Hawk's Cross

by David Collenette

  “Er, thanks,” I said.

  “Thank you, sir,” he replied, smiled and left the room.

  I stared after him for a few minutes and then stared at the plate of tiny cakes and the tea and coffee pots.

  Unsure of what to do or even what to think about all of this I did the only thing I could think of under the circumstances: I ate the cakes and drank some tea.

  6

  By almost seven o’clock I was ready, dressed in the suit and standing in the hotel foyer. The suit was a perfect fit, which bothered me a lot. How much did a person have to know about someone to be able to buy them perfectly fitting clothes? I couldn’t buy myself perfectly fitting clothes.

  I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to be: in the hotel room, in the foyer or outside. I opted for the foyer until my paranoia got the better of me and I stepped outside.

  Getting out of his car by the curb was Luther. He saw me and got back in, reaching over to pop the passenger door.

  I walked across the pavement, got in, shut the door and fastened my seatbelt. Luther said nothing, adjusted himself in his seat, indicated and pulled carefully out into the narrow road.

  For the first time I noticed the sound of the engine; it sounded powerful. It’s hard to mistake the liquid purr of a V8, and running at such low revs you could almost count the cylinders coughing individually as they fired.

  It dawned on me that Luther was probably driving slowly out of choice rather than habit, and looking over at him he reminded me of a nature programme I’d seen on TV where a leopard walked slowly and carefully through tall grass so as not to raise alarm as it approached a herd of things that looked like deer. At the carefully calculated time, the leopard broke cover and was transformed instantly from a stealthy, slow-creeping animal into an organic heat-seeking missile.

  My guess was that Luther was similar. Here he crept along the streets, the chugging of the powerful engine hinting at its capability as he maintained his low-profile stealth, camouflaged to police and others who might take more than a cursory look as we crawled past.

  I wondered what else was hidden behind the dark exterior of this car; what other surprises it held and why the need for camouflage. I also realised that I probably didn’t want to find out.

  For some reason I expected a long drive but within a few minutes he pulled the car to the side of a street in Soho. I didn’t recognise the club we were outside and we were too close to read the sign that was attached to the parapet outside. Instead of waiting for me to get out, Luther jumped out of the car and came around to my side. He opened my door and waited for me to get out. He grasped my elbow and led me past the queue of people waiting to be allowed into the club, past the doormen without a word and inside, pausing only briefly to hand one of them the car keys.

  Inside the club the décor was intense; leopard skin seemed to be on sale the day they chose the furniture and wall coverings, and there were tables, sofas and chairs dotted around. Mirrors covered an enormous amount of the wall space and hanging chandeliers were reflected multiple times across the room.

  Music pumped from unseen speakers, and crowds of people, all dressed to impress, milled around talking and laughing, although how they could hear each other I have no idea.

  A few of the tables towards the rear of the club had poles set into the centre and I guessed that on certain days or maybe later on in the evening these would be populated by girls giving no indication by their dress sense that cold and flu season was only a few weeks away.

  At the back of the club Luther led me through a door that I thought was just a mirror and we reached a set of spiral glass stairs. He ushered me up the stairs and followed me to the next floor up. Another door-mirror stood in front of us and he pushed it open and waved me through.

  I stepped into a completely different environment. The theme here was glass and light. In the centre of the room was a bar with a black shiny top and glass front with white lights behind the glass making zigzag patterns across the front. Tables and chairs were dotted around but most people were standing. The room was large and seemed to sweep around to the right giving me the impression that there were more spaces like this around the corner.

  I felt conspicuous just standing there and so I turned to get some direction from Luther but he’d vanished so I decided to continue into the room and look around. To my right someone appeared and it startled me. The music level in this place was much lower than in the room below and not as intense. The person next to me was a woman with dark hair dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. She was carrying a tray full of glasses.

  She said nothing but held out the tray to me and smiled. I took one of the glasses. This seemed to please her and she walked away.

  I tried the drink. I wasn’t very familiar with cocktails and on the few occasions that I’ve tried them they didn’t hold much appeal to me; they just taste like someone’s tried to hide the taste of alcohol by mixing it with fruit juice. This one was no different but I drank it nevertheless.

  As if fitted with an empty-glass homing device, the woman appeared again and held out the tray for me. I placed my empty glass on it and she indicated for me to take another. I took another but made a mental note to drink it slowly as I had a feeling that keeping my wits about me this evening would be important.

  I edged nervously through the connecting arch and into the next room and noticed that this led out onto a large terrace. Out on the terrace people were gathered and stood around tall tables drinking, chatting and smoking.

  I had no idea why I was here but as I stood there like a dummy I sensed someone approach my left shoulder.

  “Nice suit!”

  It was Ethan.

  He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “I see you made a wise choice and decided to join us.”

  I didn’t know how to reply so I just stayed quiet.

  He went on, “Isn’t it awkward when you go to a party and you don’t know anyone? I hate that. I much prefer to be among people I know and trust.”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry. You’ll soon be having a blast. Come on out to the terrace, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Someone you might recognise.”

  He applied some pressure to my shoulder and guided me through the crowd and across the threshold onto the terrace.

  There was a faint, warm breeze and I could smell tobacco smoke. The sounds of the traffic became apparent from the street below.

  Ethan steered me around some people standing around a table and towards a small group in the corner.

  “Karen!” he called, and a woman with dark hair turned towards him. Her smile broke into a wide grin and she reached out to the table, picked up a drink and, with a few words to those she was with, she wandered over.

  It took me a few seconds to work out why she looked so familiar and then it struck me. This was the woman from the photograph; the woman with the son Oliver who I was supposed to have kidnapped.

  “Hey Karen,” said Ethan and he leaned forward to kiss her cheek, “how’s the party?”

  “Oh my god, Ethan,” she started, “it’s off the hook. I love these things! Who’s this?” she said, cocking her head to one side to look at me.

  “Ah, this is Matthew, Karen. He’s new to the team so I’ve had him working on a project.”

  “Right,” she said. “Does it talk?” she laughed.

  Articulate as always, I shuffled and smiled.

  “Oh, this one talks,” replied Ethan, “he’s even been known to complete entire sentences.”

  Karen laughed and moved closer. “So, Matthew, what is it that you do?”

  “Er…” I began.

  Ethan took over. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s my speech writer.” They both laughed.

  “Seriously, though, Matthew is a kind of graphic designer. Isn’t that right, Matthew
?”

  “Yeah, I draw stuff.”

  “Oh my god! You DRAW stuff!” Karen found this hilarious and threw back her head to laugh. “That’s the weirdest description I’ve ever heard by any graphic designer.”

  “Well,” said Ethan, “you two seem to be getting along like a house on fire so I’ll just leave you to it.”

  He poked me in the shoulder. “You make sure you let Karen get a word in from time to time, OK, Matthew? No hogging the conversation.” He walked off through the crowd leaving Karen and me standing alone.

  She took another sip of her drink and regarded me. “So, Matthew ‘I draw stuff’, what’s your story?”

  I’ve never felt so uncomfortable and confused. Was this all part of some enormous joke? Behind me a camera flash went off and the sounds of people’s laughter.

  As I hadn’t replied, she leaned in to me as if sharing a secret. “It’s OK, you can tell me stuff. I’m not the police. What do you draw?”

  “I mainly draw people; caricatures,” I said.

  “What, like kids on bikes with big heads and ears and stuff?” she asked.

  “Sometimes stuff like that. I draw what people want really.”

  “Ah, and what else do you do for Ethan? I doubt he has much interest in collecting pictures of big-eared kids on bikes.”

  I was getting flustered and unsure what was happening. Was the whole thing an elaborate joke that Karen was in on? Did she know what had happened a few days ago? I decided to push to see if I got a reaction.

  “Oh, a few things. I also kidnap people for Ethan.”

  Karen frowned and reached into her handbag, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “You’re a weird guy, Matthew. Where do you live?” She opened the pack of Marlboros and put one in her mouth, waiting for an answer while I stumbled over what to say. She lit the lighter but then stopped, used the other hand to remove the cigarette from her mouth and shrugged. “Well?”

  I’d had enough of this. I had no idea what sort of game was going on but it was a fair enough assumption that I was the butt of whatever joke was happening.

  “I live in a pile of crates on a rooftop in Soho,” I said.

  She lit the cigarette, inhaled and blew the smoke into my face.

  “You’re a fucking moron,” she snapped and turned and walked back to the group of people she’d come from.

  I turned around and started to walk back into the building. As I did so I could hear a group of people laughing behind me. I assumed that Karen was recounting our conversation.

  I spent the next hour shuffling around trying not to look as awkward as I felt. Although I’d had a few more drinks I wasn’t feeling any more relaxed and I wondered how much longer I needed to endure this. I spotted Karen a few times; once she caught my eye but she just shook her head and walked off. I’d not seen Ethan since our introduction and I wondered if he was even still here.

  I decided to make a move for the exit. I opened the glass door that led to the stairs and Luther was standing there.

  “OK, Cinderella, let’s get you home before you turn into a pumpkin,” he said and led the way downstairs, through the club and back out onto the street.

  His car was there in minutes and he carefully drove me back to the hotel.

  On the way he was more chatty than normal. “Rough night?” he asked.

  “Not really my type of thing,” I mumbled.

  When we pulled up next to the hotel he got out of the car and followed me in.

  “Come on, one for the road,” he said and led me to the bar.

  I’d had enough for one evening. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just go to bed.”

  He clapped a hand on my shoulder in a friendly, yet insistent, way.

  “Nonsense. One for the road ain’t gonna kill anyone, right?”

  I sat in a chair in the bar while Luther went to the bar to order a drink I didn’t want. He came back with two drinks and placed one in front of me. He sat down opposite and held up his drink and waited until I did the same.

  “Cheers,” he said and bolted the shot. “Well?”

  I bolted the shot, cringing at the sharp taste, and Luther smiled. “Time for bed, Cinders.”

  He led me through the hotel to the lifts, inserted a card and pressed number three. As the lift was heading up I started to feel woozy. When the lift stopped I went to walk out and staggered into the door frame. Luther grabbed me and said, “Looks like I misjudged that one.”

  His words seemed distant and the edges of my vision started to go dark. I’d been drugged.

  Blackness.

  I opened my eyes to a buzzing sound around me. I felt heavy and everything seemed far away. After a few seconds a few things became apparent. First, my head was pounding with the worst headache I could possibly imagine. Secondly, I was in bed in my underwear. Finally, the buzzing noise was actually voices on the TV.

  I rolled onto my side and the pain in my head flashed. I stayed still for a while and when the intensity of the pain subsided I opened my eyes. On the table next to my bed I saw a glass of water and some pills.

  Suddenly it struck me how dry I was and I dragged myself up onto my elbow and grasped the water. I drank half of it and leaned back as the cold of the water took my breath away.

  I focused on the tablet bottle and saw that they were painkillers. Struggling with the bottle, I managed to eject two pills and threw them into my mouth. I tossed my head back to throw them to the back of my throat and the pain flashed like a knife behind my eyes. I finished the water, lay down and went back to sleep.

  I woke again what felt like a short time later. The headache had subsided, probably due to the pills, and I found I could move about more freely. I needed more water so I levered myself out of bed and staggered to the bathroom to fill a glass.

  In the bathroom I drained the glass twice and then refilled it to carry it back to the bed.

  I propped myself up on a couple of pillows and leaned my head back on the wall. The news was still showing on the TV. I looked around for the remote to switch it off but I couldn’t see it anywhere so I let it run.

  Someone was talking about an investigation into some care home and then came the weather. Some blonde Scottish lady said it will be a nice day today.

  I lay back, sipping the water and listening to the news. The weather had finished and now they were moving to local news covering London only.

  “Police are still investigating the death of a woman found hanging beneath Tower Bridge late last night by passers-by.

  “Karen Geller, 32, was admitted to hospital after her hanging body was seen by passers-by but was pronounced dead on arrival. A police spokesman said that it was a terrible tragedy but they are not looking for anyone else in connection with the death. However, if anyone witnessed anything they are to contact the police. Ms Geller leaves behind her son, Oliver. Her family has been informed.”

  I was staring straight at the TV, bolt-upright at the sound of her name. On the screen in front of me was the same photo Ethan had showed me earlier in the week.

  The news report had moved on and now they were discussing Tube delays and road congestion. However, I wasn’t watching the TV any longer as my eyes had drifted down to a folded card on the table beneath the TV. On the card was written a single word: ‘Choices’.

  7

  I scrambled down the bed and swung my legs onto the floor. Snatching up the card I turned it over to examine both sides. There was nothing else on the card but beneath it on the table was a white rectangle. As I reached to pick it up I instantly knew by the texture of the paper that it was a photograph. In fact, two photographs; one on top of the other.

  I slid them to the front of the desk, lifted them up and, with a knot the size of a football in my stomach, I turned them over.

  The first
photo was one of me standing at the party talking to Karen. My mind conjured up the image of that conversation and I suddenly remembered the camera flash and dismissing it as another party guest.

  I slid the photo to the side to look at the next and the bottom fell out of my world. There in front of me, obviously taken by someone on the embankment with a high-power lens was Karen, hanging at the end of a rope beneath Tower Bridge. I couldn’t see enough of the bridge to recognise it but my mind quickly put the image together with the news report.

  I sat back on the bed and stared at the TV which was now on to some other general news story. I saw an image of Barack Obama but I didn’t listen to the story.

  Getting up, I paced the room.

  After a few minutes of pacing the room and staring out of the window I decided to take a shower. I needed something to clear my head and try to make sense of everything that was going on, and I had a vague hope that a shower might do something to wash the fog from my mind and provide me with some insight.

  Standing under the hot jet as it pummelled the back of my neck, the images of the past few days flashed through my mind.

  I couldn’t piece them together and there didn’t seem to be any logical connections between the random events that I was recalling. Is this what it’s like to lose your mind? Am I going insane?

  The image of the dead guy came to me, not for the first time, and I tried to brush it aside once again.

  Then the image of Karen hanging under the bridge, the photo of us both at the party, the memory of the ill-feeling I’d felt towards her after she’d called me a moron, the card with the word ‘choices’ on it.

  None of it made any sense. How had I had a choice in what she’d done? I might not have been a fascinating conversationalist at the party but if my inability to interest those I spoke to made a difference between life and death there would be hordes of victims in my wake.

  Did her aggressive reaction to me hide some inner demon? Should I have understood that; somehow shown some insight into her mentality? That was insane. Insane; that word again.