CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The E15 Autoroute tumbles by. The ambulance and its siren shield me from the crowds and cut me through the tollgates. Seven police cars cross my path, none of which care to notice my presence. My plan is simple, drive through France and Italy and make the short crossing to Sicily then hire or steal a ride to Malta.
Two hours pass and my thoughts remain focused, without drift or indulgence. Four hours pass and the sagging fuel gauge breaks my cocoon.
A road sign directs me towards a petrol station. I pull up and park by the air hose. Of the three cars parked at the pumps, only one is being filled. A tanned, slim man, drenched in expensive arrogance, and still fresh in his twenties leans nonchalantly on a BMW M6. With pump in hand, he lovingly satisfies its thirst. Once quenched, he returns the pump, closes the petrol cap with a delicate twist, then saunters away to pay. His hands are empty, and the car remains silent. Are the keys left in the ignition? The ambulance has served me well but is damaged goods and will offer no advantage when driving through Italy. Opportunity or risk? A theft that will be far from subtle, but if speed is my main objective.
I scoop up my belongings then scramble out of the ambulance. With little attempt to conceal my intentions, I pace to the M6 then peer though the driver's side window. The key dangles from the ignition. I open the door and slide inside. With a twist of the key, I ignite the engine, then bait it with a dab of the throttle. Provoked, it roars a warning of its power. Without looking to witness the wrath of Mr. Whoever, I drop the accelerator and burst towards the exit.
Two hundred and fifty miles separate me from the Italian border. Do I continue ahead using the fast, free-flowing Autoroute, or do I opt for the slower, but probably less policed, minor roads? Again, I choose speed so continue on my way.
The M6 does its job well, although I barely exploit its potential. Speed in such cars is a gimmick, a paper asset, a never to be realised boast.
The miles ease by and my focus, aided by a good dose of paranoia, stays lean and tight. Police cars come and go. Some rush past, while others seem to stalk me for miles.
I leave France and enter Italy with zero resistance. The motorway carries me seamlessly and should continue do so all the way to Reggio Di Calabria.
Trapped in hours of constant speed, I barely feel as if I move at all. I’ve been driving now for ten hours straight, and my resolve is grating thin. Tiredness has started to worm its way into body and mind; my senses are becoming muted. As the miles stack-up, one on top of another, the curtains close, and the road funnels me into darkness. A trickling stream of dazzling headlights serves only to highlight the monotony. I should yield to sleep and hunger but fight and resist the urge. I must stay hungry to keep the hunter awake and ever moving forward. The car takes its fuel and carries on regardless. I stutter into sleep then pulse back awake. I’ve taken fourteen of the seventy-two and can no longer fight the urge. In a service station car park, I lie back and think of nothing.
Should I be able to sleep this well, after the day I’ve just departed? A dreamless, instant sleep as if thrown into shock. For three short hours, I feel nothing.
I bolt from sleep and wake without transition. Turning off my watch alarm, I see the time is 3.15 a.m. Tiredness still threatens, but for now, has been contained.
Back on the motorway, and my path is clear. I test the M6’s potential and slash away distance. The paper asset is made physical, and a boast is earned for another day.
With the time approaching 7.30 a.m. I enter Reggio Di Calabria. Close to the port, I dump the car, rush the remaining distance on foot then catch a ten-minute ferry to Sicily.
On the ferry, I am nothing but a tourist, seen and noticed only when necessary. I stand on deck leaning on the rails with my face held and caught in the morning sun. I sense nothing of my surroundings or the people around me. I have no mind to admire scenic beauty. The sun is to mask my face with a tan not to soothe me with its warmth. Approaching the port of Messina, I feel nothing of its history. My desire is the modern, the cranes and the terminals, for the efficient dispatch of people.
I leapfrog Sicily with a taxi ride from Messina to Pozzallo. Solid, quality sleep is made impossible by a driver who reels off a history of everything we pass. I tune him out and sort of semi-doze my way through the hour-long journey.
In Pozzallo, I skim the seafront and marina looking for a backdoor into Malta. No opportunities seem immediate, so I flock with the tourists and take a hydrofoil that will get me to Malta in ninety minutes flat. The time is 9.45 a.m. and from the seventy-two, twenty-three have now been spent.
I start the crossing locked in a toilet. I’m not sure why, but I do. So far my face has gone unrecognised. Am I wanted for Paris? Is my face international? If so, no one is rushing to grab the reward.
Tired, I try and sleep, but fail. The air is too hot and stale, the rush of water too loud. I need fuel, water and food. The only food I have left is a tin of tuna, the only water, the half bottle remains from a litre bottle bought from a petrol station. I consume them both with a feral speed. The water serves only to tease my thirst, likewise the tuna with my hunger. I could reccy the hydrofoil, look for refreshments and breathe fresh air on deck, but decide to stay locked and hidden.
Time, sometimes you wish you could piss it away, other times you wish to hold it locked in your arms forever. My time, now, is as sticky as the air that lies dead in these stinking bowels.
Finally, an hour dies. I make my move. My landing needs to be invisible. With the toilet empty, I leave the cubicle and make my entrance out into the hum of people. The space that holds us is one of those generic commercial spaces, could be a bar, restaurant or cinema.
The only direction I want is down. A wall sign takes me to the stairwell, and the stairwell takes me to the vehicle deck, where rows of tightly parked vehicles provide alleyways for me to scurry along. Several men in uniform and high visibility vests mill around chatting, none has the mood to be bothered by my presence. I walk confidently, as if I know where I’m going, which I don’t, all I know is what I’m looking for, a speedboat I watched towed onboard, one protected with a mooring cover. My plan is simple, for the cover to hide me as well as the deck.
I find the boat and make my move. The cover is strapped tight to the boat, too tight to allow me entry, so I loosen two of the ratchet held straps just enough to give me the room to slip beneath.
Back in darkness, in the fetal position, lying in a puddle of tepid seawater that has been contaminated with a generous spill of engine oil. The air is warm and tight, breathable for now at least. Will the driver notice the loosened cover?
Occupied by every sound that comes my way, time quickly passes. Soon the hum of people is swelling around me, a wave of slamming doors and firing car engines. A gentle bounce tells me my driver is seated and ready to go.
Again, I have motion. I look at my watch and illuminate the time, it reads 11.07am. At quarter past, I will make my move. The motion is start-stop for a minute, becomes smooth for three then returns to and remains start-stop.
With the eight minutes dead, I take my knife, stab the blade through the cover then slash a cross a metre in length and width. Clear blue sky dazzles my vision, and my ears fill with the sounds of an urban road. Without looking to fully assess my surroundings, I make a pact with me, when the vehicle next stops, I get out and run. Seconds later, my ride begins to slow. As it stops, stationary for a second, I burst out through the cover. A split-second reccy reveals a congested, narrow urban road, and shops, cars and people all hustling for space. My ride is pulled-up waiting, as a rubbish truck bullies its right-of-way. Gambling against collision, I leap from the boat into the middle of the road. A burst of adrenalin induced speed saves me from the truck. For several seconds, I sprint aimlessly through crowds of bewildered people until the sight of a narrow side street gives me direction.
The side street swoops upwards and proves an invigorating climb. It is dead straight and a good hundred metres in length. Its l
eathery cobbled surface shines as if polished for a parade. Ragged, stone-built, four-storey buildings, soaked in and stained by history, enclose it on either side. I see no people, behind or ahead of me. For a moment, the only signs that people exist are the caged birds left out on balconies which sprinkle the air with song.
The side street deposits me into another near identical street. With people now in view, I slow my run to a walk. I need speed, to be faster than man. I decide to find my way back to the tourist swells and look for a taxi. The grid street plan soon provides a channel back to the coast. Once breached, I merge with the crowds. A taxi sits queued in a row of traffic. I make my move, I tap on the driver’s window and gesture for a ride. An enthusiastic nod grants me permission. I open the backdoor and climb inside.
The Driver requests a destination. I take my notepad and I write, ‘Mgarr. Can’t speak. Operation on throat.’
Seeing my words, he replies,
‘Sure. No problem. Mgarr.’
Accelerating away, we overtake the boat owner who, parked up on the side of the road, angrily examines the damage I caused.
The journey time is used to ready the guns. Keeping them hidden in the rucksack, I remove the silencer from Andrew’s gun then place them, hidden and held in my trouser waistband.
Twenty minutes later, I am alone and on foot, hurrying away from the village Mgarr. It is 11.50 a.m. and from the seventy-two, twenty-five have been spent. Is this good? Enough to deliver surprise?
The address should be no more than a mile away. Ahead of me is a dusty, deserted road that stumbles its way through farmland. Small, thirsty fields, some alive with crops, others stripped bare to soil, roam upwards from a valley floor. The midday sun poses with menace; my cap counters none of its rage. Luckily, my thirst for revenge shouts louder than my thirst for water. Forcing myself into a gentle run, I push against the midday heat.
Half a mile nearly felled. In the distance, high in the hills, I can see what I hope is the address: a large, gleaming white house that stands as the lord of all it surveys, bejeweled with a swimming pool, open and unprotected, single-storey to arrogantly consume an extra slice of the precious land, its too few windows, squinting and undersized. I take my binoculars and zoom in for a close-up. I see no people or cars in the driveway in fact nothing to indicate that anyone is home. I pause, hesitate for a second. I was fooled once before, but still, cannot resist the urge to move forward.
Another half mile fully consumed. The home-straight beckons. A narrow, single-track lane, barely fit for a car, leads me to a steep, persistent climb. The route is open and exposed. My only cover is distance aided by the dazzling sun. As the incline plateaus, the dry-stone wall that borders the lane pauses to offer free and easy passage on to the grounds of the house. Without hesitation, I take it.
The house and I stand exposed, facing each other. The mainly paved, shadeless ground between us is manicured and decorated with lush, potted vegetation. Apart from my gasping breath, the only sound I can hear is the gentle trickle of lightly falling water.
No cameras, staff or security. No sense of company, if anything, a sense of quick and sudden desertion. Dismissing a thought to reccy the perimeter, I hone in on the front door then rush towards it. As I reach it, I pull and ready a gun.
The name of the house is emblazoned on the door in bronze wire letters. I grab the door handle, twist and push. The door opens; once again, free and easy passage is mine.
I burst inside into a spacious, open-plan living area. The walls are white, the furniture regal and the air chilled to a shudder. All looks clean and barely lived in. Three closed doors offer me hope that I am not alone. As I step forward, I see a newspaper, the Malta Times, lying on the stone tile floor. It has been placed front page up and positioned square against the door for someone, me, to see. The headline screams, “Plane Crash Tragedy” and four photos of four men leer at me from the page. The first is unknown to me, the second is Phillip, the third is the South African and the fourth is his colleague. I swoop down and grab the paper. Underneath the first photo, is written the name, Oakley Robertson. I speed through the story - last night a private jet flying from Malta to London crashed into the Mediterranean Sea. Cause unknown. The crew of two, and the two passengers, are all believed dead. Oakley, described as a scientist and hedge fund consultant, was flying to England to attend the funeral of his recently murdered mother.
He’s dead! Now? Dead? Never! No! Dead?
In my hands, the paper feels thin. I snap it open and find the front page of the Paris Gazette ablaze with the headlines: “Massacre on the Streets of Paris. Five random men gunned down. Local man is sought”. A section of text, highlighted in yellow marker pen, tells how three witnesses heard the gunman speak with a Parisian accent. I turn the page and find another loose page, again from the Gazette. A small, buried story, highlighted to catch my gaze reports how Philippe Veirea is dead, found hanged in his apartment, a suicide. To the final, bastard page, The London Times, and the murder of Henry Brockhurst. The police seek two men. The motive they claim was robbery. Valuable items are missing from his home.
All is clear. I stand innocent. They’ve cleared my name. Well let me confess. Let me speak the truth!
How? Why? Silence. Cut dead! He’s dead, so where now for me? Still no explanation, still no reason why. A plane crash, maybe. An accident, no. But why? What was I getting close to? Something bigger and beyond him? What did he risk exposing?
I drop the paper. What now for me? Silence? Keep moving, keep looking.
I feel small, suddenly intimidated. Pushed, squashed by a dense, dark hidden force. Keep moving, keep looking. I look around for something, anything. Look in draws, cupboards, all empty with the everyday. A post-it note stuck to the fridge, which reads:
"All clean. Carpet will have to wait but new vacuum due Tuesday. Rosemary."
I scrunch it up and throw it away.
I pull out Andrew’s phone and turn it on. Let them speak to me! Will they speak to me? I get the thought, check the internet, and prove the stories are true. As the phone logs on, a throaty, menaced groan born of great effort sneaks up and startles me. Instantly, I point and aim the gun at the source, hidden and unidentified, behind one of the closed doors. For a second, I freeze but then burst free towards the door, which I boot open with a desperate, angry kick. Inside, I find a bedroom: curtains closed, room light on and Oakley. Oakley, is this him? He is strapped to a stiff, straight-backed, near throne-like dining chair; his face is torn with agony; his mouth vandalised with sticky, semi-dry blood and heavy, black bruising. I step closer to him. He looks at me with hate blasting from his eyes. Am I to blame? His forearms are strapped to the arms of the chair. His hand’s bruised and battered, the bones crushed and broken. A shudder plucks my spine as my mind echoes the sound of crunching bones. His rolled-up trouser legs reveal ankles that are similarly twisted, broken and disabled. Returning my stare to meet his gaze, his mouth jolts open. His tongue is absent, cut crudely from his being.
Is this him, Oakley? The man in the Malta Times certainly, but Oakley? Whoever it is, I weakly see a victim, not a man who spat the blood of his mother.
On the floor, a metre from his feet, I notice what seems to be a passport. I pick it up and examine it. It is a UK passport in pristine condition. Taped to the cover is platinum, Visa credit card embossed with the name, Carl Hickman. An attached sticker shows the number 1005, which is my mother’s birthday, the tenth of May, and also, shall I guess the PIN? I flip the passport open to the holder’s page. The holder’s name is, Carl Hickman and the photo is me, looking well and younger, but still, definitely me. A loose business card is printed with the words, "All yours. Be appeased or be killed".
Is this my bounty, is this where it stops? Have I won and this is my reward?
The man, Oakley, starts nodding and shaking his head in deranged, deliberate slashes. What should I do? Is he part of the prize? Stuffing the bounty into a pocket, I get the thought to call the p
olice. I could call the police and prove Oakley is alive. I could call the police and prove that something here is wrong, very, very wrong.
I could, and they know this. Think, Sam. They must be watching. Would they leave you here alone? No. So whoever they are, they are watching.
I step in close and put the gun to his head. I must perform as they expect me to perform. He looks at me, his eye’s desperate and pleading. The shaking and nodding accelerates. I pull away and look at the phone. Already logged on to the internet, I search "malta news". A site verifies the story is true. A photo of Oakley matches the one from the paper and condemns the man in the chair. If the phone is hacked, let them see I had a reason to turn it on.
Suddenly, as if startled, I pace to the window, to the closed, full-length curtain. Using my left hand, which holds the phone, I part the curtains an inch or two and peer outside. Seeing nothing to concern me, I slip my left hand further through the gap followed by my head. The act is to look outside, but with the phone now hidden from the room, I quickly activate the video camera and start to record. Can they see this, maybe, but still, I am nothing without risk.
Stepping away from the window, I place the phone in my shirt breast pocket. As it sticks out an inch, the lens is given a clear view ahead. Reaching Oakley, I raise the gun to his face. The shaking and nodding are relentless. The gun brings him no fear. All his will, his final scrapes of energy fuel the repetitive nodding and shaking. Is it yes, or no? Is it madness or a primal scream, a plea denied the cut of words.
After a dozen or so hesitant seconds, I rush from the room and make a move for the newspapers. I pick them up and pretend to study the photo of Oakley. My real objective is to get the photo on film. Convinced it’s him, I return to Oakley and ready the gun to kill.
Pulling the trigger is far from easy. I never wanted this. Would never choose this. Feel sick and angry standing here having to do this. Give me three good reasons why I should kill you. One, you deserve it. You enter the arena; you play the game. You can’t change the rules when the game goes against you. Two, they expect me to. Three, I want to. Somewhere, deep down, I want to, so I do. I squeeze the trigger and end him. Another death, another murder. Another kill for me. I know this but refuse to stand and reflect any further. Instead, I turn and hurry away.
From the cold, managed chill of the house, I barge into the fierce, wild heat of the midday sun. And now, what now? Just get away. Just stay alive. A dot against nature I may be, but trapped in the crosshairs I am lame, easy prey.
Descending the hillside, I argue for both speed and restraint. In the distance, Mgarr ripples beneath a heat wave. I could walk there, find myself a room, take time out to quench my thirst, conscience and fear. I could, and should, but reaching the road, I turn and walk the other way, to Valletta. I choose pain and challenge. I choose the chance to purge the day from my being.
Come, Time Page 14
