by Gordon Brown
‘Any chance of a drink?’
I might as well be talking to the wall.
Chapter 13
There’s a vibrating sound. Buzz 1 stares at his cell phone. He nods to Buzz 2 and they leave. I get up and try the door. Surprise, surprise – locked. I walk round the room. Four walls, a door. All solid. I’m sure there’ll be a camera to back up the speakers. I walk back to the door before slamming my fist on the metal.
I feel something go in my head. The breaking of the kernel. A flash of light. I want out. I want out now.
I drop to my knees as my head rips open.
Hell’s teeth.
Crack. I slam my head into the wall. Somebody is cutting into my skull with a hacksaw.
Head to the floor. Head to the wall. Scream. Scream.
The door bursts opens. The Buzzes barrel in.
Screaming. I’m all scream.
‘Tie him down again.’ Lendl’s voice echoes around the room. Buzz 1 reaches down to grab me. He stops, surprise written into his face as Buzz 2’s arm appears around his neck, launching him backwards. Buzz 2 takes Buzz 1’s weight on his chest, throwing him into the air. As Buzz 1 smacks back to earth Buzz 2 is on him, fists pounding at face and chest. Buzz 1 does a poor job of defending himself. Buzz 2 is going into overdrive.
Then the world drops blue.
Headache gone, I stand and walk towards the open door.
‘Stop him!’ shouts Lendl.
The Buzz twins have no interest in me. Buzz 2 is head-butting his colleague.
The blue is pulsing again. Slow and sure. Serene. Calm.
An alarm begins to howl. But in the blue world it’s a far away thing.
I turn into the corridor and try to remember the way to the elevator. A door next to me opens and three men exit. No jackets and no ties but still the same white shirts and black pants. They size me up. One of them smiles. His left front tooth is gold. He steps in front of me and pulls his arm back to throw a punch. Slow motion kicks in, kicks out, kicks in and disappears again. A strobe effect that throws the man forward in fits and starts.
His smile widens as he winds up for a punch. Then the gold tooth is obscured as a colleague rushes him, taking him in a football tackle around the waist. The two of them bounce off the corridor wall and go down. The third man looks on, bemused. He scratches at a dark mole that dominates his face.
I keep walking.
Another door opens, two more men fly out. They take in the fighting on the floor behind me. They look at each other. One is a redhead. His colleague is six feet six with broad shoulders.
‘Get him!’ Lendl’s voice screams from hidden speakers.
The ginger drops his shoulder to charge me but his friend sticks out a foot and trips him up. I watch him go down, sidestepping his outstretched hand. His friend uses his height to great effect and drops on the redhead, driving his knee into the small of his colleague’s back.
I keep walking.
Two more doors open. More bodies tumble out. A man’s head swivels in my direction with the handle of a letter opener where an eye should be. A woman with short blonde hair is locked to his ear – trying to bite it off.
There’s a howl from behind me and, in the stop/start world of blue, I turn.
One of the suits – the man with the mole – is hammering towards me.
The speaker bursts into life again. ‘Someone get him and get him right fucking now!’
The man with the mole has his eyes fixed on me. He has a couple of yards before I’m going to act as his personal airbag.
‘Jim!’
The man with the mole flicks his eyes towards the sound. A young woman has just emerged from a door to my left. She’s holding something in her hand and, with the wind-up of a major-league player, she heaves it at mole man. We hit slow motion and I can pick out the shape of the missile. Swirling patterns in glass, tumbling in the air. The paperweight catches the man high on the forehead. He stumbles, hands flying to his skull. He staggers towards me. I step to my right, he crashes past, landing on the man with the letter opener for an eye. I hop over the two bodies.
The speakers burst into life again. ‘What the hell is going on? Stop him. Stop him, right fucking now.’
I turn into the next corridor. Maybe thirty people are crammed into the space in front of me. They are fighting. A mass brawl. No one has any interest in me. I decide to walk through the chaos. Two men, one squat and fat, the other thin as sin, catch me on the arm as they fight. The thin man is driving an industrial staple gun into the fat man’s gut, pumping the trigger in wild excitement.
I keep going.
A woman stands up in front of me. She’s a looker. Long dark hair. Deep purple lipstick. I try to sidestep her. Blood spurts from her mouth, spraying my face. She falls forward. Behind her a man is holding a smashed and bloodied laptop.
The alarm continues to blare. Lendl’s voice is lost in the chaos around me. I dodge more bodies and reach the next corridor. There are only two men ahead. One has his head buried in the other’s lap. He’s shaking his head like a dog drying itself. Blood spraying in the air around him. He lifts his head clear, revealing flabby cheeks and a double chin. I don’t need to know what he has in his mouth.
I keep on moving. I reach the closed doors of the elevator. I look at the gray box. I try waving my hand in front of it but nothing is going to happen soon. Behind me the castrated man is gurgling, hugging his legs, blood pouring onto the carpet. The double-chinned man is running away.
I breathe in a lungful, stepping towards the man on the floor. l grab him by the shoulders, hauling him to the door. He leaves a trail like a snail.
A howl and Buzz 2 rounds the corner. ‘McIntyre.’
I pull the castrated man another foot, lifting his hand to the gray box. Buzz 2 closes in. I look at the doors that line the corridor. Why the hell doesn’t one open?
A click from behind signals the elevator doors are about to part. I drop the castrated man’s hand. He looks up at me. Silently pleading for help. I shake my head, there’s nothing I can do. He goes back to hugging his groin. I jump into the elevator.
Buzz 2 is closing fast.
There are three buttons on the elevator wall. None has markings. One for this level, one for the top, one for emergency? Maybe. I hit the top one. The door starts to close. Buzz’s hand reaches into the gap. The doors stop and open again. Buzz stands square in the door. I charge at him, shoulder first and we both fly out of the elevator. I grab the edge of the elevator door to stop me arriving back into the corridor. Buzz 2 trips over the castrated man. I scrabble back into the elevator and hit the button again. Buzz 2 tries to get up, but the castrated man grabs his wrist. ‘Help me.’
The doors close. With a sigh the elevator heads up.
The smell of damp and the sound of dripping take over. I lie against the wall. The blue world provides all the light I need. Instant night vision. I spot a small camera in the corner.
‘Mr McIntyre. Stay where you are.’ Lendl’s voice springs from the hidden speakers.
‘Fuck off, Lendl.’ Not my most articulate response.
The elevator stops and I press myself against the side as the door opens. Morning air rushes in, but it’s unaccompanied by suits or bullets. No one standing outside waiting for me. I sprint out into the sunlight. My eyes blinking.
I start to jog down the trail. If my captors are going to be anywhere they’ll be on the road at the end of the path. I change direction to push into the bushes on my right, fighting my way through the foliage. The blue is fading. Still there but thinner. Less obvious.
I pop out of the undergrowth to find myself standing at the top of a small rise. Dodger Stadium and the freeway are maybe a half mile away. Beneath me is scrub and more bushes. I start down the small hill, keeping my eyes open for the suits.
A couple are out walking their dog. They see me and turn to head in the opposite direction.
I’ve been up here a couple of times with Lorraine, visiting a
sick friend in a nursing home that sits on the edge of the park. I know if I reach the perimeter I can try and lose myself among the buildings that surround the far end of the park.
I hear a roar of an engine and spin round. A motorbike is bearing down on me. I start to run but the bike changes direction and cuts me off. The rider pulls it to a halt, revving the engine. He’s wearing a black, full-face helmet but his T-shirt doesn’t look like something the suits would wear.
The biker pulls his helmet off. Long blonde hair falls to his shoulders. ‘Hey, man. What ya running for? You wouldn’t have a stick would you?’
He can’t be more than eighteen years old. The bike he’s sitting on is a battered trail model of some vintage.
‘A stick?’ I say.
‘Cigarette, man.’
A second engine growls in the distance and a black SUV bounces into view.
‘A cigarette for a shot of your bike?’ I say.
‘Eh?’
‘You heard.’
‘No, man.’
‘I’ve eighteen left in a packet. You can have them all for a go on your bike.’
‘Nah. I just want one. Don’t need that many.’
I move forward. The SUV is putting on speed.
‘OK. Here.’ I reach into my jacket. He involuntarily leans forward in the seat. I pull my hand from my jacket and reach out to offer him a cigarette I don’t have. As he puts his hand out I grab it, yanking him towards me.
‘Hey!’
He falls and the bike throws him clear. His helmet lands at my feet. I snatch it up and ram it on my head. It’s a snug fit but it goes on. The young man is trying to get up. I look up, the SUV is bearing down on me. I turn and kick the biker in the guts and he folds up. I take the handlebars and heave. The bike is no lightweight. I don’t recognise the logo. Probably an old communist-bloc make.
Some dirt explodes in a puff next to the front wheel. It takes me way too long to realize that I’m being shot at. I double the effort to pull the bike upright. I get on.
I haven’t been on a bike since college. I pull in the clutch, feeding the gears back to neutral. I find the kick-start and slam my foot on it. The engine coughs but doesn’t burst into life. A bullet pings off the rear mudguard. The SUV slews to a halt with a suit leaning out of the passenger window, levelling his gun for a body shot. It’s Buzz 1. His face is swollen. Blood cakes his face. The young man is trying to get up. I plunge my foot down once more on the kick-start. With a roar, the engine explodes into life. I flick up into first, letting out the clutch, slowly, listening for the note-drop – willing myself not to stall it.
The engine bites, the bike starts to move. The door of the SUV opens. Buzz 2 rolls out. He steadies his gun. A spurt of air just above my hand tells me that Buzz 2 isn’t trying to warn me. He’s trying to kill me.
Dirt spits up from behind me as the bike shoots forward. I haven’t the skill to wheel the machine away from the SUV the way I’ve seen dirt bikers handle their machines. Instead I gun it, heading straight for Buzz 2. He dives out of the way.
I’m gone.
I point the bike down a worn track, winding up the throttle. The roar of the engine drowns any other sound. The situation demands speed.
I reach a bend in the track and flick my head round to see if the suits are following me. The SUV is much closer than I would have thought possible. I cut off the track, heading in what I hope is the direction of the exit.
I crest a small ridge, spotting the entrance we came in last night. It’s about a quarter of a mile away. Next to it, nestled on a small hillock, is a red brick building – Broadview, the Christian Science nursing home that Lorraine’s friend was in.
Another SUV slides into view, blocking the exit gate. I swing left, aiming for the red brick.
The second car sets off after me once it’s sure I’m not going to double back.
I reach the grounds of the nursing home and feed the bike onto a well-tended path that leads to the gardens beyond. I have to slow as I roll along the path.
Passing a pond and a flagpole, I swerve to avoid ploughing into a man pushing a wheelchair. I keep vertical and spin the throttle to maintain speed. The man’s mouth is moving. I’m not sure they are very Christian Science words.
The place is a maze of paths. Designed to help you to lose yourself. I’m doing a fine job of that.
The main building finally appears through a gap in the trees. I aim for it, cutting over newly-mown lawn and leaving deep tracks. A group of people stand chatting on the lawn edge. Their heads all turn to me as I fly by.
I catch sight of a car moving beyond the building on what has to be the main road. I spray gravel as I round the structure and vomit into a blacktop parking lot. Squirting through a pair of six-feet-high gates, past the gatehouse I wheel to my left. Low-rise detached houses start to flick by. I slow down to turn my head. No sign of the SUVs.
The freeway is to my right but I would be too easy to spot if they caught up with me. I’m conscious of my speed as I spit along the road. The last thing I want is the police stopping me.
I hit a junction with an ATM at the corner. I need cash but not here. The road falls away in front of me. I try to balance legal and illegal on the speedometer.
I take lefts and rights at random. I don’t know this area in any depth. I could be heading for a dead end, but I can’t stop. I have to give myself some breathing space. Some thinking space.
I pass under the freeway, before skirting the Dodger Stadium. A strip mall appears. It has a parking lot hidden from the road. Ideal.
I park the bike next to a pickup – checking it can’t be easily seen from the road. I walk to the front of the shops and enter a mom and pop diner.
The world seems to slow down. I’ve slipped back thirty years. To a time when the planet spun a little less frantically. To a place where people spent their days with coffee and pie.
The restaurant is empty. Gingham cloths decorate the tables. I think of Lorraine’s dress. The waitress wobbles up to me as I sit down. I choose a seat with a view of the parking lot and road. I order a coffee and slice of apple pie. I need the caffeine. I need the sugar.
Much more than that, I need Lorraine. I have to see her. I have to know she’s alright. She could be dead. The screams on my cell haunt me. What did they do to her? I look around. The payphone in the corner is in use. A rare object. How many pay-phones now exist? How many are ever used? A slim woman is in gab mode. I stare at her. Willing her to put the receiver down but she’s in full flow. I wait.
I let my mind look back at the carnage that unfolded as I escaped. The blinding headache, the blue world, the violence. I’m beginning to get a sense of what Lendl is after. In some way I was responsible for the spontaneous brutality back there in the agency hideout. As I was in Iraq the first time, Iraq again, the plane, the bar. Me as the common link. What am I? A victim of circumstance? A catalyst for destruction? A freak? Or is there something else?
Lorraine would wrap some perspective around it all. She’s good at that. I need her gentle voice. I need her wisdom. I can’t take it all in. There has to be a simple explanation. How can it be me? If I am some kind of freak I would have suspected something long before now. These things – whatever these things are – don’t just creep up on you. Or do they?
The thought continues to scuttle to the front of my frazzled brain. What if I really am the cause of all this? Look what it did to people. Look what it did to Lorraine. Hell, it could happen again. How would I know? I could be my wife’s executioner-in-waiting. Sitting in the wings. Never knowing when I’m going to bring harm down on her.
Stupid. Just stupid. It makes no sense. But it does – just a little. Just enough to make me think twice about visiting her. Just enough to make me think about never seeing her again. God no! Not an option.
The waitress asks if I want more coffee. I nod.
Never seeing Lorraine. The words are painful. I can’t accept them. I’m making more out of this than there is.
I need to calm down.
First things first. Lorraine. The talker on the payphone has finished. I root around to make change. I ask the waitress for the directory. She pulls it out from beneath the counter. She has to blow the dust off it.
I retreat to the payphone, flicking through the directory to find the medical centre. I dial.
‘St Vincent’s. How can I help?’ The voice is bright and cheery.
‘I’m trying to find out how Mrs Lorraine McIntyre is doing. I’m her husband. She was brought in last night.’
‘Please hold, sir.’
Light music fills the earpiece. The door to the diner swings open. Two guys in jeans and T-shirts enter. They sit at the counter. Before they’ve sat down the waitress has poured coffee. Regulars.
Time ticks by. The music keeps pumping.
Ten minutes later I’m still on hold.
I tap the phone against the wall. Lorraine tells me I do this all the time with the cell phone – as if it’ll speed up the person on the other end.
The Bontempi organ player on the phone decides to give the Bee Gees’ More Than a Woman a hammering. Food arrives for the two guys. I see a black Buick Regal slipping into a space in the strip mall parking lot. No one emerges from it. Then a second black Regal stops in the middle of the lot.
A third Regal edges into view.
For Regals, read SUVs.
Suit cars.
Shit.
God, I’m dumb.
I slam the phone down as the doors to all three cars open. Suits pour out. Buzz 2 is leading from the front. I leap the counter. The waitress shouts as I push through the swing doors to the kitchen.
They’ll be out the back. The thought skids across my brain.
The short-order cook freezes, knife in hand, as I enter.
I throw my hands up. ‘I’m not trouble. Is there any way out of here other than through the back door?’
He looks through the serving hatch to the front door, as it flies open. At the same time the door behind him bounces off the wall. A pincer of black suits is on.
Buzz 2, straddling the counter, shouts for me to stand still. The chef lifts his finger and points to a closet door next to me. ‘In there. Through the window.’
