by J. M. Hewitt
And the neighbour, the stupid, air-headed, blonde muscled man was herding Roland along now, towards the stairs, kicking out at the resident’s doors, shouting, and now the Colonel could hear his words.
“It’s going to blow, the whole building is wired, get out, get out, get OUT!”
And the Colonel watched as the doors opened, and all the parasites that would have died flowed out, a crush of dirty insects making their escape down the metal stairs.
The Colonel who didn’t swear, who couldn’t remember ever uttering a single curse word, stamped his foot again.
“Fuck,” he hissed, and it felt so good he said it again. “Fuck, fucky-fuck-shit-bastard.”
It wasn’t over. It was never over for the Colonel. He didn’t lose, he didn’t make mistakes or errors that couldn’t be fixed.
He waited until the police chiefs came along and he moved in amongst them, speaking gently, calmly, taking pleasure that they worked ten times harder in his presence because of who he was.
And at the prison medical centre he was given free access to both Mark and Roland.
Mark was still practically comatose, so the Colonel spoke to Roland first. He stood in the doorway, looked at the boy slumped on the bed, his shoulders rounded, the tracks of his tears apparent on his dirty face.
Roland looked up as the Colonel came in and closed the door. He waited for the boy to speak first, because, depending on what he said, the Colonel would know how to play this.
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” whispered Roland. “I’m so sorry I let you down.”
The Colonel nodded, walked over, pulled a chair up to Roland’s bed.
“No, son, you didn’t let me down. You did your best, I’m the one who has failed you.”
Roland looked up, stared at the Colonel for a full five seconds before averting his gaze.
The Colonel patted Roland’s hand. “I can’t save you from prison, you do understand that, don’t you, Roland?”
Roland gulped, nodded, and two more fat tears fell from his eyes.
“I might be able to get you a shorter sentence, would you like that, if I could do that, Roland?”
Roland’s face changed as though he had been given a last minute reprieve from the electric chair. “Oh, yes! Oh, Colonel, do you really think you would be able to do that?”
“I might, but, you would never be able to tell anyone that I already tried to help you, do you understand that?”
Roland screwed up his face.
The Colonel twitched. The boy didn’t understand.
“Roland, us officials only get one chance to help someone, and then it is taken away. So if anybody found out I already tried to help you, I wouldn’t be able to do it again.” A pause, the Colonel let his words sink in before adding, “You didn’t tell anyone of our plan, did you?”
Roland shook his head.
“What about the man who helped you outside?”
Roland shook his head again. The Colonel believed him, Roland was one of those marvellous, stupid people who were quite simply unable to lie, even to save themselves. This led on to another thought, what if anyone asked Roland about the Colonel? But, the Colonel rationalised, the boy would have to be asked very specific questions, such as, ‘did the Colonel help you wire the apartment and show you how to turn the gas taps on?’ The Colonel was satisfied nobody would ask the lad that, after all, nobody had ever seen the Colonel with this boy, with any of the boys, come to think of it. He didn’t care about the people who knew that he was by Roland’s side now, because this was what the Colonel did. He cared about his people, he was like a minister, looking out for his flock of parishioners.
The Colonel stood up, in the coming weeks he would speak to Roland again, before the trial, to coax him and question him and prepare him for his day in court.
He patted Roland’s hand again.
“You’ll be fine, son,” he said. “I’ll look after you.”
Straightening his coat, the Colonel prepared to pay another visit in the room next door. His mouth set in a grim line. There would be no talking this troublesome individual around. Luckily, he had something altogether different to offer Mark Braith.
It was easy to hang around the prison. For a while he sat with the Chief of Police, and together they discussed the town that they both loved and protected, and they took coffee together and spoke of old times.
It was late when the Colonel closed the Chief’s door gently behind him. Apart from the usual, harmless drunks, the prison hospital was quiet. Even the officers on reception had gone off for a break. It was easy for the Colonel to get the keys for the room he needed. Even if anybody had have seen him go into the room, they wouldn’t have questioned him. That scenario would be as ridiculous as someone asking the Chief what he thought he was doing should he deem to visit his own prisoners.
It was easy to slip into the room where Mark Braith was still deep in his drug induced slumber. The Colonel waited patiently until Mark coughed and stirred. There was no expression in his eyes as he regarded the Colonel.
“Feel sick,” said Mark, with a sudden shiver that wracked his entire body.
“Mmm, it’s the withdrawal,” said the Colonel conversationally. “It’s barbaric, really. I don’t agree with it, it plays havoc with your body and mind.”
Mark’s eyes widened a little, and though he didn’t reply, the Colonel knew he was moments away from pleading for help. Luckily for Mark, the Colonel sympathised. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the syringe, held it up.
Mark smiled, something he so rarely did and never before had the Colonel seen that particular expression on the young man’s face.
“Not the same amount as usual, because you have to come down, you can’t get this while you are in here, not as regular as outside, you understand?” he asked, holding up the needle, and Mark nodded eagerly, shoved a meaty arm towards the Colonel.
“All right, then,” said the Colonel, and working fast he bound the strip of leather around the arm until the vein stood proud and welcoming.
Mark sighed, deliriously happy, the shiver stopped immediately. “Thank–”
He didn’t even get to finish his words of gratitude. His eyes rolled back and he stayed upright for just a second before falling back on his pillow.
The Colonel tidied everything away and leaning over, he closed Mark’s eyes.
He hadn’t lied; it wasn’t the same amount of Heroin that Mark usually took. It was more.
Much, much more.
At his home, that night, he sat in his office and looked out of his window into the fog that was laying like a thick blanket over the seaside resort.
The streets were cleaner now that the main perpetrators were gone. He no longer had to worry about dealing with criminals and drug addicts and natural born killers like Mark Braith, and stupid, nonsensical boys like Roland Van Brom. There would be more, of that he had no doubt. But they were few and far between.
Idly he flicked through the files from his other job, his respectable job. He had neglected his duties over the last few days, and oh my, what a difference it had made he saw now, looking at his most recent batch of test results that had come back.
Three out of the twenty girls he had tested were infected. Clicking his tongue in annoyance he noted their names down in his careful handwriting. He had always prided himself on his writing; a neat, readable scribe, not like the majority of his profession.
Sighing, he leaned back and reached for a tipple from the cupboard under his desk.
Perhaps it was time to change direction if he were to continue keeping the lovely streets of Scheveningen clean and tidy. Perhaps the Colonel had done his duty, and now it was time for the other side of him to shine. He could continue carrying out his same role, just in an entirely different way.
The telephone rang shrilly on his desk, startling him out of his daydream. He cleared his throat, picked it up, and injected warmth and a smile into his tone before he spoke.
“Good evening,�
� he said, “Doctor Bram Bastiaan speaking, how can I help you?”
66
ELIAN, LEV, BRAM, ALEX AND ERIK.
SCHEVENINGEN PIER
14.7.15 Late at night
There is light, Elian is sure, so sure that doesn’t even consider that it might be a hallucination. It could be, because she sure feels rough, but not so bad that she will consider giving up before she has tried her very hardest to get out of these stinking, damp, cold tunnels.
She crashes to a stop as her hands – held out in front of her now – touch something unfamiliar. And there is light, barely there, but something bright piercing through the edges of whatever she has felt under her fingertips.
It is metal, not concrete like the walls she has been running past for what seems like hours. This is metal, and … something else. She winds the unknown material in her fist and tugs. It comes free. She rubs it in her hands.
It is a plant, growing through some sort of metal lid.
A drain?
Elation lends her strength and she pushes hard with her hands, turning to use her whole body weight, and under her shoulder it gives a little.
“Yes,” she murmurs, and pushes harder. “Yes, yes, YES!”
There is a rush of air, the warm summer night air that she has come to love, and she tilts her face to it and lets it bathe her as she pedals her legs and moved onwards, upwards, clambering, emerging into the night. On her knees she sucks in great gulps of air, letting the panic settle before remembering the door that had opened at the top of the stairs in the basement. How close behind her was the doctor?
With a squeak she rolls the lid of whatever it was she pushed out back into the hole from which she crawled out of. Put a lid on him; keep him in there, she thinks.
But it was easy to move it, and she looks around, wondering if there is anything she can put on top of it to keep him inside.
As she plants her hands on the ground to stand up she feels damp wood underneath her palms. The light that had shone through the edge of the metal lid was the lamp posts blazing high above her.
Standing, she shields her eyes and looks around her.
The pier.
She is on the pier.
And far down it, not inside the part of it where all the shops are, but on the outside, now she can see and feel the sea underneath her, the waves spitting and crashing through the wooden planks.
Confused, she lays on her front and peers through the wooden planks. There is a pipe, large and round that comes all the way from the beach which she can’t believe she just ran through. But she must have, there is no other way for her to end up on this floating decoration where she had spent so many days recently.
Though they were on the inside, not out here, in the middle of the night. Alone. And the fog is back, rolling in off the sea, draping the beach and the pier and the town beyond in a thick carpet of mist.
Swearing under her breath she looks down towards the entrance, sees the gates that have been drawn across and bolted. High, heavy, metal gates that prevent people coming onto the pier at night.
There is no way out. Not until the morning, when the employees and attendants come to work.
“Shit,” she whispers, and shivers.
Just then, she hears a grating noise, and her hands fly to her mouth as she feels the metal lid she has replaced move under her move slightly.
The doctor!
Carefully she moves backwards, watching with terror now as the lid moves up and down.
Time to fly again, she thinks as she begins to run.
But this time there is nowhere to run to.
Lev bursts through the hatch, not stopping to replace the lid as he draws his legs through the opening and looks frantically around him.
The pier, he is on the pier. And the gates are closed, and the fog is like a blanket, but that doesn’t worry Lev. The pier at night is his friend, he has been here before, and his pals have shown him the torn panel in the fence that sits adjacent to the left hand gate. Whooping now, but quietly, lest the girl already made her own escape and has the police on standby, he gets to his feet and jogs down to the entrance of the pier.
Through the fence, bending it back in place like he’d been shown, he moves down past the gates. And never before has the boardwalk felt so good under his feet.
Lev looks around, sees nobody. No flashing police cars, no sirens, no news vans that have been here of late, no sight of the girl from Chernobyl either. He stares across the road, up towards his apartment. He can’t risk going there, not if Joy’s body has been found next door, they may well have someone in authority stationed outside.
He grumbles in annoyance. His passport, his money, the nice, fat joint untouched in his kitchen.
But it could be worse, it could be so much worse, he thinks, remembering Roland and the scalpel and the mad, crazy doctor. And hadn’t he, Lev, promised to lead a good life if he managed to escape?
He sits down on a low wall, thinks about where he is.
Holland.
One of the best places he could be to escape from. He can hitch a ride to the border of Germany or Belgium, go on to France, through to Spain even. And from there, wherever he ends up, he knows he can find the right sort of people who will help him.
He digs through his pocket, comes up with a crumpled ten euro note.
He smiles. He will find someone, somewhere to help him. He always does. He has a certain charm.
And whistling a tune, he strolls along the promenade. There is no rush, he is safe for now.
He’ll get onto the N44 motorway and find a lonely, friendly, chatty truck driver.
Who knows, by the morning, he could even be in Amsterdam. And if ever there was a town to spend a night or two in, from what he has heard, Amsterdam sounds like a peachy choice.
Erik puts his head down and sprints. It is easier now he doesn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder to make sure his English pal is keeping up okay. Not that Alex is fat or anything, he’s not, he looks in fine form. But he’s not a runner, probably goes to the gym for show, a few bench presses, a couple of weights, nothing that raises his stamina, that’s for sure.
Unlike Erik. Erik runs every day, and sometimes, when he is out by the canal and the cold and damp are hanging over him, he thinks about cutting his jog short and returning home to a steaming coffee and a croissant. But he doesn’t, and now, when time matters, he is glad of all those times he has pushed himself.
He didn’t always have to push himself, there was a time when Naomi would join him on every morning run, and they would encourage each other.
Running was fun then.
He couldn’t pinpoint when it had stopped.
A thick, red haze obscures his vision as he thinks of Naomi.
He puts his head down again, and runs even faster.
There is something up there, ahead of him. Glancing up every few steps he can see a shining light. They must be nearly at the pier if the scent of sea air seeping into the tunnels is anything to go by.
Suddenly, Erik crashes into something on the darkened ground. He goes down, letting out a hiss of frustration as his gun skitters off into the darkness. Erik looks up, sees the metal grate of a storm drain missing, flicks his gaze down to see that was what he had smashed into. Hauling himself to his feet, Erik jumps, grips the lip of the hole and struggles through into the clean air. Patting his belt, too late he remembers his gun.
“Shit,” he whispers, risking a glance back into the tunnel beneath him.
Just as he is edging back towards the hole to retrieve his weapon, he hears a shriek. He stands up, looks through the dark night, cursing under his breath at the fog that is coming into shore and obscuring his visibility. Abandoning the gun and the tunnel, Erik folds his fingers into fists and moves forward into the mist.
He senses rather than sees or hears a movement, and he flattens his back against one of the booths in the centre of the pier. Hardly breathing, he peers around the edge of the shack, sees the ta
il of a coat swishing as someone – the doctor? – moves towards the old landing pad.
Erik frowns, where is he going? The old helicopter pad is empty, just a bare patch of old concrete and metal, leading only to the sea, waiting to have something built on it. It is cordoned off, but the fences are broken, damaged and knocked down by youths with nothing better to do. At the end of the space are yet more dismantled railings that lead out to sea, empty, but for … a girl!
Erik can feel his heart pounding now as he takes off after the man. And surely it can’t be the doctor, because this guy has some speed on him, and Erik knows the doctor, he’s getting on in age, but if it is not the doctor then … who?
Lev.
And Erik remembers that guy, and the memory of Joy comes full pelt back at him, and even if Erik is having trouble identifying this man, he knows that the girl in a crouch on the end of the pier is – must be – Alex’s woman.
Erik turns it up a gear, knowing he needs to get to the space at the end of the pier before the guy reaches Alex’s girl, because Erik doesn’t want any more bodies, not in his town. And he couldn’t save Naomi, or any of the other girls, but he is here now, and he is bearing down on the man in the black coat. Just one more push …
But the girl has moved, Erik can see her skittering backwards on her hands and knees, and he wants to shout at her not to go any further, that it’s okay, that Erik is almost there, but of course, she can’t see him, not through the fog, not with the maniac almost upon her. And as Erik darts through the jagged fence, losing precious seconds as his coat snags on the protruding wire, he lets out a shout.
The girl is on the edge now, and she leaps off the side of the pier, her face momentarily turning towards Erik as he lets out a roar.
Erik pushes himself even harder, grunting at the thought of the girl crashing into the cold, black North Sea. There’s no hope for her there, Erik knows that, knows that the tide is in, that the waves will swallow her up and take her forever into a freezing watery grave. And as he reaches the guy, the anger – not just at Elian’s fate, but that of all the girls and his own Naomi – break free from Erik as he launches himself at the back of the man in the black coat.
