by G R Jordan
“Hear that, Indy? Proper beer. Maybe this place won’t be so bad.”
Austerley just murmured under his breath and slowly turned to follow, laboriously picking up his khaki holdall. Calandra walked quickly but awkwardly to join alongside Kirkgordon, her leg still suffering from Farthington’s attentions.
“Might be a small place, Churchy. Hope you don’t mind sharing!”
She’s a damn tease, thought Kirkgordon. But she knows how to. And she knows I like it.
It was only a five hundred yard walk along a gravel path before the first building came into sight. Their guide had said nothing, merely employing grunts and arm-pointing when needed. Despite being young, he was obviously balding, and clearly staring at Calandra with somewhat bulbous eyes.
“It would appear our Sherpa has a taste for paler women, Mr Austerley,” said Havers.
“Humph. Possibly.”
“Come now. Personal feelings aside, please. We are all going to need to get along on this spotter’s holiday.” Austerley glared at the guide watching Calandra and his hands flexed into fists.
The first building was a house of two storeys built in that drab pebbledash so abundant in Scotland. No lights were on, but Kirkgordon swore he saw movement inside. Soon they were in the middle of a village street with houses on either side and then a pub appeared out of the night with a single shining light outside. The guide went up to the rather decrepit door and banged on it three times. Austerley looked up at the legend on the front of the building. In rather brash and jaunty writing was the single word “Elliot’s”.
“So, where are we?” Austerley interrogated the unsuspecting guide. He looked back blankly, staring like a fish in a bowl. “This street? What’s its name?”
“We’re in Scotland, Indy. No need to speak to them like foreigners.” Kirkgordon shook his head.
“New Church Green. Church is over there. And there’s the green. That’s why we call it that.” The voice was almost a croak. It seemed the vocal chords hadn’t been designed for speech and the noise that came out bore no recognizable accent. The door opened.
“Yes?” This voice was dull and dry, but more human.
“Ah, my good man. We got into a bit of a late start getting here, then the boat lost an engine, so we’re a bit late. Would you have any accommodation for our little party? Just a night or two, I believe. Twitchers, you see. Bit of bird watching.”
“One room only. One double bed, one single bed. Shower’s broke. No breakfast. Out of season.”
“O…kay, I’m sure we will manage. Can we get any food tonight? Or a drink?”
“Bar’s closed ’til nine. Everyone’s been at church. Open at nine. Thirty pounds for the room.”
“Okay. That will do, my good man. Lead the way.”
“Straight through to the stairs. Third floor. Last room. Only one open. Nine o’clock.” And with that the man let the door close. Havers pushed it back open quickly and watched the man turn to enter a side room. The guide, too, had walked off.
“Oh well, better check the room, everyone.”
“Warm welcome!” laughed Calandra.
“Come on,” said Kirkgordon. “Next time, Havers, I’ll book the accommodation. You coming, Indy?” Austerley was once again staring at the “Elliot’s” sign at the building’s front. Slowly he bowed his head and picked up his bag to follow.
“Church? On a Tuesday night? Never known that. And I’ve been round most denominations,” Kirkgordon remarked.
“Well,” said Havers, “the Scottish islands are known for the religious spirit. Oh, and the alcohol!”
They squeezed their way up some narrow wooden stairs before reaching the landing on the third floor. Kirkgordon tried all the doors on the floor but, as the landlord had stated, only the last was open.
“Well friends, it’s a tad tight!” Kirkgordon laughed, before being shunted further into the room by Austerley.
“Been in smaller. For the last five years, actually.”
“Ah! Now, this could be awkward. I suggest Miss Calandra takes the single bed and the gentlemen share the double. Best to have someone on watch through the night anyway.”
There was barely standing room for the four colleagues, and they shuffled and fussed around each other until Austerley stormed out of the room announcing he was going for a cigarette. From the doorway, the double bed was located on the left side of the room with the single on the other. A narrow strip of bare brown carpet was the only gap, forcing their bags to be loaded on top of each other at the end of the double bed. Underneath each bed a crude wooden barrier prevented any storage.
“I think I’ll take the air like Mr Austerley. The room’s extremely fusty.”
As soon as Havers closed the door behind him, Calandra sat down on the single bed, lifting her leg in a painful fashion to stretch it out.
“You okay, Churchy?”
“No.”
“Am I too forward?”
“No… well, yes.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not you, Cally… well, it is but it’s not. Arse, I’m not putting this well.” Kirkgordon sat on the double bed and studied Calandra’s face. She looked a little hurt but more confused than anything else.
“Havers got my family out. He was worried they would be targeted. So he took them away. The kids and Alana. And back at the auction I got to speak to her. Cally, she’s been with me for so long. She gave me kids and then, when all this crap with Austerley and the graveyard kicked off, well, it near broke her. Broke us. I was wild at times. Some nights I even thrashed out. I was just falling apart. A wreck. But a brutal one. Especially in my dreams.”
“You hit her?”
“Yes. Not deliberately, during a nightmare. Cally, I broke her jaw.”
“But it wasn’t your fault. You were compromised.”
“It wasn’t a mission. She wasn’t a protectee or a target, or even a bystander. She was mine. And I hurt her. We had to part. We didn’t speak. I saw the kids next to never.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you were… available.”
“It’s not your fault. Damn it, it’s not like I look the other way. But on the phone at the auction, she called me C. She was my wife again. My woman. My Alana. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Calandra looked at the ceiling, inhaled deeply, and braced herself for the attacks from her mind, which was screaming that she had lost.
“Cally, you’re really not cold at all.”
“No. Just very lonely.”
He kissed her forehead. “Sorry. You deserve more.”
“I’m just out of my time.” Calandra smiled. “But I’ll take a pint.”
Elliot’s Bar
Walking into the bar area of “Elliot’s”, Kirkgordon was slightly bemused. The assumption that many heads would turn and check out Calandra, a draw even out of her black leathers, was an obvious one. Instead, from the mainly male clientele, there was little of that sex’s usual animal instinct at all. But they watched. Or, rather, stared intently, like they had no shame, or any understanding of shame. And it wasn’t just Calandra but also Kirkgordon they were interested in.
“Did I just walk into a gentleman’s club or something?”
“Not one like I’ve been in.”
“So you frequent those places?”
“Enough! What you having?”
Kirkgordon wasn’t sure the barman would know a good Rioja if it was spilt on him but that was what the lady wanted. On leaving the upstairs room, the tension between them had turned into a false dawn of buddies together. Part of him wanted to get as far away from her as possible, but another appreciated the womanly presence. At least this was a better way of working; he needed to focus.
The same man who had answered the door glared at Kirkgordon from behind the bar. Calmly pushing his way to the bar’s edge, Kirkgordon tried to ignore the eyes of the man sat on the stool beside him, which had the look of two table-tennis balls placed under some straining pressure by an internal
air pump, rather similar to a boiled egg just before it’s apportioned by the slicer. Despite this distraction, Kirkgordon was able to say, “Pint of what’s good and a Rioja for the lady. Decent glass too.”
“No wine. Dark for yourself.” Had this man missed out on the conversational barman course at training college?
“Mild for my friend, in that case.” As the barman retreated to the glassware, Kirkgordon took in the state of the room that evening. Tables were sat back from the bar, ornate wooden affairs with matching chairs, many in need of repair. Screws were coming loose and joints creaked when their occupants moved even slightly. The bar front was full, with many sitting on high stools. On the walls were occasional pictures of fishing boats and large catches, which broke up the drab pale green paint, peeling with damp in many places. The buzz of a bar in late evening was absent, leaving only the extremely quiet, hushed conversations and glaring eyes. Kirkgordon reacted to this awkward situation head on.
“Now then, sir, how are you today?” The ping-pong-eyed man beside him said nothing. “Rather rough bit of fog on the way in, I doubt we’ll get much twitching done ’til it’s gone.”
A face that could out-stare a military roadblock held its gaze steady. A few others turned to reinforce the barriers.
“Have you ever been much of a twitcher yourself?” Kirkgordon continued to talk to the air. “Sea birds up here, I guess. I mean, look at the photos on the wall.” The man didn’t look. “You must get all sorts of gulls hanging on the back of those. My dear old uncle Silas used to have a dredger. He was forever complaining about the ‘damnable’ seagulls always crapping on him at the back of the boat. He would have taken a rifle to them just for fun. Got him in the end though. Slipped on a piece of the boat deck and disappeared off starboard never to be seen again. Shocking!”
The least shocked visage in the world blanked back at Kirkgordon. Like two gunfighters at a corral, they fixed on each other until the sound of glasses on the bar top turned Kirkgordon’s head. At the same time the pub door opened and Havers marched in, followed by a sauntering Austerley.
“Ah, Austerley. Just getting these drinks back to Cally but got the man here for you. Just fascinated by old fishing stories. Told him you’d have a few. Oh, and order Havers a mild while you’re up there.”
The seething eyes of hell raged out from under Austerley’s brow but he took to his task.
“Two mild, my good man! Now then, tales of the sea, eh? Well, did you ever hear about the Kaponica sailing out of Dover to Port Elizabeth? No? Ah, your sort of story I think…”
Chuckling to himself, Kirkgordon sat down beside Calandra, opposite Havers. Amidst the dull greens and greys of the locals’ clothing, Havers’ bright blue wild-weather jacket was a positive beacon of fashion and practicality.
“Where’s my wine?”
“Not sure this is your sort of high-class establishment. Not your level of elocution. Electrocution would be better, force them into speaking.”
“Certainly, this area didn’t receive the beauty gene,” noted Havers. He glanced around. “How many bald people have you ever seen in a bar together?”
“You’re right. I normally find them quite sexy, too,” Calandra said, “but it’s truly not happening here. Most of them look how you’d imagine the dirty mac brigade. And there’s that smell.”
“Yes,” said Havers, “I thought it was the bar itself with the damp. The closer you get, the worse it becomes.”
“And the beer’s pish!” Kirkgordon complained.
“It doesn’t seem to be stopping them, though. They’re certainly game with it. That man on the right has had two pints since I came in the door. They drink like fish.”
Austerley came to the table carrying two pints of mild, one half-consumed, and sat beside Havers.
“You okay, Indy?” asked Calandra. “You seem mighty agitated.”
“We need to go!”
“Sorry?” said Havers.
“We need to go. Now!” came the half-whispered reply.
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“This is not a place to stay. Elliot’s. New Church Green. Drinking. Look at the hands. Look at the hands. Look!”
“Well, certainly no bass guitarists, but that’s hardly a crime.”
“Waites mild. Waites dark. Federal whisky. All made here, from here. What size shoes do you take? Do your gloves fit?”
“Calm down, Austerley. You’re attracting attention. Calm down.”
The door of the bar was flung open and a man in a colourful robe entered. Austerley stared hard at the balding middle-aged man then turned to Havers and delivered in a forced half-whisper, “E-O-D!”
And with that, Austerley collapsed.
Calandra was on her feet swiftly and caught him before he could slide off the chair, but even the chilling touch of her hands could not revive him. She turned to see a looming figure.
“Not from round here, are ye?” The colourful robe led up to the face of a groundsman. Calandra felt as if she’d been caught on the grass next to an abundance of signs forbidding it. “Difficult place to understand, strange weather. Best not make it a long trip.” Having delivered his warning, the man turned away to the door. All was silent in the pub and all eyes were focused on the table where Austerley lay slumped. Havers stepped up to face the local pressure.
“A glass of water, my good man. Yes, you! Behind the bar, you! My friend needs some water if you would be so good as to oblige. Thank you, sir, most kind.”
Since the man in the coloured robe had walked in, Kirkgordon had gone to high alert, constantly assessing the room. His old days as protection detail came in useful and an escape plan was starting to form. He doubted any of the men in the bar could match Calandra or himself, but Austerley’s incapacitation was a negative factor in their safety. He had also spotted a logo on the robed man which displayed the same letters that had featured in Austerley’s collapse: EOD.
The water arrived in a filthy glass and appeared cloudy. Havers took one look at it, decided it would be better for Austerley’s health to keep the water on the outside and chucked the entire glassful over his face. Austerley murmured slightly but remained slumped.
“Okay,” whispered Havers, “time, I think, to leave. Mr Kirkgordon, can you carry him?” Kirkgordon nodded. “Right then, we’ll retire upstairs and discuss our options there. It certainly seems we are unwelcome here.”
Kirkgordon went to his knees and then rolled Austerley over his shoulder, muttering the words “fat git” under his breath. The bar remained silent while the whole party retreated to their room. Havers had to exit the bedroom to allow Kirkgordon space to enter and dump Austerley, in unceremonious fashion, onto the larger bed. Once everyone had found a space in the room, Kirkgordon sat down, leaning against the now-shut entrance.
“E-O-D! E-O-D! They’re coming! Rising up from the deep! Elder coming! Mother Hydra! Mother Hydra! All here to praise! Call him forth!”
“Shut up, Austerley!”
“Don’t be so harsh, Churchy,” Calandra scolded. “My Count, dearest Count, are you there? Listen, my love, hush the voices, listen to me, my voice.” For a moment Austerley seemed to quieten down, but suddenly he lashed out with his arms as he delivered the next torrent, sending Calandra sprawling backwards.
“Mother Hydra! No, no, no, no. Where’s the hope? Where to hide? E-O-D! E-O-D! Moth…”
“Mr Kirkgordon, silence him!” It almost sounded like a kill order, thought Kirkgordon. Regardless, he stepped forward and jabbed hard in the region of Austerley’s neck. Austerley collapsed and caught his head against the wall. The remaining three sat in silence for the next minute.
“It seems we have a slight issue,” said Havers, master of the understatement. “I believe Mr Austerley has a good idea of what we are dealing with, but his mind is in a somewhat fluctuating state. Given the possibility of time not being on our side, I suggest, Mr Kirkgordon, that you go on a little wander and see what you can dig up. Take Miss Cala
ndra with you, see what secrets you can find. The church may be worth a little perusal. I’ll stay with our friend and keep him quiet.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, Mr Havers? The locals don’t seem happy to see us. If you need to move quickly are you sure you can carry Austerley?”
“Don’t worry about Havers, Churchy. You don’t get to his position if you can’t handle yourself. Time to blacken up.”
“Okay, but Havers?”
“Yes?”
“Back of the neck like I just did. It’s an easy spot. Should quieten him down if he gets frisky.”
“Mr Kirkgordon, I think I can find infinitely better spots to strike, certainly less crude.”
“Ooh, touché!” laughed Calandra.
She reached into her canvas bag and produced a black leather jacket, black leggings, a black belt and a dark grey crop top. Without a moment’s hesitation she stripped down to her underwear before dressing back up. She tied up her hair, looking at Kirkgordon before muttering something about it being a good job they were all professionals. As he dressed in his covert outfit, again mainly black, Kirkgordon agreed, but standing in his pants and socks he somehow didn’t cut the same “professional” figure.
Calandra smeared her face in black paint then handed the container to Kirkgordon. They couldn’t hear much noise coming from downstairs but neither had they heard many people leaving. He glanced out of the small window on the far side of the room. It was fixed on two hinges and seemed to be able to swing completely open with only one handle latch keeping it closed.
“Best take the window, Cally.” Calandra nodded.
“Havers, we’ll be no more than four hours.” Kirkgordon said. “We’ll tap your name in Morse on the window to get back in. There’s a gutter just at the side, old but looks like it will hold.”
“Four hours, Mr Kirkgordon. Find me something!”
“That sounds like an order.”
“Four hours, Mr Kirkgordon. Don’t make me come and look for you.”
Calandra gently opened the window and swung nimbly onto the guttering. Her leg was clearly bothering her but she seemed capable of ignoring the pain. Once she had reached the ground, Kirkgordon threw down her staff. He took the quiver from its oddly shaped case and strapped it on, then secured the bow across his chest. After one last look at a slumbering Austerley, he jumped on to the sill before sailing down the gutter. Glancing down, Calandra was almost invisible in the dark.
