‘I know. Five pairs of knickers for ten euros sort of thing.’

  Bruno laughed. ‘Round here it is more like ten pairs for five euros.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m used to the high life. I need some other things.’

  ‘What?’ asked Bruno.

  ‘A knife, a torch, a first-aid kit, phone, phone charger . . .’ I gave him a list that re-created my RTG kit. When I had finished, Bruno stood.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the ATM at the garage,’ he said. ‘You are a very expensive young woman.’

  After he had left, I said to Jules: ‘Thank you. For helping.’

  ‘I do it for my father.’

  ‘You’re not . . .’ I mimed writing.

  ‘A forger? No, I’m a guitarist. In a rock band. And I have a small garage in Saint-Lo. My father came from Algeria in the Sixties. A pied noir. You know this phrase? He was a lawyer. He helped represent other pieds noirs with papers, with tax, with getting compensation. But after a few years, he became . . . what is the word? Not happy . . .’

  ‘Disillusioned?’ Myles offered.

  ‘Oui. Disillusioned with the French legal system. He began to help people coming over in other ways. With some papers. Then maybe a passport.’

  ‘And now he works for the Colonel?’

  ‘Well, they are old friends. The Colonel was in Algeria during the unrest.’ Even I knew that was a euphemism for what went on in the French colony. ‘They stayed in touch. My dad helps him out when he can. And, as you know, the Colonel pays well.’

  ‘Why did he send you two to the chateau? If Konrad had been there . . .’ I didn’t finish the thought. He was well aware of what I was getting at.

  ‘I know. We are not . . . not professionals in that department, you understand.’ Not gunmen or PPOs, he meant. ‘He knows that. Which is why he hesitated to ask us. But we were the nearest people the Colonel had to the place. And we were only to report what we found. We thought we had found nothing.’

  ‘You almost had us.’

  ‘And if I had found you hiding in the car like you say you were? What would you have done then?’

  I had a flash image of me plunging a sharpened ramrod into his eye socket. But I said nothing.

  ‘Judging from how you greeted me in the street, I think I am lucky I didn’t find you in those stables.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I admitted. ‘Have I said I’m sorry for that hello yet?’

  He smiled and finished his coffee. ‘Enough times I think.’

  ‘I know you are not in that field of work, but there is one thing I didn’t ask your father about.’

  ‘You would like a weapon.’

  ‘A pistol,’ I said.

  ‘We have a hunting rifle, that’s all. We are not in that game. But you are welcome to borrow it.’

  ‘I want something I can put in my pocket.’ I pulled at the ragged hem of my dress. ‘Just as soon as I get one.’

  Jules stirred his coffee for a few moments. Then he appeared to come to a decision. ‘There is a man who might be able to help. In Rennes. He runs a bicycle repair shop. He might have something.’

  Rennes might not be in the right direction for Luxembourg, but it wasn’t too far a detour. I would feel a lot safer with a Glock or a Colt under my belt. ‘Can you give me a contact number?’

  ‘I’ll give you the address. I’ll call him. Let him know you are coming. Tell him Big Thrash sent you.’

  ‘Stage name?’

  He flashed a bashful smile. ‘Be careful. He is not to be trusted on price. If he senses you are desperate . . .’

  I laughed. ‘That’s gun dealers the world over.’

  ‘How do you know this guy if you’re not in the, y’know, the business?’ Myles asked.

  ‘Ach. Moby might be a greedy arsehole, but he’s also a pretty good drummer.’

  ‘Moby?’ I asked. ‘Like the whale?’

  ‘Like the drum solo,’ he said.

  Before I could ask for clarification, Bruno returned and slid back into his seat. ‘I have been thinking. I am afraid I can’t allow you to continue.’

  I stiffened. I felt what was left of my adrenaline trickle into my bloodstream. I sat up straighter. Gripped the edge of the table, ready for the push back. I take Bruno first. A fork to the throat, maybe. The old man was small and wiry, but not with much strength. So, a good thrust with the heel of my hand, knocking him backwards off the chair.

  I looked down at the table. The cutlery was plastic. The eye, then. Even a plastic tine in the eye—

  ‘Until you have rested,’ he finished. ‘And are fully organised. From here, we go to the market. Get clothes.’

  I exhaled, letting some of the tension go from my muscles. I was getting jumpy. Which meant I was tired.

  ‘I could do with some new gear, too,’ said Myles.

  ‘As the man said, it won’t be American Apparel,’ I warned, ‘But he’ll live,’ I said to Bruno before Myles could chip in. ‘But the rest of us won’t unless he changes his boxers soon.’

  ‘Then, there is a Formule hotel about five kilometres away,’ said Bruno. ‘No staff, all done by cards. Jules will book in under his name and get us in. There I use a Polaroid to take the photo for the passport, maybe an hour to work on it. You’ll be an American citizen, though. I only brought the one blank.’

  ‘Swell,’ I offered.

  ‘I can always do the talking,’ offered Myles with a look of disgust. ‘At least my accent is authentic.’

  Great. One real accent and one phoney passport between us.

  ‘I want you to get some rest while I work on it.’

  We would see about that. ‘We’ll need a car,’ I said. ‘I can’t take that Facel any distance.’

  ‘Besides, it is like driving with your cock hanging out,’ said Jules. ‘Everyone remembers what they saw and where.’ Maybe he really was a mechanic after all. ‘Which is why we moved it from the high street. But I can whistle up a less conspicuous one from Saint-Lo. I’ll make sure it has all-drivers insurance.’

  ‘Thank you. And if you can make it an auto?’ His eyebrows asked the question. ‘Just in case I need both hands free. Myles here can manage an auto, but not a manual. I’ll pay, of course.’

  ‘The Colonel will cover it,’ said Bruno.

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Of course.’ At this rate my expenses deductions were going to be a doozy. ‘Have you thought that, perhaps, the boy should stay with us?’

  ‘No fuckin’ way.’

  ‘No, I hadn’t,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s a good idea.’

  ‘It’s a pile of horseshit idea. Look, as you just said, I can drive if we get a proper gearbox.’

  ‘I’ll manage that alone.’

  He leaned in and stabbed a finger at me. ‘And my mom is out there, alone and frightened with some maniac planning God knows what. And you want me to what? Just go off with these guys? Wait for your call? Excuse me, Sam, but your batting averages this season haven’t been so great, have they? And, if you leave me I’ll be straight into a police station and tell them there are people with guns running around after someone with a European arrest warrant on her head.’

  His face had flushed while he was talking.

  Well, he had talked himself into a stay in a wardrobe with his hands tied and mouth taped if any of us felt so inclined. You don’t try to blackmail until you hold all the cards. ‘I didn’t know you cared quite so much,’ I said, ‘. . . about your mum.’

  ‘I’m not the boo-hoo kind. I thought you’d figured that. But of course I do.’


  I looked at Bruno. ‘The boy stays with me.’

  ‘Very well. While I was out I telephoned your friend Freddie, to say you’d be in touch soon. Once we get everything together. No rush, she said.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Ustaritz.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘South. The Basque Country.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  There were hands on my breasts. Lots of hands, or so it seemed, but moving lightly, fluttering almost, merely brushing my nipples, which, nevertheless, had hardened. I wasn’t sure whether I should be embarrassed or not, but something about me felt brazen, enjoying the feeling of being pawed. Groped with sensitivity, that’s what it was. The pressure increased and I realised I was being massaged, not assaulted. I felt the guilt slough off me like a used skin.

  I was lying in a room that glowed with an ethereal light. Or was it sepulchral? It was like the finest Carrara marble, yet it was as if the stone itself was glowing from within. My masseurs – no, masseuses, I was sure they were women – were dressed in robes as if they were part of a holy order. The light emanating from the walls was so bright I had trouble making out their features, these women whose fingertips were dancing over my skin, stroking my jaw, kneading at my temple, sliding down over my belly.

  I tried to speak, but words would not form. As one of the hands slid between my legs I let out a low growl of . . . pleasure? Displeasure? Stop? Go on?

  Those fingers were inside me now. One, then two as I yielded. But did I want to yield? One of the women put a hand on my forehead and it felt cool and soothing. And it was as if the hand spoke to me, some kind of wordless communication. Let go, it said. Let go, you need this.

  My back arched up from the table. My knees had bent, pushing my hips up, inviting them to explore more. I didn’t care. I was wanton. Careless. Hungry. Something cold, metallic, entered me and began to buzz. A moan escaped my lips.