by Lee, Frazer
He felt heat, white hot, at his fingertips and looked down at his right hand. He had inadvertently placed his fingers inside the fire. Careless. He watched the skin of his fingertips, transfixed, for a few moments as it blistered and blackened. Multiplying the sensation across the dark web of his memories, he imagined the hair of the women burning up like tapers in the inferno. The roasting rabbit’s flesh sizzled and spat beside him as the layers of fat melted over its pinioned carcass. He blinked and saw a ghost image of a thousand chubby little child bodies roasting and spitting as they writhed in agony, hammering their little hands on the walls until, baked brittle, they broke and burned up.
Cosmo doubled over and dry heaved into the carpet of ruddy leaves beneath him. It had been a while since he’d last eaten, so the contents of his stomach were nothing more than hot spools of bile, which steamed horribly as they dribbled onto the forest floor. Cold tears streamed from his eyes and mucous oozed from his nose like snail trails. Sobbing, he glanced back at the rabbit, the fire. He had intended to eat some of the meat, and then wrap the rest for later, but he no longer felt like eating.
Elena would surely be hungry when she woke. He would take all of the meat back for her. An offering. Wiping the mucal detritus of his woe from his face and nose, he crawled back to the fire. He removed the cooked rabbit from its spit and wrapped it in the animal’s own pelt. He placed the warm, furry bundle inside his backpack for the girl. Cosmo had already left the entrails for the denizens of the forest, and hoped they would appreciate his humble tribute. He was certainly undeserving of the forest’s bounty today, but not them—not the wild things that graciously shared their forest home with him. And he was a wild thing too, but not yet one of his forest fellows. He was a man of muck and murder, forever stained by blood indelible.
Removing his paratrooper boots and partially rotted socks, he stood up and walked over the flames until the fire was extinguished. With each step, he said a silent prayer for the ones he had burned. The calloused flesh of his feet began to melt painfully as his body weight fused skin and burning branch together. He held his breath and continued walking on the spot, knowing a thousand such steps across all the fires in hell would never be penance enough for the things he had done. So, when the fire was out—extinguished by his guilt—he tied his boots together by their laces and strung them onto his backpack. He would walk the long walk back to his girl and his shelter barefoot. Perhaps then the admonishing screams of pain would cease and he could sleep awhile. Until those screams returned with the next cursed day, the forest, the trees, and the spirit protecting all of them, would know how sorry he was. He began his walk on red, raw feet, and prayed a silent prayer for peace.
Afternoon was losing its daily battle to twilight when Cosmo trudged back to the house; a derelict like him. He paused for breath a moment, taking in the sky’s orange glow, haloed around the ramshackle roof of the place he called a temporary home. Soon, the light would be gone from the sky and omniscient day would give way to imperceptible night, the time Cosmo felt safest of all. Most people, in his old-life experience of war and cities, felt most vulnerable in the dark. Not so for Cosmo, who wore night’s black velvet like a protective cloak. Underneath the stars, none could find him, no one could see him. And woe betide any who did, for night was when he finally gave way to sleep. If any man were foolish enough to disturb the shallow meditation of Cosmo’s slumber, they would find themselves going under—no sooner than he’d opened his eyes and looked upon them. He dropped his pack beside the door and made a quick perimeter check, just be sure. His traps and alarms bore no sign of having been tampered with. Satisfied, he headed back to the door, hoisted his pack onto his shoulder and crept inside, fearful of disturbing Elena.
The door creaked as he opened it and he made a mental note to oil the hinges with some animal fat in the morning. The building was decades old, and in a state of neglect that bordered on abuse. It had been a fine cottage once, somewhere to rent out to walkers in the summer months. Relics of this tourist trade were still to be found on the shelves in Cosmo’s adopted home; old compilation CDs given away free with Sunday newspapers, yellowing books and magazines with damp, curling pages. Several tiles were missing from the roof of the two storey building and leaves, dirt and dust had made themselves at home as a result. Each floorboard creaked in welcome, or warning, as Cosmo crept across the living room. The exposed wooden boards were part-carpeted with rotting leaves and soil, as though the shack was intent on becoming at one with the forest—living inside out. A fir tree had erupted through the floorboards in the far corner by the window, further laying the forest’s claim to the house by a process of natural assimilation. He reached the spot where the soiled rug lay between a festering pile of leaves and a moldy old armchair. Cosmo stooped low and pulled back the rug, revealing the hatch that had become his front door. From over his shoulder, he heard a whisper of wind in the fireplace. He was eager to climb below into his hidden home. Cosmo did not care for the atmosphere in the airy living room. The journey from the front door to the hatch always had his nerves on edge. The house creaked and moaned like a ghost, encouraging his exit.
He picked up the broken chair leg, sharpened to a point, which had become his door key and used it to prize open the trapdoor. He descended the first few rungs of the ladder, cringing at the noise he was making. Even though he was barefoot, his footfalls would be more than enough to wake Elena. Listening intently, and hearing nothing, he turned and carefully lowered the hatch with one hand, while tugging the rug back into place above it. When his fingers were all but wedged between the floor and the hatch, he snapped them back and lowered the hatch into place. The escaping air would be enough to ensure the border of the rug concealed the lip of the hatch. His perimeter was secure, of that he was certain, but a good soldier left nothing to chance. Being proactive kept a soldier alive.
Get sloppy and you’re as good as inviting Death to your party, his drill sergeant used to tell him, the Devil is in the details, but you have to step back and see the bigger picture and your place in it—if you are to defeat your enemy.
Right now though, Cosmo was home. With the perimeter checks complete and the hatch closed behind him, he could settle down for the night.
As he reached the foot of the ladder he saw the familiar shape of the girl on the cot bed in the corner, blankets bunched up around her so all that was visible of her was her beautiful fair hair.
Good, he thought, still sleeping.
He placed his pack in the coldest spot in the cellar, a brick-lined alcove that once held a wine rack until he ripped the thing out so he could make it his refrigerator. The rabbit would keep there nicely until morning. Elena would be pleased not to have to go outside before breakfast; the mornings were getting colder as autumn was drawing swiftly in. He untied his boots from his pack and stashed them in a high place where they would not draw damp from the cellar floor so easily. Removing his greatcoat, he hung it from a hook embedded into the largest of the ceiling beams. When he’d first explored the cellar, he’d found a net basket of garden toys hanging from the hook; a bright orange bucket, green spade and a sponge football all the colors of an oil slick in the sunshine. Deciding the garish plastic things had no place in his world he had buried them outside, drowning their rainbow hues forever beneath drab soil and dead leaves.
Yawning quietly, Cosmo stretched his arms up as high as he could reach them and felt his vertebrae crack and shift from long hours carrying his pack through the forest. His feet were both numb from cold and seared by the flames he’d stamped out earlier, and he craved the warmth beneath Elena’s blankets. Carefully, quietly, Cosmo pulled back the woolen layers covering her and stole into bed. She lay with her back to him, and he curled his body into her tiny form until they were making spoons under the blankets. Breathing in the soft, sweet fragrance of Elena’s hair, he pulled the blankets up and over his head.
Nobody could find him, no one could see him.
He closed his eyes and
let sleep take him down.
Chapter Thirteen
Tom leaned against the bar and finished his sandwich. He and Dieter ate in silence, listening to the beauty serving them from the other side of the copper-topped bar. If their host’s voice was music, then Holly’s was a symphony performed by a full orchestra with a choir of angels. Her sweet Scottish accent had a lovely lilt to it, making a jewel of every vowel sound that passed her fulsome pink lips.
Tom watched Dieter watching her, and then sneaked a glance for himself as she reached for the coffee jug, turning her back to them. She was a rare beauty, mid-twenties at a push, with messy red hair, shoulder-length and eyes as green as a cat’s. Her skirt was daringly short and her mohair sweater was flimsy thin, accentuating her curves. He and Dieter had remained quiet ever since they’d laid eyes on her. She hadn’t stopped talking for a moment, keeping them entertained with small talk about the weather in Douglass and where the best local fishing was to be had.
Tom glanced at Dieter again. The big man looked absolutely smitten as he laughed at Holly’s jokes on cue and drank his coffee down so he could get another refill, and another look at her rump, on the house. Any complaint about the lack of a hot lunch option had been forgotten the instant Holly had appeared, smiling, from behind the bar. In fact, Dieter looked to be genuinely enjoyed the simple fare, even complimenting Holly at one point on the fine taste of the mustard she’d slathered between the layers of cold meat and tangy cheese. All local, she’d told him with a smile, including the bread, which was as spectral white as Holly’s skin and tasted a little stale to Tom. But their hostess transfixed him just as much as she did Dieter, so he remained quiet on the subject—opting to chew his way through the matter rather than spoil the convivial atmosphere.
He’d brought his laptop with him from his room and, finishing his sandwich and pushing the plate away to make it clear he required no more, he opened up the screen and powered up the laptop. The little start-up chime rang out in the empty lounge bar like a call to action, but Dieter didn’t seem to notice, or care—his attention was fixed on Holly.
“Thought we might run through the itinerary,” Tom ventured.
Dieter was still in the process of stuffing his face with a doorstep of a sandwich and mumbled something unintelligible through his mustard-flecked lips.
“Okay, join me when you’re done,” Tom said before asking Holly if she minded him plugging his laptop in somewhere.
She graciously directed him to a table near the window, below which was an electrical socket. Tom had been meaning to launch a ticket in The Consortium Inc.’s I.T. support system to request a new battery. He was lucky to get a half hour of juice out of the thing on a good day and, back home, had to rely on the coveted Caltrain power sockets to keep working during his commute. Usually only one carriage had them, and unless you were willing or able to pay premium fares, it was potluck to get one in Standard. Plugging the power cord into his travel adaptor, then into the wall, Tom glanced out the window at the curtain of fir trees; such a different landscape to the one outside of his windows back home.
Julia would love it here, he thought sadly, before correcting himself. Scratch that, she would have loved it back in the days before she became a zombie.
Logging into his machine, Tom got connected to the pub’s free wi-fi connection. The connection was okay, three bars out of four, which was one more than he sometimes got back home. He grabbed the virtual network key from his bag—a gray plastic key fob with a tiny digital display that gave him a code to tap into his computer so he could access the company network on the road. The display refreshed with a new code every minute, so he opened the virtual network window and entered his login details first. When the key refreshed with a new code, he cracked his knuckles and then typed it in. Next, he opened his Outlook mail window and it was just like being at his desk in the office, save for the fact that he was sitting in the lounge bar of a Scottish pub, surrounded by beautiful forests of Douglass Firs.
You’ve got mail.
One hundred-forty-eight unread messages, to be precise.
The sight of his inbox, crammed with office memos and other time-consuming crap he could better do without filled him with dismay. He had only been gone a couple of days and he already had a half day of work cut out for him if he were to process all the junk.
Deciding he’d trawl through it later, he searched his mail for messages from the CEO and Division Head first, as those would be the most urgent. Sure enough, there were just five, each with a zipped file of attachments for him to peruse. He unzipped them and saved the contents to his desktop folder named Douglass Deal. The first was a series of maps and schematics, which would form the basis of the surveying work he and Dieter would undertake during their stay. The next was a PDF document, watermarked Eyes Only, which detailed the point-by-point requirements of The Consortium’s purchase of Douglass and its surrounding forests. Tom looked over the paragraph he’d just read a second time, and the penny dropped. His masters had sent him out here not only to buy land, but also to purchase the actual village itself.
He glanced over at Holly, who was laughing dutifully at Dieter’s jokes. Maybe it was Tom’s inherent paranoia, but her eyes seemed to look straight through him and at the trees outside the window. He adjusted the laptop screen, a reflex action because there was no way Holly could see it from where she was standing, and turned his attention back to the document. A few moments later, Dieter came over and sat down opposite him, placing a welcome cup of coffee on the table for Tom.
“Thought you could use this,” Dieter said.
“Thanks,” Tom replied, his voice a little distant.
“What’s up?”
“Just reading through the schedule,” Tom said. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. This is one heck of a big deal.”
“Nothing we can’t handle,” Dieter said, sipping his coffee.
“True. But I’m not sure the locals will find it so easy.”
“Ah. Buyout?”
Tom nodded. “Monroe did some good preliminary work by the looks of things…”
His voice trailed off and he glanced over to the bar again. Holly had left.
“You okay?” Dieter asked.
“Fine. It’s just, did you see Monroe’s name in the guest book?”
“Didn’t notice. Sorry.”
“It was just a little weird after what happened at the office. The last time I saw him, he didn’t look so great.”
“Word on the wire was he was under a lot of stress.”
“Evidently.”
Tom sipped his coffee. It wasn’t great, but infinitely better than what had been on offer at the chain hotel that morning.
“So, back to the business at hand. Our first port of call should be a guy called…”
He scrolled back through the onscreen document, scanning each line for the name.
“Lithgoe,” Dieter said.
“That’s it,” Tom said, mystified.
“He’s the local laird, as they call it ’round here. Pretty much owns the village and everything in it, including the lease on this place. Nothing gets done without his say-so. Dinner’s at eight, he’ll join us here. A table right next to the fire you might be pleased to know.”
“But how did you…”
“While you were over here playing with your laptop I got the inside track from the landlord’s daughter on all the great and the good in the village. Seems there isn’t a whisper or a fart goes on here that she doesn’t know about,” Dieter chuckled. “Not just a very pretty face.”
Tom marveled at the smug grin creeping across Dieter’s face.
Maybe it wasn’t so bad to have him along for the ride after all.
Chapter Fourteen
Dieter’s smug grin had all but vanished when it became apparent that Lithgoe was a no-show. He and Tom had left voicemail with the laird’s assistant, twice, and they were at a loss what to do next, other than order main courses. They had taken their time wit
h the starter, a thick broth of beef and vegetables, and were both ravenously hungry after their late, but light, lunch. Tom waved Holly over and she brought their menus to the table once again.
“No need for those,” Dieter said, grumpy with hunger, “I know what I want. The roast lamb.”
“With gravy and all the trimmings?” Holly asked, her voice effervescent as always.
“All the trimmings you got—Tom?”
“Oh, same for me,” Tom said, sounding as tired as he felt.
Holly nodded and smiled at them both before ducking back into the kitchen.
Dieter watched her go, his eyes devouring the tiny strip of exposed flesh between her apron strings and the waistband of her black miniskirt.
“Lovely girl, shame the food’s not quite up to snuff,” he said.
“You don’t like the broth? I quite enjoyed mine.”
