Raucous (19 page)

Rollin threw the bar onto the bed, it bounced and rolled, and rested near the pillows.  Parker revealed his knife. 

“I came in after,” Parker said.  “A clean up man.  Whatever it was went sour, or maybe it was planned to go sour.  I picked up the bars that were drifting around and shouldn’t have been, killed a couple of people I had wanted to kill for a long time.  Your man Hatcher included.  Not a nice man.  He was your friend.”

“We didn’t have friends.”

“But I was told not to kill you.  I don’t know why, a favour to someone, or a debt, I don’t know.  I imagine now it was because of your son.  He was the one who knew.  I had free hand.  Only condition was that you lived.  I didn’t get rich from it and neither did Sir Alex.  Someone somewhere probably did, but you’d need an understanding of complex economics and financial institutions to find out who.” 

“What do you think?”

“I think I used a lot of my spare time looking into things.  Trying to figure things out, just like you.  Your life was saved on account of your roots.  You went back there and they looked after you.  Other things I found out by good old investigation.  Your boy Christian not being dead.  I knew that a long time ago.  Just didn’t know where he was.  Then I found him, but Jim was on to it immediately.  But Jim was working for someone.  Maybe someone official.  The boy comes here and nothing is ever going to turn out right.”

“Why did you keep looking?”

“Because I believe there’s a reward at the end of it, and like you, it’s a moment that changed my life.  I need to understand what went on.”

“Were you going to kill Christian?”

“That was the plan.  After we found out the location.  Not personally.  That was someone else’s job.  And your friend Hatcher was the man who left the gun there to kill him.  Buried at the base of the seventh tree.  Your friend Hatcher wanted your son dead.  Raucous, for whatever reason chose not to.”

Rollin thought, he stayed alert in the same way people can sleep with eyes open.  He went through snapshots of his history, projected plans into the future.

“There’s no coming out of this the way we came in,” he said.

“I think it’s only you and I that understand that.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Mitch woke from the same dream.  The same balcony. The same door smashed open and the same fade to black.  Mitch sat, and thought of nothing other than he wanted to see her again.  He knew her address, he had been there, and she had taken him.  72, Belleview Park, middle-class London.  But the city was big and he didn’t know how far from his new home. 

Jean hadn’t drawn the curtains, light broke through and Mitch stood watching the city outside.  A fifth floor with thick glass windows insulated the inside from noise and wind.  People moved and cars slowly edged to whatever part of the city their owners needed to go.  Mitch looked at the movement, not understanding why this was natural, why people aimed for this life.  A morning spent in a car moving to an office to work so enough money can be made to pay for an expensive house where they sleep and spend lazy weekends of panic.  The big city.  He couldn’t understand.   But he knew there were many who would refuse to live anywhere else, to accept calm and quiet, to find silence when waking up.  Mitch pressed his right palm against the glass and felt small vibrations.

  Charlotte knew something, she had said as much, and Mitch knew.  She knew Christian, had known him well, which meant she had an insight into them.  The scarring, her eyes, the anger she kept inside all indicated pain.  But it was her age that grated most.  She was his age.  Three months older.  He was June she was March.  Both of them the twenty first day.  Mitch knew, like Ben had thought, they were close when young.  But she knew Christian, not them. 

The feeling he had, his mind raced. He needed to see her.  Jean had not cared, would never care, had no interest in the woman.  She probably saw Charlotte as a threat, someone to fight rather than hold.  But wherever they went the follower came, saw all and reported back.  The follower would never stay silent.  He would tell.  But he watched, and he stayed back.  If Mitch went, the follower, the tall large silent man would come.  And what would he see?  They knew about his connection with Charlotte, what could the follower say?  He met her, they spoke.  She was in no danger.  Rollin was a businessman not a gangster.  He had an office in the city.  He may be, and probably was, crooked, but he had shown nothing for Mitch to be afraid.  He didn’t need to shake the tall man, he didn’t need to hide where he was going.  They knew Charlotte, she was not the Turk, nor one of his people.  She wasn’t a threat, although she and Rollin had not spoken with calm.  But Charlotte never seemed calm, there was something going on, something inside her head.  As if she knew the way out, but was afraid she would be seen running away.  Mitch knew he was making excuses to see her, telling himself she was no danger nor in danger herself.

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

Charlotte felt movement before she saw him.

Charlotte was walking with Roach.  They set off from his house on foot.  The plan was fresh air, ideas and talk.  Their minds emptied and conversation stopped.  But they kept walking, along streets of family homes with occasional outbreaks of mini shopping areas of localized corner shops and cafes.  The weather was brisk, but there was little wind and in their winter coats they were warm enough to sweat.

Charlotte became aware of heavy steps minutes before.  The street they were walking was busy.  It was nearing eleven a.m. and people were out buying food, or simply grasping the fresh air before another heavy rain set in.  She paid no attention, let the paranoia ebb away, and kept pace with Roach.  But the repetitive clip of heavy boots on concrete slabs made her grow wary.  Roach seemed oblivious and Charlotte wondered what type of policeman he was.

Charlotte feigned interest in a cafe, she knew Roach would decline, but she took the chance to slow down and turn.  The clips stopped and she saw from the corner of her vision, the man who was following. 

He was big, twice her width at the shoulder, and a foot-and-a-half taller.  He was not a man she would willingly wrestle.  He didn’t seem concerned with concealing his presence, but his eyes were darting around, checking everyone in his field of vision.  Charlotte walked on and the big man followed.

Charlotte manoeuvred Roach into a smaller residential side street; they walked its length and turned left.  The next street was deserted with the exception of an old man, five hundred meters from where they walked.  The speed of the clips changed and Charlotte realized her arrogance had caused a mistake.  She stopped and Roach pulled up, confused, he looked at her.

The Big man closed the space between them.  He was moving fast.  Charlotte watched and realized he was bigger than she had guessed.  He was six feet five and weighing in at 110 kilos, thankfully a fair proportion was fat or loose muscle. Charlotte knew they should have started walking but the man’s size had made them pause like they were staring at an old friend. And now they had nowhere to go. 

Charlotte’s defence mechanisms jumped to a start, she looked at the man’s hands.  They were covered in thin leather gloves, completely black.  They were empty of weapons.  His face was covered with a bandanna, as if looking like a wild west outlaw would be scary enough to get what he wanted.  He stopped quickly, half-a-meter from them and they looked up at his face.  He resembled a military agent attempting to go undercover on a G8 riot.  The man stared and said nothing.

Charlotte looked at his feet and saw that he was standing off-balance in expensive Italian leather boots.  His weight was too far forward, he was readying himself to pounce, but it seemed he had forgotten how.  He rocked back too far and had to move forward again to counter the weight shift.  Charlotte judged the quickest way to bring him down.  A simple Judo move as he brought his weight forward to attack.  Move with him, crouch, drive her hip into his thigh and over he would go.  The impact would cause his leg to go dead, and she could run. One on one she was certain she could survive.  But Roach confused things.  He was a man, and men wouldn’t run, not those like Roach.  He knew he was out of shape, no type of fighter and incapable of defence, but he’d try all the same.  He was a man, and that’s what they were programmed to do, like a Yorkshire terrier incapable of calculating the damage an Alsatian will inflict because they believe themselves to be tougher than they are. 

Charlotte looked at Roach and noticed he had tensed.  He was ready to fight even if he couldn't.

"Who are you?"  Charlotte asked.

The bandanna stayed silent.

"His name is Jobs," Roach said.  "Is this a mugging?  You sure wear some fancy clothes for a mugger."

"I'm here to warn you,” Jobs said. “Back off."

"From what?" Roach asked.

Charlotte would prefer to be alone.  Men, always needed to be the big one in an argument.  No finesse, no brains.  Two butting heads, who never think to feint.  Here size is important, and Roach's was all loose and flabby and on his gut.  He had the metaphorical heart for it, but physically he did not.

"We aren't backing off, and you have come unarmed.  So you're either confident, or stupid, or maybe even forgetful," Roach said as he moved within ten centimetres of Jobs.

Charlotte had seen this among drunk men, the bravado before the fight, chests swollen out like an exotic species of bird trying to attract a mate.  A few pushes, a few steps and then a badly thrown punch.  If one connected it was finished.  If nothing did then a wrestle on the floor and nasty bites.

Jobs looked down at his hands.

"See," Charlotte said.  "You forgot to bring your gun."

"You need to back off," Jobs said.

"Or what?" Roach asked.

"I’ve been told not to hurt you unless I have to,"

"Oh please," Charlotte said.  "You want that very much, but you are too scared to take a risk, one against two especially when one is a woman and the other is a fat old man."

Jobs stepped forward and drove his right forearm across Roach's left cheek.  Roach dropped to the floor unconscious before his knees gave way.

Charlotte looked and was sure he had fallen in such a way as to not block his breathing. 

Jobs watched Roach fall, admiring his timing and the result it caused.  He did not rush to her, which was a mistake.  He should have ridden the surprise.  Now, one on one with pause for thought and an analysis of opposition, Charlotte could formulate a plan.  The first depended on how predictable Jobs would be.  Charlotte guessed original thought was not his strength. 

She was right.

Jobs stepped forward to deliver his right forearm.  Charlotte was ready.  If you try something once with such success then it is only reasonable to try it again.  Hell, she had seen most try things unsuccessfully and then try them again and again because they couldn't believe it hadn't worked.  Charlotte crouched and drove her left shoulder into Jobs' advancing knees. He flipped, head over heels and landed heavy.  He was not familiar with gymnastic rolls and had left his weight free to take his body in as many spins as it wanted.  His timing was off and he landed sitting down.  There was a crack as his lower spine hit concrete slabs.  Jobs arched his back and Charlotte was on her feet, she ran two paces, jumped and swiped her right foot onto the side of his head.  She connected well, her shin extending the impact, and Jobs slumped.  He shook his head and pushed up with his large forearms and stood.  He swayed slightly and Charlotte drove her left palm forward, stepping into the shot, pushing her shoulder behind the line of the punch.  She connected with the heel of her hand into the solar plexus.  She felt his ribcage give, and her hand push in, and she heard Jobs belch air and watched him slump to the floor.  In the cage now, she would be on top of him, legs wrapped around his upper body, elbows and fists reigning down, trying to grab an arm to use in a lock that breaks souls or joints.  But Jobs was a big man, and regardless of his concussed state and lack of air, if he grabbed her, she would remain grabbed. 

Charlotte edged toward Jobs, reached out and grabbed the hair on top of his head.  Jobs tried to grab Charlotte's arm but he was too slow and Charlotte too experienced for the ruse to work.  She slapped his hand away and twisted her hand so his uncovered face looked at hers.  She did not know who he was, had never seen him before. 

But Roach had called him Jobs.

She knew Roach would expect to see Raucous.  That was logical to him.  Raucous was nothing but a hired meat-head for a minor pimp in a small area of the city.  But Charlotte knew.  His eyes were angry but unfocussed.

"We got your message," she said.  “We are suitably scared.  But, and I need to confirm this with my partner here, I think we're just going to keep on going as it is, if that's alight with you."

Charlotte saw Roach, breathing but unconscious on his left side on the floor.

"Roach isn't going anywhere in a hurry.  I'm fine, you're rapidly losing the use of parts you really should keep injury free. Now, I could drag Roach away, I could knock you out continuously till he's OK to go, or you could just leave.  Your choice, but I'm not accepting number one."

Charlotte expected compliance.  Jobs placed his palms on the tarmac and pushed up, trying to stand.  Charlotte stomped down on his left hand and heard at least one bone snap.  He was dumb, she thought.  A man not wanting to be humiliated by a woman.  She slapped the back of his head.

Another mistake born of arrogance.

Jobs snapped, a surge of adrenaline pulsed, he pushed forward and Charlotte could not avoid, she was bent over his left shoulder as he charged forward.  He was bent at the hips, sprinting, low-down, a force hurtling forward and Charlotte was caught.  He flung her with his left arm and she flew faster and not in control and thudded against a low brick wall.  The top edge caught her under her right arm, between two ribs.  She felt her skin break.  She gasped, but air wouldn’t come, she tried to stand but her legs wobbled and wouldn’t hold her weight.  She wanted to vomit, sick came and she felt her throat engulfed in a large, strong, tightening hand.  She tried to choke and swallow but she couldn’t.  Jobs was lifting her.  She scrabbled her feet against the floor trying to find friction so she could fight against his strength.  She couldn’t find a hold and he lifted her further.  Only her toes touched the ground.  She kicked out, but hit nothing. Charlotte grabbed, pinched and scratched the hand that enclosed her neck.  She dug her nails and pulled and she knew she was stripping flesh, but the man’s muscles pulsed again, squeezing, crushing, shaking her and she could not resist.  She was not inhaling.  Her last breath had been a short intake on impact with the wall.  The oxygen level in her blood was dropping.  Her head was light, and her lungs burnt and screamed for air.  She blinked but she saw blurs, not a face not a street, a mixture of color blending into a pattern made by a child.  She stopped scratching, her strength gone.  She felt her thoughts fading, her brain slowing down.  She slapped the hand around her neck, a stupid attempt at forcing release.  Pain exploded in her stomach, her lungs collapsing, her windpipe crushed.  She hung loosely, the last of her strength making one last grasp for the hand around her throat.   Her head felt light, oxygen wasn’t coming.  She told herself to lash out with her feet but nothing happened, nothing moved.  Her hands slid down, to her sides.  She had no strength her muscles did not work, did not answer.  Her mind said breath, she smiled, she was going.  Her mistake, she should have run.

She heard a car pull up, a door open but no one stepped out, a voice she recognized said, “Jobs, in the car. Now."

The hand crushed hard once more and released her and she slumped to the floor, her back resting against the wall. She watched legs and boots walk to a silver Mercedes, she glimpsed inside and saw Raucous at the wheel, leaning across, looking at her. Jobs entered the car and pulled the door closed. The car moved away slowly as Charlotte watched. She turned to Roach. Her body fell sideways and she lay, gasping for air. His eyes were open; his chest was rising and falling.  Neither of them was dead.