Veteran Avenue

by Mark Pepper

  First published in Great Britain in 2017

  by Urbane Publications Ltd

  Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleaming Wood Drive,

  Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ

  Copyright © Mark Pepper, 2017

  The moral right of Mark Pepper to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-911583-31-8

  MOBI 978-1-911583-33-2

  EPUB 978-1-911583-32-5

  Design and Typeset by Michelle Morgan

  Cover by The Invisible Man

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  urbanepublications.com

  For my daughter, Jade.

  Since you, I know why I’m here.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Two Months Later Epilog

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly, and for obvious reasons, I would like to sincerely thank Matthew Smith of Urbane Publications. He is a rarity among publishers; someone who treats authors with respect and as sentient human beings.

  I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to my old RADA classmate and fellow Urbane author, Mark Mayes, for tracking me down online and then pointing me in Matthew’s direction with an optimism that verged on psychic.

  Lastly, as ever, thanks to my wife, Jeannifer, and my family, for their love and support.

  He watched the ball of dust caused by his father’s abrupt stop roll along the bumpy track and slowly disappear into the perfect August blue. Listening to the burbling engine of their rented Ford sedan, little John Frears let his eyes wander over their accidental location.

  They were near the path of the Oregon Trail, the route west of the early settlers. They had stumbled across an abandoned goldmining town, set in a clearing in a great forest that spread for miles, carpeting the mountains. The undulating earth was covered by scrub, with clusters of silver fir soaring here and there. Ahead was a row of stores and a saloon, their longevity assured by the searing, arid climate. Had the Magnificent Seven galloped into view, guns blazing, John would not have been at all surprised. Further on he could see other buildings, the heart of this deep-shaft mining venture. The largest was three stories of sun-bleached grey wood, dotted with empty black windows. Suffering gentle subsidence, it rose out of a hollow in the ground, topped by a smaller structure that from a distance looked as though it was made of matchsticks. Brightly-rusted iron arms thrust out from its sides, then down into the earth, rigid steel cables taking the strain.

  Behind the wheel, Vincent Frears was still scanning left and right.

  ‘Which one’s the Holiday Inn?’ he said.

  His wife Gwen huffed. ‘You are such an idiot. I told you not to get off the highway. I knew we’d get lost. God, I can’t even see this place on the map.’

  ‘Listen, those timber lorries were a damn menace. What if a log had fallen onto the car? You read about things like that – couple killed in holiday crush horror.’

  John frowned. In this theoretical tragedy, were his parents assuming his survival or ignoring his existence? No doubt the latter.

  ‘And this is better, is it?’ Gwen asked. ‘Stuck in the wilderness. No idea how to get back.’

  ‘We drove uphill, so we drive downhill. It’s not difficult. We’re not lost.’

  ‘So where are all the other sightseers?’

  ‘At all the boring places that everybody else visits. I’ve brought us on an adventure, my love.’

  ‘You really are an idiot.’

  John watched his mother take a swig of warm Coke from her bottle, while his father lit a cigarette and belatedly thought to switch off the ignition. After hours of perpetual engine noise there was now nothing but ticks and pinks, and an almost subliminal rasp of cicadas.

  Ten minutes later his parents had shifted, backs to each other, doors open, feet in the dust. With the temperature outside nudging ninety, and the car’s interior even hotter, John wanted to get back to the highway and its blissfully speed-cooled air, but until the parental sulk had run its course he knew that wouldn’t happen.

  He was getting bored and decided a joke was in order.

  ‘Muuuuuuum ...’

  Had she shown even the slightest acknowledgement of his existence he might not have said it.

  ‘Is that a rattlesnake by your foot?’

  His mother shrieked, stepped back on the sill and jumped up inside the car. Unfortunately for her, Vincent had not paid extra to rent a convertible. John had to laugh. His mother half-concussed, it was his father who reacted – a rare show of marital solidarity.

  ‘Stupid bugger!’ he said, getting out and yanking his son into the sunshine to deliver a slap that made John’s eyes well up and his chin go twitchy. Vincent ducked his head back in the car to see his wife rubbing the crown of her head, and John watched him almost give in to a sympathetic sentiment. Instead, he reached in and grabbed the map off the dash, then marched away to study it under a nearby mountain hemlock, raising puffs of dust as he went.

  John hated sulking; adults sulked, and he would be nine next March. With his ear still ringing, he mustered a smile for his sour-faced mother.

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  She didn’t bother to meet his eyes, only managing a grunt.

  ‘Can I go exploring?’

  She nodded once and John was dismissed. He had heard it said that if you gave a person enough rope they’d hang themselves. If that were true, then he had already used up more lives than a dead cat and often wondered if he could ever roam far enough to feel the line go taut. Today, he mused whether that might be down a mine shaft or into the belly of a Grizzly. He snatched his Action Man from the rear seat.

  ‘Back in a bit,’ he told his mother, to maintain his private illusion that someone cared.

  He got out of sight as quickly as possible. The terrain and wild scrub gave him good cover. Under the baking sun he dashed between ancient mining machinery, through juniper and sagebrush, from one doorway to another. He was itching to explore, to perhaps find a forgotten nugget of gold, but he didn’t dare set foot across a threshold. This was a ghost town and he was frightened. He could feel a rotten quality about the place, as though it still had some dying left to do.

  On the far perimet
er of the clearing, where the forest rose up and claimed the land back from transient mankind, John discovered some log cabins stretching away into the cool murk of the trees. Clutching his Action Man, he ran in circles and figures of eight, whooping like a native Nez Perce Indian working up to scalp a few cheeky settlers from the east who had come to plunder his birthright. Weaving complex shapes among the live trunks and dead lumber, he skirted closer to the obstacles until the wood began to graze his bare arms, raising wheals that began to speck with blood.

  Then he hurtled around a cabin and collided with something that hadn’t been there on his previous circuit. Dazed, he stepped back and stared up at a grinning face.

  The man was rake thin, with fine, greying hair, which was in need of a trim. John thought he looked about the same age as his grandad back in England. He was wearing jeans and a blue check shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And at the end of his sinewy right arm, dangling by his side, twig-like fingers were curled around the butt of a black pistol.

  ‘Whoa there, son,’ said the man with a gentleness John rarely heard from his parents.

  ‘Sorry,’ John said, transfixed by the gun.

  ‘No problem. Are you hurt? Didn’t mean you to run into me.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ John said, his face dripping sweat onto the bed of old fir cones and pine needles at his feet.

  ‘How ‘bout your arms?’

  John inspected the bloody scratch marks on his skin.

  ‘Sting a bit,’ he admitted, panting.

  ‘I bet.’ The man tucked the gun down his waist. ‘Where’re your folks?’

  ‘Are you a ghost?’

  ‘No, son,’ the man said with a smile. ‘Not yet. So ... you’re English. Didn’t expect that. Got a name?’

  ‘John.’

  ‘John,’ the man repeated, and savored it for a moment. ‘I like that. Strong, no nonsense. And how old are you, John?’

  ‘I’ll be nine next March.’

  The man nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said, and extended his right hand. ‘Well, John, I’m Chuck, and I’m real glad to make your acquaintance.’

  They shook hands, and John’s eyes kept going back to the gun.

  ‘Does this scare you?’ Chuck asked, tapping the butt of the pistol.

  ‘No.’ Although this looked like a worst-case-scenario stranger-encounter, John sensed no danger. Indeed, of the three adults in the vicinity at that moment he felt that Chuck offered by far the greatest wealth of love.

  ‘Should do, John. Ain’t a toy.’

  John shrugged; he was too young to enter the firearms debate.

  ‘Your GI Joe own a gun?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Your doll.’

  ‘He’s not a doll, he’s an Action Man,’ John said, holding the plastic figure to his chest.

  ‘Okay, no offense,’ Chuck said with a laugh. ‘We call them GI Joes over here.’

  ‘Oh. I left his gun in the car.’

  Chuck gave a mock scowl. ‘Gun in the car, you say? That ain’t much use. Soldier’s gotta keep his weapon with him. First rule of combat.’

  ‘Are you a soldier then?’

  The smile faded. ‘No, son. Not a soldier, not a ghost.’

  ‘Then why do you have a gun?’

  Chuck’s eyes seemed to mist briefly, as though a poignant image had blown across them. He looked pained as he searched for an explanation and appeared no more satisfied when he finally gave one.

  ‘It’s a keepsake, I guess.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Uh … a souvenir,’ Chuck said, and was clearly even more disturbed by this description. He stared off into the forest but his focus was a world away.

  ‘Can I hold it?’ John asked, breaking the man’s reverie.

  ‘The gun?’ Chuck shook his head. ‘Like I said: ain’t a toy.’

  ‘Please. I promise I won’t shoot anything.’

  Chuck sighed. ‘Well, I guess if I make it safe …’

  He pulled the gun from his jeans and pressed a button just rear of the trigger, making the magazine click out a half inch from the butt, which he then removed completely. He worked the slide and ejected the round still in the chamber, pushed it back into the top of the clip, popped the clip safely in his shirt pocket, de-cocked the empty gun and offered it to John.

  Awed, John took the weight of it in his small hands.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Will it kill someone?’

  ‘Stone dead.’

  ‘What sort is it?’ he asked, turning the pistol over in his hands.

  ‘Smith and Wesson, Mark Twenty-Two, Model 0, self-loading nine millimeter.’

  ‘Wow.’ He pointed it around the forest and made shooting noises at the trees.

  After a few seconds Chuck said, ‘That’s enough,’ and beckoned for the gun to be returned. ‘And if that’s the first and last time you touch one of these things, it’ll still be one time too many.’ He didn’t bother to reinsert the clip, merely tucked the unloaded weapon down the small of his back and lowered himself to his haunches. ‘Now, you gotta return the favor,’ he said, raising a finger to point at John’s toy.

  Ordinarily, no one got to hold his precious Action Man. Other people tended to angle his limbs into rather unmilitary positions and twist his head so it faced backwards. But in this instance John willingly presented it for inspection and Chuck gratefully accepted. He cradled the Action Man upright in two open palms, leaving the arms and legs at attention and the head face forward. Head bowed, Chuck lightly brushed a thumb over the scaled-down crew-cut.

  ‘Did you have one once?’ John asked.

  After a moment, Chuck replied with the slightest nod, and a strand of his fine hair fell across his forehead. John waited patiently for his toy to be returned but Chuck didn’t move. Another long strand of hair swished down, then a dark spot appeared on the miniature battle jacket. John checked the tip of Chuck’s nose for a trickle of sweat but it was dry. Another drop of moisture splashed on the tunic and soaked in, then a third, followed by a steady succession of drips. John bent at the knees and dipped his head so he could see Chuck’s face. He watched as the tears fell from his eyes, now squeezed tight shut, and sensed he should let whatever was happening run its course. The uniform was soon a shade darker.

  Eventually, Chuck sniffed and began chortling quietly – staccato bursts of breath through his nostrils. He took a swatch of his shirt front and wiped his eyes, and, when he looked up, both the laughter and the tears were gone. His eyes were blank and bloodshot.

  ‘Why are you sad?’ John asked.

  Chuck managed a glimmer of a smile, and handed John his Action Man.

  ‘You look after him. He’s a fine soldier.’

  John regarded the small figure. In the intense heat, the material was already lightening to its true color.

  Chuck raised himself from squatting and adopted a more serious attitude. ‘John, I need you to come some place with me. Take about a half hour.’

  John nodded eagerly.

  ‘How ‘bout your folks. They expecting you back soon?’

  ‘They don’t care,’ John said, unconsciously rubbing his recently-slapped ear.

  ‘Sure they do.’

  ‘They smack me.’

  ‘Ah, that don’t mean they don’t love you.’

  ‘They smack me a lot,’ John said, brimming.

  Chuck responded by hunkering down again and pulling John into a hug. John shut his eyes and wrapped his arms tightly around Chuck’s shoulders, one hand scrunching a handful of lumberjack shirt, the other letting his Action Man dangle on the man’s back. The feel of an adult embrace had freed the tears.

  ‘John!’ A frantic scream from his mother.

  John opened his eyes to see his parents standing frozen between two log cabins twenty feet away, and realized they must have seen the pistol tucked down Chuck’s waistband next to his spine. Noting their panicked expressions, a cruel part of his brain was glad to see them so agitated. Perhaps Chuck was right –
perhaps they really did care.

  Breaking the hug, Chuck glanced over his shoulder, straightened up and turned to face them.

  ‘John, come here,’ Vincent ordered, his voice both even and fearful.

  He stayed where he was.

  ‘Now.’

  John shook his head.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, just walk quickly towards me.’

  ‘I’m not afraid, Dad; you are.’

  ‘Please let him come to me,’ Vincent appealed to his son’s apparent captor.

  John inclined his head to ask permission from his friend.

  ‘Remember we have to go someplace?’ Chuck said in response. ‘Still happy to come along?’

  John nodded. ‘We have to go someplace, Dad.’ Then he added in his best American accent: ‘Take about a half hour.’

  Chuck smiled, which Vincent took as a cue to start slowly towards them. But Chuck darted a hand behind his back and produced the gun, holding it by his side, muzzle to the ground. Gwen let out a startled squeal while her husband stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Folks, you must believe me: as God is my witness, I wish no harm on your son. I’d sooner shoot myself.’

  Vincent began edging forward again but quickly halted when Chuck raised the Smith & Wesson.

  ‘That said, you try and stop me concluding my business with him, I will consider it open season on you.’

  ‘Business?’ Vincent echoed. ‘What business?’

  ‘I need to borrow your son for a while. Now I appreciate how that must sound, but I will fetch him straight back to you, happy and healthy.’

  John was looking up at the gap on the underside of the pistol where the bullets went. It wasn’t loaded; he knew that, and he could have let his father know, but he kept it to himself.

  ‘Please don’t take him away,’ Gwen pleaded.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum, I want to go. Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.’

  Chuck offered a reassuring smile. ‘If you want to wait here, we’ll be back soon. Don’t try and follow. That rental of yours ain’t got four-wheel drive; can’t believe you made it this far.’

  ‘Don’t hurt him,’ Gwen begged.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘If you don’t bring him back to us ...’ Vincent said, his words laced with impotent threat.