Heroes Don't Travel

by Roo I MacLeod

  ‘No, but they might.’ Winston pointed at Lucas, and the taller of the two men pushed his hat back and strode forward, his bandy legs causing him to sway. With one large hand he lifted Lucas into the air. The child kicked out and caught the thug in the region of his groin. The man didn’t flinch, but dropped Lucas to the floor. He seized him from the back of his neck and marched him from the room. Winston pulled his phone from its holder, tapped twice on the screen and waited for an answer. His eyes remained locked on Ben, the gun aimed at his chest.

  ‘I’ve got Lucas,’ he said. ‘Street Boy is asking about his money.’ He smiled at Ben as he listened to the reply. ‘No, he hasn’t got Claudia.’ Again he nodded. ‘Agreed.’ He placed the phone back in its carry case on his belt. ‘No Claudia, so no money. And your assignment is terminated.’

  Ben shuddered at the word terminated. The mood had changed. Max had wanted the child, not Claudia. Ben threw himself to the floor as Winston pulled the trigger. A sharp pain impacted his side as he rolled beneath the tables scattered about the room. Two more shots exploded in the low-ceilinged room. Ben pushed himself backward. He kicked at chairs, knocking tables into the path of potential missiles. His ears rang and the strong smell of spent gunpowder bit at the back of his throat.

  Muffled shouts sounded, but the shooting had stopped. A swirl of smoke shrouded the room and Ben had lost sight of Winston and his Glock 7. Griff had blood on his shoulder and a man, clutching his hat, lay on the slate floor. Trev threw shotguns to two Shepherd lads and ran for the front of the pub. Gravel spun and shots echoed in the dark valley.

  Ben lay scrunched against the wall, a searing pain in his right flank and his hearing muffled. Griff sat up and a body ran behind the bar. The sudden bleat of the sheep broke through his hearing to his left side. He jerked upward as his right ear clicked and joined the real world.

  Griff nursed the sheep’s head in his lap, its matted belly covered in blood. His hand delved deep in the sheep’s arse, soft squelching noises accompanying his actions. Ben pulled his jacket apart and paled at the sight of the blood.

  ‘Oh Jesus, we need to get some medics here, pronto.’

  He pulled his shirt up and revealed a large red scrape across the side of his abdomen. Blood oozed from the wound. He uttered a guttural sigh of relief as he realized the bullet had come close, but hadn’t penetrated his body.

  Toward the rear passage, the Shepherd brothers stood over a body. Ben crawled from beneath a table as two motors sounded and more stones crunched on gravel. Headlights raked the pub. Vehicles passed the window, one sounding left, and the other heading cross-country.

  Trev entered the pub, his shotgun hanging at his side. A farmer appeared from the back of the building holding a rifle in both hands. A body lay propped against the bar, the checked shirt covered in blood.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Get him out the back,’ Trev said. ‘There’s a doctor booked in the shed. He said he’d take a look at him.’ He turned to Ben. ‘You all right?’

  Ben stood wincing as he approached the bar. ‘Yeah, the silly fucker missed me. Well, grazed me ribs, but I dived, didn’t I? I could see it coming. It was like I pictured the bullet, the direction and all. Fuck it. The prick missed me from two foot. It’s not so clever that Glock 7, eh?’

  A soft bleat sounded from the sheep. ‘Jesus, I thought the sheep got hit,’ Ben said.

  Griff held a lamb by its feet, a gooey fluid mixed with blood drooling from its body. He grabbed a handful of straw and wiped the viscous fluid from the lamb’s body.

  ‘You going to have to be mother, Griff,’ Trev said.

  ‘Not the first time, is it, Trev? There’s another tyke in there, but it’s not moving. I think it got shot. I’ll take this one home, okay, Trev?’

  Trev helped the Shepherd brothers get Joseph to his feet and walked him out back. Griff followed, cradling the bleating lamb in his arms. Ben picked up chairs and organized furniture. He grabbed his mug and sat before the fire. Trev joined him, slammed two shot glasses on the table and a bottle of whisky. He cupped his pipe in hand and puffed with intent.

  ‘Never been a gunfight here before, eh Duck?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry about that, eh? I didn’t realize they wanted the child that bad.’ Ben tucked his shirt back into his jeans. ‘I don’t get how he got here so fast. I mean, has the prick been following me or something?’

  ‘Maybe he’s got a trace on your car.’

  ‘It’s stolen.’

  ‘You got a phone? They can trace people through phones.’

  ‘Yeah, but the phone’s a throwaway, and Max didn’t give it to me.’

  ‘All they need’s a number, and you called him, didn’t you, Duck?’

  Ben shook his head as Trev puffed a cloud of smoke into the air, the vanilla aroma fighting the acrid tang of gun smoke. ‘Wasn’t any need for guns, eh?’ he said.

  ‘You not going to call the police?’ Ben asked.

  ‘No. We don’t be bothering the police around here. They tend not to venture outside town center at best.’

  ‘But you got the law investigating that crash up the road, eh?’

  ‘They are gone and good riddance. They showed face, looked for nothing, proved nothing, packed up and well gone. No, we are self-policing out here. It’s just us, a couple of farms and the Gypsies. There’s generally no need for the police.’

  Ben knew he needed to act, but knowing which path to choose baffled him. Winston shooting at him made the calamitous exercise personal and a degree more serious than he’d expected. He’d come to earn money, find a girl and keep out of Ostere. The money was short, he’d lost the girl, but he had kept out of Ostere. He needed to up his game. Someone had to pay him for his time.

  ‘You don’t want to be calling the police, do you, Duck?’ He reached across and touched Ben’s shoulder. ‘You not be calling the police.’ It had turned from question to statement.

  Ben stiffened at his touch. The police didn’t figure in his calculations. ‘Probably not the preferred move, just yet, eh?’ He smiled at the landlord and shook his head.

  ‘You give it to the Gypsies, which is good by us. What they did to Griff was inhuman. But they get away with it because no one wants to be taking on a Gypsy. It’s an unwritten law of life. But we don’t condone this kidnapping shit. You shouldn’t be fucking with the native children. Do what you like with a Slotvak, but not a child born in God’s own country. And now the Gypsies have shot up my pub, hit one of the brothers, and it’s sort of getting personal. You know what I mean, Duck?’

  ‘Winston, the man with the gun, isn’t a Gypsy. There won’t be any bother from Winston as he works for the Grandfather of the child they took.’

  ‘Mad Max?’

  Ben looked behind him. Shepherd brothers stood at the bar.

  ‘You know Max?’ Ben said.

  ‘Oh yeah, we know Max.’ One of the lads stepped behind the bar for more shot glasses. The speaker joined them at the table. He pushed his hat back and stroked his red beard. He had a small tat on the side of his face. Ben peered at the image, trying to work out the significance of a cross and barbed wire.

  ‘We know Winston, too,’ he said. He pulled a pipe from his pocket and set about filling it. ‘You might be right about Winston, but Max is definitely Gypsy. Long time back, but you can’t breed out Gypsy. He sold us a dog once. Wished we’d never bought it coz the Gypsies been giving us shit about it forever.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve known Max a long time,’ Trev said. ‘He’s got big and powerful has our Gypsy friend from the Lowlands. Got the ear of some impressive types in the Man’s government he has. But he still be Gypsy.’

  ‘But he lives in a house,’ Ben said. He’d moved his chair so he could see the two giants sitting on each side of Trev. The hot coals glowed at his back. The dead sheep lay to his right, and he angled his chair so he didn’t need to look at the poor animal. ‘And it’s a big old spooky house, I’m told. There isn’t a caravan. Jesus, the fol
k in Old Ostere would have ten bales of fits if he parked a van on his front garden.’

  ‘He’s a Gypsy and a well-connected one,’ Trev said, ‘with his name on all sorts of trusts and companies. He has the ear of the military, the royals, and the Man’s defense chief. That’s one hell of a Gypsy.’

  ‘That Winston was brought up from wee by Max,’ the Shepherd lad said. ‘That makes him Gypsy. Being black didn’t do him any favors. Gypsies don’t do black too well. Sort of get that. We don’t do black much here either.’

  ‘Well, whatever,’ Ben said, ‘it’s a family matter, eh. It will get resolved once I have the mother back on board and us back in Ostere. I just need to find her and my friends.’

  Ben drank from his mug. ‘So I’m heading back to the Gypsy site, eh? Oh joy.’

  ‘They won’t be there. You mentioned a big old house on top of a hill. My guess is that house be Smith’s farm.’

  Two lads entered through the back door of the pub and helped themselves to shot glasses and joined the table at the fire. Another bottle of whisky joined the clutter on the table. Pipes churned smoke and a cloud clogged the ceiling. Trev knocked his pipe loud on the stone hearth and kicked the spent tobacco into the embers.

  ‘We might be able to help you out,’ he said. ‘Prison Pete can get you onto the Smith property.’

  ‘We owe the Smiths, don’t we?’

  ‘Big time, Duck.’

  ‘Not just for Griff, but they’ve been ripping into our stocks.’

  ‘And they nicked our dog.’

  A rage rumbled as the men topped up glasses and skulled the liquor. Trev stood and stretched his back. He offered his pipe a good hard suck before cramming it with tobacco.

  ‘They nicked our dog to sire it with Dark Star. The dog was more trouble than it was worth, Duck, for sure.’

  ‘For sure.’

  ‘Damn dog.’

  ‘But it was funding us pretty well.’ Trev puffed at his pipe. ‘Now they’ve come in here with guns and that’s not right.’

  ‘Not right.’

  ‘Damn guns, Duck.’

  ‘Right,’ Ben said. ‘How you going to help?’

  ‘We going to blow up a couple caravans.’

  ‘That could be dangerous.’

  ‘Yeah, but we do blowing up real good, Duck. We’ll be okay.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, but Gypsies could get killed.’

  ‘Nah, they don’t use ‘em. They sometimes have the odd gang of slave laborers pissing about in ‘em, but they’re on the continent. They go over this time of year for a bit of thieving. They like to share their skills with the world and it’s a good source of stock to sell to London. Gypsies and kids. Sell ‘em, work ‘em, buy them back, and sell ‘em on. Gypsies are lazy.’

  ‘Dead Lazy.’

  ‘Dishonest, but clever at making a shekel.’

  ‘Oh, they can magic shekels from dirt, Duck.’

  ‘There’s a couple of caravans to the front and the side of their stupid house on the hill we could be blowing. And while they’re out looking at the fire, we can be shooting a couple of rounds and keeping them occupied. You can get in and get your friends out of the house. There’s two sheds you need to check out, too. They keep a lot of their stock in the old sheds to the back of the house.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ Ben said.

  The lads filled shot glasses, held them high and swallowed. ‘We just got to wait for the other lads to get back. We can’t do this with just the four of us, and Joseph took a bullet, so we can’t rely on him too much.’

  ‘Joseph will be cool,’ one of the Shepherd brothers said. ‘It’s just a flesh wound and that Doc in the shed says he’ll be fine. He be giving the orders as always.’

  ‘We can take out the two caravans out front, we could.’

  ‘What about blowing something a bit closer to the house? They’ve got that posh old van to the left side of the property.’

  ‘That’d piss them off big time coz they love that van, don’t they?’

  Ben smiled at their enthusiasm. ‘This is all good, eh, but I’m going to need your toilet before the action begins. I’ve got too much of your Knackered Gnat swishing about in my stomach.’

  ‘Just piss out front. Fill up the puddle, Duck. The toilets here aren’t so good.’

  Ben chose not to piss in the puddle but to relieve himself against the back wall of the pub. As he finished his business, two trucks turned into the car park. He ducked low as the headlights swept across the jeep and the outhouse. One of the trucks skidded in the gravel and stopped with its nose facing the beer garden. The second truck drove to the shed beyond the thicket.

  Ben ran toward the thicket of trees, seeking cover as a door slammed shut. A tall man with a battered hat walked back to his truck, reversed the vehicle and headed for the carpark. Ben ran for the shed, keeping low, his dark clothing blending with the night. He crept past the front door, running right ignoring the darkened windows until he hit the back of the building. Men in dinner suits stood in a large room dining from a table laden with charred beasts. A screen covered the far wall. A snooker table had been pushed to the side and acted as a forum for a model of Old London Town’s Parliament square. A large framed picture of the prince dominated the near wall. Ben had no idea who the men were, but one of the men, tall with thinning hair and a thick beard, was a decent match for the Prince. Ben looked from the picture to the man, astounded by the likeness.

  ‘What would the Prince be doing here?’

  The gaggle of Shepherds had grown by the time Ben returned. The room was awash with red hair and long beards, checked shirts and braces. Conversation about the coming attack had the lads talking loud and hard.

  ‘You ready?’ the landlord said. ‘The boys are back. We’ll pick Griff up on the way. Let’s piss off some Gypsies, eh, Duck?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wynona Courts Max

  Wynona stood before Max watching an engorged blood vessel pulse with a frenetic rhythm. His freckled cranium reflected the feeble lamplight with a light sheen of perspiration. The mask hissed and closed eyelids flickered. His head nodded with the pulsing twitch at his neck. A child dressed in a one piece sat in the corner by the tall windows clutching the thick red curtain.

  A cough erupted from Max’s lungs and caused him to fall forward. The raking, dry convulsions turned his head a bright red. Fingers clutched the arms of the chair as he pushed himself backward. He inhaled a shallow breath, willing his diaphragm to resume normal functions. Red-rimmed eyes stared at the wall, at a painting of a man looking out to sea.

  ‘You’re an arse,’ Wynona said.

  ‘PSO Wynona Webster, you are telling me nothing I don’t know,’ he said in his halting nasal accent. ‘Is police policy to be rude a new trend?’

  ‘Why you using guns? That’s my boy out there and your lapdog has just taken shots at him.’

  Wynona pulled up a chair and sat with her arms leaning on the wooden desk. Her gaze stopped on the painting of the dismembered body in Saturn’s mouth and she shuddered.

  ‘Why are you here? Who let you in?’

  ‘My boy let me in. I find it easier to get answers if I bypass the help guarding the door. Why the guns? Street Boy is no hero. We sent him to find a child for a wedge. He doesn’t carry a weapon and he won’t get in the way of a gun for a child he doesn’t know. Christ, the last child he had dealings with got shot in his care.’

  ‘Is your boy alive?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s not answering his phone, so I thought you might enlighten me. What’s the state of play up there in the Lowlands? You don’t want to get on my bad side. Serious Max, I don’t take prisoners.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on up there. Winston’s gone off radar and I’m tired of this simple job turning difficult. Five men I send, none come back with my girl.’

  ‘Well I can’t help you with Winston’s movements since he entered a peaceful Clan pub with guns drawn.’ She paused to allow her l
ast statement to sink into Max’s skeletal skull. ‘You do realize that pub is a Clan pub.’

  ‘What’s that mean? A Clan pub. Who gives a shit?’

  ‘They operate under their own rules, don’t like interference and will act outside the law to ensure their privacy. Shooting a gun in their pub and pointing a gun at one of the head honchos of the Clan doesn’t qualify as respectful. If Winston has gone off radar, my guess is the Clan has spoken. So now we don’t know where the child is or whether Winston and Ben are alive. Well done, Max. And now they’ll come for you.’

  Max pushed the mask to his face and inhaled once, twice, before speaking. ‘I employed you to bring my daughter back to me. You suggested Street Boy and I’m assuming he’s still in the game?’

  ‘Why are you assuming he’s still in the game? I haven’t heard from him since your man pulled a gun on him. Did you instruct him to kill Street Boy?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘But you don’t know, because you’re not in control of your man.’ Wynona leant back in the chair. ‘You don’t want the Clan getting your grandchild. They could use the boy as leverage on you. I’ve been reading up on the Clan. Did you know they’re royalists? They like the politics of the Prince, but not the King. I didn’t know that about the Clan. I just thought they were homophobic racist pricks who wanted to bugger up the whole world for all of us. And you know what I also know about the Christian Clan? Apart from their distinct lack of Christian values, is they’re looking for an introduction to a man you’re on good terms with. Oh yes, Max, they’d love for you to introduce them to the Defense Minister, General Batista.’

  ‘I hardly know the man.’

  ‘Now that’s not true, is it? Aren’t you Godfather to his boy?’

  ‘I need you in the Lowlands, PSO Webster.’ Max leant forward. The mask hung beneath his chin. He gripped the arms of his chair and his boggle eyes leered. ‘You should’ve gone in the first place. Get young Lucas back to me and the reward will be substantial.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your money. I offered to help you with your problem, because I needed a reason to extricate Ben from Ostere. But you’ve gone and fucked this up big time. The boy is a walking disaster, but I am not taking his place. You need to fix this, Max, or I’m going to shit in your pool. This is no threat. Fix it.’