The Collaborator

by Gerald Seymour

  Lukas saw the flash and the recoil of the weapon, and saw the boy flinch, cringe, sag, but he was held up by the arm and the belt. There was no blood.

  He knew that if a second shot was fired it would be a killing shot.

  What a fucking way to live, what a fuck-awful job to have… He had stood once in a corner of the board room of Ground Force Security, had been a day back from Baghdad and had come out with a freed hostage, and Duck had led the directors in celebration drinks – Lukas wouldn’t have been there had there not been delays at Heathrow from the baggage handlers. He had been sober and his employers had not. One had quoted, declaimed it, a Shakespeare speech: their King Harry on the eve of the battle. ‘And gentlemen in England now abed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here…’ Not if the ‘here’ was a mud-wall village beyond the conurbation of Ba’aquba. Likewise, not if the ‘here’ was a stinking, foul, dirt-laden walkway on the third level of the Sail. Bullshit… And any right-minded person, valuing sanity, should have been ‘now abed’. But it was what Lukas did, and was all he knew. He had slipped out of that boardroom and doubted that any of them had noticed that he, the cause of their celebration, had quit on them. He had the watch again in front of his face.

  ‘Next time will be for real. I’m not usually this much of a glory-hunter, but I fancy it’s time to go and do some walking.’

  There was no answer in his earpiece. He didn’t expect it. It was the side show. It was the B flick. The main event was Miss Immacolata and her denunciation, and the boy was rated as secondary. He could do what he damn well pleased.

  He called forward, ‘I think I have that message, Salvatore. You should trust me. I am here to help, and best for all of us – if I am to help – is that you give me trust. Watch me.’

  Lukas stood. He had seen so many men, women and children with a knife close to their throats or wired explosives round their bodies or a pistol against the soft skin at the back of an ear. He had seen mute terror on the faces of the old and the young, and sometimes he had been far back from them, linked only by a closed-circuit camera or binocular vision, and a few times he had been close and they had seen him, and the burden was goddam near intolerable then because of the dependence on him focused from their eyes, as if he was a final chance. Maybe most of those people – intelligent or stupid, experienced in the world or innocents – had been side-show material or B-flick fodder. There were some he’d lost and they’d had a half-minute of fame, posthumous. There were some he’d helped to save and they might, just, have secured a full fifteen minutes in the limelight. Only an idiot without a life, without an idea of a proper job, without a bed, would have been there, midnight gone, and the next bullet drawing blood, and feeling the night cold in his knees. What Castrolami had not asked: would he ever, all these years in, forget the basics that underpinned success, lose the mischief and excitement, and ever just get – so simple – goddam bored, been there and seen it? Questions not asked were those not needing answers. He flexed – so damn tired… Not a long time left for the resolving of it. Folk in Charlotte went up into the hills and hiked trails at weekends, on public holidays and for their summer vacations. They took cabins, and the last morning there was a cut-off when the cabin had to be vacated and them gone, forgotten, no sign of them left behind. Lukas thought that by five, before the dawn, they would be off the third level, out of the Sail and driving away down the road from Scampia. He appreciated the agreement made, through third parties, between Castrolami and the local big-shot player. By first light, the ROS team would be gone and the dealers would be back, and Salvatore was either in handcuffs or dead, and Eddie Deacon was either in a body-bag or walking free. It wasn’t a big window of time but more than sufficient for Lukas to climb through. What bothered him, this time, he cared about the target – which was shit. Didn’t do concern and emotion, except… Saw the face and the fear, saw the hair and the pistol barrel, saw the eyes and the bruises and the lips and the swelling and the cheeks and the cuts.

  He said it again, pleasant, like he talked to a friend, a trusting one. ‘Just watch me, Salvatore. Watch me very carefully.’

  He bent and pulled loose the knots on his laces, then kicked off his trainers and used his toe to shift them to the side. Then he ducked down again and pulled off the socks. He couldn’t remember how long he’d worn them, and smelled them. He dropped them on to the trainers and stood in his bare feet.

  ‘Just as I say, Salvatore, keep watching me.’

  He did it as a palming motion, slipped his hand past his ear and extracted the gear, moulded and flesh-coloured. He hadn’t expected Castrolami in his ear, or wanted it, and he admired the investigator for not burdening him with queries, hesitancies. The palm went into the pocket of the lightweight windcheater, then Lukas shed the coat and tossed it on to the pile. He had never done a strip before, but the tiredness ate him and he sought to push the matter on – force it. His shirt went next, unbuttoned, taken off, discarded.

  ‘Watch me, Salvatore, watch me all the time and have trust in me. I’m here to help Eddie and to help you.’

  He did everything slowly, nothing suddenly. His hands went to his belt and unfastened the buckle. He was not self-conscious, never had been. Almost, because of the way his mind worked, he shared the agony of self-doubt inflicted on the hitman. In seminar talk it was ‘police-assisted suicide’, but in any canteen in Paris, Berlin, New York or London it was ‘suicide-by-cop’. It was the easy way, lifted the decision-taking out of the equation, had somebody else do the dirty stuff. Didn’t have to climb on to a parapet on a wide-span bridge or go up a crane ladder and feel the wind swaying it as he went higher, and didn’t have to sweat on whether there were enough pills in the bottle and he’d come to, alive and vegetable-brained. And easier than turning the firearm on himself, feeling the ugliness of the barrel in the mouth and the foresight in the roof above the tonsils. All about self-doubt, and all about the selfishness of a bastard who thought of himself only; most certainly did not think of the poor guy, police marksman, who blew him away, then went on to trauma counselling. It was a fucking awful place to be, and a fucking awful job – and Lukas had always said he would fight bare-knuckled any man who tried to take it off him. He did the zip on his trousers, let them fall and kicked them off, used a bare toe to move them aside and shove them with the heap.

  ‘Just keep watching me, Salvatore, and know that you can trust me. It’s all going to be fine. You and me, we’re going to sort everything.’

  He took off his undershirt.

  Not a fine sight, he thought.

  Damn near twenty years before, the medic from the Bureau’s recruitment programme had taken a sight of that chest, the concave bit between the bones, the spindly arms sprouting, and failed him. He was told afterwards, when all the rest had gone well, that he presented, next to naked, a poor example of young manhood, and it hadn’t improved in two decades. He chucked aside the undershirt. Might have killed then for a cigarette and might have killed as well for a shower, long and hot, and soap. Not right for him to shiver and he didn’t. They watched him, as they were supposed to. Didn’t think that seeing him would give too much comfort to the boy. Didn’t think, looking at him from twenty paces would summon up too much suspicion and anxiety in Salvatore. Their eyes, the two sets, were never off him.

  He heard, alongside him, a door open. He said, in his mind, bawled it: Fuck me, do I need that? Do I hell? He turned his head, not full on and used the periphery of his vision. An old woman stood in a doorway and she had a goddam cat in her arms. She looked hard at Lukas and shoved the cat down. It yowled, and she kicked it hard with a gnarled foot that was half in and half out of a slipper, and the cat flew behind him. The door slammed and a bolt was drawn. Silence. He thought the old woman had either refused to move or had been too deaf to know of the evacuation, the cat wanted to pee or crap and had roused her. End of story. I was near, God believe me, to a damn coronary. Don’t do it to me again, please. He had his arm up, scratched above
his ear, and could say to his watch face, ‘I don’t aim to make it easy for the shite. We want him rotting.’

  He wore navy boxer shorts. They had seen better days and the colour had faded from rich to dull and the elastic in the waist had lost the snap, and the shorts hung slack on his belly.

  The pistol barrel had not moved, was in the boy’s hair.

  ‘I can’t abide shouting, Salvatore, so I’m coming a bit nearer. There’s sensitive things to talk about and I don’t want the world knowing what our business is.’

  There were good goose pimples on Lukas’s skin. Mustn’t shiver. Mustn’t show fear. All bluff. He took the first step forward. All a bluff, and an opaque mist chucked over the reality. If the mist was blown away, the bluff called, he was dead and the boy was dead and Salvatore had achieved his bus-pass ride to the angels. The smile was good. It was a rare talent: Lukas’s smile never looked as if it was pasted on his face, and it was calm, quiet and as sincere as it came. He was on the fourth and fifth steps, stretching them.

  ‘I’m not a danger to you, Salvatore, I’m a friend, and I’ve come to offer help. Trust me.’

  He didn’t know how much of what he said was understood, and was unable to gauge the Italian’s comprehension of his message. Lukas thought his bearing more important than anything. His nakedness and his lack of physique proved he threatened nothing, nobody. He heard behind him a soft but strangled howl, and wondered if the bloody cat was nuzzling its damn face against a rifle barrel, and if the animal had been hit with the heel of a hand. Had done ten paces, then twelve. The eyes of Salvatore seemed wider, the lower lip jabbered and the jaw wobbled. He had no voice. Lukas thought he tried to speak and couldn’t.

  A hell of a way to spend a night. Good damn thing he looked down because there was syringe glass on the walkway concrete, and shit from a dog – not the cat’s. A hell of a place to be… He kept the smile in place. An instructor for the training of the Critical Incident Response people had said it was the best smile he’d come across and asked why it couldn’t be carried from the role-play scenarios into the canteen when they ate together. It was an act, had no truth. Fifteen paces taken, then sixteen. Always smile. The boy gazed at him like he was a messiah.

  ‘You have my word, Salvatore, and my word is my bond, that you can trust me, and that way nobody’s hurt, and we get to go home, and you get a proper bed and some sleep and a meal. What I’m working at, Salvatore, is that every one of us is a winner. You know about winning. You win because you’re smart, Salvatore. I can see that. You’re a big man and smart, a winner.’

  He could see more of the boy’s face than the hood’s. Shouldn’t have allowed a personal feeling to intrude in the work – had done, and Lukas saw that as a failure. A small one, but failures totted. Too many small ones and there was weight enough for catastrophe. Catastrophe was the pistol being fired, blood spurting, bone splintering… The boy had a good face. Assault teams, negotiators and co-ordinators all wanted to believe that the target for rescue was worth saving, was of gold-plated value. Found half the time, after a rescue, that they were creeps, useless – some too fucking arrogant to offer gratitude, not that Lukas wanted thanks. Wanted a job done well. Had counted them, had done twenty-one steps, was level with the doorway. It was a good face and a terrorised face.

  ‘I appreciate you letting me up close, Salvatore. An idiot wouldn’t have, but you’re a smart guy. Can I call you “friend”? I’d like to.’

  He wasn’t certain. Lukas stood in the centre of the walkway. The boy and Salvatore, wrapped together, like one, were in the doorway. The pistol had not moved from the back of the boy’s head and he saw that it remained cocked, the finger inside the guard, resting on the trigger bar.

  ‘I want to talk with you, hear you, and that way I can best be your friend, and I can help you.’

  He was not yet certain that the hood would not shoot. Inexact sciences – whether, when, why a gunman would pull the damn trigger. One of many sciences for which there could not be textbooks, only a bedrock of experience, was getting into the mind of a holed-up gunman and anticipating whether he wanted to be in a warm, cleaned-out cell or hankered after a one-way ride to Valhalla. Lukas didn’t know.

  He did a little roll of his eyebrows to Salvatore. ‘I doubt he means anything to you, that Eddie, anything at all. Doesn’t mean anything to me. Not smart like you, friend, not a winner. Means a great deal to his parents. Pretty ordinary people, and that’s why I said I’d try to help. They’re not winners either – not like you are.’

  He put his hands on his hips, as if he was standing in a bar, talking with a man he knew and respected, and sent a message big and clear, and spoke a confidence.

  ‘He – that’s Eddie – doesn’t know that the bitch – the woman he came to find – wasn’t prepared to lift a finger for him. I’m not supposed to tell you this… She couldn’t care less for him – could have sent signals, could have opened up channels. She’s not changing her mind. You could have sent bits of him back to her, or all of him dumped on her doorstep, and she wouldn’t have changed. Only word for her, “bitch”, but he, that’s Eddie, has only found that out these last three days, whatever. Hurting him, Salvatore, won’t change her, won’t alter a hard bitch… It’s just what I’m thinking.’

  They were in the doorway. From where he stood, he couldn’t have touched the boy. Would have had to take a couple of steps to be close enough, then could have tousled the boy’s hair, pinched his cheek or slapped his upper arm for encouragement, but he hadn’t yet convinced himself that the hood wouldn’t shoot. It all happened, in these situations, so damn fast – was so damn unpredictable.

  He thought that at least five rifles were aimed at the little part of Salvatore’s body protruding from the doorway’s recess. Not enough to give the marksmen an aim and have them shoot, and the pistol remained at the boy’s neck. It would be one word, or a short sentence, one movement or gesture that could change it, and the pistol might be moved and might be fired. Lukas didn’t know. He stood, near naked and cold, fighting the urge to shiver, and couldn’t know whether what he said or did would win or lose it. The lips moved. He strained to hear.

  ‘They will never take me…’

  They all say that, friend, he murmured in his mind, and kept the smile. And I don’t know whether I believe you. Have to find out, don’t I? The smile clung to his face.

  *

  ‘They will never take me as a prisoner.’ His voice seemed to growl from deep in his throat. The breath hissed on the back of Eddie’s neck.

  He didn’t know whether the smile, six or seven feet from him, was real or manufactured.

  ‘Not me, not a prisoner. One step, I shoot.’

  Eddie felt himself a spectator. The man’s arm was tight round him and the man’s fingers were hard in a fold of his T-shirt, and the man’s bones were against his buttocks, the chest against his back, the head against his own. A spectator, a voyeur, a watcher. He could not relate to the incoherent babble of the man and the breath on his neck and the wet spit coming with it.

  ‘I kill him. One step closer, dead, him.’

  Almost, Eddie thought, the man cried tears, and edged to hysteria. And he was a spectator also when he gazed into the calm face of Lukas. He could see each hair on his head and face, the stubble growth, what was in his ears and nostrils, the curled hair on his chest and at the base of his stomach, visible because the boxers drooped.

  ‘I shoot him. Do you not believe me? You will.’

  The skin was broken by the force used to press the pistol barrel against his neck and Eddie could feel the wet there. Lukas had not moved, had not gone back or forward, and his hands were still on his hips. They were not flexed and there seemed no strategy of deceit about the posture. Lukas was, Eddie believed, in control.

  ‘You believe me when I shoot him. Not one step.’

  He felt comfort given him. The man, Lukas, oozed competence and experience. He didn’t have to speak. He had the calm of a parent whil
e a toddler rages, knows the child will quieten. He’d had an old teacher at school, sixth-form English, forty years in the job and a new headmaster, half his age, had trashed the veteran’s ideas: ‘Experience often clouds judgement, best without it.’ The pupils had thought it bullshit. Eddie valued experience. Valued it big when it was in a smile from a man who masked any trace of fear. A weedy little beggar. No strength to him, no muscle, spindly legs, arms almost emaciated, and that burn mark on his lower lip that came from smoking cigarettes to the filter. Seemed to offer no threat.

  ‘I tell you, you believe me, I will shoot.’

  ‘What I believe, friend – I want to call you that, OK? I believe, friend, that you’re a big man, a smart man. Too big and too smart for an accident. I think, friend, you’re hurting Eddie with the barrel. Can we do something about that? Not hurt him… That’s good.’

  The barrel was less pressured on his neck, Eddie knew. It no longer gouged. It had an indent, but less force was used.

  ‘That’s good, friend, and it’s generous. I appreciate that. We have to figure a way out of this.’

  ‘I shoot. I have no fear.’

  ‘You have no fear, of course you don’t. Fear is for little guys. Him, Eddie, he’s fit to shit his pants, but he’s not a big guy.’

  ‘You come no closer.’

  ‘I’m not moving.’

  Maybe there was cramp in Salvatore’s hand – maybe it was, ironic, bloody generosity – but the pistol had moved again, imperceptibly but a further lessening of the pressure. Eddie didn’t move, was one of those guys with painted faces and robes who struck statue poses at tourist sites. He realised that Lukas, too, had moved, edged closer. Eddie knew it because he could match the window-sill across the walkway with the corner of Lukas’s right elbow, and there was less of the sill to see, and a big paint flake was obscured by the arm. Eddie knew, standing and held upright, with the pistol in his skin and the tiny sounds inside his ear from the firings, where all the paint scrapes and flakes were on the window opposite. It could have been a full pace closer – could have put him, damn near anyway, with a lunge, in touching distance. Eddie reckoned Lukas knew what he was doing and the comfort in him grew.