Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  However, had he paused to think, he would have realised that the afflictions that plagued him were symptomatic of those he had seen in Africa many times before.

  Night sweats, tiredness, diarrhoea, unsightly swellings in certain areas - those combined with the extreme weight loss and persistent cold sores, could only add up to one very bleak diagnosis.

  Indeed, Locke had been extremely careless; unprotected sex with men and women of a dubious nature - crack addicted whores and needle happy junkies - all in his dangerous pursuit of a twisted thrill.

  Yet it had come at a price and those poor unfortunates who had died by his hand were now having a last laugh at him from the grave, even though he remained resolutely oblivious to it all, certain of his own supreme invincibility.

  He wandered back from the mirror, unimpressed by what he had seen and found his underpants lying on the floor close to the packet of Gitanes. They were stained from the previous day’s wear but he was unconcerned as compared to the rest of the dirty clothes in his laundry pile they were remarkably fresh; his overblown sense of vanity being just one more thing he had let slide during his time in Marseille.

  Puffing on his cigarette, he rummaged through the laundry pile at the foot of his bed, digging out a creased black T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans which he put on after splashing his face with water from the hand basin in the corner of the room.

  Locke then shoved his feet into a well worn pair of high-laced boots, although the polished sheen they had once shown had now been replaced by a scuffed dullness that would not have passed muster in his army days.

  When fully dressed, he pulled out his holdall from under the bed where it had been stowed for the past three weeks. Inside, next to his trusty Glock 18 were a variety of passports and a dwindling stash of bank notes - some euros, some dollars and the few remaining C.F.A. francs he had left over from his time in Niger.

  However, the bag also contained his long-bladed trench knife with the brass knuckle guard on its hilt, which he had always found particularly effective for close combat.

  He had not touched the knife for much longer than the three weeks he had been in Paris. In fact, he had not even looked at it since leaving Africa, yet it was the thing he valued above anything else for it was not merely a possession but more an extensions of himself.

  He lifted it out of the bag almost reverentially as he then delicately removed the oily rag which had been wrapped protectively around its lethally sharp blade, revealing the polished splendour of the gleaming steel it had concealed.

  Locke held the knife lovingly in his hand, relishing the feel of it, enjoying its perfectly balanced weight in his grip as he thought about the many glorious kills it had been used for.

  There was one in particular that stuck out in his mind, which had always been a source of immense satisfaction, and he could feel himself stiffen with pleasure as he was reminded of it again now.

  Indeed, even though it had happened many years earlier on the banks of a river in England, he found that he could still remember the young black girl’s screams as he plunged the knife deeply into her belly. What is more, he could still see her terrified dark eyes flying wide with shock as he snatched the life cruelly from her.

  The delicious thrill of it had been incredible and encapsulated the very essence of what he lived for.

  Looking lovingly at the knife in his grip, he knew it was now time he used it again. It had been much too long.

  Locke may well have been feeling out of sorts; ailing from various afflictions and his body no longer in the superb physical shape it had once been, but standing there, lovingly caressing his most prized possession, he suddenly felt like the man of old.

  Furthermore, even though he did not expect to encounter any trouble during his meeting with DeVilliers later, it was always wise to be prepared.

  And with the comforting feel of the trench knife down the side of his boot, he was confident that he would be.

  ***

  The rendezvous had been set for nine o’clock that evening on a riverboat restaurant on The Seine, near the Pont des Arts bridge - a beautifully romantic location for most, but for Locke it represented nothing more than an opportunity to get back into the game. And DeVilliers was the key.

  As per his usual practice, Locke had arrived early. In fact, such was his eagerness to get on with things he had arrived a full thirty minutes ahead of time; desperate to feel that edge once more, the vital sense of purpose that had been missing from his life for far too long.

  The mere thought of a fresh assignment caused the adrenaline to pump a little quicker through his veins; the opportunity to do again what he undoubtedly did best, as a paid professional, being a rush quite unlike any other.

  Indeed, he already had the scent of a kill in his nostrils and it was gloriously intoxicating.

  With time to spare, he chose a spot under the first arch of the bridge, close enough to the restaurant to offer a clear view of its comings and goings but inconspicuous enough for him to remain incognito.

  By 9pm there were four stubbed out cigarette butts at his feet yet Miles DeVilliers was nowhere to be seen. By ten passed, Locke was starting to feel concerned as The Fixer had always been punctual for their previous meetings. By nine thirty, after another four cigarette butts had joined the others on the ground, it was obvious to Locke that DeVilliers was not coming.

  Clearly something was amiss as it was most out of character - indeed, in the whole time they had known each other DeVilliers had never let him down.

  Locke felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he sensed the first prickle of impending danger.

  Time to move.

  Swiftly he looked about him but could see nothing out of the ordinary; diners milling beside the riverboat, couples strolling hand in hand along the towpath and tourists and locals alike criss-crossing the bridge above. Yet something was definitely not right.

  Darting out of his hiding place, Locke bounded up the steps which led up passed the floating restaurant and out onto the concourse above, very nearly knocking a man over in his haste to get away. He then hurried across the bridge heading towards the Louvre Palace on the other side of the river.

  Halfway over, he had the distinct feeling of being followed and he risked a look back over his shoulder. However, even at that time in the evening the bridge was teeming with people and it was too dark to identify anyone in particular.

  But somehow he knew they were there.

  Once across, he kept to the shadows, skirting past The Louvre until he came out on the Rue de Rivoli where he hailed a passing cab.

  Once safely in the back seat, he looked backwards again, out of the rear window, but traffic was heavy and the headlights were dazzling so it was still hard to tell if he was being followed.

  Yet every fibre in his being told him that he was.

  He got out of the taxi close to the Rue Saint Denis, amongst the backstreets that had become familiar to him during his stay in the city. After the cab sped off, he walked a few paces then stopped and asked a passer-by for a light.

  The stranger took out a Zippo and snapped it open, sparking it into life as Locke deliberately took his time lighting a cigarette, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever might be on his tail.

  Sure enough, a few moments later another taxi pulled up some thirty yards away and a figure in a hooded top stepped out.

  Locke, nodded his thanks to the stranger then moved off again, feeling the reassuring presence of the trench knife down the side of his boot as he ambled unhurriedly along the pavement.

  In direct contrast to his furtive demeanour a few seconds earlier, he was now making certain he could be seen and walking slowly enough to allow his pursuer to keep up; hoping to lull them into the belief that they had not been spotted.

  However, the irresistible urge to kill was pulsating through his veins as his eyes s
earched for somewhere nice and secluded to lead the person following him.

  Indeed, Locke now had the first inkling of who that person might be.

  If correct, then his old lieutenant, Darius Purcell had failed to do what Locke had wrongly assumed him more than capable of.

  Yet Purcell’s failure - and the failure of all those who had been present that day in Cambridge long ago - was Locke’s gain.

  And he would not be taken down so easily.

  The delicious prospect of finally meeting Sam Beresford after all this time imbued Locke with a wonderful sense of anticipation and the incredible thrill that killing him would bring was almost palpable.

  But first he had to get him alone.

  To this end, he searched for somewhere to meet his needs - anywhere that would give them the privacy their meeting truly deserved.

  A few moments later he noticed a glass merchant’s yard on the opposite side of the street which would suit perfectly.

  Crossing over, his eyes immediately fell upon the rickety gates which were only very loosely fastened by an inadequate padlock on a rusty chain.

  Looking at it, Locke was pleased that he’d had the good sense to also bring along his silenced Glock 18 which was tucked in the back of his jeans under his lightweight bomber jacket.

  Using the line of parked cars on the dimly lit street to disguise his actions he quickly whipped out the semi-automatic and fired a single muffled shot at the chain, severing it instantly.

  The metalling ‘ping’ as the links burst apart drowned out by the pumping soundtrack of a nearby bar.

  Then, making certain that the person pursuing him could see, Locke casually discarded his half smoked cigarette, shoved open the tired wooden gates and slipped inside.

  As Locke swiftly found his way across the yard and into the darkened interior of the building beyond, he stuffed the Glock back into his jeans and slipped the knife from his boot.

  This was exactly what the trench knife was designed for. Close combat wet work - silent and bloody - and Locke was a master of the art.

  Indeed, all he had to do now was find a hiding place and wait for his victim to come along.

  Because then, after enjoying an eleven year reprieve, Sam Beresford would finally be joining his dead girlfriend in the afterlife.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Having been told of the meeting in Paris by DeVilliers, Sam and Miri took the Eurostar from St. Pancras a couple of days ahead of time so that they could scout the location and check out any potential vantage points, even though Miri knew it well, having been to the riverboat restaurant with her father many times before.

  However, Sam had repeatedly tried to dissuade Miri from accompanying him to France, fearing it was too much of a risk. Furthermore, he knew from first hand experience just how dangerous Locke was as he still had the scars to prove it.

  But she would not listen and remained adamant that they were in it together.

  Moreover, she had not been back to Paris, the place of her birth, since her father’s funeral some years earlier and that, thanks to Allan Gillespie, had only been a fleeting trip, so she was keen to lay some flowers on his grave and pay her respects.

  And Sam could not refuse her.

  He did insist, however, that she remain at the hotel whilst he went to the scheduled rendezvous alone and, after much protest, she reluctantly agreed.

  Indeed, they both knew Locke would be there waiting for DeVilliers, therefore presenting Sam with the first opportunity to catch a glimpse of him since he and the five other members of his murderous gang killed Claudette.

  However, once the blonde haired leader of the bunch realised DeVilliers was not going to show, it was then Sam’s intention to follow him and, at an appropriate time, finally make him pay for the evil he had done.

  Nonetheless, DeVilliers had mentioned Locke’s habit of being particularly punctual, so advised Sam to be prepared.

  As such, he arrived at the Pont des Arts fifteen minutes early and chose the exact spot on the bridge which he and Miri agreed gave the clearest view of the riverboat restaurant below.

  Then he waited.

  He was dressed in a leather biker jacket, faded Levis and a pair of sturdy work boots as well as a baseball cap with the peak pulled down to disguise his face.

  In his jacket pocket he had the Damascus Bowie knife and as he waited, he fondled it with anticipation, the curve of its antler bone handle feeling smooth to the touch.

  ‘Just two more,’ he told himself. First Locke, then Faraday. And then his terrible work would be done at last.

  All he had to do was make it to the end.

  In the meantime he could do nothing but wait, his eyes constantly scanning the area for the man he knew he would recognise in a heart beat having seen him in his nightmares thousands of times since that fateful day in the summer of ‘93.

  But as he scrutinised every face, he did not see Locke.

  Furthermore, as nine o’clock came and went there was still no sign.

  Had DeVilliers given him false information? Had he lied?

  Endless possibilities raced through Sam’s mind as he tried to resist the crushing weight of disappointment.

  However, by nine thirty he had completely given up hope and as despondency took over, he turned to leave.

  Yet at that precise moment, a man came hurtling past him, having run up the steps that led from the towpath, almost bowling Sam over in his rush to get by.

  The man barely glanced at him, making no effort to apologise as Sam reeled backwards against the side of the bridge, unaware of the Damascus bowie slipping from his pocket and dropping over the rail into the black waters of The Seine below.

  Indeed, Sam was suddenly oblivious to everything around him except for the man who had just barged by.

  Because he had just recognised that person to be James Locke.

  ***

  Locke had changed in the eleven years since Sam had last seen him. He was older, slimmer, his features seemingly sharper and the bleached blonde hair now a cropped cap of pure silver. But there could be no mistake, it was definitely him.

  Sam felt a rush of anger surge through him and as Locke raced over the bridge, heading for the Palace of the Louvre, he immediately set off in pursuit, cautiously keeping a discreet distance between them unaware that he, too, was being followed.

  ***

  Sam stepped out of the taxi in a more seedy part of the city, having tailed Locke there from the Rue de Rivoli, where he had flagged down a cab just a few seconds after him.

  Indeed, he could see Claudette’s killer ahead of him now, bumming a light off a stranger.

  Sam pulled down the peak of his baseball cap and kept his distance as Locke, with his cigarette lit, then ambled away.

  He walked for no more than a couple of minutes before he crossed the street, directly opposite a local bar that was pumping out a loud disco beat.

  Sam squinted as he watched Locke pause for a moment beside what appeared to be a glass merchant’s yard, before then pushing open the gates and disappearing inside.

  It struck Sam as an odd place for a man such as Locke to be going at that time in the evening. Was he visiting someone? Was he staying there? Or did he have some other agenda?

  Whatever it was, all Sam’s instincts were screaming at him to be wary.

  Nevertheless, he crossed the street and proceeded with caution. When he arrived outside the yard, he noticed the padlock on the ground and the severed chain hanging limply from the loop on the gate’s rusty hasp.

  Clearly, whatever Locke was up to, he had entered uninvited.

  However, Sam also recognised the potential the yard offered for an ambush and had to consider the possibility that he had been spotted.

  Nonetheless, the darkened premises could work in his favour as equally as it could Locke
’s - he just needed to keep his wits about him.

  He reached into his pocket, expecting to feel the boned hilt of the Damascus bowie, but instead he felt nothing. He shoved his hand in deeper, anxiously hoping that he was somehow mistaken but there was nothing there.

  Desperately he checked his other pocket, but that was also empty.

  The knife was gone and Sam was completely unarmed.

  Suddenly he was faced with a very serious dilemma. Did he back off and perhaps let his only chance of getting Locke slip away, or did he proceed unarmed, knowing the man he was stalking was a trained killer and undoubtedly in possession of a weapon of some kind?

  Yet he knew the answer even before the options crossed his mind and there was simply no way he was going to let Locke escape him.

  To that end, Sam took a steadying breath and stealthily slipped into the darkened yard; his heart beating faster in his chest.

  However, as he disappeared inside, another person stepped out of the shadows some twenty yards behind and determinedly followed in his footsteps.

  ***

  Locke was sweating and his hands were clammy as he crept silently through the building, searching for a suitable place to hide in wait.

  Soon he entered into a large manufacturing area; its dimensions revealed by the moonlight glow from the series of dirty skylights set into the corrugated iron ceiling.

  Large sheets of glass were everywhere; leaning against walls, stacked on metal racks and hanging above in the form of giant, industrial strength panels suspended from hydraulically operated lifts.

  Indeed, the whole place reminded Locke of a hall of mirrors in a fairground.

  He wiped his damp forehead with his forearm, cursing his ailing body, unaccustomed to feeling anything but cool, calm and collected when the thrill of the hunt was surging through his veins. Yet his sickly demeanour now had him out of breath and perspiring and the painful lumps in his armpit and groin were a constant discomfort.