Hawk's Cross

by David Collenette

  “I should have left you to sob into your pasta. This hasn’t improved anything.”

  I buried my head into my hands and tried to push the pain away; tried to stop the tears.

  “Look,” said Roche.

  I lifted my head. He’d pulled up his right sleeve and had laid his arm on the table, palm up, in front of me. He was pointing to a small mark on his wrist.

  “Do you see that?”

  I looked at his wrist and noticed a small mark. On closer inspection I saw that it was a cross tattoo, not a cross like a plus sign but more like a squashed letter x. It was clearly not a professional job.

  “What is it?”

  “That’s what we called ‘Hobson’s Cross’. You see, Matthew, I used to be in Special Forces. At times there were things we were ordered to do that defied rational explanation. I’ve seen things that make your adventures look like a Disney production but what really haunts you isn’t the things that you’re ordered to do, it’s the things you do without orders. Those things are your choice and your choice alone.”

  I sat in silence and listened as he carried on.

  “I was in Chechnya with my unit. We were a special unit that operated alone, made up from members of Special Forces from some of the UN countries. We were sent into places when other solutions were not viable. On this occasion, myself and six others. By the time we got to the place the situation was already out of control and we had to do what we could to secure civilians and do what we could to unsettle and destroy the enemy.”

  “Where’s Chechnya?”

  Roche snorted a laugh. “Somewhere you don’t ever want to go and somewhere I’ll never leave.”

  I stared blankly at him.

  “Next to Russia. It’s next to Russia and used to be part of the Russian Federation. I was leading the unit into a small village that was under threat by Chechen Separatists. By the time we got there they were already preparing for an attack. The villagers, fearing for their lives, were doing what they could to get away or hide. Some started out with their families along the road to get away and some decided to try to hide in secure places. Two of these places were a church and a school. Most of the men had left or been killed earlier and so most of those left were women, children and the old and disabled.”

  “Why didn’t they all leave?” I asked.

  “The roads were mined, freezing cold and swarming with soldiers. Many of those who left would have been killed or would have died of hypothermia and starvation. There was no perfect solution. We got word that the Chechen Separatists were inbound. There were seven of us and we had to decide what to do: head to the church or the school. Looking at the options we decided that we had the best possibility of defending the church until reinforcements arrived and, as there were only seven of us, we needed to stay together. So I led the unit to the church.”

  “What happened?”

  “We went to the church and left those at the school to be slaughtered; raped, tortured and killed by the separatists.”

  “What happened to the people in the church?”

  “We managed to hold off the attack until reinforcements arrived in the form of pro-Russian paramilitary. We lost two men and some of the civilians but all of those who were in the school were either killed or were never seen again. After we got out of there I got this,” and he pointed to the small cross.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  Roche sat back and pulled down his sleeve. “History isn’t written by soldiers. It’s written by people who were never there, by people reading the news and deciding for themselves what is right and wrong. Medals are awarded for acts of valour and bravery but not so many of them are handed out to people who stood by and left hundreds to die.”

  “But you couldn’t save them all,” I said.

  “That’s an interesting perspective you’ve suddenly acquired, Matthew.”

  “But it was war and you were sent there and you saved people. They must recognise that.”

  “You’d think so, eh?”

  “But why the tattoo?”

  “All of my unit had seen the same thing, in Chechnya and a hundred other Chechnyas around the world. We’d all been involved in decisions where no one wins. There’s no reason to it but when you’re in a situation like that there is no right or wrong, so you have to be right. Even if you’re wrong you need to be one hundred percent right. If you hesitate everyone loses. So you choose, you lead and you are right, even if you’re wrong. There’s no medal for that so we made one of our own.”

  “You did that?”

  “We called it the Hobson’s Cross; a medal of sorts that we awarded members of our unit if they needed to make decisions that would be right, no matter how wrong they were. When we left that village I cried into my lasagne, just like you, and the others took me to a bar and got me drunk. When I woke up I had this.” He tapped his wrist.

  “Like Hobson’s choice,” I said.

  “Yes, but it was a medal. A medal to show that we were worthy of honour; that what we did had value even if many had died. So we called it the ‘Hobson’s Cross’.”

  “It’s an odd cross, not like one you see in church.”

  Roche looked far away. “What we saw was a long way from God.”

  “Does it help?” I asked.

  “No, but it reminds me that there’s a huge difference between being somewhere and having to act than looking back at decisions you make and wondering what would have happened if you did something else.”

  “Does anything help?” I tried not to sound desperate.

  “Maybe this,” and he reached into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved an old envelope which he tossed on the table in front of me.

  I stared at the envelope. “What is it?”

  “Open it and see.”

  I took the envelope and looked at it. It was old and browning, the edges worn and in some places repaired by tape. I opened it to find a pile of photographs.

  The first ones were pictures of a young girl; deep brown eyes and dark hair with what appeared to be a slightly oriental look. As I thumbed through them I saw pictures of an older girl; one of her standing by a gate with a dog and she was smiling in the sun. Another showed her standing by a shop, snow everywhere, with a big furry hat. She was holding up a huge fish; I had no idea why.

  As I thumbed through the photos I realised it was the same girl, the photos getting newer as she was getting older. About halfway through the girl was joined by a man; short with dark hair and a moustache. They were sitting on a small bridge and she was holding a rock, about to drop it into the water and he was holding her around the waist so she wouldn’t slip.

  I carried on thumbing through the photos until I noticed that they were eventually joined by a baby and as I kept going the baby grew into a child, a boy with similar looks.

  I looked up at Roche and asked, “Who is she? Who are they?”

  “Her name is Alyosha. After the war I was contacted by her. I have no idea how she found me but she just sent the first photo with a note that simply said, ‘I can send this because of you.’ She was in the church. I remembered her cowering under some damaged seating while we did what we could to hold off the attack.”

  “You saved her?”

  He ignored my question. “I kept the photo and thought nothing more of it until the next one arrived. Over the years she has sent me many and I keep some of them with me to remind me that no matter how much death and destruction there is in the world there is always a chance at redemption.”

  I looked down at the last photo. “How old is the boy?”

  “He’s ten now. She sent me a note just after he was born.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jeremiah.”

  We sat in silence for a while, Roche staring off into space whil
e I thumbed once more through the photos. Finally Roche said, “Fuck this shit; I need a drink.”

  We got up. Roche threw some cash down on the table and we left, heading along the river.

  We found a bar and we sat at a table. Roche lit up a cigarette and, when the waiter arrived, he ordered some drinks. We sat in silence until they arrived: two small glasses of a clear liquid.

  He held up his glass and waited for me to do the same, so I did.

  Holding our glasses he said, “Zazdarovje.”

  I said something similar, or maybe not.

  He threw back his drink and slammed the glass down on the table. I did the same and tried to avoid coughing as the liquid iron destroyed my throat on its way to my stomach.

  The waiter came over and refilled our glasses.

  18

  I have never in my life felt this bad. I didn’t realise that my eyeballs could ache like this.

  My head was pounding and as I rolled over a flash of pain caught me in the side of my head and I cried out. I couldn’t open my eyes as the light was burning my retinas. I crawled under the cover and held my head.

  My mouth felt dry and it reminded me of waking from the paralysing drug Roche used on me before. He’d poisoned me again. I’d just started to trust him and now he’d done it again. Why?

  What could he possibly need with my being drugged?

  I tried to lift my legs and I found that the movement hurt but I continued to test each of my limbs.

  “I see you’re awake,” said Roche from somewhere else in the room.

  From under the covers I said, “Why did you drug me again?”

  “It’s a hangover, you idiot. You drank enough vodka to power a battleship. Get up. Five minutes.”

  The thought of getting up was impossible. The most I could manage was what I was doing right now, which was essentially nothing.

  I must have fallen asleep again because I was jerked awake by Roche’s voice again: “OK, I warned you.”

  Suddenly I was ice cold as he threw what turned out to be an ice bucket of freezing water over me.

  I screamed. Soaking wet and freezing cold I sat up, despite the pounding in my head, and looked around. Standing in front of me, Roche held out a bottle of water.

  I took the water and he dropped a couple of pills into my hand. “Take those and get in the shower.”

  The shower felt good. The pain in my head was reduced to a dull throb as I stood under the hot stream and I felt that I could have stayed there forever.

  For the first time I noticed the pain in my wrist, brought to my attention by the hot water running over it. I raised my arm and looked at the sore area. A dark mark, a cross; dark blue and swollen red.

  I finished showering and walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. “What’s this?” I asked.

  Roche just turned to me, regarded me for a second and then continued to read his laptop screen.

  “Hobson’s Cross?” I asked.

  “It’s not Hobson’s Cross, Matthew. To be worthy of Hobson’s Cross you would need to have served in the military and have your inclusion agreed by the rest of the unit. Consider this one to be Hawk’s Cross. You’ve earned it and hopefully you’ll not dishonour it by feeling fucking sorry for yourself.”

  Now it was my turn to say nothing and stare.

  “Get dressed, we’re leaving in twenty minutes,” he said.

  ***

  Somewhere over the Mediterranean a helicopter was hovering, a single searchlight scanning the waves. Inside, the co-pilot was watching the area lit up by the light. “One more circuit and then I’m calling it in.”

  The pilot nodded and pushed the stick right to do another sweep.

  Ten minutes later and they were back where they started. The co-pilot changed radio channels and called it in: “Oscar-five-zero for alpha-zero-one.”

  “Alpha-zero-one, send message.”

  “We’ve completed four circuits and scanned the area near the signal. No sighting.”

  “Understood, the target must have discovered the tracker. Return to station.”

  “Confirmed, returning to station. Oscar-five-zero out.”

  The pilot turned the helicopter around and, lifting the collective, they started climbing as he pushed forward on the stick to speed up towards the hills.

  19

  Terry Burrows wasn’t happy. He always got the shit jobs. His brother, Phil, had got him this work and thought he should be grateful but Terry wasn’t.

  “I’m a fucking gangster! Give me better stuff to do!” he yelled at Phil one night, tanked up on bad whisky and cider.

  “You’re a fucking idiot, that’s what you are. You shouldn’t piss these guys off. It’s steady work that you can actually hold down. Now, don’t be a dick and just do what you’re told.”

  Part of Terry knew that his brother was right and that made it worse. And now what? Babysit some fucking nigger bitch.

  Standing in the corner, Terry looked at the makeshift cage that had been built around a toilet that used to be part of this old theatre. About three metres square, the cage was barred on three sides and bolted along the one remaining side to the original wall of the toilet.

  At some point in the past the old theatre had been bought by a developer, work started and then, for whatever reason, the money ran out or the person lost interest; who knows? However, the partial development had left the basement level with most of its interior walls removed without the fittings, so a line of toilets graced the wall, the one to the far right encapsulated in the new cage addition.

  Also in the cage were a bed and a vanity curtain around the toilet, a small table and a chair. On the table a few tatty magazines and a used paper coffee cup.

  The only other thing in the cage was a person, a black woman, lying on the bed looking up at the ceiling.

  Terry stared at her with hatred in his eyes. “Fucking niggers,” he muttered under his breath. They were the reason this country was so fucked up. They took the jobs, made people think they were great because they were good at running in the Olympics and did it to take over the country. Terry’s mind raced:

  Seems like everywhere you go you see them. Some of them serving in fucking restaurants! Get that! Who the fuck wants to have their food handled by one of them? And what happens when you complain is that you get told that you’re the one in the wrong, that’s what.

  Janice said I was racist, well she can fuck off. I’m not racist I’m Englishist. Stupid cow anyway. It’s England I like not white people. She’s a stupid bitch anyway. Why I fucking married that stupid cunt I don’t know. I should have married her sister. She was hot. Janice was fat and square with small, saggy tits. Her sister, now that was better. Bigger tits, nice arse and posh. I like posh. She’d fucking scream if I did her.

  Now, to add insult to injury, he had to feed it. He’d been told to make sure the prisoner had water and food every four hours and to make sure she had basic toiletries.

  So, what? I’m a fucking nursemaid now? He walked over to an old fridge that had been put in the corner and opened the door. He removed a bottle of milk and grabbed a box of microwave porridge from on top.

  He mixed the porridge with the milk into a bowl and placed it in the microwave on top of the fridge and turned the dial to two minutes.

  As the microwave hummed Terry felt himself getting more and more annoyed. He’d been stuck down here for days; fuck knows what others were doing but it was probably much more interesting and respectable than playing waiter to some nigger bitch.

  He checked the dial; still a minute and a half to go. At least he didn’t have to go out to get food like he did yesterday. Asking her what she wanted was the ultimate insult; she should eat what she was given.

  He looked across the room and could see the woman in the cage w
atching him with her head bowed.

  Finally, the microwave pinged and Terry opened it and carefully removed the hot bowl of porridge. It smelled quite good and his own stomach rumbled. Fuck this, he thought, she’s eating before me.

  He walked over to the cage, holding the bowl on a cloth in his hand.

  “You hungry, spade?”

  Claudia just watched him from the back of her cage, unsure what to do to make him less angry. She was hungry and didn’t want to do anything that would raise his anger and lose herself her food.

  “I asked you if you were hungry!” he shouted.

  Claudia risked a nod.

  “Don’t fucking nod at me, say yes please!”

  Claudia mouthed the words back to him but Terry wasn’t having any of it.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted and threw the bowl at the cage. It hit the bars and smashed, porridge everywhere. Claudia jumped at the crash.

  “See what you made me do? Waste my fucking time on you just so that I could throw it away because you were too fucking rude to say please!”

  Claudia was getting more nervous. She’d seen him in one of these moods before and it wasn’t good. She didn’t know what she could do to bring him down and she was too scared to try.

  “Fucking speak to me when I’m talking to you!” he shouted and ran at the cage, intent on yelling at her through the bars.

  Unfortunately for Terry, the porridge had slopped onto the floor and, as he went to stop in front of the cage he slipped on the porridge and went down.

  His feet went out from under him and his knees crashed into the bars, pain shooting up his legs.

  He scrabbled backwards away from the cage and grabbed his right knee.

  “FUCK!” he yelled. He scrambled to his feet, panting; tears in his eyes from the pain.

  “You think that’s funny, bitch? You like seeing me in fucking pain?”

  He looked around and saw a chair near the wall. He limped over to it and picked it up, turned and went back to the cage.

  “How funny is it now, eh?” he yelled and swung the chair at the cage. The legs hit the bars and one broke off, sliding off across the floor.