Bleeker Hill

by Russell Mardell

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You should go back to your cell now, five years, two months. I will tell you when you can come out. When the time is right. I know what I will do then. Do you know what you will do when the time comes?’

  Hudson turned slightly to Sullivan, his eyes moving across the bench, his hands leaving the coffee mug and rising to his face, the index finger on his right hand resting clumsily against his forehead, his mouth creasing into a crazy smile. Hudson’s thumb cocked the hammer on his loaded finger and the last words Sullivan heard him speak came out with the finality of a snapped branch from a felled tree.

  ‘Bang. Bang. Bang.’

  3

  Davenport paced the office on the top floor of the studio, flashing intermittent looks at himself in a long mirror propped against the back wall. He’d put his jacket down in the office the day they arrived, marking it his own during their stay there. It was the biggest office on the top floor and both those facts made Davenport feel at home. It was a small thing; in their current situation such gestures were fairly redundant, but Davenport had developed the habit of self-importance a long time ago and it was hard to accept irrelevance. They had arrived at the studios in such a hurry and through such chaos that no one else had thought to question it. Bergan, Maddox and Kleinman had been too busy attending to Grennaught’s injuries to care about their boss and the rest were too preoccupied with securing the building and working the watch in shifts to have any time to worry about where Davenport pitched tent. It was only Kendrick that could see it for what it was, gazing around the room as he did with a wide, beaming smile and winking at Davenport like a conspiratorial lover. At times Kendrick made Davenport cringe. They had been together so many years, long before Davenport took office, long before they joined the Party and politics was even a realistic goal, but they were never actually friends. Acquaintances certainly, allies perhaps, but they had never really made the time to like each other.

  As Davenport strode around the office once more, Kendrick lifted his feet on to the long oak table in the middle of the room and started gazing admiringly at his shoes. Bergan remained stoically at the door, his stillness in body and face somehow saying all that was necessary. A large map was pinned to the wall by the one window in the room, a crude black line drawn in pen from the point where they now stood to the point they needed to be, and Davenport rapped a fist against the wonky black circle drawn around their planned destination as he passed.

  ‘Suddenly looks a long way away, don’t you think?’

  ‘A day, tops. Weather permitting.’

  ‘Just weather? You said there were groups at the edge of the city. Hundreds you said. You are confident that torching Thinwater will…’

  ‘Look, who knows? There are no givens any more Eddie. Frankie thought it worth a shot and I’m inclined to agree with him.’

  ‘Any reason to change plans?’

  ‘We move out at first light. We stick to the plan, no reason to change anything. Right, Frank?’

  Bergan shrugged, nodded and looked away from the two men and towards the window.

  ‘Communications?’ Davenport continued.

  ‘Fucked. Everything is fucked. Baxter’s been beavering away at it, but there’s nothing there. Nothing that really works. Still no word from the hill.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘He’s getting nothing on the radio but static, says he hears faint voices every now and again but can’t make anything out. I dunno.’

  ‘What about radio stations? Has he picked up any radio stations? Is anyone still broadcasting?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t know, Eddie’

  ‘Isn’t that just the truth? You don’t know a damn thing. Neither of you. My great advisors! That’s a joke. You two couldn’t advise piss up a wall.’

  Bergan moved across the room so quickly and purposefully that it took Davenport by surprise, and he jumped back out of his path as if he had just stepped out in front of a juggernaut.

  ‘Don’t mind me, Frankie!’ Davenport bellowed. ‘Just you pretend I’m not here!’

  ‘You okay there, Frankie?’ Kendrick asked across his footwear.

  Bergan said nothing as he took position at the window, resting his giant hands either side of the frame and gently leaning his forehead against the glass. The city looked so quiet from up there on the top floor of the studio. The battered skyline, torn through by half demolished buildings, was covered in a misty grey hue and the snow they had left behind at Thinwater prison was already settling across the city and moving closer. Clean patches of white peeped out on the far away hills making the shadow choked city streets all the more oppressive. Bergan’s eyes fell back on to the warehouse. Outside the window a pigeon swooped past, turned in the air and flew back to where it had come from.

  ‘What if the safe house has been compromised?’ Davenport was at Bergan’s back now, peering around his giant frame at the city skyline. ‘What if the point team didn’t secure it? You would have us move out to an unsecured location, Joe? Particularly that place.’

  ‘That place?’

  ‘With all that’s happened there?’

  ‘Nothing happened there. Ten workers screwed the Party, that’s all that happened.’

  ‘Ten people disappeared there, that’s what happened, Joe.’

  ‘I see no reason to change anything. The months we have invested in that place, the work that’s been done. Eddie… there is nowhere else. Right now it’s probably the most secure place in the country.’

  ‘Hardly saying much is it?’

  ‘We’re here to keep you safe, Eddie. Perhaps you should start trusting us to do that? Right, Frank?’ Bergan remained silent, his giant hands moving from the windowframe and rubbing at the condensation building up on the panes of glass. ‘Besides, even if the point team failed, even if a group found the safe house, so what? We can deal with that. And even if we can’t, which is a big if, because…’

  ‘It’s a big “if” is it?’ Davenport barked back, his hands grabbing at the top of his hips and his chest thrusting forward in one last attempt to look important. ‘We have enough ammunition left to feel safe walking into that do we? Just how much do we actually have left, Joe? Frank? And food for that matter? Do we have enough food to see us past tomorrow if there’s a problem?’

  ‘There is food at the safe house, and weaponry too. At least there should be.’

  ‘Should be?’

  ‘Look, what do you want from me?’ Kendrick yelled. ‘Yes, there should be. That was part of the plan. The plan, Eddie, do you remember the plan? The safe house? The bunker? All that money the Party squirreled away just to shove at that place? All this ringing any bells? We go to the safe house. As planned. At first light. If it’s been compromised, if it’s been found, if Schaeffer has…’

  Bergan’s right hand suddenly shattered the pane of glass it had been rubbing and he titled forward at the sudden change in pressure, his great body pushing into the remaining glass as his wrist flopped out of the hole between two toothy shards. He stood motionless for a second as the snow-flecked wind swirled against his bloody slab of a palm, and the jagged piece of glass that now sat plum in the centre. Grabbing it roughly between the index finger and thumb of his left hand he yanked it out and tossed it down to the ground below, then retracted his hand and stared back into the room as if someone had just insulted him.

  ‘Frank?’ Davenport said gently, backing up a few steps.

  Bergan moved around the edge of the table, past Davenport and towards the door, the blood on his hand now oozing between his fingers and dropping in trickles to the floor. He stopped in the doorway and looked back into the room, first to Kendrick, already back gazing at his shoes, and then to Davenport, stood framed by the window and the ever-darkening gloom outside.

  ‘We move out. As soon as possible.’

  4

  Turtle led the way out of the
cafeteria and up a large flight of stairs to a room that Sullivan assumed must have once been used for hair and make up in the overgrown child’s playground. The light bulbs lining the mirrors and a large collection of wigs in a huge cardboard box gave the room’s past life away. Beyond that it was all decay; the walls were crumbling and the roof was leaking, small yellow puddles gathered in the uneven floor, the electrics were exposed, windows smashed. Damp was in the walls, woodworm in the floors. A heavily bearded man in washed out khaki was leaning over an old transistor radio in the corner of the room. Kleinman, looking like the other end of the evolutionary scale, was standing over him, a wretched copper wig sitting at a slant on his head, watching Sullivan with a child’s curiosity. Sullivan saw for the first time just how young Kleinman looked and found himself thinking again of his daughter. How old had she been? He desperately tried to remember, to scrabble back something of that that had been lost, but, as with everything else it seemed, it wasn’t easily to hand.

  She wanted a rat for her birthday one year. Where do you find a rat?

  ‘This is Sullivan then,’ Turtle offered the others, waving an arm around the room as if there were a hundred Sullivan’s. ‘New blood. Ex of Thinwater, Grennaught’s replacement.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ Kleinman said as he gave Sullivan a quick, disinterested nod, the wig slipping off his head and landing in a puddle on the floor.

  ‘Kid here is Kleinman, he was in a young offenders outside the capital, back in the old country,’ Turtle continued, seemingly oblivious to the animosity Kleinman was making no effort to hide. ‘Got busted for car jacking. He’s our wheels. The grizzled old walnut on the floor there is Baxter. He’s our communications king.’ Baxter raised a hairy hand in a half-hearted wave but didn’t look up. ‘He was twenty years in the army. One of the last ones out the door, eh Baxter?’

  ‘Are you saying we don’t have an army any more?’ Sullivan asked the room.

  ‘Shit man, where you been hiding yourself? Jail?’ Turtle said with a loud laugh. The room didn’t take up the joke.

  Kleinman stepped forward and drew up to Sullivan. ‘What were you in Thinwater for, square peg?’

  ‘Frankie says he shot a man,’ Baxter said into the floor just as a crackle and whine screeched out of the radio and died amongst the stale air of the room.

  ‘That true, Sullivan?’ Kleinman asked. ‘You shoot a man? You a badass? Or are you innocent like the rest of us?’

  ‘Life screwed me, kid.’

  ‘Screw it back. It makes you feel better.’

  ‘I will remember that.’

  ‘Grennaught was a good man. Good shooter…’

  ‘Police marksman before…all of it…’ Baxter chipped in.

  ‘…You think you can replace him do you?’

  ‘Ok, let’s not swing dicks in a confined space,’ Turtle said stepping between them and nudging Sullivan back to the doorway. ‘I’m just giving Sullivan the guided tour Kleinman, put your macho posturing away. You haven’t the hair on the balls to pull it off. What have you heard from the top, we still moving out at dawn? Maddox seems to think so.’

  ‘You met Maddox yet, new boy?’ Kleinman asked Sullivan through the sort of cocky grin only the young ever seem capable of pulling off. The more he spoke, the more he postured, the more Sullivan saw a sense of self-confidence bought from the strength of others. Kleinman was the sort of kid on the playground who holds the bully’s coat for him. ‘He’s gonna love you, Sullivan.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to bend over for him, kid.’

  Turtle turned Sullivan around, planted his hands on his shoulders, and marched him from the room and back on to the stairs. Kleinman remained in the doorway, his arms crossed petulantly over his chest, cocky grin fading with each step Sullivan took. As Sullivan and Turtle disappeared at the turn in the stairs, Baxter’s radio fizzed and crackled and died again.

  Turtle and Sullivan came out on to a long landing with window-lined offices running down one side. Bloodied bits of paper and shredded folders lay on the floor, a filing cabinet was on its side and chairs and bits of broken table lay here and there, all around. As they passed the first office, Sullivan saw a man walking across a fire escape outside the window – submachine gun slung over one shoulder, cigar clamped between his lips – and then begin to casually climb a ladder to the roof. Sullivan recognised his black fatigues instantly, the bulky frame, the cuts and scars on his shaven head, and suddenly he was back on the bed in that impossibly white room, hugging his wife’s letters. The hatred he felt for that man then, was bubbling back inside him, spilling over his heart. Turtle turned Sullivan away from the room and offered him a gentle shake of the head. Sullivan chanced a look back and saw the cigar smoke breaking apart on the harsh November wind, and then Turtle was in front of him again, pushing him on.

  ‘Theo Maddox,’ Turtle said, like it was meant to mean something. ‘There’s not one of us, at one time or another, that didn’t wish Frankie had left him to rot in jail.’

  ‘That desperate for numbers is he?’

  ‘The man can shoot. Man, he can shoot. Maddox could shoot a rogue eyelash off you from a different postcode with one hand on his dick and his trousers round his ankles. Never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Good guy to have on side then.’

  ‘Maddox is on his own side. Don’t think you’re getting anything more than a cold shoulder from him. Story goes he said to the judge at his trial that adding attempted murder to his list of crimes was an insult to him. He says he said to the judge, “Your Honour, when I attempt to murder someone I succeed and I strongly disapprove of your insult to my career.” You get the picture. Anyway, we’re not all that bad, wouldn’t want to give you the wrong impression and have you running for the hills. I mean, if you could, if you had a choice.’ Turtle gave a small, overly polite cough, and steered Sullivan forward again. ‘You ever been in a TV studio before? I’m a little underwhelmed if I’m being honest. Anyway, they want a word, come this way.’

  As they picked a route through the debris on the floor and made their way toward Davenport’s office, Sullivan started stacking up the many questions in his mind, sorting them into some priority, trying to claw back some semblance of reality that he could understand, but in the end the one question he knew that he would have to ask again sooner or later was a simple one – why me? He had nothing to offer, he was nothing to these people, was not a thug or a killer, he couldn’t work a radio, read a map or shoot a gun like any expert – despite what his history may report – he had no special knowledge to impart, no opinions to share, stories to tell or advice to give. He had nothing. Indeed as far as the real world was concerned, he was nothing. But hadn’t there been something in Bergan’s eyes as they had talked in Hudson’s office? Sullivan had thought so, but with Bergan it was so hard to tell. When a man’s eyes are dead they don’t ask questions. They already seem to have all the answers.

  5

  Davenport was sitting at the table in his office staring into the dregs of a glass of whisky. He barely lifted his eyes as Bergan ushered Sullivan in and shoved him crudely into a seat at the opposite side of the table. Bergan, his hand freshly bandaged, returned to the broken window and continued his silent watch.

  ‘The Party loves you, Mr Sullivan.’

  ‘The Party loves you too, Mr Davenport. Sir.’

  ‘Can I tempt you to some whisky, Sullivan? It’s not very good but it’s a wise man that learns to find pleasure in the substandard. Keeps you going, don’t you find?’

  ‘Little goals, sir.’

  ‘Yes, little goals. I suppose so.’ Davenport raised an empty glass to Sullivan.

  ‘No, thank you. But thank you all the same.’

  ‘How are you? Feeling human again?’

  ‘I’m not sure I would go that far.’

  Davenport laughed to himself and looked up to face Sullivan. Wordlessly they felt each other out, groping their way into the conversation both knew they had to have.

  �
�You have questions, I’m sure?’

  ‘I do. Many. If I may?’

  ‘Time is short. We are about to move out again. Have you met everyone?’

  ‘Most people, I think, I don’t know. May I ask…’

  ‘Why you were picked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Frankie needed a replacement for Grennaught. He found you.’

  ‘Simple as that?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I’m not sure I’ve got what you need. I’m not a killer.’

  ‘Your records would suggest otherwise.’

  ‘I was protecting my family. It was self defence.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to believe me.’

  Davenport shrugged and swirled the whisky in his glass. ‘I’m not sure that really matters anymore.’

  ‘It matters to me. I’m no murderer.’

  ‘At the risk of stating the obvious our pool of available talent is somewhat shallow these days, Sullivan. However you choose to tag your offence, we haven’t the luxury of great choice.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Is that not enough?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  Davenport looked back to his whisky glass and sighed. At the window, Bergan had his walkie-talkie to his lips again. Above them footsteps thudded across the roof and the ceiling moaned in its response, its bare light flex swinging like a hangman’s rope under the vibration. Bergan started plucking the loose shards of glass from the pane and then leaned his head out, looking east, breathing in the sharp air.

  ‘Anything?’ Bergan whispered into the walkie-talkie. ‘Maddox? You got anything?’

  ‘Nothing, Frank. Nothing here,’ came the response from the walkie-talkie. ‘Can’t see anything out there.’

  ‘Keep on it.’

  Davenport eased himself from his chair and walked a full circle around the room, past the map on the wall, past Bergan, behind Sullivan, stopping where he started and perching on the edge of the table, whisky glass turning in the effeminate grip of beautifully manicured hands, wrong in style, symbol and sin. He looked down at Sullivan, his face caught by the slip of light slicing through the musty darkness from the outside corridor, and he spoke in soft tones, fragile enough to shatter at the wrong ears, and when the words came they violated Sullivan, piercing his heart with cold assurance. ‘Your wife loves you very much, Mr Sullivan.’