by Cameron Bell
“X marks the spot,” I playfully contribute.
It was all very fanciful and farfetched. I hadn't met Jon Einarsson, however my policeman's mind already wanted to label him an eccentric quack. He might have something, but years of listening to people who believed they were tracking UFOs, had their bedsits bugged by the government or possessed mystical powers had warped my perspective. Now I had to drag the dial back to the centre to create an open mind.
Toni pulls out a chair from underneath the kitchen table and sits down. I lean back against the sink keen to hear more.
“Initially Jon spoke to my father, wanting him to fly over so that they could find it together. However, my father is dying with lung cancer and is too ill to travel. My father told me about it and told Jon to talk to me. Jon and I discussed an expedition to locate Gorm's Gold. It took awhile to save the cash for the trip. I had been seeing Marcus for a couple of years and he always had his nose in my business, badgering me about this or that, snooping around my affairs. I told him before he found out and his face lit up like Las Vegas at night. He was all in whether I liked it or not. He made up the shortfall in cash and had all these plans with what he was going to do with the money. We were set to book when we had a massive bust up, one of many horrific rows that always ended with him hurting me. I left him and booked my own trip. It is my father's legacy not a bankroll for his coke deals.”
In a bizarre way it made sense like finishing a jigsaw puzzle of a surrealist painting. The pieces fitted even if you weren't sure of the picture. It isn't much of a revelation that Marcus is mixed up in coke, but to what extent is Toni tarred by that brush? Perhaps more than I'd want to think. I fill in the rest.
“He followed you here with his sidekick. He trawled the bars and found you. He attacked you in the alley to get the brooch.”
Toni nodded then added,
“He was tracking my phone from an app he secretly installed. He's been gloating about it, telling me what a dumb bitch I am. And you know what, he's right I am stupid, I should have never got involved with him. My friend Cynthia warned me I was playing with fire.”
I could see how tired she is carrying this monkey on her back. Men like him wore women down like sandpaper until they had no self-worth. Until they didn't even know who they were anymore.
“He now has what he needs, he has got the brooch and he's taken Jon,” Toni concludes. “Once I led them here they didn't need me any longer. I know they thought about killing me.”
“You're a loose end. And as the stakes get higher there is a tipping point where snipping the loose end makes sense. Jon is also a problem and I don't see how this works out for anyone now.”
I then thought of a question and it came about the same way as finding a small stone in your shoe – a gradual, uncomfortable realization.
“If you and Jon had met up and found the treasure. Treasure of historical value. What would you have done with it?” I ask loading the gun.
Toni shifts in the seat, rakes a hand through her hair and looks me dead in the eye. She answers in a casual, offhand way,
“I don't know. Smuggle it to the states in a fishing boat I suppose and trade it on the antiquities black market. If the legend is true Jon reckons we could be talking a million five, or even two with the right buyer.”
Toni then frowned into an expression of someone discovering that their dog had dumped all over the hallway mat.
“Or we could dig it up and hand it over to the government who'll put it into a museum and charge folks to see it. I don't know about you, but I think that belief and hard work deserve reward.”
And she looks through her brow and bites her bottom lip like she is aiming a rifle, and I am the target.
I have entered a quandary. In Britain found treasure had to be declared and I do not think it would be any different in Iceland. It would be a crime to keep it and another to illicitly sell it on the black market. On the other hand, it is a victimless crime, especially as the government doesn't even know it exists. It would simply be depriving the Icelandic people of something they don't know they have. It is the spoils of Viking pillage buried in the ground for a thousand years, so you could even argue it doesn't even belong to them in the first place. Shouldn't the people who made the sacrifices to find it reap the rewards? I know what side of this argument I should be on yet I'm not on it – I'm impaled on the fence.
Toni reads me like a billboard and glides over. She clasps my hand and caresses it with her thumb. She combs her fingers through the back of my hair and kisses me softly on the lips. Then more ardently and my stomach dips. She pushes her mouth onto mine, invading with her tongue, sensuously assaulting my lips with her teeth. I am overrun and reason has routed. She lets go of me and I draw breath.
“I like you Will. I did the moment I laid eyes on you. And the more I learn of your character the more I get to like you. We have something Will, you wouldn't be here if you didn't feel it.”
“I know ... yes you're right,” I feebly mouth.
The best things often had no rhyme or reason, they thrived beyond the rational.
“I overheard them I know where they have gone. We can follow them, free Jon and get the brooch back.”
“As easy as that. Breeze over, point out to them the error of their ways and ask for it back. If we carry on with this there is no way it ends without bloodshed,” I reply flatly.
“Perhaps there is a way ... we could steal it back.”
“How … how are we going to steal it back? It's not like he's going to keep it in the car overnight or leave in a changing room while taking a leisurely swim is it?” I retort with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
“It is a lot of money and I can't stand the thought of that prick getting his hands on it.”
There is venom in her voice.
“And what he did to me and what he done to you, and what he's done to others … he needs to pay. It is right that he pays for the shit that he's done. I've seen him kick a poor, hapless kid full out in the head for no other reason than to see him hit the ground … he's a complete cunt! and something bad needs to happen to him.”
Her voice still venomous quivers with emotion and a tear comes to her eye.
“If you help me to get it we'll split it three ways. That'll be at least five hundred k for your retirement fund.”
Money didn't get my juices flowing. I had enough for my needs and never sought more than that. I could find ten thousand pounds in a drug search and ten thousand pounds would be handed in. It is other things that drive and irk me. But what if I didn't go back to the emasculating drudgery of the office? If I no longer wore stripes to tell me who I am. If no longer boxed in and owned by the company – what then? A chasm of possibility opened up like a boat unhitched from its moorings and pulled by uncertain currents out into the wide sea. I should go for it, because it is better to be dashed on the rocks than to rot in the harbour.
“Fuck it I'm in. We'll talk splits later, let's find it first.”
Toni flings her arms around my neck and kisses me hard. With a glint in her eye she says,
“After this we'll be unbreakable.”
Chapter 14
Toni has the idea to look for car keys. I peer around the blind of the lounge window and see that there is a white Ford Ranger parked outside. The keys aren't in the usual places on key hooks or tables by either outside door. Whilst looking I find a plastic bag and I go back into the basement to pick up all the tape that will have my fingerprints and saliva all over it. I also pick up the spade because it feels good in my hands given the work ahead. In the study behind a mahogany desk is an alcove with a metal detector resting upright. I take it and continue the search.
I am in the hallway when I hear a clank from close outside. It sounds like someone walking over a metal drainage cover like the one I had avoided creeping around the house. Toni is in the lounge lifting a magazine on the coffee table.
“Toni!” I hush putting a finger over my lips.
She
pricks up like a nervous rabbit and I call her over. I pull her into the study, and I press myself against the side of the doorway with the spade ready to fire. I glance over my shoulder and Toni is releasing a Viking hand axe from a mount on the wall.
The thought that It could be the police crosses my mind, and if it is I will put the spade down and take what is coming to me. I hear the back door open without a knock – could it be Jon, would they have released him so soon? I open my mouth to call out and stifle the sound. I hear the clump of footsteps on block flooring, and then a voice that I kind of recognise projecting malevolence through the house.
“Don't get your hopes up slut! I'm the last man you're ever going to see.”
I peel away from the wall and burst through the doorway into the hall – it is clear. I break right towards the basement door and it is open and glowing with a shadowy light. Into the mouth I steer the spade bending with the tight turn down into the stairway. Three quarters the way up turned on the stairs is Adam. His scalp glistens with sweat, his black bruised eyes ghoulish, the mouth snarled and fevered like a rapist. A large, thin bladed filleting knife gleams in his hand, the spade like a spear in mine and there is a brief moment of knowing that is shattered by violence.
I stab and beat downward at the would be killer and he fends frantically with his free hand. He bulls forward trying to grab the spade while reaching upwards with frenzied knife strokes and desperate cries. A thrust of the spade splits his forearm to the bone and another gouges a chunk of flesh from his skull. I gather a grim momentum and he bows from a flat, thunking blow to the top of the head. I chop the spade down again, but he shifts to his right and the left side of the blade awkwardly clips his shoulder, twisting and loosening in my hands. I recover my grip and set to strike, yet before I do he lunges and stabs me in the left shin. It feels like a punch though I know I've been stabbed, and I am surprised that there is no sharp pain. He withdraws the knife and stabs, snagging and slicing the outer flesh of my calf.
Before I am stabbed further I hook the spade upward and across cracking him hard underneath the chin. He jerks up, thudding against the hand rail sliding backwards along it, turning, pitching headlong down the stairs. He rolls, limp limbs flailing, the body bending over itself, the head folding and smacking the wooden steps that are as bare and harsh as the teeth of a saw. Adam hits the bottom curled like a fat cat in the sun, his head angled against the wall, the knife skewered through both cheeks.
Standing looking down at the bleeding sorry mess I am responsible for I am overcome with nausea and have to hold onto the rail.
“Do you think he's dead?” Toni says.
“I fucking hope not. Dead is a real fucking problem,” I sigh.
In a consequence free world, I would have no remorse for what I'd done - Adam got what he deserved. The sickness is selfish. I had dug a great big hole for myself and now the earth is being shovelled in. I turn to see Toni behind me on the top step with the short war axe held at the ready in both hands.
“I think he meant to kill you with that knife,” I say.
“Yeah that's my feeling too, I guess they had a rethink about loose ends. Wait … Marcus, where is Marcus?”
My body sinks like it is loaded with weight and I don't know if I can face another round. I climb the stairs after Toni, my shin squeezing out pain with each step.
My brain is jammed with possibilities, and in the lounge I twist in indecision. Adam is done; hopefully not deceased but with that bone crunching tumble he had to be out of play. I reassure myself that I am not going to get a knife in the back and that I only needed to be concerned with Marcus. Toni and I exchange anxious looks before taking up ambush positions either side of the back door. I nervously shift and alter stance and my shin stings with each adjustment; blood welling in my boot.
I make eye contact with Toni and point to the axe. I shake my head and wave it off. I point to the spade and nod and she shrugs a reluctant agreement – there is no way back from an axe in the head, though we may already be too far down the road for it to matter. The seconds stretch out interminably and I grow impatient. I scowl and fidget until the tension swells beyond what I can endure. I don't know and the need to know is killing me. The house feels like a trap about to be sprung and I want out of it.
I slip out the back door into the cold darkness and manoeuvre around the slabbed path. Branches rustle in the wind revealing and concealing multicoloured spots of light from the street and peninsula below. I get to the front and a strong gust sways the trees to a whooshing crescendo as I see the profile of a woman. She is sitting in the driver's seat of a dark coloured SUV, her face lit by the screen glow of the phone she is viewing. She is dark skinned and striking with curly black hair sprouting out the sides of a grey woollen Beanie hat.
There is someone next to her in the passenger seat, but I can't make out any more than that. The SUV is parked up next to the Ranger.
I move briskly down the garden path and on closer inspection the SUV becomes a gunmetal Mitsubishi Warrior. The situation throws me, and I slow my step. I become conscious of my menacing silhouette, and the fear I could cause this poor unsuspecting woman, if she is here for an innocent reason.
The woman looks up in my direction and a moment later a powerful side roof light shines dazzlingly into my eyes. I hear the rev of an engine and a screech of tyres, and the beam sweeps several gardens as the Warrior barrels down the street. I curse my policeman's hesitancy, the need to measure, balance and justify action that always put you a split second behind the criminal. The criminal who simply acted as he needed to – shooting first and asking questions later.
“Did you see the woman?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Who is she?”
“I've no idea. Look we'd better find those keys and get out of here, she might phone the cops again.”
The thought struck a febrile dread and I could feel the choke on time – there would be minutes before the noose pulled tight.
“Look for the keys and I'll deal with Adam.”
“What are you going to do?”
She poses with a hint of dare, her penetrating, sky blue eyes scouring me for a read of intention.
“I'm not sure.”
“Whichever,” she replies with solemnity.
“I'm with you either way.”
◆◆◆
We go back inside, Toni riffles the draws and I brood my way to the basement. At the top of the stairs I look down. Adam is sitting upright in the corner, his legs splayed in front of him, his back arching and curving through waves of agony. His right hand quivers next to the knife still embedded in his cheek; and a phone out on his lap vibrates with a muffled ring.
I descend the stairs, my boots resonating on the timber like a death knell. Adam rolls his head in my direction; his eyes enlarge as though they are trying to eject from his head. He emits a gurgled whimper and rips the knife out of his cheek, and in the confined space I am deafened by the choking scream. I know if our roles were reversed I would die in a frenzy of stabs and slashes; and if he had time, that is what I would probably get – a prolonged death. I would put down money that given the chance he'd torture – after all the twisted prick had hung a dog.
I stop five steps up from him and assess the damage: he is spluttering blood though this is probably the pierced cheeks and will cease in time. The gouge to the head is congealing, the jaw is misshapen and is almost certainly broken. The flat blow to the top of the head is unlikely to have fractured the skull, though the fall could have. He appears to have injured his back and I can see a bone protruding from his left forearm. If he hasn't internal bleeding then he'll live - well probably.
He holds the knife out like a crucifix. I show him the spade and he flinches.
“No please, mother of god no more,” he begs pitifully.
“You're on your own. Your buddy and the girl have left you with me.” I state with a cold finality.
I let the thought take hold before cont
inuing,
“You're done, it's over for you,” and I use the spade as a pointing stick to cast over his body where it has split and broke.
“Every time we meet Adam, you get hurt, and I'll happily hurt you some more if you don't do as I say.”
I loom over him with the spade and he shrinks into the corner engulfed by my shadow.
“Now put the knife down and hand me that phone, or I'll get Mr. Spade to do it for you!”
The knife is put down, and with the same hand and a grunt of discomfort he places the phone next to it.
Standing over him like an executioner there is only a small part of me that wants to kill him. I believe myself capable of the act but not in cold blood, not when there are alternatives.
“Good lad,” I say patronisingly.
“Now this is what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave you here for a couple of hours and then because I'm a good guy I'm going to phone an ambulance for you. I suggest that you use the time to think up the least damaging reason why you have fallen down these stairs.”
“I'm fucked up bad, I need to go to hospital now,” he protests his face all sweaty and ashen.
“You can wait an hour or so ... look at it as penance for your crimes, or if you've got the balls for it you could drag yourself out.”
The situation is a can of worms - all of it, top to bottom and there is no clear way out without getting tripped, stuck or caught. It is a proper bloody mess that can't be tidied up. I scoop the knife and phone up with the spade and trudge up the stairs, followed by the dog killer's blood lipped pleas,
“You will phone won't you? I'll keep my mouth shut I promise … please.”
I drop the phone on the way up and leave the knife cleaned at the top of the stairs – I'd give him options.
While I had deliberated taking a man's life Toni had found the car keys. We meet in the lounge and she jangles the keys for me to see with a big crooked grin on her face. I smile weakly, assailed by second thoughts. I am standing at the crossroads – the Rubicon in front. If I leave with Toni in the Ranger it will have been crossed. I inhale deeply through my nose inflating my lungs to their limit. I hold the breath a moment and then slowly exhale – sometimes it doesn't pay to think too much. Sometimes you are better off not thinking at all.
