Dead Watch: a fast-paced thriller you don't want to miss

by Steve Liszka

  After their initial desire to fuck each other’s brains out had worn off, the pair quickly developed a healthy mutual dislike. It had become a standing joke on the Watch that when doing the crewing for the next tour, Jimmy had to plan it meticulously to ensure they were not seated together on the back of the appliance.

  But then, it happened. At the previous year’s Christmas drinks, they had both got ridiculously drunk, and over numerous beers, shots and cocktails, they began sharing looks over the table like they had done when they first met. No one had thought anything was going on when they got a taxi home together that night. Firstly, they were too drunk to care, second, even if they were still sober enough to take it in, there was nothing strange about the action; they both lived in roughly the same direction and so sharing a taxi made sense. Thirdly, and most important of all, it was Jo and Bodhi, for fuck’s sake; they hated each other.

  And that’s how they went at it that night; like two people who hated each other, ripping each other’s clothes off to get to the goods. Angry sex with someone you wanted to punch in the face (this was from Jo’s perspective) and give yourself to completely, at the same time. That was a long and sleepless night for the both of them.

  Since that night, they’d managed to keep their relationship secret from the Watch and maintain the charade that they disliked each other. It wasn’t that they were ashamed, you only had to look at either of them to understand why someone of the opposite sex would find them attractive. It wasn’t even down to the huge amount of piss-taking that would be had at their expense, either. They’d both been firefighters long enough to know the others would hammer them for this deceitful little show of theirs. No, the real reason was, once it came out they were a couple, the idea of them staying on Watch together would be frowned upon. There were a number of boyfriend/girlfriend relationships in the job and a couple of marriages, too, but they tended to be between people on different Watches or different stations. None of them actually worked together, day-in day-out. It just wasn’t the done thing.

  The other thing was, they were both well aware when it did come out, even if they did decide to buck tradition and continue to work together (there was no rule to stop them), it would change the Watch dynamic. No more would the Watch be able to take the piss out of one of them when the other was on leave. No more would they be able to moan about how Jo needing to chill-the-fuck-out in Bodhi’s presence, no matter how many times he told them he was okay with it. No more would Jimmy or Wesley be able to slag Bodhi off in front of the others for looking like a scruffy son-of-a-bitch or for not bothering to complete his Personal Development Record, despite Jo insisting she agreed with them. Once the truth came out, the Watch would be changed forever, and both of them had accepted if and when it happened, one of them would have to put in a transfer request. The problem was, neither wanted to go.

  That was one of the reasons they’d discussed breaking up. Did they really want to have to change Watches, and maybe even stations, if their relationship wasn’t destined to last, and it was a just a bit of fun they were having? The other, more serious hurdle in their relationship, had been Jo not telling Bodhi about the money. When he found out she had been keeping it from him for three whole months, the usually laid-back surfer was more than a little furious. He could understand why she had withheld the information, and that part of it was a desire to protect him, should they ever be found out, but since he’d learned what had happened, the trust in their relationship had been seriously dented.

  Funnily enough, he had been going to her place the previous evening to break things off. What with everything that was going on with Mac, the last thing everyone needed (including him and Jo) was more drama. That was until he’d seen those men trying to harm her. That was when he truly realised just how much he loved her, and when she witnessed him taking down her attackers, Jo’s love for him was sealed.

  ‘Seriously,’ Bodhi said. It was a word he rarely used, so Jo knew he had made up his mind. ‘We’ve got to tell them tonight.’

  ‘Fine,’ Jo said, leaning across to wrap her arms around him. ‘Let’s tell them. In a way, I’m looking forward to them knowing I’m going out with a super-hot surfer dude.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Bodhi didn’t have a vain bone in his body. He didn’t care what he looked like or what other people thought about him, he was a one-woman man… well, two, if you counted the sea. As long as they both liked him, that was all that mattered.

  ‘Yeah, right, and now I find out you’re a fucking ninja as well, you’ve suddenly become even more attractive. I didn’t think that Bruce Lee kick-ass shit would be your cup of tea. Aren’t you surfers meant to be the peaceful, hippie types?”

  Bodhi shrugged. He usually was a karma loving, live-and-let live, cool as a cucumber type, but there was also another side to him, one that he did his best to keep tucked deep down inside himself, locked away from his friends and loved ones. See, Bodhi had discovered at a relatively young age that there was only one thing in the world that made him feel as alive as he did when he was taking on a big wave, and that was fighting.

  It had happened when he was fourteen, and one of the older boys started some shit with him on the beach after accusing Bodhi of dropping in on his wave; a cardinal sin in surfing. He hadn’t; the boy was an asshole and a bully, jealous that someone three years younger than him was twice the surfer he would ever be. He caught the smaller boy with a couple of hard punches, breaking his nose and leaving him sprawled out on the sand. He was about to leave the beach in victory when Bodhi wiped the blood from his nose and sprung to his feet, launching an attack of his own that ended with him pounding on the older boy until his friends had to save him from becoming sausage meat.

  Bodhi joined the local karate club the next day, drunk on the feeling that the encounter had left him with. These days, karate gets a bad rap from the mixed-martial-arts fighters. Most of the karate guys who have entered the UFC have had the shit kicked out of them by wrestlers and jiu-jitsu guys who have quickly taken them down and submitted them or beaten them to a pulp. But the reason for their failure wasn’t because of the shortcomings of karate itself, more the devolution of the art by the host of McDojos that made their money selling black belts to kids who had watched The Karate Kid one too many times.

  Bodhi’s sensei didn’t buy into all that bullshit. He taught Shotokan Karate; the one-punch, one-kill, no fucking about method, that made the tap-tap shit that most teachers were doing look like toddlers fighting in nursery. Just like with his surfing, Bodhi was a natural. His balance, sense of timing and speed meant he was one dangerous motherfucker.

  It wasn’t just at karate he excelled, either. On his way to a surf trip in Bali, he had stopped off at a dingy Thai-boxing gym in Bangkok and spent three months learning how to fight dirty with his knees and elbows. He was a total bad ass when he left that place, but the skills he had learnt over there were kept in the locker. When you knew you could kick someone’s ass, it took away the urge to fight them. Up until the previous night, that mindset had worked well for Bodhi.

  ‘So, are you prepared for the shit they are going to give us when we ’fess up?’ Jo said. She was all too aware of what was to come.

  ‘To be honest,’ Bodhi said, ‘I’m just fed up of living with secrets. It’ll be good to have it all out in the open.’

  ‘In that case, there’s something else I think I should tell you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bodhi answered, smiling. ‘Hit me with it.’

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Hang-ups

  Dylan took a deep breath and let one hand off the wall. He was halfway through the climb and about to take on the overhang that jutted out from above his head. He knew what he needed to do; he had done the climb (or problem, as they were known in the sport) in sections but never completed it in one go. He just needed to adjust his left leg by pointing his toes outward rather than in, then push off, keeping his hips tight to the wall and reach up with his right hand. The next hold was a goo
d one; it was deep enough to get his fingers into and, if necessary, hang off as he got his legs into a better position. The trouble was that the section before had been a pinchy one, involving small holds and him using up much of his finger strength.

  He flexed his digits, trying to get some blood back into them, then went for it, driving off his legs and stretching up to grasp the blue hold that looked way too far for him to possibly reach. There were only two more moves left before he got to the top, and knowing he was almost out of steam, he powered through them, grunting with the effort. With both his hands on the final hold that was large, but pebble shaped and smooth with little to grip, he breathed out again, this time much heavier, then made his way back down the wall.

  He had never been good at sports in school, he was far too clumsy for football or rugby, and things hadn’t got any better as he got older. When Jo saw him fall over himself as he tried to play volleyball in the yard, she had remarked that he was cursed with physical dyslexia. Lenny’s assessment of his abilities was far less diplomatic. ‘The boy’s got spaz feet,’ was how he had summed up his efforts. It didn’t bother Dylan; he had no interest in team sports, anyway, and knew, despite his lack of coordination, there were things that mattered to him that he was very good at.

  If Bodhi was a master of his craft, then so was Dylan of climbing. The man was like a human spider. Born in the Peak District, he felt like it was his destiny to climb. If he wasn’t out on his mountain-bike looking for new single-track trails to take on, then Dylan could always be found on the face of a rock. His father had taken him climbing almost as soon as he could walk, and he had fallen in love with it from the off. His relocation to Sussex had meant a different approach to the sport due to the geography of the area. Bowles and Harrisons were good sandstone challenges, but both were over an hour’s drive from Brighton, and not having a car most of the time, they were only of use to him if he could find a partner to drag along.

  Luckily, Brighton was rapidly becoming the place to be for indoor climbing, with three or four decent indoor walls located within cycling distance of Dylan’s flat. Most exciting for him was the massive indoor bouldering centre in Portslade that allowed him to free climb without the need for a partner, ropes or climbing equipment. The wall was only twenty-foot high with heavy mats at the bottom to protect the climbers if, and when, they fell. Dylan loved the feel of free climbing, and while he wasn’t exactly scaling El Capitan, the drop was still enough to get your heart racing if you came off. In bouldering, it was just him against the wall, and that was how he liked it.

  Climbing was also something he did when he needed to think or clear his head, and following the news of Lenny’s stabbing, he felt like his brain needed a good clean out. All morning it had been filled with only one thought; what if they came for him? Lenny was tough, he’d grown up around violence, it was a part of his make-up. Dylan, on the other hand, had never been in a real fight. Even his sister could get the better of him when there were kids. He was a pacifist and would seek any alternative other than fighting to solve his problems. What would he do if someone tried to do something similar to him? It was a thought that unnerved him. No, scratch that, it was a thought that fucking terrified him.

  Dropping the last few feet of the wall onto the mats, Dylan looked down at his battered hands. He’d gone at it hard, and his hands were a state. The skin on his fingers was ripped, and the calluses on his palms looked ready to follow at any time. Finish on a high, he thought. You’ve been trying to conquer that route for weeks. He spat in his hands and rubbed them together, trying to get rid of what was left of the chalk on them and looked across to the guy on the wall next to him.

  The man looked to be in his mid-thirties and was decked out in jeans and a T-shirt. It wasn’t exactly climbing wear, but that wasn’t unusual for bouldering. Unlike the more traditional climbers, many of the youngsters turned up in their skinny jeans and lumberjack shirts looking like they had just stepped out of a coffee shop. Dylan didn’t buy into it the look, not only was he aware that these kids dressed much cooler than him, but also, he was a real Sweaty Betty. He liked to wear a vest and cargo shorts when he was on the wall. The less he had on, the better.

  The reason the guy next to him had caught his eye was his style. Dylan had been keeping an eye on him since he had turned up nearly an hour earlier. The guy was sticking mainly to the orange climbs which all rated “4c”s through to “5b”s. It was an intermediate level that either required some technical proficiency and understanding of what you were doing, or else you had to be fit, strong and agile enough to heave yourself up the wall. In other words, you got through it with sheer brute force. The man to Dylan’s right definitely belonged in the latter category. He was short and sinewy with knotty little muscles and not an ounce of fat on him. If he could only learn some technique, Dylan thought as he watched the guy struggle with the final move of the problem, he would be a pretty decent climber.

  As he stopped to catch his breath, the man’s knees shook like he was doing an impersonation of Elvis. It was a situation all climbers found themselves in at some point. Before his legs gave way, the man stretched out with his left hand for the hold directly above. He managed to get his fingertips to it but unable to get any purchase, he dropped to the mats below, making a loud thud as he came down. A few other climbers looked around to see what the disturbance was, but the man held up his hand to them, letting them know he was okay.

  He looked across to the person observing him and smiled. ‘That was harder than it looked.’

  Dylan smiled back. ‘It was a pretty good effort, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Cheers. Maybe next time, eh?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Dylan said. ‘You just got to keep at it.’

  The guy took in the route he had just climbed, moving his head from the bottom of the wall to the top, then across to Dylan. ‘Got any tips?’

  ‘Yeah. For that last move, swap your feet around and push off your left instead of your right. It’ll make you a couple of inches taller, and you should be able to reach the hold.’

  Dylan was cautious about giving advice to others. He was one of the better climbers at the centre, but he didn’t want to look like he was lording it over the others, patronising them with little snippets of wisdom. If they asked, however, he was always happy to help. The man nodded. Dylan could see he was completing the move in his head. It was something he often did himself; visualising a climb and the moves it entailed before doing it. The brain needed a warm up as well as the muscles.

  ‘You know, I’m sure I know you from somewhere,’ the man said with a smile after staring at Dylan for a second too long.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, definitely… You’re not friends with Carl, are you?’

  Dylan though about it then shook his head. ‘Can’t say I know anyone called Carl.’

  The man tutted. ‘No, I’m sure I know you from somewhere.’ He paused then clicked his fingers and pointed at Dylan. ‘That’s it, you’re a fireman.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dylan said, intrigued.

  ‘I knew it, I never forget a face.’

  Dylan went to speak but the man cut him off. ‘It’s Dylan, right? Your girlfriend’s name is…’ he clicked his fingers again. ‘Felicity! That’s it, Felicity. She’s an accountant, yeah?

  ‘Yeah,’ Dylan said, ‘that’s right. Look, this is a bit embarrassing, but I just can’t remember who you are.’

  As he spoke, the man dug his hand into his pocket and brought out his mobile phone. A big no-no in climbing, Dylan thought, but refrained from saying. Not only could it go off and distract himself and others, but perhaps, more importantly, if he fell, the phone could easily be wiped out. The man fiddled with the phone for a few seconds then turned it around to show the screen to Dylan. On it was a picture of Felicity coming out of their flat.

  ‘That’s her, right?’

  Dylan looked at the picture. ‘How did you…?’ and then, he stopped talking as the
realisation hit him.

  The man’s smile had disappeared when he spoke again. ‘We’ve asked you nicely once. Don’t make us ask again. The right answer is yes, got it?’

  Dylan nodded.

  ‘Say it, then.’

  ‘The answer is yes.’

  The man’s face broke out into a broad grin once more. ‘There we go, see… easy.’ He held his hand out for Dylan to shake. ‘Nice to meet you and thanks for the advice.’

  Not knowing what else to do, Dylan extended his own hand that was gently squeezed, not crushed as he had expected.

  ‘See you soon,’ the man said with a wink.

  Dylan watched as he left the building, then ran to the toilets and threw up.

  Baby Daddy

  Bodhi was almost home, sitting stationary at a set of traffic lights, when the beeping of the car behind roused him into action. He waved an apology to the driver as he took off. Looking around at his environment, he became aware he had no recollection of how he had got there. It was a similar feeling to driving on blue lights after being woken up in the wee hours.

  He had spent the morning talking with Jo, or listening to Jo would have been more precise. What he had actually done is sit in silence for the most part, nodding and offering words of support when he felt it was needed. The gist of the conversation/speech was this; there was no way on earth she could have a baby.

  She was too old; she’d be forty on her next birthday. Did he realise, she had asked him, what percentage of children born to older women had Down’s Syndrome (she didn’t, it turned out, but she knew it was pretty high). And then, there was Bodhi. He was only a year younger, and while the age thing wasn’t such an issue for fathers, it was more his emotional immaturity that bothered her. He was a man-child, interested in only the things that excited him, everything else she said, quoting him, “was just background noise.” The man lived on a boat for crying out loud.