KILL ME GOODBYE

by A K Reynolds

  ‘How do you know they’ll fit me?’

  She gave me an enigmatic smile as she paid for the stuff.

  ‘It will.’

  Next she bought me a Wisdom toothbrush and an Antler wheelie-case and we took the stuff to our apartment. I showered and changed.

  ‘You look great,’ she said, when I’d put my new clothes on.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s not a good idea to be out on the streets. It’d be pushing our luck, so we’ll stay in and watch TV for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Okay.’

  After a short argument we agreed to binge-watch Breaking Bad. It wasn’t the best selection we could’ve made because much of it was about criminals wreaking havoc, which was a bit too close to home for me. We sat on the sofa together while watching it with about a yard of space between us. After the first episode Sarina edged closer, reached out, and ran her finger over my scar.

  Over the course of the evening Sarina shuffled closer to me, so subtly I didn’t notice, and by 9 p.m. she was right next to me. Slouching sideways, she leaned on me and raised her right leg, hooking it over my left. I wanted to object but deep down I had to admit to myself I enjoyed the warmth of physical contact with her. At 11 p.m. I realised I was done-in.

  ‘I’m going to bed now. Night.’

  Then I moved her leg off me and stood up. As Sarina had earmarked the master bedroom for her use I went into the next-largest bedroom, did my ablutions, and turned in. It wasn’t long after I’d shut my eyes that the bedside light next to me came on and disturbed me. I opened my eyes to find Sarina standing next to the bed, naked, her black hair cascading over her shoulders, her dark eyes hypnotically attractive. ‘I’ve decided to join you,’ she said, pulling back the covers.

  As I was meant to be mad at her I thought I ought to say no. But when I opened my mouth to speak, she put her finger over it.

  ‘Don’t say anything, Jo.’

  So I kept schtum as she got into bed next to me. Then her hands were all over me, and in a matter of seconds we were embracing.

  ‘I want you, Jo.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THURSDAY

  My first waking thought was that it’d been a big mistake having sex with my ex-wife (as I now thought of Sarina) and I wouldn’t be making the same mistake again. As I made that resolution to myself Sarina was getting out of bed. She pottered about in the kitchen and returned after a few minutes with two mugs of coffee, setting one of them on the bedside table next to me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, taking a sip.

  When I’d finished, I snuggled down under the covers as I was still feeling groggy. Sarina put her arms around me. ‘I’m so glad we’re back to being us.’

  I was tempted to reply, ‘We’re not us anymore Sarina, and we’ll never be us again,’ but I kept quiet.

  Sarina climbed out of bed then, with her back to me, shook her head, running her fingers through her dark locks. She had a thousand little habits I found fascinating and that was one of them.

  She turned to face me, and gave me one of those sultry looks that I couldn’t resist. ‘Fancy a shower with me?’

  ‘You get it going, honey. I’ll join you in a minute, I’m just finishing my coffee.’

  She went into the bathroom leaving the door wide open. Just before stepping into the shower she glanced at me over her shoulder again wearing a cheeky grin. Once in the cubicle she was clearly visible through the glass partition. With another of her trademark grins she turned on the tap. Hot water gushed out with a sound like a summer storm and Sarina was enveloped in steam. I could no longer see her. It figured she could no longer see me. I quickly went through Sarina’s things looking for documents that might tell me something about her to either confirm or refute what she’d told me about her past. There was nothing. I got undressed and joined her in the shower.

  We emerged together and got dressed. Sarina glanced at her watch, an elegant Rolex. I wondered how much of my money she’d spent on it. Though she could be telling me the truth about Devlin having mortgaged my house.

  ‘Time to go,’ she said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To a photobooth to get some passport photos. We need new passports with false identities to stay one step ahead of Devlin. I know someone who can help. Being a PI has its uses.’

  Nine days ago that would’ve seemed outlandish. After what’d happened since, I took the idea in my stride.

  ‘Got you.’

  We put on our jackets and Sarina slung a bag over her shoulder. It occurred to me it probably had my gun in it and the spare magazines. We walked over the bridge crossing the river Esk into the middle of Whitby.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Sarina said, as we passed a newsagent. ‘Get your head lowered and keep it lowered.’

  Pulling my baseball hat so far down I could hardly see, I tucked in my chin so I was looking at the world through my eyebrows.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’ve become a wanted woman.’

  Chancing a sidelong glance I peered through the newsagent’s window. The headline on one of the national newspapers screamed at me: Manchester Woman Wanted for Three Murders. The other nationals had similar headlines and all of them had photofits on them that bore too close a resemblance to my face for comfort.

  ‘Change of plan,’ Sarina said. ‘This way.’

  She shot into an eight-till-late with me close behind. A bored-looking Asian woman was sitting behind the counter watching a small television. As soon as we entered she stopped watching the television and began watching me like a hawk instead. I wondered if she’d read one of the newspapers in the shop next door.

  Sarina browsed the rows of shelves with me while the eagle-eyed shopkeeper studied our every move. Behind the shopkeeper I saw a face on the television. It was the photofit image of the woman I knew to be me. My heart started beating so loudly I wondered if the shopkeeper could hear it.

  It was one of those shops that tries to be all things by selling groceries, electrical goods, clothes, and God knows what else. Sarina searched among the electrical goods and found a cheap battery operated grooming kit. It was intended for use by men as a beard trimmer. She found a bottle of blonde bleach peroxide and took both items to the till while I hovered nearby like a spare part.

  Outside she said, ‘It’s only a matter of time before the police decide their suspect is you and get photos of you to the press.’

  I couldn’t disagree. I reckoned that’d happen as soon as they got their DNA tests back from their lab.

  ‘You need to change your hair. Come with me.’ She took me to the public toilets on Langborne road next to the marina, pressed the grooming kit into my hand, and shoved me inside. ‘Go give yourself a crew-cut.’

  I was prepared to do things I would never have done before I’d adopted the lifestyle of a fugitive. So I locked myself in a cubicle and shaved my head. I didn’t resort to an over-the-top skinhead look. The threat of prison, or indeed death, wasn’t enough to persuade me to such an extreme. I opted for a sensible and not too masculine number four. It was tough going with the cheap clippers, but I somehow managed a fairly even cut. As I watched my hair sink to the bottom of the toilet bowl I felt as though I was flushing away my old life.

  When I emerged from the cubicle with a spiky and oddly cold head there was no one around so I checked myself out in the mirror. I didn’t recognise the person staring back at me but even though I say it myself, she was an attractive bitch.

  I rammed my baseball cap back on for good measure and re-joined Sarina outside.

  ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘Let’s get back to the apartment to bleach your hair.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I stared into the bathroom mirror. I’d gone from being blessed with long dark hair to a new short and unnaturally blonde look.

  ‘Suits you,’ Sarina said.

  ‘Hope you’re right.’

  ‘I am. Tim
e to go.’

  We got into the car and went to the Co-Op to get four passport photos each from the photobooth. Then we drove west on the A171, turning into the north Yorkshire Moors National Park then driving across a bleak landscape which took us to the tiny village of Lealholm. Sarina parked the car on a road with barely enough width to allow other cars to pass and we got out. The village consisted of a few dozen immaculately presented stone dwellings with red tiled roofs, a village shop, a bakery, and the obligatory tea-room.

  ‘This way,’ she said, trekking off down an unmade track towards what was evidently a barn conversion. It had an arched opening eight feet high by eight feet wide in its stone wall. The opening was fully glazed with a glass door set in the middle of it. A winding staircase was visible through the glazing. Sarina walked confidently to the door. Before she reached it, a good-looking woman of about forty years old with blonde hair tied into a ponytail opened it.

  ‘Come in,’ she said.

  We both entered.

  ‘This is Celia,’ Sarina said. ‘Celia,’ she added proudly, ‘my wife Jo.’

  Celia acknowledged me with a warm smile before leading us to a room furnished with a desk and revolving chair, three armchairs, a low table, and technical equipment including a microscope, a PC, and a high-spec printer.

  She adjusted her ponytail and turned to Sarina. ‘Have you got the things I asked for?’

  Sarina opened her bag and took out a bulging brown envelope and the new passport-sized photos we’d just got done at the Co-Op. Celia opened the flap of the envelope and peered inside.

  ‘It’s all there,’ Sarina said.

  Celia nodded and put the envelope away in a drawer.

  ‘Balance on completion,’ she said.

  ‘Sure.’

  Then Celia looked hard at our passport photos and at us.

  ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘What about your dates of birth et cetera?’

  Sarina handed her a scrap of paper with something scrawled on it in blue ballpoint pen.

  Celia gave it a quick glance.

  ‘I’ll have your items ready by tomorrow. Any questions?’

  ‘Do I get to choose what I’m going to be called?’ I said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, all settled. See you tomorrow,’ Sarina said.

  Celia let us out and we walked back to the car.

  ‘As soon as we get the passports we leave the country,’ Sarina said. ‘A man like Devlin isn’t going to stop until he’s killed you once you’ve crossed him.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  FRIDAY

  ‘Wake up sleepyhead.’

  Sarina was shaking me. Opening my eyes, I saw a mug of steaming coffee on the bedside table beside me. I yawned, stretched, sat up and grabbed it.

  ‘We ought to get weaving,’ Sarina said. She was already dressed. ‘I’ve been up an hour,’ she added. ‘It’s a great day. If things had been different I would’ve gone for a walk on the seafront.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  When the coffee had cooled down a little I knocked it back and got dressed.

  We were in the car, ten minutes later, heading out to see Celia. Sarina paid her the balance we owed, however much that was, in a manilla envelope. Celia gave us both our passports and a driving licence each. Mine were in the name of Ilse Kline.

  As soon as we’d returned to the car I turned to Sarina. ‘Ilse?’

  ‘It’s Teutonic which is appropriate given your new look.’

  ‘What are you called?’

  ‘Myra Blanchard.’

  ‘I envy you. At least that sounds vaguely normal.’

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’ve got to gripe about. Ilse Kline is a classy name’

  As we approached the bridge which would take us to the east side of Whitby we both saw a black Range Rover pulling up into the main car park by the Marina. A huge man climbed out of the front passenger seat. He must’ve been six foot six and weighed in at around two hundred and fifty pounds. He was perhaps forty-five years old, had long greying hair tied back into a ponytail, an oddly bony head reminiscent of pictures I’d seen showing what neandertal men were meant to have looked like, and a scowl that could have curdled milk. It was Hench. The other doors of the vehicle opened, spewing out three other men, not quite as big as Hench, but equally as unpleasant-looking.

  ‘Fuck,’ Sarina said. ‘Change of plan.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  She drove us across the bridge and took us along Larpool Lane, swinging back onto the A171 and out of Whitby.

  ‘I don’t think they saw us,’ I said.

  ‘True, but we got lucky. Our luck won’t hold forever. The sooner we’re out of the country the better.’

  She pulled in at the first layby we came to.

  ‘We need to swap places because I’m better with a gun than you. You drive.’

  I wasn’t about to argue with her, having seen what she’d done to Jurgen.

  ‘Where am I going?’ I said, when I’d got us back onto the road.

  ‘Dover.’

  She pulled the gun from her bag and put it in the side pocket of the passenger door. Then she pulled out her mobile phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Booking us places on the Dover to Calais ferry. Have you ever been to Calais?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll like it, it’s a nice place. Very historical.’

  Seven hours later, with dusk closing in on us we were in Dover driving onto the cross-channel ferry.

  While we were alone on deck waiting for the vessel to set sail Sarina tapped her handbag and smiled. ‘It’s better going to France this way than in an airplane,’ she said. ‘You can’t take your firearms with you when you fly. But you’ve got a better-than-evens chance of doing it when you cross the channel on a ferry. The security at ferry ports is notoriously lax compared to airports.’

  She was right. We’d been waived through border control as soon as we showed the officials our passports.

  We walked to the stern. A black Range Rover with tinted windows screeched into view.

  ‘Fuck,’ Sarina said.

  Below us, the final vehicle that had been queuing to sail drove up the ramp and disappeared inside the bowels of the ferry. The Range Rover entered the dock area speeding towards the ramp to follow it in. As the Range Rover drew near it, the ramp raised up like a drawbridge revealing the dark choppy water beneath. Tyres smoking, the Range Rover halted at the edge of the dock and its occupants, one of them a veritable giant, got out.

  ‘Quick, get back so they won’t see us,’ I said.

  ‘No point. They already know we’re here.’

  A man in uniform approached the Range Rover and remonstrated with Hench’s driver. The driver held his arms out palm-up and shrugged as if he’d made an honest mistake and knew he wasn’t meant to park his car at the edge of the dock. The four men returned to the car and the driver reversed onto where he should have parked in the first place.

  I glanced at Sarina. ‘They’ll be on the next ferry.’

  ‘We’ll have a head start on them.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  On the other side of the channel we drove to a Gitte with rough-hewn stone walls and a rustic tiled roof in a French National Park called the Parc Naturale Regional du Vexin Francais. The Gitte was lavishly appointed. We made ourselves comfortable, had a glass of wine each, French of course, watched television, and turned in.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  SATURDAY

  When we awoke Sarina suggested I join her in the shower. It seemed like a good idea so I did. And very enjoyable it was, too. When we were done we went out to the car.

  ‘You drive,’ she said, ‘it’s safer that way.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘We’re heading south.’

  Ten hours later we were standing in the lavishly-appointed sitting room of a detached villa on the outskirts
of Bilbao with glasses of red wine in our hands.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Now we do what Devlin was going to do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Blackmail Von Koss.’

  It was at that point that I realised I was making a big mistake. I’d put myself in the position of being a fugitive from justice. I was with a woman who was going to use the evidence we had on Von Koss to blackmail him rather than put him in prison. Every action I took from here on out would get me deeper into the quagmire I was already in. I decided I had to turn myself in. That was the only way to draw a line under things. I had to go back to England to prove my innocence.

  I told Sarina so.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s the right thing to do.’

  She put down her glass of wine, reached behind her back, and in an instant the gun appeared in her hand, aimed at me. ‘I’m sorry it had to end this way, Jo.’

  I got that sinking feeling that our relationship was still a big lie and she didn’t love me and never had.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t take you with me. You’ve become a liability. And I can’t let you live because you’ll spill your guts to the police and maybe to other people too.’

  ‘I love you Sarina.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘If it has to end here, at least tell me the truth before you kill me. You can do that much for me, can’t you?’

  ‘Least I can do, I suppose. Most of what I’ve told you is true. I was Hazel Flint, I was abused by Martin Von Koss and I loathe him with a passion. I have to admit though that I’m the one who mortgaged your house. I needed the money to bribe a man close to Von Koss. Something else you might want to know is that I got a hunch Tara would have arranged for the solicitors you both use to get that video of Von Koss to you. So I called them while I was on the run. I told them that I was your wife and asked if you’d been in to collect your package. The receptionist told me you had. I knew then that I was right. Tara had given you the video. So I emailed you to come and meet me. And you did, although you brought company with you, which wasn’t quite what I’d planned. Anyway, you handed over the video without me having to ask for it, which was nice of you. The rest is just what I’ve already told you.’