by G R Matthews
The door clicked and slid back into a recess. The lights inside came on and a wall of screens flickered to life. I gestured once more and she preceded me in.
A desk with single chair, a keyboard and the screens. Basic. Not a room you’d want to spend a lot of time in unless you needed privacy.
“Sit down,” I said and she complied. I removed my shirt and used it to tie her arms behind her back and to the chair. A small precaution. Not perfect. A little squirming, turning, a tug and a pull and she would free herself. It was more to make a point than anything else.
There was no login in sequence or security on the computers. I suppose the necklace and door did all of that. Stupid, but a secret, secure room in a big house with its own security systems was probably enough. Usually. A brush of the keys, a few menus to get past and I was into the files I needed. Easy. I knew the names and designations from Rehja’s messages.
“What are you going to do with them?” Her voice was calm, controlled. The fear was wearing off. That was okay. It had done its job.
“Prove my innocence and bring you down.” I looked over my shoulder at her as the last of the files was transferred to Derva’s Pad.
“You won’t get away with it.”
“Do people still say that?” I stood up straight and packed the Pad into my jumpsuit. “Well, this has been a pleasant way to spend some time, but I really must be going. I’ll leave the door open for you. Wouldn’t want you to suffocate before the trial.”
“There won’t be a trial. You won’t even make it out of the house.”
“I got in. I can get out,” I said, throwing the necklace into her lap.
“Hayes,” she began, but I put my finger on her lips, silencing her.
“We’ll always have this moment,” I said. “Don’t ruin it with a tearful goodbye.”
I left her seething in the room and true to my promise I left the door open. The butler was lying on the carpet. Pressing my fingers against his neck to make sure he was still alive, he hadn’t done anything wrong and didn’t really deserve the door in his face, I put him in the recovery position. On his side, arm up by his face, just in case.
“Well, well, well,” said a deep voice from behind me.
“Fuck.”
Chapter 47
This time there was no point talking. I had what I’d come for and now needed to get out. Ahead, the long gallery and the door. It was too far. Which meant the door behind me. The one the voice had come from. Life’s full of choices. Some are easy, some are hard, most just need to be made.
Twisting, using every ounce of muscle I had in my legs, I rose and ran straight at Rehja. His expression was a joy to behold. The victory and confidence he’d worn changed to surprise as my feet began to churn up the carpet between us. Two steps, three, and with no finesse whatsoever, I leaped straight at him. He took an involuntary step backwards and raised his hands to protect his face. Which was absolutely fine with me. I tucked into a ball and cannoned into him.
We went down in a tangle. I landed on top and let my weight drive the air from his lungs. Without stopping or losing any momentum, I rolled off of him and back to my feet. Shoulder aching, leg hurting, hand stinging and sundry bruises complaining that they hadn’t had sufficient time to heal. I ignored them all, drew in a breath and took off.
On the floor was the object I’d stolen from the house in the ocean. Rehja must have been carrying the block and it had spilled from his hand when I ran into him. Without breaking stride, I bent down and scooped it up. My luck couldn’t last.
This room was a library. An actual room with actual books. Bits of paper with words on them all glued between two bits of board. I’d heard about them. Seen pictures. Glimpsed one or two in a museum back at home. Here though were hundreds of them. Thousands. The air was dry and had a slightly musty smell. I could have spent an age in this room, just looking through these priceless artefacts of a lost age.
I didn’t even slow. My life isn’t worth much, but it’s mine. Behind me I could hear Rehja struggling to his feet. There was another door ahead.
“Rehja, untie me,” the lady screeched. Another few seconds of time. Would he do as asked or chase me down? No point looking back. Keep running.
Through the door and into a room with a selection of artfully arranged settees, chairs, tables and objet d’art. Education wasn’t wasted on me. I think I was wasted on education. A distraction. Move man. Run. A vase shattered on the floor as I clipped a table, the shards scattering in all directions.
“Sorry,” I called and I was. That vase was probably irreplaceable. History is important. It defines who we were, are and where we are going. I’d just destroyed a bit of it.
Turning right, my foot skidded out of from under me on the smooth floor. Another priceless object tumbled. A statue this time. Bronze or gold plated from my quick glance. Lucky. It might dent but it wouldn’t smash or break. “Sorry.”
I scrambled to my feet and wrenched open the door. The entrance way. The exit. A servant.
“Shit,” I muttered and covered it with, “I’m glad I found you. There’s been an accident. Mr Rehja is with your boss. She’s hurt. In the gallery.”
And I pointed for good measure. The woman looked at me, feather duster in her hand. A second later she moved towards the door I’d just come from and I moved to the exit.
“Get out of the way, woman.” I heard Rehja shout. A glance over my shoulder showed that he had collided with her as she raced through the door to help him, and her boss. They were down in a tangle of limbs and he was being none to gentle about removing her from his person. I’d have laughed if I wasn’t too busy barrelling through the big doors and down the path.
“Stop him.” The shout came from the doorway and ahead a gardener looked up.
I saw the man take in the situation. One of his bosses at the door, looking dishevelled and certainly angry. A man in a cheap jumpsuit running away. It was an easy decision for him to make. He raised the rake he’d been using and took up a fighting stance in the middle of the path. Blocking my route to the gate and the rest of the city.
The rake looked to be a dangerous weapon, the man behind it less so. Give him his due, he stood there whilst a criminal, what else was he to think I was, ran at him. He was younger than me. Too young to have seen service. Didn’t mean he hadn’t been in the military, but the look in his eyes said different. He was scared and was only standing there because he was more scared of Rehja than me. Fine.
Most people have thought about what they’d do when faced with a dangerous situation; a leak, an implosion warning, a violent man. They’ve over thought it. The reality is always different. This is what the military teaches. It is what good self-defence teachers teach.
Most boys, and a lot of girls, have been in a fist fight or two during their younger years. Either with a sibling or a school bully, or they were the school bully. It doesn’t matter. They’ve been there. They know how to throw a punch, or at least how to flail ineffectually at someone. How long it will take their fist to reach its intended target.
Very few have ever trained with a weapon. They might have swung a racket on court or a bat in a games lesson at school. Not at a person who is moving towards them at speed. It is easy to misjudge just how long it takes to swing a weapon. The rake was long. Unbalanced. The heavy metal end would need to be brought back over his shoulder before any degree of force could be delivered. A better bet was a straight thrust. No one thinks of that.
Five steps from him, less than two seconds to decide. He had to do something. Just standing there wasn’t going to work. He had to know that. I could just kick, punch, or collide with him. The weapon was useful to both us. It demanded to be used, shield himself or strike out. It was also a distraction.
Three steps. Too late. The head of the rake went back and started its downward journey.
Two steps away and I could see he knew it. The head of the rake came down, past my shoulder and my hand slammed upwards, palm open, into
his face. A nice move on my part, up to a point. That being the point where he fell down and I went with him. The rake flew from his hands and I had a sense of déjà vu.
This time the gravel stung my hands and back as I scrabbled to my feet. The white stones were already stained with the blood flowing from the gardener’s nose. Don’t bring a rake to a fist fight. That’s my advice. Bring a gun instead.
Out through the gate and into the city. Hoping the AI still couldn’t pick me out of a crowd. I didn’t stop running till I had turned seven or eight corners. The mental map in my mind guiding me to the box where I had stashed my Fish-Suit.
I wasn’t out yet.
Chapter 48
They were behind me. Somewhere. Had to be.
The chances of getting away with assaulting a prominent business leader and a few of her employees were slim. More than likely I’d have security and her own staff chasing me down. As yet, I hadn’t seen any of them. It didn’t mean they weren’t there.
Though the City-AI might not be able to track me, a few eyes scanning the camera feeds might get lucky. I tried to move naturally. Kept my head low. Forcing my shoulders to relax, my steps to be even and my mouth to avoid trouble.
Under the city dome that was easy. The lack of trouble. People were moving around the city as if it was any normal day and to them, it was. Some wore suits, some jumpsuits, a few dressed in a style that said, ‘I may look casual, but these clothes are very expensive.’ I didn’t look out of place, a jumpsuit covered a multitude of sins.
In the boxes there might be trouble. I was a stranger and though I’d made my way through them a time or two since coming to the city, I’d been with Rehja or doing my utmost to remain unnoticed. Now the slow pace, the wandering and stopping at shops, the show of being just a normal box dweller would have to go. Speed was what I needed. The Fish-Suit was waiting and somewhere, out in the dark ocean was my lift home. Derva and her sub. Safety and salvation.
In the boxes, most folks move slow. There was nowhere they had to be, unless it was work or their partner in-doors expected them home at a certain time. Someone moving fast was going to stand out. Not quite a flashing neon sign, but the wrong people would notice. The criminals, crooks, thieves and petty muggers. They’d know where the cameras didn’t work, where it was dark enough to do their work without getting caught. I had no choice. I was on a deadline.
The second flight of stairs down was their first attempt. Two men stepped out of a bulkhead and blocked my way. A third took station at the top. It was a good strategy. I’d be slower going up the stairs against the one, and the two at the bottom would overcome my slight height advantage.
“Really?” I stopped halfway, probably like they intended. “This is not my day.”
“Just hand over anything you’ve got and you can be on your way,” said the scrawny teenager with lank blond hair from the top of the stairs.
I turned side on, putting my back against the wall. Of value, I had the seal and Derva’s Pad. Both of which I wanted to keep hold of. “I don’t have anything.”
“Everyone has something,” a slightly larger teenager said. One of those at the bottom.
“Not me. It’s been a bad year.” I counted the steps below and ran through the sequence in my mind. Sports stars spoke about this on the clips shows. Imagining and practising in their head what they would do, how it would go, before they did it. Visualising. I’d done it a few times on tricky jobs. Just to make sure I knew what I was doing. Here though, I was making it up as I went along.
No point waiting. I pushed off the wall, skipped down two steps and jumped. A move, an attack, I was fast becoming fond of. Most people expect a punch or kick as the first move in any fight. Here I used my whole body as the weapon and with my height advantage I caught them both high. Their upraised hands, used to shield their faces from the expected fist or foot, were no protection against my entire weight plus the kinetic energy of my leap.
They went down hard and I was up and running down the next flight of stairs before they could regain their feet or the skinny lad at the top had started to move. A few flights down and I heard the cacophony of echoing footsteps above me stop. I was back in range of working cameras or someone else’s territory. Either was good. The latter less so.
The second came on the floor where I’d stored my Fish-Suit. It was worse for the simple fact that I thought I was home free. I wasn’t. Five men blocked the corridor ahead and three behind. And these were men, not teenagers. They had the look of competence and practice about them.
“Hand over everything you’ve got,” their leader said. A heavy-set man whose muscles had once been impressive, but had now turned to fat. That didn’t mean he wasn’t strong or dangerous.
“I don’t have anything.” I gauged the distances again. Both groups were the same distance away. Logic said the weak spot, if such it could be called, were the three men behind me. The numbers backed logic up. Neither were any help. Three or five made no difference. There is no one in the oceans that can take down three men at once, bare handed, let along escape the five that would follow up a second or two behind. “Really, I don’t have anything.”
“Everyone has something.”
“I’ve heard that before,” I said.
“My son,” the leader said. “You should have just given the stuff to him. Now I have to take your stuff and beat you up a little.”
“That seems bit unfair,” I said, looking for an alarm I could press or a door I could escape through. Nothing.
“The way of life, my friend,” he said. “Believe me, I’ll give him a few shots too. He’s embarrassed me too.”
“Well, that’s all right then,” I shrugged, not really relishing the idea of this fat man getting an award for father of the year, “but like I told him, I don’t have anything.”
“Then the beating will have to suffice.”
I took a few steps to the side, putting my back against the wall again. The most defensible position I could find. It wasn’t much.
On an unspoken signal, they all started forward and stopped a single step later as the sound of singing wafted down the corridor. It was impossible to make the words out, but the tune was unlike anything I’d heard before. I saw the thugs share a confused glance. The voice grew louder, closer and clearer. It was clear the singing was in a language I didn’t speak. No one moved as around the corner walked an old man.
He looked about sixty, maybe older. Long grey hair caught up in a ponytail and a web of lines on his tan coloured skin. Asian descent was my guess, and the almond shape of his eyes confirmed it. His pupils were dark and soft, and there was a slight smile on his face as he came to a halt behind the group of five. He was dressed in a long robe of red silk which reached to his knees and below which loose trousers could be seen. In his hand, he held a walking stick. It tickled a memory.
I watched the newcomer bow to the group. “Forgive me, gentleman. I have business with the man in your midst. It would be greatly appreciated if you could make way and allow me to talk to him.”
“Me?” I blurted.
“Him?” The leader echoed.
“I believe he has something of mine that I wish returned. I would prefer it comes to me undamaged,” he said.
“Listen, old man,” the thug leader said, turning the full weight of his stare on the interloper, “you can’t come to my floor and start telling me what to do. That’s only going to get you put in hospital. You understand?”
“I do, honoured sir. I ask your forgiveness for interrupting you in the pursuit of your business. However, I must insist that the man come with me. Your swift compliance is appreciated.” The Asian man bowed once more, placing the hand that gripped the walking stick inside the palm of his other hand as he did so.
I groaned. I’d seen that before and knew what he was here for. He’d chosen a bad time to get involved. “I was going to bring it back to you.”
He gave me a calm, measured gaze and nodded. “I believe you, Mr Haye
s.”
“What the fuck are you two on about? You know what, I don’t care. I’ll take everything he’s got and everything you have, old man. Lads, get them.”
Chapter 49
One on three or five on two. The odds of the latter looked better so I started forwards, towards the boss and his friends. The old man was about to be in a lot of trouble. Fighting is a young man’s game. You need to be fit, practised and skilled. I’d had more of the middle one than I wanted recently and the Fish-Suit kept me reasonably fit, even against the tide of alcohol and bad food. I needed a drink.
It was impossible to see quite what happened, but one moment the big boss thug was lunging at the old man and the next he was flat out on the floor, unmoving. I saw the next one though. Thug number two, only slightly smaller than his boss, threw a great haymaker of a punch at the old man. With a total lack of emotion on his face, the old man raised one hand to block the punch and struck out with the other, the one holding the walking stick. It hit his attacker in the throat and down went number two. This one kept moving though. Kicking his feet against the floor and clawing at his throat.
The third thug, of the five, had moved half a step back when I grabbed him by the scruff of his top and, with all my weight behind it, ran him face first into the wall. I let him go, skipped away two steps before turning round to face the remaining criminals.
Three down in as many seconds, the thugs had overcome their initial feelings of invincibility and come to halt. I watched them glance at one another, at their unconscious boss and at the man still struggling to draw breath.
