The Enemies of Vengeance

by P. A Ross

  A small group of waiting passengers dispersed as I leaped onto the platform. Some ran out the station into a small adjoining car park, and others took cover behind benches and pillars. A woman held up her phone to film, her hands trembling and eyes wide to take it all in. I had jumped six foot from the train tracks to the platform in a single leap. An impossible feat for any human. Luckily, I was still wearing my sunglasses. Thorn would be upset if she saw the video.

  The police could not follow as the freight train blocked their way nor could they make the impossible leap onto the platform. I didn't have much time before the train was gone or they found another way round to the other platform. There was an adjoining bridge that went over the top of the track and down, but that would take a few minutes to run up, over and down again. I had enough time to make an escape.

  I ran for the exit, hurdled the barriers and into the train station car park. At the exit, a young man was pulling on his helmet ready to get on his scrambler motorbike, having already started the engine. I shoved him over and jumped on the bike. I flicked up the stand, slapped it into first and sped away onto the main road.

  I didn't know where I was going but that didn't matter. I had to get as far as way as quickly as possible. It wouldn't be long before the police cars found a road to crossover or they contacted someone on the other side of the train tracks. Eventually, they would catch up. The police could put in roadblocks or send in a helicopter. I was a stranger on a stolen bike and it wouldn't be long before they cornered me.

  I rode out of the main town and away from the CCTV cameras that would ensure I could never be anonymous. I burnt through the town roads, looking for any sign that would say I was heading towards a less congested areas. If I carried on a straight line for long enough, I figured it would lead me out of the town.

  The buildings density on either side of the road spread out and soon brown sunburnt fields took their place. I got a couple of miles out and ditch the bike behind a hedge and under a tree. I covered it over with loose branches lying on the ground. I cut across the fields and into a forest area. I heard the police sirens in the background. They were getting closer. I was right to have ditched the bike, as I would have been entrapped on the roads. They would assume I was somewhere ahead of them still. It would be a long time before they realised I'd gone in another direction. And they may never find the bike that I had hidden.

  I sprinted across a sun-baked field into the cover of the trees until I was in a dense enough wooded area that even a helicopter couldn't spot me.

  I picked my way through the woods, checking behind and overhead for any sight of the chasing police. The day grew late and the light started to dim as the sunset cut through the trees. I wouldn't make it to my destination before nightfall. I didn't want to break cover either. I didn't want to blunder around in the dark too much, even with my enhanced eyesight. If I made it through the night, I hoped they would call off the search.

  I wasn't sure where I was or in which direction I should be heading, so I settled down for the night. I had some food in my bag that I munched on, and then put some branches together to build a den and lay underneath it with my head on the rucksack as a pillow.

  In the morning, I would try to find another road. I had to work out my bearings and head in the right direction. My phone had GPS and could provide an exact location. But I was reluctant to use my mobile just in case it had been hacked, and then it would lead the police, or Giles and Norris, or MI5 directly to me.

  With the trees overhead, even the faint light of the moon and stars were blocked out. The wood had descended into pitch black, and the wildlife roamed around. Through the dark, I saw shapes giving me a wide steer. I picked up the scent of the animals and heard the padding of paws through the undergrowth. I could feel their hunger turn to fear when they sensed me. At least none of them would bother me in my sleep.

  I put on as many layers of clothes as possible and zipped my coat uptight. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to sleep. It took a couple of hours to get used to the sounds and smells of the local wildlife. Although they left me alone, their presence would snap me awake each time. I finally fell into a light sleep late into the night. But the cold seeped through the ground into my bones, preventing me from going into a deeper sleep. I curled into a ball and tried to block out the pain. I dare not light a fire in case it gave away my location.

  As soon as the sun rose, I packed my gear and set off. I wanted to get moving and get my blood pumping to warm up. I figured I could cover a lot of ground before anyone else arose. I walked out of the woods into a field to get the morning sunlight on my face. I worked out from the rising Sun which direction I needed to head in. The village I was going to, Malrevers, was to the east. At the next village, I could work out my location and ask for directions.

  I must have been deep into the countryside as it took a couple of hours before I stumbled across the next road, a single track road with a few passing places for vehicles to get by one another. I walked down the road until I came into the next village. I went into the local shop and bought myself a packet of cold meat and loaf of bread, and then sat on a bench in the town square, munching on some thrown together sandwiches. I also bought a local map and worked out that I was only a few hours walk away from Malrevers.

  I decided to rest up for a while before making the last walk. I would try and hitchhike the last part to get there quickly. I saw no wanted posters for me in the village. So I assumed it wasn't a national manhunt.

  I wandered out of the village, heading south. I walked along the main road for half an hour before sticking out my thumb. I hadn't seen that many cars and it was another twenty minutes before the fifth car that passed me, pulled into the side of the road. I ran to the car and leaned down by the window. The driver, a ginger-haired man with glasses, buzzed the passenger window down. "Where are you going to?" The man asked me in French.

  "Malrevers, please, if you are heading that way," I replied in my best French.

  "Ah, you are English." The man replied to me in English with a heavy French accent.

  "Yes."

  "Jump in my friend. I am driving straight through to the village on the other side. I can drop you off on the way."

  I opened the passenger door, jumped in, put my rucksack on my lap and shut the door. "Thank you very much."

  The man signalled and pulled back onto the road.

  "I lived in England for 20 years. I am married to an English woman. Last year I convinced her to move to France. But my job is still in England, Reading. So I work there during the week and come back every other weekend. It will only be for a few more years until I retire."

  I wasn't sure what to say. The man seemed to want to talk. "So she's enjoying France?"

  "Yes, I think she's enjoying it. My kids love it. And you, what are you doing in France?"

  "I've come to find my long lost uncle. My father recently died, and he left some items of sentimental value to his brother. We don't know his exact address or have any other contact details. We just know the village he lives in. So I have come here to try and find him and possibly reunite the family," I said, having already prepared my story if anyone asked what I was doing.

  "Good luck to you. Malrevers is not a very big place. I'm sure someone will be able to help you."

  We carried on in silence for a while and then the man started to talk to me about everything under the sun. He started off on the state of the economy in Europe, and then onto bitcoins, and then politics in America, and the state of education in the UK. I let him ramble on as he seemed happy to talk. I gave an occasional agreement and nods to keep the conversation going and keep my driver happy. I didn't feel I could tell him to shut up, and it was good to be in the company of another human being after my long night of isolation in the wild. I guess he hadn't spoken to anyone for a while if driving from England down to the south of France. However, the topics he discussed I had no idea about. I had lived in a bubble of ignorance for the last couple
of years, and the events of the world seemed to have past me by.

  After about half an hour, we drove into the village of Malrevers, and the man pulled over to the side of the road.

  "Here you go. Best of luck with your hunt for your uncle. Remember what I said, it's too late for bitcoins now, the stock market is shortening the odds, and the bubble will burst."

  "Thank you for the lift and for the advice. I will look into the other crypto-currencies instead," I said and shut the car door and glanced around the village. The man waved, smiled and pulled back onto the road and drove out of the village.

  I stood next to a white stone water feature at the edge of a small town square. White stone buildings formed the edges of the square with a church at the far end with a bell tower and clock facing into the square. A row of benches on a grey brick pathway cut through the middle of the square. Either side of the benches were a few parked dusty cars.

  The largest building in the square had double wooden doors with a hotel sign above. The hotel went up three stories with stained brown window frames and half-height rusty metal barriers at each window.

  I should have arrived last night, and I had booked in for two nights. I would go and see if they would still allow me to stop, and I would promise to pay my previous night's fee.

  I walked across the square with the little boules area at the side next to the church. There were two men outside tossing the silver balls towards the Jack. They both looked at me and exchanged quick words. I guessed it was in French slang as I couldn't understand it. I pulled open the wooden doors into a bar area.

  At the edges of the room, high backed wooden benches were set against the whitewashed walls, with rectangular tables and stools on the other side. Round tables and chairs crammed the rest of the wooden floor. I weaved through them to the counter.

  Customers turned around on my entrance, holding glasses of red wine and lager. A blond haired man with a ponytail stood behind the bar counter, which had beer taps on the top. Behind him, glass shelves with bottles of spirits and a big wine rack half full with bottles. The man glanced up as the door shut and stared at me as I crossed the floor.

  "Can I help you?" he asked.

  "I have a room booked. It was from last night in the name of Mr Christopher Lee," I replied.

  "Ah, yes. You did not come last night. You didn't think to call us and tell us you would not be arriving."

  "I am sorry. Unforeseen circumstances meant I could not use my phone. But I will pay for last night and tonight immediately."

  "You are English?"

  "Is my accent that bad? Yes, I am English."

  The barman raised his eyebrows and nodded at me. "Okay, I will give you the bill now, and once your payment has gone through, you can have the key to your room. What brings you to our little French village anyway?"

  "Looking for my long lost uncle. My father died and my uncle is due some inheritance. I am also due some inheritance, but for me to get my money, I need to find my uncle as part of the conditions."

  The barman looked intrigued. "And what is the name of your uncle, maybe I know him and I could help."

  "His name is Raymond. But we believe he is using a false name, Rip, as he doesn't want to be found. But I could give you a description." The barman nodded in agreement and I continued. "My uncle is about 6 foot tall and has blue eyes. He has a scar above his left eye. His hair is dark brown. And the last time we saw him, he had it shaven. But it could be any length now. He is quite a muscular man and is very strong. He is a bit of a night owl. Probably you would only see him in the evenings, maybe coming into this bar. People would describe him as a loner."

  The barman rubbed his chin and glanced around the bar. "It could describe a few people I know. How do I know you are telling the truth? How do I know you aren't the police, or something else?"

  "I suppose you don't." I opened my wallet and took out a hundred euros. "But maybe this would make things easier."

  "Young man, if money were my main concern, I would not be living in the back of beyond. I'm here for peace and quiet. And I don't want anyone disturbing my way of life, whether it is for legal or illegal reasons. People fitting your description come here for a drink, so if you are inclined to find them, come in here tonight for a drink and talk to the locals and you shall probably find your man. But I don't want to get mixed up in anything that could cause me harm."

  "I understand. If I just pay my bill then, I will go to my room, shower and change, then come back for some food and drink and see who arrives tonight. Thank you for letting me know."

  I went to put the money back in my wallet, but the barman placed his hand over it. "Thank you, I shall consider that a tip for your stay."

  The barman went to the till and grabbed a key. He then flipped open the screen of a laptop and typed in some details. The printer burst into life and churned out a piece of paper. He passed over the invoice for the two night's room rental. I counted out the cash and handed it over, and he gave me the key.

  "Go through the door on the side and up two flights of stairs. Your room is number six and overlooks the market square. Enjoy your stay," he said and went back to playing on his phone.

  I went through the door and up to my room. The room had a dark oak bed pushed up against white flowery wallpaper. The windows had white Venetian shutters closed across them. Through the back of the room was a small shower area with a sink and toilet.

  I wanted to clean up after my night sleeping rough, so I locked the door, dumped my bag, stripped off and showered. I still had a few hours before the evening and potential suspects to view. I decided to get a couple of hours of sleep, as I may be up into the small hours of the night.

  I slept solidly for a couple of hours, and I was glad I had remembered to set my alarm to wake up. I went down into the bar of the hotel to see the majority of the same people still sat there drinking. I ordered a glass of lager and some food, and took a seat in the corner with a stool and small round table where I had a clear view of everyone entering.

  To my side was a high backed bench with a group of two men either side of the rectangular table. They chatted away and gave me suspicious glances. The rest of the main bar had a few round tables and stools. At the edges of the bar were bigger tables with proper chairs where a few people were tucking into food.

  As the evening approached, a few people started to leave. I guessed they were going home for dinner. There was a small lull in the number of customers, but as the light darkened through the windows, some of the same people returned and new customers joined in. I assumed they came in after work for a drink.

  The barman seemed to know everyone and chatted to them as he poured drinks. The majority of the new customers glanced over at me. I guessed it was unusual to have visitors at the hotel. Some of them spoke to the barman about me, and the barman just said I was looking for a long lost uncle. They eyed me with suspicion and then went to sit with their friends.

  I allowed my senses to open up, to glimpse their thoughts and feelings, hoping to find something out of the ordinary, something that would give one of them away as a Dragan. I realised if they were a Dragan, they would also detect something unusual about me as well. I hoped their reaction to me would be enough to give away their true identity.

  Many men came in by themselves. Most of them found people to speak to, and they talked over a glass of wine or lager. The hotel was the only drinking spot in the small village. And as the barman had said, the type of person I described would come in there for a drink, as there was nowhere else to go. Every person that came in looked over and asked the other customers about me. They replayed the story over again, but I could tell most of them didn't believe it. A few of them believed I was up to no good, hunting someone down. I sensed their distrust, and I felt as lonely in the crowded bar as I had sleeping rough in the woods the night before.

  About 10 o'clock at night, a man walked in that fitted the rough description. He was 6 foot tall, looked muscular and wore a tie-
dyed t-shirt, surfer shorts and sandals. He had long brown hair hanging down in front of his face that he kept brushing back with his hands. I noticed his hair and stubbly beard had flecks of grey in it. He looked like an old hippy that hadn't grown up.

  But most importantly, he had the scar above his left eye as described in the MI5 notes. I thought it unusual that a Dragan would have a scar. Surely with their powers, they would heal completely. Something I would have to ask him about.

  I focused my senses on the man to see if I could psychically pick up anything or speak to him. But the man followed the same pattern as everyone else that had come into the bar. He'd gone to the counter and ordered a bottle of red wine and a glass. He exchanged a few words with the barman, who nodded over towards me. The man looked at me for a moment and then turned back to the barman and shrugged. He took his bottle and glass over to another table where two men already sat. He exchanged words with them and poured himself a glass of wine and each clinked their glasses together.

  I sipped my drink and scanned the bar, but kept coming back to the man who matched the description. But I sensed nothing from him. I decided to take a more direct approach and psychically sent him a message. "Thorn says hello. Everything is forgiven."

  He did not flinch away from his conversation or even look at me for a second. "My name is, V, it stands for vengeance. I am a friend, I come here in peace." I said psychically, but the man did not break stride in his conversation about the recent French presidential elections.

  I sniffed at the air to see if I could detect any difference in his smell. But with the overcrowded bar and the smell of alcohol wafting around, I couldn't identify anything unusual.

  I went to the bar and ordered another glass of beer, which allowed me to stand a bit closer to my suspect. I focused my mind on him again to see if I could catch glimpses of his thoughts. But his brain was fully engaged in his conversation with the two other men. There was no hint of anything unusual in his thought patterns. He wasn't reacting to the obvious presence of another Dragan in the room. Even if I was only seventy percent Dragan, I was sure another Dragan or Turned or Werewolf or anything supernatural would cause a reaction. My final option was to go and talk to him directly. I did consider that this may have been a trap in the first place. Something set up by MI5 to lure me to this place alone. I decided to wait and see if this was merely a coincidence or another man may enter with the same description.