by Dave Lacey
Jack cut him off. “Who’s on that committee? It must be hard to listen to anything that argues against you getting out of the way before trouble comes,” Jack said with a sneer.
“Jack, none of the committee members are going to leave the earth. That was a condition of them being on the committee.” Lemac looked at the floor; clearly he held the men who sat on the committee in high regard.
“Well, I’m finding it difficult to argue with you, Lemac. Especially as you seem to have heard the arguments before. But I simply cannot bring myself to accept that this is our only hope or plan. There must be something else.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of desperation. He sat in silence for a few minutes more, contemplating the bleak future that lay ahead for all of them. He thought of his family. What would they do? Would they survive? He couldn’t bear the thought of losing them, not this way, not so soon. He and Sel had only just re-discovered each other, it was just plain cruel for this to land in his lap now.
What about little Jack? What would become of him? Would it be possible to bring up children while living underground? His future, their future, all the dreams, all the hopes that they had, that everyone had, redundant. A cold black cloud enveloped him, drowning his spirit and washing away his will. His earlier fire and fight, the fury he had felt at being held against his will and then at the telling of the story, gone. Jack felt limp with despair, like a thin paper copy of the man that had sat in this chair an hour before. What would happen during the next year? Would he just have to carry on going to work, as if nothing were going to happen? Would he be able to carry on as if nothing were going to happen? Would he be able to look friends, family or colleagues in the eye knowing most of them would be dead within a year or so? He chewed on his lip as he sat there.
He felt like he was going mad, that he would go mad eventually knowing what he knew. The silence continued uninterrupted. Clearly Lemac had been through all of this before; he knew the stages of grief and what not to say while somebody was coming to terms with the sudden knowledge that their lives had been rendered meaningless. Stupid thoughts came to him, like what he would do without sport, or movies, or books, or sunbathing? He assumed that none of these things would be possible in a future where they had to exist underground.
Gradually, the world outside his imagination began to encroach upon his consciousness; he steadily became aware of the others again. And to his astonishment, he could hear the sniffles that indicated that somebody in the room was crying. He looked up and straight into Lemac’s dry eyes; his clear, level gaze seemed to acknowledge what Jack had just been thinking about, and that he understood. The sniffling continued. It didn’t take Jack long to figure out who it was – Clarence, the killer.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jack asked, shocked at the man’s reaction even through his own despair. The crying continued unabated. “You pathetic excuse for a man, after all you’ve done, this makes you cry?” Jack asked him again.
“Fuck off!” Clarence barked from his foetal position near the far wall. He looked deranged; then again, surely that was his default state?
Jack laughed. “This is priceless, you piece of shit. This almost makes it seem acceptable, to see you curled up like a mental patient. I hope everything you’ve done comes back to haunt you. I hope every soul that you’ve ushered into the afterlife makes you pay for your sins. You don’t deserve to live.”
Clarence got slowly to his feet, another crushed spirit it seemed. He walked, dragging his feet, toward Lemac looking accusingly at him. “You French shit! Why would you tell me this, why now? I didn’t need to know, I would’ve been happy not knowing.” He was right in Lemac’s face, jabbing his finger into his chest, snarling despite his tears. “All the things I wanted to do, everything I had planned for my retirement...it's all waste of fucking time, all of it!” He raised his voice toward the end; clearly he was losing his tenuous grip on sanity. “Take me with you?” he whispered. His madness cleared for a moment, almost as if he was in the eye of the storm, but knowing that very soon the tumult would return worse than ever. “Take me with you? I could go, I could be useful, I could help with things?” He was begging now, desperate and childlike in his desire to be chosen. Jack laughed at him, delighting in the assassin’s obvious terror.
“Shut the fuck up, Sumner! You’re fucking dead!” He was fired up again now, his eyes bloodshot, spittle flying from his mouth. “First chance I get when we’re out of here, you’re dead. I don’t care whether I get paid for it or whether anybody orders it. And I’ll enjoy it so much, watching you beg while I kill your bitch and kid too.” He turned toward the Frenchman. “Lemac, please, I’ll do anything you like. Why did you tell me if not to take me with you?” he wheedled.
“Because I have no further use for you, and it seems clear now that I cannot allow you to live.” Lemac nodded imperceptibly, over Clarence’s right shoulder. The guard standing five feet from the killer quickly extended his arms, and Jack just caught the gleam of what he assumed to be piano wire between his hands. Too late, Clarence realised what was about to happen; as he did so, the wire came over his head and the guard pulled back sharply with all his weight, driving his knee into the middle of Clarence’s back to hold him while he applied as much pressure as he could.
There was no time for Clarence to slip his hands or arms beneath the wire, to protect his throat, which meant it was only a matter of time before he died. Jack was reminded of the scene from the Godfather where Luca Brasi is murdered in the bar by Virgil Sollozzo and Bruno Tattaglia, all eyes popping and tongue lolling. It seemed to go on forever before Clarence gradually submitted and slid to the ground, lifeless and terrifying to look at.
“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” Jack’s revulsion gave him energy again. He tried to push his chair back from the dead goon.
“Jack, please look at me?” Lemac asked gently. Jack swung his gaze and locked eyes with him.
“Surely you must understand that I could not let him live? He would never have been able to keep quiet, and he would almost certainly have killed you, and possibly your family.” He gave the impression of seeking Jack’s approval.
“Don’t you get tired of the killing? I’m sick of it already, and I’ve not been around it anywhere near as much as you have. Lunatic though he was, you just garrotted him in front of my eyes.”
“I know, and I apologise, but it had to be done. I am not proud of it, but somebody has to do the dirty work, the work that most people don’t want to hear about but are secretly glad it is done. That is where my nickname comes from, ‘The Mechanic’, I fix things.” Lemac gave a small shrug.
“Good for you,” Jack muttered. He still didn’t know what to do about what he knew. And he was afraid that if he looked at the Frenchman, he would reveal it; Lemac would look right into Jack’s heart and see his fear and righteousness battling for supremacy. In the end he gathered himself and spoke lightly.
“Okay, this has been quite some evening hasn’t it. What happens now?”
“Well, first, do you understand any better what this has all been for?”
“Philippe, I don’t know what to tell you. Part of me thinks this whole thing’s deplorable and that you should all be fucked and burned-”
“A fair point I think,” Lemac cut in.
“Another part of me thinks what else could you do. I mean that too. But it does beg the question, what if it’s a story? What if it doesn’t happen?”
“Then nothing, other than some people will feel a little foolish and a few billion will have a reprieve. But, forgive me for saying, I get the feeling you might not be able to keep this to yourself, Detective?”
“You’re a smart guy, Philippe. I feel that if people have enough warning now, then maybe fewer of them will die come next year. That’s if this thing even happens, and I'm not convinced. So I guess you’re just going to have to watch this space.” He shrugged as he finished talking.
“I'm afraid that’s not how it works, Jack
. As I said earlier, we do have leverage. Your family in the long run, but in the short term I think we may need to make our point.” Jack paled. He had forgotten about Smithy.
“No, there’s no need, honestly.” It was his turn to plead to the Frenchman, but the look he saw in those eyes...he could see the shutters had come down; they were the eyes of the killer again. Jack looked desperately at his bounds hands and legs, struggling, fighting for release.
“Detective, I know you better than you think. I know your sense of righteousness, your belief in right and wrong, will force you to do something foolish. And I simply cannot allow that, not now. Believe me when I tell you, this is not something I am going to enjoy; though I know it needs to be done, I am filled with regret. This needs to happen; you need to know the consequences for failure to contain your knowledge.” He walked across the room, and Jack had trouble keeping track of him, though he could hear his footsteps trailing away, and there was a sweeping noise which Jack couldn’t place.
“Please, I'm sorry. Lemac!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Lemac! I'm sorry. I know how this works, I’ll keep quiet.” He was struggling frantically once more; the chair was starting to rock and he was in real danger of tipping it. Just then, the attendant guard walked toward him and grabbed him from behind and, in an incredible feat of strength, picked both him and the chair up and turned him round. Jack saw what had made the noise – a large heavy curtain, which had obviously hidden their room from the next room by a wall with a sheet of plexi-glass set into it. As they got closer, Jack could see Smithy on the other side of the glass; he looked like he had taken a bit of a beating. There was a man in the room with him.
Jack felt cold fingers of fear grip his heart. “You don’t have to do this! You don’t! I told you I won’t talk. I’ll keep it quiet, and next year I’ll do what is expected of me. You don’t need to do this.” All pride had been stripped away; he felt no shame in begging. He could feel tears, hot tears, welling up on his lower eyelids. “Please, Lemac...”
“Jack, I am very sorry. I think you will really learn from this. Think of your family, of their survival. And they could survive, with your help. But if the world finds out too soon, how easy do you think it will be to do what needs to be done? I'm sorry, but I need you to know that we will do what needs to be done in order to protect you from yourselves.” He knocked on the glass; the man on the other side nodded, and lifted a linen napkin from a small table in the corner of the room. On the table was a syringe, nothing else. Lemac nodded to the man behind Jack, who produced a reel of gaffer tape, from which he tore a strip and placed it across Jack’s mouth. There would be no more pleading.
As he watched, with torturous fascination, the man on the other side of the glass picked up the syringe and walked to where Smithy sat. As if sensing something momentous was about to happen, Smithy snapped out of his torpor and looked at his roommate. He then turned his head and looked at Jack with a mixture of amusement and fear. Jack was crying in earnest now, and made no attempt to hide it or stop it.
Tears flowed freely down his face, dropping carelessly onto his shirtfront. This was his friend, his best friend, and he was going to have to watch him die. True to his personality, and showing a measure of his bravery, Smithy looked him in the eye and winked. If anything, this made Jack cry harder than before, until it became almost impossible for him to see anything in any detail. He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, then he looked at Lemac one last time as the man on the other side stuck the needle into Smithy’s arm and depressed the plunger. Lemac looked at him with pity.
“It is a mixture of two separate drugs, one a powerful sedative. He will not feel anything – it will be very peaceful, I assure you.” He turned from Jack and looked through the glass again. Jack once more strained at his restraints, this time maniacally. Lemac laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him.
“Please don’t struggle, it is too late now. Even if we wanted to save him, we could not. Take the opportunity to look upon him while he is still alive.” Jack did as he was advised and looked at his friend. He could see the sedative was already taking hold, heedless of the fact that Smithy fought it. After a further five minutes, it was done, or at least Smithy was unconscious. The guard cut the bonds fixing him to the chair, heaved him over his shoulder, and walked from the room. Jack’s chin sank to his chest, defeated. He didn’t even notice as they pushed a needle into his own arm, plunging chemicals into his bloodstream.
A few minutes later, still in a trance like state, he was lifted from the chair, snipped cable ties falling to the floor like discarded tree branches in the autumn winds, and bundled over the shoulder of another burly guardian. Still conscious, he watched the dirty floor drift by below him, or was it above him? He was losing all sense of up or down, of being conscious or unconscious. The heels of his chariot lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped. He was very sleepy now; were they outside maybe? Yes, outside in the cold again, and it was raining. His chariot stopped, and he was dropped into the boot of a car. And he has company. It's Smithy, thinks Jack. Good old Smithy, it’s good to be back with him. He must be drugged too, not moving, and then Jack remembers... Smithy’s dead… Smithy dead... what will I do?
***
Philippe Lemac stood and watched the first car, carrying two of his men and Clarence’s body , pull away into the night, red lights fading into the rain soaked horizon. He turned to the driver of the second car, which contained the two policemen in the boot.
“Take them back near the hotel and dump them. I am sure Detective Sumner will figure out what to say in order to explain their predicament.”
“And if he doesn’t? If he tells them?” Lemac shuddered, not wishing to think on that just now.
“Well, if that happens, we will have to hold firm on our promise won’t we? Much as that sours my evening. But, I do not believe he will talk. I think tonight’s lesson will be sufficient for him to think very hard before he signs the death warrants of his family and friends. No, I do not think that will be required. When The End comes, we will need Detective Sumner, and it would be much better for us all if he makes it that far without seeking retribution. When it comes, we will need all the honest men we can find.”
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