He was so absorbed in his thoughts as he hacked away at the crop, that he was oblivious to those around him. Indeed, he was completely unaware that someone new had appeared beside him until they made a point of speaking.
“So you’re The Yank, are you?” The deep Welsh voice asked over the rhythmic din of the slashing scythes.
It seemed almost alien after two years to hear anyone speaking anything other than Russian and for a moment it did not register with Sam that the person was talking to him.
“Hey!” Said the voice again, this time a little louder. “I said, so you’re The Yank are you?”
Suddenly it dawned on Sam that he was the one being addressed and he turned towards the sound of the voice.
However, upon setting eyes on the person who had spoken, he instantly recognised him.
The man had lost a significant amount of weight since last they met and his white hair had now thinned to little more than a wispy fuzz, he also looked drawn and unwell from two years spent locked up in the High Security Wing with only one hour’s exercise per day. But there was no mistaking the pale skin or cold grey eyes as they stared back at Sam.
Indeed, there could be no doubt whatsoever that his man was none other than the one Sam thought of as The Albino, Brendan Williams.
Sam’s grip tightened around the wooden handles of the scythe, his first instinct to cut Williams down; slash him through the stomach with the curved blade of the lethally sharp tool and watch with glee as his intestines spilled out in a bloody red heap onto the cold yellow ground.
However a guard with a machine gun was less than fifteen feet away and should Sam act on his desire, he would be cut down in a hail of bullets as surely as Williams would be with the scythe.
Indeed, to kill Williams now would be nothing less than suicide. Whilst relieving the world of yet another of Claudette’s killers it would inevitably result in Sam’s death, too, leaving Locke and the man with the crescent moon scar to go free and unpunished for their crimes.
So instead he quashed his murderous anger and forcibly kept his gaze impassive. “Yeah, so - who are you?” He replied, already knowing the answer.
“Brendan Williams,” answered the Welshman. “I’ve been in lock down for a couple of years - just got out yesterday. But I heard there was another Westerner in here.”
“Yeah, well, I guess you heard right then,” replied Sam, resuming his scything so as not to attract the attention of the guard.
Williams, also using a scythe, steadily made his way over to where Sam was working so they could talk without having to raise their voices.
“What’s your name?” He asked.
Sam wanted to say that he was Sam Beresford, the fiancé of the girl Williams and his associates had murdered a few years back but he did not. Instead he remained calm and kept his face stony. “I’m Ryder,” he said, using his mother’s maiden name.
“No first name?”
“Just Ryder will do.”
“Fine. Ryder it is. So, whereabouts in The States you from then, boyo?” Williams asked as he slashed at the crop alongside Sam.
“Here and there,” Sam said, his answer noncommittal and his attitude brusk. It was all he could do to keep his temper under control and prevent himself from lashing out with the scythe, let alone having to speak to the man too. “What’s it to you?”
“It’s okay, boyo - no need to get defensive. Just trying to be friendly, that’s all. Us Westerners have got to stick together. Reckon we’re the only two in this dump y’know?”
“Yeah, I reckon.”
“See, so it only makes sense. Us against the world and all that. You know what these fuckin’ Ruskies are like - stab you in your fuckin’ sleep if you let ‘em.”
“I guess,” Sam replied, forcing himself to relax a little. There was no sense in giving himself away before absolutely necessary.
However, he had no sooner thought this when Williams suddenly asked, “Say, don’t I know you from somewhere?” You look awfully familiar.”
“Nope. Don’t think so,” Sam replied, instinctively turning his face away.
“Sure?” Pressed Williams. “You ever been a merc?”
“Merc?” Sam queried.
“Yeah, you know, a mercenary, a soldier of fortune, gun for hire - that type of shit. Ever done any of that?”
“Nope. Can’t say I have.”
“Hmm, funny,” said Williams shaking his head in confusion. “Coulda sworn I seen you somewhere before. Still, I expect it’ll come to me sooner or later. It usually does.”
“Yeah? Well unless you spent any time in Moscow, I doubt it,” said Sam, trying to put him off the scent.
“That’s where you been working is it, boyo, Moscow?”
“Yep. Off and on.”
“Working with those fuckin’ Ruskies eh? Rather you than me. The Commie bastards.” He was about to say more but at that moment the guard looked their way and began to take an interest.
“I’ll look out for you tomorrow,” Williams whispered hurriedly. “See you later boyo.” Then, with that, he veered away, swinging his scythe to and fro and leaving Sam alone once more.
For the first time in two years at this hell hole of a prison, he had just set eyes on the man he had gone there to kill.
***
Williams did, indeed, find him the following day. In fact he conspired to get himself assigned to the same work crew so that they marched out to the fields together in the morning and back again in the evening.
With the benefit of a night to dwell on things, and after the initial shock of yesterday’s meeting, Sam had decided it would be best to play things cool, at least for the time being. He concluded it would be wise to get close to Williams in the hope that he might reveal something about either Locke or the man with the crescent moon scar, which would be of vital use should he ever make it out of ‘The Garden.’
Nonetheless, he would have to tread extremely carefully, especially as Williams had already recognised him, albeit vaguely. But until Sam could find a way of killing him without also getting killed himself, it made sense to make use of the time.
So when the two met the next morning, Sam was purposely more receptive. However, it was Williams who did most of the talking. What is more, after two years locked up with no one else to speak to he seemed anxious to make up for lost time.
Yet it was clear that Williams was not the man he once was. His health had suffered from the long months of incarceration in High Security and he had developed a wheeziness in his chest which often resulted in violent coughing fits. Furthermore, Sam remembered him as being quite stocky with a slight paunch, but the man he saw now was skinny and somewhat hunched.
Although it was clear for Sam to see now that Williams was not a true albino, he did have unusually pale skin which, when coupled with his weight loss and frequent bouts of coughing, gave him something of a sickly demeanour.
Nonetheless, his many hours of confinement had done little to improve his unpleasant nature. He was foul-mouthed and boorish as well as blatantly racist and intolerant of anyone who was either not white or English speaking. This extended to the Russians - guards and inmates alike - who he clearly despised. Indeed, even after two years at the prison he could not speak the language except for a few basic words which were necessary to his survival.
Each day, Williams would accompany Sam on the morning march to the fields, boring him with tales of his life as a mercenary and bragging about the terrible things he had done.
Sam, for the most part, would just listen, hoping to hear something of value, something which might relate to what happened on that day in the glade or that might lead him to the men that still eluded him. Yet as he listened to Williams’ monotonous drone, Sam fantasised about killing him and plotted ways in which to do it. But a solution still remained beyond his reach. Security was too high,
the guards were too many and an opportunity to get Williams alone was unforthcoming.
Humiliatingly, the days quickly turned into weeks and even though Sam had gently probed he had not yet learned anything from Williams that related to Claudette’s murder.
However, when regaling Sam with his numerous tales, the Welshman quite often mentioned working with someone called ‘Percy’.
Clearly this person was a good friend of Williams, so if the name ever came up again, Sam resolved to find out more.
By this time harvesting was over and their work crew had been re-assigned to the huge grain bins that towered over the prison’s Eastern side. Sam and Williams’ job was to load trailers full of grain from the recently harvested crop which was stored inside the five giant silos.
This involved standing in the back of a trailer and spreading grain evenly around as it gushed out of the hoppers which protruded like giant taps from the bins themselves. Once the trailer was full, it would be towed away by tractor to market and replaced by another for the convicts to fill.
It was tiring, dirty work and without the benefit of protective masks grain dust got absolutely everywhere, especially the eyes, nostrils, ears and mouth - which played havoc with Williams’ chest and caused him to cough more than usual. Yet even so, he could not keep his mouth shut for long and still insisted on talking non-stop.
On one particular day, as they worked late into the afternoon, Williams was telling Sam about one of his mercenary exploits in Uganda. Indeed, he was gleefully relating how he and his comrades had marched into a village full of ‘black bastards’ and hacked them down with machetes.
Sam was so sickened by this that it was all he could do to prevent himself from killing Williams there and then - regardless of whether the guards were watching or not. But he forced himself to resist the urge, even when Williams went onto brag about how he and his mates had then taken their pick of the women.
Sam’s temper was boiling over, his hands shaking with anger as he gripped the rake he was holding, desperately wanting to throttle the Welshman around the head with it.
But then Williams said something which snapped Sam out of his rage and made him listen more intently.
“Yeah, Percy must’ve shagged about three of ‘em himself,” chuckled Williams, “he loves a tight black arse, does Perce - the dirty fucker!”
With his interest well and truly piqued, Sam said, “Percy? Who’s he again? I’ve heard you talk about him before.”
Williams smiled. “He’s my mate. You’d like him.”
“And his name’s Percy?” Sam mocked derisively.
“Haha, no. ‘Percy’ is just his nickname. His real name’s Darius Purcell - we served together in the Guards. But since then we’ve worked all over the world. Merc stuff mostly but other stuff, too.”
“Other stuff? What like.”
“Y’know, freelance jobs and such. Done a few of ‘em - good money too. Real good. Hey, that’s what you ought to get into when you get out of this place - it’s better money than you can make with the Ruskies believe me. Freelance work is where it’s at.”
“Yeah? What sort of money we talking about?”
“Lots,” Replied Williams. “Percy and me did this one job in England a few years back - Cambridge if I remember rightly. Nice simple job, just one day’s work with a ripe and tasty little black bitch thrown in for good measure. Six of us were all paid a bloody fortune and got to fuck her too - I mean, what could be better than that right?”
Jesus, Williams had just admitted it.
Sam froze. Suddenly he imagined snapping Williams’ neck for speaking about Claudette in such loathsome and callous terms. Indeed, the man’s cheerful disregard for her suffering was utterly breathtaking.
Yet this was the breakthrough Sam had been waiting for. Forcibly, he choked down his revulsion as his mind flooded with thoughts and possibilities.
It had taken more than two long years but he now had the answers he needed.
However, as he mulled this over and digested what he had just heard, he was unaware that Williams was staring at him quizzically.
“Hey, Earth to Ryder, you listening to me?” He asked.
Sam rallied quickly. “Yeah, course. Sure. Just thinking about the money that’s all.”
“Yeah, well,” Williams replied, looking slightly puzzled, “like I said, there’s plenty to be had.”
“So you reckon your buddy can get me onto something like that?” Sam asked, hoping that he had not been rumbled.
But Williams appeared unruffled. “Yeah, maybe. He knows this guy, James Locke, who was with us in Cambridge - a mean fucker without a doubt and I definitely wouldn’t wanna cross him - but he’s the one who got me and Perce the gig - Percy knows him from way back. But he’d be the bloke to see boyo, he’d get you sorted sure enough.”
“You reckon Percy would put a word in for me when I get out?” Sam queried, almost unable to control his delight. Finally, after having only known Locke’s last name, he now knew the full names of both the men whom he still sought.
Darius Purcell and James Locke - both mentioned in almost the same breath along with their connection to Claudette’s murder. It could not be more definite.
“Yeah, maybe, boyo, it all depends,” Williams replied in answer to Sam’s question.
“Depends on what?” Asked Sam.
“On where Percy is,” said the Welshman. “Last I heard he was in Africa somewhere. Angola I think. If he’s still there he might be difficult to track down.” He then laughed. “Mind you, me and you aren’t gonna be going anywhere very soon are we boyo? So I don’t think that’s too much of an issue do you?”
Sam forced a laugh too. “No, guess you’re right. I don’t reckon it is.”
However, as the two of them continued with their work, Sam’s mind was racing. His schedule had just been stepped up and the sooner he could kill Williams and get out of Siberia the better.
It was all just a matter of how.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The next day Williams seemed quieter and much more subdued, hardly speaking at all as they marched to the grain bins that morning.
Sam found it most strange as normally he could hardly get a word in. “Everything okay?” He queried as they arrived beneath the towering structures of the steel silos.
“I’m fine boyo,” replied Williams trying to suppress the urge to cough. “Just feeling a bit chesty this morning that’s all.”
Sam nodded and thought nothing more of it - the truth being that he cared little. Indeed, a day without Williams’ constant jabbering would be most welcome, particularly after all he had discovered yesterday which had given him much to think about.
Nonetheless, the two of them climbed into the back of yet another empty trailer and waited for the first hopper of the day to begin pouring grain in around them.
By mid afternoon they were both tired and dirty. Williams’ cough had been getting steadily worse all day, not helped by the heavy smell of the grain or the fine dust particles that had steadily worked their way down his throat.
Even Sam was suffering; his eyes streaming, his nostrils clogged and his throat as dry as sandpaper as he, too, coughed every few minutes.
But then there was an unexpected respite as the grain choked and spluttered from the hopper before suddenly stalling completely.
For many minutes the guards clambered around it, trying to get the flow restarted. When this failed they spent another few minutes in deep discussion trying to fathom a solution. Soon, the Plant Overseer appeared and began gesticulating to the silo and pointing to the top of it.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Williams asked Sam. “Do you understand what that guy’s saying?”
Sam nodded. “Seems like there’s something inside the silo called an ‘auger’ which pushes the grain up into the shaft and deposits it into
the hopper.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So the Overseer reckons this auger thing is stuck due to rotten grain or too much moisture. Says it’s why the hopper’s not working and we can’t fill the trailer,” Sam replied.
“So it’s blocked?”
“Uh-huh.” Sam nodded. “He’s saying someone needs to climb down inside the silo and poke a long pole down into the grain to get the flow going again.”
Sam did not relish the idea of this at all as it sounded extremely dangerous. However, before he knew it, Williams was standing beside him and calling to the guards, more animated than he had been all day.
“Hey, we’ll do it!” He shouted, pointing to himself and Sam, then to the top of the silo. “We’ll unblock it for you - send us!”
“Hold on! Wait, no! Are you crazy?“ Sam exclaimed, thinking that Williams had gone mad, unable to comprehend why he would volunteer them for such an unpleasant task - particularly as he was suffering so much from dust inhalation.
But it was too late. Even though he had been speaking in English, not Russian, the Welshman had done enough for the guards to understand what he was suggesting.
As Sam looked on helplessly, they had a brief discussion then started nodding their heads in agreement. The next thing he knew, he and Williams were being dragged down from the trailer.
A moment later, the Overseer handed Sam an eight foot long plastic pole. “Take this,” he said, speaking in Russian, “you’ll need it to unblock the flow.” Sam just glared at him blankly, unable to believe what he was about to do as the Overseer continued. “Right at the top of the silo, there’s a small hatch and inside you’ll find a ladder and a rope. Make sure you keep hold of the rope once you’ve climbed down the ladder - and don’t let go of it whatever you do, especially when you walk out onto the grain as it can swallow you up in an instant.”
“I’ve got to walk out onto the grain?” Sam exclaimed. “Are you kidding?”
Perfect Day Page 28
