by J. M. Hewitt
He screws his eyes shut, shakes his head emphatically.
Like a child, thinks Elian.
Still she persists in poking him, until eventually he raises his head and looks at her.
“You’re pretty,” he says, his fears and tears seemingly momentarily forgotten.
Elian pulls back when he speaks. His words are not those of someone who is normal. Now she comes to think of it, neither is he. Just by looking at him she can see there is something amiss.
“Who are you? Why are you here?” she asks, roughly, because she senses that is the only way she will get through to him.
“I did a bad thing,” he whispers before shooting a look over at Lev, who is looking at the man, intrigued. “It was his fault, he was shouting.”
“You mean Joy?” Elian edges as far as her ties will allow her in his direction. She thinks fast, she needs him to help, she mustn’t upset him. They are three people, they need to work together, in spite of how distasteful she finds the thought. “It sounds like it was an accident, like it wasn’t meant to happen.”
He flicks his head up and stares straight into her eyes. “Yes, yes, an accident, I’d never hurt Joy, I liked Joy!”
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Roland. His name is Roland,” says Lev.
Both Elian and Roland shoot him a look. Elian pulls back. She hates him, but she might need him.
“All right, Roland. My name is Elian.” As she speaks her name she sees him forming the word with his lips, but it is a struggle for him. She smiles, or she hopes she does, to her it feels like a grimace. “You can call me Ellie, all my friends do. Can you tell us where we are? Why we’re here? Who put us here?”
He shakes his head, flaps it from side to side, lips clenched, that child again.
“If I turn around, do you think you can help untie me?” Elian’s skin crawls at the thought of this man-child touching her, but she would rather him than Lev. Lev has already put his hands on her once. An involuntary hitching jerks at her throat.
No, can’t think of that, no now, not yet.
‘Look at it,’ Lev had said as he perused her with Niko, not ‘her’, but ‘it’. And, ‘She’s a nigger!’
“Shut up,” Elian whispers under her breath, chasing away the ghosts of the past.
“I can try,” says Roland softly.
Elian takes a deep breath, grips the bottom of her chair and shuffles and hops until the two of them are back to back.
When his fingers touch her wrists she jumps, even though she’d been expecting it. His hands are warm and Elian forces herself to relax as he fumbles and snaps at her ties, his own hands impeded by his own bindings. She breathes in and out, slowly, silently, tries not to think of him behind her. She knows if she were to look at him he will have an expression of concentration on his face, his tongue sticking out of one corner of his mouth as he sets to his task.
And then–
“Oh!” she cries as the rope around her left wrist loosens enough for her to suddenly get her whole hand out. “Oh, Roland, you clever, clever boy!”
She yanks her right hand out, wrestles with the rope around her legs and the chair topples as she stands, dances, spins around.
“My turn now,” says Roland, surprisingly firmly.
Elian doesn’t even think about it. Yes, he was somehow involved in killing and disposing of this Joy, but Elian likes to think that she has a pretty good idea of people these days, just by being in their presence. This Roland she will help. She casts a glance at Lev. He can stay where he is for now.
As if sensing her thoughts, Lev looks at her pleadingly. Elian ignores him and crouches down on the concrete floor behind Roland.
“How do we get out?” she asks him quietly.
“The tunnels, I think there is a tunnel down here. They go all over town, and I think that is how the doctor can travel so much and not be seen by anyone.”
Elian pauses, her hands go slack.
“The doctor?” One hand creeps to her mouth. So this was the doctor’s doing? Roland’s other words catch up to her.
Tunnels. Underground tunnels. Impossible …
“Miss, what is wrong?” Roland twists in his chair, wanting to know why she has stopped untying him.
She shakes her head, carries on. But the thought of the underground tubes that looped around underneath the Red Forest, the tunnels where she was shackled. It’s almost too much.
“How do we get to these tunnels?” She forces the words out.
Roland flops his head to rest on his left shoulder. For a second she thinks he has passed out, but then realises he is pointing towards the furthest wall.
Abandoning her task she moves over the cold floor and sees he is right, there is a hatch. A tiny metal door set into the wall. With a deep inhalation she yanks the handle, exhales audibly as the door flies open towards her.
“Where does this lead?” she asks Roland, sharply.
He scrunches his face up, deep in concentration, before opening his startling blue eyes and settling his gaze on her.
“The pier,” he says. And then, as if doubting his ability to answer correctly, “I think …”
Faintly, there is a thud from somewhere over their heads.
It is him.
They all know it is him.
“This tunnel goes to the pier?” Elian hisses at Roland as there is an audible scrape from somewhere up the stairwell.
Roland nods and she sees his elbows moving as he struggles to release his hands. Elian puts one foot through the tiny door, prompting a disjointed cry from both Roland and Lev.
“I will get help, I promise,” she says.
She looks at Roland as she speaks, doesn’t even glance at Lev. If she escapes she will report the two men locked in this basement of a madman, and some part of her hopes that this simple man-child, this Roland, makes it out safely. But she won’t risk delaying her escape to untie him, because the door up there is opening now, and a chink of light appears from the upstairs of this house as the doctor prepares to descend the steps.
She steps through, not looking at the two men anymore, and she quietly pushes the door closed behind her.
The tunnel is pitch black, darker than the gloom of the basement, at least in there she could make out shapes, faces, expressions. Now there is nothing to see.
Just like the tunnel back in Chernobyl.
Her breath catches in her throat as a forgotten memory of that time speeds like a freight train towards her.
But, she thinks as she spreads her hands wide, touching the smooth concrete as she walks forward tentatively. But, hadn’t she flown back then? Once her shackles had been cut off, hadn’t she marvelled that she was actually flying?
A warm feeling starts in her chest and spreads throughout her limbs. Yes, she had flown, she had run so fast and so easily at that unexpected new chance of life that she had practically floated.
A shout from inside the basement makes her jump. “Niko wouldn’t have left me like this!” screams Lev. “Your father would never have left me!”
Your father.
Elian clamps her hands over her ears and sprints as fast as she can into the unknown.
Fly, Elian, fly.
59
ROLAND
29th April 2000
The party was everything I imagined. It was bittersweet, knowing it would be the last one. But only the last one here. In Amsterdam, or wherever the four of us went, the lifestyle would continue. And as I looked at the brothers I realised that they were good, kind men. They would never snatch a man like Smith off the street and drill into his head and touch him in places that he probably didn’t want to be touched. I had been wrong to hate them. They were the good guys, not Mark.
It had been easier than I thought to avoid Mark these last few days. He had been slow and moody, sitting on his bed, using more of his supply than he was selling. I had never seen him like that before, he had never been anything but in complete control.
> But his demeanour meant I had been able to get out for my party, for our party, and now it was over, and just the brothers and I. But then, a shadow filled the doorway.
“Mark!” I cried out his name in horror, but straight away put a smile on my face, hoping he would think I had shouted his name with pleasure and surprise. But he didn’t appear to notice my tone. Unsteadily he walked over to the chair in front of the T.V and he slumped into it.
“Hey, buddy,” said Miles, uneasily. “Want a beer?”
Mark, not taking his eyes off the screen, where a colourful, loud film was showing with the sound turned down, held out his hand. Miles slid a bottle into it before backing into the kitchen.
The three brothers huddled together and I stood near Mark’s chair. The atmosphere was like a heavy, bad smell. I flinched as Mark picked up the remote and I looked at the television. Al Pacino was wearing a bright red shirt, there was a lady on a bed, leaning on a pillow. She wasn’t a pretty lady, she looked like no one I’d ever seen here. She looked mean. There was another man, a sweaty, nervous looking guy. Suddenly there was a flash of movement and now Al and his side kick were tied up in metal chains in the sweaty man’s bathroom. The woman, who now had a big gun instead of the pillow, turned the television up very loud. In real life, in front of me, Mark did the same. He caught my eye and with a sideways flick of his head he called me over to him.
“They have to die,” he said.
I blinked at him, thinking he was talking about Al and his friends. But then he pulled a gun out of the waistband of his trousers. It wasn’t a big gun like the lady had in the film. It was small, almost concealed in his big hands. And with a sigh which turned into a grunt, he stood up and faced the brothers in the kitchen.
Miles flinched away, held a hand up. The first bullet went straight through Miles’ palm. His fingers flicked in all directions. Someone screamed. It might have been me.
I woke up. Which was funny as I didn’t remember falling asleep. I shifted, cold now the sun had set. Then, I remembered. The boys and I were leaving, we were going to Amsterdam and beyond. I would no longer have to worry about Mark and his actions which frightened me.
But as I thought about that, I recalled something else.
Miles, holding a hand up, like a policeman saying ‘stop’. The crack of a pistol, the fingers flying off Mile’s hand, like a piñata that had split, all the goodies falling to the ground.
I sat up, found that I was slumped by the front door which, for only the second time since I’d been here, was closed. The boys were nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t see Mark either. A quick glance at the television told me I’d not been spaced out for too long; Scarface was still on, only now Al had risen through the ranks. Now he was the big-shot, he was the one holding the gun now, though it looked like he’d been injured again, he was wearing a sling.
It wouldn’t stop Al though, as he stalked around the office, a big old palm tree painted on the wall behind him, a false picture of cheeriness in a world as frightening as mine.
“Boy, come in here.” Mark’s gruff voice made me jump.
My feet carried me reluctantly into the bathroom.
My three friends were in there, but they didn’t look like themselves anymore.
I began to cry as I stared at David. At that big, wide mouth that only ever opened to laugh or crack a joke. Now it was motionless, an ‘O’ of shock, frozen in time forever in the horror that must have been his last moments. Vinnie, big, stubborn, sometimes moody Vinnie. Now he looked scared, frightened, and I’d never seen him like that before. My eyes travelled down his chest to his broad, muscular shoulders. His arms, the arms that grabbed at his brothers and at me, that enveloped all of us in great big hugs, they were gone. Crudely hacked off above his elbows. I looked around the floor for his missing arms, but I couldn’t see them. I looked back at the boys, realising that their skin was blackened and charred. They had been burnt, had Mark burned them?
Miles was propped up on the toilet. Miles; my favourite brother.
I glanced at his hand, the one that was still there. I avoided looking at the other one, a mangled mess.
“Miles,” I whispered.
I didn’t expect an answer, but as I spoke his name his eyes opened. I jumped back, crashed into something, spun around to see Mark standing behind me.
“He’s … he’s alive!” I took Mark’s hand, a strange gesture, never did I touch people before they initiated it, for usually people didn’t like me touching them. “Mark, what should we do?”
He looked down at me, his eyes two, blue, cold-as-ice chips in his face. He had days old stubble and a strange smell came off him. Mark never looked anything but immaculate, to see him this way was as disconcerting as the way the brothers looked right now.
“Mark,” I begged.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse and rough. “Yes. You can help me.”
A glimmer of hope bloomed and I tugged at his hand. Yes, I could help. If I could save Miles, just save one of them, it would mean the world.
Mark flung a towel at me. “Find some plastic bags, cover their heads. Then tie towels around them.” With that cold, vacant stare he let his gaze linger on each brother in turn before looking back to me. “I don’t want to look at them.”
In the kitchenette I opened every cupboard to look for plastic bags, to no avail. I didn’t want to put bags over my friend’s faces, I wasn’t so dumb to know that if you put a plastic bag over someone’s face they wouldn’t be able to breathe.
But I also didn’t want to defy Mark. He had killed two of my friends. He would kill me too, undoubtedly.
“Bags, boy. Where’re are the fucking bags?”
I jumped, Mark was behind me again. I gripped the fingers of my left hand with those of my right to stop them shaking.
“They have no bags,” I whispered. And as I spoke, inspiration struck. “But I saw some, down at the bottom of the building, the kiosk got rid of all their bags because they have changed their logo. My mother told me and I saw them, in the big bin downstairs. I’ll get them!”
I edged out of the kitchen area towards the door. Mark’s hand shot out, grabbed my upper arm. I closed my eyes, sure he knew my plan. I waited for the bang of the pistol. I closed my eyes, tensed my body.
I stumbled a little as Mark let go of me. I cracked one eye open.
“Go on, then,” he said.
I ran faster than I’d ever run before, down all the flights of metal steps. Underneath the building, where all the shops were, I was hidden from view of the balcony of number 1058. I darted past the bins, past the kiosk, and I ran for the phone box.
Inside, with hands that shook so much I could hardly insert a coin, I dialled a number that I had memorised. And even though the hour was late, the phone was picked up within two rings. A voice answered, a deep voice which spoke of authority and which I found soothing.
“Colonel?” I whispered. “This is Roland Van Brommel. Colonel, you need to come straight away, he’s killing them all!”
60
THE COLONEL
30th April 2000
The Colonel swept into the apartment, his big, black coat swishing behind him. He saw Roland first, standing in the kitchenette, wringing his hands.
“Roland,” he said, nodding at the young man. “Where’s …?”
By the blank look on Roland’s face, the Colonel knew the boy was unsure if he was referring to Mark or the three brothers. The Colonel raised his eyebrows questioningly, forcing Roland to come to his own conclusion as to the original query.
“Bathroom,” whispered Roland.
The Colonel took that to mean that all four were in there. He breathed in, slipped his hands into his pockets and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. Snapping them onto his hands, he made for the bathroom.
He pushed the door open and stood in the doorway, surveying the scene in front of him.
It was bad.
The Colonel sighed, averted his eyes to look at the man who
was sat on the side of the bath.
Mark Braith.
The Colonel had always known Mark was trouble. He had the demeanour of a normal man, middle-class, almost respectable. But the Colonel had followed Mark Braith’s activities for a while, had had his suspicions. The Smith debacle had made it clear just how off the scale Braith was. And now he had tipped over the edge, all due to the mammoth drugs he had consumed.
And it wasn’t just Mark, though as far as the Colonel knew he was the only one in this town to go this far. The whole place was dirty, contaminated with drugs and sex that were so much more than just a harmless joint or sexual liaison. It was too much. The town needed to be cleaned up.
And the Colonel was the only one who had the guile and guts to do it.
“Right,” he said, clapping his hands. “What have we here?”
Mark, at the sound of the clap behind him, looked up. His reactions were slow, dozy, the Colonel noted.
Stepping around Mark the Colonel peered at the inert bodies of the three brothers. He felt no sadness or sympathy for the loss of such young lives. He knew the brothers, knew they were as much into their drugs and drink and wild parties as Braith was.
The Colonel straightened up, walked out of the bathroom, back into the kitchen. Ignoring Roland, who hadn’t moved, he pulled out a stool and sat atop it.
Leaning his head forward, steepling his fingers to rest his chin upon, the Colonel began to form a plan.
“Make me a cup of tea, or coffee,” he instructed Roland. Casting his eyes over the debris of unwashed plates in the kitchen the Colonel lifted a finger. “Wash a cup first, boiling water. Use a new scouring pad or a cloth.”
The Colonel refused the first two cups that Roland offered him. On the first cup there was a long line of an old tea stain on the outside of the mug. On the second, there was a dash of red lipstick. He sent him back to the kitchen each time. The third cup he held up to the light, turned it carefully in his hands, lowered it, sniffed it, and took a cautious sip before declaring it acceptable.
