by Simon Jenner
“Don’t kick the car,” said Mr Tall, who sat in the driver’s seat with his head facing forward. “It lacks the raw power of the old sixty-nine Boss Ford Mustang, but it has a refined quality that calms me.”
“What are you talking about?” Savannah kicked the door again. “Let me out of here. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“The car is soundproofed and blacked out, Miss Jones. Nobody can hear or see you.”
“This is kidnapping.”
“Don’t be frightened, Savannah. We need your help and in return I’m sure that we can help you,” said Mr Short from the passenger seat. “If you’ll allow us to talk I’m sure that we’ll all be the best of friends.”
Five kicks later - enough that John could never accuse her of acquiescing - Savannah gave up. “Do I have a choice?”
“Just hear us out,” Mr Tall said. “That’s all we ask.”
“Go on then,” she said. “I’m listening.”
“Has Mr Smith mentioned us?” Mr Tall asked, shifting in his seat so that he could face Savannah.
“No, he just told me to keep a watch out for two men with navy blue coats.”
Savannah yawned. Whatever they had drugged her with had not completely left her system. She was dead beat. The thought of lying down on that king-size bed back at the hotel was more appealing than ever. “Can we get this over with so I can go?”
“Of course,” said Mr Tall, his forefinger on his chest. “My name is Johnson ...” He redirected his finger to the passenger seat. “... and this is my partner, Wilson. We work for an international organisation which, unfortunately, I can’t tell you about. I can tell you that we are the good guys but I guess that seems kinda unlikely to you now. We’ve been following Smith to see if he’s involved in Mark Bradshaw’s murder.”
Savannah shook her head and immediately wished she hadn’t. “John reckons Mark was murdered but I know he hasn’t got anything to do with it. John says his friend was a stock trader or something like that.”
“You believe him?”
She thought about it for a second. At first John had been a client, then a madman and then sane but mixed up in a murder. To be fair she had no evidence to support John’s innocence and as far as qualifications to judge character went, hers were non-existent. But she knew, not how or why she knew, but she knew.
“I don’t know much about men, but I know he’s no murderer,” she said.
“Bradshaw’s financial dealings were just a front,” Johnson said, leaning over into the back of the car and wiping Savannah’s footprints from the window and door upholstery with a wet-wipe. Savannah shuffled to her left to give him more room. “Mr Bradshaw had something of ours and we need to get it back before it falls into the wrong hands.”
This was beginning to sound crazier by the second. She was lost in a spy movie. “Are you for real?” she asked.
“Very real, Miss Jones.” Wilson shook his head at Savannah as his partner almost disappeared into the back to scrub at the door with a fresh wet towel. “It is a matter of life and death.”
Savannah resisted the urge to laugh. The day had gotten more surreal by the minute. If this was a joke then her captors showed no sign of humour. Two expressionless faces regarded her, one flat nosed and attempting to smile, and the other almost handsome but somehow nondescript. Was she supposed to speak?
“What do you want from me?” she said.
Johnson disposed of the used towel in a white plastic refuse bag and threw it to the floor in front of Wilson. “What are you both doing at this station?” he asked.
“John suggested a trip out.” Savannah looked out of her window at the steady flow of people entering and departing the station’s entrance.
“For what purpose?” Johnson pressed.
Savannah could not return Johnson’s gaze as she struggled to conceal the reason for their late night visit. She began to count the people leaving the station. One, two, three... “Does there have to be a purpose? Look, I hardly know him. We only met last night.” Four, five, six...
“Through Aphrodite’s Angels?”
Losing count immediately, she whipped her head around to face Johnson. Surprisingly, her headache had subsided. “You know about that?”
“We know everything about you: when you moved from Carmarthen in Wales to Shepherd’s Bush, how your mother and father died, the scumbag you now work for ... should I go on?”
“No.” Savannah thought for a moment. Here was an opportunity. “Can you sort people out?”
“Christos the Greek, you mean?”
“Yes. So he won’t bother me again, not ever?”
“If you help us.”
Johnson was a mask and impossible to read but she didn’t doubt his ability to help her. It was betrayal, pure and simple. Her fear of Christos outweighed her loyalty to John. No torture had been necessary, the chance of starting out again without a pimp in her life had been incentive enough. Savannah told them everything she knew and hoped to God that she hadn’t screwed up.
“So you’ll sort out my problem?” she asked, having brought them fully up-to-date. Johnson and Wilson hadn’t said a word as they listened intently, hanging on her every word.
Johnson exhaled loudly. “We wondered what took you so long in the pawn shop and why the lady in pink came screaming past us outside your bedsit.” She detected the twitch of a starting smile and then it was gone - back to business as usual. “John Smith is clearly a resourceful guy,” he added.
“How long have you been following us?”
“Since you left Smith’s place.”
Savannah cleared her throat. They had promised. “About my problem...?”
The tall man looked over to Wilson who nodded.
Savannah nudged Wilson’s shoulder to get his attention.
“What are you agreeing to?”
Wilson twisted his neck around to look at Savannah face on. It was the first time she noticed how completely squashed and spread out his nose was. “Help us out and we can help you. I promise that we won’t ask you to take any risks.”
Johnson confirmed the situation. “Get Smith on board and help us catch Bradshaw’s killer and we’ll sort Christos for you.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
Johnson motioned to the car door next to her. “Then you’re free to go.”
As if by magic the central locking system disengaged with a soft, smooth click. Savannah didn’t move. Memories of Christos’ threats echoed in her head.
As she spoke, a world of worry dropped from her shoulders, drowning the lingering guilt at betraying John. “I’ll do it.”
*
John leaned against a pillar and watched a multitude of drivers as they either parked and exited their vehicle or got in and drove away.
If Savannah was on a train, she was either hidden or already gone. Standing still felt like self-torture but he needed to recover his breath. After a minute he began to wander amongst the cars looking into windows, dashing from vehicle to vehicle like his life depended on it. It was hopeless. He was about to give up when he saw the shiny black Mercedes with blacked-out windows thirty feet away. It probably just belonged to an Arab dignitary but it warranted closer inspection. What else did he have to go on? He looked around to ensure he wasn’t being watched.
Two pillars across from where he had been standing moments earlier, he saw a tall black-haired man smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t the fact that it was a no smoking area, as was the whole station, but the fact that the man’s face was bright red and he was staring at the black Mercedes with more than a passing interest. This guy was no traveller or train spotter.
John returned to the pillar and continued to watch the unusual-looking man. He wore an old-fashioned raincoat with the collar turned up. When he wasn’t dragging on his cigarette or lighting another with the stub of the previous one, his hands were permanently embedded in his pockets.
John fathomed from his new vantage point that one side of the man’s face was
normal and the right-hand side must have an unusual birthmark or have suffered horrific burns. His hair was so jet black that it was probably dyed. With the face half deformed and the collar turned up, it was hard for John to establish an age but somehow the way he smoked the cigarette and how he huddled in the cold night air, put him in his fifties at least.
*
Do I wait for the girl to leave or enter the code now? I am in control of three lives. To them, I am God. My chest rises and falls too quickly. Calm down. Focus on the prize.
A man in in his mid-twenties wearing jeans and an old blue anorak runs from car to car. His head jerks in all directions. Is he lost? He is drunk or stupid or both. Homeless and looking for hand-outs perhaps? He leaves and I return my attention to the Mercedes.
Minutes pass. What are they doing? I light cigarette after cigarette and breathe cancerous fumes until my throat is dry and raw. I glance around the station at the ignorant public. The thought makes me squirm with pleasure. The explosion will be massive. Others may be caught in the blast. I am their God too.
Bradshaw said that the briefcase could withstand an explosion. Now is the time to test his boast. Hand and detonator leave my pocket. I hold my breath and press buttons as I take cover behind the pillar. Tap, tap, tap, tap. My bladder aches with excitement. It will have to wait. I peer around the pillar. I press SEND.
*
John saw the man’s head reappear from behind the pillar and stare at the car more intently than ever. John turned to the car. A huge plume of flames erupted from its undercarriage, engulfing all other cars within a fifteen feet radius, and with an ear-deafening, window-crashing explosion, the car rose twenty feet into the air before landing again, four mini explosions ringing out like gunfire as the tyres burst under the impact. Incredibly, the blacked-out windows remained intact.
“Nooooo!” screamed John, running towards the flames.
He got to within five feet but the flames licked upwards around the doors preventing him from getting any closer. He looked around for a fire extinguisher and caught the look of exhilaration on the face of the black-haired man as he watched from behind the pillar. He’d done it. John was certain.
“That’s him! He’s the bomber!” John shouted, pointing at the man. “Someone call the police!”
Aware that all eyes were on him, the man sprinted away from the station, head tucked into his coat as he fled. Based on the man’s speed and ability to weave around or jump over obstacles, John reassessed his age. Early thirties, he concluded.
Reluctantly, John’s eyes left the escaping bomber as he once again sought the whereabouts of a fire extinguisher. He saw a glint of a red cylinder across the station through the arches and he ran for all he was worth. He ripped the extinguisher from its brackets and supported it on his shoulder as he returned to the fire. There were screams and panic around him but he focussed only on the flames before him. If anything it seemed like the fire was raging hotter, or was that just the added heat from his fifty yard dash?
He dropped the extinguisher on its circular base, pulled the pin and squeezed the black plastic handle on the top of the cylinder. Immediately, white powder erupted from the short, flexible nozzle, covering the dancing flames and almost instantly snuffing out their life. John picked up the canister once more and circled the vehicle, keeping the handle squeezed hard so that the spray was continuous. It seemed like forever, but in under a minute all the flames were gone, leaving a badly charred car body with huge paint blisters and melted tyres, which smouldered with black, acrid fumes.
John reached for the rear door handle but it was still red hot. He pulled the sleeve of his hoodie down so it covered the palm of his hand and he tugged at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. What could he do? His heart banged like it wanted to break through his chest. Adrenaline made him stronger and keener but he was still powerless. He rammed the fire extinguisher base into the black window but it bounced off just as worthlessly as he had bounced of Mark’s door that morning.
“Oh God, no, no, no!” he wailed, tears welling in his eyes, rage building to bursting point. It had been too long. No one could have survived that heat. “Savaaaaannaaaaaah!”
John’s body slumped in defeat, his rage requiring redirection. The man in the black coat had killed Savannah. Clenching his fists he banged his knuckles together. This man must pay. His hatred refuelled his tired muscles and he readied himself to chase down the perpetrator of his desolation. What was that sound? It was the click of the car’s front door opening. The tall man from this morning pushed open the door fully. He looked completely unscathed.
“We meet again,” the tall man said, one long leg following the other as he stepped out of the car. He frowned at John. “Savannah’s just fine and will be out in a sec.” He moved towards John and patted him on the back. “Great show you put on there. Completely unnecessary but great all the same.” His mouth turned down as he gazed at the smoking vehicle. “That car was modified to survive bigger blasts than that one.”
John wasn’t paying much attention. His focus was fixed on the car and when the back door popped open, he jumped. Savannah exited the smouldering car. She had never looked better. It was like she had just arrived at a world premier and was the star of the show. She looked excitedly at John.
“Did you see that? We went miles in the air and were on fire for ages. We never even felt the heat.” She put her hand to her mouth to hide a broad grin. “Oh my God, John. You’re covered in soot.”
John was so happy to see Savannah he couldn’t care less what he looked like. The grief followed by instantaneous relief sent his mind reeling. All he could do was grin like the cat that got the cream.
Sirens sounded and flashing lights approached as the tall man’s stocky partner appeared from the far side of the car.
“I’ll sort out the authorities, Johnson,” he said, motioning to the myriad of blue flashing lights. “They prefer to deal with one of their own. Why don’t you get these two back to the hotel, and I’ll catch up with you there.”
John caught a fleeting glimmer of uncertainty in the eyes of Johnson before Savannah tugged at him for attention. He hadn’t even saved her so why had he become Mr Popular all of a sudden?
*
I veer into a dark and narrow side street.
My gut churns with acid born of hate and failure. I rip the prosthetic skin from the right-hand side of my face and pull the black wig from my head. They itch like crazy. It’s all theatrics to keep under the radar but it works.
A constant stream of Saturday night revellers passes the street’s entrance, oblivious to my presence. They laugh, scream and stumble from the effects of alcohol as they go about their pseudo pleasures. I want to kill somebody to vent my frustrations. There are too many witnesses. It is a risk I cannot take.
I throw the skin and wig into a plastic wheeled bin. The raincoat and detonation device follow. I pick up the petrol can from where I’d left it, unscrew the top and empty the contents into the bin. Stepping back I light myself a Marlboro Red and toss in the stainless steel Zippo lighter. I turn in time to feel the heat from the flash of flames on the back of my sweatshirt. I head towards the far end of the street without looking back. The warmth on my back is soon removed by the chill of the air but the heat of festering vengeance burns as strong as ever. One way or another, I will have the weapon.
14: Saturday 24th September, 23:35
My jaws are clenched, my muscles tight. I walk stiffly to a seat in a dingy Bayswater diner, a stone’s throw from my hotel. I’m not sure which of the two rat holes smells worse. This place is known only as ‘The Pit’. Whoever named it wasn’t kidding around. This was the price of anonymity - hanging with the lowlifes. A smell of rancid fat and stale onions hangs heavy in the air. I doubt it will leave my clothes when I return outside.
I look at my stainless steel Seiko watch, a present from my mother when I joined the Parachute regiment over twenty years ago. I wear it to remind me never to bend to anyone else�
��s will. A lesson she never learnt. It is half past midnight, nearly two hours after the explosion.
Two men sit, side by side, at the table by the exit. Their smiles are wide and their faces close. They are gay. I cannot hear their lewd conversation - probably discussing flavoured lubricants. I don’t mind their kind but they should keep it to the privacy of their own homes. There is no need to rub it in people’s faces. Failure has made me less tolerant than usual.
I had suspected extra reinforcement underneath the Mercedes and made adjustments accordingly. The explosion should have torn through the undercarriage like butter, but instead the car had risen like a NASA rocket launch.
Perhaps attempting to disintegrate the occupants had not been my best plan. It had been risky, careless and worst of all, unsuccessful. Nobody could have been badly harmed and I am now public enemy number one. But it could have worked and if it had, I would have the gun and the agents would be out of the picture. Missing out on torturing the two fools to their slow and ultimate deaths would have been a small price to pay for the ultimate pleasure the gun promises.
A young girl in an orange uniform requests my order without speaking, simply grunting and displaying a readiness to write on a dog-eared pad of paper. Her plastic nameplate is skewed. It says her name is Olga. She is sixteen, at the most, with short blonde hair and the blank stare of a person without hope. I could snuff out her pointless existence and we would both benefit from the transaction.
I have bigger plans and the temptations that constantly appear must be avoided. I see needle tracks on the inside of her elbow. Her worthless life of drugs, alcohol, and unprotected sex in parked cars will continue. One day soon, one of her indulgences, necessary to dull her inescapable insignificance, will end her wretched being. Self-destruction is inevitable. I order a cup of tea and a salami sandwich.
