I guess you can take the man out of the farm, but not the farmer out of the man.
THE LAST BATTLE
Sergeant Benny Bern had been to this place before - he knew he had. It was familiar. From every direction memories flooded in. But the tinny voice in his head said different.
'Zero four. Approaching enemy's last location. Copy.'
He ignored the voice - he felt he had to. He just kept on walking instead, his bag on his back and his uniform carried well. He could afford to carry it well. He was in the elite force. And he had seen action so recently.
For a time, disorientation filled his head. But being the professional he was, he honed his mind on a single point. Concentrated. Forced recognition. Looked at the house before him.
Home.
Maria Bern suddenly stopped preparing her lunch. An attractive woman of twenty five, she had spent much of her married life on her own. She had known it would be like this when she agreed to marry Benny. But it was hard. It was as if part of her mind was always dislocated - with him. And it was due to this that she so often had these intuitions.
Rubbing her hands clean, she walked out of the kitchen and into the hall and then to the front door. Opening it, she looked out. And sure enough, he was there, standing, erect, in the garden.
'Benny,' she said, all that longing welling up in her. And she rushed out the door and flung herself into his arms.
Benny was taken aback by this assault. His mind raced for explanation and it said, 'this is not an assault.' The words filtered through and he realised he was holding his wife.
'Oh Benny,' she said, kissing him, 'I've missed you.'
Response. 'Missed you too, darling. Love you.'
'Well I think you should have a party,' said Jan, the next door neighbour. 'Benny's been away so long this time. And we know where he's been. All that fighting. He'll need to know he's welcome back.'
Maria sat on the edge of the settee, unable to settle. 'I'm beginning to wonder if he will ever be the same again. He's so different this time.'
'Yes,' said Jan, 'I've seen him walking out. So stiff. So sombre. What the hell happened to him out there?'
'He won't talk about it.'
'But he has to. You know that, don't you Maria. You've got to get through to him.'
'In time. He'll come back in time.'
'Well I still think you should have a party.'
'Recce going well. Targets acknowledged. Mission over Zero Four.'
Benny said ‘affirmative’ in his head. In front of him was sudden confusion. There should be no movement, he thought, out here, in the mountains. Targets were miles away. But ...
The first fighter came out of nowhere, Kalashnikov raised, a madness in his bearded face. Benny went down on one knee. Fired. Took him out. A second came from the left flank. A quick turn. Dive. Fire. And two more from the right. Twist on the ground. Fire. One falls in a fountain of blood. The last leaps. Is on him. Knife raised for the kill.
Benny raises ultimate effort. Grabs the hand. Twists. Rolls him over. Stares into his eyes as he plunges the knife in. Watches life disappear from the eyes.
Now he's up. Retrieves his weapon. Crouches. But there's too many of them. All of them coming. Saying ...
'You alright?'
Confusion again. Mountains turning to buildings. Familiar buildings.
'Yes. Sorry.'
Home town.
'It was Jan's idea.'
'I'm not sure I'm ready for a party yet,' he said.
Maria said: 'Just a few friends. You'll enjoy it. Chill out. Try to forget.'
Forget. Could Benny Bern ever do that? After what he had been through?
He wasn't sure what was the worst. Those eyes. The close kill was terrible. He had always been told that. When you stick it in at such range, you cannot but see them as human. And when you do that you feel dirty. And then you feel ...
... what?
That's what Benny was trying to find out. Maybe that was why he had the flashbacks. It was uncivilised, killing like that. So did he belong back in civilization? Or was he just a killing machine that should be locked up when not required?
That was his problem. He was dirty; felt like a monster. WAS a monster.
'OK. I'll try.'
He kissed his wife. But Maria didn't feel kissed. She wondered if she'd ever get emotion from him again.
'Gave 'em what for I hope, Benny.'
The music was loud. Disorientating. And this dickhead who used to be a friend spouting crap.
'I did my job.'
A slap on the back. 'We're with you, Benny. Great stuff.’
‘We watched it on the telly. Felt we were with you.' And it gets sicker.
'What's it like to kill?'
Stupid, giggly girl. What kind of a question was that? Had you thought about what you'd said? Who the hell is my enemy anyway?
'Zero Four. Your position is compromised. Get out. Get out now.'
'I'm sorry, Maria. I can't stand this. I can't. I'm sorry.'
He left.
It was never supposed to be like this. As Maria Bern looked round the empty room, she knew it was never supposed to be like this. She had married a real man. Handsome. Strong. Six pack. Yet with a vulnerability that was endearing.
Maybe that was the problem. He had too much humanity in him.
Maybe people who did what he did should just be psychopaths. Rather that than turn a good man …
She wondered where he had gone. Hoped he would come back. Even though she couldn't see light at the end of the tunnel, she still wanted him.
He looked dishevelled when he returned. As if he'd been in battle. Dishevelled and so very, very lonely.
They stood apart in the kitchen, looking at each other. Then, in a wave of emotion, she raced to him, clung to him, refused to let him go.
Benny Bern looked into those crazed eyes. Felt the pressure on him, constricting him. But he knew what he had to do. He reached over to the carving knife and, with an agonising squeal, gutted her from belly to throat.
Moments later there was a bang at the door. 'Maria, it's Jan. Are you alright?'
Benny stood there a moment, unsure what to do. Waiting for guidance.
'Zero Four,' said the voice. 'Position compromised. Kill and evade. Repeat. Kill and evade.'
THE RECONCILIATION
Jones sat facing the two men. His mind appeared somehow blank, as if he really did not want to remember what was about to come. But he knew, deep down, that he must. It was the purpose of the reconciliation, the idea that completion can come from those affected by a crime coming face to face with the perpetrator.
The person on his left remained silent, confusion on his face. It was the man on the right who did all the talking. ‘Do you want me to describe what happened?’ he asked.
Jones replied in the affirmative.
‘The body of the woman was found just off the main street. It wasn’t a frenzied attack or anything like that. A single blow to the head, and it was over.’
Jones looked at the man on the left. The confusion was being replaced by a look of determination, as if he was trying to think things out.
The man on his right continued: ‘Investigation showed that the victim was being blackmailed after cheating on her husband. She turned the tables on the blackmailer and confronted him – which proved a mistake.’
Jones looked at the pictures of the crime scene spread out before him. Then he looked again at the silent man. Thoughts seemed to rush through his mind at that point, as if confronted with it, all would become clear. Finally, he turned to the therapist on the right. Said: ‘It’s coming back. I remember.’ It had worked, and action and memory had reconciled.
He turned to the man on the left and said ‘sorry’, before bursting into tears of despair.
WITNESS TO A GROSS EVENT
Oh, how I wish I’d never taken the short cut home that night. If only I’d stayed on the road – not gone down the path in the dark. But wishes are
no use after the event.
How do I describe what I saw? How CAN words be enough?
She was dead, that was plain to see. And how she must have suffered, as the monster attacked her, and then did that …
I don’t remember contacting the police, but they eventually arrived to find me almost comatose by the body. Of course, I was no good as a witness – I’d not really seen anything. At least, not then.
Later, it was a different matter.
How do you sleep once you’ve seen images like that? How can you stop the nightmares?
Many a night I woke up in a cold sweat, screaming, reliving how it must have been for her. And even when awake the images would not disappear.
I suppose, eventually, you get used to them, and they become part of you. But it was a changed me, that was for sure; no longer shrouded by innocence, but in a way, gross, as those images were gross.
They say such an experience affects you for life, and I think that is true, slowly turning your mind, your very being, until the night I deviated from the road. Walked down a path. Waited.
I can stop myself.
I CAN!!
FRESH IDENTITY
If only I’d known. If only I’d realized the errors of my ways. But we rarely do so before taking the plunge.
I suppose you could call me a fraudster. Computer banking and electronic records were my thing. Ah, the delights it offered for identity fraud. And once you’ve got your mark, you can create a whole fresh identity for yourself. And if you’re really lucky, finding a no hoper, with a life that went almost unrecognized, and found him dead, apparently having committed suicide, and no one knows …
Well, I managed to step into his shadow perfectly – after burying his body, of course.
Such a non-entity he had been.
No one ever recognized him, he had never been in debt, he had no family to become suspicious, and soon my fresh identity was building a new life for itself.
So you can imagine the shock when, six months into my fresh identity, armed police burst into my house, spread-eagled me on the floor, and rushed me in for questioning.
A little extreme, you may think, for simple identity fraud. Well, let this be a warning to all who think they can get away with it in the end. There is always a catch.
And what was mine?
Well, I have a lifetime in prison to ponder it – how total and absolute my success that no one would believe I wasn’t who I had claimed to be. And why, oh why, did I have to pick a murderer on the run?
FEROCIOUS
She walked up and down the room, treading the carpet. She walked fast, angrily, ferociously.
‘And you just couldn’t resist, could you?’ She never awaited an answer. ‘God, I knew you were unhappy, I knew we had problems, but this?’
Her face was contorted, her good looks turning to something macabre, insane and – yes – so very defiant. ‘I should have guessed.’ An admonishment. ‘All the signs were there.’ A sense of regret – or was it stupidity for not realizing?
Her husband just sat there, staring into space.
‘I gave you everything,’ she continued, her pace quickening, as if there was no time to get to where she wasn’t going.
Maybe that was why, she thought, suddenly. I’m pacing up and down, trying to work it out, but maybe we were just going nowhere.
Her thoughts turned to words: ‘But that doesn’t let you off, you bas …’
Was that the crescendo, cut off in its prime? Was the ferocity of her mood declining?
The time comes. We know it does – when the anger is spent, maybe through sheer tiredness. And this is the point of reunion, of forgiveness, of being carried away on a tide of ecstasy as they make up.
She turned to face him, knelt by him. And as she stared at the knife embedded in his heart, she knew that this time it was final.
THE MIDNIGHT RUN
She rode me. And every time she did it I thought I was the luckiest man in the world. Infact, I told her once as she rode me - as her black, wild hair bounced, as her full lips puckered, as that miraculous body moved. 'Ruby,' I said, 'I'm the luckiest man in the world.'
'Got it in one,' she said.
She wasn't one for many words wasn't Ruby Slane. She was a woman of action, and had been so throughout her twenty five years of life. Infact, the only thing that amazed me was why she stayed with me.
'That's easy, Lorimer,' she once told me. 'You're never jealous, so never give me aggro, and, well, you're just nice.'
Normally that was death to any romantic ideals. No man wants women to think them NICE. But with Ruby it was different. She rode me all the same.
Eventually she had finished and laid beside me, her firm breasts exposed. But I knew in an hour or two it would be a repeat.
I suppose if I spent every night with Ruby Slane I'd be dead in a month. But Ruby? No, she could never rest. She had an insatiable yearning for life, for excitement, and lived her whole life on the edge. And I suppose the tales she told, the odd job I did with her, led to as much excitement as when she rode me.
Only the other day that fat slob, Matthews, took her in - just stopped her in the street, coming out of her flat.
'Inspector,' she said, a smile upon her face. 'What can I do for you?'
He took her down the station; sat her in the interview room. Said: 'The jewellery robbery last night in Barry Street - I know it was you.'
Ruby pouted. 'Why, inspector, how could you think such a thing of a nice girl like me.'
His fat bulk seemed to spill from the chair across the table. 'So where were you last night?'
Her alibi was, of course, solid. It always was. And Matthews knew he couldn't hold her.
'So was it you?' I asked later.
She smiled. As I said, a woman of few words. But she remembered the detective's words when he let her go. 'I'm gonna watch you, Ruby Slane. And I'm telling you, I'm going to have you.' Yet her pout made him wish he'd chosen his words more carefully.
'So you're lying low a while,' I suggested.
'Ah, well I wanted to talk to you about that.'
Yes, that was Ruby Slane. Living on the edge. And that very night she was back to work. Although I’m sure the night porter at the Royal thought it more like heaven.
There's nothing worse than sneaking into a room when your girl is riding someone else. And as I watched her she seemed to be enjoying it almost as much as the porter. However, I had work to do. And as Ruby said, I just wasn't the jealous type. So Ruby gave the porter what he wanted, and after that I sneaked back into the room and gave Ruby what she wanted, and then everything had to wait for the following night.
She'd booked room 14 a couple of night previously, always thinking ahead. And the following night she was in the bar, her cleavage going before her and her pout on overdrive.
If there was one thing Ruby knew, it was how to work a room.
She picked them with an expert eye, guessing which were from the conference and, additionally, which were on their own.
'Can I get you a drink?' the first one said as she offered a momentary smile.
She always accepted, and always drank it, incapable of getting drunk. And little by little she'd work her charm. 'Why don't you come to my room?' she said. 'At midnight. Give you a bit of excitement.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes. You see, this hotel's haunted. And I'm in the haunted room - room 14.' Secretively, she moved closer, breathed the words into his face. 'A woman, heartbroken. She jumped from that window. And at midnight, they say, if you look out the window you can see the flowerbeds flatten where her body landed.'
It took her just three hours to work her magic on half a dozen of them. And sure enough, come midnight, a crowd gathered in Room 14, puzzled by why they were each there; and even more puzzled when they looked down and saw the window was above the outside cellar doors.
'The bitch!' they said in unison. But by the time they returned to their rooms, Ruby had been round, courtesy of the
night porter's master key I'd imprinted the previous night.
'But it was a close run thing,' I said to Ruby. For Matthews had been true to his word. Ruby had seen him in the hotel that night, determined to catch her red handed.
Maybe he'd have had more luck if he'd watched her more closely rather than going to Room 14 with all the other suckers. Although he guessed what was going down.
He caught up with her as she walked down the corridor. 'OK, Ruby,' he said, 'the game's up,' sure she'd have the cache on her.
Ruby proved him wrong. She just undid the front of that dress, revealing nothing that shouldn't be there. And the eventual search he carried out of the hotel proved just as fruitless, although slightly less embarrassing.
He should have known better. Ruby was always one step ahead.
I was already well away from the hotel with the cache, Ruby dropping her bag to me from the window of the last room. If only the police had paid attention to the flattened flower bed on the other side.
PASS THE PARCEL
Let's face it, Ruby Slane was a crook - perhaps the most beautiful, seductive crook ever, but a crook all the same. And one day, after sex, I asked her about it.
'Ruby,' I said, 'why do you do these things?'
She pushed back her mass of black hair. 'I'm a nymphomaniac,' she said, offering a pout.
'No, I mean your heists.'
'Oh, them. Why not?'
'Because you don't need to. You've got looks, intelligence, a zest for life. You could become anything. So why?'
She adopted a rare seriousness. 'Lorimer,' she said, 'I'm half gypsy, and was brought up on the road. And when no one treats you right - when you're always moved on, always blamed, always persecuted - how else would I grow up? They told me all my life what I was, the police.'
'So it's to get your own back?'
'Oh no!' she said, adamantly. ' It's to beat them.'
'But don't you ever feel guilty.'
'Certainly not - as long as I stick to my standards.'
'Which are?'
I, Crime Writer Page 4
