by JA Huss
“That way.” Eliza points. Reminding Christine, of course, that she knows this place better than Christine does and, in effect, dousing the flame of love I was about to express with an icy bucket of Eliza. Which is what she is. An icy bucket of reality. It’s what she’s always been. I’m curious to see what happens once we’re all out of here. And by “curious,” I mean fokken dreading.
We reach the end of the passageway and land at an old, wooden door that looks as though it might splinter into pieces if you put pressure on it. It has stood here for hundreds of years, unmolested, and the idea that our being here and pressing on it might shatter it into a thousand tiny shards seems symbolically fitting somehow. That is what we do. All of us. Break the things we touch.
“What the hell was all this? Was it used as, like, an escape route during a war or something?” Christine asks.
“Not sure,” I say. “I never bothered to ask after its pedigree. I just bought it.”
“My guess is that these were likely installed by some land baron for liasons dangereuses,” Eliza says. And I hope that she’ll just shut up and leave it at that. But she’s Eliza, so… “You know, secret entry- and exitways through which the lord of the manor might shuttle his mistresses and whores. That type of thing. Probably.” There is an extra amount of knowing emphasis on the last word.
And because there are automatic weapons available and no one would know… I would not put it past Christine to run outside, weeping, and telling everyone, “They didn’t make it,” after having laid waste to us both.
The sound of blood pumping furiously though her veins is very nearly audible.
“Lekker,” I say, and push on the door. To my surprise, it doesn’t splinter and fall apart, but retains a startling amount of integrity and requires quite a bit of shoulder to force open than I expected. I definitely feel pain throughout my side and look back at Eliza and Christine for a bit of aid in the pushing. They offer none. They both just stare at me.
All right. That’s fair.
The door opens and afternoon country sunshine greets us. The rain has stopped completely, and the sky is beaming with the rays of that great, golden orb. There is a small set of steps that lead up and out into the pasture just beyond the fence that protects the property. A fence, I might add, that I did not have installed. I don’t know who did.
I step up and into the meadow. Looking back, the manor appears to be about two or three hundred meters behind us. We’ve arced around and can see the front of the place spread out laterally before us. The great drive that leads to the front of the house ends just a bit ahead of where we stand and meets up with the road that passes us to the side.
Typically, these geographic details might not be important. But they are now, owing to two things that happen simultaneously.
One: I can see two bulky figures who bear a striking resemblance to the Brenden and Charlie I remember streaking from around where the entrance to the kitchen is to make their way into the cab of the vehicle. I also see Russell on the roof, sprinting to the edge of the house to, it would appear, leap down onto the escaping vehicle before Charlie and Brenden leave him stranded there.
And.
Two: The radios that Christine and Eliza are carrying erupt with sound. The sound of mingled voices shouting, “Go, mate! Fuckin’ go, go, go, go, go!”
It is immediately evident why.
The various laaities who had been seeing to it that I stayed safely within their ranks are also running after the Watsons (and an as yet unseen Danny, I suppose), rifles aimed and firing.
Ah, yes. This is more what real life looks like.
Russell reaches the front edge of the manor just as the truck is pulling away. And as I am not prone to hyperbole, when I say that he makes a death-defying leap onto the roof of the vehicle as automatic weapon fire lances the air around him, I am not exaggerating. It is quite something to watch. I’ve never been impressed by acrobatic feats. It’s just not something that interests me. But if Cirque du Soleil thought to incorporate small-arms fire into their acts, I might be forced to change my assessment.
The vehicle comes barreling straight toward us, Charlie and Brenden growing clearer in my view along with Danny, whose head I now see popped up between the twins. The look on his face is half-astonishment, half-anger. Russell is pressed flat to the roof of the truck, making himself as small as possible. The back of the cube is opening and flapping about, a couple of slabs of beef crashing to the ground as the lumbering transport weaves and jolts in our direction.
It makes its way through the only unsecured portion of the estate itself—the opening in the fence where the drive connects to the road. Two more guards wait there and my hope that no one will die today is looking increasingly unlikely. The bigger concern is that the ones dying will be us and not them. But, if we’re lucky, perhaps not.
I raise the weapon I’m still holding and point it in the direction of the guards, who appear ready to fire into the windshield. My finger is on the trigger just as it was with Liam earlier, ready to pull away.
And then, as if in support of my global thesis that life is ludicrous… the firing stops. Their shooting ceases, entirely. Every one of them. The okes chasing the vehicle all stop, seemingly at once, and lower their weapons. The guards at the edge of the property also lower their weapons and don’t make a move to stop the lorrie. Instead, they step aside and let it pass, unfettered. It comes squealing to a halt beside where we are huddled by a copse of English countryside and Charlie yells, “Get in, get in, get in!”
Eliza bounds to the open rear and in one feline pounce is up and into the back. I, in my barefooted, ill-fitting, and not-quite-yet-fully-healed state, attempt to do the same, but just like the guards, I also stop when I see that Christine is making no attempt to move forward. At all. She is just standing in place, looking ahead, impassive. Almost catatonic.
“Christine! Let’s go! Come on, nunu!”
“Christine!” Charlie yells urgently from the cab. “Make moves, luv!”
But she doesn’t. In the midst of the confusing chaos, she stands stock still. Looking back at the house, her chin lifted slightly.
“Christine!” I shout again, going back to take her by the arm and drag her if necessary. “Christine, we have to fokken—!”
And then I stop my forward energy once more. And see why she’s inanimate. Because as I look to understand what it is she sees that has frozen her thus, I become frozen in exactly the same way.
Watching from a massive third-floor window that overlooks all that just played out on the grounds of van den Berg manor—unmoving, standing as still as Christine and I have become…
There he is.
Lars.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - DANNY
“What bloody happened out there, bruv?” Theo asks as we all enter Eliza’s.
“Somebody tried to fool the Queen’s Guard with fake Crown Jewels, and it didn’t go well,” I say.
“Bloody hell does that mean, mate?”
“It means these three”—I point at Eliza, Christine, and Alec—“thought they could trick a team of armed mercenaries with the old mistaken identity routine.”
“Oh, right, mate,” Eliza says, wryly, “it’s our fault. Not at all the fault of the two people who showed up here suggesting that we assault a virtual fortress in the hopes of retrieving a man no one would really miss in the first place.” Then she adds, “I’m referring to you, Christine, and Alec, lest there be any doubt.”
“Eliza,” I offer, “I know we haven’t seen each other in a while and that we don’t really know each other that well, but I’d like to invite you to go fuck yourself.”
“All right, all right,” interjects Russell. “Let’s all just take a breath, shall we? We got in, got Alec, and all made it back safe and sound. So, mission accomplished, yeah?”
There’s general mumbling, in which I participate, because if you just look at the Xs and Os of the thing, he’s technically correct. Still, something isn
’t sitting right for me…
“Why’d they stop?” I ask.
“Why did who stop?” Eliza responds.
“The mercs.”
“How do you know they’re mercs?”
“What-fucking-ever! The guys with the guns. They stopped shooting. Why? Somebody must’ve ordered it. Who? Did you see?”
“No, luv. I was in the truck wondering why we weren’t moving.”
I look at Brenden, who’s at the fridge, opening a Whitbread Pale Ale. He shrugs. I step over, snatch the beer from him, take a sip, and hand it back. He scowls at me.
I look to Russell, who shrugs also, and Charlie, who doesn’t seem to notice because he’s focused on Christine, who stands in the corner, kind of hugging herself.
“Alec,” I say, regarding him. He looks absurd in pants and a jacket that are three inches too short and no shoes. The beard also looks ridiculous on him. Some people are built for beards, some not so much. Alec is definitely in the latter category. “What the fuck happened? Do you know?”
He lifts his head, looks at each of us in turn, taking me in last, and says, “Lars.”
“Lars?” I repeat. He nods. “What about Lars?”
“It’s him. He’s the one. He’s the one who brought me there. He’s the one who was keeping me there. It’s him.”
“Fuck are you saying?”
He shrugs. “Dunno, man. Dunno how. Dunno why. But we saw him. Christine saw him, then I saw him. Standing there. Watching it all. He’s the one behind it. He’s the one who stopped it.”
“I don’t even understand how—”
“Yeah, I don’t either, man. But I don’t make the fokken news. I just report it.”
There’s a moment of silence before Eliza shakes her head, echoes Alec in an almost inaudible, sarcastic mumble, “You don’t make the news…” and then says brightly, “Well, very good! Good luck to the three of you. Goodbye now. Charlie, Brenden, Russell, Theo… tea?” She goes to the stove and grabs up a kettle.
I rub my hand down my face and say, “Yeah, OK. We’ll go. But you should too.”
“What’s that mean?” Theo asks.
“If Lars is somehow the reason that Alec is still alive then he’s not done.”
“Done with what?” Eliza says.
“Us. I guess. Christine gave you the highlights,” I remind her, “so you know that he’s got a vendetta that’s not been settled yet.”
“That’s insane.”
“Yeah. No shit,” I say. “Have you met the van den Bergs?”
“Fair point,” she accedes.
“And now, you’re all implicated in this whole thing,” I finish.
“Fucking hell,” Russell says. “Are you taking the piss? I fuckin’ hope so, mate. Because otherwise this is gonna cost quite a bit more than a quarter million quid, yeah?”
“Danny,” Eliza says, touching my arm gently, “get the fuck out of my house now, please.”
“Fine,” says Alec, stepping between us, “we’ll go. But he’s right. You should protect yourselves. Just, at the least, be cautious for a bit. Until…” He drifts off, his gaze shifting over to Christine.
“Until what?” Eliza asks.
“Until I’ve killed him.”
Christine looks up now, her eyes meeting Alec’s. They hold each other’s stare. There’s a lot—an awful, dreadful lot—for us to unpack. It was already going to be a messy reunion with the way Alec wound up in this state.
Add to that the fact that the whole reason he wound up here at all owes to whatever happened between Christine and Lars—the details of which she still can’t fully recall or just isn’t willing to share—and now it seems that Lars is also still alive and behind Alec being alive.
Add to that the fact that we have included the Watsons into our adventure, and we have a history with them.
Add to that the fact that, apparently, there’s a whole separate history between Eliza, Christine, and Alec that I wasn’t even present for.
And then add to that the fact that this whole history between them that I wasn’t present for appears to have resulted in…
“Hopscotch?” The tiny, curious accent comes from the doorway behind us. It’s tinged with a hint of sleepiness. I turn to see Alexandria standing there, yawning, rubbing her little eye with her little fist. She holds a raggedy, brown teddy bear with part of its ear and one eye missing. Theo goes to her.
“Hey, hey there, pigtails. Whatchou doin’ awake? You’re s’posed to be napping.”
“I heard talking.” She points at me and says, “He’s going to hopscotch with me.”
And there’s something in the way she says it. Something about the clear, decisive nature of it. The unwavering self-certainty that because this is what she expects is going to happen, it is going to happen. The way she points at me. All of it. That reminds me of…
When I look over, Alec has both hands pressed to his shaggy chin in what resembles a small prayer. His mouth is open, and his eyes are drifting back and forth between the tiny one and her mother. Eliza has her hand on her hip and her eyes closed. She sighs.
I look at Christine who doesn’t move, consciously, but who radiates with an energy that causes her to look like she’s vibrating. I know that vibration. Water gathers in her eyes. Not sadness.
Intensity.
Rage.
And when Alec then says, “Right. We need to make sure you’re all protected,” she stands, opens the door, and marches out, slamming it hard behind her.
Yeah… there’s a lot to unpack.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - CHRISTINE
The door rattles the frame as I slam it shut. I don’t look back, but I hope it knocks some of the precious shingles off the thatched roof.
Avoiding the slate pathway and marching straight through the garden, I step on and squash as many daffodils, or daisies, or pussy willows, or dandelions, or whatever as I can. I don’t know what I’m stomping on, exactly. I don’t fucking garden.
I trudge my way into a grove of trees just past the little stone wall and see the magical playhouse that I knew was there. Just beyond the playhouse is a proper guest house that looks like a larger version of the playhouse. The playhouse that looks like a miniature version of the main house.
This whole place makes me wanna puke.
From behind me I hear the door to the main house open and I turn, expecting to see Alec. Because Alec would come for me right now, right? After everything. After all we’ve gone through. After coming to rescue him, and admitting that we needed Eliza’s help, and facing her, and all that, and the past… he’d come out to make sure I’m OK, right?
Danny and Charlie call my name at the same time.
“Hey!”
“Oi, Christine!”
… I guess not.
Charlie spies me across the way and trots over first, taking my elbow as he arrives. “You OK, luv? Is there something—?”
Danny comes up behind him and puts his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Thanks, mate. We got it.”
There’s a moment.
Charlie spins on Danny, seemingly out of instinct at the sensation of being touched. It looks like they’re going to—as I’ve heard the Watson boys says in the past—“have a tussle.” If they do, I don’t want to be here to watch it. They’re well matched physically and neither one will ever back down, and I don’t have any desire to stand here and watch them kill each other.
But then Danny tips his head toward Charlie with a resolute and knowing look and repeats himself. Slowly. “We got it, man. Thanks.”
Charlie stares at him, looks at me for… I don’t know what. Something I don’t have to give. I look at the ground and Charlie huffs a breath, nods, and turns to head back inside.
Once Danny and I are alone, the sounds from Eliza’s property settle in my ears. Bees buzz. Birds chirp. I’m pretty sure I hear Snow White singing to a motherfucking blue jay somewhere in the distance. I rip a bunch of roses from a bush, tearing them free and
cutting my hands on the thorns.
“Hey! Yo! What are you doing? Don’t do that. Stop.”
I keep ripping at them anyway.
“I said, stop!” Danny repeats, grabbing my hands and holding my arms at my sides.
“Let me go.”
“Not until you calm down. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Oh, I’m gonna hurt somebody all right. Let me. Fucking. Go.”
He does. He releases his grip and I rub my palms together to get the stinging to stop. The blood smears.
Danny sits on the stone wall. He plants his hands beside his thighs and lifts his shoulders. “What else aren’t you telling me?”
I cross my arms. I’m probably going to smear blood all over my clothes. I don’t give a shit. “What are you talking about?”
“I feel like I’ve been pretty fucking cool and understanding about the fact that I’m in the dark on what’s going on. I don’t know a whole lot of other motherfuckers who’d travel all the way around the world knowing as little as I did about what the hell was going to be waiting for me when I got here, and not make a thing out of it. And I know there’s still holes in your goddamn memory, but I also know there’s shit you’re just withholding from me, period. But y’know what?”
He lets that hang in the air for a second before he goes on.
“We’re here now. We’re here. And we did it. The whole fucking reason that we risked our lives—and are going to continue to risk our lives, it would appear—is so we could get Alec. When you left me, disappeared to I didn’t know where, and then came back to say that you had found him, I said, ‘Let’s fix this.’ Remember?
I nod.
“And that’s what I thought we were doing. Fixing it. But now that we’re here, shit still looks broken to me. So what’s left? What’s left to be fixed? Because I thought we were going to put our fuckin’ triangle back together, but right now we still feel like three broken lines. So what else aren’t you telling me?”
He lifts his hands and rubs his palms around and around each other. Like he’s soaping them up. Like he’s washing them. Like he’s been holding on to something dirty and now he wants to get clean.
